Emilie (The Cajun Series Book 1)

by Claire, Cherie

  “I shall,” he answered solemnly. “But I would first like to do what I can to help her.”

  They walked the remainder of the path in silence, welcomed by a middle-aged Acadian woman, a beauty in her own right, at the door.

  “Bonjour Monsieur Thorpe,” the woman said.

  “Bonjour Madame Gallant,” Coleman answered awkwardly, glancing at Jean for support. Obviously this was the extent of his French.

  “Bonjour Madame,” Jean said, bowing. “I am Captain Jean Bouclaire. Monsieur Thorpe has asked me to accompany him today so that he may be able to speak with you.”

  Madame Gallant sent Coleman a look much like the one Jean delivered at the river bank. Jean wondered if she knew her poor daughter had attracted the attention of a love-sick Englishman.

  “Please come in,” she said.

  The rugged cabin, with its walls thick with tiny beams of light shining through, offered a homey feeling despite its absence of refinement. The women had clearly made the place cheery, but Coleman was right. There was a lot a man could do to help.

  Before Jean could offer his services, Madame Gallant picked up a pile of pressed garments and handed them to Coleman. Jean nearly laughed when the young man’s face dropped. Two cigars and this Rose wasn’t even home.

  Just then two young women entered the house. A petite woman with a long braid of brown hair trailing down her back while curly tendrils framed her face crossed the threshold first and her face beamed when she caught sight of Coleman. Clearly this fairy-like child was Rose, and Jean could easily see how the young man had become enraptured in her warm and engaging smile.

  He heard Rose’s mother offering introductions and waited for the fairy to meet his eyes. Instead, the second woman entered the house, a raven-haired goddess, and her eyes lifted suddenly to his as his name was mentioned.

  “Captain?” she asked.

  “Captain Jean Bouclaire,” he answered, bowing.

  Her dark eyes, as enchanting as the dark waters of the Gulf at midnight, glistened as she examined him. He had captured the dark beauty’s attention, but he wasn’t sure why. “I’m sorry, mademoiselle, I didn’t catch your name.”

  The second daughter placed the clothes basket on to the table, straightened the front of her skirt and extended her hand. “Gabrielle Gallant,” she said, still gazing at him intently.

  For a moment, Jean wondered if they had met before. She seemed so familiar, this regal enchantress with an angelic name. Without thinking, Jean leaned forward and kissed the top of her hand. The mother bristled, unhappy with the intimate gesture, but Gabrielle never blushed, her black eyes staring at him as if she approved and wanted more. A bolt of energy ran through Jean, filling his senses with this woman, and he wondered if she felt it too.

  Jean let go of Gabrielle’s hand, a little too late for proper company, and admonished himself for his actions. He wasn’t interested in women. They were bad luck. He wanted only to recapture La Belle Amie and return to sea. But now he had cigars to earn.

  “Madame,” he continued, turning toward the mother. “As I was saying, Monsieur Thorpe has asked me to translate for him.”

  “What does he want?”

  Jean read concern in the mother’s face, a look to be expected. He felt pity for this woman. An Englishman wished to court one of her daughters and he wanted nothing more than to carry off the dark-haired angel. If Madame Gallant had any sense she would rid her household of both of them immediately.

  “What did she say?” Coleman asked him.

  “What do you want to say?” Jean asked Coleman impatiently. He found himself seeking out Gabrielle’s eyes and the attraction for her scared him. Especially since she was doing the same. “Coleman?” Jean asked again, waking the Englishman from his own thoughts of attraction. “What do you wish to ask these gentle women?”

  Coleman gazed at Jean silently then turned toward the brown-eyed fairy in the center of the room.

  “Tell her,” he began softly, “that I wake every morning with thoughts of her.”

  Jean stared at him as if he had lost his mind, certain that the young man would retract his intimate and improper thoughts, but the Englishman only continued.

  “Tell her that her resplendent face is in my mind every waking moment. That I sleep with her image in my dreams.”

  Coleman paused and swallowed and Jean swore he could hear the beating of the young girl’s heart. “Tell her I love her more than life itself,” Coleman continued passionately, never taking his eyes from his beloved’s face. “That she is the only light in my dark existence.”

