The Immortelles

by Gilbert, Morris

  “Why, of course. Mr. Ransom, isn’t it? We met at the hospital when you were visiting your cousin.”

  “Exactly right. I’m pleased you recall it. I understand you’ve been ill.”

  “I’m perfectly well now.”

  “I’m glad to hear it,” Ransom said and smiled. “I would like to invite you to a party that I’m giving next Thursday night. Now that the fever’s gone, people can begin to have lives again.”

  Charissa’s mischievous streak arose. “Why, Mr. Ransom, you’ll have to get my brother’s permission.”

  “Oh, of course. I’d be—”

  “I am not her brother. But no, she won’t come.”

  Ransom drew up to his full height. He was still two inches shorter than Jeff, but he looked intimidating. “Are you trying to provoke me, sir? I’ll be happy to give you satisfaction.”

  Charissa said, “Mr. Ransom, please go away. Dr. Whitman’s been under a strain. I apologize for him. Come on, Doctor.”

  As they hurried away, Jeff growled, “Why, that insolent puppy! What does he mean, coming up in broad daylight, asking you to parties?”

  “Would you rather he came sneaking around after dark? Don’t be such a bear.”

  Charissa pulled him along firmly to the carriage, and when they got in, he was still mumbling about puppies.

  Ever since Charissa had left the plantation, and it was clear that Jeff was through with Damita, the young beauty expected him to show an interest in her. But he seemed preoccupied and troubled most of the time. She had grown impatient with him and devised a scheme. “Jeff,” she said, “I’m going away for a while.”

  Jeff turned to stare at her. “What do you mean, ‘going away’?”

  “I’m going to take a vacation.”

  “I think that’s good. Why don’t you go over to Savannah. That’s a nice—”

  “No, I mean a long vacation. Maybe half a year.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I’ve been thinking about going to England. You know, we talked about it before. I’ve decided to go.”

  Jeff sat silently, and when she snuck a glance at him, she saw that he was staring at his hands. She expected him to argue, but he said only, “If that’s what you want to do.”

  “It is!” she said sharply. “I’ll be going very soon. Next week, perhaps.”

  The next week was a strange one for Charissa. Since she had spoken to Jeff about her going to England, she had expected him to try to persuade her to stay home—or to offer to go with her, as they’d discussed some time ago. Instead, he had grown silent and sullen. If he doesn’t want me to go, why doesn’t he say so? she wondered impatiently. He does nothing but mope.

  She purchased her passage on the Orion, a steam-driven ship, and had begun packing her things a little at a time. Jeff and Debakky both asked about her plans, but she was purposefully vague. “I’ll decide when I get there” was all she would answer.

  Two days before she was to leave, Jeff arrived home from the hospital whistling. He spoke to Charissa cheerfully and smiled, and that night he laughed a great deal, at least for him. He was very lively over the following two days. Charissa did not know what to make of him. I thought he was sad at my leaving, but now he seems delighted. This depressed her. She had no real wish to go to England; now she saw no way out. I’ve got to go, she decided. Even though he’s acting as if I were traveling around the block.

  “I’ll go to your cabin with you, Charissa,” Jeff said. “I’d like to see it.”

  “All right, Jeff.” Charissa was downcast. She had lost all taste for a sea voyage.

  Debakky had said good-bye, hugged her, and told her to enjoy herself. For some reason, his eyes had danced, and he had said, “It’ll be the best thing in the world for you.”

  “You don’t seem very sorry to see me go,” she said reproachfully.

  “A young woman needs to get away. You have a good time!”

  Now, as they walked up the gangplank, Jeff was speaking rapid-fire about the voyage. “You’ll love it,” he said. “Beautiful weather for an ocean voyage. You’ll stay out on the deck a lot, and get sunshine and exercise, and the food’s wonderful.”

  “I’m sure it is,” Charissa said shortly. She stepped on the deck, and Jeff asked a steward in a white coat how to find her room. Then he took her arm and led her down some stairs and into a corridor. “This is almost a brand-new ship. You’re going to have a wonderful time.”

  Charissa glanced up at him. He could at least act as if he’s a little sad, she thought.

  “Here it is. Let’s see if the key works. It does. Step inside, my dear.”

  Charissa did so, and Jeff followed her. “It’s a small room, but then, you don’t need a lot of space. You will be eating in the dining room, and I understand there are dances and things like that. You will have such a good time, Charissa.”

  “I worry about you, Jefferson,” Charissa said, trying to turn the conversation to more personal matters. “You always work so hard.”

  “Oh, don’t worry about me. I’ll be fine.” Jeff sat down and began to speak of England. “I brought you some maps and some books,” he said, handing her the parcel he’d been carrying. “Here, let me show you. One place you should go is Cornwall. I’ve read a lot about Cornwall. It’s where King Arthur was supposed to have been.”

