Crescent City Courtship (16 page)

He studied her tense profile for several moments after their drinks came—she simply held her cup in both hands, staring blankly at the mirror over the bar.

“Tell me, Abigail, why it is you don’t subscribe to Miss Molyneux’s penchant for romantic love between marriage partners.”

She blinked and cut a glance at him. “What?”

“I’m curious to know if you’re one of those women looking for all-consuming passion in a marriage partner.”

“I shall never marry.”

He laughed, assuming she was joking. But when she simply stared at him, his amusement faded. “You cannot be serious.”

She shrugged. “Who would marry me?” A faint smile tipped her lips. “According to Dr. Pitcock, my head is too big.”

“No—what he said is that you are surprisingly normal
for such a bright woman. I suppose you think there isn’t a man capable of keeping up with you.”

She sipped her coffee, made a face, and pushed it away. “That’s bitter.” She shook her head. “I’m not so arrogant. But I’ve too much to accomplish to tie myself down to household and children.” She gave him a wry smile. “Which generally accompanies marriage. Miss Molyneux is right in a sense—there are responsibilities that go along with committing to such a lifelong partnership. And when one party or the other is consumed with some outside passion, what you have is tantamount to adultery.” Her lips tightened. “It’s a difficult tightrope to walk and I will not place myself in the situation of making a choice between medicine and marriage.”

“I think you’re very cynical.”

“No. I’m
realistic.
” Her eyes glinted. “Don’t tell me you’re actually thinking of marrying that little twit. She’d drive you mad inside a week.”

“Of course I’m not thinking of…I’m not thinking of marrying anybody. It’s just that I hate to see you cut yourself off from the possibility of…Never mind,” he said hastily, catching the tray of oysters as the cook slid it down the bar. “Eat up and let’s get back to class. I don’t want to be late.”

She picked up an oyster and slipped in a knife to expertly pop it open. “Your sister is surprisingly broad-minded and educated. I like her.”

John shrugged. “She’s spoiled, of course, but she has a good heart. My father has several charitable enterprises that Lise dabbles in.”

“Your father doesn’t strike me as the charitable sort.”

“He’s been spending considerable political coin to bring better sewage to the poor sections of the city near the
levees—which was largely his idea, by the way. He knows he’s got to protect the homes of the dock workers for the benefit of his own livelihood.” John rapidly put away his lunch as he tried to explain. “So his city improvements aren’t entirely altruistic—but he’s not as bad as some people paint him.”

Abigail glanced at him, her expression unreadable. “How much of your father’s business activity are you aware of?”

“Not much. Frankly, I’m not interested. As long as he pays my medical college expenses…” That sounded both selfish and ungrateful. “I mean, the old man’s absolutely rabid about shipping, trading and building. At first he couldn’t conceive that I was serious about studying medicine.” John slid an oyster down his throat, remembering those months of icy silence between him and his family. “Went so far as to cut me off last summer.”

Abigail’s eyes flew to his face. “What about school? Did you have to drop out?”

John shook his head. “For a while I managed—I’d been putting aside my allowance, when I could. Finally swallowed my pride and asked Prof to see about having my tuition deferred.”

“The faculty would do that?”

“Happens all the time. The professors are good about lending a hand to fellows who fall into arrears.”

Abigail was silent for a moment. “I don’t know how I’m going to manage,” she said slowly. “I certainly have no money.”

“It’s an expensive education, Abigail.” He wondered how far she’d actually go, what she’d give up to obtain her medical license. He’d never met a woman with more guts and determination.

“Yes. It is.” She moistened her lips. “I hear there are ways of making money…under the table.”

“Under the table? What do you mean?”

“This is a huge port, John, and smuggling opium is big business. Is that what you did?”

He stared at her open-mouthed. “I may not be the righteous specimen you think I ought to be, but I don’t cheat or steal. Or smuggle drugs. And you’d better not try it either!” he added, for good measure.

“You know how I feel about opiates.” Her expression was an odd combination of relief and curiosity. “I take it you eventually made up with your father.”

He nodded. “Prof went to my father and talked him around somehow. The Lanieres have influence with the governor, and the pater’s got political ambitions.”

“Your father sounds like a ruthless man.”

“I suppose.” He glanced at her half-empty plate. “We need to finish and get back to class. If you don’t want those, hand ’em over.”

Looking troubled, she shoved her plate toward him.

He ate the oysters, sliding them down one after the other in rapid succession. Yes, his father was ruthless, but how else would a man make his way from bayou fisherman’s son to the owner of the largest shipping line on the Gulf Coast? Since when was John appointed to be his father’s conscience? And what was Abigail implying anyway?

