The Immortelles
The
I
mmortelles
THE CREOLES SERIES
The
I
mmortelles
Gilbert Morris
&
Lynn Morris
Copyright © 2003 by Gilbert Morris
All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any meansâelectronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, scanning, or otherâexcept for brief quotations in critical reviews or articles, without the prior written permission of the publisher.
Published in Nashville, Tennessee, by WestBow Press, a division of Thomas Nelson, Inc.
Scripture quotations are from the King James Version.
Publisher's Note: This novel is a work of fiction. All characters, plot, and events are the product of the author's imagination. All characters are fictional, and any resemblance to persons living or dead is strictly coincidental.
ISBN 0-7852-6806-5
Printed in the United States of America
03 04 05 06 07 PHX 5 4 3 2 1
I dedicate this book to my childrenâ
Lynn, Stacy, and Alan.
All so differentâbut all so loved.
Contents
PART ONE: MAYâNOVEMBER 1831
Damita
In the early nineteenth century, the culture of New Orleans was as rich and wildly varied as the citizens' complexions. Pure Spanish families, descended from haughty dons, still dwelt in the city, and some pure French families resided there, but many were already mingled with both Spaniards and Africans. Acadiansâor “Cajuns,” as they came to be calledâlived outside of the city. This small pocket of Frenchmen had wandered far from home, but, like many groups in New Orleans, they stubbornly kept much of their eighteenth-century heritage intact and ingrained.
Of course, there were many slaves, but there were also the
gen de couleur libres
, or free men and women of color. Some of these were pure Africans, but most of them were the mulattoes, griffes, quadroons, and octoroons who were the result of French and Spanish blending with slaves. There were Americans, too, though they were strictly confined to the “American district.” And there were Creoles, people of French and Spanish blood who were born outside of their native countries. Creoles born in New Orleans were Louisianians, but they were not considered Americans.
All well-born Creole families sent their children to receive a classical education at the Ursuline Convent or the Jesuit schools, and both institutions accepted charity children.
This series of novels traces the history of four young women who were fellow students at the Ursuline Convent School:
â¢
The Exiles:
Chantel
â¢
The Immortelles:
Damita
â¢
The Alchemy:
Simone
â¢
The Tapestry:
Leonie
PART ONE
⢠MAYâNOVEMBER 1831 â¢
Damita
NEW ORLEANS, LOUISIANA, MAY 1831
“One thing I'm sure of: I'll never be a nun!”
Assumpta Damita de Salvedo y Madariaga stared at herself in the mirror she kept hidden behind a wall hanging. The sisters felt that mirrors led to vanity and forbade them in the rooms of the students at the Ursuline Convent. Sister Agnes, the sternest of them all, had said at least a thousand times, “It is the beauty on the inside,
not
vain painting on the outside, that makes a person.”
Damita studied her features: large, well-shaped, dark eyes, a wealth of glossy, jet-black hair, a complexion like a healthy baby'sârosy and smoother than silk. The chin showed firm determination, and full lips hinted at a willful disposition.
Damita turned around and shook her head, muttering, “A girl might as well not have a figure if she has to wear this hideous dress!” The dress was, indeed, a model of economy. The pupils at the Ursuline Convent were mostly young ladies from wealthy families, but the strict rules at the convent permitted wearing only the plainest of sober, dark dresses. Despite this, at the age of seventeen, Damita could see that the ugly dress clearly outlined her figure, and she laughed aloud.
I'm going out to buy a new dress,
she thought,
a bright, elegant one.
I'll wear it back from the shop and give the sisters a shock.
The thought pleased her, and she pirouetted around the room, a wicked light dancing in her eyes. She had not been a model pupil at the convent, but her father had prestige enough, and had given money enough to the sisters' work, that Damita had never been a candidate for expulsion.
Damita looked around her and thought with satisfaction,
Another two weeks, and I'll never have to look at this old room again.
Indeed, graduation was coming on May fifteenth, and Damita had longed for emancipation from the place for years. Her spirit was not conducive to discipline, and her educational process had been hard both on her and on the Ursuline sisters.
The door opened, and a young woman entered, wearing the same style of dress Damita wore. She scolded Damita, “You're going to be late for chapel. We've got to hurry!”
“I'm not going to chapel, Chantel, and neither are you.”
Chantel Fontaine stared at Damita. The two had been best friends for years, but Chantel had learned to be cautious about joining Damita's schemes. “We've got to go to chapel!” she exclaimed. Anxiety showed in her green eyes, in a pretty face framed by auburn hair. She asked with trepidation, “What are you going to do?”
“I'm going down to get a new dress.”
“You can't do that!”
