The Creole Historical Romance 4-In-1 Bundle Page 2

  Aimee leaned against him, and when his arm tightened about her, she felt a surge of desire for a life of peace and contentment. Life in Cuba had been difficult, for the scent of revolution had been strong for the past few years. Both she and Cretien had known they would have to leave sooner or later, and she was grateful that they had sold their land and gotten away without losing everything.

  The burly first mate was shouting orders to the crew, and as the gangplank was lowered, Cretien said, “Let’s find Robert and Elise and go ashore. I’ll be glad to get off of this boat and get my feet on firm land again.”

  Together they turned to go below. Just before they reached the stairs, they encountered an attractive woman with blond hair and blue eyes. She gave Cretien a bold smile of recognition, and he bowed slightly. Aimee said nothing. She was accustomed to women being attracted to her husband; what would be the point of creating a scene?

  In their cabin they found that Robert and Elise had collected their things, and in a short time they were leaving the ship.

  As they walked down the gangplank into the hubbub of the port, all seemed to be confusion. Passengers were lined up to board the ship. Peddlers were everywhere, calling in a polyglot of languages. Aimee heard English and French, of course, plus Spanish and others that she could not distinguish.

  Cretien took charge and engaged a carriage driven by a muscular young man with inky black hair and white teeth stark against his golden tan. He spoke a mixture of French and English that the newcomers found difficult to understand.

  “Ah, monsieur, my name is Jacques. Me, I weel take you anywhere to which you go.”

  “We want to go to a very good hotel, Jacques,” Cretien said as he offered a hand to aid Aimee into the carriage.

  “That would be the St. Charles. I theenk you weel like it there, but it is ver’ expensive.”

  “I think I can afford it, Jacques,” Cretien said with a slight smile.

  Jacques helped Robert load the trunks, then stepped back up into the carriage. He spoke to the horses, a fine matched set of grays, and at once began talking to the group. He was a curious fellow, wanting to know everything about the new arrivals. “There are many come from Cuba because of the revolution. I hear,” he said, “over three t’ousand. More than two t’ousand of them black people have come already the last two months. Was it bad over there?”

  “Yes, very bad.”

  “Well, you weel like it here in New Orleans. While you are here I hope you weel avail yourselves of my services.”

  “We won’t be here long. I have a sugar plantation to the west.”

  That sent Jacques into a lengthy dissertation on the advantages of raising sugar over cotton, but as they moved into the downtown section, the visitors expressed interest in the city. When Cretien mentioned that they had never been there before, Jacques said, “Oh, it is a great city. Plenty to do. Your people, the Creoles, have brought good things to the city. Every one of you people love to go to the theater, no?”

  “Yes, that is true. You have a good theater here?”

  “Many of them. The best.”

  “What street is this?” Aimee asked.

  “St. Charles Avenue. You see, this is the Vieux Carré—the good part of town. The other part is where the Kaintocks stay. Very bad.”

  “Kaintocks? Who are they?” Cretien asked.

  “The men who bring the flat boats with their goods down the river. They are rough men, these Americans. Stay away from them, sir, I would advise you.”

  St. Charles Avenue was paved with cobblestones. Most of the other streets had banquettes, or sidewalks, which were simply planks or sometimes a single log pegged into the ground. Wooden drains served as gutters, and in some instances there were open ditches containing garbage and refuse of every description.

  “It smells bad,” Robert whispered to Elise.

  “Yes, it is terrible. I hope our plantation will not smell this awful.”

  Robert, a tall, saturnine man of forty, patted Elise on the shoulder. “The town was made by men. The country was made by God.”

  Elise laughed. “You say such funny things.”

  Aimee spoke to Jacques. “The streets must be very bad when it rains, those that are not paved.”

  “Oh, you would not believe! It is so bad you cannot get anywhere, no!”

  They passed a large party, over two hundred people, some carrying lanterns and many disguised with masks. They were a noisy group, banging old kettles and shovels and tongs with clanging metal.

