Timeless Passion: 10 Historical Romances To Savor

by Rue Allyn

  Bishou took the phone receiver from him as her two younger brothers galloped down the stairs. Her father appeared from a corner, looking delighted. Maman wheeled herself in from the porch, looking happy.

  “Dr. Roth? Is that you?”

  Roth was laughing. “I told the Sergeant Major to make it loud and clear. You’ll get your letter in a few days, but I thought I would phone. Will you be able to make it back here the first Saturday in August, for the Conferral of Advanced Degrees?”

  “You bet I can,” Bishou replied. “I’ve got to dig up a gown, don’t I?”

  “I’ve got it here,” Dr. Roth replied. “Your doctoral gown has already been paid for — by a tobacco subsidy.”

  “Oh, I will be damned,” said Bishou. “Not Gray Jackson.”

  “No, Louis Dessant.”

  “Louis Dessant?”

  “He left the money with President Lanthier before he went back to Réunion Island. The president delegated that little chore of purchasing it to me. Of course, I had no problem, because I knew where I got mine. Come and look us up when you get here. We’ve got your costume.”

  “Are you serious?”

  “Just come. Third-ever woman doctorate, the place is alight. Expect to be the highlight of the season, Bishou.”

  “You and me both, Dr. Roth. I’ll be there. See you the day before, probably.”

  “All right. You know the way. We’ll see you then.”

  She hung up, stunned. Her father hugged her. Her mother bade her bend down for a kiss. Bat wrapped his arms around her and asked, “What was that about a gown?”

  “Doctoral gown. Mine’s already been paid for,” she said slowly.

  “By the university?” Bat asked.

  “No. By the tobacco people. By … Louis Dessant.”

  “As in Dessant Cigarettes?” her father asked in surprise.

  “Oui, as in Dessant Cigarettes,” Bishou replied slowly.

  Smiling down at her in his arms, Bat told her, “You may have to go thank him.”

  “Oui, I think I do,” Bishou answered.

  Chapter 13

  Bishou was wearing her “academic uniform” of white blouse, dark below-the-knee skirt, stockings, and sensible high heels when the ferry Mauritius Pride docked at the Port of Saint-Denis. She had been through customs at Orly, and these were overseas French departments, so “Douanes” was not an issue. She had never understood how anyone could love the scent of the ocean. To her, it always stunk of diesel fuel and dead fish. Then she smiled and chided herself. Don’t run it down, it’s Louis and Etien’s island.

  Disembarking was bedlam, as bad as a Greyhound bus station in Washington D.C. It was noisy and bright. Passengers got on and off the ferry, cargo was being loaded and unloaded, and plenty of onlookers of all races and nationalities — Africa, India, China, France — gathered around. This must be the excitement of the day, she thought.

  It all had a very African tone, which she rather liked. It had been that way in Mauritius, too, although the actual twelve-hour ferry ride had been quite peaceful and mellow. One could get a drink at the bar or play cards and chew the fat in a card room. She thought she had spotted a few constant travelers — men and women who worked the ferries, not as paid employees. She could guess how Carola Alese got her start, and the low railings showed easily how she was able to replace an excited mail-order bride on her way to meet her millionaire. Bishou was careful not to talk with strangers about where she was going, and she stayed away from the railings. It was only good sense.

  The sky was a beautiful blue. The sun was warm and bright. Even if I don’t get anything out of this trip but a strengthened friendship and a nice job refusal, Bishou mused, I’m glad I did it.

  Bishou had asked around the ferry, and had learned that the most visible hotel from the dock, the Harbor Hotel, ought to be avoided. The purser had given her a card for La Pension Étoile — Star Hotel — a couple of blocks from the dock, along with road directions to it. Without asking, the purser had also told her the story of Louis Dessant, and the criminal who had ruined him.

  “But he has been fortunate,” the purser said, “if you can call a man who’s done time and rehabilitated himself fortunate. He still has friends, a business, and a place where people think well of him. Ah, well,” he added, in typical French fashion, “toujours l’amour. I don’t think too many men will hold that against him.”

  “And the women?” she had asked with a smile.

