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.”
The
Alchemy
The
Alchemy
Gilbert Morris
&
Lynn Morris
Copyright © 2004 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 Thomas Nelson, Inc.
Scripture taken 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.
Library of Congress-in-Publication Data
Morris, Gilbert.
The alchemy / Gilbert Morris & Lynn Morris.
p. cm.—(The Creoles series ; bk. 3)
ISBN 0-7852-7004-3 (pbk.)
1. Women—Louisiana—Fiction. 2. New Orleans (La.)—Fiction. 3.
Creoles—Fiction. I. Morris, Lynn. II. Title.
>
PS3563.08742A77 2004
813'.54—dc22
2004009468
Printed in the United States of America
04 05 06 07 08 PHX 5 4 3 2 1
To John Clark,
my beloved brother in the Lord.
Table of Contents
The Creole Heritage
PART ONE • 1832–1837 •
Chapter one
Chapter two
Chapter three
Chapter four
Chapter five
Chapter six
PART TWO • 1838 •
Chapter seven
Chapter eight
Chapter nine
Chapter ten
Chapter eleven
PART THREE • 1838 •
Chapter twelve
Chapter thirteen
Chapter fourteen
Chapter fifteen
Chapter sixteen
Chapter seventeen
Chapter eighteen
PART FOUR • 1838 •
Chapter nineteen
Chapter twenty
Chapter twenty-one
Chapter twenty-two
Chapter twenty-three
Chapter twenty-four
Chapter twenty-five
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 gens 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 ocotoroons 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
• 1832–1837 •
Colin
Chapter one
The Marquis Armand de Cuvier, Lord Beaufort, leaned forward with a sense of satisfaction as he touched the tip of his quill to the white parchment. Quickly the musical notes seemed to flow from his heart (which the marquis felt was the real producer of music!), and some-thing close to rapture touched the composer. He continued to write as rapidly as possible, for he had discovered that when he composed his scores, when the inspiration flowed, nothing must be allowed to interfere.
The sun threw golden beams through the window to the marquis’ right hand, and the warm breezes of May caressed him, stirring his hair gently. Spring had come to France in the year of 1832 almost in a bound, it seemed, bringing out the greenery and causing the flowers to burst in small explosions of color. Even now, as the marquis con-tinued to cover the parchment with musical notes, he was conscious of a sense of well-being.
The composition had not gone well for some time, and Lord Beaufort had lost sleep over it for weeks. Ordinarily the marquis was a gentle man, soft-spoken, with a ready smile, but when whatever demon it is that clogs up the inspiration in the mind of the com-poser gripped him, he became short-tempered and hard to live with. His beloved wife, Jeanne, had learned to recognize those times and managed to keep him from the more violent outbursts. The servants also had learned to recognize the marquis’ uncreative periods and walked softly around him during those days.
An ormolu clock beat out a rhythm like soft heartbeats, and once, as the marquis scribbled furiously, from a lower story came the sound of a clock tolling off one—two—three, sprinkling the hours all through the house. The marquis paid no attention to it. When he was composing, he had the gift of closing himself off to almost anything.
A loud, angry voice from outside his window sounded suddenly, the violence of it breaking into the composer’s inspiration. “Cannot I have even a moment’s peace?” he cried aloud.
Anger swept through Lord Beaufort, and with a violent gesture, he flung the quill down and saw a blob of ink obliterate his last few nota-tions. He leaped up, knocking his chair over backwards. It fell with a crash as he moved quickly to the window. At forty-six, Armand de Cuvier was an active man of medium height with wavy brown hair and eyes that were ordinarily warm. Just now, however, they seemed to flash, sending off flecks of light. Leaning over the window and look-ing down, he saw his gardener, Philippe, a huge man of forty, grasp-ing a stranger by the arm. Philippe was shouting something, and the young man he held was trying to respond.
Suddenly Philippe’s massive arm moved, and his fist caught the visitor high on the forehead. He fell backwards as if poleaxed and lay without moving.
