Chantel compressed her lips as she wrote steadily in her journal. The hot sun flooded in through the window of her room, revealing millions of tiny motes dancing in the pale light. From far off came the sound of the field hands singing as they did their work, but the sound made no impact on her.
July 14, 1826
Papa finally came home late last night. I heard him and got up, and he looked very tired. I’m glad he’s home. He stays away so much now that I get lonesome.
Leaning back in her chair, Chantel considered the next entry. She had confided secrets to her journal that she would not want anyone to see. It had become a substitute, in a way, for her mother, with whom she always had been able to share.
After Mama and Veronique left us, Papa stayed at home most of the time. But after six months he began going to New Orleans. He didn’t stay long at first, but as time went on he spent more and more time there instead of here at the plantation. I wish he would take me with him! I get so lonesome!
I’ve just finished a geography lesson with Mrs. Pettis. She is so boring! That woman even makes geography dull. We were studying Hawaii, and she told me all about the annual rainfall but not a word about the beautiful dancers and the sea and the natives in their canoes. Why does she always want to talk about the boring things and never about the exciting and beautiful things? Why, I learn more from Brutus than I do from her!
The sound of a barking dog interrupted her, and she got up and went to the window. She had grown, and at the age of thirteen was the tallest of all the girls in her rather small society. Her frame was as slender as ever. She had grown up like a weed, and while other girls of her age were developing womanly features, she thought herself to be as skinny as a rake handle. The thought troubled her, and she went to the mirror and stared. Her face was no more beautiful than it had been when she was ten. Her eyes looked enormous, but they were such an odd color. True, her hair had darkened somewhat and was no longer carroty red, but it was still so thick that she could hardly drag a comb through it. Most of the time it was full of tangles, except when Elise insisted on combing it out.
Going back to the table, Chantel sat down and continued to write. The words came slowly, and for a moment she did not want to put them down. But she had vowed she would tell all in her journal:
I dream about Veronique so often. I dream about Mama, too, and they’re such awful dreams! People don’t like it when I go to their grave so often, so I have to sneak off when no one knows where I’ve gone. It’s strange how I feel about Veronique. I just can’t believe that she’s dead. I know she’s alive—I don’t care what they say!
It did help to say things in her journal, to write down the things that she would not say to anyone else.
Suddenly she heard her father’s voice calling her, and she quickly concealed the diary in the armoire.
“Aren’t you dressed yet?”
“I was just getting ready to dress, Papa.”
She stood there feeling very much alone, for since her father had started going to New Orleans she had felt the sense of distance between them grow. Even when he was home, he did not spend as much time with her as she would like. It had been over two months since he had gone out riding with her.
Cretien broke the silence. “I’ve got something to tell you.”
“Is it bad?”
“No, it’s good. At least I think it is. We’re going to live for a time in New Orleans in the town house.”
“You mean I must leave Fontaine Maison?”
“You’ve always enjoyed going to the town house and seeing the city,” Cretien said. “You like to see new things.”
“But I always knew I was coming back here. I love this place, Papa.”
“Well, you’ll love that place, too. We’ll come back here on visits. I promise.”
Chantel thought quickly, If I’m there, I’ll get to see more of Papa, and that will be so good. “All right, Papa,” she said, brightening. “When will we go?”
“Probably tomorrow. We’ll have to pack a lot of your things. Do you need me to help you?”
“No, I can do it myself. I’m thirteen years old now.”
Cretien smiled. “All right, then. We’ll try to get away by Wednesday. That will give you plenty of time to get packed. Now get dressed. Breakfast is on the table.”
The move to town was a great change for Chantel. She had said good-bye almost tearfully to Brutus and Marie and Clarice. Elise would be coming with them to be her own maid, and she was glad of that.
The first week was exciting, for Papa took her out every night but one, usually to the theater. The Creole life included a great love of drama, and it was possible to go to a different production every night of the week.
Only at night, when she was alone in her room and trying to sleep, did she feel her loss. She not only ached for her mama and Veronique, but she missed her horse and the servants and the outof-doors as well.