  “The women? Mademoiselle Bourjois — the sister of the true bride — rides this route at least twice a year, on the anniversary of her sister Celie’s death, to warn other young women of the evils of this place. She is so very Paris, the old, mean Paris. Vous savez?”

  Bishou nodded; she did know.

  “But other women, they take autobus rides near the factory, just on the hope of seeing the poor, desolated man. Par Dieu m’en faire — pardon, Mademoiselle!” he said, as she started to laugh at the French obscenity. “I forget, your brother is a soldier, you’ve probably heard worse.”

  She thought of Bat now, recommending a backpack over a heavy suitcase, and insisting she get back into shape before this trip. Bishou stumped firmly up the cobbled streets, blessing him for his foresight. In the distance, she saw a blue star on a sign and guessed that was La Pension Étoile ahead.

  It was. She stepped inside a cool, white lobby, where two genteel middle-aged ladies stood at the desk, signing in some other new arrivals. She waited until the current (and apparently well-known) customers were taken care of, and then stepped up to the counter.

  “Bonjour, Mesdames,” she said to them in French, passing the card across the counter. “Monsieur Martin of the Mauritius Pride recommended you highly.”

  “Ah, bonjour, Mademoiselle?” There was a question in the tone.

  Bishou smiled her acknowledgment. “Oui, Mademoiselle Howard. I am étrangère here, a visitor.”

  “Ah. Welcome. And what brings you to our lovely island?” asked one lady.

  “I wanted to see it, because I have heard so much about it. I am also applying for work, at the university, while I am here.”

  “Oh, how exciting!” the other lady said. “Are you a secretary?”

  “No, a teacher.”

  “Oh, Mademoiselle. I do not wish to disappoint you — our university is just starting, so I could be mistaken — but all those teachers will be college professors, you know, not schoolteachers.”

  Bishou gave them her gentlest smile. “Actually, I am a college professor, too. Docteur Bishou Howard, professeur de littérature, Université de Virginia de l’Est, des États-Unis.” It was the first time she could remember introducing herself that way, especially in French.

  “Oh, goodness!” the ladies exclaimed, or words to that effect. “A woman! And an American! Here!”

  “Don’t say anything, though. It could be bad luck. You know how job applications are.”

  They probably didn’t, but they nodded sagely. Then it occurred to them they hadn’t even filled in a hotel form for her yet, and got to work. She paid for three days, cash.

  Their porter, an elderly Creole, insisted on taking the backpack for her. Upstairs, she tipped, half what she would pay in Paris but double the rate here; he smiled broadly and touched his hat. Stowing her backpack in the room’s wardrobe, she stopped him to ask a question. French was the school language, so even the oldest Creoles spoke it, although badly. “Where do I go to catch the bus?”

  “Don’t Mam’selle want nice taxi?”

  “No, mon ami. Mam’selle wants to see green trees and smiling faces, and go slow.”

  The smile got broader. “You go down to Missy’s bodega, take a left out here and two blocks down. Corner store — you know?”

  “Oui. I know bodega.”

  “Bus stop too. Driver be Armand, this time of day, good fellow. Tell him Joseph sent you, give him cigarette maybe.”

  “Does he like Dessants? That’s all I’m carrying.”

 
; His smile got even broader. “Everybody like Dessant. This his island.”

  “That’s what I heard,” she agreed with a smile. “Merci, Joseph.”

  “You teach a few words American?”

  “Thank you, Joseph, you are kind,” she said, in English.

  “Thank you, Mam’selle, you are kind.” He grinned, touched his cap, and left.

  Bishou tucked her room key in her pocket and strapped her purse firmly across her shoulder. Then she followed directions to the corner store. A Creole woman worked busily behind the counter.

  “Cigarettes?” asked Bishou.

  “What brand?” the woman said busily.

  “Dessant,” Bishou replied, as if that were obvious.

  The woman stopped, and grinned at her. “Sorry if I was rude, Mam’selle.”

  “You weren’t. Are you Missy?”

  “Oui, I am.”

  “Joseph at Pension Étoile said this was the best store in town.”