“Yes, I can, and you're going with me. What can they do to usâthrow us out? You know we're only going through the motions anyhow. In two weeks, we'll be out of here. Let's go.”
Chantel began to protest, but the force of her friend overwhelmed her. Indeed, Damita Madariaga overwhelmed most people. She was domineering, and once she made up her mind, no one could stop her. Her eyes were sparkling as she grabbed her reticule with one hand and Chantel's hand with the other. “I can't stand another one of those boring chapels.”
Chantel, despite her protest, was caught up in Damita's excitement. The two tiptoed out of the room and down the long corridor, and then stepped outside into the garden. They could hear the singing beginning in the convent, and Chantel made one more effort to dissuade Damita.“They'll tell our parents. They might even expel us. You know how Sister Agnes is.”
“They can't do anything to us. The school year is nearly over. Come on, now! It'll be fun. You can help me pick out my new dress.”
As always, Damita grew excited as she dragged Chantel into the city of New Orleans. The air in the city was heavy with the ultrasweet odor of molasses and the pungency of mixed spices. Wisps of cotton floated off the bales piled on the levy. The Port of New Orleans competed with New York as the nation's biggest, and the land along the river was always packed with peopleâthe population had doubled in the past decade. The mighty Mississippi made them rich. Merchandise from a hundred river ports arrived there, and the saying went “Kick a barrel of flour in Minneapolis, and it will roll to the gulf.”
The sight of vessels of all sizes, shapes, and colors, crowded in from everywhere, awed the two girls. The most impressive were the steam packets, white and arrogant, at their landing along Canal Street. Oceangoing ships, gray sails furled, were giving up their sailors, who were attired in the garbs of a dozen nations, on the gangplanks. Much closer to the American sector, flatboats, keelboats, and small river crafts huddled together; floating stores that the Kaintocks presided over, regardless of their place of origin.
The two girls passed through the stacks of tobacco, hemp, animal skins, salted meats, kegs of pork, barrels full of pickled food, rum, tar, coffee with its unmistakable rich scent, andâalwaysâcotton. The bales, some of them spoiled, towered on the open wharves.
The city was crowded as the two girls made their way through the French Quarter. They had become accustomed to the din. Stevedores scurried with their loads, and men ran to clear the ships. Tin-roof shanties lined the passageways with stores that sold sailors' trinkets. Grogshops were everywhere, and new arrivals from the ships waited in long lines. Damita and Chantel passed an oyster stand, where a native forked his delectable wares from their shells. A blind man played a fiddle, and children juggled for pennies. Dark-faced Spaniards sold flowers, and black women waddled by, bearing coffeepots in their baskets, ready to pour a cup for any who wished.
“There's the shop I want. I saw that dress in the window the day before yesterday,” Damita said. “I've got to have it.”
Chantel had no choice but to follow, and they entered the shop. A woman stepped forward and asked, “May I help you ladies?” She was a tall woman, obviously of Creole blood, and she waited expectantly.
“I want to try on that dress in the window.”
“Oh, that is an exquisite dress! A little expensive, I'm afraid.”
Damita gave the woman an arrogant look. “I'll try it on, and if it fits, I'll buy it.”
“
Certainement,
mademoiselle.”
At the woman's direction, Damita and Chantel walked back to a small fitting room. When the owner brought the dress, Chantel gasped. “It's soâit's so bright!”
The dress was indeed bright: an emerald green sheen with sequins around the neck, the sleeves, and the hem. As the store owner assisted Damita in putting on the dress, she exclaimed to Damita, “It might have been made for you! It's a beautiful fit!”
Damita turned around and around, admiring herself. “What do you think, Chantel?”
“It's a lovely dress, and it does just fit you.”
Damita studied herself in a mirror. The dress had a low-cut, square neckline with an inset of a gray, shimmering material encircling the neck and the tight-fitting sleeves that ended at the wrists in a small ruffle. Its empire waist let the fabric drape loosely to the floor, where embroidered and brocaded trim formed the hem.
“I have other dresses, if you would care to try them on.”
“No, I'll take this one, and I'll wear it. Wrap up my other dress, if you please.”
The dressmaker stared at her. “You have not asked the price.”
“My father will pay for it. Send the bill to him.”
“And who is your father?”
“Alfredo Madariaga.”
“Oh, you are Señor Madariaga's daughter!” A pleased smile spread over the woman's face. “You have made a wise choice. Are you certain you want to wear it now?”
“Yes, I am.”
Ten minutes later, the two girls emerged. Chantel's face wore a worried expression. “Won't your papa be shocked at the price of the dress?”
“He promised I could have a new dress for my birthday, and he said I could pick it out. I'm just saving him the trouble of going shopping with me. Chantel, he promised me something else too.”