Felice, p.32
Felice, page 32
“So it would seem. What do you want to do, René? You’ve been content living here, and you’ve done a fine job running the shipping office.”
“Oui. I’ve been missing home, though. What about you, chère?”
“A little,” she admitted, continuing to toy with his marvelous upper torso.
“Jamaica being a British holding doesn’t sit right with me,” he said. “They did abolish slavery here, so there’s that. Trouble, she be a brewin’ back in the States on that particular matter. Makes me think it might be good to have two homes, oui? Most of all, I want our children born in America.”
“As do I.” She propped her chin on his chest and watched Miz Sassy sitting at the water’s edge, waiting for the next sand crab to appear. Life in Jamaica had been good. Better than good. And living in a lovely home with the sea nearly at their front door had been a little piece of paradise. But of late, she’d sensed a growing restlessness in her husband. Even his Cajun accent had thickened. Truth be told, she was beginning to feel some kind of change in the air as well.
“What do you want to do, chère?”
“You know I’ll go wherever you go, but I shall miss our life here, especially my freedom to dress as I please. The thought of all those layers of petticoats and tightly laced shoes fair tires me out.”
“Oui. I am especially fond of these frocks when you have nothing beneath them but my hands.” Slowly, he ran his fingers up her arm, then slid them beneath the short, wide sleeve of her thin, cotton dress. Tenderly, he caressed her breast. “You could wear them in the privacy of our home in N’awlins, non?”
“Mmm. That feels so very, very good.” Contented, she lay against him and let her heart lead the way. There’d be talk when they returned, but the subject wasn’t even worth bringing up. She never cared what the gossips stirred up, and René was now well established; he no longer cared so much what others thought of him. “If we do decide to go back, I’d like to take the bookkeeping position. Work alongside you.”
“Hush, mon amour.” He continued to leisurely caress her breast. “No discussing work on Sunday.”
Odd how such a delicate play of fingers could be so soothing, while at other times, the same action drove her mad with want. “You’re right.” She sighed. As the sway of the hammock and the slow, steady beat of his heart lulled her into oblivion, her eyes drifted shut. “We don’t discuss work on Sunday.”
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS & AUTHOR NOTES
Most Americans today are unfamiliar with the history of how the Cajuns of southeastern Louisiana came to exist. In 1755, British troops embarked on what is now referred to as Le Grand Derangement. Over 18,000 French-speaking Acadians were expelled from their Canadian homeland for refusing to swear unconditional allegiance to the British Crown. Thousands were killed, innumerable families were torn apart, and property was plundered. While a great many of the Acadians were relocated to British colonies, some of them sought refuge in what was then the French colony of Louisiana. These displaced people became the ancestors of our modern-day Cajuns—an independent and proud people with their own French dialect, amazing food, and unique culture. Although the term Cajun was not formally recognized until 1868, the word had been tossed about for years in various forms by those who either kept shortening Acadian or mispronounced it. Because Felice is a novel, I’ve taken the liberty of moving the usage of the word Cajun to 1859, the time period of my story. For the French spoken in my story, I used both a Cajun dictionary, and a bilingual French-Canadian friend as reference, which is why some of the words vary from that spoken in France.
In the middle of creating this story, a series of mishaps took place (a broken arm for one thing) that stalled my writing process. Many thanks to my wonderful and talented critique partners Tara Kingston, Averil Reisman, Barbara Bettis, and Tess St. John, who became my best support group. Without them cheering me on, I doubt René and Felice would’ve reached their happy ending in that hammock in Jamaica.
To my beta readers, Barbara Bettis and Kathi Valdizan, your precious input and catching those little typos and sentences that didn’t make sense saved me on more than one occasion.
Jill Marsal, you are my super-agent who never fails to amaze me with your quick response and solution to any questions I might have, despite the huge time difference in our locales.
To the Kensington crew working diligently behind the scenes, you are all beyond wonderful. To my editor, Alicia Condon, there is an inherent grace about you that elevates how I perceive myself as a writer. I thank you for believing in me.
