Interestingly enough, the lady Dutch had spent time with at the saloon had now become part of their group. Her name was Susan Grimshaw, a kind yet firm woman, whom Dutch deemed essential for keeping the camp running while they were off doing other tasks. She took on chores such as cooking the food they hunted and washing their clothes. Though more noticeably, she kept Dutch's bed warm, the late-night sounds between them making it clear how they were spending their evenings.
John's reddened cheeks the next morning and Arthur's look of disgust gave Rosalie comfort that she wasn't the only one suffering from the sounds from Dutch's tent.
Rosalie thought Susan was fine enough, though she was irritated by her constant pestering to help with the laundry or other chores as it was 'women's' work. Rosalie was fine with helping out, doing tasks such as washing others' clothes if she was doing her own, or brushing the horses. There was no problem in her mind with chipping in, and there hadn't seemed to be a problem before Susan arrived about how things were done. Even Arthur washed his clothes himself and would take Hosea's if he noticed the older man's laundry was overflowing.
But one thing Rosalie wasn't going to do was hang around camp and simply do chores, and that was something Grimshaw was going to have to get over.
Rosalie had never been the only one to do chores with her father and uncle. Women's work was never a phrase between them. Since her mother had died when she was born, there was never a woman around to do the chores for them. As a result, Henry and Kurt had always had to take care of themselves.
Besides the small tiff she had with Susan over chores, it was nice to have a woman around, albeit different. Rosalie never had a true female presence in her life, so to have a woman near her constantly was different. Her father never dated or showed interest in other women. He was still hopelessly in love with her mother, even years after her death, and her uncle, when he did flirt with a woman, would never bring her around, so it wasn't as though she met the countless women he would have on his arm either.
Throughout their time traveling down south, Rosalie made a point to practice her shooting. Rosalie would do anything to refine her aim and make herself more useful to the group. She was lousy in a hand-to-hand fight against anyone more than twice her size, so the least she could do was make her aim the best it could be so she could hit targets before they managed to get within swinging distance.
Sometimes, John threw bottles in the air so Rosalie could practice with a moving target. They never seemed to run out of empty bottles, thanks to Hosea and his drunkenness, giving her plenty of targets to practice with. So far, Rosalie had only landed a few shots with her rifle, finding it easier to aim with her revolver. Even though when she shot at the moving targets with her revolver, she only landed a few more shots than she did with the rifle.
Even if the progress was slow, there were still noticeable improvements. Rosalie was adamant about making herself useful and perfecting at least one skill so she wouldn't be completely defenseless against an attacker. Knowing how to shoot was one thing, but aiming was another, and that was at least one thing she had learned so far.
After a grueling almost two weeks of travel from Illinois, the group finished their journey down to Louisiana and set up camp outside New Orleans. During their meeting with Reginald Harrington, Dutch, and Hosea discovered that Colm and Cormac O'Driscoll had started running a smuggling operation through the ports of New Orleans. The operation involved tobacco, firearms, and alcohol, likely brought in from the Caribbean to avoid taxes, allowing them to sell it at higher premiums to saloons and in bulk to local businessmen.
Discovering which ports they were coming in from, and where the O'Driscoll home base was would be a difficult task. Figuring that out would take some investigating and poking around, lingering in saloons, or finding a point of contact with the local policemen to get a lead from port owner complaints. Finding those points of contact would be at the top of the priority list for the gang as soon as they got settled.
But first things first, upon their arrival to the outskirts of New Orleans, they set up camp. While finding Cormac O'Driscoll was at the top of Rosalie's priority list, lingering in the back of her mind and haunting her throughout the nights, she knew they needed somewhere to sleep and eat if they wanted to make any progress on his whereabouts. It didn't help either that it was summer, and the southern heat was sweltering, the humidity making Rosalie's curls frizzy and everyone sweat like a dog. Stubbornly, Rosalie still wore her all-black outfit but was practically dying as she had a few more buttons undone and her sleeves rolled to her elbows.
It was a leisurely day, as they had only set up camp the night before. They planned to head into the heart of New Orleans later that afternoon to scope out the area, but for now, Dutch sat on a chair outside Hosea's tent, poetry book in hand as he thumbed through it. Hosea stood beside him smoking a cigarette idly as he looked at the clouds passing by.
