Emilie (The Cajun Series Book 1)

by Claire, Cherie

  If he wasn’t being so ridiculous, she would have punched him. “That’s absurd,” Emilie said. “Who would be courting my baby sisters on the frontier of Louisiana?”

  “Emilie is going to kill us,” Gabrielle said, staring at the roll of blue and white linen. “We can’t keep this.”

  Rose fingered the store-bought fabric, a luxury they had never enjoyed. “It was a gift. Could there really be harm in us accepting it?”

  Gabrielle’s instincts thought not, but her mind had more rational ideas. Besides, it wasn’t proper for two young ladies to allow unchaperoned men to shower them with such niceties, especially since one was a pirate and the other an Englishman.

  “I don’t understand it,” Gabrielle said, shaking her head at the sight of the beautiful fabric of white periwinkles on a pale blue background. “I would have expected this from Monsieur Thorpe, but the Captain? Why would he wish to be so generous?”

  Rose sent Gabrielle a scrutinizing look. “What?” Gabrielle insisted.

  “You know well what. That man couldn’t keep his eyes off of you. Not to mention other things.”

  The thought of Captain Jean Bouclaire’s lips on her hand sent a shiver of pleasure through Gabrielle. She tried not to let Rose see her reaction, but the slight sigh that emerged gave her away.

  “You have a lot of nerve,” Gabrielle shot back, her face burning with embarrassment. “You have an Englishman professing love to you, Maman and the entire world.”

  Rose’s smile disappeared and she stared down at the miniature designs woven into the magnificent fabric. “I didn’t encourage him. I had no idea he had such strong feelings for me.”

  Gabrielle stood and hugged her petite sister tightly. “Of course, you didn’t my dear. Even the Captain was shocked at his actions.”

  “You did promise not to tell mother,” Rose reminded her.

  Gabrielle laughed, thinking back at the reaction on their mother’s face that afternoon when Coleman Thorpe had released a long string of admirations. “I suspect she knows. But she hasn’t said a word and neither have I.”

  “What do you think will happen?” Rose asked softly, and for a moment Gabrielle wondered if she had feelings for Coleman as well. She surmised that Rose liked the Englishman; Rose enjoyed just about everyone’s company, holding no prejudices and seeing the good in the most abominable people.

  But this wasn’t a friendship between similar people. This was a heartsick Englishman pining for an Acadian girl. Rose wouldn’t dream of pushing away the attentions of a kind man simply because of his nationality, and that scared Gabrielle the most. Without a man present, or Emilie in her usual paternal role as family caretaker and Lorenz as a protective big brother, Coleman could easily sway Rose’s emotions. Or at least he could convince her to allow him to continue the courtship.

  “You must not allow Monsieur Thorpe back,” Gabrielle said, watching Rose carefully. As she suspected, Rose’s countenance revealed disappointment and hurt. “If you see him at the fortress, you must not speak to him. If he wishes to have his shirts mended, let mother deal with him.”

  “She doesn’t understand English,” Rose inserted.

  “Neither do you.”

  Rose lifted her chin and met Gabrielle’s eyes. The confidence sparkling in her perfectly round bronze eyes astonished her, as if Gabrielle noticed for the first time that baby Rose had matured into a woman. Her fears intensified.

  “Coleman,” Rose began, then paused. “Monsieur Thorpe and I know enough of each other’s language to communicate. It would be silly to have a man who is offering us work to struggle needlessly through conversation just because you think I don’t have sense enough to deal with a man who finds me attractive.”

  “That’s not it, Rose.”

  Rose tilted her head defiantly, but as usual there was no malice in her sweet face. “Of course it is, Gabrielle. You think he will become a pest. Or worse, carry me off willingly in the night with him.”

  Gabrielle sighed. “Granted, I am a bit worried about the second scenario.”

  Despite her height, Rose managed an arm about Gabrielle’s shoulders. “He’s a nice man.”

  “You say that about everyone.”

  Rose tightened her grip as if to shake sense into her sister. “No, Gabrielle. Coleman Thorpe is a nice man. I am sure of it. You have nothing to fear.”

