Love Story on Canal Page 2

  “We have no Sister Agnes here,” the little woman clasped heavily wrinkled hands in front of her.

  Pan rubbed a hand across her forehead as she processed the information and combatted the growing headache, “Are you certain? Maybe a lay person that works here is named Agnes. An older girl maybe? I don’t think she’s a child. A man named Henri Breaux told me I would find his sister, Agnes, here. When I saw the nuns and realized it was a children’s home, I just assumed she was a nun.”

  “His sister? Agnes Breaux,” The nun’s face was serious, thoughtful. “This may be a bit unconventional, Miss Fontenot, but would you mind waiting here a moment?” Sister Therese left her without bothering to wait for a response.

  Wait. In the stairwell. Alone.

  “Fabulous,” Pan muttered to herself.

  “Are the other nobs gone?”

  She looked up to see a boy sitting sideways in the middle of the stairwell. His back was propped up against the wall with both elbows resting on bent knees. The gangly boy’s brown hair was dirty but combed. The shirt he wore looked more grey than white, but it was buttoned and tucked in, nonetheless. He looked too old to be in an orphanage; it would be more suitable for him to be at a boys’ home or apprenticing under a tradesman.

  “Why are you in the stairwell?” Pan asked.

  The boy shrugged, “Heard we had company. Always best to stay out of sight.”

  “Why is that?”

  “If they are here to bring somebody home ‘cause they don’t got a boy of their own, better it should be one of the little ones. If they are looking to bring a boy home to work, the sisters won’t have help.”

  Pan nodded. The nuns must keep a couple of older boys around for heavier lifting and more laborious tasks. “What’s your name?” she asked moving cautiously up the stairwell to where he sat.

  “Tom, ma’am.”

  “And how old are you, Tom,” she continued rubbing her forehead. The steady throb persisted.

  “Eleven, ma’am.”

  “Tom, you deserve a chance to have a family, too,” Pan tucked her skirts and sat on the stair below his.

  Tom asked, “Miss, you got brothers or sisters? You older than them?”

  Pan smiled when she answered, “I’m a twin. I was born just a few minutes before my sister.”

  Tom looked at her with awe, “Twins? You look just the same?” Pan nodded. The boy considered that before continuing, “If you were both here, when you were kids, would you have wanted her to have the best chance?”

  “Yes, I suppose I would.” This child was far too old for his eleven years. “My name is Pan.”

  “Pan’s a weird name for a lady,” the boy said offhandedly. When Pan responded with a shrug, he admitted quietly, “My baby sister isn’t here. She died. They all got the fever. Mum. Da. Sophie. But, if she were here, Sophie…”

  Pan reached out and laid her hand over the boy’s, “I understand. There wasn’t anything I would not have done for my sister, Gigi. She died last year,” the casual admission surprised her. In the last year, she had rarely spoken of Gigi to anyone. Never discussed her passing.

  Tom studied her hand a moment before turning his own to lightly grasp hers in return. He asked, “Your sister, did she die from the fever, too?”

  “No.”

  “What then, how did she die?” he asked with the open curiosity of a child.

  “Childbirth. Gigi was having a baby. And,” Pan shrugged and swallowed as tears pooled and memories threatened to surface. “Honestly, I’m not sure why she died. There are many things we just don’t understand about the human body. How it works. Sometimes you do everything right but still, death just happens.”

  “Did her baby die too?” he whispered.

  “Yes,” she stammered, “the baby died, too.” The pair sat quietly for a moment still holding hands.

  Youthful inquisitiveness returned, and Tom prodded, “Why aren’t you with the others?”

  Pan sniffed and swiped the lone tear that fell. “I didn’t come with them. I came to see Agnes or Sister Agnes.”

  “There isn’t a Sister Agnes. No girls named Agnes either. Heard Sister Margaret say a doctor was here looking for an Agnes though.” Tom looked at her for a moment before he broke into a wide smile, “Nice to meet you, Dr. Pan.”

  A stern feminine voice from below agreed, “Miss Fontenot, Tom is right. There is no Sister Agnes.” Standing at the bottom of the stairs was Sister Therese and another nun closer to Pan’s age. Sister Therese continued, “However, this is Sister Francis, who was Agnes Breaux before she took her vows.”

  Finally. Pan winked at Tom and then stood, making her way down the stairs. She extended her hand to the younger nun, “Sister Francis, I am Pan Fontenot. Is there somewhere we could speak privately?”

  “Follow me.” Sister Therese led the women to an extremely small office behind the stairwell. Pan suspected that it had once been a pantry. Two seats faced an old wooden desk that was bordered with two tidy stacks of paperwork. A single bookshelf stood against the wall and was filled with books. A plain crucifix hung above the door.

  Sister Therese sat behind the desk. Sister Francis took one of the front facing chairs and motioned for Pan to take the other. Pan warred against the need to fidget in the warm, overcrowded space. She hoped that the nuns would not ask to close the door, even though it was probably best for safety’s sake.

  Pan cleared her throat and glanced at Sister Therese. “This conversation is of a private nature.”

