Creole Hearts

Creole Hearts

By

Jane Toombs

ISBN:  978-1-77145-091-1

Books We Love Ltd.

Chestermere, Alberta

Canada

Copyright 2013 by Jane Toombs

Cover art by Michelle Lee Copyright 2013

All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

Chapter One

All streets leading to the square were thronged with processions and onlookers. Tanguy La Branche, staring down from a crowded Cabildo balcony, was taken back seven years to Paris and the rioting mobs in the city streets. He shook his head to dispel the memory. This was New Orleans, not Paris and, despite the thin drizzle, the Creoles were celebrating.

Below, to the left of the Place d'Armes, the Louisiana Regiment and the New Orleans militia stood at attention. To the right, the Spanish Cavalry Squadron sat stiffly on their mounts. The Spanish flag hung wet and limp but nothing dampened the spirit of the crowds about the square.

The wooden gallows thrusting up near the flagpole seemed out of place, an unpleasant reminder that the Place d'Armes had less joyous usages. The sight of it made Guy remember that this November 30, 1803, wasn't exactly the festive occasion that most thought.

He felt a hand tug at his sleeve.

"Guy, we can't see," his sister Madelaine complained.

Taking advantage of his authority as an aide of
Prefet
de Laussat, Guy cleared a space at the balcony's iron railing for Madelaine and her friend Annette Louise Courchaine. No one objected, the men smiling at the two pretty fifteen year olds in their high waisted gowns and colorful shawls and bonnets.

A thunder of cannon from the Argo, the French brig of war anchored in the Mississippi River just beyond the Place d'Armes, saluted the arrival of Prefet de Latissat and the Spanish officials as their processions halted in front of the Cabildo, the government building.

When he'd been sent home to Nouvelle Orleans from France, Guy's eyes, dazzled by la belle Paris, saw the small, stockaded town of his birth as a country village instead of the city he'd always believed it to be. New Orleans had perhaps four thousand houses and certainly no more than ten thousand inhabitants, half white, the rest either free colored or Negro slaves. But New Orleans was his home and he loved it.

Annette Louise turned her head to glance at him. As he met her gaze, she blushed and looked quickly away. He smiled, wondering if she realized he still thought of her as a little girl despite her ripening figure. Hadn't she and Madelaine plagued him ever since they were toddlers, getting underfoot, trying to follow him and his friends everywhere?

"They're coming into the Cabildo," Madelaine said. "What happens next, Guy?"

"Governor Salcedo and Prefet de Laussat will sign the documents issued by Napoleon and agreed to by King Charles of Spain, the papers that transfer the colony of Louisiana back to France after forty one years of Spanish rule. Think—we'll be able to call ourselves French in truth."

"We're Creoles," Madelaine said, "not French."

"Yes, but a Spaniard born in the Louisiana colony can also call himself a Creole," Guy said, "while he can never be a Frenchman."

"I think maybe being a Creole is enough," Madelaine said.

Guy shrugged. She’d never been to France, she didn’t understand.

After a time, the
prefet
and the governor, followed by the
marquis
de Casa Calvo, the Spanish commissioner said to be the man who’d really ruled the colony, appeared on a tiny balcony to Guy’s right. The crowd below cheered.

As the troops presented arms and the Argo saluted with cannon volleys, the Spanish flag came down and the French tricolor rose to the top of the staff. Guy threw up his arms and shouted in triumph, his cry echoed by hundreds of Creoles, the shouts continuing as the Spanish troops withdrew from the square.

“This is a proud day for Louisiana,” Prefet de Laussant said, beginning his speech.

Proud, yes, Guy told himself, but in truth, a mockery. He recalled what the
prefet
told him when he’s been appointed as an aide.

“Tanguy, you already speak Spanish in addition to our language. I must insist you also learn English.”

“May I ask why
, prefet?

De Laussat had sighed. “I have the curse of being able to choose the best course for the most, even though it goes against my own instincts. I don’t expect you to understand why I ask this of you. Do it.”