  The silence that followed was deafening. Jean stood at a loss over what to do. He knew the man had feelings for the petite woman, but he never expected such an outburst of affection. Still, Coleman had asked for him to play translator. He began slowly, “Monsieur Coleman said...”

  “No,” Coleman shouted, staring down at the hat held tightly between his fingers. “Please ask them if there is anything they need.”

  Jean turned again toward the women, their eyes as wide as pecans, and translated the request.

  “Non, merci,” the mother stated firmly and Jean caught every bit of its message.

  Jean nodded that he understood her meaning and grabbed Coleman’s arm to leave. Until the fairy blocked their path.

  “A violin,” Rose said in French. “We could use a violin.”

  Coleman brightened instantly and rested his gaze back to Rose’s face. “A violin,” he repeated in English. “She wants a violin?”

  “We have no music,” Rose explained to Jean. “We left Acadie with practically nothing, including our instruments. And we so love our music. Our men have spoken of nothing else since we arrived.”

  Jean continued looking at Rose, such a small frame of a woman filled with vitality, but he spoke to Coleman. “Yes, your lady wishes for a violin.”

  Rose looked over to Coleman and the affection that passed between them was blinding. Coleman smiled and bowed. “Please tell her she shall have her wish.”

  Jean conveyed the message. Rose smiled, blushing profusely as she offered a curtsy. Jean then wished Madame Gallant a good day and bowed to Gabrielle, who blushed as well. Her flirtatious smile caused a tightness in Jean’s trousers, so he grabbed a starry-eyed Coleman and pushed him out the door. As the men left the meager house, and the eyes of the beautiful Acadian women, Jean sent up a silent prayer. “God help us,” he muttered.

  What had just happened, Gabrielle thought? She glanced at her mother and read fear in her eyes, which confirmed her own. If she wasn’t mistaken, that Englishman had professed his love to Rose.

  Rose stood there grinning, as if an Englishman courting her was as common as the sunrise. Maybe she was mistaken. Maybe she was reading more into this than had actually happened. There was only one way to find out.

  She bolted through the door and ran after the men, thankful that Coleman had taken the lead. She caught up with the Captain and touched his sleeve to halt his step. When his enormous eyes met hers, she felt her knees weaken, as she had inside the house when he had first gazed upon her. Suddenly, Gabrielle was at a loss for words.

  “Mademoiselle,” he said, capturing her hand and raising her fingers to his lips once more. This time he didn’t just kiss them, but slowly brushed his lips against her fingertips. The prickly sensation it caused forced the breath from her lungs and Gabrielle wondered how she would ever speak.

  “How may I help you?” he asked deeply and Gabrielle shuddered thinking of ways in which he could.

  She swallowed. “Did Monsieur Thorpe say what I thought he said?”

  Jean let go of her hand and Gabrielle instantly missed the warmth of his touch. “I’m afraid our Englishman is smitten with your sister.”

  Gabrielle placed a hand at her heart and sighed, as much to release the tension the Captain was causing as for concern over Rose’s welfare. “What are we to do?”

  “Perhaps it will pass,” he said, gazing intently into her ey
es.

  “Do you approve of this man?”

  At this, Jean laughed and Gabrielle delighted in the sound of it. She wondered what he was like at the helm of his ship. “He’s English,” he said with an infectious grin. “Although he seems better than most. I’ll keep an eye on him, if you wish.”

  The thought of seeing Jean again made Gabrielle’s heart race. She nodded in agreement, afraid that her voice might betray her inner feelings.

  “Bon,” Jean said, placing his hat on his head and tipping it. “Good day to you, mademoiselle.”

  He moved to leave and Gabrielle realized he had answered only one of her questions. “Are you a ship captain?” she called out.

  The captain turned and gazed back curiously. “I own a schooner. Why?”

  Gabrielle thought of her dream, of sailing off to uncharted lands with the sea wind in her hair and the strong chest of the man at her back. The man whose face was never clear. “I was wondering, is all.”

  Jean walked back toward her. “Do you like to sail?”

