The Creole Historical Romance 4-In-1 Bundle

by Gilbert, Morris

  “Oh, yes, there is plenty.”

  “I’m not really very hungry,” Neville said. “And I’m a little tired. I think I’ll turn in. Would you excuse me?”

  “Certainly. Good night,” Chantel said stiffly. “Are you hungry, Veronique?”

  “Yes, I could eat anything.”

  “I’ll go with you then.”

  She stayed until Veronique had eaten and then walked to her room, kissed her, and said, “You were beautiful tonight, and your dancing was wonderful.”

  “I like dancing with Neville, don’t you?”

  “I—” She broke off, because the hurt of his refusal to dance with her was more painful than she had dreamed it could be. “Good night,” she said. She bent over and kissed the smooth cheek, then went to her room.

  Chantel stood in the middle of the room for a moment, then sat down before the dresser and stared at her face in the mirror. She could think of nothing but Neville’s strange attitude. Have I done something to offend him? I don’t know what it could be.

  She walked the floor for a time and then washed her face. After she had dried it off, she walked over to the window. A movement caught her eye, and she leaned forward and peered out into the darkness. By the faint light of the lantern, she caught sight of Neville walking along the brick walkway that led out to the gardens. His head was down, and he disappeared into the shadows.

  At once she grabbed up her coat, slipped it on, and left her room. She ran quickly down the stairs and out the front door and ran down the walk. The moon was full overhead, a huge silver disk.

  “Neville!” she called out, and then halted. She had come on a sudden impulse, and now that he turned and came to stand before her, she had not the vaguest idea what to say.

  “I—I saw you walking. I was wondering if there’s any trouble. Something you haven’t told me.”

  “No, not really. I just wanted some fresh air.”

  His words sounded lame to her, and she said, “Let me walk with you.”

  “Fine. It’s a little cold. People will think we’re crazy walking in December in the middle of the night.”

  Chantel walked beside him and could not think of one thing to say. She finally asked how his work was going.

  “All right.”

  “And the mission. Have you started it yet?”

  “I’ve been spending a lot of time there. I rented an old building that needed a lot of repairs.”

  “So that’s why you haven’t been to see me.”

  There was enough of a pause that Chantel knew he was struggling for an answer. “Well, of course, it’s been a little hard to get away.”

  The silence continued, and finally he said, “I saw Yves a few days ago.”

  “Is he all right?”

  “Oh, completely recovered. I don’t know how you’ll take this,” he said. “Dominique’s husband died.” He seemed to be fumbling for words, and finally he said, “I think they’re seeing each other.”

  “Really? I’m not too surprised. I didn’t think he ever got over her.”

  “I’m sorry. I know you had feelings for him. I hated to tell you.”

  “Why, Neville, I may have felt something for him once, but it could never have come to anything. I knew that.”

  Neville stared at her, and she saw consternation in his eyes. “Do you mean that, Chantel?”

  “Why, yes. Did you think it was something else?”

  “I thought you were in love with him. He is a romantic fellow. The kind of man I always wanted to be. Dashing and romantic.”

  “Neville! You don’t need to be like Yves. You need to be exactly what you are.”

  Her words seemed to surprise Neville, and finally Chantel realized that she had to know the truth. “I want to ask you something, Neville.”

  “Why, go ahead.”

  “Have you found a sweetheart?”

  “What?”

  “You’re seeing a woman, aren’t you? Someone you care for.”

  Neville stared at her in shock. “What makes you think that?”

  “Because you haven’t been to see me. You were once in love with me, or said you were—but now you’ve found somebody else.” Chantel found these words hard to say, and she turned her head away.

  “Wait a minute!” She felt his hand on her arm, and when she turned around, he took a deep breath. “I don’t want to be hurt again, Chantel. No man likes rejection. But I will tell you once more, I still love you. I always will. But I’m not the kind of man you want. Despite what you say, I know you want a big man who’ll sweep you off your feet. If not Yves, somebody like him.”

