It was no one she knew. It was no one she was going to know. “He spoke English,” Rose finally admitted, watching her sister’s countenance change from jovial to astonishment, then disgust. “And if you tell mother I’ll never forgive you.”
“Tell me what?” Marianne asked as she entered the house, her arms full of clean clothes.
“That she didn’t dream of the man she was to marry,” Gabrielle answered, sending Rose a conspiratorial glance.
Marianne placed the clothes on to the bed and stared hard at first Gabrielle, then Rose. “Why is that such a secret? Why are you afraid to tell me that?”
Rose didn’t want to think of the Englishman, let alone speak of him. She decided to change the direction of the conversation. “Because we know how much it means to you for us to have visions like you do.”
Marianne brushed the tousled hairs from Rose’s face and at the same time reached out and took Gabrielle’s hand. “I want you girls to find love. I was hoping that being in a new place would bring you happiness much like your father...”
Marianne grew silent and swallowed hard, fighting back tears. When Pélagie had explained the maiden superstition the night before, after the priest had blessed their meager home, for the first time in days Marianne had come alive. She had helped them dress for bed, sang a couple of old French songs passed down from her grandmother and tucked them into bed. Now Rose feared the sadness had returned.
“We haven’t heard from Gabrielle yet,” Rose said, hoping to bring her mother back to a happier subject. When she turned toward her sister and watched Gabrielle’s face turn pale, Rose realized her blunder. If Gabrielle’s dream had differed from the usual nightmares she experienced, she would have told Rose first thing.
Marianne turned toward her middle child. “Anything new besides the ship dream? A man’s face this time perhaps?”
Gabrielle shook her head. She had been plagued by dreams of sailing ships since their deportation, of a dark, faceless man at her back as they drifted off to distant lands. Marianne placed an arm about her shoulders and squeezed. The sadness that lingered between them was more than Rose could bear. She couldn’t stand to watch her mother and sister suffer through the memories, to carry such pain. She wanted to make them happy, to see them both smile once more.
Emilie called her the eternal optimist. Perhaps it was because she didn’t remember the atrocities at Grand Pré. She barely remembered Papa, save for the sound of his hearty laughter and the smell of apples about him. Maybe she couldn’t feel the pain like her sisters and mother because she hadn’t suffered as they had. But despite all their history, Rose believed life was what you made it, no matter what horrors befell you. She wasn’t about to linger in sadness or watch those she loved endure grief without her intervention.
“Shall I bring you pastries from the dinner tonight?” Rose asked the women. “The cook said there will be a five-course meal and plenty of food left over. Perhaps there will be chicken and we can make a rapure with our potatoes, just like in Acadie.”
Marianne brightened at the thought of their traditional dish, and Rose was glad the memories were now good ones. “That would be nice. Perhaps some of those red peppers as well. Your Spanish friend the cook was right about them livening up the food.”
“I’ll be sure and tell her,” Rose said digging through the pile of clothes Marianne had brought in from the line.
Marianne slapped her hand aside. “You will wrinkle everything and then you won’t look your best for the Commandant and his guests.” She pulled Rose’s bright stripped skirt, white shirt and blue vest from the pile and handed them to her. “Who is coming to this dinner anyway?”
Rose blanched at the question. She knew Piernas was entertaining Montfort Browne, the English governor of West Florida, who commanded the English territory from the other side of the Mississippi to the Atlantic Ocean, but hadn’t felt comfortable disclosing that information. Like Grand Pré and their father, Rose remembered little of the lobster backs who had patrolled her homeland and she didn’t fear them as the others did. She only wanted to help with the dinner, to assist Piernas and her new friend in the kitchen.
Rose also knew the other Acadians would insist on Rose acting the spy. She spoke a little English, learned from the Jesuit priests at Port Tobacco. It was only enough to conduct business in town; she was barely able to carry on a conversation past the price of butter. Better to keep quiet about the English, help serve the meal and inform the villagers later, Rose surmised.
“Military men,” Rose answered her mother. “I’ll tell you all about it tonight when I return home.”
