“She will outgrow that. Don’t worry.”
“I hope so. I’d hate to see a woman of eighteen running around in a ragged dress catching crawdads.”
The day was dying, and now the sun sent the last few pale rays through the window of Chantel’s room. It illuminated the carpet and touched the mirror on her vanity briefly with its pale light. She looked up from the book before her and caught a glimpse of her own face. As always, her features displeased her, and she looked down quickly and began writing again.
She had begun her journal at her mother’s suggestion, on the same day that her parents had told her of the baby to come.
Her father agreed, saying, “It might help her penmanship a little.”
“Oh, no,” Aimee had protested. “No one sees a young lady’s journal except the young lady herself.”
Strangely enough, as much as she had once disliked some studies, Chantel had found a pleasure in keeping her journal. Perhaps it was because no one ever checked it for spelling or punctuation. She wrote rapidly as her thoughts flowed through her, and never paused to correct anything.
May 2, 1823
Today
is the day the baby will be born! I hope it’s a boy because Papa wants one so much. I don’t care whether it’s a boy or a girl. I’d love to have
either
a baby brother or a baby sister. Whichever it is, I’ll be happy with it!!!
The doctor came early this morning, and Mama is having a bad time. I don’t like to hear it—the cries that come from her room. The doctor is worried, too, although he tries not to show it. I tried to talk to Papa, but he’s too worried to listen to me, so I just stay quiet as a mouse and pray that Mama and the baby will be all right.
It’s been a
wonderful
time for me, waiting for the baby—until today. Papa has been
so
happy, and he’s taken me to the theater several times! I
love
to go with him, but I know he’s ashamed of me because I’m not pretty like other girls. Mama says I will be prettier when I get older, but I don’t think so.
I was hoping the baby would be born on my birthday, but it’s all right that it’s a few days early. My birthday is only eighteen days away, and
think what I will have!
I will have a
new
brother or sister, and I’ll have
my new horse,
which Papa promised me. If it’s a mare, I’ll call her Lady. If it’s a gelding, I’ll call him Pegasus. I’ll
never
be lonesome again with my new baby brother or sister and my new horse!
Hearing footsteps coming down the hall, Chantel quickly closed the book and ran to the chest against the wall. Opening the drawer, she shoved the journal beneath her clothes, rose, and turned just as her father came in. He stood looking at her, and for one terrible moment Chantel was afraid that her mother had died. She knew that women did die sometimes from having babies, and it had been a fear on her heart almost constantly. “Is— Is Mama all right?”
“Yes, she’s fine—and you have a new baby sister.” Her father’s voice changed when he said “baby sister,” and instantly Chantel knew that he was very disappointed. She wanted to tell him how sorry she was that it wasn’t a boy, but that didn’t seem very fair to the girl who had just been born. She said breathlessly, “Can I see Mama?”
“Yes. Come along.”
Chantel accompanied her father down the hall, and when she stepped into the large master bedroom, she saw her mother in bed with a bundle in her arms. Doctor South was putting something in a black bag, and Marie was cleaning up.
“Come here, dear.”
Chantel went over to stand beside the bed. Her mother’s face was pale and drawn, and her lips looked very thin and white. “Here’s your new baby sister.”
Chantel leaned forward and looked at the little face that peered out of the blanket. She had never seen a newborn baby, and for a moment she felt disappointed. “She’s so red, Mama!”
“All babies are red. You were too. She’s going to be beautiful.”
“I hope so,” Chantel said. She reached out and touched the fine blonde hair on the baby’s head. “What color are her eyes?”
“All babies have blue eyes.”
“Really!”
“Yes, indeed. I’m hoping she’ll have brown eyes like your father.”
“What’s her name, Mama?”
“Veronique.”
Cretien had come to stand on the other side of the bed. He said nothing while Chantel asked questions. Finally Aimee turned to him, and he made himself smile. “She’s a fine child,” he said quietly.
Aimee felt a pang of disappointment. She had prayed so hard for a boy! Now her heart was heavy, because Doctor South had told her that it would be dangerous for her to have other children. She knew that he had informed Cretien of this, and she saw a heaviness and a sadness in his face, despite his attempts to hide it.
