In between sobs, Amanda remembered René’s image at the door and the haunting words her father had spoken. “But I have ruined your life.”
René laughed. “No, mon ange. My life has just begun.”
The sun began to set when the sobs finally gave in to fatigue. René held Amanda close as she slept, softly stroking the blonde curls from her forehead. When darkness settled around them like a soft quilt, René lifted Amanda into his arms and carried her to his bed. She slept peacefully now, but René couldn’t find the strength to leave. After what seemed like an eternity, René left his wife’s side and descended the stairs to try to make peace with his family.
A Cajun Dream
Chapter Four
The pungent aroma of coffee entered Amanda’s dreams, where she was again a small girl playing in the back yard of her New Orleans home. She could hear the kitchen servant singing Mon Cher Papa, a song they sang at birthday celebrations, and her mother joining in on the chorus, her distinct soprano voice rising above the others.
Her mother opened the back door and smiled down at Amanda, who immediately ran into her arms. When Amanda glanced up expecting to find her mother’s resplendent face and sublime smile, instead she found René gazing down at her. She then stood in the garden of her home on Main Street, and René peered at her from the street, his large planter’s hat blocking the morning sun. He spoke French to her, words she understood, but when she opened her mouth to answer the words refused to come.
It was then she woke up, remembering the house she now lived in and the man she married the day before. She could hear Colette downstairs scolding the children, who were laughing, yelling and running up the stairs.
Remember, she instructed herself, try to remember.
The bedroom door burst open and a tow-headed boy Amanda figured to be about six years old bolted inside. When he realized Amanda was awake and staring at him, his courage faltered and he froze halfway to the bed.
“Bonjour,” Amanda said cautiously.
The child instantly lost his nerve and ran out of the room as fast as he had entered. Colette threw him a stiff spank on the backside as he passed her on his way to the stairs.
Another child, this one about ten years old with curly auburn hair and deep brown eyes, peered around the corner, but Colette quickly dismissed him as well. Once Alcée’s door to the back balcony was closed, Colette moved to Amanda’s bedside, busily talking in French in what Amanda assumed was about the impertinence of young boys.
When Amanda heard the word “cafe” mentioned, however, she almost leaped out of bed.
“I haven’t had a decent cup of coffee in years,” she told Colette in English before she realized her mistake. She attempted to recant the sentence in French but failed miserably.
“Pardon,” Amanda said to the petite woman. “Ma francais est trés mal.”
Colette immediately brightened at Amanda’s admittance to not knowing French well. “The sky is blue,” she answered in English slowly and with pride.
Amanda smiled politely, but inwardly wondered how the two women were going to communicate. Force yourself to remember, she scolded herself. It had seemed so natural in her dream. The words had made perfect sense.
Colette grasped Amanda’s arm good-naturedly and led her to the nearby dresser where a pitcher of water was placed. After she pointed to the pitcher, Amanda knew that Colette had brought her up some fresh water from the well so she could wash.
“Merci,” she told the polite woman.
Colette quickly moved to the door leading to the back balcony and pointed to a large object waiting there. When Amanda moved closer, she learned it was her trunk of clothes sent over by Virginia.
“Merci,” she said again, this time with added enthusiasm.
Colette nodded and began to push the massive trunk into her room. Amanda joined in and within a few minutes the two petite women managed to maneuver it to the foot of the bed.
Again Colette mentioned something about coffee and headed for the back stairs. The enticement of a cup of tangy, strong Louisiana coffee was too great. Amanda couldn’t dress fast enough. Besides, she was enormously hungry.
When she entered the downstairs dining room, Alcée was seated at the table’s head enjoying a plate of oranges, bread and what looked like a large cup of black coffee. He appeared to be about the same age as René, possibly a few years older, with little family resemblance, except for his deep brown eyes. Alcée didn’t match René in height, either, and his hair was much darker, his countenance more chiseled and defined. Yet, Amanda sensed that Alcée, like his nephew, embraced a fondness for living, a joie de vivre that sparkled in his eyes when he smiled.
