Time Drifters
Chapter Forty-Three: Our Daily Bread Lady

Calico caught up with us just before we arrived at the Carrolltown courthouse. It was the first time that the Monsignor had stopped to take stock of us, other than passing glances over his shoulder.

“Are any of you familiar with this edifice?” he asked, doing a poor job of hiding the fact that he was counting heads.

“Yes, it’s the Carrolltown courthouse and it was completed two years ago,” said Gwendolyn. He cocked an eyebrow in surprise. I looked back and saw the sign commemorating the opening of the building.

“And do you know Judge Lusher?” he continued. “The magistrate of Jefferson Parish is a benefactor to our home and a very dear friend, I am pleased to say.”

“Such a grand building for only one judge,” Gwendolyn observed. “He must be most lonely.”

I saw Caelen turn away, his hand rising to his face. The Monsignor had no retort except to raise his nose higher in the air and continue to lead the way along the avenue.

The rain had happily diminished to a light mist, but we were already soaked to the bone. My socks were squishing in my leather shoes, which made avoiding puddles seem kind of pointless, but I did it anyway. I was lagging back when Barkley sidled up to Calico.

“What’s Rufus doing?” Barkley asked.

“Gone to find Capucine,” Calico whispered. “I had to make sure my scratching in the mud was completely gone. Didn’t want Imogene or her mother seeing that.”

“Is he OK?” Barkley asked.

“Bruised up, but fine,” she answered. “Plus he gave me the Post,” she added, patting her side where I assumed she had it securely tucked beneath her clothes.

“I just want to make a run for it and get it sent off,” she continued.

“Gotta wait,” Barkley said. “Renatta and the others will let us know when’s a good time. We don’t even have the lay of the land yet, and it’s too easy to get separated.”

In fact, it looked more like we were headed out of town than into anywhere civilized. The courthouse might have been made of massive stone columns, but the shops along the street gave way to smaller wooden homes on big lots, and then to open fields and sparse buildings.

The town was waking and I saw far more African-Americans going about morning chores than white folks. Still, we got plenty of stares. I thought we might be doing a bad job of blending in, but then I realized that we made an odd procession even for this time period. The Monsignor wielded his staff with arrogant flare, nodding in a grand way to anyone we met. Occasionally he would make the sign of the cross when the strangers paid him tribute with the touch of their hat or a slight bow or curtsy. He looked like the Pied Piper. Or a big orange goose leading a gaggle of assorted waterfowl away to another pond.

It must have been half an hour before the countryside yielded to the signs of a new town. I watched everyone marking the intersections and noting street names and I tried to do the same for a while, except that we just kept on going.

“Does the Contessa D’Estange live on the Atlantic seashore, per chance?” asked Aureliano.

“Only beside the Cabildo,” Monsignor responded. “But we aren’t going there. Just to Poydras Street, for now.”

“And what is there?” asked Aureliano, stepping to the side as a horse-drawn carriage trotted past us. The Monsignor did not respond, instead nodding to a storekeeper who was bringing out wooden boxes of cabbages to the porch in front of his shop. The thin man discharged his burden and wiped his hands on his broad apron, only returning the Monsignor’s greeting with a half-hearted nod, pausing to look over the rest of us with what seemed like disbelief.

“This Monsignor doesn’t seem like such a big man on campus after all,” observed Francesca, hanging back until I came along side.

“You’re from the 40s, right?” I asked very quietly, getting a nod in response. “Kind of makes me wish the guy had some kind of a bus.”

She chuckled. “Yeah, or streetcars,” she added. “I guess that comes later.”

“Remind me why we’re going with this guy?” I said, stopping to scrape mud off of my shoe using the wooden edge of someone’s porch step. I knew she had been carefully exchanging ideas with the others during this trek.

“The more people that see us, the safer we may be,” Francesca noted, brushing wet strands of black hair off her neck. “And the more options we can find. It’s also to get inside Capucine’s life. It might tell us how to help get her out.”

The Monsignor turned us onto Poydras Street and it appeared as though everyone had woken all at once; merchants and townsfolk, carousing men staggering home amongst carriages and horses. The clouds parted suddenly, and the muddy street was instantly strewn with brilliant jewels of light. It felt like someone had just added color to an old black and white photo making it all come to life. There were buildings painted in mustard yellow and maroon, and stores made of red bricks shadowed by green leaves.

“Children,” the Monsignor said, turning backwards to address us as he approached the back of an open delivery wagon. “We’ve arrived in time to help Our Margaret. Would you all lend a hand, please?”

Hearing her name, the woman turned a suspicious eye over her shoulder and between two of her helpers towards the Monsignor, doing a double take when she saw the small army that was approaching her.

“Good Heavens, Monsignor,” she declared, with a thick Irish accent, brushing a wisp of hair from her face and then wiping her hands on her apron. “’Tis a bit early to be seein’ you, and so far from your charges at that.”