“What in the world is going on down there, Philippe?”
“This fellow insists on seeing you, my lord. He would not take no for an answer.”
“Well, I think you’ve killed the fellow. I’ll be right down.”
The marquis hurried out of the room, stepping lightly down the stairs, through the hallway, and outside. He walked quickly to where Philippe was picking up the young fellow.
“Now, what’s all this about?”
The young man Philippe gripped tightly by the arms was six feet tall but not strongly built like the gardener. His eyes were focused, at least, and the marquis saw that they were of a brilliant, cornflower blue. His hat had been knocked off, revealing thick hair of an auburn tint that caught the sun. He had a wedge-shaped face, a wide mouth, and his eyes were deep-set. When he saw the marquis, he tried to bow, but Philippe held him tightly. “Monsieur, I am Colin Seymour.” Then he tried to speak in French, but it was so pitiful that the marquis could not understand much of it.
The marquis asked, “You are English?”
“Yes, sir,” Seymour said at once. “I’m sorry I don’t speak French.”
“It doesn’t matter,” Armand said. “What do you want here?”
“I’ll tell you what he wants,” Philippe broke in. He shook the young man, saying, “He broke into the barn, and he’s stolen some food.”
“Is that right?”
“I did sleep in the barn, but I didn’t steal any food.”
“He’s a liar!” Philippe said roughly. “He’s a tramp. Look at him.”
Indeed, Colin Seymour was dressed in clothing that would have done dishonor to a tramp. He wore a pair of brown britches that were patched on both knees and in the seat, and the stockings that enclosed his lower legs were more runs and holes than cloth. His shirt had at one time been white but now was filthy, and the light-greenish jacket looked as if it were covered with mold. His hair was untrimmed, and his unshaven face was grimy. He was thin and had a lean and hungry look about him.
“What do you want here?” the marquis demanded.
“I was just—”
“He wanted to steal something,” Philippe said loudly. “That’s all these tramps want.”
“I expect you’re right. Hang onto him and have Merle go get the sheriff.”
“Please, sir, I really am not a thief!”
“Shut your mouth!” Philippe said, shaking the young man like a rat. “You’re going to jail where you
belong.”
At that moment the front door of the house opened, and Jeanne de Cuvier, Lady Beaufort, stepped outside and approached the trio. She was a small woman, well shaped, in her late thirties. Her hair was light with a trace of gold in it, and her eyes were hazel flecked with blue.
“What is this, Armand?”
“Oh, just a petty thief, my dear. Don’t trouble yourself about it. Philippe, take him now, and hold him until Merle gets back with the sheriff.”
“Just a minute, Philippe.” Madam de Cuvier had her eyes fixed on the young man’s features. “He doesn’t look very dangerous to me.”
“You don’t know these tramps, my lady,” Philippe grunted. “He’d slit your throat in a minute if he had the chance.”
“What is your name, young man?”
“My name is Colin Seymour, Madam.”
“And you are English?”
“I am American.”
“That is even worse,” Philippe snarled, tightening his grip. “Every-one knows the Yankees are nothing but a bunch of killers.”
“Please go inside, my dear,” Armand said with concern. “In your condition, you don’t need this excitement.”
“Just a minute, Armand. Let me talk with him.”
Armand threw up his hands. “That will be the end of it, I sup-pose. You take in every broken-winged bird until I can’t get in the house, but this fellow is not a crippled animal. He could be danger-ous, as Philippe says.”
“How long have you been in France, Colin?”
Young Seymour attempted to smile. “About two weeks. I was picked up by the police and put in jail.”
“You see!” Philippe exclaimed triumphantly. “He’s a criminal!”
“I had done nothing and committed no crime—unless having no money is a crime in France.”
“You’re bleeding,” Jeanne said. Indeed, Philippe’s massive fist had opened a cut over the young man’s left eyebrow. The blood was trickling down, and Jeanne said, “Bring him inside. That must be attended to.”
The Creole Historical Romance 4-In-1 Bundle Page 53
