Charles Despain was the mayor of New Orleans, and his wife, Margaret, was one of the social leaders in the city. The Fontaines had visited many times with the Despains in their home.
Despain removed his hat and bent over Aimee’s hand to kiss it. “We are an imposition, I fear.”
“Not at all. Come inside. My husband is not here, and I’m afraid he won’t be back until tomorrow.”
She turned to Margaret, who kissed her. Margaret Despain, an attractive woman in her late forties, had a real affection for Aimee. Hers was one of the true friendships that Aimee had formed since her arrival in Louisiana.
Now Aimee said, “Are you hungry? There is food ready.”
“No, first you must show us the grounds,” Margaret insisted.
When they had seen the outside, Aimee urged them to come in. “It is a little cold for March. Come inside to the fire.”
They entered the house, where they were served cafe au lait and pastries. “Our cook is a Cajun,” said Aimee, “and fixes the most fiery dishes you can imagine. She makes the best gumbo in the world.”
“‘In the world’ means New Orleans. I don’t think gumbo is enjoyed anywhere but Louisiana,” Despain said.
Aimee took them on a tour of the house, and the pair exclaimed many times over the exquisite furnishings.
“It feels so much like a home!” Margaret exclaimed. “Many grand houses seem more like museums, but this house has a comfortable feel about it.”
“I must confess I love it, Margaret. Too much, perhaps. It’s easy to learn to love things instead of God.”
Margaret laughed and put her hand on her husband’s arm. “I think you should preach a little of that doctrine to my husband. He’s stocking up with houses and land and money as if he were going to live forever.”
Despain laughed shortly. He was, indeed, a man who loved things, but he did not like to be reminded of it. “Well, I know I won’t be on this earth forever, but I intend to enjoy the time I have here. Now, show us some more of the house.”
The three ended their tour in the drawing room. It was a large room with deep burgundy rugs on the polished hardwood floors and velvet curtains of the same color pulled to one side at each of the floor-to-ceiling windows. The walls were papered with a flocked gold-and-burgundy paper and were decorated with numerous paintings of landscapes, all with gilded frames.
A large stone fireplace took up almost the whole wall at the far end; the grate and accessories were made of ornate wrought iron, and a large mantel above held tiny porcelain boxes and vases of all shapes and sizes. There were four high-backed chairs of red-and-ivory damask flanking the fireplace, and a large couch of ivory damask took its place among these. More of the same chairs were placed along the walls of the room, with highly polished mahogany tables and glass lanterns at the sides of some. A beautiful piano stood open with an array of music on its stand.
Despain said, “It’s a bit of a shame, isn’t it? I suppose you’ll be spending less time here when you go to your new town house.”
A silence came over the room, and the Despains saw distress in Aimee Fontaine’s eyes.
“A house in New Orleans?” Aimee said, a thickness coming to her throat. Suddenly the room was uncomfortable.
“My dear, you should not have said that!” Mrs. Despain said.
Mr. Despain flushed and stammered an apology. They had lunch and then quickly made their departure. No one spoke again of the house in town. As soon as they were in their carriage, however, and pulling away from Fontaine Maison, Margaret turned to her husband.
“You are a fool, Charles! Why did you have to mention the house?”
“I’m afraid you’re right, but I didn’t know it was a secret.”
“Well, it obviously was! Sometimes I wonder how you ever managed to get elected to any office. You’re the most tactless man who ever lived!”
Despain slumped down in his seat and pulled his hat down over his eyes while his wife continued to rebuke him. Finally he threw his hands up in a gesture of despair. “Well, how am I to know what to say and what not to say? I supposed that Cretien had told her about the house.”
“Well, he obviously hadn’t. He was planning a surprise.” Margaret shook her head. “I’m glad you didn’t mention seeing Cretien having dinner with that actress. What’s her name?”
“Nan Strickland.”
“She’s nothing but a harlot. If I ever hear of you running around with harlots, I’ll see to it that you’re sorry!”