Guy had complied, inadvertently teaching English to Madelaine when he asked her to help him memorize words.

He smiled at her now, though her attention was on de Laussat. Intelligence as well as beauty shone in her sable eyes. If only she could be a bit less willful, a trifle less determined to have her own way. Creole woman should be accommodating.

He forced his mind back to the speech, one he’d heard in different forms many times before as the
prefect
tried it out on his aides. Guy was the youngest of them, only nineteen.

“Money can never be ignored,” his friend Rafe Devol had said pointedly.

Guy knew the truth of this. His father had left him La Belle, the sugar plantation with its manor house and vast acreage below New Orleans as well as the yet undeveloped land on Lake Pontchartrain and the townhouse on the rue de Royal, Certainly Pierre de Laussat took this into consideration when choosing his aides, although Guy hoped there'd also been other reasons for his appointment.

After the speeches were over, Guy saw Annette Louise safely to the Courchaine townhouse, then walked with Madelaine the four
islets
, the four blocks, to the rue de Royal. The ditches along the dirt streets ran with water and mud splashed up onto the banquette, the sidewalk, from passing horses.

"My slippers will be quite ruined," Madelaine protested, poking a satin covered toe from beneath her gown.

"If you expect me to carry you, you'll have a long wait, dear sister," he said. "I happen to know you have dozens of other slippers while I'm your one and only brother. Wear out the shoes, not me."

She slanted a look at him. "Do you imply I'm too plump? I'll have you know that just yesterday a gentleman admired my figure most fervently."

Guy frowned at her and she laughed, showing a dimple in her left cheek.

"I hope it wasn't Philippe Roulleaux," he said. "I saw him talking to Annette Louise and it certainly seemed to me you were enjoying the encounter."

"Can I help it if my best friend and your worst enemy are attracted to one another?"

"Nicolas has the honor of being my worst enemy, not his younger brother Philippe. But Philippe is also a Roulleaux and don't you forget it. Any Roulleaux is a foe of a La Branche."

Madelaine stopped walking and faced him, hands on her hips. "The stars will fall from the sky before a La Branche will forgive a Roulleaux," she intoned mockingly. "Pow!"

"Those words are not a joking matter," he told her, taking her arm and urging her along. “How can you forget papa was killed by a Roulleaux?”

"In a duel!" she cried. "Papa challenged him over a trifle. All because of some ancient fight more than a hundred years ago. Great great great grandfather Yvon may have had his reason for saying what he did about falling stars, but why do we have to keep on with it?"

"When has a Roulleaux offered to forgive one of us?" he demanded.

"Someone must be first—why not a La Branche? There's only the two of us left, you and me. How many Roulleauxes? Nicolas and Philippe. It's time to forgive and forget before there are none left on either side."

"You're safe enough from duels, Madelaine."

She clutched at his arm. "How can I bear it if you challenge Nicolas and are killed?"

A wry smile touched Guy's lips. "Maybe I wouldn't die. I could be lucky."

"I don't want you to kill Nicolas or Philippe either. I've had enough of death. Maman and our baby sister and papa . . ."

He looked at her exquisite heart shaped face, framed by her black curls, and felt his heart contract. He couldn't bear to think that anything unpleasant would ever happen to Madelaine. She was so pretty, so trusting and so dangerously headstrong. At fifteen, she might not recognize the pitfalls that lay in wait for young women.

"Are you so interested in the welfare of the Roulleauxes because of your encounter with young Philippe?" he asked.

"You twist what I say," she said angrily. "Is it so wrong to worry about my brother?"

Guy smiled at her, relieved. "Any day now Gabriel Davion will offer for you and you'll have a husband to keep you busy so you won't have time to fuss over me."

She tossed her curls. "What makes you think I'll accept Gabriel?"

Guy shook his head. Poor Gabriel would have his hands full turning Madelaine into a proper Creole wife. How empty La Belle would seem with her gone. He'd not yet found a woman he cared to marry but, of course he'd have to think about taking a bride one of these days.

