*
In the night Alice woke and rolled over in her narrow bed. The room was cold. In spite of her warm blankets, when she stretched out, her feet hit a section of chilly sheet that had not been warmed by her body heat. The baby was moving, a foot perhaps pressing against the skin on her right side. Alice laid her palm over the little bulge and held it there until the baby moved again. She curled onto her side, reached out her hand to touch the slanted ceiling where it angled down to the floor. As her fingers pressed against the boarding, Alice was seized by a powerful sense that she could identify only as belonging. Like the realization of never experienced friendship, this sudden sense of belonging revealed some deep void within her that had not so much lost something, as had never held anything of hers to lose, so foreign to her that she had no way to give it an identity. Something akin to what was missing had been hers with her mother, both friendship and belonging. Yet because of the masculine rule of the farm, neither had truly been hers. Her mother’s first allegiance had been to her father. To her father, though he loved them both in his way, she and her mother had hardly been more than trappings to fulfill his needs. Alice’s belonging there had been to her father, and not with him.
When the morning came, Alice rose, feeling still the mystery of her sensations in the night. She washed her face and hands, pulled her hair into its customary bun and pinned it. She donned her gored skirt and her too-tight shirtwaist, tied her boots. She wished to look as decent as possible. This afternoon she and Analee would begin the transformation of Constance into a mysterious and unknown goddess. This was a day such as Alice had never imagined. Never had she dreamed of creating anything so fine as this gown and headpiece. Never had she conceived of the chance to plumb the depths of her creative hunger and produce something as glorious as this gown and veil. Nor had she imagined the generosity of spirit in such women as Constance, to say nothing of Analee and Dorothea.
She found Constance and Analee at the kitchen table, sharing chickory coffee and the fresh beignets Analee had fetched early from the market. They ceased their conversation when she entered, the wood floor creaking slightly as she crossed the ample space. Sunlight from the window silhouetted their heads.
“Ah, there she is,” said Constance. “We were just discussing you, Alice.”
Analee scuffed back her chair and rose to retrieve another cup of coffee. Alice sat, wondering. Constance reached for her hand.
“Alice, if you should find Howard, would you be with him again?”
So unexpected was this question, Alice could not answer. She shook her head.
“For the baby, perhaps? If he asked you?”
Alice thought for a moment. Shook her head again. “No.”
“But you went looking because of the baby, am I wrong?”
“Yes, for the baby. But only for Howard’s financial responsibility. Wherever he is, this is his child. He may abandon me, but not the child.”
“The gown is complete. Magnificently so. Tonight is the ball. What are your plans after this?”
Alice took a deep breath. “I will go back to the orphanage to work with the girls for a time. They will need to learn everything I have to teach them so that they can find work, not in the mills—no, not in the mills. But with designers and skilled seamstresses who make the Mardi Gras ball gowns and the opera gowns and . . .”
Analee set a china cup beside her, with a plated beignet.
Constance squeezed her hand. “Yes, the girls there do indeed need your mentoring. But there is no need for you to live in the orphanage, especially not with the baby coming.”
“But . . .”
“So Analee and I have been talking. I have a proposal for you.”
“But my work here for you is done, Constance.”
“Perhaps I might not say that, Alice. Hear me out. I am also deeply invested in the orphanage and those girls, as is Dorothea. So yes, I am very much interested in how the girls may fully benefit from your expertise. But that does not mean you need to live there.”
Alice opened her mouth to speak, but Constance shushed her. Where could Constance possibly imagine she might go? Perhaps she was aware of some small rental, in which case Alice would need to move only once. Alice’s brain flew through possibilities, probable or not. She sat back and waited.
“Especially not with your baby coming.” Constance also sat back. “The gown is done, it’s true. But the girls and I will have other needs now, especially with spring coming on. The girls will need Easter dresses, I am sure. They are growing so rapidly.”
“If you are asking if I might be available for that, the answer is certainly yes. With immense enthusiasm. Your girls are an immense joy to me.” It relieved Alice to think she would have at least a minimum of work assured.
“Yes, I am asking that. And more. We have all become very fond of you, Alice. I believe you feel that here among us.”
“You have made me extraordinarily welcome, Constance. As have you, Analee.” Alice smiled at one, then the other.
“So here is my proposal. As you already know, we have an extra bedroom on the second floor. Ultimately, it would be for one of the girls as they begin to grow up and want separate rooms, but that time is still years away. The room is large enough to accommodate both you and the baby furniture—crib, changing table, small chest—that I have stored in the attic. You would have both comfort and a degree of privacy.”
Alice’s heart was racing. She knew the room. Of course. It was lovely, but she could not impose herself on this family. She would not.
“You are so kind, Constance, but I cannot take advantage of your kind generosity. You cannot take me and this baby on as an act of charity. You are so passionately kind, but just making Easter dresses for your girls hardly covers—”
“Alice.” Constance held up her hand to silence Alice’s protests. “You are not and never will be my charity case. Please. You must never think such thoughts again. You are my friend. And I need a friend.”
As do I, thought Alice, aware suddenly of the tears she blinked back.
“Don’t protest now,” Constance said. “Hear me out to the end. You are such a talented seamstress. Perhaps I should actually use the term couturier. After this ball tonight, once it is over and done, everyone attending will be wondering about that gown and veil. We will return it all to Dorothea. My secret attendance will be secure. Well, perhaps. Who knows?” Constance glanced out the window, brushed back her hair. “At any rate, I’ve considered this carefully. Dorothea will have the costume. Women all over New Orleans will be wanting gowns for weddings, dinners, balls—there is always something. Dorothea will guide them to you. You will have more demand than you can accommodate, with ample income to contribute to the household, and plenty left over to save for yourself and your child.”
Alice felt Constance take her hand. “The only other condition, dear Alice, is that you save time to teach the girls at the orphanage to sew. In fact, that is primary. They need to be able to find work when they leave.”
“Constance, I want to give them greater proficiencies than just those basics for the mills. I want to give them the opportunity to make real lives for themselves. They need more than survival.”
“As do you, Alice.” Constance released her hand. “Now tell me you will stay, so that I can enjoy this event tonight.”
Alice breathed in the possibilities, the sense of belonging, the peace of it.
“Yes. I will stay.” Only then did she let the tears come free.
CHAPTER 38