Read an Excerpt

CHAPTER 1

Mama said that God does not forget His children, but that His children forget Him. Does He remember me now?

Capucine's fingers ached. Aliette's grip was relentlessly tight, and every time Capucine tried to wiggle her hand free, her sister shook her head in a fury of blond curls.

"Aliette," she whispered furiously, "if you don't let go of my fingers, they'll fall off."

The young girl giggled nervously. "Why does she want to see us? Have you forgotten morning prayers again?"

"How could I? You've been with me every time, and she watches me to make sure I don't miss a single amen."

"Did you bow your head?" Aliette persisted. "Put your hands together? You know that —"

"Sssh! Here she comes."

Sister Marie-Agathe motioned them into a sparsely furnished room and sat in a heavy mahogany chair. She looked at them first, one at a time, quite seriously, but saying nothing. Then she held out her arms. "Come to me, children."

Hand in hand, the two girls approached the nun. Capucine's stomach twisted in dread as Sister Marie-Agathe wrapped them in her black-robed embrace. Capucine buried her face in the dark folds and breathed in the smell that she'd come to love, a mixture of lavender and soap. It was distinctly Sister Marie-Agathe's.

"I have something to tell you," she said to them, and from the way her voice broke, Capucine knew it was going to be bad news. "My uncle Claude has passed into our heavenly Father's hands."

Aliette breathed softly. "God rest him and save him."

"Bless you, child, for your prayers. Our kind Lord hears them all." The nun sighed. "My uncle and I were the only members of our family on this side of the ocean. The rest of my family still resides in France. The abbess, with her infinite good heart, has agreed with me that I can best serve by seeing to his estate on their behalf."

There was more coming. Capucine could sense the nun's tension.

"I will be leaving the convent to do this."

"You'll be back." Aliette patted the nun's arm.

Sister Marie-Agathe didn't answer. Capucine's heart froze in her chest, and her hands clenched into tight knots. Aliette would not be abandoned again. As the older sister, she'd manage somehow, but Aliette was different. She didn't have the independent heart that Capucine did. She needed an adult to guide her.

You're an adult. She heard the words as clearly as if they had been spoken, and she knew their truth. She would do whatever was necessary to make sure that Aliette was cared for.

But how?

She squeezed her eyes shut and tried to formulate a prayer. Mon Dieu cher, she began. My dear God —

"Take us," Aliette begged in her piping voice, and Capucine's eyes sprang open. God certainly was quick to answer! "Take us with you!"

The nun stroked their heads. "I am going to New Orleans."

New Orleans! The very name was mystery and intrigue and vivid color. Plus it was French, and in an instant, a longing for her own history washed over Capucine.

"It's very far away," the nun continued. She paused for a moment. "And I must speak honestly. There is unrest there. The Spanish —"

"Spanish?" Capucine laughed. "Don't you mean the French?"

"It is difficult to explain to young ears. You will find French and Spanish and British there, and sometimes they get along, but sometimes ..." She shrugged and let the sentence finish itself.

"You must not go, then." Capucine clutched the nun's gnarled hands. "If it is not safe for us, then it is not safe for you.

"Oh, it's safe enough. I would not be in peril."

"Then take us." Aliette was more insistent. "You must."

"Aliette!" Sister Marie-Agathe reproved gently. "Such a way of speaking is impolite."

Capucine pulled out of the embrace and dropped to her knees, still grasping the nun's gnarled hands. "Please, please, Sister, take us with you."

"I can't —"

"Please," she implored. "We can help. We will be your servants. We will cook and clean and say our prayers three times a day."

"Three!" A smile twitched around Sister Marie-Agathe's lips. "Well, that is an enticement."

Capucine held her breath as the nun smiled at them both. "Aliette is a blossoming cook, and Capucine, your needle skills are above compare. I suspect that I might find a use for you."

"So may we go?" Capucine asked.

Sister Marie-Agathe nodded. "Yes. We shall all go to New Orleans, to Claude Boncoeur's house."

Aliette stole a look at Capucine. "Boncoeur!" she whispered. "It means good heart. Surely it is a sign from God Himself!"

The nun rose to her feet. "Indeed. Claude Boncoeur was one of God's finest men, and I am proud to claim him as my uncle. Well," she finished briskly, "we leave tomorrow."

"Tomorrow?"

"There's no sense in waiting, is there?"

Capucine and Aliette shook their heads. "No, Sister Marie-Agathe," they chorused.

"Then start to ready yourselves." She touched their shoulders tenderly. "I am glad you're going with me, girls. Very glad."

New Orleans, 1767

I have determined to live my life as fully as I am able, and to use my talents as I can to bring me forward. Who knows what may happen to me now? But I am ready to meet my future!

The breeze off the bay ruffled the stray curls around Capucine's face. No matter how hard she tried, her hair simply would not stay bound in a sedate bun. Sister Marie-Agathe had sighed and poked more and more pins in, until even her patience had been tested to its limit, but to no avail.

Her hair had a mind of its own.

Like the head under it.