Over the next few days, Abigail kept her eyes and ears open as she followed Dr. Laniere around the hospital. Pending a meeting of the entire faculty, the other professors tolerated her presence in the lecture rooms, but only reluctantly answered her questions. Dr. Cannon in particu
lar, as John had predicted, remained cold and contemptuous. The male students, except for John, treated her more or less as a joke.

One afternoon she arrived in dissection lab to find that her cadaver had a suggestive note attached with a string to the toe. Swallowing her furious embarrassment, she’d removed the note without comment, slid it into her pocket and proceeded with the lesson. At the first opportunity she’d given it to Professor Laniere. He seemed to think he’d be able to analyze the handwriting to discover the prankster’s identity. Leaving it at that, she’d tried to dismiss her humiliation. If that was the best the “boys” could do in their desire to be rid of her, she had little to worry about.

But on the Monday of the second week of December, she sat at breakfast in the Lanieres’ kitchen, reading with dismay—and mounting indignation—the morning edition of the
Times Picayune
. A second-page editorial wondered in derisive language what the medical school board members were thinking, to consider attempting the higher education of a woman, “thereby opening the doors to a most shameful liberality of morals which would ultimately result in the demeaning of pure femininity.”

“What rubbish!” she muttered, folding the paper and handing it back to Camilla, who sat across from her feeding the baby. “Why must my morals always be called into question?”

Camilla slipped the spoon into Meg’s mouth. “People attack when they feel threatened.”

“Threatened? By what?”

“Some men worry that their control over their households will be upset. If you complete a professional degree, other upper-class women will follow suit.” Camilla
thumped the spoon comically against the table. “No more dependence on husbands and fathers. Complete anarchy will ensue!”

“But—I’m hardly upper-class.” She thought about John’s aborted response to Lisette’s question in the carriage the day they had lunch at Descartes’.

“Perhaps that’s the point. If women can give themselves independence with an education, social lines will inevitably blur. Think about it. One element of a man’s power status is his ability to keep a wife in indolence.” Camilla shook her head. “Personally, I think the women of my class would benefit from greater mental and physical exercise. My husband agrees, which is why he has taken you on as a sort of project.” Her smile was warm and a bit anxious. “Don’t let him down, Abigail. He’s risking his reputation to champion you.”

“I have no intention of backing down, I assure you.” Much more than Dr. Laniere’s reputation was at stake here.

F
riday evening John handed his hat and overcoat over to Appleton, who gave him a bluff “Family’s in the Chinese parlor, mate” and waddled off toward the coat room like a cheery little tugboat.

John strode into the parlor to find his mother, dressed in plum-colored velvet, at the pianoforte twiddling over Mozart. His sister sat on the fainting couch yanking at the knots in a sampler held close to her eyes, her yellow skirts spread decoratively around her.

Looking relieved at the interruption, Lisette dropped the fabric and hoop. “Johnny! You’re late.”

“There was a jam-up on the street car line. A wagon full of cordwood spilled across the rails at Esplanade.” He crossed to the fireplace and picked up the poker. “Where’s Father?”

His mother turned on the piano stool, her mouth drawn into a moue. “He sent a note around an hour or so ago, saying not to wait dinner for him. Business delay.”

Business. Nothing unusual about that, but John couldn’t help thinking of Abigail’s questions about his father’s
shipping enterprises—enterprises that had been the family income since John had been in short pants. There was no reason to think there was anything “under the table” involved. Smuggling opium, for instance.

John returned the poker to its stand with a clatter. “If you don’t mind, Mother, there’s a book I remember seeing in Father’s study that I’d like to borrow. Perhaps we could delay the meal after all, while I look for it.”

His mother rolled her eyes. “You men can’t leave your pursuits and relax for more than ten minutes at a time.” She sighed. “Very well. I’ll tell Cook to keep everything in the warming oven for a bit. But don’t get distracted and forget about us!”

Already at the door, he turned to wink at Lisette. “Me? Distracted?”

In the study he shut the door, then walked around the perimeter of the room, running his hand along the spines of hundreds of books his father had collected during his travels. Two of the walls were lined, floor to ceiling, with leatherbound copies of the classics as well as modern-day bestsellers. More than likely Father had actually read few of them. Phillip Braddock was a man of action, a man of business. Sitting for hours with his nose in a book would not have appealed.

Why, then, had he amassed this collection that would have made Abigail Neal stare with envy? Was it purely to make a gentlemanly impression on visitors?

