Pride of the King, The (3 page)

After morning prayers, the nuns lead her to the convent sanctuary which smelled thick with incense and candle wax. Father Toussard, the Abbess, and several novices were waiting for her with folded hands. Lauren was baptized in this sanctuary, she wore the veil of a young communicant at this alter and today, at fifteen, she stands here as a bride.

A loud click echoed through the church as Monsieur Heathstone, the groom, snapped his pocket watch closed. The elderly man stepped out from the shadows, pursed his lips and whispered something to the priest.

Father Toussard straightened up, clearing his throat. Joining the couple's hands he opened his book and began to perform the marriage ceremony in English. Everything is for the benefit of this monster, thought Lauren.
Her wishes did not exist.
She was not even worthy of being married in her own language
.

She wondered what her sister Simone was doing, if she was watching the whole charade from some dark corner of the chapel.
Would she ever see her again? Would she ever see the convent again; the only home she had ever known
?

She looked around the chapel for the last time. There were candles everywhere, most of them tallow but a few, those around the altar, were made of exquisite beeswax. There was no stained glass in the sanctuary. The fledgling colony of New Orleans could not afford such frivolities.

Lauren loved the little church. The Ursulines praised the great cathedrals of Europe, but those grand monuments to God meant nothing to her. This is what she loved. Her eyes rested on a small statue of the Virgin Mary. Many times in the past, she had turned to Our Lady of Prompt Succor, but today it seemed that the Virgin was mute and disinterested.
Why has Mother Mary allowed this to happen
?

   "Mademoiselle De Beauville, Mademoiselle, if you please--" encouraged Father Toussard.

Lauren jumped, realizing that the time had come to take her vows. Calling on every bit of strength she could muster, Lauren straightened her back, took a deep breath and repeated the words of the priest, “I, Lauren De Beauville, take--”

She would never forget September 4, 1748. It was a day that would begin with dread and trepidation and end in terror and panic. She would witness two disasters that day, marriage to a man she detested, and the complete destruction of the only home she had ever known.

Chapter 4

Lauren opened her eyes and struggled to focus. She remembered everything now, Simone staying at the convent, the wedding and the hurricane. She felt the coffin bump into something, and she pulled herself up onto her elbows. The rain and winds had ceased, and the sky had cleared. Lauren looked at the casket. The very container, which held death for so long, had saved her life. It bumped again, and she looked over the side. It was bumping a shed. The storm surge had washed her beyond the ruined palisades of the city into the rural back country.

She strained to see any sign of town, but there was only cypress and mangrove trees sheltering her like umbrellas. Lauren was afraid to get out and wade to dry land. She did not know what was swimming in these backwaters. Mustering up her courage, she threw one leg over the side of the casket. The pain in her ribs was excruciating, and she slumped back down, panting.

After several moments, she decided to try it again. Biting her lip, she threw both legs over this time, and when the casket tipped, she quickly slid into the murky green water. Fighting the urge to faint, she took a few breaths to steady herself. Algae swirled around her as she waded through the bog, pushing aside fallen branches and weeds. Her skirt pluming out around her waist, Lauren dragged herself through the muck, turning this way and that, searching for some sign of habitation. She realized the swamp was completely silent. There were no birds singing, no squirrels jumping, not even a croaking toad. It was ominously quiet as if the swamp was holding its breath.

Shaking off the feeling of doom, Lauren climbed over the tangled roots of two large mangroves and stepped out of the water onto a grassy rise. She looked up and saw a house, a large dilapidated plantation surrounded by cypress and Spanish moss, abandoned and overgrown. It appeared to have been a fine home in its day but now wore a look of melancholy and despair.

She picked up her soggy skirts and waded through the grass and weeds to get a better look. She walked up the hill and saw the river. This home, like any of the great plantations of the day, was on the Mississippi. It was a two-storied manor with whitewashed clapboard siding and faded green shutters. The roof, worn thin from years of wind and rain, had several holes in it and the porch, which spanned the front of the house, was sagging badly. Although the decay was pathetic, what contributed most to the wretched appearance of the house was the overgrown landscape.