“Indeed,” he oozed. “But had I known that you bring sunshine to this fair morning, I might have been awaiting your arrival sooner.”

She shifted uncomfortably, straightening her voluminous skirt just as three little children came running up to her, excitedly shouting greetings.

“Good morning, mi’ dears,” she responded, beaming as she bent to give a round of hugs and kisses. “And you can each take a loaf, if you are especially careful to mind it doesn’t fall along the path.”

She leaned into the back of the wagon, wagging her finger as though taking stock of the wooden crates with bottles of milk, large metal casks and baskets covered with linens. She reached into one closest to her and dispensed a roll to each willing minion. My mouth salivated at the smell of the fresh baking.

“May we provide assistance?” asked Renatta stepping forward.

“I can help,” said Thomas, reaching forward.

“Well, maybe so,” Margaret said.

“Have you seen Horten Flett?” Monsignor asked.

“Not as yet,” Margaret replied, distracted as she began pointing to articles for us to take. “You may ask Sister Regis, though.”

“Perhaps we will,” Monsignor responded, tugging on Aureliano’s arm and heading up the sidewalk towards the sprawling building. It looked more like a small hotel or a mansion, with three full stories and more windows up on top of that.

Margaret pointed us towards a path that lead back along the side of the home. Thomas lead the way as we marched behind him with baskets of bread, bottles of milk and two of the steel casks that Caelen noted would have butter inside.

The sound of babies crying and the shrieks of other small children made it obvious that this was an orphanage with a lot of very young kids in it. The smoky smell of a wood burning fire was an equal giveaway to the location of the building’s kitchen, and Thomas tapped the door with his foot when he arrived, balancing the other metal cask against his body as he waited.

The door flung open and a gangly teenager with a bright red scar on half of his face looked out at us, angrily.

“What d’you think yer doin’?” he demanded, glancing at the rest of us and trying to snatch the cask away from Thomas.

“Helping,” said Thomas, tugging the cask back towards him. “Where may we put this for you?”

“I see who brought you and we don’t need yer’ kind of help!” the boy snarled. Thomas wasn’t going to give up and instead effectively pushed the boy inside until he backed up against a wooden butcher’s block.

“I’m Thomas,” he said.

“So am I,” said the gangly boy.

“That’s poetic,” said Gwendolyn, enjoying a good laugh as she pushed on passed the two squaring off, setting her basket of bread onto a counter.

“Doesn’t go there,” gangly Thomas said, releasing his hold on the cask and whisking the basket into the air.

“Well then direct us where to place them and save yourself the trouble,” Gwendolyn said kindly but precisely in her crisp British accent. “I wasn’t laughing at you,” she added. “Please don’t take offense.”

He self-consciously touched his face and then passed it off as if he were wiping his nose.

“This is my job,” he said defensively. “An’ Sister Regis doesn’t need to be shown up for not running a decent home, because she does.”

“I’m certain you’re right,” Gwendolyn said, holding up her hand for Caelen and Calico to wait just inside the door.

“He’s not even a real man of the cloth, as if you didn’t know,” gangly Thomas continued.

“We didn’t,” Gwendolyn said, looking around. Our mutual surprise seemed to gain some ground with the boy.

“Then why’re y’all with him?” he probed.

“We’re visiting a friend who… stays with him,” Gwendolyn continued.

“Capucine Marmiche,” I said. Thomas’ eyes flared with curiosity and I wished I hadn’t mentioned the name. He launched forward and began to grab the items from each of us, spastically running around to put them somewhere. I noticed that the bread actually did go on the counter where Gwendolyn had placed it.

“Who is Our Margaret?” Gwendolyn asked just as the gangly Thomas passed her on the way to Calico.

“Sainted woman,” he said. “Saved me and saves us all, most every day. And you never heard of her?” he demanded, getting very cross all of a sudden.

“We have not, so please tell us,” said Caelen, holding up his hand between the boy and Gwendolyn.

“Margaret Haughery’s steam bakery?” he asked, frowning. “Everyone in the South has heard of her place, I thought. Orphaned as well… twice. First in Baltimore when she was little, and then again when the yellow fever took her husband and baby. Some say widowed, but I think orphaned ‘cause you never forget that sort of pain. She’s as kind as the sacred Mary, too. Sometimes I wonder if she is the Holy Mother returned to walk amongst us. ‘An forgive me, Lord, if that is blaspheming to say so, but she done nursed the sick and dying and still lives on. Negroes, Creole and Whites, all the same. Brings us bread and milk and still has loaves in abundance to sell to the rich folks. Isn’t that the proof right there? That woman is a miracle in the flesh, for sure.”

“Extraordinary woman,” Gwendolyn nodded.

