Page 20 of The Wondrous Life and Loves of Nella Carter
I smooth my skirt and lick my lips, throat suddenly dry. Where will I even begin?
He senses my tension and eases it away with only the sound of his voice. “We can start wherever you like. I’m here to listen.”
The knot in my chest loosens. I think through all of it for a place to start. New Orleans. Paris. Sierra Leone. Decades of history stretching into centuries flash before my eyes.
Where to begin?
The gift box sits there waiting, calling me to start at the beginning. I open it, brushing away the tissue wrapping.
Sebastian waits, his beautiful eyes filling with a deluge of questions as he bites back the urge to ask. I will unspool the truth. I glance at him again, hesitation suddenly cropping up in my chest. If I do this, he’ll see me.The real me.
“Where do you want to start?” Sebastian teases to fill the silence between us.
I remove three figures, running my fingers over the painted tin. Might as well start with what tore the day apart. “Let’s use love.”
Sebastian’s nose crinkles. “Love?”
“Yes. The truth of this story starts in New Orleans.”
Part II: Nouvelle-Orléans
The Figures—1795
Six
Irechristened myself Noelle Carbonnier. I thought it fitting, since I was beginning a new life in La Nouvelle-Orléans, and it had been eleven years since my first meeting with Death. The journey from Savannah had been long and slow, mirroring my search for Silas. My first task was to find a job—no small task—and learn the lay of the land. Miss Hortense was instrumental in teaching me the customs of the place. I had found a room at her boardinghouse at the outskirts of the city—clean, neat, and far more comfortable than the shack where Death had found me.
As gruff as Miss Hortense was, she taught me how to get by in a place so foreign it might as well have been a different world. The law then commanded that all free women of color in the city wear their hair in tignons to show their status. They made their wrapped scarves things of beauty, with elegant twists and curves that looked as if tropical birds had landed upon them and graced them with their plumage. Miss Hortense instructed me on how to tie mine, how to wear my dress, and how to live in a city that was a mixture of the French, the Spanish, and the newly made American.
I had sold whatever valuables I could take from the main house to pay my way, but the money I had in my pocket wouldn’t last long, and if I didn’t want to be on the street, or worse, I would have to find a way to earn.
And of course, I’d need money if I was to find my brother. A young slave couple fleeing through the same forest pathways I’d discovered had told me they knew Silas, and that he’d been traded to a branch of Master Carter’s family in Louisiana. My aim was set.
After a week, I donned my best white cotton dress, the least mangled from the trip, and paired it with a white tignon, tied simply. Peering at the bit of reflection in my room’s small looking glass, I decided my appearance was at least ordinary enough. I would blend in.
I approached Miss Hortense, asking what kind of opportunities the city offered to a woman like me. She barked a laugh. “You know what you can do. Laundry or manual labor. Anything that’ll leave your body bent and broken.” She gazed at her own hands sadly. The skin was rough and darker than the rest of her, and her right hand twisted in a painful-looking gnarl.
I knew the truth of her words, but I had no choice. I thanked her for the advice and asked her to be alert if she heard of anything. Then I set out, determined to find a position.
Though I had been in the city for a while, the noise and busyness still startled me. The entire town bustled with movement. A lorry driver was urging his team of horses down the avenue.Marchandes’ calls rang out above the chaos, their arms full of food baskets, tempting each passerby. The more well-to-do strolled, fanning themselves in the growing heat as they picked their way across the streets. The smell of hot dung and human excrement mingled with the fresh wood of constant construction. A fire had ravaged part of town the year before, and the recovery was still underway. In other areas of the city, new grand projects were planned. New Orleans was a town on the rise, and if I planned on staying, I would have to rise with it.
By the third shop I visited—and the third resounding no I’d received—my spirits and the rest of me were dampened. The midday sun shone, spiking the humidity. Sweat leaked from my tignon, and my dress clung to me as I soldiered on, ignoring the thoughts of failure thatwere becoming increasingly present. What if I couldn’t find a position? I had only enough money for three more weeks with Miss Hortense.
As I pondered the magnitude of my situation, a woman pressed to my side, dressed in the white cotton skirts common at the time, head framed with a yellowed tignon, a broad wicker basket in her hands, full of browned sugar cakes. “One shilling or piece of eight,” she urged in Creole French, crowding me in the street. The cakes smelled heavenly to my empty stomach, the rough ground coffee from breakfast long gone. I eyed the cakes but thought of the shillings in my pocket.
I stepped back. “Not today,” I said, matching her accent. My eyes landed on her basket, still pressing into me. “I’m looking for work, actually,” I said quickly. “Would you know of anything?”
The woman’s welcoming smile vanished as her black eyes narrowed, looking me up and down. “Work’s tough enough. You won’t find anything here.” She brushed past me, bumping me hard in my shoulder, knocking me off-balance and nearly to the ground. I was stunned, hot pricks burning behind my eyeballs as I almost fell into the dirt.
Later, I would come to understand her reaction. With a limited market, another woman of color on the street wasn’t good for her business at all.
Luckily, she wasn’t the only marchande working that day.
A hand extended from nowhere, gripping mine to steady me. My rescuer rested her woven basket on her hip and grinned. Her skin had a honeyed tone, and her brown eyes sparkled warmly. Her skirts were wide, white, and full, covered by a dark-blue many-pocketed apron. The square neckline suited her stout structure. Her hair was in a red tignon, tied expertly, as Miss Hortense had shown me.
“Don’t mind Adelice,” she said, jerking her head at the offending woman’s retreating back. “I’m Sylvie. I heard what you said.” She gave me an appraising look. “You need to find Miss Eulalie de Mandéville. She has a big warehouse on Esplanade Avenue and always needs people. Go on down there.”
She winked and resumed her calls, beckoning customers from across the street with gentle ease in her movements.
