The smells that came to her were no less interesting than the sights. The thick smell of the stream and the fresh scent of pines loaded with turpentine came on the breeze. There was also an odor of burning wood that made her look, but she saw no sign of smoke. The brown stream purled at her feet, making a soft, sibilant sound where it broke over the banks, and she sat there, content.
Suddenly the string in her hand moved slightly, and Chantel reached out with her free hand and gave it a tug. Finding some resistance, she pulled the string in slowly and carefully. Finally, when she saw a large crawdad at the end, she said, “Got you!” She caught the crawdad with two fingers. He wiggled as she pulled him free, but she held him high, laughing.
“You can kick all you want to, Mr. Crawdad, but you’re going to be supper for me! Now, you get in there with your brothers and sisters.” She dropped it into a bucket and glanced in at her catch. The bucket was almost a quarter full, and she could hear the scrapings of tiny feet and faint clickings of claws as they frantically tried to escape. “Sorry, but that’s what God made you for, to be our supper.”
Chantel stood up and stretched. She was wearing a faded dark-blue dress that came to her knees, and an old coat that she had a fondness for. It was two years old, and she had grown so rapidly that the cuffs struck her six inches above her wrists. She wore black stockings, and her black leather shoes were worn and muddy. Beside her on the bank lay a straw hat with a frayed brim.
As she stretched higher, her body seemed no thicker than one of the reeds that grew along the banks of the river. Her feet and hands were very thin and delicate. No one had ever called Chantel Fontaine beautiful, for her mouth was very wide and her prominent cheekbones seemed to give her face a fullness that did not match her body. She had good teeth, but her best feature was her perfect complexion: smooth and very fair.
Baiting her string again, Chantel tossed it out into the water, then tied the free end around the bail of the bucket. She moved up and down the banks looking for signs of turtles and was delighted when a large fish came up, struck at something, and then disappeared about ten feet out from the bank. “I’ll catch you, Mrs. Fish! You wait and see if I don’t. Brutus and I will come back and catch you on a trotline.”
She began to sing a song as she moved up and down the bank. Chantel sang a great deal, giving her name credence, and her voice, though thin, was clear and true.
Chantel saw a long, thin stick on the ground and picked it up. She held it for a moment, then grasped the thicker end and held it out as if it were a sword. She began moving back and forth as if parrying the blows of an opponent, muttering under her breath, “Take that, you villain! Oh, you would, would you? Don’t think you’re going to get away!”
She darted back and forth, turning and wheeling and crying out to her imaginary villainous opponent. Then she suddenly dropped the sword and fell down in a heap. She looked up piteously and held her hand out. “Oh, kind sir, spare me! I am a poor, helpless girl and have no friends!”
Then Chantel was on her feet and became the man, speaking in as deep a voice as possible. She bowed and said, “Do not fear, mademoiselle, I am Captain Fontaine, and I will save you from the villain that would harm you. Here, let me carry you to safety.” She bent over and pretended to pick up a form and moved away.
Her game went on for some time as she played many roles in the drama that was birthed in her head. Chantel spent so much time alone that making up games had become her chief entertainment. There were other children in the area, to be sure, but most of those who lived close enough to her home to visit were either older or younger. So she had become a solitary child, creating imaginary worlds.
Forgotten were the crawdads and the string, which began to pull from one side to another as Chantel moved, speaking lines, peopling the open space beside the stream with unseen companions. She had just finished a speech when a voice from behind startled her.
“What are you doing here, girl?”
Chantel whirled, and her face reddened, for her father stood there watching her. As always, he was finely dressed; today he wore a pair of gray trousers strapped under his feet and a gray cloth coat with a black fur collar. A fur cap on his head covered his chestnut hair. There was censure in his eyes, and he shook his head. “Your mama has been worried about you. Why do you run away without telling us where you’ve gone?”