“I’ve got no intention of running around with harlots, and you know it!” Charles protested. “And besides, you don’t know that Fontaine is guilty of anything—except indiscretion. He should know better than to be seen in public with a woman like that.”
“Oh, you mean it’s all right in private?”
“I give up. Have your own way.”
“I’m worried about the Fontaines, Charles. Cretien is gambling a lot, and sometimes he doesn’t go home for days.”
“It never pays to meddle in other people’s marriages. They have to take care of themselves. Let’s talk about something else.”
Cretien came back excited, full of plans for buying the property next door to their plantation. Aimee, on the other hand, was quiet. She ate practically nothing of the excellent dinner, and when they moved into the drawing room, where Robert served them coffee and small cakes, she sat before the fire without saying a word.
Cretien finally sat down and gave her an odd look. “What’s wrong, dear? You’ve hardly said a word.”
“The Despains came by today.”
“Yes, so you told me. I’m sorry I missed them.”
Aimee turned to face him. “Charles told me that you bought a house in New Orleans.” She saw something like guilt sweep across her husband’s face, but he quickly recovered.
“Blast the man! It was meant to be a surprise. A Christmas present for you.”
“A Christmas present? You’re buying me a house for Christmas?”
“Well, yes, and I’ve been dickering for months on the place.”
“But why do we want a house in New Orleans when we have Fontaine Maison?”
Cretien put his arms around his wife and drew her close. “For variety, sweet. I love this place as you do, but there’s so little to do here, especially in the winter. When we go to town we have to live in hotels, but now we can have the best of all worlds. It’s a small house, but so beautiful! Not like this place, of course, but comfortable. We can have guests there. We can go to the theater and then come home. You’ll love it.”
Aimee listened as Cretien spoke. While his plan pleased him, it only made her anxious. She knew that her husband was not suited to the life of the city. He had weaknesses that he would have been shocked to know that she had discerned.
But since the deed was done and impossible to avoid, Aimee made herself smile. “I’m sure I’ll love it, dear.”
Cretien was pleased. He kissed her and waltzed her around the room. “We’ll go tomorrow, Aimee. I can’t wait to show it to you! We’ll be able to move next month.”
Cretien’s eyes danced with excitement. Aimee knew he loved her, but she also knew that he was a selfish man. In her private moments, she had wondered many times if he had married her for her money.
Aimee again forced a smile and said, “I can’t wait to see it, Cretien. I’m sure it will be very beautiful.”
Chapter four
Aimee twisted so much in her chair that Elise exclaimed, “Madame, you are so jumpy! I cannot fix your hair.”
Aimee looked into the mirror and gave a smile of pure joy. “I’m sorry, Elise. I just can’t seem to keep still today.”
“You are very happy, madame. I am glad to see it.”
Indeed, Elise was glad to see her mistress in such good spirits. Thinking back over the past few months, when they had first taken up residence in the town house on Chartres Street in the French Quarter, the maid had noticed that Aimee was not happy. This had been a puzzle t
o Elise, for to her the city was exciting—not nearly so boring as the Fontaine Plantation had been. She had found many suitors here, but she was aware that her mistress longed for the life in the country. Now she continued to brush Aimee’s hair and said, “Why are you so happy, madame?”
“I just am,” Aimee said. She turned suddenly and said, “Oh, you may pick up my new dress at Monsieur Benet’s shop today, Elise. I don’t have the money for it. Just tell him to put it on our account.”
“Shall I go now?”
“Yes, but it’s cold and wet. Take the carriage.”
“I will not be long.”
As soon as Elise left her bedroom, Aimee rose and walked around the room. She seemed to be overflowing with energy, which was unusual enough, but there was a joy within her this day that she could not contain. Despite the dreary weather, she wanted to sing or run.