Unfortunately, Amanda had yet to see Alcée in a good mood.
“Good morning,” he announced sternly.
“Bonjour,” Amanda answered.
Alcée gazed up at her attempt at French, but eyed her suspiciously. “You don’t speak French, do you?”
“I haven’t in quite some time.” She wondered if she should sit down on her own or wait for him to invite her to dine with him. Alcée seemed to read her mind and briefly stood while motioning for her to sit at his right.
“May I have a cup of coffee?” she asked meekly.
“Bien sur,” Alcée answered, then quickly added in English, “Of course.” He called to Colette who arrived smiling with a fresh pot, plus an overabundance of fruit and bread.
“René leaves early to attend to the horses at sunrise,” Alcée explained. “We tend to the farm and have our breakfast here at the house.”
“When does René eat?” Amanda asked, breaking off a piece of the baguette before her.
Alcée laughed. “He doesn’t.”
“But that’s awful. Every man should have a good breakfast prepared for him.”
Amanda wondered if she had insulted Alcée, for he sent her a discerning look. “What did you mean it’s been a long time?”
Amanda gazed at the black liquid Colette was pouring in front of her and wondered if there was sugar available. She developed a taste for coffee as an adolescent, but it had been diluted with dollops of cream and locally grown sugar. “I spoke French as a child.”
Alcée leaned back in his chair and grabbed a sugar bowl from a nearby buffet. He handed it to Amanda who smiled her thanks. “In New Orleans?”
“Yes, I grew up in New Orleans.” Amanda grimaced at the memories so long hidden inside her. “My father was an intermediary between the French and American business communities.”
“I had heard that, but I didn’t believe it.” Alcée slid the creamer in her direction.
“Why not?”
“Because he is not what I’d call friendly to cultures other than his own.”
Amanda stirred in three teaspoons of sugar, despite Alcée’s frown when she did so, then tentatively took a sip. The strong, hot coffee was every bit as wonderful as Amanda had remembered. She sighed and settled back into her chair. “My father has become rancorous over the years, but it has nothing to do with the French really. He’s suffering from a broken heart.”
Alcée put his cup down on the table and stared at her intently. “A broken heart?”
Amanda tried to think of the words in French, but stumbled through an English explanation instead. “He was in love, but then...”
“I know what a broken heart is,” Alcée answered impatiently. “Why is he suffering from one?”
“I’m sorry. I wasn’t sure you understood the metaphor.” Apparently even a good night’s sleep hadn’t softened the chasm between René and his family.
“My mother was a famous opera singer,” she began. “She was extremely popular on both sides of the Atlantic. People came from miles around to see her perform. In New Orleans, she played at all the important theaters.”
Amanda stared at her hands thoughtfully. “She was also breathtakingly beautiful.”
When she paused, Alcée leaned forward. “Go on.”
“She quit singing to marry my father and
rear me, but she must have missed the stage very much.” The vision of her mother briskly walking out the front door that cold, winter day returned and Amanda felt as if the air had left her lungs. “She left us to join the French Opera Company, and it was rumored for another man, a Frenchman. Since then, my father would have nothing to do with the French. We left New Orleans for Franklin and he forbade us to speak French, speak of my mother or have anything in the house that reminded him of her. Even our French-speaking servants were dismissed. My housekeeper of the last ten years is Irish, and I have not been allowed to associate with the French families of Franklin.”
Amanda turned toward Alcée, softly placing a hand on his arm. “But you must believe me, it has nothing to do with René or your family. He can’t stand the thought of anything or anyone who will remind him of her. He adored my mother. He was devastated when she ran away. He was equally distraught when he learned of her death two years ago.”
Alcée’s brows bent together and he whispered, “My God, Genevieve Vanier?”