“I’m—I’m sorry, Papa.” Chantel dropped her head, unable to meet his eyes. She drew a figure in the dirt with the toe of her shoe, then managed to look up. She hated to displease her father, but she saw that his lips were turned down and his brow knit with a frown. “I will not do it again.”
“If you would study your schoolbooks as hard as you play, it would be well.”
Chantel had no answer for that, and he had warned her before about her laziness in the classroom. Desperately she tried to find something to say, but this was not unusual when she tried to speak to her father. At times he was happy and showered her with affection, but this would be followed by long periods when he seemed to forget that he had a daughter. Chantel lived for those times when he would come and pick her up and throw her in the air, and then give her a hug and a kiss, or when he would play games with her in the parlor or read to her the stories from a book.
“Come along. It’s late. You’ll have to tell your mother you’re sorry.”
“Yes, Papa.”
Chantel scrambled to get her crawdads, not forgetting to pull in the one that was on the end of her line. As she tossed it into the bucket, Cretien shook his head, his face cloudy. “You are absolutely filthy, girl! And you’re dressed like the daughter of a slave.”
“I didn’t want to get good clothes dirty when I came for the crawdads, Papa.”
“Fishing for crawdads indeed! You should be learning to draw or do embroidery like a lady.”
Chantel picked up the bucket, her face red. Silently she trudged beside her father, who said not another word to her all the way to the house. Finally he spoke. “Get rid of those things and get cleaned up.”
“Yes, Papa.”
Running around the house with the crawdads thumping in the bucket, Chantel flew into the kitchen and slammed the door behind her. She ran up at once to Clarice Debeau, the cook. “I’ve caught lots of crawdads, Clarice.”
“Look at you!” Clarice said. She was a thickset woman of thirty-five, short and strong, and had a real affection for the daughter of the house. “You’re so dirty!”
“I’m going to wash right now. Could we have étouffée tonight?”
“It’s too late for that. Maybe tomorrow.”
“All right, Clarice.” Chantel spun about and left the kitchen. She ran upstairs to her own room, breaking in like a whirlwind. Chantel loved her room, and for one moment she stood still and let her eyes run over the mahogany canopy bed, with its pink and white lace coverings, the brilliant white curtains held back with pink lace ties, the delicately carved rocking chair holding porcelain dolls in frilly dresses, and the dark burgundy rug in the center of the room. On the other side of the room she took in the small desk with bookcases on both sides filled with colorful leather-bound books that she had not yet read, the shelves with delicate figurines of dancers in all poses, and the pictures of beautiful faraway places on the walls.
She took off her jacket and the worn dress, and going to the washstand she poured water from a flowered pitcher into an enamel basin. She splashed her face quickly and washed her hands, then dried off on a thick towel.
Wheeling, she ran to the large walnut armoire, pulled it open, and yanked out a dress. Quickly she pulled it over her head and then went to the mirror and began trying to do something with her hair. Because it was red, she endured much teasing from other children. Adults always remarked on it, too, and seemed compelled to pat her on the head. More than once she’d had to restrain an impulse to keep from doing something shocking—like spitting on them or slapping their hands away. Determinedly she picked up a brush and comb and tried to
get some of the tangles out of it. Her eyes watered as she yanked at it, pulling at her scalp.
The door opened, and Elise came flying in. “You’re late!” she exclaimed. “Here, let me do your hair.”
Willingly Chantel surrendered the brush and comb to the maid and sat there while her hair was put into some sort of shape. “I caught enough crawdads to make étouffée, Elise. You can have some tomorrow.”
“And your father had to go looking for you. He was upset.” Elise took a few more swipes at the hair, tied it up efficiently with a ribbon from the table, and said, “Now, go quickly.”
“Yes, Elise.”
Chantel left her room at a run and dashed down the stairs. Then she slowed to a stop and managed to walk in with some appearance of grace.
