Beloved Castaway
Author's note: The Greatest Story
For Robin Tompkins,
the bird who flies free
And of some have compassion,
making a difference:
And others with fear,
pulling them out of the fire.
JUDE 1:22-23
Prologue
New Orleans
December 27, 1814
A thick fog hugged the Vieux Carré, and darkness shadowed the entrances to the meager dwellings on the Rue Genevieve. The city lay gripped in fear of the arrival of the Englishmen, its citizens biding their time behind closed shutters while Her Majesty’s Navy stood practically on their doorsteps.
Truly war was upon them, and none could predict the outcome. Of late, those in power insisted that certain victory was at hand. Jean Gayarre knew otherwise, having just that morning brokered a deal that would provide the powder for weapons currently lacking the ability to fire.
Until the transaction was completed—and there were no assurances it would be—nothing stood between New Orleans and the British soldiers save blustery pride and empty muskets.
In spite of this, on this late December night, Jean Gayarre felt no fear, only a pressing sense of urgency like none he could remember. To be fair, he’d always hurried to Sylvie’s doorstep, anticipation riding high in his mind. But tonight, something else compelled Jean to pick up his pace.
Could it be his time of reckoning approached? The Lord, once his friend and Savior, had been quite patient. Perhaps tonight a payment would be required for his sins, of which there were many.
Jean drew nearer to the river, where low-slung clouds played havoc with the senses and hid all but the nearest passerby from view. So much the better, he decided as he gathered his cloak, conspicuous for its heavy weight on the unseasonably sultry evening, and traversed the uneven banquette as close to the shadows as he could.
Tonight of all nights, Jean could not fail in crossing the city to see his Sylvie. Even the lying-in of his wife—a coincidence only God could have wrought in its irony—would not keep him within the confines of the gilded prison his money had built.
He’d left the carriage well concealed behind the alehouse, paying his coachman handsomely as he did every time he made the journey. Brushing past the servant at the door, Jean raced up the stairs to kneel at the bedside of the only woman he’d ever loved.
Three days abed after birthing a squalling but tiny baby, his lady love now lay pale and, without question, nearer to death’s door than a woman of two and twenty should ever drift. In deference to the religion of his youth, Jean dared to petition the good and mighty Lord to save her.
Penance is mine for my sins, Father. Do not extract the toll from one so young, so naive.
For a moment, he considered adding an offer to exchange places with Sylvie, to barter her life for his death. Sanity prevailed, however, and he shook his head.
“The babe,” Sylvie whispered in English.
“It is well and truly fine,” Jean answered in the French he knew would provide Sylvie with more comfort. “The picture of good health and fine spirits,
ma chère
.”
Jean spoke the words—lies, all—merely to savor what time remained. Had he told her the truth—that the infant bore less chance of living than she—the grief might have done her in. Better she went to her Savior believing her child remained behind than to arrive and find the babe crawling toward the gates of Saint Peter ahead of her.
“And a more magnificent child has never been born of woman save the one at whom I now gaze,” Jean said, addressing the silk counterpane rather than look into the eyes of the woman who had once rivaled all of New Orleans in her comeliness while remaining a secret to all but him and a select few others.
If only he’d married for love rather than political expediency. If only his wife, who just tonight promised to be aboard the first packet bound for Philadelphia as soon as she recovered, did not this very night intend to bear him a child, as well.
If only. . .
No, he would not allow what could very well be the last remnant of their time together to be spent chasing the dust motes of lost wishes. A knock at the door shook his thoughts.
“The soldiers,” the slave woman called, “they be a-comin’.”
“Friend or foe?” he called. “English or ours?”
“Ain’t no difference to me,” came the answer through the closed door.
Nor to him. Neither English enemy nor American friend dared catch him here—his future depended on it.
Jean pressed his lips to Sylvie’s, and then recoiled in horror. Where moments ago, the breath of life had been present, now it was gone, and so was she. Along with her, God had surely taken his heart.
Making a decision he promised himself he’d never repeat, he snatched up the squalling infant and hid her beneath his cloak. As before, he would find Delilah.
Yes, his most trusted servant would have the answer.
Chapter 1
St. Francisville, Louisiana
April 1833
I
sabelle was neither slave nor free, with no past save the one she invented for herself during her daytime musings and nighttime dreams. She wanted for nothing and yet had only a disinterested paid chaperone for a companion. Exile was all she knew until this morning when a carriage arrived to steal her away.
It was time for her new life to begin, the life where the man who had fathered her would now sell her to the highest bidder. It was a grand tradition that started with her late mother, perhaps even generations before.
Mama Dell, who served the dual roles of parent and tormentor, seemed most pleased at this turn of events. Words like
placage
and
placee,
protector and quadroon, were bandied about as if great honor were attached to them.
