The following morning, Mrs. McLaren appeared from the kitchen just as Alice came down the stairs, yesterday’s crumpled newspaper in hand.
“Hungry, dear?” she asked.
“No. No, ma’am. I, uh, I’m not so hungry in the mornings.”
She felt the intensity of Mrs. McLaren’s gaze. “Well, now. I’m enough of a busybody to insist on a bite or two to sustain you through the day, hungry or not. Come with me.”
Alice followed her landlady into the oversized kitchen, where a rack of random pots and pans hung over the center chopping block, on which sat a baguette, partially sliced.
“Here,” said Mrs. McLaren. “One slice of dry bread won’t harm you none.”
Alice took the bread, held it, took one bite.
“How’s your luck with that newspaper now? Anything promising for you?”
“Not yet.” She dared not talk about her appalling experience from the previous day. “Perhaps today.”
“You don’t know me, my dear, so perhaps you might not be accustomed to my bold speech, but how many days have you money for?”
Alice choked on her bite of bread.
“Well, now. You needn’t get that outdone about it, dear. But it’s my guess you haven’t much. You only have to nod.”
Alice did.
“Well, now. I been thinking on this, and you may want to know. May be just the thing for you. No more wasted pennies on that useless paper.” She cut another slice of bread and held it out. “Are you Catholic or Protestant, dear?”
Alice took the bread. “I am not Catholic.”
“Well, no matter, dear, but at any rate, perhaps you know we have a rather large number of orphanages in New Orleans, both Catholic and Protestant. Yellow fever, even when it’s not in epidemic, leaves a lot of orphans and half-orphans.”
“I know I look a bit childish, but I’m not an orphan, Mrs. McLaren, and far too old to be taken in.”
“Oh, that I know, dear. No, I’m thinking of the Poydras Asylum for Girls—it’s Protestant, by the way—where the orphaned and destitute are taken in. And they have been known to assist widow women.” Mrs. McLaren looked at her from the corners of her eyes. “The manager women who oversee it there bring in skilled women to teach the girls a trade, so they can make their way in life—not wind up in Storyville. You had a bit of a taste of that one yesterday.” She emitted a gutsy laugh. “Sewing is prized there at the asylum. You’d likely be welcomed. I’m thinking you might have some luck in making an exchange of your skills for sanctuary there, if that doesn’t sit too low for you.”
“No, Mrs. McLaren. No, not in the least. I would welcome sharing my skills with . . . with motherless girls.” She felt the tears close to escaping at the thought of her own mother’s hands so close to her own, the gift those hands had bestowed on her. She imagined her hands holding fabric and needle next to the hands of some young girl. Her heart lifted in hope.
CHAPTER 18
When Alice descended the Magazine streetcar, her breath seemed to fail her. Nothing tall concrete like in Chicago, but awninged shops of all sorts crowded together under the trees along the street. She turned toward the Poydras Asylum for Girls, which was farther away. Her longing for home and her mother overcame her with an unexpected grief. She stood for a moment, pretending she had something in her eye, tilting her head back and pulling at the upper lid of her left eye. Feeling in some control of herself again, Alice readjusted her taupe woolen hat, smoothed her skirt, and approached the front entrance of the orphanage.
As she lifted her hand to the knocker, the door opened and a small blond woman halted her exit in surprise. Alice stepped back in equal surprise. It took both women a moment to regather themselves.
“Good morning. I beg your pardon,” the woman said. “May I help you?”
“Yes, I’m sorry. I . . . Well, yes, I hope so.” Alice tried not to stammer. “Yes. I have been made to understand that the orphanage might have need of a skilled seamstress.”
The woman was silent, seeming to process this thought in her head.
“And you see, ma’am, I am one. That is, I am a very skilled seamstress. I understand you might need someone to help teach the girls my trade. So, I have come to inquire—”
“Oh, yes, indeed, Miss—”
“Mrs. Butterworth.” Alice held out her hand.
“I’m so sorry. I was just on my way out.”
Alice felt the dejection of a great mistake and dropped her hand.
“So, please, excuse my manners if you will. Come in. I’ll take you to Mrs. Guidry before I leave. She will be delighted. This way please.”
Indeed, Mrs. Guidry was more than pleased. The home had lost two seasoned sewing teachers in as many months. Alice’s skills would be welcomed. So welcomed that Mrs. Guidry was not the least hesitant to provide a room and meals in exchange for them. The room was on the second floor, a boon to Alice now. After her days of deprivation in Chicago, she would welcome regular meals, even if simple and plain. The sewing room near the rear of the building, with windows onto Jefferson, was shaded by the gallery above, and had a view onto the lawn where the little girls played under supervision. Alice’s face gladdened to hear their laughter as she toured the space.
She could move in the next day, Alice told Mrs. Guidry, but one last thing had to be settled.
“I am with child,” she said. Straight and outright, as should be, though she knew it might cost her this sanctuary.
Mrs. Guidry was taken aback, as Alice expected. “We are not a home for unwed mothers.”
“Nor am I one. I am a widow.” Alice held out her hand for Mrs. Guidry to see her thin gold wedding band. Her fingers had swelled somewhat with the pregnancy, as had her ankles, which were thankfully covered. The imprint on her finger made it clear the band was no recent subterfuge. “I discovered my condition after Mr. Butterworth’s—” She hesitated, turned her head aside. “After his recent death. I had an infant son, who died before him. I am bereaved and alone. Now I must make a life for myself and for this child. I pray you will not turn me away. I will earn my keep. You will see.”
A fearful moment followed for Alice. Then Mrs. Guidry reached out and took both of Alice’s hands in her own. Her touch was warm and kind, but firm.
“This place was founded by the Female Orphan Society, a group of determined Protestant women. Their purpose was to help not only orphans and destitute children but also widows. I believe that you and your coming child fit quite comfortably into our purpose here. We will welcome your services, Mrs. Butterworth.”
CHAPTER 19
When Constance returned from her ordeal at the morgue, Analee put her straight to bed. “Mama didn’t feel so good today,” she told the children. The tray of gumbo and rice pudding she took up for supper, she carried away untouched. She made Constance comfortable for the night, put the girls to bed, then came and sat in the chair by the window, where she dozed until morning.
Constance was aware that Analee was there. She felt those strong hands lifting her hair from the pillow, braiding it slowly. Felt the covers Analee tucked in around her. Heard the small sounds of Analee’s feet and her skirts as she shifted in the chair to get more comfortable. She must have slept. She had not heard Analee leave the room, and she awoke alone.
Suicide? Nothing like that had crossed her mind. An accident? It had to be. But the blur of the other man, the gambler. The Black Hand? She had suspected. Of course she had. Why else had she followed? She had only wanted to be sure, to be certain of her suspicions. To know why he kept demanding her money. He earned a good living. Yet he insisted she give him money from her inheritance for what she sensed to be nonexistent “investments.” She had only needed to know. She had not meant for him to die.