The Immortelles
Page 1
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 tiptoed 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 wa
s 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.
“There’s the shop I want. I saw that dress in the window the day before yesterday,” Damita said. “I’ve got to have it.”
Chantel had no choice but to follow, and they entered the shop. A woman stepped forward and asked, “May I help you ladies?” She was a tall woman, obviously of Creole blood, and she waited expectantly.
“I want to try on that dress in the window.”
“Oh, that is an exquisite dress! A little expensive, I’m afraid.”
Damita gave the woman an arrogant look. “I’ll try it on, and if it fits, I’ll buy it.”
“Certainement, mademoiselle.”
At the woman’s direction, Damita and Chantel walked back to a small fitting room. When the owner brought the dress, Chantel gasped. “It’s so—it’s so bright!”
The dress was indeed bright: an emerald green sheen with sequins around the neck, the sleeves, and the hem. As the store owner assisted Damita in putting on the dress, she exclaimed to Damita, “It might have been made for you! It’s a beautiful fit!”
Damita turned around and around, admiring herself. “What do you think, Chantel?”
“It’s a lovely dress, and it does just fit you.”
Damita studied herself in a mirror. The dress had a low-cut, square neckline with an inset of a gray, shimmering material encircling the neck and the tight-fitting sleeves that ended at the wrists in a small ruffle. Its empire waist let the fabric drape loosely to the floor, where embroidered and brocaded trim formed the hem.
“I have other dresses, if you would care to try them on.”
“No, I’ll take this one, and I’ll wear it. Wrap up my other dress, if you please.”
The dressmaker stared at her. “You have not asked the price.”
“My father will pay for it. Send the bill to him.”
“And who is your father?”
“Alfredo Madariaga.”
“Oh, you are Señor Madariaga’s daughter!” A pleased smile spread over the woman’s face. “You have made a wise choice. Are you certain you want to wear it now?”
“Yes, I am.”
Ten minutes later, the two girls emerged. Chantel’s face wore a worried expression. “Won’t your papa be shocked at the price of the dress?”
“He promised I could have a new dress for my birthday, and he said I could pick it out. I’m just saving him the trouble of going shopping with me. Chantel, he promised me something else too.”
“What is that?”
“He said I could have a maid of my very own.” Damita laughed at Chantel’s shocked expression. “Well, I need one. Monica can’t take care of Mother and me both, can she? So, Papa said I could have one.”
“Are you going to hire someone?”
“No, we’re going to buy one. That will be good economy in the long run. We’ll buy a young girl, one who will bring a high price when we decide to sell her.”
Chantel bit her lower lip thoughtfully, and then commented, “I never liked the idea of buying human beings.”
Damita stared at her friend. “What are you talking about?”
“It just doesn’t seem right, Damita, for one human being to own another one.”
“Of course it’s all right! They’re not like we are, Chantel. They’re inferior.”
This was, of course, the standard position of Southerners and some Northerners, too, at the time. Some in the country were beginning to protest. The Abolition movement was picking up steam, but, in New Orleans, an abolitionist would not last very long!
At Chantel’s silence, Damita said, “Come on. Let’s go get something to eat.”
“All right, but I didn’t bring much money.”
“I’ve got plenty.”
The two girls stepped quickly up the street. Damita was well aware of the glances she drew as they made their progress along the crowded walkways. She enjoyed the women’s glares. Many of them, she knew, envied her beauty and her figure. This amused her, and she met their glances with a self-satisfied smile.
She was also aware of the men, both young and old, who turned to watch her stroll by. Damita de Salvedo y Madariaga was accustomed to the admiration of men. In some respects, she had led a sheltered life, being confined in the convent classrooms, but she had also been able to participate in the social life of New Orleans. The Creole gentry had a world of its own there, and she had found it exciting to flirt with the dashing young men who sought her out eagerly at the balls and parties that took place regularly in the city.
Damita suddenly stopped. “There’s the auction!”
Chantel stopped and looked at the red-brick building to her right. Men were coming and going, but she saw no women. “I’ve never been in there,” she said nervously.
“Neither have I, but I’m going now.”
“Damita, we can’t go in there! Women never go unescorted into a place like that.”
“Well, I’m going. Papa said I could have a maid, and I want to see what’s available. Come along.”
Against her better judgment, Chantel accompanied Damita up the steps and entered through the door. She murmured, “I don’t like this, Damita.”
“We won’t stay long. I just want to look over what they have for sale.”
The main room of the auction was a large, spacious area with a high ceiling. Cigar smoke created a purple haze, and a hum of talk sounded as the prospective buyers mingled. They studied the black people who were up on a slightly raised platform.
Damita ran her eyes around the room, and for one moment, she was almost tempted to fall in with Chantel’s mood. It was somehow a place that deadened the spirit. Despite the loud talk and laughter of the buyers, the black men, women, and young people who lined the platform along the wall gave her a start. She was accustomed to slaves, of course; her father owned many who operated the family’s cotton plantation just outside of New Orleans. There were house slaves also, but Damita was used to them. Something was different about those who stood against the wall.
“Miss Madariaga, what a pleasure to see you.”
Damita turned to face Lewis Depard, a slender young man dressed in the latest fashion. Bright brown eyes shone from a friendly, olive-complected face. He bowed and said, “I don’t believe you’ve met my friend Philip Moreau. Philip, may I introduce you to Miss Damita Madariaga.”
“I am happy to know you,” Moreau said with a smile. He was a larger man than Lewis, somewhat overweight,
and well-dressed.
“This is my friend, Miss Fontaine.”
“A pleasure, Miss Fontaine,” the young man greeted her.
“Have you fought any duels today, Lewis?” Damita asked, arching her eyebrows.
“Not yet, but the day is young.”
“Mr. Depard is a famous duelist, Chantel,” Damita said. “If a man wears a coat that doesn’t suit him, he challenges him.”
“Oh, come now! It’s not that bad, Miss Madariaga.” Lewis Depard had indeed fought in two duels and had won both of them easily. He was an expert swordsman, as well as an expert shot with dueling pistols. Dueling was so common among the young Creole gentlemen of New Orleans that it had become something of a fine art. Men fought duels over the most inconsequential of affairs.
“Are you here to make a purchase, Miss Madariaga?” Lewis asked curiously.
“My father promised me a maid for my graduation. I thought I’d look over the wares.”
“There doesn’t seem to be much along that line,” Depard said, shrugging. “Except for a few strong-looking young slaves, this group happens to be pretty well picked over. Look, the auctioneer is starting the action. His name is Saul Lebeaux. He’s made a fortune selling slaves.”
Damita turned and watched with the others. The auctioneer, a short, muscular man wearing a dark brown suit, had stepped up beside an elderly dark woman. He said, “Now, then, we have a fine specimen here. This is Irene. She’s a clever house servant and an excellent cook.” He winked and added, “She does have one fault: she’s always pretending to be sick. Nothing wrong with her, I assure you. She’s healthy.”
“She doesn’t look well at all, does she?” Chantel whispered.
“But the man says she’s faking.”
“I don’t think so. She looks sick to me.”
Damita watched as several prospective buyers approached. One of them put his hand under the old woman’s chin and raised her head.
“Open your mouth,” he said, then looked inside. “Not many teeth left.”