The Roulleaux curse on his La Branche ancestor slid into his head. "Seven times have you stabbed me, Yvon La Branche. Before I die, I ask Almighty God above and the Devil below, whichever of them will heed my prayer, to wither your line before seven generations take their place in the sun."

Yes, he'd have to consider marrying, if only to produce an heir to spite that ancient Roulleaux.

By late afternoon the rain had diminished. Guy saw Madelaine, resplendent in gold velvet, to the Courchaine townhouse. She was to be chaperoned by Annette Louise's mother at the evening ball given by Governor Salcedo in honor of de Laussat.

Guy continued on to the governor's house. The men, as usual, would gamble before the women arrived and also after the dancing. He touched the ruby ring on his left hand, his lucky ring. He never gambled without it, neither at cards nor dicing.

His father had introduced the dice game of Hazard to New Orleans. Craps, the bedamned Americains called it, after the name they called the Creoles
crapauds
, frogs.

As he neared the corner of Toulouse and Levee, a carriage drew up at the governor's gate and Luis Cirillo, long and lean, climbed out, assisted his wife, plump as a stuffed sausage, to descend, then turned to help a young woman to the ground.

Guy caught his breath.

Mon Dieu
, who was she? Spanish, no mistaking that haughty look, but beautiful, a rarity, a blonde
senorita
, her eyes blue as sapphires. Guy bowed to the Cirillos and watched them and the senorita walk ahead of him through the gate and into the courtyard. He followed slowly.

A hand clapped him on the back and Guy turned to see his friend Gabriel Davion grinning at him. "Guy, you look bereft of your senses. I never thought I'd live to see the day a woman struck you dumb. Can it be the
senorita
has added you to her string of conquests without even a glance in your direction?"

"Who is she?" Guy demanded. "Why haven't I met her before?"

"Ah, while you've been amusing yourself trotting about after the
prefect,
the rest of us have gotten a head start. Although
, helas
, Nicolas Roulleaux leads the pack for she smiles at him oftener than at anyone else. Her name is Senalda Gabaldon, the niece of Senora Cirillo and she's on a visit from Spain."

Gabriel took Guy's arm and urged him across the courtyard. "You won't see her again until the ladies join us, so come console yourself with the turn of the cards."

"Dice, I think," Guy said. "But a bit later."

Once inside the house, Gabriel left him to go to one of the eight gaming tables. Guy looked for Prefet de Laussat, passing two long dinner tables set with silver and crystal. He spotted de Laussat with a group of Creoles but, before he reached him, Guy was intercepted by Andre Lafreniere, a plump man with thinning hair who'd been a friend of his father's.

“I wish your papa had lived to see this day," Andre said. "He never took to the Spanish. ‘Long nosed, stiffs,' he called them."

Guy wondered what Andre would say if he told him the most beautiful senorita in the world had just captured his heart. But it was true his father had hated the marquis de Casa Calvo. Hadn't the marquis helped Bloody O'Reilly put down the New Orleans' rebellion against Spain before Guy was born?

In 1768 it had been, and one of Andre Lafreniere's distant cousins, a ringleader, had faced the firing squad for challenging the Spaniards.

"Is it true, as they say," Andre asked, "we shall be Frenchmen for only a brief time?"

"I fear the rumors are right," Guy said. He'd been warned by de Laussat not to talk about what would happen in the next month, but he couldn't lie to Andre.

Andre sighed. "At least the Spanish are gentlemen, they have manners. Whatever will we do with the
Kaintocks
? Louts, every one. Drunken brawlers."

Guy didn't want to be drawn into a conversation about this touchy matter after being warned away from it by the
prefet.

"Why not join me in a game?" he asked Andre, inclining his head toward the nearest dice table. He'd gamble a little, since the
prefet
seemed too occupied to be interrupted at the moment."I prefer cards, thanks all the same." Andre slapped Guy on the shoulder. "I trust you'll be luckier than your papa with the dice." He dug an elbow into Guy's ribs. "Still, you might do better to take after him with the ladies—a success
fou
, eh?"