  “Very well,” Sister Therese said without making a move to leave. “You introduced yourself to the other nuns as a physician.”

  “One of the sisters had burned her hand, I stepped in to assist,” Pan answered. She hadn’t meant to introduce herself as a doctor, but when she had walked in and found the woman suffering from the burn, she had blurted her title in the crisis of the moment as she offered aid.

  “Are you a physician?” Sister Therese pushed.

  “I am. It’s something that I ordinarily keep private. My family is new to the city. Female doctor,” Pan shook her head before finishing, “Not everyone is open minded. I find it best left unsaid.” Sister Therese kept her sharp gaze trained on Pan a minute longer before standing. The petite nun nodded before exiting the room, closing the door behind her.

  Pan turned to the younger nun to explain her purpose for coming, “Sister Francis, I have a message from your brother, Henri.”

  “Henri? Thank God. I feared he was dead,” the young nun’s voice caught, and her eyes had flooded with unshed tears.

  “He is alive.”

  “Is he coming home? Wait. You’re a physician. How do you know him? Was he hurt? I did not expect to hear from him often when he left for the war, but I haven’t heard a thing. Not one word.”

  Pan looked at the woman with surprise. She stumbled to collect her thoughts and respond as she had practiced, “He’s not hurt. Well, maybe a bit. But he is well enough.” That wasn’t what she was supposed to say. She was quickly realizing that conducting this conversation would not be as easy as she had initially thought.

  “He is here in the city?”

  Pan held up a staying hand, “Sister Francis, let me try this again. I came to tell you that Henri is alive. He wanted you to know that.”

  “Why didn’t he come? Why did he send you? What’s going on?” In Pan’s experience, most nuns kept their emotions veiled. Young Francis’s face was wrought with worry, her hands and her voice shook with nerves.

  Pan reached a pitying hand to the nun’s arm, “Sister, I am sorry. He can’t come to see you. Your brother is being held as a prisoner of war.”

  Chapter Two

  One Week Earlier

  A brave woman would throw her shoulders back, put one foot in front of the other and walk to the front door. An impulsive woman would have done it minutes ago without regard to the row of wooden barriers marking the area as off limits.

  Pan Fontenot was both impulsive and brave, but s
he had decided to fight against her natural tendencies. Her one ambition, since her arrival in New Orleans, was to simply blend in, behave in the same manner as any respectable young woman. Defying Union decrees would not help in this personal challenge.

  Eyeing her destination, she tapped her foot in irritation. She wasn’t even trying to do anything scandalous, she argued with herself.

  Pan cupped her hands over her eyes to shield them from the sun as she looked at the architectural feat ahead of her. The Customs House was monstrous; born of true American ambition, the building was the length of an entire city block. As a federal building it would be the right place to post her mail. And she had been told that this was the place to come.

  It was Tuesday. Every Tuesday since the Fontenot family had moved to New Orleans her father met with the remaining members of the disassembled State Medical Association. Local physicians were trying to gain support in reestablishing the association. Without a governing body, anyone could practice medicine in Louisiana.

  In the years when the LaMA was active, a doctor was required to be licensed in order to practice medicine. Since its disbanding, citizens were falling prey to every charlatan passing himself off as a doctor with a miracle cure.

  Pan would have welcomed the opportunity to participate in these meetings, would have loved to work as an active association member. Her father was supportive, but gender made it impossible. And again, there was her decision to blend in with traditional society. A female physician stood out.

  Whether it was out of resentment for not being able to participate, boredom from having nothing to do all day as her father’s clinic was closed, or just the desire to do something of use, Pan had taken to strolling the city streets most Tuesday afternoons. The only problem was that her destination was behind a row of Union barriers. The occupied city had strict rules about crossing the boundaries.

  Pan chewed the inside of her lip indecisively. She followed the blockade north, but the row had no breaks. She turned back and followed the walk south. Every so often she looked about to see if any uniformed soldiers were about.

  She was minutes past impulsiveness. She had thought this through. She had made an informed decision. Pan wasn’t up to anything nefarious, she continued her internal argument, just posting some letters. Surely there wasn’t any harm in that. She squeezed between two wooden stacks and began to head to the entrance.

  Almost on cue, two soldiers rounded the nearest corner and were walking directly toward her. She forced herself to walk at a slower, more even pace, to hold her head up, and to appear as if she was doing nothing wrong.

  The soldiers reached her and blocked her path. “Miss, you will need to come with us.”

  “And why is that? The sun has not yet set.” Pan kept her voice even, trying to be careful. Though these soldiers would probably recognize that she was a respectable woman, they could treat her however they wished if they chose.

  “This area is restricted ma’am. General says to bring trespassing misses to him.”

  Before she could stop it, the retort flew from her mouth, “Is that a growing problem then? Women who trespass?”

  The men looked at each other but did not respond. They stood on either side of her and escorted her into the front doors she had planned to enter anyway.

  Pan berated herself for giving in to her rebellious impulses. She should have just left when she saw the blockade. As she was being escorted, Pan’s mind raced; she might be in real trouble. The Union leader wasn’t known for his leniency, even with women. She remembered the various cases of punishment she had read about in the paper and heard gossiped over at ladies’ teas. Most recently General Burns had commanded that an attorney’s wife who had protested by dressing in confederate grey be imprisoned on Ship Island for a three-month sentence.