While John's hair was already long and mangey when they picked him up weeks prior, it was too long now, hanging a few inches over his shoulders. Rosalie noticed how irritated he was becoming with it, especially with the heat, so she fished the scissors from her bag and beckoned John over to the far side of camp to sit on a tree stump so she could give him a trim.
John plopped himself onto the stump with a huff after hearing her call. "It's so damn hot! How do folks do anythin' down here?" He whined, undoing another few buttons in his long-sleeved shirt. He fidgeted as he rolled the sleeves to his elbows.
"I don't know either." Rosalie shook her head and ran her fingers through the back of John's hair to detangle any knots. "Up north the summers get hot, but nothing like this. I feel like I'm swimming in this heat." She flicked her fingers through his hair again, before she opened the scissors, the blades scraping against each other.
At the sound, John glanced at her over his shoulder with a pointed look. "Don't cut too much off! I like it long, 'kay? I ain't want it short like Arthur's." He grumbled.
Rosalie snorted and turned him forward by the shoulders. "Arthur's hair isn't even that long. He's probably due for a haircut himself since it's been growin' over his ears."
Arthur, cleaning his rifle by the fire pit, looked over at the sound of his name. "Have somethin' to say to me, Miss Rosalie?" He called with an amused quirk of his brow. Gun oil was smudged on his arms and a bit on his cheek, dirty rag in hand.
Rosalie shook her head and began snipping at the ends of John's hair. "Nothing bad, Mister Morgan, just saying you could be due for a haircut yourself."
Susan, stitching John's union suit on a log by the fire, snorted. "She ain't wrong. You look unkempt. We may be living in the wild but you ain't needa' look it." She gave Arthur a sideways look, before returning to her stitching.
Arthur looked offended. "Unkempt?!"
John laughed evilly. "Yeah, you ugly bastard. Ya' look unkempt. Like an animal!" He cried, ecstatic at the thought of making fun of Arthur any chance he could.
"Shuddup, you brat." Arthur shot him a dirty look.
Rosalie tugged on the end of John's hair to get his attention. He cried out and gave her a nasty look over his shoulder, rubbing the back of his head. "Ow! What did ya' do that for?!" He whined.
"Be nice," Rosalie said with a flat expression, before turning him around again by the shoulders.
John didn't argue, just grumbling to himself as Rosalie continued to trim his hair, the scissors snipping as pieces of his hair drifted to the dry grass. The sound of the blades filled the silence.
Rosalie used to cut her father's and uncle's hair, as well as her own. Doing their hair was always easier than attempting to cut her own correctly, often angling the mirror in various ways to avoid cutting it lopsided. Fortunately, her heavy curls helped disguise any potential mistakes. They used to commend her for how good of a job she did, and that if women were barbers, she would have made a spectacular one. She used to revel in their compliments, but now it only made her miss them more as she snipped at the ends of John's hair.
Rosalie ruffled John's hair. "All finished."
John ran his fingers through his hair and shook his head like a dog. "Aw, it feels so much lighter! Ain't got that stuff stickin' to my neck no more." He grinned and got up from the log, jogging away to his tent. "Thanks!"
Rosalie kicked at the clumps of John's hair on the ground, trying to push it away from the tree stump so the wind didn't blow it back into camp. No one wanted to see John's hair roll by like a tumbleweed while they were sitting by the fire that night.
Susan leaned forward and lightly smacked Arthur on the leg. "Go over n' get your hair cut while she's still all ready! Don't make her get the scissors and such out just because you wanted to get your hair cut on your own time." She chided, nodding over to Rosalie who was still kicking at the hair clumps.
Arthur cried out and angled himself away from her swatting. "What that gotta do with me?! I ain't need it cut!"
Susan scoffed. "Yes, you do. As Rosalie pointed out, it's grown over your ears. If you want it long, then fine, but at least make yourself look like a decent man." She sniffed idly and returned to her stitching. "Besides, maybe you'll meet a nice little lady in New Orleans, but she won't want you because you ain't got your haircut!"
Arthur scoffed, but stood, placing his rifle against the log. "I ain't want no lady, but fine, I'll humor you, misses." He turned away from her with a roll of his eyes, wiping his hands with the rag as he walked over to the tree stump where Rosalie had cut John's hair.