  “Except the fact that he is an Englishman. A son of the Crown that caused us to loose our home, to be separated from our father.”

  “He’s not the reason we were separated from Papa.”

  Gabrielle placed her own hands on her sister’s shoulders. “What will Emilie and Mother say? Lorenz? What will father think of this?”

  Rose grimaced at the last thought, but Gabrielle was thankful she was finally seeing logic. “I speak a bit of English,” Gabrielle offered. “Let me deal with him then.”

  Watching her sister’s face contort with distress as she nodded tore at Gabrielle’s heart, but she knew she was doing the right thing. Even if the man wasn’t English, he was Protestant, which meant there would never be a future between them. Better to end the brief romance before it blossomed and caused larger problems.

  Then why did she feel as if she had crushed her best friend?

  “Bon,” Gabrielle whispered, pulling Rose into her arms. “He will meet an Englishwoman and fall in love again. And you will meet a handsome, rich Frenchman who will treat us like kings.”

  What was she saying? Gabrielle thought with horror. Rose didn’t care about material things. Neither did she. She stared down at the fabric, a testament to the lure of what money could buy. She had to return the material, make it known to Captain Bouclaire and Coleman Thorpe that their affections could not be bought.

  Plus, it would give her a chance to see him again.

  Gabrielle closed her eyes trying to ward off the image of Bouclaire in his knee-high leather boots, his loose cotton shirt failing to hide a thick muscled chest. The brash man leaning forward ever so seductively to savor the taste of her fingertips. And she had the nerve to be worried about Rose.

  “I’m sorry,” Gabrielle whispered. “Perhaps I am wrong about this.”

  As Rose pulled away from her embrace to discuss the point further, both women were startled by a familiar, yet almost forgotten sound. They moved toward the window to listen further and recognized the source immediately as it made its way up the path from the river. At the same time, Gabrielle noticed Marianne pause at the well and Pélagie Leblanc gasp, her hand covering her mouth in surprise.

  Walking toward the makeshift village of Acadian houses strode Coleman, a confident smile upon his lips and a violin upon his left shoulder.

  Emilie

  Chapter Eleven

  The tune was not familiar to Rose, a rollicking melody that reminded her of the music she heard in town at Port Tobacco. Something English to be sure. Yet, one could dance a jig to it, turn their favorite girl around the floor. Were their nationalities that far apart?

  Coleman’s blond hair tousled about his face as he pulled the bow across the strings, but he didn’t seem to notice. His concentration bent on the instrument in his hands, he continued confidently up the path as if walking into an Acadian village playing a fiddle was something he did every afternoon.

  Rose couldn’t help but smile, even though she knew Gabrielle was watching her carefully. Her sister feared she was losing her heart to the blue-eyed man, which, if she dared admit her feelings to herself, would probably be the case. Rose wasn’t going to think about it, however. He was a kind man offering work to her family and music to her village, why shouldn’t she be nice to him? She would treat him like any other good-hearted man. Besides, if Gabrielle really wanted to dissect the issue, she was missing a vital point. Coleman Thorpe dressed as a gentleman and lived as a Protestant. Why would he risk scandal marrying a poor Acadian Catholic girl?

  None of this matter at that moment. There was music emanating from outside, and she had to be part of it.
Before Gabrielle could protest, Rose bolted out the door, joining the others gathering about the Englishman as if a crazed man had entered the village and they couldn’t decide whether to evict him or embrace the seductive music.

  Coleman finished his tune with an exaggerated pull of the bow, then peered cautiously at the group, wondering, Rose supposed, if they would reject him for his audacity. Rose almost laughed at the sight of Coleman surrounded by foreigners, more than likely feeling as if he had stumbled into a nest of vipers and couldn’t decide whether to run or stand still. But if there was one thing Acadians valued more than family, it was music. She doubted any Acadian standing there would dismiss the chance to dance simply because the fiddler was not one of their own.

