Rose by Cherie Claire

Author:Cherie Claire
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Historical Romance
Publisher: Happy Gris Gris Publishing
Published: 2016-05-15T00:00:00+00:00

Rose

Chapter Ten

Seven pairs of eyes remained glued on Coleman as he and Lorenz waited for the priest at the home of Sostan Blanchard, a farmer taken to his bed with a cold. Since Sostan was the eldest of the household and prone to sickness, the priest had been called just in case. Coleman and Lorenz hadn’t known the gravity of the situation until they had arrived. Now they were faced with waiting in the common room with the rest of the relatives.

Lorenz didn’t seem to mind. He sat grinning at his new shirt, admiring the lacy ruffles at his neck and the finer linen at his wrists. After Lorenz had finished off the crawfish, Coleman had offered him a washtub and a clean set of clothes. In addition to borrowing his good shirt, Lorenz didn’t hesitate to try out Coleman’s hip-length waistcoat, purchased on Coleman’s last trip into New Orleans. The billowy sleeves emphasized Lorenz’s muscular arms and the waistcoat’s opening at the neck showed off the shirt’s elegant ruffle. If only Emilie could see him now, Coleman thought. Lorenz wouldn’t have time to consider mosquitoes.

On the other hand, Coleman still sported his work shirt, only he, too, had washed up and added a waistcoat in preparation of meeting the priest. But what he wore was of little matter. The fact that the blond-haired, blue-eyed Englishman sat in the Blanchard house was reason enough for every Acadian present to stare in astonishment.

Not knowing where to look, since the entire family almost completely surrounded him, Coleman turned to the only spot in the house where no one sat glaring. To his surprise, a violin occupied the corner.

“Do you play?” he asked the man next to him.

The man appeared even more astonished that an Englishman was speaking French to him. He shook his head unemotionally.

Coleman raised the instrument from the floor, noticing that a peg had been damaged causing the G string to fall loose. He plucked the other three strings, testing their tautness and tune and finding them suitable for playing.

“Who’s touching my violin?” shouted a hoarse voice from the bedroom, followed by a fit of coughing.

Coleman’s fingers froze on the fingerboard, while an older woman threw back the curtains separating the two rooms. When she discovered the culprit, it was now eight pairs of eyes burning into him.

“Who is it?” demanded the voice Coleman assumed was Sostan. But the woman never spoke, simply stood, mouth open and staring.

“Sorry,” Coleman said in English, wondering why of all times he had switched back into his own language, his normally dormant English accent slipping into the tone. “I noticed it was broken,” he added in French. “I can fix this.”

“Who is that?” Sostan demanded. “Who can fix my violin?”

The woman finally shut her mouth and swallowed, but when she started to explain, no words emerged. The rest of the family offered no help. They rotated between staring at him and staring at the woman.

Coleman rose, deciding an explanation was the best solution. What

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