And thank you, dear reader, for picking up this book. Without you, I’d be writing for my own entertainment. I love hearing from readers. You can contact me on Facebook, Goodreads, Twitter, or through my website at www.kathleenbittnerroth.com.
Authors appreciate and need reviews so if you’d care to leave one, I’d be ever so grateful.
Don’t miss Kathleen Bittner Roth’s next novel,
LILY,
coming soon!
Kingston, Jamaica, 1859
“Like hell we’ll be taking on passengers!” Clad in nothing but a pair of low-hanging linen trousers, Bastien Thibodeaux barreled down the gangplank, bare feet slapping wood, sweat beading his arms and chest. He landed on the shipping company’s dock with such force, it trembled. “In case you failed to notice, Monsieur Fellowes, my crew and I are loading bananas and coconuts, not people.”
Fellowes, the Englishman he’d hired as his replacement, stood before Bastien, unruffled. “A mere two persons—an English gentleman and his wife.”
Bastien shoved a hand through his hair and huffed. “Why did you not consult me before booking passage, s’il vous plaît?”
Fellowes shrugged. “Mr. Talbot has urgent business in New Orleans and is eager to be on his way. They arrived from England late yesterday.”
Bastien shot Fellowes a hard glare. “They are traveling from England to N’awlins via Jamaica? Vous n’avez pas trouvé l’itinéraire inhabituel?”
“Indeed, I did find the route unusual, so naturally, I inquired. According to Talbot, the crucial timing of his aforesaid business matter caused him to take passage on the first available ship. And in case you haven’t noticed, Mr. Thibodeaux, you are near to shouting. And once again, you’ve slipped into that lazy Cajun parlance of yours, which I find most irritating.”
Bastien cursed under his breath. “You do not have my permission to use the word Cajun, Monsieur Britanique. To you, I speak Français Acadien.”
His accent grew thicker with each degree of irritation. He knew it. He didn’t care. “As if I haven’t had a belly full of those hautain Englishmen lording over everything and everyone on this damn island . . . not you, Fellowes. You be the only decent Brit I’ve dealt with in my three months here.”
A corner of Fellowes’s mouth twitched. “Mayhap that’s because you’re the one who hired me?”
“Humph.” Employing Fellowes had been a brilliant move. Despite his glib tongue, he was intelligent and well-bred, and easily interacted with the high and mighty controlling the island. Come the morrow, Bastien would sail back to New Orleans and leave the management of the Andrews Shipping Company’s Caribbean offices in good hands.
“You know the only reason I sought to captain the Aria back home was for the sheer pleasure of seeing the expression on my brother’s face when I sail this fine lady into port. I am of no mind to take on the added responsibility of passengers. Especially a couple of rigide Brits expecting to be catered to. You should’ve consulted me, damn it.”
“And have you turn them down?” Unperturbed, Fellowes stood his ground. “Talbot also mentioned he’s an old school chum of the man who founded this shipping company.”
“A schoolmate of Monsieur Justin Andrews? Mon Dieu. Andrews departed England some forty years ago. How damn old you figure this Talbot to be?”
“Late sixties, perhaps.”
Bastien moved to the edge of the dock and peered into turquoise waters so clear, it seemed as if he could reach out and touch the white, sandy bottom. A sea bottom that actually lay some thirty feet below the surface. A quick dip would be just the thing to cool off both body and temper. He reached for the top button of his trousers. A school of barracuda, their silver backs flashing in the sun, darted out from beneath the dock. Never mind. He’d take his final swim later, in the isolated cove he favored.
He whistled to his assistant, who stood near the Aria’s stern. At the signal to join him, Henri scampered off the ship, raven hair tangling in the breeze, a wide grin splitting his face. Son of Bastien’s no-good cousin, Henri had been the errand boy for their N’awlins shipping offices until this trip. Barely sixteen, he’d taken to seafaring life as if he’d been born a sailor. “You looking forward to heading home?”
“Oui,” Henri replied. “I had me a mighty good time here, but I have me a powerful yearning for some of Maman’s filé gumbo, don’cha know.”