  When she didn’t speak, he added, “You do remember, Chantel, that you told me you could never think of me as a lover—that we were too much like brother and sister?”

  “I—I did say that, but I’ve changed.”

  Neville’s face lightened with hope, but he asked cautiously, “How have you changed?”

  “I was swept away by Yves,” Chantel replied, realizing even at that moment what had happened. “Perhaps because he looked like my father, but I was in love with love. I would have been miserable married to him.”

  She reached up and put her hand on Neville’s chest. “I could never have been happy with him, Neville. When I think about the man I could spend my life with, I want someone who is steady and true and never changes.” Even as she spoke these words, Chantel knew that she was, in effect, saying good-bye to the image that she had had of her father, for he did not have these qualities.

  Her lips trembled, and she said, “I think of your patience and your kindness and how you put up with all my moods, and—” She could not finish, for he had put his arms around her and drawn her close.

  As he kissed her, the heat of something rash and yet eternal touched them both. She knew at that moment that she had the power to stir him, and even more startling she knew he could stir her more than she had thought possible. She had always thought of love as something that came upon a woman like the striking of a bell, clear and complete, a roundness with no uncertainty to it. And she realized that he had been there for her all along, but she had been too foolish to recognize it.

  Finally he lifted his head and said, “I love you, Chantel, but I’ll be serving God in a mission and working in a law office. That’s not a glamorous life.”

  “If it’s your life, it will be mine.” She put her hand on his cheek and said, “Neville, do you love me then?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “Then will you come courting me?”

  “What!” Neville said with surprise.

  “I—I think I love you, but I want you to take me places. I want other girls to see you with me and to know that you love me. And will you write me letters?”

  “Letters? What kind of letters?”

  “Love letters. And maybe a poem. I know you love poetry.”

  “I can’t write poetry, Chantel!”

  “Yes, you can,” she said firmly. She smiled then and said, “It doesn’t have to be a good poem, just a poem.”

  “All right. I’ll write you a poem.” He held her tightly and was stirred by her touch. “And I’ll get a guitar. I’ll learn to play, and I’ll sing love songs under your window. My singing will be so bad that all the servants will laugh.”

  Chantel felt suddenly that she had come home. “I won’t laugh,” she said. She reached up, pulled his head down, and kissed him. Chantel put her head on his chest, then, while he held her tightly, she whispered in his ear, “We’re going to have a beautiful courtship, Neville.”

  Neville held Chantel tightly, then laughed, saying, “You know, I feel like Job.”

  “Like Job? The man in the Bible who suffered so much?”

  “Yes, he did suffer, but in the end, God made it up to him—for all of it.” He had lost everything as the Lord tested him, even his children, but after all this tragedy, God gave Job seven sons and three daughters.” Neville kissed her, and his face was glowing with joy.

  �
�And you are like the daughters of Job, sweetheart!”

  “How am I like them?” she whispered.

  “The Bible says, ‘And in all the land were no women found so fair as the daughters of Job.’” He placed his hand on her cheek, and his voice was filled with emotion as he said, “That’s how I have thought of you for a long time, Chantel—in all the world there is no woman so fair!”

  The two clung together under the silvery moon, silhouetted in white light and filled with joy and hope.

  About the authors

  Dr. Gilbert Morris is a retired English professor. He is the author of more than 170 novels, many of them bestsellers and several of them award winners. He has been married for fifty-three years to Johnnie, and they have three children. His daughter, Lynn Morris, has coauthored many books with her father, including the Cheney Duval, M.D. series.

  Look for the next book in

  The Creole Series,

  The Immortelles.

  The

  Immortelles

  THE CREOLES SERIES

  The

  Immortelles

  Gilbert Morris

  &

  Lynn Morris

  Copyright © 2003 by Gilbert Morris

  All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, scanning, or other—except for brief quotations in critical reviews or articles, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

  Published in Nashville, Tennessee, by WestBow Press, a division of Thomas Nelson, Inc.