  Gabrielle wanted to gush enthusiasm, that she adored the sea, but that wasn’t something a woman was supposed to enjoy. Besides, it was the lure of the sea that had caused the family’s separation at Grand Pré, when Gabrielle’s fascination for the ships at Minas Basin had forced Marianne to come looking for her, at the same time loosing track of Papa on the crowded beach. She would not let it happen again. “Yes, I like to sail,” she answered quietly. “Although I doubt I will do it again.”

  “I know the feeling,” Jean answered. “But perhaps...”

  Gabrielle’s heart skipped a beat waiting for the next word, but Jean only smiled, tipped his hat and rejoined Coleman on the path. She watched as Coleman handed the Captain two cigars from his breast pocket and the Captain returned one of them while slapping the Englishman on the back. Perhaps Coleman Thorpe could be trusted. She hoped the Captain was trustworthy as well.

  “He’s a pirate. Piernas told me so.” Rose joined her and slid an arm about her waist. Gabrielle wrapped her arm about Rose’s shoulder and the sisters watched the two men disappear down the road, both sporting smoking cigars.

  Gabrielle wanted to laugh, but the prospects were anything but funny. “We’re being courted by an Englishman and a pirate.”

  Rose leaned against her shoulder and sighed. “What would Emilie say to that?”

  Emilie would have their hides.

  “If only falling in love was as easy as Emilie and Lorenz,” Gabrielle said. “I’ll bet they are halfway to the altar by now.”

  Emilie

  Chapter Eight

  Phillip Bellefontaine was right, Emilie thought gazing at the delicate woman before her. Celestine Bourgeois was quite a beauty. She owned all the grace and gentleness that Emilie never mastered, and Lorenz delighted in it all. He stared adoringly at the petite girl, laughing at her innocent remarks.

  “What have you done to yourself,” Celestine asked, rising on to her toes to wipe the dirt from the cuts on his face. “And why have you let this black eye go unattended for so long?”

  Lorenz leaned in close to the doe-eyed girl. “I’ve been neglected.” He grinned slyly while sending Emilie a look filled with arrows.

  Emilie grimaced and looked heavenward, praying that God would grant her patience along with the other feminine traits she lacked, personality features that were noticeably absent that morning. Looking down at her filthy skirt and muddy shoes, Emilie was no match for the likes of Celestine.

  Why would she even think such a thing, she chided herself. She didn’t care what Lorenz did or who the obstinate man flirted with. She shouldn’t find fault with the girl who was more than likely finding men appealing for the first time in her brief life. God help the woman who marries Lorenz Joseph Dugas and his stubborn, bull-headedness, Emilie thought. He could marry the Queen of England for all she cared.

  Still, it annoyed her that the one woman to catch Lorenz’s eye would wear such neat clothes, arrange her silky hair without so much as a pin out of place and possess feet so intolerably small. It wasn’t fair.

  “You poor thing,” Celestine said to Lorenz as he bowed to allow her access at his facial scars. “You must let me clean you up when we reach the house. You said you were traveling two days with such wounds?”

  Emilie gritted her teeth, fighting back a reply. If only little miss perfect knew.

  “Celestine, where are the men of the village?” Thankfully Phillip interrupted the scene the two were making. “We need to have a word with them.”

  Celestine straightened, but never took her eyes off Lorenz, frowning as if fearful he might disappear while she fetched her father. In all truthfulness, Emilie didn’t blame the girl for her attention. Lorenz was by far the finest looking man Emilie had ever met. Very few women passed Lorenz by without noticing his sturdy build and strikingly dark features. Lorenz answered in kind by delivering an equally appreciative glance their way. His flirting skills were as remarkable as his appearance.

  “We need to find out some information about St. Gabriel,” Lorenz said to Celestine, as if assuring her he would not vanish while she located her father.

  “I will see you later at the dance then?” she asked with a pout.

  Lorenz bowed, then kissed her hand. While Celestine released a long sigh, Emilie rolled her eyes. “Your father,” she reminded the girl.

  Celestine stared at Emilie as if she was caught doing something wrong and had no idea what it was. She retrieved her hand from Lorenz’s grip and led the group toward the village.

  “That was uncalled for,” Lorenz whispered to Emilie as they followed Celestine into the clearing.