“Should be more milk here,” gangly Thomas announced, suddenly looking past us to the counters and then pushing by Caelen as he flew to the door. “D’y’all steal it?”

“No!” Caelen said, in hot pursuit with Gwendolyn echoing the denial.

“Just like the Monsignor to take advantage of sainted kindness in his own favor,” the boy yelled over his shoulder. We all ran after him towards the street.

Margaret was speaking with a tall man in an elegant pleated coat and top hat, drawing his attention to the front door but she turned in alarm to see gangly Thomas—and all of us—rushing towards her.

“Lady Margaret,” the boy burst out.

“Lord! What’s wrong?” she asked, her face pale in horror.

“The milk,” he sputtered, bending down on one knee in front of her. “Good lady, I have lost a cask and I am ever so sorry.”

“He thinks we stole it, and we didn’t… did not,” our own Thomas said defensively as we all waited for judgment.

Margaret’s eyes flashed at us even as she took a deep breath and sighed.

“Mr. Flett,” she said, steadying herself on the man’s arm. “You know master Thomas Slowinska, I believe?” The sound of his name brought Thomas to his feet again and the older gentleman removed his hat before shaking hands.

“There is a cask and two bottles more still waiting for you here,” Margaret said.

“I would help,” said Gwedolyn, reaching for the loose bottles before young master Slowinska could object.

“Lady Margaret,” I asked, daring to interject on behalf of my stomach. “Do you happen to have any extra bread? Or, like, old bread?”

“Liam!” Renatta cautioned.

“Liam, is it?” Margaret asked. “A dear name, indeed. D’ye like old bread, especially, Liam?” she continued. I shook my head.

“Well, then, why not share a bit of fresh amongst yourselves,” she said, handing a half basket of rolls to me. “At least to tide you over till my truck arrives for you all in Carrolltown.”

We all thanked her profusely and passed the rolls amongst us, breaking off sparingly small pieces to make sure there was enough for each of us, and a couple to spare for Rufus and Aureliano. On cue, the Monsignor emerged with our friend and strode towards the street. But before he had even gotten to the sidewalk, Aureliano’s eyes went wide and he wheeled, freezing in place.

“La donna e mobile,” he sang, as if to himself. It was another confounding melody that I knew I should know, but I didn’t. The Monsignor indignantly pulled at his arm to draw him through the gate. While Aureliano continued singing, he turned around and recoiled again. I would have thought that he’d smelled something horrible from his expression. He looked at me and then up to the street. I turned and saw Capucine approaching, holding hands with a nun who had just removed the cloak over her head.

As the Monsignor was bumbling through a greeting with Horten Flett, I was watching heads turn as we each acknowledged Capucine. I also saw the sister studying each of our faces as well, and my stomach tightened. She was not an attractive woman, but she possessed an eerily serene expression.

Aureliano had ignored the Monsignor’s attempts to interrupt him and his voice had gotten steadily louder, to such an extent that it was impossible not to look at him. All eyes were turned on him, including those of Margaret, Mr. Flett and the Sister. He became aware of the fact and now embraced it, belting out the climax of the verse with stunning volume.

There was a split second of utter silence when he had stopped, making me aware that he had captivated everyone within earshot save one baby far inside the house and a horse whickering at its hitch post down the block.

“Bravo!” said Mr. Flett as a peal of applause cracked the air.

Aureliano gave a modest nod in appreciation, but his expression remained shaken. He glanced quickly up at Capucine and then withdrew, chewing on his thumb.

“What is it?” I asked, feeling like he’d been signaling me specifically.

“I can’t say it,” he muttered. “It’s… that face. I’m not supposed to…”

He brushed past me but the Monsignor had soon snagged him for a formal introduction with Mr. Flett. Judging from the reaction, that would take care of itself. So, I ducked under shaking hands and past cloaks and waistcoats to meet Capucine’s chaperone.

“And this is Liam,” Capucine said, smiling and urging me forward. The woman beside her didn’t move for any of us, but only held up her hand to permit us to shake it. Her fingers were long and cold, and she exerted almost no pressure in the greeting, so it felt more like touching a wax mannequin whose grasp was faked by puppeteers.

“I asked Sister Vellena to come with me,” Capucine said, “To make certain everyone was alright.” She seemed genuinely concerned as she looked towards the Monsignor.

“How kind of you to take time to inquire on our behalf,” Renatta said, giving a polite curtsy. The Sister acknowledged the deference with the slightest tilt of her head.

“That is, by no means, a short walk,” Renatta added.

“Capucine is most cherished,” Sister Vellena said slowly, defying the illusion that her olive shaped face may never be able to move to form words, or have more than one expression. Before and after speech, her lips were tight, almost locked in place forming a horizontal line that was neither a smile nor a frown. She had heavy brows and a rather bulbous nose. But it was the owl-like turn of her head while her shoulders remained in place, and the long unblinking gazes that I found disturbing.