  Missy grinned, showing some missing teeth. “He should. He owes me money.” The woman grinned in pleasure as Bishou laughed at the joke. Quickly she took Bishou’s bills, and gave her change. “Now, what else can I do for you, Mam’selle?”

  “Tell me about the bus. Where it goes, when it comes.”

  “I’ve got a schedule here.” She slid one across the counter. “You can keep that.”

  “Merci. I just want to ride around and see things. Je suis étrangère.”

  “A good plan, in a new place.” Missy nodded. “You come from Mauritius?”

  “Oui.”

  “And before then?” Missy was distracted by the appearance of another customer, then by the beep of the bus. “Autobus, Mam’selle. This is what you want.”

  “Merci,” said Bishou, running outside before Missy could ask any more questions.

  Now she saw what Louis meant about Réunion buses. This bus had sort of a roof, but there were seats all around the outside, too, and its top speed was probably ten kilometers per hour, downhill. She followed the lead of the others, paid the driver, and found a seat. She sat inside the bus, near him, though.

  “Are you Armand?” she asked.

  The driver replied, “Joseph sent you?”

  Bishou dumped a few cigarettes into her hand, and passed them to him. He grinned with delight.

  “He said, Armand likes those Dessant cigarettes, Mam’selle, so give him some. And he will tell you everything you want to know.”

  Other passengers around them, mainly Creole but some French, watched and smiled.

  The driver grinned again and shifted into gear. The bus was not quite as loud as a lawnmower, but moved at about the same speed. “Where do you want to go, Mam’selle?”

  “I just want to see some of the region, and come back to Missy’s.”

  “Just right,” said the driver. “That’s my route. That makes it a three-hour trip, d’accord?”

  “D’accord,” she nodded. By then, it would be almost nightfall, a good time to get back to the hotel and try to sleep.

  Joseph pointed out museums, banks, the retail area, and libraries as they started through town. “And those buildings over there, that’s the new Université Française de l’Océan Indien, our own university,” he said proudly. “Just started about five years ago.”

  “I’m going to go there when I get older,” said a little Creole boy in the opposite front seat. His mama brushed his hair with one hand.

  “I think that is a good plan,” Bishou told the little boy. “Then you can learn much, and maybe work in a business like a bank or publishing house.”

  Her acceptance of the little boy made a difference in the atmosphere around her. This went from a silent bus to a bus full of quiet conversations, as they talked with the strange woman. Mainly, as Joseph pointed out more landmarks, they elaborated on his description, even if it was just to say “I was baptized in that church.”

  There were no suburbs in Saint-Denis — one moment you were in the city, the next you were riding down one-lane dirt roads, past occasional farms.

  Joseph pointed. “That’s the Dessant Cigarette factory over there.”

  “I saw tobacco fields all around us,” she commented. “It’s big.”

  “Oui. Monsieur Dessant is a rich man.”

  “But a nice man,” another woman interrupted. “So is Monsieur Campard, his partner.”

  “And they are réunionnais,” said a man.

  “Oho,” said Bishou. “That is it, is it not? They are family. Family protect their own.”

  Everyone within hearing range started to laugh, some almost sheepishly.

  “That is how it is,” agreed Joseph, laughing too. He pointed down another road. “That is Rue Dessant, where Monsieur Dessant’s house is. Far over there — you can barely see it — is the road to Rue Calaincourt, where Monsieur Campard’s house is. The tour buses, they go there. But I stick to the main road. I have to stay on schedule. Else I would show you their beautiful houses.”

  “That’s all right. I have seen other beautiful houses,” Bishou said. “I enjoy more seeing people. The best part of my voyage, so far, has been the people I have met.”

  “Are you a tourist, then, mam’selle?” Joseph asked her.

  “Oui. Seeing friends, and maybe applying for work while I am here. I am not rich, so I must be very careful with my money.”

  “And then what?”

  “Then whatever job I obtain,” she answered.

  “Well, good luck,” said Joseph. “I hope you’ll be commuting on this bus in the afternoon, Mam’selle.”

  “I hope so, too,” she replied.