  Charissa listened to him dully, and finally a whistle blew, and she said, “That’s the warning for you to leave, I think.” A voice cried out faintly, “All visitors ashore!” Charissa stood up and said, “Well, this is good-bye.”

  “These ships never leave on time. Sit down. I want to show you some other places. Now, Brighton—there’s a place you must visit.”

  Charissa sat, and Jeff continued to open the maps and the books and chatter in an excited fashion. Twice she warned him about the ship’s pulling out, but he said, “There’s plenty of time.”

  She felt the ship move, and she said, “Jeff, the ship’s leaving!”

  He looked up at her and rose to his feet. “Is it, really? I believe you’re right.”

  “Jeff, you’ve got to get off!”

  “Oh, too late now for that.”

  “But, Jeff—”

  “Come along, Charissa. There’s something I want to show you.”

  Charissa stared at him. His eyes were sparkling with a spirit of joy, and he took her arm and led her back to the deck, then down another set of stairs and into a corridor. “It’s right down here, I think.”

  “Jeff, the ship is leaving right now!”

  “I know. Just this one thing.”

  She followed him until he came to a door, whipped a key out of his pocket, and unlocked it. “Step in here.”

  Charissa did so, and he followed her, shutting the door behind them. “How do you like this?”

  The elegant cabin was three times as large as her own. It was furnished magnificently. Charissa demanded, “Jeff, why are you showing me this?”

  “This is the honeymoon suite.”

  “The what?”

  “It’s used for newly married couples. That’s what a honeymoon is.” Jeff pulled her close and said, “I’m staying in it all the way to England, and I want you to stay in it with me.”

  Charissa could not understand what he was saying. She was aware of the motion of the ship, but she was far more aware of his arms holding her tightly. “I couldn’t do a thing like that, Jefferson.”

  “Why not?”

  “You know why not. Because it would be wrong.”

  “It would be wrong only if you didn’t marry me.”

  Charissa stood perfectly still. She felt the blood leave her face, and she saw that he was now perfectly sober. “Jefferson, what are you talking about?”

  “I’ve been talking to people. I talked to Debakky, and he said you loved me. And I talked to Rose. She told me you’ve loved me for a long time. And I got a letter from Olga. She called me a stupid oaf and said that you cared for me even back in those days at
St. Louis. They all say it, Charissa: You love me.”

  “Jeff,” Charissa began, her voice breaking.

  His arms tightened around her, and he said, “When you were sick, and I thought you might die, I found out I couldn’t do without you. All my fool talk about a sister! What idiocy! I love you, Charissa, as a man loves a woman.”

  Charissa felt warmth then coming to her face. She looked into his eyes, and he kissed her.

  “I’ve loved you for so long,” she whispered. “I thought you’d never care for me.”

  “I guess I couldn’t get it in my head that you could love a big, awkward fellow like me.” He squeezed her, kissed her thoroughly, and said, “The captain can marry us. Are you ready?”

  Charissa smiled. “Yes, I’m ready.”

  “Let’s go get married. We’ll have a fine honeymoon, and when we return, we’re going back to St. Louis. I’ve already made arrangements.”

  “Oh, Jeff, really?” Charissa cried.

  “Yes. Come along. I’m in a hurry to get married.”

  Charissa took his face between her hands and cried, “So am I, Jefferson, so am I!”

  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 Johnny, and they have three children. His daughter, LYNN MORRIS, has coauthored many books with her father, including the Cheney Duval, M.D. series.

  THE EXILES: A NOVEL

  BOOK ONE OF THE CREOLES SERIES

  The Exiles, the first book of The Creoles Series, introduces Chantel Fontaine. Readers follow Chantel through the streets and swamps of Louisiana as she falls in love, faces the loss of both her parents, and searches for the baby sister she thought was lost forever.

  The culture of the citizens of nineteenth-century New Orleans was as varied and intriguing as their complexions—French, Spanish, African, and American. As the layers of these cultures intertwine, a rich, entertaining story of love and faith emerges. It is the early 1800s, and Chantel Fountaine has finished her education at the Ursuline Convent. But the trials and tragedies that preceded her graduation have put her Christian beliefs to the test.

  From bestselling authors Gilbert and Lynn Morris, this captivating novel offers a unique perspective in a distinct cultural setting that comes alive in the minds and hearts of readers.

  ISBN: 0-7852-7002-7

  Look for Books Two and Three of The Creoles Series:

  The Alchemy

  The Tapestry

  An excerpt from

  book one of

  The Creole Series,

  The Exiles

  Chapter one

  HAVANA, CUBA, JULY 3, 1810

  Aimee Fontaine looked out of the open carriage and immediately shut her eyes. She turned and threw her arms around her husband and cried, “Cretien, we’ll all be killed!”

