Flame of New Orleans by Frances Patton Statham

Author:Frances Patton Statham [Statham, Frances Patton]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Bocage Books
Published: 2013-11-22T23:00:00+00:00

Chapter 25

The fire crackled on the hearth and the bed where Bryan lay was far different from the uncomfortable, bare, makeshift pallet that had been his bed for ten days.

The room in the townhouse had assumed an air of peace, and Aimée, grateful that her husband was resting quietly, also rested in the chair beside the hearth, her mind wandering here and there over the events of the past days. The sound of the church bells wafted in from the street. Aimée sat up with a jolt—it must be Christmas Eve. It had completely slipped her mind.

She must get to the cathedral and light candles for Bryan’s recovery—for all her loved ones—and also have a priest hear her confession.

Aimée took one last glance at Bryan, who had not stirred and, remembering the warmth of Tante Dee Dee’s old black cape, probably still hanging by the kitchen pantry, she walked quickly to the kitchen area. She bumped into Tink, who was walking in the hallway toward her.

“Oh, Tink, I am going out for a few minutes. Will you please sit with Major Garrard while I’m out?”

Looking at Aimée with the same accusing expression that she had shown earlier, Tink nodded and climbed the stairs toward the bedroom where Bryan lay asleep.

When Aimée reached the kitchen, Fréki and Geri lifted their heads from the beds to which Aimée had relegated them earlier that day so that Bryan would not be disturbed by their barks or whining.

Seeing Aimée putting on the cloak, they stood up, ready to follow her. “Stay!” Aimée ordered, and the dogs settled again, succumbing to the warmth radiating from the iron range as Aimée closed the door behind her.

The candles before the altar twinkled in sputters and spurts. Aimée, after purchasing her candles, joined her entreaties with those of the others, her prayers forming with the lighting of each candle from the main one in the center. She knelt in the cathedral, her head bowed and her lips moving soundlessly to form the name “Bryan,” over and over. Bryan—the man who had stolen her heart— the father of her unborn child. And it was then that she made her vow.

Tired from the long day, she left the cathedral to trudge home in the cold wind that whipped the somber black cloak from her petite, fragile frame.

The small crêche—the manger scene made of French porcelain—had been carefully wrapped and stored in the attic. Aimée brought it downstairs to a place of honor in the salon that night—the one reminder in the house of that holy day. And as she placed Mary and Joseph and the Wise Men with their gifts about the manger, she continued praying for the most precious gift she could receive—Bryan, her husband, restored to health.

He slept fitfully, exhausting himself with his delirious outbursts, until a cool hand, a cool cloth, gave him peace again. And so it continued, each person in the house taking turns to sit with him. But each night it was Aimée who

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