Page 21 of The Wondrous Life and Loves of Nella Carter
It wasn’t much, but it was hope. I hurried from that spot, excited at just the chance of an opportunity. Her words spurred me on through the humidity, thick as soup. I followed her directions, closing the gap between me and the warehouse. I hadn’t been to that area of town before, and made my way carefully, aware of my surroundings. The warehouse was near the water, the funk of the river growing stronger the closer I went. It mixed with the pungent smell of fish left to dry in the sun. Construction clamored around me as teams of brown and black bodies labored under the careful eyes of their supervisors. One of them caught my eye: a tall man near my age, a long scar running down the right side of his face. He reminded me of Silas, with his hooded eyes and prominent brow. He could have simply been looking, interested in a woman walking down the rutted street, but guilt rose inside me, spurring me forward; the expression in his eyes haunted me.
Luckily, the warehouse wasn’t far, only three turns away, set in the middle of two larger buildings, crates piled just outside. My mouth got drier with every step as blood pulsed in my ears. I tucked my chemise in and straightened my tignon, ensuring my hair was pinned away, pulling this and that until I was respectable. I straightened and made my way inside.
Piles of crates and boxes filled the large main room, about the size of Miss Hortense’s house. Beams of light slanted down from the upper windows, illuminating the space. Men and women, all shades of brown, bustled around like ants carting boxes or wares and stacking them for distribution. The space was orderly, filled with positive energy and the hum of activity. I tried to pinpoint exactly where the energy was coming from and realized it was the workers. They held themselves proudly, as if they had a mission, a purpose.
I scanned the space, searching for Miss Eulalie. Sylvie had said she’d be impossible to miss. I only hoped I would know her when I saw her.
I asked a passing man, a box hoisted on his shoulder, and he jerked his head toward the back of the cavernous room.
Sylvie had been right.
Eulalie stood in the middle of that great warehouse—tall, with dark-blond wisps escaping her tignon. She directed the workers around the warehouse, not unlike the supervisors from that construction site, but with a calm demeanor that spoke of assurance that her orders would be followed. She didn’t have to yell or threaten. She simply consulted the papers she had in her hand and told them what to do.
I had seen the mistress of the house giving direction, but never a woman of business—and a woman of color, at that. I didn’t know it, but at that time, she was younger than me, just twenty-one, the seeds of her empire newly forming. Still, a tingle ran through me, a sign I was in the right place at the right time.
Eulalie’s tignon might as well have been a crown, made of a canary-yellow cotton broadcloth, meticulously knotted and twisted to the right. It marked her as the queen of her kingdom, which I quickly learned was absolutely the case. Loose curls framed her face, her light-brown skin clear and even.
What struck me most, though, was how at ease she was.
I wiped my sweaty palms on my skirt and waited for her to notice me, biting the inside of my cheek the entire time.
She turned toward me. “What do you want?” she asked in a clipped fashion, her eyes coolly taking stock of me. I resisted the urge to recheck my appearance and stood at my full height. I didn’t know what she thought of me, but I knew instinctively to meet her eye and hold my place.
“A woman named Sylvie told me you needed workers. I’m here for work.”
She didn’t say anything but continued to assess me, the moment stretching out. I was conscious of every one of my flaws and imperfections, from my worn dress with its inelegantly hidden patches to my ragged shoes, gone thin in the sole. What would this formidablewoman think of me? The tingling feeling that had flooded me quickly turned to dread. “I’m a hard worker. And I can read,” I said quickly, filling the silence.
She shook her head and motioned away, shooing me without ceremony. “I have nothing. Good day.” She returned to squinting at the papers in her hand.
I was baffled. What would I do now? I almost turned and left, but I hadn’t had that feeling before. That tingle of the meant-to-be.
I stood my ground. “I’m sorry, miss, but I can’t take no for an answer.”
Eulalie stopped and frowned. “Unfortunately, it’s the only one I have.”
I inhaled. “I know what you said, but also ... I—I’m not leaving.”
“Is that so?”
I swallowed and nodded. In truth, I wasthisclose to fleeing. “I’m supposed to be here. I know it.”
Her eyes twinkled in a shaft of light, a rich hazel that sparkled with mischief, and she smiled, suddenly blooming like a flower in the sunshine. “Now that’s the kind of attitude you need to succeed. Name?”
“Noelle.”
She cocked her head. “Well, Noelle, let’s see if I can’t find something for you to do.”
That was how it began. Even in our brief meeting, I could see that Eulalie was a beauty, a brain, and the boss all at once. And in that instant, I formed a new goal. I knew who I wanted to be.
I would continue to search for Silas, and I would also become the woman who could buy him outright.
Months passed, and I became Eulalie’s most successful marchande. I had an advantage, as I was able to speak the native language of any personon the street, and with Miss Hortense’s help, I wore the fashionable goods I was selling, showing them to their best advantage.
Soon, Eulalie took me into her office, where I was able to see firsthand how she had grown her French grandparents’ dairy business, left to her in their will, into the thriving trade she did today. She was whip smart, bold, and self-assured—everything I hoped to be. Time spent in proximity made us fast friends. She took me along to social gatherings at the most beautiful homes on Marigny Street—newly built, with wraparound porches and wrought iron railings ornamented with flowering vines—screaming of both abundance and influence. The gatherings were mixed, attended by some of the top Spanish officials and other members of the Creole ruling class.
My feeling in these gatherings was always the same: a swirling cauldron of contradictions. While we weren’t the only free people there, most of the other people of color were serving the event, offering drinks, and bringing platters of food. People acknowledged us as we walked by, but the gaze was cool, almost dismissive. In response, Eulalie always beamed her brightest smile.
“Do you ever get used to it?” I asked as we made a turn around the room.