The wharf teemed with activity, and three languages melded into one that was uniquely New Orleans. Spanish and French and English. After four months here, Capucine was beginning to gather the Spanish words together into something she understood, but her French and English were flawless, thanks to the daily lessons at the convent, and she turned her head slightly as words floated her way.

"... will change the order of things." The speaker's English was faintly tinged with a familiar inflection.

She tried to isolate his voice from the other sounds of the wharf. A very interesting conversation might be underway, one that she could find of value.

But the rest of his words were lost as a shout went up. A ship had come in, and from the way it sat low in the water, Capucine knew it was heavily loaded.

What could its cargo be? Perhaps bolts of fine satin and rich velvet from France, or silken embroidery threads from Italy, or perfumed oils from Spain, or tea scented with jasmine from China?

Her imagination soared, although she knew that with the limits of shipping, the contents were probably nothing more exciting than wine and flour.

The ship was quickly docked, and almost immediately the crew leaped onto the wharf. A stout man with an air of authority shouted a few words at the men — words that the wind mercifully carried away, for she suspected they were quite rough — and the men turned back to the ship. Soon bale after bale began to pile up on the wharf.

They could be bolts of fabric.

One of the bales had broken open, and something was poking out of it, something silvery that caught the sun's gleam. She moved in for a closer look.

Wham!

A white-wrapped packet crashed into her shoulder, throwing her off balance. She was knocked to the wooden planks, and very ungracefully somersaulted backward, landing on the back of her head, with her heels on the top of the packet.

"Mademoiselle?" a solicitous voice inquired.

She opened her eyes cautiously. Stars and lights spun in front of her, and a pain that alternated dull thuds and sharp pangs began to gain momentum behind her ears. A man's face, his bright-blue eyes soft with concern, blurred in and out of focus. She was vaguely aware that his light-brown hair was being ruffled by the breeze off the water, and she wanted to smooth it back into place.

For some reason, she felt she had to explain to this incredibly handsome man why she was sprawled in such an unladylike position. "I fell." The words sounded garbled to her, and she winced as the mere act of talking sparked an entirely new set of fireworks.

Other faces joined his, those of the crew members who had been unloading the ship. One of them asked, "Is she injured, LeBlanc?" With a few words he dismissed them and turned his attention back to her.

"Mademoiselle? Miss? Señorita?"

She tried to laugh at his accent as he tried all three languages, but the sound came out as a dry croak.

"J'ai." Her voice came out as a dry croak, each word pronounced separately. "Tombé."

"So I see. You fell." He spoke in French as he rocked back on his heels and studied her, a tiny frown wrinkling his brow. "Would you like to see a doctor?"

She shook her head and winced. "Ow. No."

"Would you like me to help you to your feet?"

"That would be nice."

Soon she was standing, albeit a bit unsteadily.

"Can you walk? Do you want to walk? Would you rather stand here for a moment? Is anything broken?"

His words swam past her scrambled brain like tiny fish. She didn't attempt an answer.

"Let's take a few steps and see how we do."

His words struck her as very funny, but laughing was out of the question. Not when her head felt as big as an apple basket.

With his arm around her waist, they took a few tentative steps. The ground seemed spongy, and Capucine felt buoyant, like a delicately bouncing bubble bobbing along the uneven wharf.

He frowned at her when they stopped. "I don't like your head."

This was too much, and despite the throbbing that threatened to explode her skull, she laughed. "Well," she answered, touching his elegant forehead, "I like yours."

And with those words, the world went dark.

* * *

Michel walked along the tree-shadowed street. Evening was coming with its relief from the heat of the day, and the air was heavily scented with the rich aroma of the white flowers that grew in the bushes beside him. He had no idea what they were called, which was silly, he realized, considering how long he had lived in New Orleans.

Perhaps the young woman at the wharf — Capucine Louet — knew their names. She had seemed like the kind that might. Her clothing was thick with her well-known embroidery, and her hair, which had shaken loose of its bun in her fall, flowed around her head like an ebony river. He could see a white flower tucked behind her ear.

He ran his hand across his eyes. His thoughts were as fanciful as if he had gotten hit in the head himself! The poor woman had gotten quite a wallop, and he was glad that he had been there to help her, and to take her to her home.

Nothing happens without a reason. God knows. God is in control.

The irony of what had happened struck him, and he had to smile. He, a mere boat builder, had come to the aid of Capucine Louet. He shook his head in amazement. He knew who she was, of course. Her beauty, so dazzling in the streets of New Orleans, had attracted as much attention as her embroidery had.

He'd known where to take her, to Boncoeur House. A nun, Claude Boncoeur's niece, he'd learned, had met him at the door, thanked him, and taken Capucine from his arms as easily as if she had been a bird.

Since then, he'd been walking, unable to go back to the close confines of his small cottage, preferring instead to roam the streets of New Orleans as the cooling night draped the village in darkness.

His stomach growled, reminding him that he hadn't eaten since noon, and he turned toward home.

He found himself unable to stop thinking about Capucine. He knew, even as he entered his own cottage, that he would be back to see her.