  Scripture quotations are from the King James Version.

  Publisher’s Note: This novel is a work of fiction. All characters, plot, and events are the product of the author’s imagination. All characters are fictional, and any resemblance to persons living or dead is strictly coincidental.

  ISBN 0-7852-6806-5

  Printed in the United States of America

  03 04 05 06 07 PHX 5 4 3 2 1

  I dedicate this book to my children—

  Lynn, Stacy, and Alan.

  All so different—but all so loved.

  Contents

  The Creole Heritage

  PART ONE: MAY–NOVEMBER 1831 Damita

  Chapter one

  Chapter two

  Chapter three

  Chapter four

  Chapter five

  Chapter six

  PART TWO: SPRING 1832 Charissa

  Chapter seven

  Chapter eight

  Chapter nine

  Chapter ten

  Chapter eleven

  Chapter twelve

  PART THREE: 1834–1835 Jeff

  Chapter thirteen

  Chapter fourteen

  Chapter fifteen

  Chapter sixteen

  Chapter seventeen

  Chapter eighteen

  PART FOUR: 1835–1836 Yancy

  Chapter nineteen

  Chapter twenty

  Chapter twenty-one

  Chapter twenty-two

  Chapter twenty-three

  Chapter twenty-four

  A bout the authors

  The Creole Heritage

  In the early nineteenth century, the culture of New Orleans was as rich and wildly varied as the citizens’ complexions. Pure Spanish families, descended from haughty dons, still dwelt in the city, and some pure French families resided there, but many were already mingled with both Spaniards and Africans. Acadians—or “Cajuns,” as they came to be called—lived outside of the city. This small pocket of Frenchmen had wandered far from home, but, like many groups in New Orleans, they stubbornly kept much of their eighteenth-century heritage intact and ingrained.

  Of course, there were many slaves, but there were also the gen de couleur libres, or free men and women of color. Some of these were pure Africans, but most of them were the mulattoes, griffes, quadroons, and octoroons who were the result of French and Spanish blending with slaves. There were Americans, too, though they were strictly confined to the “American district.” And there were Creoles, people of French and Spanish blood who were born outside of their native countries. Creoles born in New Orleans were Louisianians, but they were not considered Americans.

  All well-born Creole families sent their children to receive a classical education at the Ursuline Convent or the Jesuit schools, and both institutions accepted charity children.

  This series of novels traces the history of four young women who were fellow students at the Ursuline Convent School:

  • The Exiles: Chantel

  • The Immortelles: Damita

  • The Alchemy: Simone

  • The Tapestry: Leonie

  PART ONE

  • MAY–NOVEMBER 1831 •

  Damita

  Chapter one

  NEW ORLEANS, LOUISIANA, MAY 1831

  “One thing I’m sure of: I’ll never be a nun!”

  Assumpta Damita de Salvedo y Madariaga stared at herself in the mirror she kept hidden behind a wall hanging. The sisters felt that mirrors led to vanity and forbade them in the rooms of the students at the Ursuline Convent. Sister Agnes, the sternest of them all, had said at least a thousand times, “It is the beauty on the inside, not vain painting on the outside, that makes a person.”

  Damita studied her features: large, well-shaped, dark eyes, a wealth of glossy, jet-black hair, a complexion like a healthy baby’s—rosy and smoother than silk. The chin showed firm determination, and full lips hinted at a willful disposition.

  Damita turned around and shook her head, muttering, “A girl might as well not have a figure if she has to wear this hideous dress!” The dress was, indeed, a model of economy. The pupils at the Ursuline Convent were mostly young ladies from wealthy families, but the strict rules at the convent permitted wearing only the plainest of sober, dark dresses. Despite this, at the age of seventeen, Damita could see that the ugly dress clearly outlined her figure, and she laughed aloud. I’m going out to buy a new dress, she thought, a bright, elegant one. I’ll wear it back from the shop and give the sisters a shock.