  “Was it? I thought our goal was to get to St. Gabriel.”

  Celestine glanced back toward the trio, but it was clear she only had eyes for Lorenz. “Still here,” he said with a grin.

  The girl giggled and continued on, offering small talk as they labored across the field. Emilie didn’t know how the girl did it. The cypress knees, her faithful enemy, were no longer the problem, but there were holes everywhere, capped off by a protruding mound of mud. Celestine dodged them without looking. Even with careful scrutiny of the ground, Emilie’s wooden shoe lodged into one and she hit the ground, face first. Emilie raised her arm just before impact, but her body slid through the mud, still saturated from the rain.

  “Oh, my,” she heard Celestine exclaim above her. “Are you hurt?”

  Emilie felt Lorenz’s hands grab her underneath her armpits and effortlessly right her. When she realized he howled with laughter, she yanked her body from his grip.

  “She’s fine,” Lorenz said between chuckles. “Stubbornness does that to a female.”

  Turning to face him, Emilie meant to deliver a solid piece of her mind and maybe turn the other eye blue, but when she realized the extent of her accident, mud staining the entire length of her vest and skirt, the fire drained from her words. Staring at Lorenz the whole time, she plucked off her sabots and continued toward the town barefoot.

  “Are you all right,” Celestine asked. The poor child was practically running to keep up with Emilie’s long strides. For a moment, Emilie almost liked the girl.

  “I’m fine, thank you. All I need is a good bath.” With a look behind her, she added, “And some pleasant company.”

  “My mother will take care of you,” Celestine said, breathless. Emilie decided to slow down, give the poor kid a chance. “She’ll find you some clean clothes.”

  Emilie stared at the top of Celestine’s head. It was doubtful the mother was taller. “Thank you, but there are few women who can share their clothes with me.”

  At this Celestine giggled. “I beg your pardon, but I’ve never seen a woman as tall as you.”

  Whatever kind feelings Emilie acquired for Celestine, they began to dissipate. “I suppose you don’t have shoes my size either.” When Celestine resumed giggling, Emilie vowed she would never like the girl.

  “Wear the damn moccasins,” Lorenz ye
lled from behind.

  Emilie gritted her teeth. She was tired, sore and now dirty and in no mood to listen to a man who had argued relentlessly for three days. “What are those mud holes anyway?” she asked Celestine, hoping to change the conversation away from her faults that everyone, save dear Phillip, seemed to find humorous.

  “Crawfish,” Celestine said, her skirt sashaying as she walked.

  “Crawfish?” Emilie wondered what unique animal lived inside a mud hole.

  “Miniature lobsters,” Phillip said with a laugh, holding up his fingers to indicate two inches. “We boil them.”

  Trees with knees, alligators, Spanish moss and boiled miniature lobsters. What would Louisiana offer next? Somewhere behind the small villages they visited and upriver were Indians, according to Anna, including a tribe of cannibals west of the “Great Swamp.” Emilie prayed they would reach St. Gabriel soon. She had to find Papa and convince him to take them home to Grand Pré. She didn’t care what possibilities this new frontier offered. Emilie wanted to go home.

  She was too exhausted and too filthy. The tears lingered precariously close. Fighting them off was causing her a headache. If she could take a bath, alone, and have a good cry, perhaps she might feel better.

  Then there was still the problem of Lorenz. Despite her vow to never marry her best friend, the thought of him furious with her and flirting with a woman he was better off marrying, fell heavy on her heart. Celestine was pretty and agreeable, but Emilie was the only woman who was right for Lorenz.

  Emilie felt a comforting hand about her shoulder. “You go with Celestine,” Phillip said. “I’ll go talk to the leaders of Cabanncé and see what I can find out.”

  “Find out about Papa,” Emilie insisted. “And a boat to get us to St. Gabriel.”

  Phillip squeezed her shoulder. “Don’t worry, I will find out everything I can and come back to you later. Right after I check on my family.”

  Emilie had forgotten this was Phillip’s homecoming, and that he had been delayed because of the rain. She felt guilty at not considering this sooner. “Your wife must be sick with worry,” she said.