The Pelican Bride (47 page)

Religion was another critical factor in the success or failure of French settlements along the Gulf Coast. Even before King Louis XIV took the reins of power in 1661, France had been sending Jesuit and seminary missionaries into Indian villages, both as evangelists and ambassadors. These competing orders of priests
sometimes created as much headache as benefit for military commanders.

Since the beginning of the Reformation, cycles of civil war, uneasy peace, and bloody massacre escalated between Protestants (known as Huguenots) and Catholics in France, until Protestant-turned-Catholic monarch Henry IV issued the 1598 Edict of Nantes, which protected those who wished to worship peacefully outside the Roman tradition. Then in 1685, Louis XIV declared himself free from foreign conflict and ready to rid the nation of “the memory of the troubles, the confusion, and the evils which the progress of this false religion has caused in this kingdom” (see the Revocation of the Edict of Nantes). Persecution of the “R.P.R.”—so-called reformed religion—renewed and intensified, until the Abbé of Chaila brought the King’s forces into the mountainous Cévennes region of southern France to enforce conversions to the Catholic faith. Soldiers were billeted with Reformist families in an effort to make them convert or emigrate. Those who refused to comply were arrested, deported, or sentenced to the galleys, and their property confiscated or burned.

An interesting real-life character, educated young apprenticed baker Jean Cavalier, arose from that conflict in the Cévennes. Cavalier, a natural orator and genius of irregular warfare, led armed Protestant civilians—known as Black Camisards—in resisting the persecution. While winning several pitched battles against His Majesty’s experienced and trained military, Cavalier was never captured but managed to negotiate some concessions from the royal commander. After Louis XIV died in 1715, hostilities finally ended, and the Protestant remnant in the Cévennes was left in peace. Some years later, Cavalier went over to the British and in 1738 was made governor of the island of Jersey.

Those facts were enough to give me an intriguing background for my heroine, Geneviève Gaillain, and I hope historians will forgive whatever details I had to tweak or exaggerate for the sake of story.

Native Mobilians will perhaps recognize character names from the annals of local history. The “Pelican Girls” of 1704 were real people who married, raised children, and died in real time. Little was recorded about most of them, beyond the usual church records, which left me free to use their names and embellish their stories. Gabrielle Bonnet (my Ysabeau), for example, was noted for going mad and walking about in her underclothes. There is no record of her marriage. Other names I changed or simplified (due to the seventeenth-century practice of naming children after saints, resulting in a confusing plethora of Maries, Jeannes, and Catherines) for readability. Geneviève and Aimée Gaillain are products of my imagination, as are Nika, Tristan, Marc-Antoine, Julien, and Father Mathieu. For details on the life of the famous Le Moyne brothers, whose exploits are well-documented, I recommend titles such as
Jean
Baptiste Le Moyne: Sieur de Bienville
by Grace King,
Colonial
Mobile
by Peter J. Hamilton, and of course Jay Higginbotham’s brilliant
Old Mobile: Fort Louis de la Louisiane, 1702–1711
.

Acknowledgments

T
his is one of my favorite parts of the writing process, where I get to name names. You know, the people who stand behind the author, prodding, praying, and breathing a sigh of relief when it’s all over. I’ll try to keep it short.

I am as usual grateful for the encouragement, advice, and common sense provided by my husband. Scott puts up with his daydreamy, disorganized, and distractible wife with uncanny grace and good humor. He’s also gotten to be quite a good editor. Then there’s my best friend, Tammy, who faithfully reads and prays over everything and helps me pitch out bad ideas and replace them with good ones. I love you guys.

Honestly, this book wouldn’t have seen the light of day without my longtime friend and agent, Chip MacGregor. Somehow, in the middle of the chaotic swings of turn-of-the-century book publishing, he found a partner for my dream of setting the rich Gulf Coast historical narrative as a fictional family saga, and introduced me to Lonnie Hull Dupont—an editor with experience, insight, and an extraordinary love for the written word. I am blessed beyond expression.

I would also like to thank the faithful friends and family who have prayed for me during the stressful time of first-draft writing, full-time teaching, and trying to stay active in church—especially my choir students at LeFlore High School. Yes, children, Mrs. White has finished that book. Fist bump.

Finally, the job of a novelist is to entertain, but if she can at the same time hold up a mirror to society, so much the better. With that in mind, I would like to thank a few wise and gentle brothers and sisters who, over the past three years, have helped me explore what it means to be free to pursue life, liberty, and happiness. You know who you are.

Mobile, Alabama
June 2013

1

M
OBILE
, A
LABAMA
A
UGUST
1776

Balancing on the balls of her bare feet, Lyse Lanier danced along the Water Street wharf with her crab bucket swinging against her leg, face lifted to the breeze off the Mobile River. She imagined herself in a brocaded satin gown, walking the parapet of a gilded castle, high-heeled slippers pinching her toes, her corset so tight she could barely breathe.
Head high, back straight, my girl. A duke may ask you to dance tonight.

The sun-baked odors of salt and fish and oil became the smoke of a hundred tallow candles and expensive perfumes wafting from the silken clothing of her ball guests. The creak of landing chains sawed against boat hulls bumping against their piers, an orchestra that filled her head with the music of the wharf as she turned, head tipped back to follow a bank of clouds shifting across the hot summer sky.

Swaying to the music she closed her eyes. Just beyond the refreshment table groaning with exotic foods, a young man came pushing through the crowd with the authority of aristocracy. A clean-lined French face with serious eyes, a sword clanking at his side—

“Hey, girl, I want a place to spend the night. Help a sailor out!”

