MARDI GRAS MISUNDERSTANDING
Disclaimer: No ownership, no profit...just love and nostalgia for these wonderful characters.
Note: Many thanks to Amanda for allowing Charlotte and Ira and the New Orleans Ladyto venture out of her wonderful "Haunted Heart" and into my little tale.
Chapter Two
It was the pre-Lenten season, and Mardi Gras revelry was in full swing. Costumed balls and elaborate dinner parties occupied every waking moment. Masked men and women danced in each other's arms night after night, often until a new day rose over the mighty Mississippi, only to return home to sleep and prepare for the next night's round of frivolity.
All throughout the festival season, Kitty Russell and John Chapman had been among the colorfully costumed couples, dancing 'til dawn and going home to whatever the day brought their way. For Kitty, returning to her little shotgun house in the heart of La Vieux Carre, it meant catching a few hours of sleep, changing clothes and heading down St. Ann Street to the river, often stopping at the Café du Monde for her favorite breakfast of café au lait and beignets.
Once at the riverfront, she moved easily and confidently among the bales of hemp and cotton, smiling at the men who greeted her with a soft "Miss Kitty," as they touched the brims of their hats and gazed wistfully after her. She was a familiar figure on the riverfront, admired for her beauty and respected for her fair and honest dealings with the dockworkers who delivered the finest Kentucky bourbon and imported wines and champagnes to theNew Orleans Lady.
Ah, the "Lady," that beautiful, ornate, classy and intriguing gambling palace, much like its redheaded owner herself. The big paddlewheeler regularly wound her way through the muddy waters, stopping at Natchez and Vicksburg, occasionally winding north as far as Memphis, but always returning to her moorings on the New Orleans waterfront.
On the third day after the Krewe of Proteus Ball and Kitty's subsequent rejection of John Chapman's advances, he sought her out as she moved among the men and bales and barrels and packing crates. They had attended one dinner party and another ball in the three days since then, and it was as if that other evening, that moment, had never happened. Each respected the other entirely too much to refer to the subject again.
And so it was with honest astonishment that Kitty turned and looked at the man who caught her arm at the foot of the "Lady's" gangplank.
"Kitty, we need to talk."
"I thought we...what's wrong, John?"
"Can we go inside out of the sun?"
She nodded, and he followed her up the gangplank and into the relatively cool interior of the main salon.
"Sit down. I'll be right back," she said and moved across the gilded room to say a few words to Ira Pennington, her cousin Charlotte's husband and co-owner of the New Orleans Lady.
Bringing two tall frosty glasses back to the table with her, Kitty sat down adjacent to the physician. "I think I know what you're going to say, John, and you don't…"
"You couldn't possibly. You have no idea," he replied wryly and caught the hand that was idly tracing wet circles on the side of the glass and held it.
"Kitty, your marshal's here. I mean, he's in the city."
Kitty's eyes widened and her face paled. "Matt? Matt's in New Orleans?"
John Chapman tightened his hold on her hand and nodded. "He's in the indigent ward at Charity Hospital. I saw him on my rounds this morning. He's…Kitty, he's been badly beaten. They tell me he was unconscious when he was brought in three nights ago, and he still is. A carriage driver found him in the street about a block from the train station…no baggage, no money, no identification. The best guess is that he was attacked right after he got off the train."
Kitty's face went even paler and she struggled to keep her composure as she tried to stand. "This makes no sense. I don't understand. I need to go to him. The indigent ward? John, why is he there?"
"Easy, Kitty." Chapman's strong hands pulled her back to her seat. His soft voice continued, "Until I walked in and recognized him, he was just another drunk or bum picked up on Rampart Street. Just be grateful that driver got him to a hospital. I won't lie to you; he's in pretty bad shape."
The beautiful redhead drew a deep breath and broke the steel grip she had on Chapman's hand. "Take me to him. We have to get him out of there…transfer him to Touro or Dieu…you know I'll pay whatever it…John, he is going to be all right, isn't he?"
Even now, and in spite of everything, a world without Matt Dillon in it was inconceivable to her.
"I hope so, Kitty, I surely hope so."
John Chapman used his considerable influence and reputation as a physician to transfer the "indigent" man to the finest medical facility in the city.
Despite the very best of care by the most skilled medical staff in New Orleans, Matt continued to lie unconscious and delirious in his private room at Hotel Dieu Hospital, his massive frame dwarfing the narrow hospital bed, his broken ribs bound tight, his injured knee grotesquely swollen and painful.
For a week he mumbled and sweated in the too-small bed, his only coherent word a plaintive and repetitive cry for "Kitty."
For her part, Kitty had explained the situation quickly and sketchily to a confused but understanding Ira Pennington and practically moved into Matt's hospital room. Work could wait, and the social season was over, for her at least.
Day and night she sat by his side, holding his huge hand between her two small ones, placing cool cloths on his bruised face, smoothing his matted curls and forcing small sips of water and broth between his parched lips.
It never once occurred to her that this was the same man she had been trying desperately to forget for nearly a year.