John stopped at a long, narrow table on the inside wall upon which a teakwood humidor rested beside a tray containing a set of snifters and a corked bottle of fine brandy. Here were his father’s true pleasures, tastes John used to associate with manhood and cosmopolitan polish. Because
of the influence of a professor and a beautiful young woman, he now found more value in the knowledge contained in books.

And best of all, he’d come to know God in an intimate, life-changing way.

So what would his Lord expect him to do about his father’s misdeeds—if indeed there were any?

He looked around, trying to pin down what it was that made him so sure Father was hiding something in here. Little things. The fact that, despite his father’s complaints of his absence, John was never invited to spend time with him in this room. The odd comment about “concerns” in China. Nothing concrete enough to draw undue attention. But puzzling nonetheless.

John touched the humidor’s latch and it swung open. He spun the carousel and let the dense odor of fine tobacco permeate the air. John had smoked his first cigar at the age of sixteen, but it wasn’t a taste he’d cultivated for long. Conscious of his bodily health, he didn’t like the way the smoke hampered his breathing, even though he knew many physicians who smoked. Tobacco wasn’t for him.

Still, it was a minor vice, certainly not illegal and it didn’t warrant any particular concern for his father.

No, there was something else. He was about to move to the big mahogany desk when the door jerked open.

His father stood in the doorway and stared at him for a moment, then advanced into the room, shutting the door gently behind him. “What are you doing in here?”

“Looking for this book.” John pulled a copy of
The History of China
off the shelf. “Is Mother ready to serve dinner?”

“She sent me to find you.” His father dropped awkwardly into his desk chair. His face was pasty, John noticed,
except for the red veins in his nose. “But stay a moment—I want to talk to you without the women listening.”

“What is it?” John tucked the book under his arm and sat down in front of the desk.

Maybe he could broach Lisette’s desire to attend college. Abigail had already asked if he’d followed through, and a man should keep his word.

His father pulled a cheroot from his pocket and lit it. “It’s that woman,” he said. “The one stirring up trouble about the medical college.”

John sat up straight. “You mean Miss Neal.”

“Yes. As a trustee, I felt I should intervene before the reputation of the entire college is damaged.”

“Wait. Father, you’re not getting embroiled in that, are you? I assumed the faculty would be the ones making the decision whether to admit her or not.”

“The faculty can be influenced. They should listen to reasonable minds, especially those of us with a financial investment in the college.”

John stared at him. “What financial investment? Why, you’ve sabotaged my every ambition of graduating.”

“Well, it’s more in the nature of a loan.” Father smiled sourly. “I’ll have to credit you with determination, son. I decided that if my heir was going to be associated with the institution, I had best make sure it succeeds.”

“Father, what have you done?”

“Only what was necessary.” His father looked at the glowing tip of the cigar. “As you know, Gabriel Laniere’s proposition to admit Miss Neal had found favor with some of the faculty. I have simply argued that the students whose diplomas will be affected should have some say in the matter.”

“What do you mean?”

“Next week the matter will be taken to a vote of the student body. The faculty—even Dr. Laniere—agreed that if the students balk at Miss Neal’s presence, she will be refused admittance.” His father’s shoulders lifted. “It’s fair and reasonable.”

If there was anything Phillip Braddock failed to control, John had yet to encounter it. He shouldn’t be surprised at this interference. The students would vote Abigail down, of course. And having come so close to achieving her dream, she would be devastated.

“How much?” John asked quietly. “What did it take to buy that much influence?”

“There’s no need to be crude.” His father leaned forward to tip the ash into a granite tray on the corner of the desk. “But because you asked, I’ve loaned just under seven million dollars to the college.”

All the air left John’s lungs and his voice came out in a hoarse croak. “Seven million—Father, where did you get that kind of money?”

“Tea. Silk. And other necessary substances.” His father’s eyes narrowed. “I’ve worked hard to build my fortune and have something of value to pass on to you and your family. Which is why it’s critical that you marry for political power.”

John stared at him grimly, thinking of Abigail’s questions about opium smuggling. Would his father consider the drug to be a “necessary substance”? “I thought I’d convinced you I want to make my own way. Neither your fortune nor your political advances mean anything to me.”

His father slammed his big, meaty hands on the desk. “And I keep telling you, your precious medical college depends on it.”

“We shall see.” John rose and made his father a stiff bow.
There was no possibility of him being open to Lisette’s interest in college. “Mother and Lisette are waiting. Perhaps we’d better join them.”

For a long moment they stared at one another. Finally, his father nodded and rose. The two of them left the room and walked side-by-side into the dining room as if they were casual acquaintances, rather than father and son. John didn’t know how he was going to help Abigail, but he knew he had to do something.