“Can I hold her, Mama?” asked Chantel.
“Yes, but be very careful.”
Chantel was very careful indeed as she took the baby, holding her as if she were a very fragile piece of fine glass. She looked down into the face. “We’re going to be the best of friends always and always,” she whispered.
After several minutes Doctor South said, “I think you’d better give your sister back to your mother now, and you scoot on along.”
Chantel carefully placed the baby in her mother’s arms, then leaned over and kissed them both. “I’ll be back when Doctor South says I can.”
As soon as she left the room, Doctor South gave the parents a few instructions, then added, “That’s one of the healthiest babies I’ve ever seen. She’s a fine girl. Congratulations, monsieur.”
“Thank you, doctor, for everything.”
As soon as Doctor South left, Aimee held her hand out, and Cretien took it. “I’m so sorry it’s not a boy.”
Cretien tried to smile, but she saw that he was unhappy. She squeezed his hand and said, “We must adopt a boy.”
His face grew tense. “No,” he said firmly. “Blood is everything! I wouldn’t want a child that wasn’t mine by blood.”
Bending over, he kissed his wife, then reached over and, almost with reluctance, touched the child’s head. “She’s a fine child,” he repeated quietly, then turned and left the room.
In the silence of the room, holding the baby close to her heart, Aimee Fontaine felt one of the most intense moments of sadness she had ever known. She should have been crying out for joy with a new baby healthy in every way, but she knew how Cretien had longed for a son. And now she had failed him. Tears ran down her face, and she made no attempt to wipe them away.
The days seemed to fly by after the birth of Veronique—at least for Chantel. She spent every moment possible with the baby, helping with her all she could. She watched with amazement as her sister nursed and asked her mother a thousand questions concerning babies.
Aimee laughed and waved her hand in the air. “You want to know everything about babies.”
“But they’re so wonderful, Mama!”
“Yes, they are wonderful, indeed, and I’m glad that you love her so much.”
“We’re going to be best friends.”
When she was not holding the baby or watching her being cared for, Chantel was singing to her. She had learned many nursery songs already and could rock the baby and sing for hours without growing tired. This pleased Aimee and astonished Cretien.
“I never thought she would be such a good little mother,” he whispered, watching Chantel as she rocked Veronique. “She’s much older than her years in this way at least.”
Yet time also seemed to move slowly because Chantel was counting the hours until her birthday. Papa had promised her a horse! The delight of her life was when her father would put her on the saddle in front of him and take her for a ride on his big stallion, Caesar. Chantel was constantly at the barn, and whenever a foal was born she could hardly be dragged into the house for the joy of watching the spindly legged but beautiful creatures as they learned to walk.
Finally, as it always must, time went around, and the morning of May 20 arrived. Cretien had left two days earlier on a business trip to New Orleans. Chantel was giving Veronique her bath, at which she had become very good indeed. Carefully she washed the silkened skin, marveling at the tiny wrinkles in the hands and the small fingernails. She sang a song as Aimee sat watching.
Chantel said, “Papa will be back for my birthday, won’t he?”
“I’m sure he will, dear. He wouldn’t forget your birthday.” Aimee smiled and said, “How does it feel to be ten years old?”
Chantel thought for a moment and said, “Just like it did to be nine years old. I thought I would feel older.”
She soaked the baby’s hair, rinsed it carefully, and then tickled her. The baby chortled, which pleased her. Looking up, she said, “When will I be grown, Mama?”
“Not for a long time.”
“I want to be grown up.”
“Don’t wish your life away, my dear.”
“Didn’t you want to be grown up when you were nine years old?” “My goodness! I can’t remember that far back. Here, let me help you get this child dressed.” The two of them dressed the baby and then Chantel said, “I’m going down to help Clarice make the cake. She said I could.”
“All right. Don’t be a bother, though. Remember, the guests will be coming at one o’clock, and you want to be all dressed and ready.”
“I will, Mama. I’ll do my hair just right, and maybe Elise will help me.”
“Just a moment,” Aimee said. A smile touched the corners of her lips as she brought a small package out of her pocket. “I want to give you your present now—a special present just from me.”
