Carolina Gold (27 page)

“No, ma’am. General Longstreet. Paper says he’s in a bad way.”

Charlotte went still.

“You all right, Miss Fraser?”

She took a steadying breath. “I’m fine, Daniel, just shocked to learn of General Longstreet’s illness. You’d best get going before it gets any later. I can handle our things.”

He hurried away.

Numbed to her core, Charlotte managed to collect their belongings and get the girls home and into bed. Then she took the lamp into the parlor and read the newspaper account of the general’s illness, her eyes racing down the page. Old war wound . . . complications . . . exhaustion. No mention of yellow fever. Perhaps he’d had a chance to speak to Nicholas before falling ill.

Unable to sleep, she took off her shoes and went out to the back porch. She climbed the narrow staircase to the attic, pushed open the trapdoor, and stepped onto the roof.

She inhaled the misty salt air and drank in the beauty of the rolling sea by moonlight, the dying remnants of cook fires glittering like a diamond necklace ringing the beach. She sat down, unmindful of the damp seeping into her skirts. Questions about Nicholas,
about whether he had proof of his claim to the barony that included her land, whether he was even alive, demanded answers.

For whatever reason—illness, unwillingness, disappointment—he had gone silent. If he wouldn’t—or couldn’t—come to her, for the sake of the children if nothing else, she must go to him.

Such a journey was not without risk. The trip would be difficult and expensive. The thought of the yellow-fever epidemic was terrifying. But the current situation was not fair to her or to the children. Still, if life were fair, perhaps there would be no need for courage.

She watched the sparks from a dying fire spiraling into the darkness and hoped that when the time for this journey arrived, she would be brave enough to take it.

Twenty

N
EW
O
RLEANS

24 July 1868

T
he train shuddered to a stop. Charlotte massaged the tight muscles in her back and peered out the soot-streaked window. The New Orleans station buzzed with noise and movement. Passengers crowded onto the platform to await their baggage, jostling a Negro man sitting cross-legged on a bench. Bearded businessmen in dapper gray suits and bowler hats dodged a gaggle of ragtag children and a one-legged man wearing a tattered Confederate uniform. Smoke from a huge factory across Basin Street billowed against the white-hot summer sky.

The other women in the passenger car gathered their fans, gloves, umbrellas, and reticules, preparing to leave the train. Caroline Mayhew, a fashionably dressed, olive-skinned woman with piercing brown eyes who had boarded the train south of Atlanta and promptly introduced herself to Charlotte, smiled wanly and brushed a speck of soot from her sleeve. “Are you as exhausted as I am?”

“I can’t remember the last time I slept.” The trip had involved a twelve-hour voyage aboard the
Resolute
from Georgetown to Charleston and a rail journey to Atlanta. Three days later she had boarded a car on the Southern Louisiana Passenger Railway bound for New Orleans. She was numb from the jostling ride on hard wooden seats and covered head to toe with soot and dust.

“I do hope you find your employer is well.” Caroline fluffed the feathers on her hat, an oversized concoction of pink silk flowers, netting, and ribbons. “This is a dangerous time to be in the city.”

Charlotte blotted her face with a wrinkled handkerchief. “Do you not fear for your own well-being?”

“Of course I try to be careful. But the fever seems not to spread directly from one person to another.”

Charlotte nodded. Most people on the Waccamaw feared mosquitoes and bad air more than contact with fever victims.

“Besides, the fever mostly attacks newcomers,” Caroline said. “Here, it’s the immigrants who seem to have the worst time of it. The Irish especially. Local whites seem to be resistant—and the Negroes, of course.”

Perhaps Nicholas was safe. But then why had there been no word, especially to his children?

“Is someone meeting you here?” Caroline scrubbed at her face with a lavender-scented handkerchief.

Charlotte shook her head, arranged her hat, and drew on her blackened cotton gloves.

“Then you must allow me to take you to your hotel. My carriage and driver are waiting.”

“I’m not sure where to stay. I haven’t a reservation.”

“I recommend the Orleans Palace on Prytania Street. The food is good, and the hotel is quite safe for a lady traveling alone.”

Charlotte swallowed. The hotel sounded quite grand and no
doubt it had prices to match. But she was too exhausted and too anxious for news of Nicholas to count the cost. “That sounds fine. Thank you.”

Caroline gathered her voluminous skirt and hooked her bag over her arm. “Come on. Let’s get out of here.”

They joined a group of other passengers carrying satchels and cases and emerged onto the busy platform. A short time later they collected their luggage and settled into Caroline’s waiting carriage. The Creole driver clicked his tongue to the horse and they pulled onto the busy street.

Through the open windows came the babble of voices speaking half a dozen languages, snatches of accordion music from shadowed doorways, and the calls of Italian street vendors hawking tomatoes and melons. In a shady courtyard, two Federal soldiers leaned against a wall, talking. A burly black man scrubbed a shop window with a red rag, one arm hanging useless at his side. As the carriage made the turn onto St. Charles Street, Charlotte caught a glimpse of a funeral cortege just ahead. A feeling of dread unfurled in her chest.

“Here we are,” Caroline said moments later. “Gustav Dubois is the hotel manager. Tell him I sent you. He’ll look after you.”

“I cannot thank you enough.”

“My pleasure, Miss Fraser.” Caroline squeezed Charlotte’s arm. “I do wish you well in your search.”

“I don’t suppose you could tell me where I might find General Longstreet.”