Rosalie looked up at him in surprise as he neared her. "Oh? Come to get a trim too?" She gave him a teasing smile, to which he just grumbled and sat down on the stump in front of her.
"If ya' make me look stupid I have permission to give ya' a haircut of your own," Arthur said as he took his hat off and placed it on his knee, waiting patiently for her to start trimming his hair.
Rosalie snorted. "You don't even ask me nicely to cut your hair, you simply demand? Why, I don't think that's how you speak to a lady, sir." She teased, unable to help the grin that crossed her face as she began to run her fingers through his hair.
Hosea, who was still taking slow drags from his cigarette, snorted from his place across the camp. "Arthur, she's calling you insufferable! Though… maybe I should use a smaller word for you so you understand…" he placed a feigning, thoughtful hand on his chin as he furrowed his brows. "Irritating? Annoying?" He offered, smirking at him now as he raised the cigarette to his lips.
Arthur grit his teeth. "I know what insufferable means, you old bastard."
"Alright, alright, you can't be annoyed when you get a haircut; otherwise, it's going to look bad. Your mood influences the way it turns out," Rosalie chided as she continued to untangle the long strands. His hair definitely needed a trim, the thick strands bunching together as the ends reached the bottom of his neck.
John poked his head out from the tent, eyes wide. "That ain't true, is it?!"
Susan snorted. "No."
Rosalie shook her head with the smile still stretched across her lips as she ran her fingers through Arthur's hair.
The strands were long, as she had already noted, but upon closer inspection without his hat, his hair, which appeared brown in most lights, seemed to be turning a dirty blonde. This was likely due to the hours spent under the intense summer sun. He usually wore his hat but had been shedding it here and there to cool off, allowing the breeze to reach his scalp. Despite not having bathed since the night before, his hair was soft and glossy between her fingers. Rosalie had been running her fingers through it simply to detangle the strands, but she didn't mind playing with his hair. It was nice.
Rosalie hadn't realized how long she was stroking his hair until he coughed.
"Is my hair that messy?" Arthur asked with a chuckle.
Rosalie froze, eyes wide in horror as her cheeks lit up in a bright red blush. Her face felt like it was on fire as she shook her head. "Ah! No! Just getting a few more tangles out… ha…" She swallowed thickly and flicked her fingers through his hair a few more times before she began snipping at the long strands at the base of his neck.
Hosea coughed from his spot on the other side of the clearing, Dutch looking up over the top of his book at Rosalie and Arthur. The two men shared a look, a smirk pulling at the corner of Dutch's lips as he returned his attention to his book, eyebrows raised.
"Nice, weather today, hm, Hosea?" Dutch asked, eyes still on the page.
Hosea chucked. "Hm… I'd think so. Makes you wonder if spring has sprung instead of us being in the dead heat of summer. Unless the sweltering temperature is making certain folks more… hot." He shrugged as if he wasn't certain. "Though who can say."
Dutch chuckled. "Though who can say." He agreed.
After Rosalie finished giving Arthur his haircut, the group got ready and headed into the heart of New Orleans, leaving their camp that was miles out from the city for the day. Rosalie was ecstatic to see what the city looked like. Apparently, her father had visited when he was young and never returned for some reason, even though he spoke of it fondly. He claimed it was his favorite place he had ever visited, which was confusing to Rosalie in retrospect, as he never expressed a desire to return despite how fondly he spoke of it.
Despite her confusion, she was looking forward to seeing New Orleans for herself. It seemed poetic that the place her father loved most would be the host of his murderer, and that Cormac O'Driscoll's end would come in New Orleans. Rosalie would make sure of that.
The group, consisting of herself, Arthur, John, Dutch, and Hosea, rode through the city, the cobblestone roads clacking underneath their horse's hooves as they made their way through the bustling streets.
While Chicago was an industrial hub, with buildings squished together and overflowing pockets of random businesses and crowded spaces, New Orleans presented a gentle contrast to the bustling cities up north. The streets were still busy, but here, people stopped to greet one another with friendly smiles and long conversations. Ladies, dressed in lattice-lined dresses, were led down the street by their male companions. The culture was slower and displayed less of the hustle and bustle she experienced up north. The people of New York, Boston, and Chicago moved with more urgency than those in New Orleans it seemed. This became more apparent to her as they rode leisurely through the street, unafraid of being run over or shoved aside by weaving crowds.