Marianne accepted the explanation and began to brush Rose’s hair. Gabrielle, however, was not so easily placated.
“Watch out for blondes,” she whispered to her before grabbing the water pitchèr and heading for the outside well.
The spring sun slipped behind the ridge of cypress trees, casting an eerie glow through the moss blowing in the dusk breeze. Coleman felt his spirits dissolve as the sunlight slowly left the earth. How did Piernas manage to talk him into entertaining the stuffy English governor and his collection of career soldiers?
He had spent the afternoon watching the Spanish troops assemble for their guests, the artillery saluting the governor and his men and Piernas treating them all as royalty. Such pomp and protocol, such meticulous detail to honor. The two countries could destroy each other tomorrow, but by God today they would be civil and follow every formality and convention called for in such circumstances.
The games colonial nations played disgusted Coleman. Innocent people were always the victims; rich aristocrats and royals would forever rule the earth and divide the wealth of its people. He learned that lesson firsthand.
As he watched the governor and his entourage parade through the garrison’s courtyard, heading for the dining room where Coleman stood, Coleman imagined one could easily shoot the governor from his concealed place at the window. If the Spanish, or anybody for that matter, could adopt the fighting mannerisms of the Indians, they could defeat any enemy. The English fought in America like they always had in Europe: bright, colorful uniforms in wide open spaces, marching to the enemy in regulated lines like lambs to a slaughter. If the Indians could hide in trees and bushes, shooting the marching Red Coats like fish in a barrel, surely the Americans could do the same.
Coleman rubbed the back of his neck. What was he thinking? Such traitorous thoughts. Despite his wishes to free North America of the tyrannical colonial governments, he was still a subject of the English crown.
“So this is where you are hiding,” Piernas said, approaching him from the rear. Behind him Coleman saw the governor and his men helping themselves to Coleman’s rum in the fort’s rustic dining room.
“Getting some air,” Coleman answered.
“You could have gotten air in the courtyard with us.”
“That’s doubtful. Too much hot air in one small area.”
Piernas laughed, then frowned at his loss of control. Coleman knew the Spaniard shared his view of the English. “Why is it you feel more comfortable with me than your own kind?”
Coleman watched the stout English governor throw back a glass of his overpriced rum, then immediately refill his glass. “Because they are not my kind.”
Piernas stared hard and Coleman wished he had thought first before speaking. Piernas may be a friend, but he was still the commandant of the Spanish garrison, not exactly a man to confide in. “Someday I hope to learn your story,” he finally said.
“That would be a first,” Coleman said softly. Then with more authority, he added, “Unlike your guests, I don’t speak of myself.”
Piernas appeared as if he wanted to further the conversation, but something caught his eye and he smiled. Coleman knew his exile at the window was over and it was time to translate small talk over dinner. Instead, a young woman approached with a bottle of wine and glasses.
“Rose,” Piernas said when the petite woman reached
them.
When Rose looked up and met Coleman’s gaze, her face went pale and her brown eyes enlarged with fright. He knew his stocky build and blonde hair exposed him as English, but he hated her thinking he was the enemy simply because of his nationality. Rose recovered her initial shock and curtsied before the two men, but she continued to stare at Coleman in fear.
Piernas made an introduction of sorts to Rose in French. When Coleman heard his name mentioned, he bowed slightly toward the bright-eyed Acadian. “It is my pleasure, Madame.”
To his surprise, Rose smiled and a blush spread about her cheeks. She was rather charming, this angel of Piernas. Of medium height, ordinary brown hair and eyes and a curveless figure, Rose would hardly turn heads, yet she seemed to glow with an inner light that warmed him, made him comfortable to be in her presence. The freckles surrounding her nose and the dimples gracing her cheeks were additional endearing traits. Coleman found himself entranced.
“The word is mademoiselle,” Piernas corrected him in English.
The Spaniard had said something, but it took Coleman several seconds before he comprehended it. “I beg your pardon. It is my pleasure, mademoiselle,” he said with a more formal bow.