Chantel took the small package and unwrapped it quickly. Opening the box within, she pulled out a locket on a gold chain. “Mama, it’s beautiful.”
“It belonged to my mother.” Aimee smiled. “Look inside.”
Chantel opened the locket and stared at the miniature painting. “It’s a picture of you!”
“Yes, and someday you’ll put a picture of yourself in it and give it to your daughter. Do you want to wear it?”
“Oh, yes, Mama!” Chantel could barely stand still, and when the locket was fastened, she threw her arms around her mother. “Thank you so much, Mama! I’ll always love it. May I go show it to Clarice?”
“Yes, run along.”
Running downstairs, Chantel went at once to the kitchen and found the cook in the midst of making the birthday pastry. “Clarice, look at my new locket!”
The locket was duly admired, and Chantel said, “I came to help you make the cake. Hello, Miss Marie.” She talked like a magpie, informing them of the progress of Veronique and her excitement about the horse. “I hope it’s a gray horse. I’ve always liked gray horses,” she said.
Clarice and Marie were amused. “What makes you think you’re going to get a horse to ride?” Marie asked.
“Oh, Marie, you know Papa promised! That’s why he went to New Orleans. I just know.”
“You will break your neck,” Clarice warned. “I do not think it is a good thing.”
“I will not!”
“That’s what horses are good for. To fall off of and break your neck.”
“Oh, Clarice, why do you talk so foolish!”
When Chantel left to get ready for her party, the two women stared after her. Marie said, “She loves her Papa so much.”
“And he cares so little for her!” Clarice snorted.
“Hush! It is not for us to talk about the family.”
“I’ve heard you say it, so I suppose I can too.”
“The master is a strange man. He wanted a boy so much. Perhaps he will have a son next time.”
“And then he will pay all the attention to the son,” Clarice replied, “and our little Chantel will get none. Poor child! She just soaks up his love when he gives any—which isn’t often.”
Marie Bientot was an astute woman. She knew as well as Chantel and everyone else who was intimate with the family that Chantel was a lonely child who loved her father with every fiber of her being. She also knew how self-consumed Cretien Fontaine could be. He was good enough to his wife and not abusive to anyone, but his first consideration was his own comfort.
Marie sighed and shook her head. “I’m glad the baby was a girl and not a boy. Chantel would no longer get any notice at all!”
Chantel found Brutus shoeing a horse and stood watching with fascination. “Doesn’t it hurt the horses when you put those nails in their feet?”
“These ain’t feet, missy. These is hooves. And no, they ain’t got no feelin’ unless you go too deep and hit a nerve—which I ain’t never done.”
Chantel and the large slave were good friends. Brutus was amused by her interest in the workings of the farm, and it was not unusual to see the small girl sitting astride his massive shoulders as they walked through the fields of sugar cane. He taught her how to catch crawdads, took her fishing, and taught her the names of the animals and birds and trees in the countryside.
He listened as she told him about the horse she was to get, and promised to shoe it for her whenever it was time. When she left singing, as usual, Brutus shook his head. “That child is a sight in this world! She purely is,” he muttered. “She sho do love hosses. I hope her papa gets her a good ’un.”
There was no other way to put it: the party was a failure.
Eight children from the surrounding plantations came, but only one, Claude Dumair, was anywhere close to Chantel’s age. The others were either several years younger or several years older. Aimee and Marie had planned the games, and the food was delicious. Chantel opened her presents, forcing herself to smile and politely thank each child who gave her a gift.
Aimee saw that Chantel could not stop looking toward the road, at every moment expecting her father to come riding up on his stallion, leading the horse he had promised her.
As time went on and Cretien did not come, Chantel’s heart began to grow cold. She was glad when the last child left. She turned to her mother. “Papa didn’t come to my party.”
“I’m sure something held him up, dear.”
“He promised to come, and he promised to give me a horse.” The words were spoken in a whisper, and Aimee saw the eyes of her daughter fill up.
“He didn’t come,” she said, turning and running out of the house.
“Chantel!” Aimee called out. “Chantel! Come back!” But the child kept on running.