Caroline shook her head, a small frown creasing her smooth forehead. “I’m afraid not. I’ve been away all summer. But you don’t want to associate with him anyway. From what I read in the papers, he hasn’t exactly been a popular figure around here since he wrote those newspaper articles encouraging us to accept Yankee occupation.” She lowered her voice. “Some have gone so far as to call him a traitor to the South.”

The carriage driver opened her door and offered his hand as she stepped out. “Go on inside, miss. I’ll bring your baggage.”

Charlotte looked up at the hotel, taking in the pair of monolithic columns framing the elaborate wrought-iron balcony and windows tall enough to walk through. To one side was a brick and slate courtyard filled with clematis and trumpet vine, a pair of stone benches, and a burbling fountain.

She entered through a great, light-filled hall flanked by double parlors furnished with velvet settees and mahogany tables. In front of her rose a wide circular staircase.

A short, bald-pated gentleman wearing a black suit crossed the foyer and bowed. “I’m Mr. Dubois. May I help you?”

Before she could speak, Caroline Mayhew’s driver entered, carrying Charlotte’s bags.

“Andre!” The hotelier’s face split into a wide grin. “I hope the sight of you means that Miss Mayhew has returned to our city.”

“Yessir, she sho’ has. I just now fetched her from the train station.” Andre plunked down Charlotte’s bags.

“Well, tell her I hope to see her soon. I’m eager for news of her adventures abroad.”

Andre nodded and hurried out.

Charlotte explained her circumstances. “Miss Mayhew recommended your establishment.”

“And how long will you be staying with us?”

“I’m not certain.”

“That poses no difficulty whatsoever.” Mr. Dubois led her to a desk tucked discreetly beneath the massive staircase. “We have plenty of space. Not too many visitors in July to begin with; a goodly number of the locals go to their fish camps for the summer months. Now, with this outbreak, more people than usual have left the city. Including, I’m sorry to say, several of my staff.”

He ran his finger down a printed list. “I think the Blue Room
would do nicely. It has a private bath and a lovely sitting room overlooking the rear courtyard but, sadly, no lady’s maid to attend to your needs.”

“I’m accustomed to taking care of myself.” She opened her reticule. “How much?”

“I wouldn’t feel right charging you full price since I cannot provide you with full service. Would seven dollars be all right?”

It was a king’s ransom, but she handed him a few bills, which he slid back across the desk. “You’re a friend of Miss Mayhew’s, and your plans are indefinite at present. Let’s settle the bill upon your departure.”

He tapped a small bell on his desk and a uniformed bellman appeared. “Please show our guest to the Blue Room.”

An hour later Charlotte had bathed, washed her hair, and changed into a fresh dress. She unpacked her bags, settled into her chair at the small escritoire overlooking the courtyard, and opened her notebook. Where to begin looking for Nicholas? The first thing to do was find General Longstreet, despite Miss Mayhew’s warnings. Unpopular though he might be, he was a friend of Nicholas and the only man of influence she knew of in the entire city. If Nicholas had already come and gone from the general’s house, perhaps the general could tell her whom to contact, where to begin her search.

If he was still alive.

A knock sounded at the door and she rose to answer it.

A young Negro woman in a starched white apron over a blue dress came in bearing a silver tray. “Mr. Dubois sent you some supper, miss.”

“Thank you. I am hungry.”

“Yes’m. Folks from the Atlanta train always is, time they get here. Normally the dining room would be open, but with this
sickness ever’where . . .” Her voice trailed away as she crossed the room and set down the tray.

“I understand.” Charlotte closed her notebook. “Tell me, are most of the afflicted in a hospital somewhere?”

“Them without no fambly done been taken to the convent. Usin’ it as a hospital, they say. Lots of folks are dyin’ at home, I reckon. My man has been tendin’ a lot of burials up at Lafayette Cemetery.” She waved one hand. “Enjoy your supper, miss. You can jus’ leave your tray outside the door. I’ll be back for it directly.”

In the morning, Charlotte woke to a discreet tap on the door. The serving woman had returned with a plate of fresh melon, a cinnamon-and-sugar-infused beignet, a pot of chicory-laced coffee, and a pitcher of cream.

“Mr. Dubois said to tell you he’s sorry we don’ have no eggs.” She set the tray down. “They’s a café just a block over on St. Charles if you need somethin’ more substantial.”

“This will be plenty. Please be sure to give Mr. Dubois my thanks.”

When the woman withdrew, Charlotte devoured the meal and set the empty tray in the hallway. She pinned her hair, pinched some color into her cheeks, and descended the staircase just as a distant church bell tolled the hour.

Mr. Dubois stood in the entry hall, deep in conversation with a wiry, dark-skinned man. But he quickly concluded his conversation when he saw her. “Miss Fraser. I trust you slept well.”

“I did, and I thank you for two delicious meals.”

“I could do much more if my regular chef were here, but alas,
he’s decamped to Terrebonne Parish.” He shrugged. “We do the best we can. How may I help you this morning?”

“I’m looking for General Longstreet. I believe he might have news of my employer, who has gone missing.”

The hotelier’s brows went up. “Indeed? The last I heard, the general was gravely ill and housebound. In any case I doubt much news of anything has come his way. Most people here have taken a dim view of his call to accept Northern rule.”

Charlotte nodded. “So says Miss Mayhew, but I still must find him. He has not responded to my letters.”

“And I doubt he will. He—” Mr. Dubois paused as a quartet of hotel guests came downstairs. “Please excuse me a moment.”

He hurried over to the two ladies and planted kisses on their proffered hands. He spoke to their escorts, shook their hands, and summoned the bellman. “John, please find a carriage for these fine folks and see to their bags.”