Rose’s dimples grew deeper and Coleman began to hope her distrust of him had ended. Her chestnut eyes glistened in the candlelight. “Do you speak English?” Coleman asked.
Rose frowned and stared down at her feet, clearly uncomfortable with the subject. “A little.”
“Do you speak French?” Piernas asked him.
Rose gazed up at him expectantly and for the first time in his life Coleman wanted nothing more than to be fluent in the language. Unfortunately, he refused to learn French at the same time he refused to help his father spy for England. “Sadly, no, I do not.”
“Well, this will be a short conversation,” Piernas said.
Rose handed Piernas and Coleman the glasses, then poured them each a glass of wine. Piernas moved to the governor and his men, announcing that he would like to propose a toast. Before Rose could move away, Coleman grabbed her free hand.
He didn’t know why he did it, the French were as far removed from his life as Mother England, and certainly Rose wouldn’t take kindly to an Englishman’s touch. But he had to make her trust him, let her know he was not to be feared.
“I am an American,” he said.
Surprisingly, Rose understood. As she gazed into his eyes, he felt a connection between them, an understanding.
“I am an Acadian,” she answered. In that moment before Rose left his side and retreated to the kitchen, Coleman felt a hopeful spark ignite in his heart, so long dead to emotions and joy since the death of his mother, the only brightness in his life.
Coleman joined the toasts at the opposite side of the room, lifting his glass to the Queen and His Excellency, Spanish Governor Antonio de Ulloa. But he swore that before the night was over, he would learn more about Piernas’s angel and how he could help reunite her family.
Emilie
Chapter Six
The early morning sunshine reflected on the endless puddles and streams of water filling the fields, making the scene so bright Emilie had to turn her head. Only hours before the cold wind had howled around the house and the rain fell like bullets on the roof. Now, a warmness filled the air, reminding Emilie of early summer at Grand Pré.
“Strange weather,” she muttered.
“What did you say?” Lorenz asked from his place behind the horse stall.
Emilie carried her egg basket laden with breakfast into the barn. Since their arrival several days before, she and Lorenz had made themselves useful. “I said it’s strange weather. I don’t like this place.”
Lorenz pitched the soiled hay from the horse stall, then placed his pitchfork on the ground and leaned into the handle, wiping his forehead with his sleeve. “So tell me something new.”
“There’s water everywhere. The ground is drowning.”
Lorenz laughed and grabbed his hat, placing it tightly on to his head. “There was water everywhere in Grand Pré or don’t you remember?”
Emilie grasped the basket’s handle with two hands and leaned back against the cow’s stall. “Of course I remember. But it wasn’t like this. It didn’t rain for days and turn everything into a swamp. We had diked our land. The water was manageable.”
Lorenz placed the pitch fork on to the side of the barn. “We had forty-foot tides and endless winters. Give me warm weather any day.”
Emilie placed the basket on the barn floor and accepted the extra milking stool Lorenz handed her. “You can’t be serious,” she said as she sat beside one cow and Lorenz began milking another. “You don’t really like Louisiana?”
“I saw a herd of deer this morning, Em,” he said as he effortlessly brought forth milk. There was little Lorenz could not do, and most everything he did, he did well.
“You were always a good hunter,” Emilie replied, struggling to get the milk flowing. “Besides, the rain probably brought them out.”
Lorenz laughed. “I saw wildlife everywhere. Wild turkeys, rabbits, even Canadian geese.”
Emilie stopped milking and turned. “You didn’t kill any, did you?”
Lorenz peered around the side of the cow. “Emilie, it’s been thirteen years.”
“What does that have to do with anything?” Lorenz stared hard and Emilie knew what he was thinking. He had always thought her ideas on relocating to Canada ludicrous. She lifted her chin definitely and then turned back toward her cow. “I don’t think it’s improbable to return to Nova Scotia. We’ve heard of others doing it.”