  “What is that, Jacques?” Cretien asked.

  “Oh, that is a charivari. A wedding. That is a big one.”

  Then a cart passed by, bearing a rather strange sight. Aimee asked, “What is that, Jacques?”

  “Oh, that is a widow, and that is an effigy of her husband in the coffin and her present husband is there by her side.”

  “Is that common?” Cretien asked, staring at the cart. “It seems rather—crude.”

  “Me, I don’t know why they do it,” Jacques shrugged. “Maybe the bride wants her new husband to see he can be replaced if he doesn’t behave himself. You’ll see t’ings stranger than that in this place.”

  Finally Jacques drew up the carriage and waved his whip. “The St. Charles. The rates are high, two dollars and a half a day, but there is a table for gentlemen that provides dinner from three to five.”

  “What about the ladies?”

  “Oh, the ladies, too, of course.”

  The St. Charles was an enormous building, seeming to stretch for a full block. The lobby had a high ceiling, glowing chandeliers, and paintings on every wall, adding color to the scene.

  Cretien moved to the desk, where a small man with a pair of sharp gray eyes said, “Yes, sir. May I serve you?” He spoke in French, and Cretien responded, “I need a room for myself and my wife, and two for my servants.”

  “Yes, sir. Will you be staying long?”

  “I think not. Just a few days.”

  “You will like our hotel, sir. First time in New Orleans?”

  “First time in the United States.”

  “Ah, I trust you will have a good stay. Are you traveling far?”

  “I bought a sugar plantation a few miles west of New Orleans.”

  “Then you would be interested in our auction.”

  “What sort of auction?”

  “Slaves, of course. You will find them under the rotunda. I think it is going on now.”

  Curious, Cretien resolved to look into the matter, but he knew that Aimee was tired. “Thank you,” he replied. “I must get my wife settled first.”

  Cretien and Aimee followed a hulking servant upstairs, and after he put their luggage inside the room and left, Aimee looked around with pleasure. She was tired but she loved the room.

  “It’s so beautiful, Cretien! I’ve never seen such gorgeous wallpaper— and look at the woodwork!”

  “I’m glad you like it. Well, suppose we go out and buy ourselves a fine meal to celebrate our first night in Louisiana.”

  “That sounds wonderful. I am hungry.”

  The two went downstairs and learned that the Bienville, one of the best restaurants in New Orleans, was right down the street. They soon found themselves seated in an ornate dining room, swarmed by a waiter who rapidly gave them a verbal menu of the offerings.

  They dined well that night on lobster and a delicious salad. After they had eaten, they returned to the hotel, and just before they went to sleep Aimee put her arms around her husband and drew him close. “We are going to be very happy here, dear.”

  Cretien returned her caress. “Yes, we are. We will make a new life for ourselves in this place!”

  Cretien arrived at the offices of Oliver Harcourt, where he was greeted by the lawyer whom he had never met in person. The two had done business through the mail, and it was Harcourt who had recommended buying a sugar plantation instead of cotton and had negotiated the purchase.

  Harcourt was a tall, dignified man wit
h an aristocratic air. He had silver hair and wore a dark brown suit with a spotless white shirt and a black string tie.

  “I think you will find that I got a good buy for you in your plantation, Monsieur Fontaine.”

  “I was somewhat hesitant. There are many sugar plantations in Cuba, but I have never engaged in that sort of trade.”

  “With the right workers you should have no trouble. You must have a good overseer, and I checked carefully into the man who is there now. His name is Simon Bientot. He knows all about the work and is an amiable sort. I interviewed him myself. And his wife, Marie, would be a good housekeeper, but of course that is up to your wife.”

  “I’m very grateful to you for your help, Mr. Harcourt.”

  “We’re anxious to see good people coming to our part of the world.” He frowned slightly and shook his head. “Of course, the revolution brought a great deal of the other sort.” Then he smiled and nodded. “But I can see that you are a man of the world who knows good living.”