Bastien chuckled.
Fellowes cleared his throat. “There’s something else you should be made aware of before your departure.”
Bastien released a litany of Cajun curses. “What the devil now?”
“Mr. Talbot wishes to board the Aria later this evening. Preferably after midnight.”
The hair on the back of Bastien’s neck stood on end. “Why the odd hour?”
“The gentleman indicated his wife has been ill and has a sensitivity to the sun—”
“Mon Dieu! I will not risk bringing a disease-ridden passenger on board.”
Fellowes shook his head. “Talbot says it’s a weak heart, not a sickness.”
Some intuitive sense prickled Bastien’s gut. “Did you check his papers? Make sure the man is who he says he is?”
“But of course, thorough man that I am.”
When Fellowes grew silent, Bastien settled another hard scowl on him. “What you be leaving out?”
“He would like separate lodgings for him and Mrs. Talbot.”
“Sacrebleu. Next you’ll be telling me to bunk below with the crew because he wishes the captain’s quarters for himself.”
Fellowes grinned. “Can I offer you a brandy to celebrate your last night here?”
Bastien snorted. “You mean from my own supply?”
Fellowes glanced over Bastien’s shoulder. “Looks like your crew’s finished loading the fruit. Come, join me. A few good swallows of your fine liquor and you’ll get a better night’s sleep.”
Bastien waved him off. “Non. I shall meet with the Talbots before taking to my bed. If it’s her heart and nothing infectious, I will allow them to board. But only because he claims to know the company owner. As it is, I’ve a mind to set sail early in hopes of leaving them behind.”
Fellowes cocked a brow. “An ill woman you’d leave behind? Tch, tch, tch. I got the impression Talbot doesn’t care for Jamaica any more than you do. The heat and all, he said.”
“What the devil does he think the weather in N’awlins be like, Northern England?” Bastien turned to leave, then paused to glance over his shoulder at Fellowes. “If I agree to the Talbots’ taking passage, you’d better have a personal maid lined up for the lady. One who speaks English and is willing to travel to N’awlins and back.”
Fellowes folded his arms over his chest and smirked. “Already seen to.”
“Humph. Come along, Henri. Time for our last swim in this beautiful water. There won’t be any bayou swimming back home. Not unless you want those gators making a meal of you.” Bastien strolled into the shipping office, donned his shirt, snatched up his shoes, and, with Henri by his side, headed for the isolated cove he favored.
As they made their way through town in silence, thoughts of Louisiana overwhelmed Bastien’s mind. He’d be glad to get back to N’awlins. Five months on this island with the British and their rigid rule over Jamaica had been about four months and one day too long. When he’d offered to act as temporary manager for the island offices, he’d not given thought as to how controlling the British might be, or how much he would resent their self-important hierarchy. One would never know slavery had been abolished here years ago for the way those louts treated hired hands.
When Bastien and Henri reached the isolated cove with its white sand backed by a stand of palm trees and waist-high ferns, Henri stripped and hurried into the water. Bastien paused to watch the sun dip to the horizon, sending swaths of orange and pink across the waters. His breath caught at the splendor of it all. Despite his constant clashing with those in authority, the beauty of this lush island had turned out to be a soothing tonic for Bastien’s thirsty soul. But now, it was more than time to head home.
* * *
With every bump and rattle of the carriage, pain shot through Lily’s head. Despite her efforts to control herself, she moaned aloud.
“Hold steady, dear. We’re nearly there; then all you need do is manage the few steps from the carriage into the shipping company’s office while the ship’s captain makes a few inquiries as to your health.”
“The captain . . . I . . . I cannot,” Lily managed, barely above a whisper.
“You can, and you must. Soon, you’ll be aboard ship and in your own stateroom. Then you can take to your bed for the duration.”
It took all the energy she possessed to form her words. “Oh, Uncle, I simply do not have the strength.”
The arm he held around her shoulders tightened. “Listen carefully to me, Lily. No longer can you call me Uncle. What is my new name? Tell me who I am.”
All she could manage was a sigh.