The rough voice dissolved her daydream like waves on a sand castle. Whirling, Lyse scanned the wharf. The waterfront was crowded, market day bringing merchant ships from Havana, Pensacola, Baton Rouge, New Orleans, and ports beyond. Men of all ages, color, and social strata, but few women. Few white women, anyway, for the eastern edge of the city was home to sailors, slaves, shopkeepers, and travelers. And women of easy virtue.

Earlier this morning, her brother Simon had warned Lyse to take their young stepmother along. But Justine was due to deliver her fourth child any day and waddled like a cow. Laughing, Lyse had reached inside her bodice for the scabbard sewn into her shift, snicking the little blade free to wave it under Simon’s disapproving nose. “I can take care of myself,” she’d said, tucking the knife away before he could grab it.

She hoped she could. Her anxious gaze lit upon a swarthy bearded creature leering at her over a pile of canvas near the pier. Dressed as he was in the ubiquitous sailor’s garb of ragged sailcloth, teak-colored arms crossed over his bare chest, and a ragged knit cap covering his oily black curls, he was an unprepossessing sight.

“Try Burelle’s Inn,” she said. Please, God, the quiver in her voice didn’t betray her fear.

“He’s not as pretty as you.”

Was that supposed to be flattering? She laughed and kept walking.

The ripe odor of old sweat and fish came up fast from behind. An iron grip caught her upper arm, jerking her around to face him. “Think you’re too good for the likes o’ me, little girl? I fancy a little café au lait of a mornin’.”

She stared into the sailor’s hard, twitchy eyes. “Matter of fact,
little
man—” dropping the bucket, she reached for her knife and shoved its wicked point beneath his chin— “I think you got me mixed up with somebody else. I’m the town barber, specializing in the extra-close shave.” She braced to jab upward.

“
Permiso
,
señorita
.”

The sailor’s grip loosened at the interruption, allowing Lyse to jerk free. As the rapscallion took the opportunity to melt away in the crowd, she turned and looked up into a pair of sleepy brown eyes in a good-looking olive-skinned face.

“What do you want?” She’d been looking forward to drawing blood, thus proving to the interfering Simon that she could protect herself.

“Eh,
pardon
.” The young man’s French was just as lazy as his Spanish. “Do you not speak Spanish?”

She switched to English. “You can apologize in any language you choose—just mind your own business.” One by one, she flicked the knife under the three ornate silver buttons adorning his waistcoat and smiled as they bounced onto the boardwalk.

“Lud, what a destructive little mite it is,” he said in English, watching the buttons roll into a crack and disappear into the river. “Ah, well, saves me the trouble of doing them up from now on.” He gave her a lopsided grin.

“Perhaps you’d like me to cut the rest of it off you,” she suggested, “since dressing is such a—Hey! Give me that!”

He held her knife close to his aristocratic nose and examined its beautiful carved ivory handle. “Oh, I shall. In a moment.” He tested the blade against the pad of his thumb, frowning when a thin pink line of blood welled. “My dear,” he said faintly, watching his blood drip onto the boardwalk, “perhaps you could direct me to a doctor. I seem to have injured myself with your little pot-sticker.”

“Do
not
faint!” she gasped, looking around for help. “You’re too big for me to carry! And give me my knife!”

“Only if you promise not to inflict further damage to my wardrobe.” Sliding his arm around her shoulders, with his free hand he tucked the knife into his own capacious coat pocket and sagged against her. “Would you be so good as to direct me to the inn? Burelle’s, I think you said.”

“Make up your mind. Do you want the doctor or the inn?”

“I want to sit down. Anywhere will do.” He closed his eyes, giving her the opportunity to admire eyelashes that would have been the envy of any debutante.

Lyse, however, refused to admire anything about him. Whoever he was. “All right, you big baby. Come along.” Grunting under his solid weight, she wheeled him toward Royal Street, where a barbershop and surgery did business across the street from the inn.

“Mademoiselle is too kind…” The young man had switched back to French, perhaps sensing it was her native language, but his deep voice maintained its languid, sibilant cadence. “I regret that we have not been properly introduced. I am Don Rafael Maria Gonzales de Rippardá, merchant of New Orleans, at your service.”

“I would say, rather, that it is I at
your
service.” She looked up at him and saw a mischievous dimple creasing one lean cheek. “Oh, you are such a faker!” She dipped out from under his arm. “What a fuss for such a little bit of blood.”

He gave her a wounded look. “Mademoiselle, it is not so! Every drop of one’s blood is infinitely precious!”

“How do you know I am
mademoiselle
and not
madame
? Hmm? You are very forward, for a stranger to our city.”

“Are you indeed ‘madame?’ Your poor husband must fear for his very life. Only see the damage you have caused.” He held open his mangled waistcoat. “One wonders why any visitor would come back, after such a welcome.”

“You
are
welcome—to go away and
never
come back!”

He blinked at her sadly. “Are you really not going to tell me your name?”

She regarded him tight-lipped for a moment, arguing with herself. He was too lazy to be dangerous, despite his height and the clever way he had relieved her of her knife. And he
had
frightened away the nasty sailor. Also he smelled very good, faintly of san
dalwood. “I am
Mademoiselle
Lyse Lanier. I’m not usually rude, and I thank you for sending away that—that pig.”

She was treated to the full impact of Rafael Gonzales’s flashing white teeth and sparkling dark eyes as he swept off his tricorn, making its extravagant red plume quiver. He bowed deeply at the waist, twice, a ludicrous exaggeration considering her ragged and barefoot state.

“You are utterly forgiven, beautiful mademoiselle, señorita, miss—and what an enchanting name for an enchanting young lady! If all the women of the city are so gracious as you, I am doomed to enslavement! Perhaps I should, like Perseus viewing the sirens, go about blindfolded in order to maintain my sanity.”