She continued to have bad dreams of the death of her mother, but they were not as vivid as they had been.
One day she was in the courtyard playing with the neighbor’s cat when her father stuck his head out the window. “Come and get ready, Chantel. I want you to do an errand with me.”
“All right, Papa.”
Running inside, she climbed the stairs and quickly put on a fresh dress, a coat, and a bonnet. “Where are we going, Papa?” she said.
“I’ve got to see my lawyer. His name is Mr. Harcourt.”
“Can we go to Place d’Armes?”
“Yes, we can. As a matter of fact, his office is just off the square.”
“Do I look all right?”
Cretien gave her a quick glance and nodded. “You look fine. Come along.”
They walked to Place d’Armes, which was close to their house and not worth getting the carriage out for. The streets were crowded and, as always, the plaza was full of activity. Artists had set up their easels and were painting pictures of the cathedral. Others were selling their wares and calling out as the two passed. A juggler was juggling six balls, and Chantel was fascinated. “Give him some money, Papa.”
Cretien laughed, reached into his pocket for a coin, and put it in the box on the ground.
“Could I learn to do that?” Chantel asked.
“I expect you could if you wanted to, but who would want to? There are better things for young ladies to learn.” He looked down at her and studied her for a moment. She was growing every day, it seemed. She’s taller than Aimee right now, but skinny as a rail! I would think at her age she would begin filling out a little bit. Other girls do.
Cretien said none of this aloud but listened as she chattered on about the activities on the square. He turned in at a door and led her up a pair of stairs. To the left were two doors, both of them marked with the sign Harcourt and Son, Attorneys-at-Law.
Opening the door, Cretien waited until Chantel was inside and then closed it behind him. A clerk was sitting behind a desk, and he rose at once. “Well, good afternoon, Mr. Fontaine. I suppose you need to see Mr. Harcourt.”
“Yes. Is he in?”
“He’s not busy at the moment.” The clerk moved over and knocked on the door. When a voice answered, he opened the door and said, “Mr. Fontaine to see you, sir.”
Chantel heard a voice say a rather gruff “Come in,” and she entered with her father. A tall, heavyset man was sitting behind a desk. He rose at once and came over to shake her father’s hand.
“Good to see you, sir. And who is this young lady?”
“My daughter, Chantel.”
“I’m very happy to know you, Miss Chantel.” The big man turned to a young man who was working at a high desk over by a window. “This is my son, Neville.”
Chantel looked at the young man as he came over and shook hands with her father. When he reached out and took her own hand, she saw that he had a nice smile. He was not nearly as tall as his father nor as handsome as hers; still, she liked it when he bent over in a bow and said, “I’m delighted to meet you, Miss Chantel.”
“I have met you before, Neville,” Cretien said.
“I’m afraid I don’t recall, sir.”
“You were only two years old. It was the first time I was ever here.” Cretien turned and said, “So, you’ve taken your boy into the business.”
“Yes, and I must say he’s going to be a fine attorney.” Oliver Harcourt glanced quickly at Chantel and shook his head. “This is going to be a rather dreary business for a young lady.” He turned to his son, saying, “Neville, take Miss Chantel somewhere for something to drink. Perhaps even a bite to eat.”
“That will be my pleasure,” Neville said. He turned and pulled a coat from a rack, put it on, then put on a top hat. “If you’ll come with me, Miss Chantel,” he said, “we’ll see what we can find.”
Chantel was intrigued when he put his arm out just as if she were a grown lady, and she took it at once. They left the offices and were soon on the street. Neville chatted, asking questions and listening carefully as she spoke. Chantel liked this, for many grown people would ask a question and then wouldn’t listen when she answered. She wished he were taller and more handsome, but he couldn’t help what he looked like.
“Would you like some ice cream?”
“It’s a little cold, but I always like ice cream.”
“Well, perhaps something warmer. How about some gumbo?”
“Oh, yes . . . but it won’t be as good as our cook makes at home.”
“Probably not, but I know one place that has very good gumbo. It will be a close second.”