The dining room she entered was beautiful indeed. It was a very large room with embossed wallpaper in gold. Each wall, it seemed, had innumerable pictures and mirrors with carved, gilded frames. The ceiling was very high, with heavily carved cornices, and was painted a brilliant white, and there was a beautiful marble fireplace with its mantle holding porcelain figurines of all sorts. A brass and crystal chandelier with etched glass globes hung over the highly polished table, set now with the best of china, crystal, and silver. The delicately carved chairs had seats upholstered in a white fabric with bold red- and pink-colored roses. The floor was covered with a deep crimson carpet, red silk draperies fell over lace curtains at the floor-length windows, and the oversized sideboard displayed crystal and china of different sizes and shapes.
Aimee smiled and said, “Come in and sit down. Clarice has made us a very good dinner.”
“Yes, Mama.” Chantel took her seat and waited until Robert and Clarice came in with the food. It was one of her favorite dishes: chicken creole, with its spicy red gravy, rice, corn bread, and stewed okra with tomatoes.
Aimee said, “My, you’re getting sunburned.”
“Yes, and that’s not good,” Cretien said. He paused with his fork halfway to his mouth and shook his head with disfavor. “A lady should have a nice white complexion. You’re going to be as black as Brutus if you don’t stay out of that sun, child.”
“Oh, I don’t think it’s going to ruin her complexion,” Aimee said quickly.
Cretien argued the point and then, as he saw Chantel eating rapidly, he said sharply, “Don’t gobble your food down! You’re eating like a pig.”
Again Aimee interposed. “She has such a good appetite. Being outside gives it to her, I suppose, and that’s a good thing.”
“Well, she eats enough. I don’t see why she can’t gain weight. She looks like a stick.”
Chantel’s face turned pale at her father’s thoughtless words. Her mirror told her that she was not beautiful, and children called her “bird legs” and other cruel names.
“What did you do all afternoon, dear?” Aimee asked.
“I just went out in the woods. I caught some crawdads. Clarice said we could have étouffée tomorrow.”
“That’s nice. It’s one of my favorite dishes.”
The conversation moved in a more pleasant direction, and eventually Cretien’s mood softened. With a smile he said, “I think our daughter is going to be an actress when she grows up.”
Aimee was surprised. “Why do you say that, dear?”
“Because when I found her, she was acting out a play. Quite well, too. She was doing all the parts. Had a sword fight and a love scene and a dying scene. It was like being at the theater in New Orleans.” He laughed and shook his head. “It was a very good performance, Chantel. I enjoyed it.”
As always, Chantel flushed at her father’s praise. She beamed at him and said, “It was from the play you took us to last month.”
“I’ll have to be careful what kind of plays I take you to see,” Cretien said with a smile. “Some of them are not wholesome. But it was a good sword fight. Maybe I’ll teach you how to use the foils when you get a little older.”
“I’m old enough now, Papa!”
“Well, maybe you are. We’ll see.”
Aimee smiled then and said, “Why don’t you tell her our surprise, dear?”
Cretien gave his wife a swift glance and nodded. He studied Chantel for a moment, then said, “We’re going to have company, Chantel.”
“Who is it?”
“Let me give you a hint. Our visitor will be very small. No bigger than this.” He held up his hands, holding them about eighteen inches apart.
“I know. It’s the puppy I’ve wanted!”
“No, it’s even better than a puppy. Come here.”
At once Chantel was out of her seat and around the heavy table. When Cretien picked her up in his arms, she felt a security and a delight in being noticed. Her father put his lips close to her ear and whispered, “We’re going to have a baby.”
“Oh, Papa, how nice!” She reached up and put her arms around her father’s neck and hugged him. He laughed and unwound her arms, saying, “Go embrace your mother. She’s the one that will be bringing the baby to us.”
Chantel slipped from his lap and ran over to receive her mother’s hug. “When will it come, Mama?”
“Very close to your birthday. Maybe on the same day. Wouldn’t that be something, if we had two birthdays on the same day!”