The buildings were more colorful, appearing as though they were built purposefully rather than added onto as space was needed. Painted in shades of yellow, red, white, and the occasional green, many buildings featured balconies with ornate iron railings. There was still an industrial touch to it, as they had entered through the front of the city, so they were overwhelmed by businesses that had set up their homes there. But unlike other cities, street vendors set up their stalls, selling tropical fruits and freshly caught seafood. In the distance, Rosalie could hear the faint sound of music that she couldn't quite place.
It was beautiful. Rosalie could see why her father loved it so much.
"Let's split up and check out the local saloons. Hosea and I'll see if we can get acquainted with more of the local people here." Dutch said to the group, dismissing them to do their surveying of the city.
John, who was perched behind Rosalie in the saddle, nodded. "We don't gotta just go to the saloons though, right?"
"You can go explore and such. I'm not gonna tell you what you can and can't do, son," Dutch chuckled as they continued along the cobblestone path, nearing the end of the street where they would part ways. "Just remember what we're doing here and keep your head on straight."
John's face screwed up as though he wanted to ask something, but decided against it. "'Kay."
Arthur rode up beside Rosalie to speak to Dutch. "You want me to poke around and see if we can do anythin' else productive?" He offered with a quirk of his brow. He was eager to see if there were potential jobs they could take part in while they were there too.
Dutch shrugged with a breathy laugh, amused at the question. "Well, by all means, if you find something interesting, go sniff around it for a bit. I won't complain if we get more cash while down here."
Hosea flashed Arthur a grin. "Just don't make too much of a mess. We'd like to be here for more than a few weeks, ideally. I tire of all this traveling, so don't give us a reason to go into hiding for a bit. I don't think Rosalie will take too kind to that either." He mused, glancing at the blonde.
Rosalie's face was twisted in dismay, not enjoying the thought of having to put herself even further away from the goal of killing Cormac. "Please don't." She said weakly, looking at Arthur under her hat.
Arthur scoffed and raised his hands to display his innocence. "Hey, I never said I would cause a ruckus. Have a little faith in me."
Dutch waved him off and turned his horse, trotting away with Hosea in tow. "Mmkay, off you go, off you go."
Left to their own devices now, the trio turned down the opposite street, John holding onto Rosalie's waist and Arthur beside her on Boadicea as they moved in an easy trot. Music continued in the background as they came over a bridge, a boat drifting on a stream below them.
"So… do we have to go to the saloon first?" Asked John hopefully from behind Rosalie.
Rosalie glanced over her shoulder at him with a grin. "Why, did you not want to? Was there something you wanted to do instead?"
John looked away with a sheepish expression. "I dunno. There were them street vendors with all that food. It looked real good. Thought maybe we could get some?" He asked with a shrug.
Arthur snorted. "You ain't got any money to buy food with, kid."
John gave Arthur a nasty look. "I ain't gonna pay for it! Imma steal it, bastard!" He cried.
Rosalie looked around in panic, hoping no one heard John's outcry about his possible thievery. "Hey! C'mon! You can't just go shouting that in the middle of the street. I don't care if you do it, but if you get caught, Dutch n' Hosea aren't going to be happy." She scolded, her face screwing up at the thought of having to explain to the two men why John was in custody over some shrimp.
"Yeah, I ain't bailing or breaking you out," Arthur said flatly.
"You're a bastard!" Shouted John, letting go of Rosalie's waist to wave a fist at him. "Why're you so annoyin'?! You think you're funny!"
Rosalie pressed her lips into a firm line as she became annoyed with their squabbling.
Arthur snorted. "You piss yourself off, kid. I ain't doin' nothin'." He said with a shrug as though this conversation was unimportant and John was nothing more than an irritating fly.
"You're so damn annoyin'!" John grit his teeth, face turning red. "You always talk 'bout how you should leave me behind! Like when you say you should've let them farmers string me up!."
Arthur made a face. "Yeah, and I should've."
John growled and looked as though he was about to throw himself off Blitz to tackle Arthur off his saddle. But before he could, Rosalie whipped around and glared at him. "Would you quit!" she cried in exasperation. "You can wrestle each other back at camp, but not in the middle of town! We just got here!"