It was the first time in years Amanda had heard her mother’s name spoken aloud. She bolted upright in her chair and tears filled her eyes. “You knew my mother?”
Alcée placed his right hand passionately over his heart. “Only in my dreams. I saw her perform in St. Martinville when I was twenty-one.” He sighed. “Words cannot express how I felt watching her play Aida. She was magnificent — a diva. I could not speak for three days.”
Amanda had heard all this before, about the men who cried when her mother sang and the ones who refused to leave their front doorstep in New Orleans when her mother simply smiled at them on the street. But since her departure ten years before, she had begun to doubt the truth of those tales. It surprised her how disappointed she felt now. Alcée’s admittance reminded Amanda that she was a pale comparison to her mother.
“She was quite a beauty,” Amanda said softly.
“Beauty is such a meek word,” Alcée answered. “She was formidable.”
Amanda focused on finishing her coffee, hoping the conversation would end. The older she became, the more she despised the glowing remarks of her mother’s unlimited beauty.
“You don’t resemble her,” Alcée said, breaking the silence.
“No,” Amanda answered quietly, the familiar pain lurking at her heart.
This time it was Alcée who placed a hand on her sleeve. “Mon dieu. I certainly didn’t mean...”
Amanda tried to act nonchalant. “It’s all right. I’m well aware of my shortcomings.”
“No, my dear,” Alcée said sternly, like an older brother teaching his younger sister an important lesson about life. “Your mother was a beauty, that’s a fact, but you must not compare yourself with her. Your beauty comes from the heart. René had said your smile could touch a man’s soul, but I had merely thought it was a young man in love talking. Now that I have met you, I agree. Your mother may have had physical attributes you do not possess, but she certainly lacked your sweetness.”
Before Amanda could fully digest his words, Colette entered, giving Alcée instructions in French. “Forgive me,” he said, rising. “I must go. I have some important business to tend to in town.”
“Of course,” Amanda answered.
“If René doesn’t make it back for lunch, then he will be here by dinnertime.”
As Alcée grabbed his hat and headed outside, Amanda sat mesmerized while she sipped the final remnants of her treasured coffee. Thoughts of her mother vanished, replaced by the words “a young man in love.”
It didn’t take Amanda much time before realizing her presence at the house did not cause much of a disruption. The boys played their usual games by the side of the house, every few minutes demanding something or other from Colette, who quickly shooed them out of her way. The oldest son, T-Emile, a timid seventeen-year-old who looked remarkably like Colette, performed his chores quietly, leaving every once and a while to help out at the racetrack. Pierre, the youngest, demanded to be with the other boys at all times, whining and crying whenever they disappeared from his view. Alexandre, whose corkscrew locks must be the envy of all his female classmates at school, Amanda thought, was the typical middle child. He admonished Pierre for following him everywhere, then traced after T-Emile at every possible chance.
All three argued incessantly, much to the constant chagrin of their mother. Colette seemed to always be involved in some sort of argument. From what Amanda could assess, Colette would order the children to perform some task or chore, then spend a good ten minutes arguing with them over why they had to do it. After several explanations, Colette would raise her hands in defeat and do the project herself or grab one of the two youngest and land a good spank on his behind.
Amanda approached Colette and offered her services, but Colette vehemently refused. Amanda began clearing the dishes from the morning breakfast, only to have Colette grab them from her hands and push her away from the washtub. When Amanda spotted Colette washing clothes over a fire at the back of the house, she again offered to help but Colette would hear none of it. “I must help. You must let me help out somewhere.”
Colette shook her head sternly and continued stirring the collection of dirty clothes in the massive pot. “Non, merci,” was all she would say.
Not knowing what else to do with her time, Amanda decided to tour the house. The sturdy two-story farmhouse was built of cypress, brick and bousillage construction. Amanda had heard how early Acadians mixed mud with Spanish moss to create this unique insulating material for external walls.