Neville led the young girl to a small cafe where he was greeted by name by a large woman wearing a white apron. She had silver hair and merry brown eyes and remarked, “Ah, you have a lady with you.”
“Yes, this is my very special friend, Miss Chantel Fontaine. Miss Fontaine, may I introduce Madame Charmain.”
“I am happy to know you,” the woman said, beaming. “Come now and sit down.” She winked at Chantel, saying, “You must be careful. This handsome young fellow will get away from you. All the ladies are after him.”
Chantel giggled at that, for Neville Harcourt was not at all handsome. She liked it, though, when he seated her and sat down and let her order for herself. The gumbo was accompanied by a basket of rolls that smelled so good that she bit into one at once.
As they ate, Neville asked her about herself, and she found herself talking far more than she usually did to strangers. She liked this young man very much.
“Are you married, Mr. Neville?”
“No, I’m not.”
“How old are you?”
Neville laughed. “I’m eighteen. And let’s see, I would guess that you’re about sixteen. Is that right?”
Pleased at being taken for older than she was, Chantel said, “No, I’m just thirteen, but I’m going on fourteen.”
“Well, that’s a surprise. Tell me, do you like New Orleans?”
“I like it all right, but I miss my horse.”
“Oh, you have a horse!”
“Papa’s having her brought to New Orleans, and he’s going to keep her in a stable. Then I can go riding. Do you have a horse?”
“As a matter of fact, I do. Perhaps we could go riding together sometime.”
“Oh, that would be nice!”
The two ate the spicy gumbo and the rolls and then drank hot chocolate. They sat for a while talking, sipping the tasty drinks, and finally Chantel grew silent.
“What are you thinking about, Miss Chantel?”
“I was just wondering about my mother and my sister.” The memory came sweeping back through Chantel, and she forgot for the moment where she was. She could almost hear her mother’s laughter and see her face. Without thinking she said impulsively, “Where do you think people go when they die, Mr. Neville?”
“You mean good people?”
“Oh, yes, good people like my mother.”
“I think people who love God go straight to heaven.”
The words warmed Chantel. “I asked our priest, and he said that they go to purgatory, and they have to suffer there for a long time until they can get out. But I don’t believe that.”
“Well, I’m afraid I don’t believe it, either. As a matter of fact I was reading in the Bible last night about a man who died and went to heaven that same day.”
Chantel looked up. She had a line of chocolate across her lips and dabbed at it with her handkerchief. “Really! That’s in the Bible?”
“Yes, it is.”
“I’d like to read it, but we don’t have a Bible.”
“Don’t have a Bible? Well, come along.”
Neville paid for the food and waited for her. Once again he put his arm out, and she took it, feeling very grown up as she walked along the streets of Place d’Armes.
Neville led her to a bookstore and went inside. He was evidently a frequent guest, for he was greeted by name by the proprietor, a short, swarthy man with bushy black hair and a ferocious beard to match.
“We’re looking for a Bible.”
“Well, you know where they are, Mr. Harcourt,” the proprietor said. “Let me know if I can help you.”
Harcourt led Chantel to a shelf and studied the books for a moment. “This looks like it might be very nice.” He pulled out a book and opened it. “Can you read this print all right?”
Chantel took it and studied it. The cover was black and rather thick, but when she opened it, she saw that the print was large and plain. “Yes, it’s very easy to read.”
“Very well then. This will do.”
He took the book to the proprietor, paid for it, and the two left. “Let’s sit down on that bench over there. We can watch the people, and I’ll let you read the story that I mentioned.”
They sat down on the bench, and Neville said, “Let me see. Yes, here it is. It happened at the time Jesus died. You know about that, don’t you?”
“Oh, yes, He died on a cross. I have a silver cross that I wear sometimes, but I’m not wearing it today.”
“I’m sure it’s very pretty. Now, read right here.” He handed her the book, put his finger on a line, and nodded.
Chantel read aloud about Jesus being crucified.
And when they were come to the place, which is called Calvary, there they crucified him, and the malefactors, one on the right hand, and the other on the left.