  Suddenly, Coleman’s eyes found hers and his countenance shifted into a broad smile. The sensation of his eyes the color of a summer sky greeting her with affection caused her heart to skip. Before she dismissed the idea as absurd and remind herself that he was an Englishman, Rose remembered her dream and wondered briefly if Coleman Thorpe was the man she would marry.

  Mathurin Leblanc urged him to perform another tune and several of the group seconded the motion. Coleman beamed that he was finally accepted and lifted his bow in song. He started a slow jig, pleased to be of service. A buzz of excitement reverberated through the crowd.

  The song featured several stanzas, but required constant jerking motions of the bow due to the elaborate melody. Rose watched in amazement as Coleman effortlessly met the task, his smile never faltering. He played as if the violin was an extension of his shoulder and the bow another limb. And the pleasure his talent allowed him was evident.

  Just when Rose and the others felt comfortable with the melody and considered a dance, the tune shifted. The song remained the same, but the tempo increased a step. Rose began to alternate between watching Coleman’s bow ride a wild wave across the violin and his foot stomping out the beat. Before she knew it, the tempo increased even more.

  Mathurin let out a yell and grabbed his wife for a dance. Then Athanase Babin took his wife for a spin. Within seconds the group was alive in dance, mothers in circles of dance with their children, husbands turning their wives and laughing in the process. Even Gabrielle was whisked away by Joseph Blanchard, leaving Rose alone to watch the blue-eyed man with the strange accent making magic with a violin.

  Coleman spied her and sent her a wink before launching into an even faster tempo. How on earth did he perform such a feat? she wondered, watching the bow fly across the strings. Perspiration flew from his forehead as his head vibrated from the music, but Coleman appeared as calm and surreal as if seated in church.

  Father had said everyone had a special gift, according to Emilie, who insisted Rose’s particular talent was compassion. Watching Coleman delight in an aptitude that took no effort made her realize his.

  It wasn’t possible he could play faster, but Coleman finished the slower set and began again at a higher pace. The men yelled their approval, but had a difficult time keeping up. Coleman’s foot was now beating the ground at an alarming rate, the dirt packed tight beneath his foot.

  When he took the tempo even higher, everyone stopped dancing to watch the bow fly at a dizzying rate. Coleman stopped smiling at this point and concentrated on the complicated turns of the bow. Perspiration flew about his head and his blond hair was soaked from the powerful motions. Still, he appeared as if the performance caused little effort.

  By the time the song reached a wild conclusion and Coleman ran the bow across the strings in a grand finale, he finally appeared out of breath. Everyone cheered at the end of his performance, which pleased him as much as the playing. Rose’s heart constricted watching the usually solemn man’s face radiate with delight.

  The men began to make requests, others offering thanks. Coleman searched through the crowd until he found her, then gave her a smile and a shrug as if to ask, “What are they saying?” Rose couldn’t help but laugh. She wanted to go to him, to offer her limited services, but the crowd was thick about the Englishman.

  Pélagie handed Coleman a jug of water and Coleman returned the favor by handing the violin to Mathurin, who promptly blew on the instrument as if it was on fire. The crowd laughed at the gesture, but Mathurin gazed at the instrument lovingly, gently stroking the smooth polished wood.

  “Play,” Coleman told him in English. When the older man looked up confused, Coleman motioned for him to perform. “Ah, joue la musique.”

  Rose nearly laughed at the horrendous way Coleman spoke French, but at least the man was trying. And Mathurin understood every word. He placed the violin upon his shoulder and began En Buvant, a song Rose had heard played as a child. The Acadians wasted no time resuming the dance, a smile on every face.

  Coleman watched the process, clearly pleased to be of service, but distinctly apart from the revelry. Piernas had mentioned the Englishman suffered from family problems, something in his past that had caused a rift between he and his father. Piernas didn’t offer more and it would have been poor manners on Rose’s part to inquire further. Still, she couldn’t help wonder why a man dressed as finely as Coleman, who more than likely enjoyed a wealthy living, would take comfort in pleasing a group of Acadian exiles, people thrown from his home by his own government.