As if hypnotized, Lauren stared at the home. Goosebumps rose on her arms. She had an eerie feeling as she approached the house, hugging herself. Suddenly, she gasped. Lauren could not believe her eyes. This was her childhood home! Memories flooded her like ghosts from the past. There on the front steps of the house was a little girl with a doll. Lauren recognized Simone, not the pious and melancholy teen at the convent, but the Simone of childhood, a carefree girl of the De Beauville plantation. Her memories were dim, but she remembered this place. All her life she had dreamed about returning here and the pastoral days on the river. More than once, she fought the impulse to jump over the walls of the convent and dash back here, but sadly it had changed.

Lauren walked around the house. Everything looked so small. She remembered the house being enormous. The grounds were not imposing now and the trees, which at one time seemed enormous, were now mediocre in height. It was no longer the pristine plantation of yesterday. Lauren's childhood home had deteriorated into a pathetic relic of the past. She squeezed her eyes shut. She did not want to be reminded that her father had gambled away their home and died of that unspeakable disease.
Why did she have to revisit this place?

Lauren turned and staggered toward the river trying to remember something other than pain and loneliness. The rushing current of the Mississippi seemed to wash the bad memories away, and she recalled a scene, a small glimpse of her past. It was a warm Sunday morning, and she was standing by the river with her father, listening to church bells. Her hand felt so small in his hand. She remembered the sound of house slaves preparing breakfast as river traffic drifted by lazily. She could smell the sweet potatoes and fresh bread. The sun felt warm on her skin, and Lauren remembered feeling safe and protected. Knitting her brows, she struggled to remember her father. There had been no relatives to keep memories alive, so all Lauren could recall was his shadow.

The wind began to move the trees again. Lauren pushed the wet, tangled locks from her face and looked up at the sky. Odd-looking clouds streaked across the sky once more. She knew that she must find shelter again quickly. Reluctantly, she looked at the house. It was her only refuge.

Lauren climbed the crumbling stairs to the front door. Pain stabbed her in the chest when she tried to take a deep breath. Hanging onto the walls and door frames, she passed from the faded foyer directly into the sitting room. A squirrel ran up the smoke-stained chimney scolding and chattering. The house had been abandoned for years. The oak floors were stained from a leaking roof, and the rare glass windows were broken. Pieces of furniture littered every room. It appeared as if transients had smashed chairs for kindling, and the drapes had been used for bedding.

Lauren pulled herself over to a large oak table and leaned heavily onto its dusty surface. She remembered playing under this table with Simone. A heavy damask cloth had covered the piece long ago. It was long gone. It had been their fort, and they spent hours there in make-believe adventures. Lauren longed for Simone by her side. She said a prayer for her safety and reassured herself that the stone convent was practically indestructible during a storm.

Suddenly, a memory surfaced. Lauren was five years old again and hiding under that heavy oak table. The De Beauville plantation was crowded with people, and she remembered being relieved to be under the table and out of their reach. She had endured hours of endless hugs and wet teary kisses. She remembered watching the black skirts of the ladies sweep elegantly past the table, and the men shuffled by in highly polished boots. Her stomach churned at the memory of the heavy perfume of the flowers and the sweet smell of the cakes coated in marzipan.

She hid a long time under the table until the last voice died away that day. The room was quiet and Lauren knew that she was alone in the room with her father‘s corpse. Her solemn father, stretched out soberly in a box, his white hands folded over his chest like a wax mannequin melting in the candlelight. Suddenly, someone reached under the table and grasped little Lauren by the arm. She screamed in terror.

   "Be still!" scolded the nun, wrapping her arms around Lauren. “Everything will be alright. I am taking you and your sister to live with us at the convent."