She opened a drawer and pulled out her journal from beneath some clothing. She had begun the journal when they had first come to the town house the previous August. Now she looked at the first entry:
August 18, 1812
The house is very nice. It has a fine courtyard and is close to the theater. Right down the street is the Ursuline Convent, and we are very close to Place d’Armes. We can go to the cathedral with no problem each Sunday. I wish I liked it more. Cretien is so excited, but I am already lonesome for the plantation.
She turned the page and saw the entry she had made a week later:
August 25, 1812
I wish I were back at Fontaine Maison!
Their lives had become a series of fashionable balls and masquerades. Almost every night there was a visit to some theatrical performance, where Aimee would join Cretien in one of the boxes with the Creole belles and their chaperones. Below the boxes were rows of seats for ladies. Many evenings they went to the dances, where the young men wore bright colors and boots with fancy stitching. Each carried a colichemarde, a sword cane wide near the hilt and tapering suddenly to a rapierlike blade.
The colichemarde was a popular weapon, and many duels were fought over little or nothing. One of Cretien’s young friends had prepared for a duel at St. Anthony’s Square, just behind the cathedral. There he fought with another young man and fortunately escaped with only a minor wound.
With true Gallic passion, New Orleans incited the pleasure- loving Creoles to entertainment, food, wine, luxury, and display. Page after page of the journal recorded Aimee’s visits to the Theatre d’Orleans with Cretien, and she smiled when she read her opinions.
October 2, 1812
The play was stupid and not well acted, but no one seemed to notice but me. I think the acting here is terrible, perhaps because the municipal council controls almost everything in the theatre. No one can put on a play without submitting a script of it to the mayor, and if he likes it, he fixes the day and the hour for the performance. If he doesn’t, it will not be put on. There’s even a fine for any actor or actress who fails to appear upon the stage at the exact time called for in his or her part. And they passed another act just recently that time between acts must not exceed fifteen minutes. It’s really a foolish sort of life. I enjoy the opera, but it is not something one wants to attend every night. Cretien, however, could go every night and never tire of it.
She turned another page, and this sentence caught her eye:
October 14, 1812
This life is not good for Cretien. It tempts him, and he cannot overcome his weakness.
Aimee stared at the entry, remembering how she had seen Cretien on the street in the company of an attractive woman. He had not seen her, and she had never rebuked him for it. But she had begged him to go back with her to the plantation, and he did—but only for a few days. He then left her there alone and went back to the city for two weeks. When he did come back, grieved and repentant, she had forgiven him. She always did.
Reading the record of the past months dimmed the glow in Aimee’s eyes. But suddenly she laughed with pure joy and began to write:
November 12, 1812
God has given us a miracle. I am with child! I am certain now that God has given us a miracle. We will have a child in May. I will tell Cretien this evening, and God willing, he will be as happy as I.
“You seem upset tonight, darling,” Cretien said later that very day. He was dressing to go out and turned to her when she did not speak at once. When he saw tears in her eyes, he rushed to her side. “What is it? Is something wrong? Have the servants displeased you?”
“No, I am only crying because I’m so happy.”
Cretien was puzzled. “Well, that’s wonderful. I know you’d rather be at the plantation, but I think you would be very lonely there now.”
“I don’t think I am ever going to be lonely again.” Aimee smiled suddenly and reached out. She pulled his head down and kissed him. “We are going to have a child, Cretien.”
Cretien Fontaine stared at his wife. During the first years of their marriage he had been anxious. But as the years had gone by and no child had come, he had concluded that Aimee was barren. Now he tried to assemble his thoughts. “Why, I can’t believe it! Are you certain?”
“Yes, I waited until I was sure before I told you. Now our lives will be so different. We will have a little one to think of.”
Cretien laughed. “That is true. Our lives will be better. We will have a son.”
“Perhaps it may be a girl.”
“No, it will be a boy. I feel it.” He put his arms around Aimee and held her gently, as if holding something very precious. “I am a selfish man,” he whispered, “but I will be a good father. You will see.”