  Rose might have assumed Coleman shared his riches to ease his guilt, if Coleman had been in part responsible for the massive exile. But the man couldn’t be more than twenty-five, she thought, gazing at high taunt cheekbones kissed by the sun and accented by a proud, regal nose. He didn’t stand very tall, which made him appear all the younger; Lorenz and Emilie would certainly tower above his thick locks of blond hair that repeatedly fell about his face. At the most he was Lorenz’s age, too young to understand that residents of New France were being evicted from their homes thousands of miles away.

  He needed a haircut, which confirmed that Coleman Thorpe lived in a household without women. The shape of his tattered clothes he brought to them to mend on a weekly basis was also evidence to that fact. Fine tailored clothes, imported fabrics. Tending to his rich clothes was as enjoyable to Rose as his routine visits where they mostly smiled at one another, picking up small pieces of information in their respective languages. When Coleman would retreat back toward the waterfront and Gabrielle and Marianne returned to their chores, Rose would lift the fine garments to her face, enjoying the smell of tobacco, manly perspiration and the smoke of well-chosen chimney wood.

  What life did the mysterious Englishman live? she wondered. And was it childish fancy, or poor judgment on her part, to want to experience more of it?

  Rose turned toward the dancing couples, watching with pleasure as Gabrielle turned her mother around and around the grassy area in front of their home. For the first time in weeks her mother was laughing. Dear God, Maman was actually laughing!

  Looking back to Coleman, who stood awkwardly at the periphery of the action, she waited until their eyes met and sent him a grateful smile. The color of his aquamarine eyes intensified — if that was possible — and he bowed. It would have been so natural at this point for him to ask her to dance, but a chasm stretched between them. Instead, they stood apart gazing at each other in mutual admiration.

  “Rose,” Mathurin announced when he finished the song, jolting her from her thoughts. “You must do us the honors.”

  A hot blush permeated her cheeks. It was one thing to sing before members of her community and family — she was regularly asked on account of her abilities — but quite another before a foreign man who had taken a liking to her.

  When others seconded his request, Rose hesitantly stepped forward near Mathurin, waiting before him to resume playing. Coleman stood at her side, his presence so close she would smell the sweet tonic about him. Heavens, if only he wasn’t watching her so intently.

  Mathurin performed a soft ballad about lost love and Rose closed her eyes and began to sing. The song referred to a lover lamenting over a decision not to marry. When she opened
her eyes and stared into eyes resembling a blue heaven, Rose wondered if she would someday regret the decisions she was destined to make.

  The Mississippi glistened brilliantly despite the sliver of a moon rising on the horizon. Perhaps it was the torches burning at the fortress that reflected such a glow, but the muddy brown water appeared almost golden in the light.

  The beauty of the massive river and the pleasant breeze caressing her cheek failed to lighten Gabrielle’s mood. The familiar music, so long absent from their lives, infused her with a melancholy she couldn’t shake. She thought of her father waiting at St. Gabriel for their arrival, of her mother’s disturbing visions and the possibility that Emilie and Lorenz might have met with trouble on their journey upriver. It had been so long since the family parted ways in New Orleans, the two-month deadline quickly approaching.

  The weight growing heavy about her slender shoulders, Gabrielle retreated to the only place that brought her comfort.

  “It’s not much of a boat.”

  Gabrielle pulled her shawl about her and turned toward the voice, straining in the darkness to make out its owner.

  “Have no fear, mademoiselle,” the voice continued. “You are among a friend.”

  Gabrielle realized the Captain approached even before his long legs strode into the light and his tanned face underneath a wide felt hat came into view. He gazed at her intently, as if studying every feature of her face.

  “You startled me,” she said, trying to interrupt his staring.

  The Captain bowed gallantly, removing his hat in the process. “My apologies, mademoiselle. But you are standing on my threshold, no?”

  Gabrielle blushed at the thought that Captain Bouclaire would assume she waited on the bank near his boat simply for the chance of meeting him. Even if it was true.

  “This is the best spot on the bank for walking,” she hastily told him.