The first and second stories mirrored one another, each containing four square-shaped rooms separated by a common wall and fireplace. The second floor housed equal bedrooms for Colette, Alcée, René and now Amanda. The three boys lived in the garconnière, a finished space in the house’s attic built specifically for adolescent boys. The area was connected to the second floor by a center, hidden staircase. Pierre and Alexandre seemed too young for the upper floor, but Amanda sensed they had followed T-Emile there and Colette welcomed the peace it offered.
There was a wide gallery across the front and back of the house, one for each story. The only way to access one side of the house from the other was by walking through the outside covered galleries. Access to the second floor was by the back gallery staircase. As was tradition, staircases were built outside the house to allow more space inside.
The right two rooms of the bottom floor were used as a dining room and work area. A massive, rough carved cypress table and matching buffet filled the dining room, while the workroom offered no pretense of formality; there were wash tubs, tools, and horse and farming equipment stored in every corner.
The left side was kept open so both rooms could be used simultaneously as the living area. This part of the house was Amanda’s favorite. Mahogany furniture, a settee and comfortable chairs were arranged in a semi-circle around the fireplace as if the chimney was designated as a theatrical stage. Along one wall of the front living room, the room that opened to the house’s front gallery, stood an enormous cypress bookshelf filled with a wide variety of books, family mementos and two violins.
The house’s most redeeming feature, Amanda noticed, was the wide windows in every room accented by delicate white lace curtains. The windows remained opened at all times, allowing a cross ventilation of air throughout the house. The slight breeze brought little relief from the stifling August heat, but the house appeared ten times airier and brighter than Amanda’s more formal home in town where every window was covered by sixty-five yards of heavy drapes.
Amanda chose a book of poetry by Voltaire and sat down on the settee. She tried to concentrate on the words and to decipher their foreign meaning, but her thoughts kept racing elsewhere. What was she doing here, she thought, in this strange man’s house, in a culture she knew nothing about? How did she manage to get in such a pickle when all she wanted was a little romance?
Images of Henry Tanner entered her mind and she shuddered involuntarily.
“Stupid girl,” she admonished herself aloud. “How could you have been so utterly stupid?”
Before the darkness could settle around her heart again, a pair of giggles arose from the outside gallery. Glancing around the corner of the room, Amanda made out two sets of feet peering from beneath the wide cypress door. She heard the mention of loup garou in a voice trying to appear scary, then another round of giggles. Amanda recognized the word from her youth. It was French for werewolf.
The voices resumed, this time louder and scarier. The boys were getting braver, and were possibly planning a charge through the room in an effort to frighten Amanda. When Alexandre leaned toward the threshold, looking like he would dart through the room, Amanda jumped round the corner and landed on the gallery’s stone floor with a cry. The boys screamed in surprise and took off toward the other side of the house.
Amanda followed them through the dining room but found no one under the table or buffet. The workroom seemed deserted as well except for the brownish blond curls poking up over the back of a trunk. Amanda slowly worked her way to that side of the room, then quickly plucked the boy out of his hiding place.
Pierre screamed again and began to fight, his arms and legs flailing. Amanda held him close to her side, whispering what little phrases she remembered in French about eating young boys for lunch. Alexandre soon appeared, but instantly assessed the situation. He began to laugh, then act scared as he followed Amanda’s lead.
“Let me go, let me go,” the young boy cried, but Amanda refused to let him down. When tears began to fall, Amanda let him run into the arms of his older brother, who continued to laugh at his expense.
“I’m sorry,” Amanda said in the best French she could retrieve. “I was only joking.”
Pierre cautiously peeked around his brother’s side, wondering if the blond loup garou would eat him after all.
“She’s not going to hurt you,” Alexandre said. “Now, get away from me.” Alexandre pushed the young boy backwards, releasing his hold on his waist, then headed for the back yard. Stopping to look nonchalantly over his shoulder, he asked Amanda, “Aren’t you coming?”
A Cajun Dream (The Cajun Series Book 5) Page 6