“Look, Marijka, it’s a doggy,” Barkley said, holding the mutt in place farther up the sidewalk. “Do you want to see it, too, Capucine?” he added.

Marijka went to pet the dog, as did a couple of other children along the street. Two of the older orphans managed only to reach the corner of the fence that kept them penned in, straining their arms forward. But Capucine did not leave the Sister’s side.

“Capucine tells me that you are all on sojourn from a riverboat,” the Sister said, “And I wonder how it is that you have all met her before?”

“Oh, only individually, from time to time,” Caelen answered. “Believe me, it’s rare for us all to be together.”

“In fact, I’m positive it’s the first time,” Francesca added.

Sister Vellena nodded at these facts as though we’d commented on the beauty of sunflowers or our mutual pleasure at the color of grass. Nothing seemed to pull her from her trance-like calm and I thought back to school videos that showed us how to identify when someone was on drugs. A stoned Sister. I smirked, but then wondered if that kind of thing happened back in the old days.

The Monsignor called her to come and greet her counterpart, Sister Regis, and I watched her float past, oblivious to us. But she did leave Capucine unaccompanied.

“Rufus is well,” she said. “He told me what the Monsignor thought of you and where you were going.”

“And what did you tell her about us?” Renatta asked.

“The same story,” Capucine responded, “Just as she told you.”

“Who is she?” Francesca asked.

“She’s your post mistress, isn’t she, Capucine?” I said.

Francesca and Barkley both gasped.

“No way!” Barkley said, his eyes wide.

“How do you know that?” Thomas asked.

“Capucine!” Renatta demanded in a hoarse whisper. “Tell us, if this is true.”

“Sister Vellena is very good to me,” Capucine insisted. “She is teaching me.”

“Oh, Good Lord, save us!” Caelen gasped, looking over to the Sister to ensure she was still occupied.

“This is…” Renatta began, dumbfounded.

“Disaster!” said Barkley.

“She won’t hurt you,” Capucine insisted. “She doesn’t know who you are, and besides, she’s sworn to secrecy.”

“She’s heard our names, or she will know them,” Renatta said sternly. “If she is the postmistress, then she will have seen them printed on the Post that goes along to the Drift stations…all the way from your time and up to ours.”

“And yet, you are all here,” Capucine said, reasoning it out, “and so it must all be fine.”

“And yet, we are all here,” said Caelen, emphasizing the point.

“So it is not all fine,” Marijka chirped up. “Because we’re here to make something right, which means that something must be wrong.”

Capucine frowned deeply. “Sister Vellena told me that I would not always be a Drifter,” she said, her lower lip curling. “It is why I must learn about helping with the Post. Because it is a new world and the Order needs many helpers. But if you have come to stop me, I do not know what will become of me.”

“We won’t let anything bad happen to you,” Calico said, and we each agreed with our own assurances.

“Do any of you know me beyond this age?” Capucine asked.

We looked around but it was obvious we didn’t.

“Not yet, but we’re all still young,” Francesca said, hopefully.

“Where does Sister Vellena keep the Post, Capucine?” Renatta asked, directly and coldly. “You need to let us know.”

Capucine couldn’t stand it any longer. She burst past us and ran along the outside of Margaret Haughery’s delivery cart. Thomas was the closest and called out to her.

“Capucine!”

It was enough to alert Sister Vellena who turned to watch us with concern. Francesca was quick to smile and wave, kneeling down to play with Marijka.

“We’re going to look like we’re having a good time,” Francesca said in a singsong voice, “while Liam goes to see Capucine, because he knew… more than we did.”

“So he should go before the Sister gets her first,” Marijka sang back.

I skipped along until I got to the cart and then rushed to Capucine’s side. She was standing close to the horse and it shifted on its hooves when I got closer. Of course—damned horses!

“It’s going to be alright, just like in 1780,” I said. “I’ve been thinking about you ever since then, Capucine. Hoping you’d be okay. You have to believe that we care about you. Just because we really do.”

“I already know that you see me again,” Capucine said. “But that’s when I’m younger. I was hoping…”

“Whatever it takes, Capucine,” I said. “Come on, we’re time travelers” I added, smiling.

“No,” she said, swallowing hard and staring right into my eyes. “We are Drifters. We go where we are lead. And we do whatever we must.”

I saw the swirling robes of a nun passing on the far side of the horse, nearing its head.

“He’s not quite as big as my horse, of course,” I said loudly, reaching out and feebly petting the front flank that was inches from our faces.

The horse swung its head around, but the leather blinders on its eyes hindered it getting any look at us. Instead, we saw the face of a completely different nun rounding in front, a surprisingly pretty younger woman with a cheery face.

“Children,” said the one I assumed to be Sister Regis. “Our Margaret must continue on her way. Others are waiting, and we must not be greedy.”

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