John shrunk into the saddle at her outburst. Rosalie huffed and pulled Blitz's reins to a stop, Arthur tugging on Boadicea once he noticed her doing so.
Arthur quirked a brow, though he also looked a tad sheepish at her outburst. "What are you doin'?" He asked.
Rosalie nodded in Arthur's direction. "John, go with Arthur. You two need to spend some time together and tough it out. I'm not spending the rest of the day listening to you bicker."
John looked at Rosalie in horror. "Nah! I ain't goin' with him! I wanna stay with you! Why do I gotta go with that dumb bastard?" He pointed at Arthur accusingly, defiant as he stayed in his saddle.
Arthur grunted as he glowered at John. "Call me bastard again, kid."
Rosalie felt like she was going to pull her hair out. For some reason, Arthur and John bickered at almost every chance they got. One small inconvenience, and they were at each other's throats. It had never been so bad that Dutch or Hosea had to step in, but it drove Rosalie crazy. She didn't understand why they had such a hard time getting along, but whatever the reason, they needed to get over it—or she was going to go bald from pulling out her hair.
"Please," Rosalie pressed her lips into a firm line, trying to contain her temper so she didn't yell again. "John. Go."
John didn't move at first, pouting as he stared at his lap. A beat of silence passed, and once he realized Rosalie wasn't going to let up, he slid off the saddle and hit the ground. He walked over to Boadicea and stared at the stirrup as though it was his worst enemy before he put his foot in the slot and swung himself into the saddle behind Arthur. He still refused to put his arms around Arthur's waist or even hold onto his jacket, arms pressed to his sides.
Rosalie shook her head at his attitude and kicked Blitz into a slow trot, continuing down the cobblestone path, leaving John and Arthur behind without another word.
"Where are ya' going?!" Called Arthur as she continued down the street.
"Somewhere else!" Rosalie called back over her shoulder. "I'll meet you at the downtown saloon in a few hours. I need some alone time from all your bickering, and you two need to figure out how to get along. Without me!"
Arthur remained still on Boadicea as he watched Rosalie disappear down the street, John wearing the same baffled look on Arthur's face as he peeked around Arthur's arm. Arthur looked over his shoulder at John, irritated at the dumbstruck expression the kid wore.
Now that Rosalie was by herself for a few hours without the sound of bickering, she was excited to explore the rest of the city in serene silence. She agreed with John on one thing: the vendors lining the streets with colorful items and enticing smells, ranging from spicy Cajun dishes to sweet fried foods, made her want to head down there and try everything they offered until she was down to her last dollar. She knew that wasn't something she could afford, though, especially since she was in dire need of new clothes.
Rosalie continued down the street, looking around as she tried to spot some kind of shopping district, as she had wandered down what seemed to be a residential area. The streets were narrow, buildings colorful as she had taken note of earlier, with the iron bars of the balconies bent and twisted into intricate designs. It was unlike anything she had seen before, and Rosalie couldn't help but commend them for the architecture. This area was much more vibrant than the business-dominated area they had come into, as there were no banks or large office buildings, but instead small shops and locally owned restaurants.
Most of the clothing Rosalie owned was as colorful and vibrant as the streets she trotted down... but she didn't feel that wearing such things was a reflection of herself at the moment. She was still in mourning, and until her goal of killing Cormac O'Driscoll was completed, she would don herself in black. But she only had so many items consisting of that color scheme, so she needed to find somewhere to go shopping if she wanted to wear more than just the same outfit every day.
After trotting further down the street, weaving around carriages and patrons crossing the road, Rosalie eyed a building with a burnt orange stucco storefront and blue tile lining the arched entryway to the store. It wasn't much different from the other buildings nearby. As she continued down the street, the architecture began to change gradually from the various colors and greenery, most buildings now resembling variations of tiled stucco structures adorned with colored flowers.
Rosalie pulled Blitz to a stop and hitched him outside the store. She gave him a gentle pat on the neck and fed him a peppermint before heading toward the store, her gaze lingering on the intricately painted blue tiles at the entryway. Each tile bore designs resembling flowers, as though they had been hand-painted with meticulous care.