Thus, Isabelle departed from a home so small that she could hold her breath while she ran the full perimeter of it. Her clothes were left hanging in the cypress wardrobe, the cotton frocks deemed unsuitable for the world she was about to enter, and certainly no match for the exquisite ensemble of emerald green she had been trussed into for the journey or the wardrobe that awaited her at her new home on Burgundy Street in New Orleans.
Mama Dell took extra care in dressing Isabelle’s hair, all the while pondering aloud just when the man who had sent for them would make his appearance. She speculated on much, but said little of what she actually knew, of course. But then that was the way things were done here. Well-informed silence in the midst of entertaining chatter was a gift best cultivated early and used often.
Still Isabelle found the continued chatter grated on her nerves as the carriage rattled along. Finally Mama Dell tired of the noise and fell silent, even as she continued to observe everything with a most watchful eye.
Isabelle kept her silence, even as the party stopped alongside the river to dine. Through the years, she had learned her queries would go unanswered no matter how many times or in how many ways they were presented. Finally as the carriage turned down the wide breadth of the avenue that a sign proclaimed to be Rue Royale, a single request came forth.
“I wish to know the name of my father.”
Mama Dell squared her shoulders and pretended no fear as she turned her hateful glare in Isabelle’s direction.
Now you’ve done it, Izzy.
After a moment, the glare turned to impatience. “I told you all you’ll ever need to know. The rest is not mine to tell.”
Just when Isabelle had decided there would be no more discussion of the subject, Mama Dell let out a long sigh. “Better you think about the benefit his protection has given you. And, of course, the honor of being chosen by a man of great importance.”
Not the answer she sought, but then it never was. Still, she would try just once more. “But the name?”
“The name is not yours to have until he gives it himself.” Another deep breath, held just long enough to give Isabelle warning to speak no more on the subject. “You’re no more special than anyone else, Isabelle. Keep in mind he could have made you a slave.”
So there it was, the same answer given yet another way.
Isabelle turned to watch the passing scene with practiced indifference. Where once she enjoyed lush green, now there was none. A thick throng of humanity crowding onto tiny walkways and spilling into muddy streets had replaced it.
“Were the situation not so distasteful,” Isabelle finally remarked, “one might find great irony in it.”
Mama Dell gave her a sideways look. “How so?”
“I am owned by the man who sired me and I am being purchased by a man who will possess me.” She swiveled to face her chaperone. “The irony is that you would use words like protection as if either of these men actually sought to perform the task. In truth, neither has thought to seek my opinion on the transaction, nor have they considered my freedom in the bargain. Thus, I am merely goods to be bartered and transferred much like the barrels and crates we passed at the docks.”
“This is dangerous talk, and I’ll not listen to it.”
She dug her nails into her palms and bit back a sharp response. “And yet it is the truth,” she managed when her temper had been sufficiently reined in.
Laughter echoed across the confines of the carriage. “Look at those women. Tell me, what do you see?”
A trio of well-dressed ladies strolled together, brightly colored parasols shading them from the Louisiana sun. One laughed aloud as the carriage passed by while the other two inclined their heads until their fancy hats collided.
“Like as not you envy them, don’t you, girl? You want what they have, don’t you?”
“Of course, but who would not prefer their freedom?”
Mama Dell laughed most indelicately and then swiped at her forehead with a lace handkerchief. “You think they’re free?” Another cackle. “Hardly.”
“I don’t understand. Are they…”
“Like us?” Mama Dell settled back against the seat. “Not in the way you’re thinking. Oh, they have freedom enough, far as that goes, but mind you they are slaves of a different kind. I warrant they would prefer your situation to theirs.”
Isabelle turned to get a better look at the ladies, who were now climbing into an impressive carriage with the aid of a footman. “I do not understand.”
“Of course you don’t.” Mama Dell patted Isabelle’s knee. “Those women go home to prisons of their own choosing. They’ve got mamas-in-law telling them they aren’t good enough to pass on the family name and husbands who prefer to spend their nights with women such as you instead of coming home to them.” She shook her head and then adjusted her sleeve. “No, thank you. I’ll keep the life I have.”
“Surely not all free women live such lives. Those women look so…”
“Happy?” Again she laughed. “I fear you’ll be relieved of that notion sooner rather than later. Until then, know that happiness is something you can purchase if you can afford to. And you, Isabelle, will soon have enough money to buy plenty of happiness for the both of us.”
Before she could respond, the carriage jolted to a halt in front of a tidy row house, one of a half-dozen lining this side of Burgundy Street. Across the way, mirror images of these same homes soaked up the afternoon sun. Were the women who watched from behind their lace curtains in the same predicament as she?
“The monsieur has seen to all the lady’s needs, including a cook and a lady’s maid,” the coachman said. “Will there be anything else?”