The nun wiped her tears and smoothed her hair. Lauren looked at the corpse of her father. He was ready for his journey, and she was ready for hers.

   Swallowing hard, Lauren came back to the present. She looked around the deteriorated sitting room. She took a step, and suddenly the chamber started to whirl. It seemed as if the floor came up and hit her in the face. Lauren crumbled down onto the moldy planking, completely helpless with her head spinning and her stomach churning. She was too weak to pull herself up, so she remained on the soggy wood floor staring under the oak table.

Chapter 5

The storm returned to Louisiana, equal if not stronger in magnitude. The trees over the De Beauville plantation crouched in self-defense, trying to maintain their grip on the earth while the wind pulled savagely at their roots. Heavily taxed waterways spilled down new avenues bursting wildly over the embankments, hastily seeking new ground. The house strained under the stress of the tempest. Water streamed through the holes in the roof, and the wind ripped shutters from their window casements. Debris tumbled madly across the grounds of the estate, smashing everything in its path.

Lauren did not see the destruction; she remained on the floor of the sitting room, sliding in and out of consciousness. Her injuries had sapped her strength, and a small puddle of blood had pooled on the floor by her mouth. All sense of reality left her. One moment it seemed like she had been on the floor for weeks, the next a heartbeat. The storm sounded distant and remote. She felt no fear, only groggy delirium.

A low groaning sound came from under the floor, and some wood cracked. Lauren did not realize that the wind was lifting the plantation house from its very foundation. She fancied she could hear the slaves rattling pots and pans, speaking in hushed tones as they bustled about the plantation getting ready for dinner. She slipped back into a swoon.

Waking again she heard a man bark, "Carefully now! Put her down gently!"

Lauren felt a blanket drop over her body and someone brush the hair off her face whispering, "I must leave you now but I'll be back." She opened her eyes but saw no one. She fancied she had just been tucked her into her bed upstairs for the night.

When Lauren awoke hours later, the storm had ceased. She was in the sitting room, but instead of resting on the hard cold floor, she was lying on a fur blanket in front of a fire. She saw a young man leaning over the hearth, stirring something in a large cast iron pot. He stepped from the fireside to the window, unlatching a shutter. The storm had weakened the hinges, and the entire piece dropped from the house onto the ground below with a crash. Chuckling, the young man peeked at the smashed shutter below, then sat down on the sill swinging one leg up to balance his lean body.

The wind blew a lock of brown hair onto his forehead, and Lauren watched him stretch in the sunshine. The boy appeared to be around seventeen years of age, and she wondered if he had been the one to move her onto the hide.

He dozed for a while in the sunlight then noticed her watching him and jumped down from the sill. "Well you
are
awake! We survived quite a storm, but it is over now.” He gestured toward the window, "Look, the sun has returned."

The young man slid across the floor and ended up sitting cross-legged in front of Lauren. He was dressed in buckskin and wore his hair tied back with a leather thong, a broad smile stretching across his face. "My name is Rene Lupone, son of Gabriel Lupone. What's yours?"

With great effort, Lauren whispered her name, but he could not understand her. He simply nodded, knowing that it was far too early to converse with his new friend.

It was painful even to breathe, and Lauren felt sick to her stomach. She heard a door slam and a man entered the room standing over her.

"She is awake, Papa, but I am afraid she cannot talk," said Rene.

The handsome but weathered face of Gabriel Lupone looked down at Lauren. "Where is your family, girl? We must know where to take you." He hesitated a moment and continued, "I see you wear a wedding ring. Where is your husband?"

Remembering yesterday, Lauren’s eyes filled with tears, and she turned her head.

Monsieur Lupone whispered to his son, "Perhaps her husband was killed in the storm. Let her rest now, Rene." Putting a hand on his son's shoulder, he continued, "We will return in an hour to question her further. There is no time to waste. By journey's end there could be snow."