Constance nodded.
Now Alice stood. “And she believes that I am the answer to your problem. Perhaps I am. And you to mine. I have no other work. And I need work. I have taken on the responsibility of teaching the girls here at the orphanage, those old enough, the essentials of the sewing machines. And all ages hand stitching and embroidery. It means a great deal to me, and I will continue to do so even if I find another livelihood. It is such pleasure to me to be instructing them to sew. They are, for the most part, such lovely girls, and I feel deeply for their sad situations. But it does not occupy me completely, and my lodging here is temporary. I have ample time to work on your gown. My skills are fairly advanced, and I would welcome such a challenge.”
“Alice, I realize that I am being vague—and slow—in speaking. I must learn from Dorothea to be more straightforward. Here is my situation. I am unable to pay for such a gown and your services at present. So here is what I can propose. I am prepared to offer you a sort of unpaid temporary exchange. A third-floor room—it is spacious and light—and good meals in exchange for your work on the gown.”
“I would be happy to show you some small samples of my work. I have nothing else in my current circumstances.”
“I trust Dorothea’s assessment, though I would be delighted to see your work. I realize as I say all this, it isn’t much of a bargain for you. I’m embarrassing myself here.”
Alice took a deep breath. She felt a tinge of empathy for this young widow, so clearly ill at ease. “Don’t be. I’m in somewhat embarrassing circumstances myself. I need work. My room here is only for as long as it is not needed for an orphan. I will soon need shelter, and should avail myself of both, sooner than later. I accept your temporary offer, then. Perhaps it will enable me to find a better place when I have finished your gown. It shouldn’t take that long. When shall we begin?”
Dorothea reentered from the outside terrace. Alice saw instantly the self-assured smile on her face. A woman who is accustomed to having charge over life, thought Alice.
CHAPTER 22
Dorothea made quiet arrangements to transport Alice to the Marigny house two days hence and ushered Constance back to her waiting vehicle.
“I thought this would be advantageous,” she said, pulling the tiller toward her to make her turn from the curved driveway onto the street. “For both of you.”
The car hummed along past little shops of various sorts on Magazine. Constance held her anxiety. As they passed through the Garden District, fine houses to the left, the Irish Channel to the right, only blocks off the river, she thought with some trepidation of the commitment she had just made. Such a quick decision. She was a bit uneasy now at the thought of a stranger living in her house, at the thought that she would truly be participating in a major Mardi Gras event, against all convention. Glancing up at the emerging balconies where families lived above their stores in the Lower Garden District, Constance silently questioned her hasty decision. There was more to it than bowing to Dorothea’s insistence—Dorothea, who now steered them through the growing business district toward Canal. Constance liked Alice, another widow, more than she had anticipated. Her skills were evident. But Constance had no extra funds for fabrics and trims. She was not intimidated by participating in an all-women’s krewe—she would have been greatly tempted by such a venture before. But now the utter unknown of Benton’s death, of her own chilling sense of guilt, made this secret break with convention distressing. It was herself more than her engrained way of life that she must now overcome.
“I have a thought, Constance,” Dorothea said as she deftly turned the tiller left, then right, left again, steering the car proficiently through the tangle of streetcars, carriages, wagons, and other motorcars on Canal.
“Yes?” Constance felt not only unnerved by the traffic but also uneasy that Dorothea might perceive her hidden fears.
“I am constantly aware of the waste of things. So much. In this city. Extravagances that go unheeded, the unused discards of excess. It is one of the reasons I think both of us are invested in the orphanage. And willing to make these journeys to the other side of the city to be of use there.”
The kinship of the orphanage relieved Constance’s nervousness. “Perhaps,” she said. “It makes me glad to donate my girls’ outgrown things.”
“In that case, would you be amenable to my donating some things to you?”
They had entered the Vieux Carré, the river close beside them as they bumped over the cobblestones of Decatur Street. Whistles and horns from steamers and barges, melodic cries of street vendors, calls from one ornate balcony to the other charged the air with distracting noise.
“To me? Whatever for, Dorothea?” Constance was embarrassed that her surprise was evident. She couldn’t imagine wearing Dorothea’s discards, elegant as they might be.
“To ease my conscience about my own excess.” Dorothea jerked the tiller as a young boy darted across the way.
“I’m afraid I don’t understand.” Dorothea was about to give Constance her hand-me-downs? No, she couldn’t accept such a thing. Everyone would know. And Dorothea would know that everyone would know.
“I have a number of gowns from years past in more than one attic trunk. Worn once and discarded. Things should be of more use than that. It’s sinful, actually. If you would take a few of those for Alice to dismantle and use the bits and pieces as she can, it would ease my conscience considerably. There are also things like laces and trims, buttons, perhaps even appliqués that would be of benefit to the girls at the orphanage in refining their skills for a trade. Better than the simple cottons they have. If they are to find placement other than at the mills, they will need those refined skills. How would you feel about that idea, my dear?”
It took Constance a moment to get her breath. Not only had she found a skilled seamstress, but now the treasure of fine fabrics and trims had fallen unexpectedly into her lap, as well. She found it difficult to let the amplitude sink in. She was unused to such generosity.
“They are all in good condition, if that worries you.”
“Oh, no, not at all, Dorothea.” Constance felt the flush in her cheeks.
On past Jackson Square, the car rolled over the rough cobblestones until they reached the farmers market. The melee of sounds now combined with an assault of smells on the senses: the enticing aroma of fresh baguettes and croissants, followed instantly by the terrible reek of the fish market, then the bloody odors of the butchers’ market, and finally, at the end, the soothing, enticing chocolaty scent of ground chicory. And a hint of pralines, all sugary, with a waft of pecans.
Dorothea slowed the car. “I think we should have a praline to celebrate. And take some home to your children. Do you need more time to think?”
Constance had not realized that there had been a pause. “It’s just—it’s just that I am so deeply touched at your generosity. Not only with me, but with Alice, too, and with the girls. I don’t quite know what to say.”
“Thank you would be an adequate response.” Dorothea pulled to a stop, set the brake, and jumped down. “You’re not turning down a praline, now are you?”
*