CHAPTER 18
When Alice descended the Magazine streetcar, her breath seemed to fail her. Nothing tall concrete like in Chicago, but awninged shops of all sorts crowded together under the trees along the street. She turned toward the Poydras Asylum for Girls, which was farther away. Her longing for home and her mother overcame her with an unexpected grief. She stood for a moment, pretending she had something in her eye, tilting her head back and pulling at the upper lid of her left eye. Feeling in some control of herself again, Alice readjusted her taupe woolen hat, smoothed her skirt, and approached the front entrance of the orphanage.
As she lifted her hand to the knocker, the door opened and a small blond woman halted her exit in surprise. Alice stepped back in equal surprise. It took both women a moment to regather themselves.
“Good morning. I beg your pardon,” the woman said. “May I help you?”
“Yes, I’m sorry. I . . . Well, yes, I hope so.” Alice tried not to stammer. “Yes. I have been made to understand that the orphanage might have need of a skilled seamstress.”
The woman was silent, seeming to process this thought in her head.
“And you see, ma’am, I am one. That is, I am a very skilled seamstress. I understand you might need someone to help teach the girls my trade. So, I have come to inquire—”
“Oh, yes, indeed, Miss—”
“Mrs. Butterworth.” Alice held out her hand.
“I’m so sorry. I was just on my way out.”
Alice felt the dejection of a great mistake and dropped her hand.
“So, please, excuse my manners if you will. Come in. I’ll take you to Mrs. Guidry before I leave. She will be delighted. This way please.”
Indeed, Mrs. Guidry was more than pleased. The home had lost two seasoned sewing teachers in as many months. Alice’s skills would be welcomed. So welcomed that Mrs. Guidry was not the least hesitant to provide a room and meals in exchange for them. The room was on the second floor, a boon to Alice now. After her days of deprivation in Chicago, she would welcome regular meals, even if simple and plain. The sewing room near the rear of the building, with windows onto Jefferson, was shaded by the gallery above, and had a view onto the lawn where the little girls played under supervision. Alice’s face gladdened to hear their laughter as she toured the space.
She could move in the next day, Alice told Mrs. Guidry, but one last thing had to be settled.
“I am with child,” she said. Straight and outright, as should be, though she knew it might cost her this sanctuary.
Mrs. Guidry was taken aback, as Alice expected. “We are not a home for unwed mothers.”
“Nor am I one. I am a widow.” Alice held out her hand for Mrs. Guidry to see her thin gold wedding band. Her fingers had swelled somewhat with the pregnancy, as had her ankles, which were thankfully covered. The imprint on her finger made it clear the band was no recent subterfuge. “I discovered my condition after Mr. Butterworth’s—” She hesitated, turned her head aside. “After his recent death. I had an infant son, who died before him. I am bereaved and alone. Now I must make a life for myself and for this child. I pray you will not turn me away. I will earn my keep. You will see.”
A fearful moment followed for Alice. Then Mrs. Guidry reached out and took both of Alice’s hands in her own. Her touch was warm and kind, but firm.
“This place was founded by the Female Orphan Society, a group of determined Protestant women. Their purpose was to help not only orphans and destitute children but also widows. I believe that you and your coming child fit quite comfortably into our purpose here. We will welcome your services, Mrs. Butterworth.”