“Now, about your Howard Butterworth—we still have time to make a foray to the wharves for a few inquiries. I am planning to go with you, since I have nothing to do between now and getting myself into my exquisite costume.”
Alice felt Constance’s gentle fingers wipe away the tears on her cheek. Everything in her felt settled. The search for Howard remained essential but had lost its frantic urgency. Alice nodded.
“I would welcome your company, Constance. And your familiarity with the wharves.”
“Then we are on our way. Analee, you have the girls. Perhaps they might find it exciting to help set that bedroom straight for Alice.”
Alice donned her new boater, a gift from Constance’s collection, and followed Constance out the door.
Outside the world seemed peculiarly hushed, the air still and silent, the half-light of a clouded sky blurred like her lost photograph. How, without it, would she begin to inquire? How, in fact, would they manage this regardless? And with only the remainder of the morning to begin their search.
Alice grasped Constance’s elbow. “Let’s don’t do this. We haven’t time today. We’ve more important things to do.”
“More important than finding Howard? We have at least two hours, Alice. We shouldn’t waste any time we have now that the dress is done. Who knows what demand you will be in once this gown is seen? You are likely to become the couturier of the day.” Constance opened her parasol. “And then there’s the baby. You will not be wanting to haunt the wharves before very long.”
The wharves covered miles of waterfront. Every changing section of wharf was another shift in a kaleidoscopic whirl: stacked rows of huge trunks of cypress and pine; stacks of milled lumber separated by grade; five-hundred-pound bales of cotton from compresses upriver; stevedores bent under 132-pound bags of green coffee from Cuba; high on wooden carts, massive mounds of green bananas tied with red ropes; grain disgorged from barges and loaded straightaway onto ships bound for Liverpool; sheaves of sugarcane bound for one or another of hundreds of mills, to return again as sugar to be loaded into cargo holds.
Alice felt as if she had fallen into a bed of ants, felt overwhelmed and claustrophobic even in the open air. But she followed Constance, who had taken her by the hand and was pulling her along through a labyrinth of cotton bales, was sliding through and past the scurry of stevedores toward a more open sliver of wharf over which a steamship towered. She could never have done this alone. Without Constance’s perceived assurance, she would have no idea even which way to turn next or what part of these vast wharves to seek. Even with Constance’s guidance, she found herself fearful, wanting nothing more than to turn back. Eyes and head turning in a swirl, Alice nearly tripped when Constance abruptly halted.
“Excuse me, sir.” Constance reached out to get the attention of a fellow standing atop a bale of cotton, calling out instructions to some workers struggling with a cart.
“Yes? May I assist you, ma’am?” The chap was clearly annoyed at the interruption.
“Could you by any chance direct me to a Mr. Marchand? I believe he works in this area of the wharf.”
The man waved his hand dismissively. “No, ma’am. Marchand will be a good bit farther that way, near where the lumber gets stacked.” He turned and shouted again at the workers and jumped down from his perch on the cotton bale.
Alice felt Constance nudge her as she watched the flurry.
“Well, on we go.”
“Someone you know?” Alice caught her breath as she hurried behind Constance.
“He’s the man I met down here when I came for the Black Hand fiasco. He was very kind and seemed to be knowledgeable. At least he’s a beginning. I’m thinking he might be able to give us leads to follow when we have more time after this ball is done. I’m hoping this will give you some clues to follow on your own.”
Ahead of them the bales of cotton gave way to piles of planed lumber, stacked high in varying lengths, and those gave way to lower stacks where rows of half-loaded barges rocked in the water at the dock’s edge. The sounds mixed with the lapping waves and with the sharper crack of wood as men hefted the lumber onto carts and off again as they slid it onto the barges—sounds utterly different from the thudding weight of the cotton bales. Above them, from a pulley of sorts, a man jumped down, waved his hand to another supervisor, and jogged toward them.
“Mrs. Halstead.” He removed his hat and brushed back his hair. “I’m surprised to see you here.”
Constance nodded. “Mr. Marchand. My friend and I are here on an errand.” She glanced at Alice, who blanched. Surely, she would not have Alice explain the situation of her lost husband. But then Constance continued. “This is Mrs. Butterworth, my friend from Chicago. She is visiting me, and we realized in conversation that a relative of her husband may now be in New Orleans. It’s possible he’s in the cotton industry and working the wharves. You came to mind—and again, I cannot thank you enough for coming to my aid in that terrible incident with the Black Hand.”
His embarrassment was evident to Alice; she hoped her relief at Constance’s performance was not equally detectable.
“At any rate, I thought we might inquire if perhaps you know of him or could help us in some way. It’s a distant possibility, I know, but I wanted to acquaint her with our city’s bustling waterfront industry, and today is so nice and lovely. You never know in this late winter, early spring season. This time last year it was just above freezing.”
Marchand seemed not to know what to say and glanced over his shoulder at the workers, then turned to Alice. “Yes, ma’am. Happy to oblige if I can. The relative’s name?”
For a brief moment Alice was frozen. “Butterworth,” she said. “The same as my husband’s. His name is Howard Butterworth.”
Marchand appeared blank for a moment, scratched his balding head awkwardly with the hat between his fingers, then looked out across the river. “Butterworth. Hmm. Howard Butterworth?” He glanced down at the wide dock planking; then his face brightened, and Alice reached for her friend’s arm. “You know, it sounds a bit familiar, that name, but I just can’t place it. Won’t come to me. Seems like I came across that name in the past few months. I try to remember folks, but it’s awfully hard when there’s so many about all the time. Try to make some kind of association to the name. When I try to call that one up, seems like I met some fellow that I associated with bread so I’d remember.”
“Bread?” Alice was thoroughly puzzled.
“Yes, ma’am. You know, bread and butter. Butterworth. See how that works?”
Before Alice could speak, Constance intervened. “Would you happen to know where you met, Mr. Marchand?”
“Um, no, ma’am. I’m surprised I came up with that association. They don’t always work for me. I could have come up with the same for you, Mrs. Halstead, telling myself to remember it rhymed. Bread-Halstead. See how that works?”
“Well, thank you, anyway, Mr. Marchand.” Alice squeezed Constance’s elbow. “I’m having quite the adventure here in New Orleans and looking forward to a delicious luncheon. You have a nice afternoon, now.”
Both of them curtsied slightly and turned back the way they had come.