She stepped inside, the store lined with shelves of shirts on hangers and boots neatly arranged on a shelf along the far wall. The walls were painted a deep shade of red, while the floor was concrete, adorned with a vibrant red and orange rug covered in geometric shapes. A counter stood before a hallway leading to a backroom, its walls lined with tiles similar to the ones at the entryway. Rosalie couldn't help herself as she crossed the room and eyed the intricate designs, running her fingers over the smooth tile, feeling the bumpiness of the brush strokes under her fingertips.
"Finding everything alright, señorita?" Came a gentle voice from behind her.
Rosalie jumped, spooked by the suddenness. She spun around to see a beautiful, young, dark-skinned woman wearing a dark blue dress, her curly hair pinned back with a gold clip. The woman smiled, noting Rosalie's surprised reaction.
"Apologies, I didn't mean to scare you. Can I help you? Are you lost?" The woman asked, a Spanish accent tinging her words. She came to stand beside Rosalie at the counter with a black and white chevron blanket in her arms.
Rosalie shook her head. "Ah, no need to apologize. I need new clothes—I thought I would see if you had anything I liked." She pulled her hand away from the tiles and glanced at the racks of shirts and pants.
The woman quirked a brow. "Are you sure you're not lost, señorita? The French district is up the street from here. I'm sure you'll find more items you'd like there compared to what we have to offer." She folded the blanket and placed it on the counter, before smoothing her hands over it and meeting Rosalie's confused gaze.
Rosalie couldn't quite grasp the woman's intentions. Was she implying that she shouldn't be shopping in the store? Rosalie didn't want to create any trouble, so if the woman truly didn't want her there, she was ready to leave without protest. However, the woman's demeanor didn't suggest outright hostility; rather, she seemed more puzzled by Rosalie's presence.
Rosalie nodded toward the entryway. "I'm sorry if I'm intruding. You are open for business, correct? I just saw the tiles outside and thought they were so beautiful… so I wanted to see what was inside. I'm sorry if I offended you…" Rosalie trailed off, feeling awkward under the gaze of this woman.
Understanding dawned on the woman's features as she leaned back. "Ah, you're not from here, are you?"
Rosalie scratched at the side of her face, not sure what that had to do with anything. "No, I'm just traveling through on some business. In need of some new clothes for my travels."
The woman hummed, looking her up and down with a thoughtful expression. "I just assumed you were looking for the French district, with your blonde hair… and your appearance… you resemble the Montgomery family. I thought you may have wandered here by accident, but now that I have a closer look at you, you do not seem like an ordinary woman anyhow." She came around the counter and gave Rosalie another smile, leading her toward the clothing rack. "I can show you some shirts and such that you may like."
Rosalie blinked but followed her to the other side of the store as the woman began flicking through the hangers. She wasn't sure why this woman assumed she was part of this 'Montgomery' family, or that she was lost in the first place, as though this was not the sort of place she belonged.
"May I ask…" Rosalie furrowed her brows, the woman pausing to look over her shoulder, multiple black, grey, and dark brown shirts in her hand, the woman picking up on Rosalie's style choice.
The woman tilted her head. "Yes?"
"Why did you think I was lost?" Rosalie asked.
The woman smiled at her again, the corner of her eyes crinkling. "Ah, well, most that look like you, Señorita, do not shop here or frequent this area." She explained gently, realizing that Rosalie was not used to this kind of environment.
Rosalie blanched, realizing what the woman was alluding to. "Oh, you thought that I was…?" She trailed off, horrified at the thought.
Rosalie's mind raced as she processed the woman's explanation. The assumption that Rosalie, with her blonde hair and appearance, must belong to a certain affluent family or social circle, was based on the prejudice she had witnessed. It was a bit disturbing and sickening to her, prompting her to wonder what experiences had shaped this woman's perspective. Why would she assume that Rosalie wouldn't want to shop in her store simply because she looked different?
Growing up in the heart of New York as a young girl, before moving to Boston and Rhode Island, Rosalie had been exposed to people of many different cultures. While these places boasted diverse populations, the Spanish culture wasn't one she had encountered as frequently; most people she knew were Italian, German, English, or Irish. However, she had always been intrigued by different cultures and found them beautiful—certainly not something to be ashamed of.