“Oh, this simply will not do.” He gave her shoulders a shake. “Stay awake, Lily. You must forget your pet name for me. Who am I now? What is my new name?”
At her godfather’s words, she sighed. She couldn’t think. “Yes . . . no . . . Charles . . .”
“Bloody hell,” he muttered. “My name is now Percival Talbot. You must never again speak my given name.”
His words echoed through her head in a jumble. No matter how hard she tried, she could not string them together to make any sense.
“Do you hear me?” He shook her again. “Lily, buck up. Your life depends on this short interview with the captain.”
“Can’t think. I . . . I’ll remember when the time comes.” She collapsed into the crook of her beloved godfather’s arm, wanting desperately to drift away, to not have to think. “Why can we not go to our staterooms directly?”
“The captain is concerned you might have an infectious disease. He insists on examining you before he’ll grant us leave to board the ship. I told Mr. Fellowes it was your heart making you weak, not some disease that would be of concern to others. Of all the dratted luck. Fellowes claims this Captain Thibodeaux is some kind of Cajun healer out of a bayou near New Orleans. You must make it to the shipping office and cooperate, Lily.”
The carriage pulled to a stop. One side dipped as the driver scrambled off his perch. Lily was able to make out the wavering image of a ship afloat in the harbor. Her blurred vision made it look as though the vessel was wrapped in a gossamer mist. The thought of sailing on rough waters yet again sent a wave of nausea washing through her.
The door to the carriage opened, and a footman lowered the steps. Her godfather slipped out ahead of her. Leaning back inside, he fitted the hood of her cape over her head, obscuring her face within its folds. Straightening her spine, and with all the strength she could muster, she stepped from the vehicle and into her godfather’s arms.
“Good girl,” he whispered. As they moved toward the shipping office, he raised his voice. “Shall we, my dear?”
With gas lanterns lighting the way, she kept her head down, her hazy vision focused on the wooden planks beneath her feet lest she stumble. As she stepped inside the office, her befogged gaze landed on what appeared to be large, booted feet, then traveled upward, past the tops of leather boots to long legs clad in tight breeches. And from what little she could make out, a trim belly and broad shoulders.
“Bonsoir,” came a deep and resonant voice.
She jolted. The captain was French? Weren’t they supposed to be going to America? Confusion engulfed her once again.
“And a good evening to you as well, Captain Thibodeaux,” her godfather replied.
Heart pounding, Lily kept her head down. She’d let Uncle . . . no . . . she must forever wipe that word from her mind. In vain, she tried to remember to call him . . . to call him . . . what? She’d simply call him husband until—or if—her mental faculties ever fully returned.
“If you wish to make this journey with us, I must insist on examining your wife,” said the captain.
Was he truly a Frenchman? What an odd accent. Nonetheless, she found his deep voice with its melodic cadence soothing.
The sound of a chair scraping across the wooden floor caught her attention. And then, thank heavens, someone eased her onto its hard seat. Conversation between this captain and her . . . her husband ensued, but the words escaped her muddled mind. Someone slid back the hood of her cape, then fingers, gentle but firm, touched beneath her chin, nudging it upward. Eyes closed, she drifted off again into sweet oblivion.
“Madame Talbot,” came that same lyrical voice. A feathering of breath landed upon her lips. “Open your eyes, s’il vous plaît.”
Startled out of her reverie, she did as she was told and found herself staring into the captain’s face, fuzzy though it appeared.
“I need you to tell me how well you can see. Can you make out my face?”
How did he know? Had he guessed it was not her heart distressing her?
Oh dear.
“A bit,” she managed.
Were his eyes really so blue? Was he truly so handsome? Oh, what did she know when everything was such a blur? No man could be so striking. She was tired, so very tired. Her eyelids, excruciatingly heavy, refused to remain open. She held out her gloved hand, desperate to find her godfather’s . . . no . . . her husband’s. She felt his steady grip and relaxed. She needed a moment, just a moment to rest. Leaning her head on his shoulder, her nose and mouth settled against his throat. So comforting. So very comforting.