  Chapter 14

  Bishou’s travel alarm clock chirped her awake. She had been dreaming of the easygoing, almost idyllic ride yesterday, and woke up comfortably in the bright sunlight. Eight o’clock. Time to train her body out of the jet lag — the décalage, as Louis had called it. Strange, how peaceful she felt.

  Bishou changed out of her pajamas and went to the bathroom at the end of the hall to wash up and brush her teeth. This pension is so very French, she thought. In another day, she was going to have to barricade the bathtub and take a soak — she hadn’t had a thorough wash since Mauritius. Then she smiled to herself. She was even thinking like Bat. She’d ask them if she could bathe today, while everyone else was out.

  When she went downstairs, she heard the two sisters talking before she appeared, and she could smell coffee. The ladies were very excited to see her. “Oh, Mademoiselle, venez, venez!” They almost bodily brought her through a doorway behind the hotel desk. To her astonishment, breakfast awaited: Croissants, orange juice, coffee. Amazingly, too, they sat down with her, and plied her with questions about America. Between mouthfuls, Bishou talked about New England, Virginia, her handsome brother Jean-Baptiste, her coed years.

  “And you traveled without chaperone?” one asked, staring in surprise.

  “Certainly.”

  “But suppose a man tried to attack you?”

  “My brother is a soldier. He insisted I learn to defend myself.”

  “Oh! Have you ever used the lessons you learned?”

  “Well — yes. But most of the time, I talk my way out of trouble.”

  These middle-aged spinsters giggled like teenagers as they talked with Bishou about wandering all around America. It was a concept they couldn’t imagine, anymore than they could imagine a 10,000-kilometer voyage — it could just as well be a science-fiction movie to them. In fact, the cinema was more real — there were three cinema houses in Saint-Denis alone.

  The croissants, coffee with lots of cream and sugar, and juice kept coming. Bishou almost had to hide her coffee cup to prevent a “freshening up.”

  “Non, non, non! I will be as fat as a goat if I let you have this cup again, Mademoiselle!” she protested, as they all laughed. “Besides, I have things I want to do today.”

  “Well, if it is shopping, Docteur,” said the other sister, “remember, the shops close from noon to two. And
it is almost ten, now.”

  “Non, non. I will tell you later.” Bishou rose. “Au revoir. And some time, I must repay you for this lovely meal.”

  Once outside, she walked again to Missy’s, greeted her briefly, and took a bus with a different driver, a morning bus. “Université,” she told him.

  He merely nodded, and took her money. She sat on the outside. When the bus slowed down at the université, she simply dropped off and walked up to the gates. Bishou stepped through the open gates and found herself in a small quadrangle. Some things were universal. She found the public jobs board, read it, and smiled.

  Bishou located the College of Humanities building. Entering, apparently at class-change time, she worked her way through the throngs of students to the office. The secretaries were busy, so she took a seat. She could wait. When the last student was finished at the desks, she approached a secretary. Talk about universal, Bishou thought, at the woman’s hostile glance up at her, through half-glasses on a chain.

  “Bonjour, Madame. I wish to speak with Dr. Rubin. Is he available?”

  “Doyen Rubin,” she emphasized the word for dean, “is busy with students. May I help you?”

  “Yes, I am looking for work. I sent him a letter.”

  “Then you should go to University Administration, Mademoiselle. The dean is not in the habit of hiring secretaries,” she said with asperity.

  “No doubt he is not. But I understand his word is vital in hiring professors of literature,” Bishou said calmly. “Would you ask him if he could please make time to meet Dr. Bishou Howard?”

  Her jaw dangled. “Docteur Howard?”

  “Oui, Docteur Howard.”

  “I — he — it may be a few minutes before I can interrupt him, Docteur.”

  “D’accord,” said Bishou agreeably. “I’ll wait.”

  She sat down again in a rickety old chair and flipped through a stack of ancient magazines. From the corner of her eye, she saw the consternation of the secretarial pool as they realized the woman waiting in the corner was a professor. Then she heard the rapid clicking of heels as a secretary headed down a corridor. A few minutes later, the heels clicked back again, and returned to Bishou.