Then said Jesus, Father, forgive them; for they know not what they do.
Then when she got to verse thirty-nine Neville interrupted her. “This is what you really need to pay attention to,” he said.
She read:
And one of the malefactors which were hanged railed on him, saying, If thou be Christ, save thyself and us.
But the other answering rebuked him, saying, Dost not thou fear God, seeing thou art in the same condemnation?
And we indeed justly; for we receive the due reward of our deeds: but this man hath done nothing amiss.
And he said unto Jesus, Lord, remember me when thou comest into thy kingdom.
And Jesus said unto him, Verily I say unto thee, To day shalt thou be with me in paradise.
Chantel could not take her eyes off the page for a time. She turned and said, “And the thief went to heaven that day?”
“That’s what Jesus said. He went to paradise, and that is heaven, isn’t it?”
Suddenly Chantel saw that the young man’s eyes were misty. “Why are you crying?” she said.
Neville pulled a handkerchief out and wiped his eyes. “Oh, sometimes I get moved when I think about Jesus dying for me.”
Chantel stared at him. She had never seen a grown man cry. Women cried, but not men, and it troubled her. “I’m sorry it made you feel bad,” she said.
“It didn’t make me feel bad, Chantel. It made me feel good. Come along. We’ll go back to the store. I’ll get a pen, and I’ll put your name and the date in the front of this Bible. It’ll be something to remember the first time we met.”
When they returned to the office, Chantel found her father ready to go. He smiled and said, “Was she a great deal of trouble, Mr. Harcourt?”
“No trouble at all. We had a fine time, didn’t we, Miss Chantel?”
“Yes, we did. Mr. Neville has a horse, and when we get Lady here he’s going to ride with me.”
“That is most kind of you, sir,” Fontaine said.
As Chantel and her father left the office, she almost told him of the gift, but something stopped her. Unsure of how her father would react, she decided to keep it a secret.
Two weeks after her meeting with Neville, Chantel was riding Lady in the park. Robert had brought the mare from the plantation, and Chantel enjoyed a ride several days a week. Now she put Lady into a gallop, pulling her up to where Robert was waiting.
“Did you have a good ride?” he asked.
“Oh, yes.”
She turned the mare over to a groom, patted her, and said, “I’ll be back soon, Lady.”
On the way home in the carriage Chantel saw three beautiful young ladies in the back of an open carriage.
“They’re so pretty. Who are they?”
Robert had been watching the women also. His tone was neutral. “They’re quadroons.”
“What are quadroons?”
Robert cleared his throat and said, “I don’t think I can discuss it with you, Miss Chantel.”
Later, when she was alone with Elise, Chantel asked her maid about the quadroons.
“Oh, you don’t know about them! Well, they’re young women with some Negro blood in them.”
“Really? But they were white as I am!”
“Well, some of them are, and they’re very beautiful. They have a quadroon ball here, where the young men go to look them over. If they like them, they sometimes take them into their houses as mistresses.”
Chantel listened breathlessly. She could not believe that such beautiful young women would become mistresses, but Elise insisted it was true.
That night her father was out, and Chantel stayed awake reading. She had planned to read a new novel, but instead she took out the Bible that Neville Harcourt had given her. She was fascinated by the Gospels—mostly by the figure of Jesus. Before this time Chantel had thought of Him only as a statue with a painted face that she saw in church, but the words of the Scripture leaped out at her. She had not dreamed that anything true could be so exciting. It was better than one of her romances.
As she finally closed the Bible and hid it along with her journal, she wondered why she felt guilty about it. She had asked her father once if he had ever read the Bible, and he said, “No, that’s for the priest. Ordinary folks can’t understand it.”
She thought about this one night a couple of weeks later as she drifted off to sleep. Her father’s statement puzzled her, for while it was true that much of the Bible seemed difficult, she could understand the stories about Jesus. She had found also that reading the Bible just before she went to sleep seemed to give her a more restful night. She could not understand this, but as she lay there thinking about Jesus healing the lepers, healing the blind, or talking to a woman at a well, He seemed very real to her.