The Immortelles (34 page)
Charissa could not understand what he was saying. She was aware of the motion of the ship, but she was far more aware of his arms holding her tightly. “I couldn't do a thing like that, Jefferson.”
“Why not?”
“You know why not. Because it would be wrong.”
“It would be wrong only if you didn't marry me.”
Charissa stood perfectly still. She felt the blood leave her face, and she saw that he was now perfectly sober. “Jefferson, what are you talking about?”
“I've been talking to people. I talked to Debakky, and he said you loved me. And I talked to Rose. She told me you've loved me for a long time. And I got a letter from Olga. She called me a stupid oaf and said that you cared for me even back in those days at St. Louis. They all say it, Charissa: You love me.”
“Jeff,” Charissa began, her voice breaking.
His arms tightened around her, and he said, “When you were sick, and I thought you might die, I found out I couldn't do without you. All my fool talk about a sister! What idiocy! I love you, Charissa, as a man loves a woman.”
Charissa felt warmth then coming to her face. She looked into his eyes, and he kissed her.
“I've loved you for so long,” she whispered. “I thought you'd never care for me.”
“I guess I couldn't get it in my head that you could love a big, awkward fellow like me.” He squeezed her, kissed her thoroughly, and said, “The captain can marry us. Are you ready?”
Charissa smiled. “Yes, I'm ready.”
“Let's go get married. We'll have a fine honeymoon, and when we return, we're going back to St. Louis. I've already made arrangements.”
“Oh, Jeff, really?” Charissa cried.
“Yes. Come along. I'm in a hurry to get married.”
Charissa took his face between her hands and cried, “So am I, Jefferson, so am I!”
DR. GILBERT MORRIS is a retired English professor. He is the author of more than 170 novels, many of them bestsellers and several of them award winners. He has been married for fifty-three years to Johnny, and they have three children. His daughter, LYNN MORRIS, has coauthored many books with her father, including the
Cheney Duval, M.D.
series.
THE EXILES: A NOVEL
BOOK ONE OF THE CREOLES SERIES
The Exiles,
the first book of The Creoles Series, introduces Chantel Fontaine. Readers follow Chantel through the streets and swamps of Louisiana as she falls in love, faces the loss of both her parents, and searches for the baby sister she thought was lost forever.
The culture of the citizens of nineteenth-century New Orleans was as varied and intriguing as their complexionsâFrench, Spanish, African, and American. As the layers of these cultures intertwine, a rich, entertaining story of love and faith emerges. It is the early 1800s, and Chantel Fountaine has finished her education at the Ursuline Convent. But the trials and tragedies that preceded her graduation have put her Christian beliefs to the test.
From bestselling authors Gilbert and Lynn Morris, this captivating novel offers a unique perspective in a distinct cultural setting that comes alive in the minds and hearts of readers.
ISBN: 0-7852-7002-7
Look for Books Two and Three of The Creoles Series:
The Alchemy
The Tapestry
An excerpt from
book one of
The Creole Series,
The Exiles
Chapter one
HAVANA, CUBA, JULY 3, 1810
Aimee Fontaine looked out of the open carriage and immediately shut her eyes. She turned and threw her arms around her husband and cried, “Cretien, we'll all be killed!”
He held her tightly and said, “We won't be killed, darling. It's not far to the docks, and once we get on board the ship we'll be safe.”
Opening her eyes, Aimee moved her head back far enough to get a good view of Cretien's face, and the very sight of it encouraged her. Faults her husband might have, but if Cretien Fontaine was a coward, no one had ever found out about it. His chestnut hair escaped the tall black top hat, and his brown eyes glowed as they always did when he was excited. He showed no fear whatsoever.
“They've gone crazy,” she whispered, holding on to Cretien's arm.
“Revolutionaries are always crazy,” Cretien said. He turned to the driver, saying, “Get in the back with Elise, Robert. I'll drive.”
