Fairchild's 7 Daughters-The 12: Book One

39. A Storm Brews

New Orleans never changed. The stately homes lorded over the town like monarchs that refused to be usurped from their thrones. People came and went but they never seemed to take any of the city with them. Rather it was the city that captured a piece of their souls and ordered them back time after time or persuaded them to stay.

Jessop was one who stayed. As he stood in the streets he looked up at the green and black building that served as his offices. It looked the same as he had left it, a dark green building on the corner looking out at both streets so not to miss anything. There was a plaque by the door with his name on it. The city smiled at his return, pleased to have one of its captive hearts return into its holding.

Jessop entered the building with his luggage and greeted his secretary. The young woman was a little more forward than he preferred and giggled with her friends when she passed him in the streets. However, when she was working she was working, keeping the office running as smoothly as any man and for this Jessop kept her around.

"Welcome back to New Orleans, Mr. St. Cloud," she said from her desk.

Jessop raised his hand in a half hearted wave and continued to his office. Once there he closed the door and put down his luggage. He put his hat on the coat rack then unbuttoned his jacket. Once he was free of it he crossed the room and looked out the window into the street. It seemed to him that most that had happened while he was away was a dream and here he was now waking up.

The door opened as he sat down at his desk and a young man entered with his hat on his head and a cane in his hand marching in place.

"Oh when the saints, come marching in, oh when the saints come marching in! How I want to be in that number, when the saints come marching in!"

"Don't you have work to do, Ron?"

Ron hung the cane on the coat rack and spun into the room. "I just wanted to welcome you back to New Orleans, Mr. St. Cloud," he said as Jessop sorted through the things on his desk.

"I kept everything up to date for you just as you asked and I made sure there was no horse play while you were out as well, sir."

"Thank you, Ron," Jessop said picking up a box on his desk. "And what's that smell? It smells like old wet clothes and ash."

"I don't smell anything. So how did it go?" Ron asked, removing his hat. "Do we have a court date yet?"

"Afraid not. The girls that I told you about; well their father died in a mining accident."

"Sad."

"Yes, and now their mother is very ill. Personally I don't think she'll make it. Who knows that that means for them."

"Nothing good I'd imagine. Maybe you could do something."

"Me?" Jessop scoffed reaching for his scissors to cut the twine that held the box closed. "I don't know what I could do?"

"Well. Excuse me if I over step my place, but are any of them of marriageable age?"

Jessop almost cut himself with the scissors and nearly dropped the box. I did mention that these were colored girls?"

Ron shook his head. "You didn't." He leaned against the wall. "But hear in New Orleans it's hard to tell who's touched with the tar brush."

"Well these weren't touched at all. They were genuine colored girls though one had skin near the color of mine."