“We could save money.” Cretien smiled, his eyes sparkling. “I’m hoping you’ll have a little brother. Then we can all three raise him to be a good, strong man.” Echoing his wife’s thought, he added, “It will be close to your birthday when the baby is born. What do you want for your birthday?”
“A horse.”
“Well, you don’t mind asking for the moon!”
“Can I have one, Papa? Please!”
“Yes, you may have a horse.”
“Dear, do you think she’s old enough?”
“Of course she is. She needs to learn to be a horsewoman. Then she can go riding with her father.”
“Papa, will you really get me a horse?”
“Yes. I’ll bring it to your party.”
“Does anyone else know about the baby?”
“No one.”
“Can I go tell Clarice and Elise?”
“Yes, you may.”
As Chantel shot out of the dining room, Aimee said, “That child adores you, Cretien. She just glows when you pay attention to her. Don’t you see it?”
Cretien was well aware of his failings as a father. He looked down at the table and fumbled with his napkin, then looked up and caught her eye. “I know. I’ll try to be more affectionate with her.”
Aimee knew that part of the reason for Cretien’s lack of affection for their daughter was that Chantel was not a beautiful girl. “She’s not pretty now, but she will be someday.”
“Oh, that doesn’t matter,” Cretien protested.
But Aimee bit her tongue, for she had almost said, Yes, it does to you. You like beautiful things. Instead she said, “When will you get the pony?”
“There’s no hurry. I’ll look around for a good one.”
“She’ll love it, Cretien. She treasures anything you give her.” A smile turned the corners of Aimee’s lips upward. “Do you remember the doll you bought for her when she was four? She’s almost worn that thing out. It’s all Marie and I can do to keep it sewn together. She sleeps with it every night.”
Cretien smiled. He was mellow with the thought of having a son to raise and said, “Chantel is a good child. Just not what I expected. She’s so—so boyish.”
“She will outgrow that. Don’t worry.”
“I hope so. I’d hate to see a woman of eighteen running around in a ragged dress catching crawdads.”
Chapter six
The day was dying, and now the sun sent the last few pale rays through the window of Chantel’s room. It illuminated the carpet and touched the mirror on her vanity briefly with its pale light. She looked up from the book before her and caught a glimpse of her own face. As always, her features displeased her, and she looked down quic
kly and began writing again.
She had begun her journal at her mother’s suggestion, on the same day that her parents had told her of the baby to come.
Her father agreed, saying, “It might help her penmanship a little.”
“Oh, no,” Aimee had protested. “No one sees a young lady’s journal except the young lady herself.”
Strangely enough, as much as she had once disliked some studies, Chantel had found a pleasure in keeping her journal. Perhaps it was because no one ever checked it for spelling or punctuation. She wrote rapidly as her thoughts flowed through her, and never paused to correct anything.
May 2, 1823
Today is the day the baby will be born! I hope it’s a boy because Papa wants one so much. I don’t care whether it’s a boy or a girl. I’d love to have either a baby brother or a baby sister. Whichever it is, I’ll be happy with it!!!
The doctor came early this morning, and Mama is having a bad time. I don’t like to hear it—the cries that come from her room. The doctor is worried, too, although he tries not to show it. I tried to talk to Papa, but he’s too worried to listen to me, so I just stay quiet as a mouse and pray that Mama and the baby will be all right.
It’s been a wonderful time for me, waiting for the baby—until today. Papa has been so happy, and he’s taken me to the theater several times! I love to go with him, but I know he’s ashamed of me because I’m not pretty like other girls. Mama says I will be prettier when I get older, but I don’t think so.
I was hoping the baby would be born on my birthday, but it’s all right that it’s a few days early. My birthday is only eighteen days away, and think what I will have! I will have a new brother or sister, and I’ll have my new horse, which Papa promised me. If it’s a mare, I’ll call her Lady. If it’s a gelding, I’ll call him Pegasus. I’ll never be lonesome again with my new baby brother or sister and my new horse!
The Exiles Page 4