  “I’m glad you think so.”

  “There is one matter that I should mention. I assure you I looked at a dozen plantations, and this one was the best. However, it has no house that would be suitable for you and Mrs. Fontaine.”

  “What sort of house is there?”

  “It is no more than a cottage. I think, sir, you will have to think about building your own house.”

  “I would like that very much. I have looked forward to building my own home for some time, and my wife has a box full of ideas about it.”

  “Well, when it’s time to begin I can recommend builders. And of course many of the slaves are expert craftsmen. It might pay you to invest in a few of those. Plenty of them are available at fair prices.”

  At that moment a knock sounded at the door. Harcourt looked up and said, “Come in.”

  A woman entered, carrying a small child. Harcourt looked irritated. “Yes, Mrs. Wells, what is it?”

  “I don’t think Neville is well, sir. Shall I take him to the doctor?”

  “Yes—yes, take him, Mrs. Wells! You don’t need to ask me everything.”

  The woman flushed, then turned and left.

  “Your son?”

  “Yes, his mother died at his birth. His name is Neville.”

  “He looks like a fine boy.”

  For a moment Harcourt hesitated, and then he said, “He’s like his mother.” Somehow he made the words sound like an accusation.

  Uncomfortable, Cretien quickly said, “I must go now. My wife will be wondering about me. We’ll be leaving to see the plantation early in the morning.”

  Cretien left the office and walked the streets for a while. New Orleans was a colorful city with no tall buildings, for the sands of Louisiana would not permit such things. His mind leaped ahead, and, as always, he was excited at the thought of a new project.

  He took a turn through the old town where the Americans, the Kaintocks, stayed. He was surprised to see the large number of brothels, saloons, and gambling houses. The streets were crowded with rough looking men, and he thought, I wouldn’t like to be here at night without a pistol. He turned and went back to the hotel, looking forward to seeing the plantation in the morning.

  Jacques had made himself available to take the Fontaine party to the plantation. He was ready and waiting early, and after a good breakfast Cretien and Aimee found themselves passing through the wilds of Louisiana. After leaving the city of New Orleans, “wilds” was the proper way to describe the countryside. The land was flat, of course, much as it was in New Orleans, but the pale earth seemed to grow darker and wetter as they rode farther away from the city. The large trees that they did not know were called sugarberries by Jacques, and the Louisiana birds flocked to them for their sweet, reddish fruit. Live oaks were the most spectacular trees. They towered some seventy or eighty feet, and some of the lower limbs spread out to enormous distances, adorned with Spanish moss, which looked like huge birds’ nests. The streams they passed were the color of milk chocolate, almost as if the earth had melted; and once, as they passed by a wide stream, an alligator raised his snout.

  Aimee shivered. “What a horrible beast!”

  “The Cajuns, they like to hunt the alligator. They use their hides and even eat their meat,” Jacques offered.

  “I wouldn’t eat one of those things if I were starving!” Aimee exclaimed.

  “Well, I don’t know about that. We’ve eaten snails,” Cretien teased her.

  “A snail is better than that thing!”

  They stopped once to water the horses at a small stream, and Aimee was pleased by the white birds she saw.

  “They are called egrets,” Jacques said. “And look. There is a blue heron. He is a serious-looking fellow, no?”

  They watched the heron as he moved slowly, his long legs seeming inadequate for such a large body. Once his head flashed down as quickly as a thought, and he came up with a small fish. He tossed it into the air, caught it expertly, and swallowed it whole. The party watched the bulge as it went downward, and Cretien laughed. “He doesn’t bother chewing, does he?”

  The air grew hotter as they made their way, and the humidity was much worse than in Cuba. Aimee fanned herself and pulled her dress away from her neck to let the air circulate. “Is it always this humid?”

  “No, the winter here is nice—not as humid. You will like it then.” Jacques turned, his white teeth flashing at her. “Sometimes you don’t know whether you’re in the ocean or on dry land, it is so wet. But you will get used to it.”