  The thought pleased her, and she pirouetted around the room, a wicked light dancing in her eyes. She had not been a model pupil at the convent, but her father had prestige enough, and had given money enough to the sisters’ work, that Damita had never been a candidate for expulsion.

  Damita looked around her and thought with satisfaction, Another two weeks, and I’ll never have to look at this old room again. Indeed, graduation was coming on May fifteenth, and Damita had longed for emancipation from the place for years. Her spirit was not conducive to discipline, and her educational process had been hard both on her and on the Ursuline sisters.

  The door opened, and a young woman entered, wearing the same style of dress Damita wore. She scolded Damita, “You’re going to be late for chapel. We’ve got to hurry!”

  “I’m not going to chapel, Chantel, and neither are you.”

  Chantel Fontaine stared at Damita. The two had been best friends for years, but Chantel had learned to be cautious about joining Damita’s schemes. “We’ve got to go to chapel!” she exclaimed. Anxiety showed in her green eyes, in a pretty face framed by auburn hair. She asked with trepidation, “What are you going to do?”

  “I’m going down to get a new dress.”

  “You can’t do that!”

  “Yes, I can, and you’re going with me. What can they do to us—throw us out? You know we’re only going through the motions anyhow. In two weeks, we’ll be out of here. Let’s go.”

  Chantel began to protest, but the force of her friend overwhelmed her. Indeed, Damita Madariaga overwhelmed most people. She was domineering, and once she made up her mind, no one could stop her. Her eyes were sparkling as she grabbed her reticule with one hand and Chantel’s hand with the other. “I can’t stand another one of those boring chapels.”

  Chantel, despite her protest, was caught up in Damita’s excitement. The two tipto
ed out of the room and down the long corridor, and then stepped outside into the garden. They could hear the singing beginning in the convent, and Chantel made one more effort to dissuade Damita.“They’ll tell our parents. They might even expel us. You know how Sister Agnes is.”

  “They can’t do anything to us. The school year is nearly over. Come on, now! It’ll be fun. You can help me pick out my new dress.”

  As always, Damita grew excited as she dragged Chantel into the city of New Orleans. The air in the city was heavy with the ultrasweet odor of molasses and the pungency of mixed spices. Wisps of cotton floated off the bales piled on the levy. The Port of New Orleans competed with New York as the nation’s biggest, and the land along the river was always packed with people—the population had doubled in the past decade. The mighty Mississippi made them rich. Merchandise from a hundred river ports arrived there, and the saying went “Kick a barrel of flour in Minneapolis, and it will roll to the gulf.”

  The sight of vessels of all sizes, shapes, and colors, crowded in from everywhere, awed the two girls. The most impressive were the steam packets, white and arrogant, at their landing along Canal Street. Oceangoing ships, gray sails furled, were giving up their sailors, who were attired in the garbs of a dozen nations, on the gangplanks. Much closer to the American sector, flatboats, keelboats, and small river crafts huddled together; floating stores that the Kaintocks presided over, regardless of their place of origin.

  The two girls passed through the stacks of tobacco, hemp, animal skins, salted meats, kegs of pork, barrels full of pickled food, rum, tar, coffee with its unmistakable rich scent, and—always—cotton. The bales, some of them spoiled, towered on the open wharves.

  The city was crowded as the two girls made their way through the French Quarter. They had become accustomed to the din. Stevedores scurried with their loads, and men ran to clear the ships. Tin-roof shanties lined the passageways with stores that sold sailors’ trinkets. Grogshops were everywhere, and new arrivals from the ships waited in long lines. Damita and Chantel passed an oyster stand, where a native forked his delectable wares from their shells. A blind man played a fiddle, and children juggled for pennies. Dark-faced Spaniards sold flowers, and black women waddled by, bearing coffeepots in their baskets, ready to pour a cup for any who wished.