“But, sirâ”
“Mind what I say!” Cretien's eyes flashed, and Robert got up awkwardly and fell into the back, where Elise Debon was crouched down, her large eyes frightened. Cretien took the lines and slapped them on the backs of the pair of bays, holding the horses firmly. “They're crazy fools! They don't even know what they're fighting for.”
Others besides Cretien had made that remark concerning the uproar that had shaken Cuba to its very foundation. The countryside was alive with flames where men, apparently driven mad by the revolutionary fervor, had set fire to the homes of innocent people. The government had tottered and collapsed, and now Havana was packed with a mindless mass of humanity.
Darkness had fallen, but men carrying torches held them high, and the flickering red flames cast shadows over cruel faces loose with drink. The air was filled with drunken cries and screams of women who were being attacked regardless of their politics. Gunfire rattled, sounding a deadly punctuation.
“We'll never be able to get through this crowd, Cretien,” Aimee whispered.
Indeed, it did look impossible, for the street that led to the docks was filled with milling people. Many of them were armed men, but some were the helpless victims of the revolutionaries.
Cretien pulled his hat down firmly, reached low, and pulled the whip from the socket. “Hold on, everybody!” he cried. He slashed the rumps of the horses furiously, and the bays lunged forward against their collars. “Get out of the way! Clear
the way!” Cretien yelled. He stood to his feet and whipped at men who reached out to pull him from the carriage.
Once Aimee saw the whip strike a man right across the cheek and leave a bleeding cut. The man fell back with a scream and was seen no more.
Aimee hid her eyes, for the horses ran over anyone in their way, and the wheels bumped over the bodies that had fallen. The carriage careened wildly, and the shouts grew louder. A gunshot sounded clearly close to the carriage. Aimee's heart seemed to stop, but the marksman had missed.
“We'll be all right,” Cretien said. He sat back down but kept the horses at a fast clip. “There's the ship, down there.” A few moments later he pulled the horses up short, and they stood trembling and snorting under the light of the lanterns that hung from posts on the dock.
The Empress,
one of the new breed of steamships, loomed large and black against the ebony sky. “Robert, you see to the luggage. I'll take care of the women.”
“Yes, sir!”
Aimee stood, and Cretien lifted her into his arms and set her down firmly on the dock. She clung to him for a moment, but he gave her a quick hug and said, “We're all right now. Don't worry. I'll get you and Elise on board, and then I'll come back to help Robert with the luggage.”
Aimee gratefully leaned against her husband, but they had not gone three steps toward the gangplank when their way was blocked by a roughly dressed group of men. All had a wolfish look, and their eyes were wild with drink.
“Hold it there!” one of them said. “We'll take your money.”
“That's right. He's an aristocrat.” The speaker, who wore a crimson rag around his forehead, pulled a knife from his belt and laughed drunkenly. “His kind's gone forever. Give us what you've got, and maybe we'll let you go.”
In one smooth motion, Cretien pulled a pistol from under his coat and aimed at the man bearing the knife. The shot struck the ruffian in the upper arm. The wounded man shouted, “That's the only shot he's got! Get him!”
The men moved forward, eyes glittering. Suddenly another shot rang out, and a short, stocky man staggered and grabbed his thigh.
“He got me!” he cried.
Robert, Cretien's manservant, stepped out and said, “The rest of you had better leave.”
But the three were so drunk they could not think. They all drew knives and, screaming, surged ahead. Cretien reached into the carriage and produced a cane. He pulled a sword from the hollow container, and when one of the men came close he swung the blade in a circular motion. The tip of the sword cut a gash in the chest of the man.
“I'd advise you to leave before you are all dead,” Cretien said tightly.
“Come on, let's get out of here!” the leader cried. Since three of the four had been wounded, his words were convincing. They all turned and made their way, cursing and holding their wounds.
“Come along, Aimee,” Cretien said at once. His face was pale, and the violence had shaken him, for he was not a man of action. “And you, Elise, I'll get you on board. Robert, start loading the luggage. I'll be back to help you.”