The dismay must have shown on her face, as the woman shook her head, returning her attention to the clothing rack. "It doesn't matter. Don't concern yourself with what I thought. Let's just get you some new clothes, hm? You like the dark shirts, yes?"
Rosalie frowned, but nodded, allowing the woman to pile the shirts into her arms to try on.
Throughout trying on the shirts and sheepishly showing the woman her clothes when asked, Rosalie learned the woman's name was Isabella, who ran the shop for her father who was sick. Most of their clothes were handmade by herself, her mother, and her sisters. It felt special to know that the items Rosalie picked out were stitched together with care by this nice woman's family. Throughout this time, Rosalie grew to enjoy Isabella's company. Female companionship was something she lacked ever since she was a girl, and she hadn't realized how much she desired it until she spent the last hour with the woman.
Rosalie was almost sad as she picked out the clothes and paid for them at the counter. With another kind smile, Isabella placed the items into a bag after Rosalie gave her the cash.
"I enjoyed spending time with you," Isabella said, a twinge of sadness in her voice. "If you're in the area, please don't be shy about stopping by."
Rosalie nodded. "Yes, I'll make sure too. I love the area here… the architecture is beautiful. I don't understand why someone would be sour about having a look at what you have to offer."
Isabella smiled at the memory at the mention of the building. "My papa built this place himself. He bought the land and built the store, and the rest of the street started filling around it with other people from Spain. It's quite special."
"That's impressive," Rosalie said, her gaze drifting down to the folded, black and white chevron blanket on the counter Isabella was holding earlier.
Noticing her gaze, Isabella smiled again, tilting her head to the side with a knowing look. She put her hand on the blanket and slid it across the counter, "Did you like this?"
Rosalie laughed sheepishly, realizing she had been caught. "I haven't seen much like it before. It's beautiful."
Isabella looked at the blanket thoughtfully, before she hummed and folded it again into a small square. "You can take it. No charge." She said, ruffling the bag as she slid it inside.
Rosalie gasped and shook her head. "Oh no, I can't. What would you take for it?" She pulled out a wad of cash from her pocket and began thumbing through the money, trying to rack her brain for a proper price.
Isabella reached over the counter and put a hand on her wrist, "Please, take it as a gift from me. If you really want to give me something in return…" She trailed off, the smile she wore turning mischievous. "Then I suppose you stopping by once again would be sufficient."
Rosalie's heart soared. While she had enjoyed Isabella's company, she hadn't been sure if Isabella saw her as just another customer once she realized Rosalie genuinely wanted to shop in the store. The process of trying on clothes, sharing little jokes, and pairing outfits together had made Rosalie giddy. Knowing that Isabella also wanted to spend time with her made it hard to wipe the grin off her face.
"Yes, of course." She replied. "When I can, I will."
Isabella removed her hand and leaned on the counter. "Good. I'll hold you to it."
Bag in hand and realizing she had made a new friend, Rosalie left the store with a smile. She stowed the items on Blitz and saddled herself, turning the horse back up the street toward the French district.
Rosalie hadn't expected to make a friend when she entered the store, but she felt there must have been a deeper reason for her initial attraction to the place. The architecture was beautiful, yes, but there was something else drawing her in. The company she shared with Isabella over the past hour was proof of that. If they stayed in New Orleans for a bit, which she expected they would as they were only in the survey process trying to locate Cormac O'Driscoll, she would make a point of seeing Isabella as soon as she could.
Craving something to drink, Rosalie continued up the street, reins in hand as she observed the lively city filled with patrons going about their day. She spotted a sign leading to a coffee shop. Her mouth watered at the thought of the rich, steaming cup, so she kicked Blitz into a faster trot to the storefront.
The coffeeshop was beautiful, just as Isabella's store had been, but the building was painted a clean white, with an iron-barred balcony on the second story, and blue flowers hanging outside of the doorway. People stood outside chatting and smoking a cigarette. Women leaned against the wall fanning themselves as they giggled, their dresses lace and shades of pastel.
Rosalie eagerly hitched Blitz outside the coffee shop and slid off her saddle, heading inside the building. As soon as she pushed open the door, the strong smell of coffee and other sweet pastries hit her. Her stomach grumbled instantly.