And he was going to start with prayer.

Abigail had never heard such music in her life. Standing beside Winona in the third pew on the left-hand side of the little clapboard church building on Basin Street, she let it move her to tears and laughter. There were hymns, of course, like the ones she’d learned as a child at her mother’s knee—like the one she’d heard Winona sing when she first came to live with the Laniere family. But the preaching was also interspersed with loud, emotional bursts of extemporaneous chants and choruses, echoes of an almost wordless energy that was foreign to her in every sense of the word. Still, she found herself stamping her feet, swaying and shouting “amen!” with the rest of the congregation. God seemed a real personality who hovered and yet infused, who was pleased and honored by His people’s exuberant adulation.

When it was over and the congregation started filing out to shake the sweating preacher’s hand, Abigail followed in the wake of Winona’s family, almost in a stupor of joy. She felt electrified all over, as if she’d experienced the Scriptural text firsthand.
Enter into His gates with thanksgiving and unto his courts with praise.

This was the fourth Sunday she’d attended church with
Winona since that first time—the day they’d visited the Colored Orphans Asylum. The day she’d first seen real compassion in John Braddock. As she shook the pastor’s hand, accepting his blessing on her week, she wondered if John had a place like this to belong to. Only recently had she become aware of the absolute necessity of surrounding oneself with likeminded believers. Faith without support became vulnerable to discouragement. She should have encouraged John to come with her when he asked. Selfish and self-protective of her to put him off.

Come to think of it, she thought as she walked home with the Caldwell family for lunch, she didn’t know for sure the level of John’s faith. He’d admitted never attending church with his family, but he’d solicited his mother’s help with the orphans. The last time Abigail and Winona went back to check on them, they had found conditions much improved.

“Take care, Miss Abigail,” cautioned Winona, dropping back from a conversation with her younger sister to hook arms with Abigail, “or you gonna be falling in one of these big old potholes and we’ll never find you.” She steered Abigail around a rut in the road. “What’s that weighing so heavy on your mind?”

Abigail hesitated. “I was thinking about John Braddock.”

“Ohhhh.” Winona’s beautiful black brows went up. “Now there’s a subject that’ll keep a girl up all night. I told you he could charm the birds out of the trees if he halfway tried.”

Abigail fought her embarrassment. “He seems to like you a lot—confide in you maybe—I was just wondering if you’d talked to him about—about God or church or—” She swallowed. “You know what I mean.”

“He asks me questions sometimes, but I don’t know that
John Braddock opens up to anybody.” Winona shook her head. “He’s pretty sure of himself on most subjects.” She slanted a look at Abigail. “Why don’t you ask him yourself?”

“I rarely see him, now that I’m busy with classes. He’s a year ahead of me, you know. It was just—being in church today, feeling so happy and accepted, I worry about John. He seems so lonely—well, except for those young men he runs around with. They hardly seem like elevating company.”

“I dunno.” Winona looked thoughtful. “That curly-haired boy seems all right. The one who came with him into the orphanage.”

Abigail nodded. “Tanner Weichmann. He is nice, although he’s a bit shy.”

“Tanner,” Winona repeated with a smile. “I didn’t hear his name that day. They said they were going to get some help for the little ones, but they never did.”

“I was just thinking about the orphanage. Mrs. Braddock has helped some, but perhaps she could think of some ways to get some more wealthy people interested in helping out down here in the District. Some of these folks work so hard in the cotton presses and sail lofts and at the docks.” Abigail continued thinking out loud as she blindly followed Winona into her parents’ home. “I worry about the children most. If we could just open up a free clinic for the women and children, maybe staff it with medical students under the supervision of a rotating doctor…. Not to compete with the hospital, but to bring the most basic care here where people live.”

She looked up and found Winona grinning at her. “You sure are a dreamer, Abigail Neal. Wouldn’t have known that about you at first.”

As she passed the saloon on Franklin, Abigail scanned the row of horses and carriages tied to their hitching post. She hoped she wouldn’t encounter anyone from either the medical school or the hospital here. Not that she had anything to be ashamed of, returning just to make sure Tess was all right. Still, explanations could be tedious.

She’d been planning to make the trip down to her old habitation eventually, but it was Winona who encouraged her to do it today. “You’re a strong woman, Abigail,” Winona had assured her as they parted ways at the corner of St. Louis and Marias. That big warm smile had lit the colored girl’s dark eyes. “You don’t got to be afraid of losing your place now. Besides,” she added mischievously, “those Laniere children got so used to having their personal storyteller around, they’d send their daddy after you in a heartbeat if you decided not to come back.”