  Ship Island was about seventy miles south of New Orleans and notorious for its horrendous mosquito population. The island was the source of the same mosquitos that had started the yellow fever surge which had wiped out so much of the city’s population.

  The idea of how dreadful it would feel to be eaten alive by mosquitos without any means of relief took root in her mind as they crossed through the entryway of the Customs House. Pan couldn’t help shuddering at the idea of being bitten repeatedly and the relentless itching that would follow. Even if she did not contract the yellow fever, she could develop impetigo or some other sort of staph infection.

  Pan’s haphazard mind caught sight of the patrolman’s hand holding her arm lightly as they walked. “The gash on your hand is infected.” Pan said matter of fact, turning to look at him as they walked. There was some swelling across his nose as well. The soldier had obviously been in a brawl. He did not respond, but she noted that his eyes shot furtively to his hand.

  “If it goes untreated,” she continued, “it will begin to puss and ooze. The infection will spread killing off all healthy cells in the area.” She paused as they entered an army office. They walked towards an open door at the end of the hall.

  “Just a cut, Miss.” He said dismissively. His eyes belied his tone darting back to his hand repeatedly, and his throat worked in a nervous manner. His partner’s brows raised in alarm.

  Pan shrugged. “Without treatment, the infection will spread so badly that your hand may need to be amputated. I’d be happy to look at it for you,” she said casually as they stopped at the office entrance. The other soldier’s eyes were wide as he rapped on the door.

  A heavyset, balding man sat behind a large desk reading the papers in front of him. He didn’t immediately look up as he called, “Enter.”

  The officer with the gash cleared his throat and stepped forward nudging Panacea to move as well. “Excuse us, General. You said to bring you the baker woman when we caught her.”

  The general looked up, a brief look of surprise clouded his face as his eyes landed on the young woman in front of him. He stood and spoke directly to Pan. “You are the baker woman?”

  “No, sir. I am not.” Pan responded evenly. She forced her brain to be silent, forced her body to remain calm. Her heart was hammering within her chest and she could feel a bead of sweat trickling down her back.

  “Corporal, unhand the woman,” commanded the General moving his sharp gaze to the soldier at her side. “Explain.” The man immediately released his slight hold and shifted nervously in his army uniform.

  “Sir, you said if we saw the baker woman cross the barriers, we were to bring her to you, sir. This is she. Caught her walking beyond the lines.” The young soldier offered in a rush. The General grunted and turned back to Panacea walking around his desk to stand in front of her. He seemed to fully take her in, noting the quality of her clothing, the bag in her hands, what remained of her morning’s well styled coiffure.

  “Madame, as we have established you are not the baker. But you were walking unchaperoned in a restricted area at curfew. Who are you then, and what were you doing?” the officer in charge demanded.

  “My name is Pan Fontenot. I was looking for the post. And, respectfully, the curfew bell has yet to ring.”

  The general watched her silently for a moment as if waiting for her to fidget or give some other tell. Pan met his gaze with her own; one that an impatient teacher would bestow on a child as she waited for him to reach the conclusion that she was indeed correct.

  She supposed that he expected her to be afraid. She wasn’t. Nervous, definitely. But she had learned long ago to mask the emotion. Just as she had learned to get over the fear of men in authority looking down on her as a woman. She would have never survived medical college and apprenticeship otherwise.

  “I see. You are the physician’s daughter then.” He stated and then cleared his throat when she nodded. He turned and walked back around the desk and redeposited himself in his chair. Pan’s eyebrows rose, a gentleman would never seat himself while a lady stood. Of course, he had not stood when she arrived either. There were no stories of this general that painted him in any light as a gent
leman. “There are strict rules governing all citizens, Miss Fontenot. Those rules are there for your safety.”

  “I understand that. I assure you, I meant only to post some correspondence. I was told that the post office was located here.”

  “Yet, you did not reconsider the correctness of that when you saw the blockade,” he said drily. “Madame, I respect your father. Therefore, I will give you leave today with a warning. You will adhere to curfew and the barrier rules that are in place or you will be arrested. The corporal will escort you home.”

  Rather than argue, Pan nodded her understanding and turned to leave. She wanted to reject the offer of an escort home but felt it best to leave now before anything more was said. The officer with the wounded hand walked silently at her side.

  It took all of ten minutes to arrive at the Fontenot home, a three-story townhome on the corner of Bourbon. The curfew bell had yet to ring. Pan led the soldiers to the left side entrance that led to the doctor’s clinic on the ground floor. “Come inside and let me tend your wound.”

  The two men exchanged looks before the injured man shrugged and followed her in. The small clinic was brand new, a passion project of her father’s. He had taken great pains to outfit the office in the most modern ways. Pan pointed for her patient to take a seat while she gathered the supplies she would need.

  She made short work of cleaning the wound and stitching the gash closed. “How did this happen? Corporal Hicks, is it?” Pan asked as she dressed the wound.