Cretien paced the floor. He had kept a tight reign on himself during Aimee’s pregnancy, spending more time with her than ever before. The idea of having a son had grown more and more pleasing to him. He planned the boy’s childhood, the games he would play with him, his education. They would go to Europe together. They would be friends. He fixed the date in his mind—May 20, 1813—the day his firstborn son came into the world!
Six hours ago the doctor had come, and for most of that time Cretien had paced the floor. Now he heard the door open, and Doctor Franklin stepped out. “Well, your waiting is over. You may come in and see your wife and child.”
Cretien brushed by the doctor. When he saw Aimee lying with her face worn and haggard, he swallowed hard and then rushed to her side. Falling on his knees, he took her free hand and said, “My dear, are you all right?”
“Yes, I am fine.” Her voice was weak, but there was pride in her eyes.
“Here, let me hold my son,” Cretien said.
Doctor Franklin had come in behind him. “Oh, but you have a beautiful daughter, sir.”
Aimee was dazed with the pain of the ordeal, but at the doctor’s words she saw something change in Cretien’s expression. His eyes had been filled with joy, but he suddenly dropped his head as if to cover his emotion. Recovering quickly, he looked up and said, “Here, then. Let me hold my daughter.”
“I know you wanted a son, Cretien, but now God may give us one. He has given us this child.”
“What will you name her?” he said, holding the bundled child rather awkwardly.
“I have been singing in my heart ever since I knew she was coming. We will call her Chantel. She will be our song. Chantel Renee Fontaine.”
“It is a beautiful name, and she is a beautiful child.” Cretien handed the baby back, and now his disappointment was plain on his face. He had never been a man, Aimee knew, who could hide his emotions. She promised herself, We will have a son if God wills it. She held the child closely to her breast and, reaching out, took Cretien’s hand. “She will bring joy into our life.”
“I’m sure she will,” Cretien said. He got to his feet and released her hand. “You will soon feel better. I will take you back to Fontaine Maison.”
“Yes, Cretien. Please take me home.”
PART TWO
1822-1827
Chantel
Chapter
five
In November 1822, fall had come to the coast of Louisiana. The trees had shed their leaves and now held their naked arms to the sky, but at the end of the year, it seemed that heaven had decided to bless the land with a mild, springlike warmth. The creek that wound around the western edge of Fontaine Plantation was as rich and brown as the chocolate that nine-year-old Chantel loved to have in the evenings.
As she sat beside the creek attaching a piece of meat to the end of a thin string, a warming breeze came from the east and blew her carroty red hair back from her forehead. Once she looked up and grew very still, as a mother raccoon with five masked cubs came out of the woods and dabbled in the water no more than fifty feet away. She watched as the cubs played like puppies, splashing in the stream while their mother felt carefully for mussels or crawdads. When she captured one she would share it with the cubs, who fell over themselves to reach the delicacy.
For Chantel this was the best that life had to offer. She loved the out-of-doors, the animals, the birds, even the snakes and bugs that abounded in her homeland. Time spent in the house studying dull books was a torment to her, but once outside, the bayou, the streams, and the woods of pine that teemed with life of all sorts became her world.
Eventually the coons moved upstream around a bend, and Chantel lost sight of them. With a sigh she tossed the baited string out into the water. It sank slowly, and she wound the free end of the string around her forefinger, waiting for a bite.
As she sat there her mind was busily engaged and her eyes moved constantly, taking in the snowy white egrets that had lit in the field beyond the stream following the slow-moving cows. One of them suddenly flew up and perched on the neck of one of the larger cows. What is he doing up there? Chantel wondered. He must be picking bugs or something off of her back. She watched carefully and filed the scene in her memory, determined to ask Brutus why the egrets and the cattle got along so well.
Overhead the skies were a dark gray, and a rolling mass of dirty off-white clouds made their way along the western horizon. They looked like huge cotton bolls, and she entertained herself by deciding what they looked like. One, she decided, was a horse, another was like an elephant, and yet another, she decided, like the dragon in one of the picture books she had treasured since she was a small child.
The Exiles Page 3