People sat at round wooden tables scattered throughout the shop as they drank coffee and enjoyed each other's company. A few sat by themselves as they read the newspaper and picked at a fruit tart or croissant. There was a hum of chatter and a clink of glasses. It was lively and beautiful inside, and Rosalie couldn't help herself as she eagerly crossed the room to order a coffee from the barista.
It wasn't cheap, and it physically hurt her to hand over the money, but Rosalie ordered herself an espresso with cream and chocolate croissant, taking her things over to a table by the window. She slid into the wooden chair and took off her hat, placing it on the table. Her mouth watered as she pulled at a piece of the croissant, the pastry flaky as she popped it into her mouth.
Rosalie resisted the urge to groan out loud as she tasted the buttery, chocolatey flavor of the croissant. Eager to try her coffee, she held the cup with both hands, lifting it to her lips and sipping gently. The rich flavor of the espresso and smooth cream made her close her eyes to revel in it. She was going to cry at how delicious and expensive everything was, especially after eating deer and rabbit for weeks.
Rosalie turned her attention out the window as she ate, eyeing the people who walked by on business or leisurely with friends. This area was different from the Spanish influence just further down the street, the buildings were mostly white and the people were dressed in fine shirts and lace dresses.
Rosalie sipped at her coffee.
What was her father's favorite place in the city? Rosalie wished she could ask him. Did he enjoy drinking espresso and eating sweet pastries, or did he like to try the different spicy and tropical foods they offered downtown? Or did he prefer to take walks along the street, taking in the different architecture and details of the city?
Rosalie's heart ached at the thought of him. She wished she could experience it with both him and her uncle.
"Oh my goodness," came a feminine voice.
Rosalie looked over at the sound, blinking at the sight of a middle-aged blonde woman with bouncy, shiny curly hair, a lattice-gloved hand held to her face as she looked at Rosalie. She wore fine clothes, her dress a pale green and floral, a white hat on her head as she looked at Rosalie with large brown eyes.
"Adelaide Montgomery?" The woman gasped, still looking at her in shock. "D-Do you know an Adelaide Montgomery?!"
Rosalie quirked a brow and lowered her coffee to the table. "I'm sorry, I don't know an Adelaide…" She lied, feeling awkward underneath the gaze of this woman who looked as though she found something she had been searching for relentlessly.
Rosalie wasn't sure how honest she should be. She didn't know this random woman and they were in a new place. Going around spouting her parent's names to whoever asked didn't seem wise.
The blonde woman deflated at the denial. She looked off to the side and fidgeted with the end of her white lattice glove. "Oh, I'm so sorry. Forgive me, you just look very much like my sister. Almost identical… the resemblance is a bit uncanny. I haven't seen her in years."
Rosalie stared up at the woman thoughtfully, eyeing her bright blonde hair and thin face. There couldn't be too much harm in telling the truth, right? Telling his stranger her mother's name shouldn't cause too much harm, and the disappointment from this woman was overwhelming after Rosalie's lie.
"Well… Adelaide was my mother's name. I don't know anything about a Montgomery." Rosalie offered. She still wasn't sure if she should be giving this information so freely, but she wasn't sure how it could be used against her. This woman seemed harmless enough.
The woman's attention was on her again instantly. "It was?!" She blinked furiously as she racked her brain for what to say next. "What was your father's name?!"
This question though was not something Rosalie wanted to answer so freely. Her father was not a well-liked man, and if someone knew who he was, it was most likely because he had stolen from or tricked them. But this woman seemed to be asking about her mother, trying to deduce who she was from the answer. Rosalie didn't think this woman was a victim of her father's trickery. Even if she was, it didn't matter anymore; her father was dead. It wasn't as if he could be hung for his crimes now.
After another thoughtful pause, Rosalie leaned back in her chair. "Henry Klein." She answered.
The woman's mouth fell open, "Oh my goodness. Oh my—I'm so sorry. I-I—" She stuttered, her face going white.
Rosalie cringed, unsure what this woman was on. "…Yes?"
She cleared her throat and stood up straight as she tried to get ahold of herself. "I'm sorry. It's just—I'm Eleanor Montgomery. Adelaide… your mother… is my sister. Or… or she was."
Rosalie stared up at Eleanor in shock, her stomach dropping as she realized the woman standing before her was not some random person off the street, but her aunt.