* * *

"Capucine?"

A disembodied hand touched her cheek, and automatically Capucine turned toward the welcome scent of lavender and soap.

"How is your head, dear?"

She lifted her head slightly from the cool pillow and stopped as the blood began to thump wildly against her skull. "It hurts, Sister."

"I'm sure it does. You took quite a tumble on the wharf."

"Is there some tea?" Her mouth was as dry as paper.

"Aliette has just brought you some. It should be cool enough to drink a few sips."

Capucine struggled to push herself up and winced as her shoulder flared into pain where the bale had struck her.

Sister Marie-Agathe shook her head as she helped Capucine sip some tea. "Move carefully at first."

Capucine sank back into the pillow. "I don't know if I will have a choice in it. I'm certainly not about to skip or twirl right now."

"True. You have enough bruises and scrapes to keep you in place for a while, but none of it seems too bad. Praise our dearest Lord that Michel LeBlanc was at the wharf today."

The name LeBlanc rang a faint bell. "Who is Michel LeBlanc?"

"He is the man who came to your aid. Do you not remember him?"

"Does he have kind blue eyes?" She smiled at the memory.

Sister Marie-Agathe moved uneasily in her seat. "I don't know that I looked at his eyes, but yes, I suppose they are blue."

"As blue as the delphiniums that grew at the convent?" "Oh, those delphiniums!" The nun laughed. "How I struggled with them to make them grow."

"But they did," Capucine answered. She took Sister Marie-Agathe's hand in hers, and pressed it to her lips. "They were like me, struggling to die, yet you were there, struggling to keep me alive."

A flush stained the nun's cheeks bright red. "I was doing the Lord's bidding."

Disappointment sank into Capucine's heart. She and Aliette had come to love Sister Marie-Agathe as if she were family — in fact, she had become their family, since the chances that they'd ever be reunited with their mother were remote.

The nun had never said that she loved them. Perhaps it had been too much to ask, but growing up without parents had been painful for the girls, and Sister Marie-Agathe was the surrogate they'd found.

Sister Marie-Agathe must have seen her distress because she leaned closer. "And do you know what the Lord's bidding was?"

Capucine shook her head slightly, just enough for the pounding pain to start again.

"The Lord bid me to love you. I hadn't thought that would happen, my dear. I thought I would tend to your needs, both spiritual and physical. I would make sure you had food, clothes, a dry and warm place to sleep, and the knowledge of our gracious Lord and that you would come to be able to live with forgiveness. But He saw a need that I hadn't recognized."

Too many words. Her mind was still groggy, and the conversation was wrapped in a gauzy aura of unreality.

Speaking had tired her, and she couldn't quite follow what Sister Marie-Agathe was saying. Love. Something about love. And forgiveness?

Her head hurt too much to think about it now. Later, later she would, when the world wasn't filled with thundering drums and crashing cymbals and painful light.

I have met someone intriguing. He makes me laugh, which may be the most wonderful thing on earth — or the most dangerous. Only time may tell.

Capucine, would you mind going to the market for me?" Aliette's golden head peeked around the doorway. "I'd like to have the chicken done before the day gets too hot. It's already too warm for my comfort."

Every morning Aliette asked the same question, and every morning Capucine gave the same answer. "Mais oui!"

"And see if you can find some cabbage while you're there. If there's not cabbage, then look for a turnip. No, two turnips. Wait, a cabbage and two turnips."

Capucine nodded. "Yes. Cabbage and turnips."

"Now hurry!"

As wonderful as Boncoeur House was, she felt stifled inside its whitewashed walls. A walk in the fresh air was welcome.

Summer mornings in New Orleans were blessed with only a touch of the blanketing heat that would follow in the afternoons. The city woke up with beauty. Flowers spread their petals, merchants opened their shops, and the streets were busy with people going about their daily business.

She paused outside the market and tried to remember what Aliette had asked her to purchase. She should have asked her sister to write it down, but Aliette had been in an unusual hurry to return to the kitchen and start the chicken stewing.

Capucine shrugged. Whatever she bought, Aliette would make it into a delicious dish. She had quite a talent for cooking.

What had Aliette wanted?

She reached for a cluster of onions, and at the same time, so did another hand.

"Oh, excuse me," she said, pulling back. "I didn't —"

"Mademoiselle Louet!" Michel LeBlanc tilted his head in greeting. Sunlight touched his honey-colored hair. "I see we have the same taste in onions."

"One onion, I suspect, tastes the same as another," she answered.

He grinned. "You are right."

His words had a familiar accent, and her heart raced.

"You are Acadian." She steadied her voice so that it would not quiver and give the secret of her heritage away.

"Yes, I am. I'm proud of it, although there are those here who are not as accepting." He tilted his head slightly toward the group of men who lounged against the wall.

The men stared back at them, their gaze challenging.

---

Excerpted from "The Immigrant Brides Collection"
by .
Copyright © 2006 Janet Spaeth.
Excerpted by permission of Barbour Publishing, Inc..
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

---