  As they drew nearer, Jacques pulled up at a shack to ask directions, and an old woman came out. She spoke French, and when Cretien asked her if she knew the way to the plantation, she grinned toothlessly and pointed. Then she came closer and said, “You will live there, sir?”

  “Yes, it will be our home.”

  “Ah, if you want a juju or a love potion, you come to me. If you have an enemy, I can put a curse on him that he will die screaming.”

  “I don’t think we will require that,” Cretien laughed.

  “Then perhaps a love potion. You come and see me. I can make any spell you want. You come and see Ma Tante.”

  “I don’t need a love potion. I’ve got all the love I need right here.” Cretien smiled and put his arm around Aimee.

  Thirty minutes later they pulled off the main road and went down a much narrower lane until Jacques said, “That must be it.”

  They had been passing through cane fields, but now they had come out into an open space. A cottage occupied the center of a small ridge overlooking the fields, and several smaller shacks, obviously slave quarters, were off behind it.

  “Don’t be disappointed, darling,” Cretien said quickly. “We will build a fine house. Even today we’ll find a location, and I’ll get started at once.”

  As the carriage pulled up to the house, a woman came out. She was in her forties, a solid woman with a pleasant face and black hair covered by a kerchief. She smiled and curtsied. “May I help you? My name is Marie Bientot.”

  Cretien introduced himself and said, “Is your husband here?”

  “No, he is out at the far field, but I will send someone for him.” She turned around and called, “Brutus!”

  A huge black man, who was carrying wood from a pile, dropped it and came over. He was an enormous man, muscular, with a rather sullen look.

  “Brutus, go fetch my husband at once. Tell him the master’s here.”

  Without a word the black man turned and plodded away.

  “What a massive fellow. He looks rather villainous,” Cretien murmured.

  “He’s not the best of the slaves, but he is strong. Will you come inside the house, sir, and you, madame?”

  They got out of the carriage and went inside. “My husband and I live over there.” She waved her hand toward the window. “But I wanted to fix the house up.”

  “It’s very nice, Marie,” Aimee said.

  “You look around, and I will fix you a lunch. We wi
ll have a fine dinner tonight.”

  Cretien and Aimee wandered around the house. It was a very modest place, but it was clean and large enough and seemed to be well kept. Then they stepped outside.

  “It’s not much, is it?” Cretien frowned. “I thought it would be better than this.”

  Aimee turned to him, reached up, and touched his cheek. “It will be very nice when we fix it up. And we’ll be here every day while the house is going up.”

  Cretien smiled at her. “You’re a patient woman. Most women would rather stay in town at a fine hotel.”

  “No, this will be our home until we build the big house. We will call it Fontaine Maison, for your name will be on it.”

  Cretien reached out and took her in his arms. He kissed her and said, “Our name will be on it. We will have a good life here, mon chère!”

  Chapter three

  A sense of pride came to Aimee Fontaine as she walked out of the house to greet her visitors. She thought of the almost two years that had passed as Fontaine Maison was rising, and she was filled with a strong sense of possession. The house had become her life, for although Cretien was drawn often to the city, where he enjoyed the theater and dining and excitement of cosmopolitan life, Aimee loved the plantation.

  She paused for a moment as the carriage pulled up and turned to look at the exterior of the house. The French influence on the structure was strong. She had wanted to make it a miniature Versailles, but not quite that formal.

  Fontaine Maison was a raised structure with large columns in the lower story and colonnettes in the upper. It had a typical French roof slanting upward to a peak, and she had designed it with many, many windows so that every room would be bathed in light. The house was surrounded by a white fence that also protected a large garden. In years to come it would be more attractive, but at least the seeds were sown.

  Aimee felt a strong love for the place, and at the same time a guilt of sorts. She had prayed that she would not make the house an idol, but it had become a haven for her, and she loved it with all of her heart.