  He held her tightly and said, “We won’t be killed, darling. It’s not far to the docks, and once we get on board the ship we’ll be safe.”

  Opening her eyes, Aimee moved her head back far enough to get a good view of Cretien’s face, and the very sight of it encouraged her. Faults her husband might have, but if Cretien Fontaine was a coward, no one had ever found out about it. His chestnut hair escaped the tall black top hat, and his brown eyes glowed as they always did when he was excited. He showed no fear whatsoever.

  “They’ve gone crazy,” she whispered, holding on to Cretien’s arm.

  “Revolutionaries are always crazy,” Cretien said. He turned to the driver, saying, “Get in the back with Elise, Robert. I’ll drive.”

  “But, sir—”

  “Mind what I say!” Cretien’s eyes flashed, and Robert got up awkwardly and fell into the back, where Elise Debon was crouched down, her large eyes frightened. Cretien took the lines and slapped them on the backs of the pair of bays, holding the horses firmly. “They’re crazy fools! They don’t even know what they’re fighting for.”

  Others besides Cretien had made that remark concerning the uproar that had shaken Cuba to its very foundation. The countryside was alive with flames where men, apparently driven mad by the revolutionary fervor, had set fire to the homes of innocent people. The government had tottered and collapsed, and now Havana was packed with a mindless mass of humanity.

  Darkness had fallen, but men carrying torches held them high, and the flickering red flames cast shadows over cruel faces loose with drink. The air was filled with drunken cries and screams of women who were being attacked regardless of their politics. Gunfire rattled, sounding a deadly punctuation.

  “We’ll never be able to get through this crowd, Cretien,” Aimee whispered.

  Indeed, it did look impossible, for the street that led to the docks was filled with milling people. Many of them were armed men, but some were the helpless victims of the revolutionaries.

  Cretien pulled his hat down firmly, reached low, and pulled the whip from the socket. “Hold on, everybody!” he cried. He slashed the rumps of the horses furiously, and the bays lunged forward against their collars. “Get out of the way! Clear the way!” Cretien yelled. He stood to his feet and whipped at men who reached out to pull him from the carriage.

  Once Aimee saw the whip strike a man right across the cheek and leave a bleeding cut. The man fell back with a scream and was seen no more.

  Aimee hid her eyes, for the horses ran over anyone in their way, and the wheels bumped over the bodies that had fallen. The carriage careened wildly, and the shouts grew louder. A gunshot sounded clearly close to the carriage. Aimee’s heart seemed to stop, but the marksman had missed.

  “We’ll be all right,” Cretien said. He sat back down but kept the horses at a fast clip. “There’s the ship, down there.” A few moments later he pulled the horses up short, and they stood trembling and snorting under the light of the lanterns that hung from posts on the dock. The Empress, one of the new breed of steamships, loomed large and black against the ebony sky. “Robert, you see to the luggage. I’ll take care of the women.”

  “Yes, sir!”

  Aimee stood, and Cretien lifted her into his arms and set her down firmly on the dock. She clung to him for a moment, but he gave her a quick hug and said, “We’re all right now. Don’t worry. I’ll get you and Elise on board, and then I’ll come back to help Robert with the luggage.”

  Aimee gratefully leaned against her husband, but they had not gone three steps toward the gangplank when their way was blocked by a roughly dressed group of men. All had a wolfish look, and their eyes were wild with drink.

  “Hold it there!” one of them said. “We’ll take your money.”

  “That’s right. He’s an aristocrat.” The speaker, who wore a crimson rag around his forehead, pulled a knife from his belt and laughed drunkenly. “His kind’s gone forever. Give us what you’ve got, and maybe we’ll let you go.”

  In one smooth motion, Cretien pulled a pistol from under his coat and aimed at the man bearing the knife. The shot struck the ruffian in the upper arm. The wounded man shouted, “That’s the only shot he’s got! Get him!”

  The men moved forward, eyes glittering. Suddenly another shot rang out, and a short, stocky man staggered and grabbed his thigh.

  “He got me!” he cried.

  Robert, Cretien’s manservant, stepped out and said, “The rest of you had better leave.”

  But the three were so drunk they could not think. They all drew knives and, screaming, surged ahead. Cretien reached into the carriage and produced a cane. He pulled a sword from the hollow container, and when one of the men came close he swung the blade in a circular motion. The tip of the sword cut a gash in the chest of the man.

  “I’d advise you to leave before you are all dead,” Cretien said tightly.

  “Come on, let’s get out of here!” the leader cried. Since three of the four had been wounded, his words were convincing. They all turned and made their way, cursing and
holding their wounds.

  “Come along, Aimee,” Cretien said at once. His face was pale, and the violence had shaken him, for he was not a man of action. “And you, Elise, I’ll get you on board. Robert, start loading the luggage. I’ll be back to help you.”