nearby fishing village, someone without Claire’sdelicate constitution. She was an Acadian woman named Marcelite Cantrelle, and when Lucien first met her, she already had a son. Raphael.”
“I don’t understand what this has to do with any thing.”
“You will.” Phillip leaned back so that he could see her better. “What else did you learn from the letters?”
“The storm hit Grand Isle in 1893. Lucien and his family were here at the time. He was out sailing when the storm blew up, and he went somewhere nearby—”
“Chénière Caminada.”
“That’s right. To wait. The storm worsened, and he waited in someone’s house for it to end. Then, during the eye, he took a boatload of strangers to the church, because he was afraid that the house wouldn’t withstand the rest of the storm.” Dawn told Phillip everything else she’d pieced together. The church had already been destroyed, but the presbytery had still been standing. Just yards from the door, Lucien’s boat had gotten snagged on wreckage, and he had jumped in the water to free it. Lucien had become caught up himself. In a panic, as the winds and waves began again, he had cut the rope tying him to the boat and sent it swirling into the Gulf. Some how he had made it into the presbytery and safety, but everyone on board the boat had perished.”
“The people in the boat weren’t strangers,” Phillip said, when she had finished. “There were three passengers. Marcelite Cantrelle, her son Raphael, and her daughter Angelle. Angelle was Lucien’s child.”
Dawn stared at him. “No…”
“And he didn’t cut the rope to free himself, not the way you meant, anyway. He cut the rope and sent them to their death because he had to get rid of them. His father-in-law had found out about his affair and was making threats.”
The last part barely registered. “He killed them?”
“Call it what you like.”
Dawn wanted to argue Phillip’s version of the story, but she couldn’t. She hadn’t understood why her great-grandfather had felt so deeply guilty. Over and over again he had defended his actions, even though the re plies from Father Grimaud absolved him. And she had noticed inconsistencies. She had wondered whether her French was at fault.
“Father Grimaud was the chénière priest. That’s why Lucien wrote him those letters,” Phillip said.
“What does this story have to do with you?”
“Raphael was my grandfather.”
“But you said that he died.”
“Everyone thought so, including Lucien. After the hurricane, Lucien buried Marcelite and Angelle and a child who looked like Raphael. But Raphael was found days later, clinging to wreckage from the boat. When he regained consciousness, he discovered that he had be come someone else. A man from the chénière had identified him as a boy named Étienne Lafont whose entire family had perished. A family from Bayou Lafourche took him in, and that’s where he grew up. But Raphael knew who he was and what Lucien had done, and he swore that someday he would find Lucien and make him pay.”
Dawn repressed a shudder. “Did he?”
“Once he was grown, Raphael found his way to New Orleans and took a job at Gulf Coast Steamship. He worked his way up into a position of confidence quickly. He was bright, motivated—” Phillip stopped. “He was also of mixed blood, but no one knew. Or at least no one could be sure.”
“How can that be?”
“Raphael’s father had been born into slavery, the son of a house slave and her master. But remember, after the hurricane,people on Bayou Lafourche were told that Raphael was a boy named Étienne, and the people of the chénière were dark-haired and swarthy, a true mixture of nationalities. Raphael suspected what his real heritage was, but the only thing that mattered to him was to get revenge against Lucien. And to do that, he would have lied about anything.”
“Go on.”
“He discovered a foolproof way to destroy Lucien financially and bring
“I don’t understand what this has to do with any thing.”
“You will.” Phillip leaned back so that he could see her better. “What else did you learn from the letters?”
“The storm hit Grand Isle in 1893. Lucien and his family were here at the time. He was out sailing when the storm blew up, and he went somewhere nearby—”
“Chénière Caminada.”
“That’s right. To wait. The storm worsened, and he waited in someone’s house for it to end. Then, during the eye, he took a boatload of strangers to the church, because he was afraid that the house wouldn’t withstand the rest of the storm.” Dawn told Phillip everything else she’d pieced together. The church had already been destroyed, but the presbytery had still been standing. Just yards from the door, Lucien’s boat had gotten snagged on wreckage, and he had jumped in the water to free it. Lucien had become caught up himself. In a panic, as the winds and waves began again, he had cut the rope tying him to the boat and sent it swirling into the Gulf. Some how he had made it into the presbytery and safety, but everyone on board the boat had perished.”
“The people in the boat weren’t strangers,” Phillip said, when she had finished. “There were three passengers. Marcelite Cantrelle, her son Raphael, and her daughter Angelle. Angelle was Lucien’s child.”
Dawn stared at him. “No…”
“And he didn’t cut the rope to free himself, not the way you meant, anyway. He cut the rope and sent them to their death because he had to get rid of them. His father-in-law had found out about his affair and was making threats.”
The last part barely registered. “He killed them?”
“Call it what you like.”
Dawn wanted to argue Phillip’s version of the story, but she couldn’t. She hadn’t understood why her great-grandfather had felt so deeply guilty. Over and over again he had defended his actions, even though the re plies from Father Grimaud absolved him. And she had noticed inconsistencies. She had wondered whether her French was at fault.
“Father Grimaud was the chénière priest. That’s why Lucien wrote him those letters,” Phillip said.
“What does this story have to do with you?”
“Raphael was my grandfather.”
“But you said that he died.”
“Everyone thought so, including Lucien. After the hurricane, Lucien buried Marcelite and Angelle and a child who looked like Raphael. But Raphael was found days later, clinging to wreckage from the boat. When he regained consciousness, he discovered that he had be come someone else. A man from the chénière had identified him as a boy named Étienne Lafont whose entire family had perished. A family from Bayou Lafourche took him in, and that’s where he grew up. But Raphael knew who he was and what Lucien had done, and he swore that someday he would find Lucien and make him pay.”
Dawn repressed a shudder. “Did he?”
“Once he was grown, Raphael found his way to New Orleans and took a job at Gulf Coast Steamship. He worked his way up into a position of confidence quickly. He was bright, motivated—” Phillip stopped. “He was also of mixed blood, but no one knew. Or at least no one could be sure.”
“How can that be?”
“Raphael’s father had been born into slavery, the son of a house slave and her master. But remember, after the hurricane,people on Bayou Lafourche were told that Raphael was a boy named Étienne, and the people of the chénière were dark-haired and swarthy, a true mixture of nationalities. Raphael suspected what his real heritage was, but the only thing that mattered to him was to get revenge against Lucien. And to do that, he would have lied about anything.”
“Go on.”
“He discovered a foolproof way to destroy Lucien financially and bring
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