Lorenz sighed and returned to his work. “They went to New Brunswick, Montreal, Quebec, where the French are, not Nova Scotia. The English forcibly kicked us out of our homeland, chèr, I doubt they will ask us back.”
“You know what I mean,” she stubbornly continued.
“No, I don’t.”
Emilie squirted the milk into the pail a little too hard and the cow bellowed. “I want to go home,” she practically shouted.
The barn became quiet and Emilie looked over to find a pair of leather shoes at her side, topped by woolen stockings and a pair of britches tied at the knee, clothes her mother had lovingly made for Lorenz last spring. The thought of home, of her parents so long separated, of her sisters toiling at Natchez without her, brought tears to her eyes and Emilie looked up to Lorenz for support. He instantly took her hand, raised her and covered her in a tight embrace.
“Oh, ’ti monde,” he whispered as she fought back the tears. “This is our home now.”
Emilie enjoyed the feel of his large arms about her, then pulled away and walked to the barn door. She gazed out at the secluded farmhouse and the arpents of cleared land made fertile by the ritual overflowing of the river. The conclusion of rain had brought about a cacophony of music from songbirds and the land was littered with robins, birds Emilie had never seen before May. Despite the appearance of greenery and wildlife so early in the year and the sunlight warming her face, the flat, wet landscape failed to appeal to her.
She felt Lorenz’s arms about her again, and she captured his arms tightly. He felt good holding her close, like a lifesaver to cling to in a storm.
“Look at it, Em,” he said to her, his breath warm at her ear. “It’s beautiful.”
Emilie tried to see the charm of the land, what Lorenz kept describing as paradise, but it consistently reminded her that she would never return to Grand Pré.
“What is that gray stuff hanging from the trees?”
“Anna calls it barbe espagnole because it reminds her of the beards of the Spanish. They seem to be fond of facial hair.” Emilie laughed at the reference, feeling slightly better. “I think it’s some kind of moss.”
“And those trees.” Emilie pointed toward a grouping where the “Spanish moss” was especially thick. “I keep stumbling on their roots sticking out of the ground.”
“Cypress,” Lorenz said. “Those roots are the tre
e’s ‘knees.’ And if you would wear the moccasins Anna made for you instead of your wooden sabots you wouldn’t be stumbling.”
Emilie wiggled out of his embrace and turned. “It’s the only thing I have left of Grand Pré. I suppose the next thing you’ll want me to do is change my name.” At this remark, Lorenz brightened and a sly sparkle glistened in his eyes. “You know what I mean,” Emilie quickly added.
Lorenz captured a loose strand of her hair and placed it behind an ear, caressing her check with his thumb in the process. “We’ll never loose Grand Pré,” he said softly. “It lives within us. No matter where we go, Emilie, we’ll always have Grand Pré. Like you said to Mathias, we’ll always be Acadians.”
It sounded so simple. Head for Louisiana and start over. But it was all so different, this swampland filled with trees with knees covered in Spanish beards. And they had yet to be reunited with Papa.
“I wish it was that easy,” Emilie said, feeling the anxiety regarding her future wash over her again. She feared giving words to the thoughts that they might never find her father, that voicing such apprehension might make it come true.
“I know what you’re worried about.” Lorenz pulled her into his chest and kissed her forehead. “I’ve worried about not finding him, too.” He slid his large hands up her back and Emilie responded by wrapping her arms about his neck and savoring the comfort of his embrace. Leave it to Lorenz to read her thoughts.
“What will we do if Father’s not there?” she whispered, hoping the words wouldn’t cause an outbreak of emotion.
Lorenz hugged her so tight she could barely breathe, but Emilie didn’t care. “We’ll find him,” he said so confidently, Emilie shut her eyes and rested her head against the broad shoulder that had been her solace since the deportation.
They stood there for what seemed like an eternity until Lorenz pulled back slightly. “What are you washing with? You smell incredible.”
Emilie looked up into his raven eyes and found pleasure knowing she could produce such a seductive reaction in him. “Anna makes soap with herbs.”
Emilie (The Cajun Series Book 1) Page 8