Authentic Storm: An American Civil War Novel (Hearts Touched By Fire Book 5) Read online

  Authentic Storm

  HEARTS TOUCHED BY FIRE, BOOK 5

  Gina Danna

  AUTHENTIC STORM

  HEARTS TOUCHED BY FIRE, BOOK 5

  Copyright © 2021 by Gina Danna

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Cover Design & Interior Format by The Killion Group, Inc.

  Contents

  Acknowledgments

  Quote

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Author’s Notes

  About the Author

  Also by Gina Danna

  Acknowledgments

  This book is Book 5 in the saga of the Fontaines and Silvers families during the American Civil War. The story of Jaquita and Thomas was only made possible by my strong support group who are outstanding, like my editor, Louisa Cornell, who I could not publish without! To JJ Jennings, a dear friend and great research resource for me, especially during this War. To Matt George, who is also another great Civil War research aid and introduced me to the Albany Underground Railway History Education Center and Paul Stewart, who helped on some of the background of the strong abolitionist movement in the area. To my cover designer, Kim Killion, who always makes my books shine! And to my co-workers, who I think now are growing suspicious if they are in the books I write or not, and if so, what they are doing. My muse will never tell!

  “We shall nobly save, or meanly lose, the last best hope on earth.”

  ~ABRAHAM LINCOLN

  Prologue

  “The American people and the Government at Washington may refuse to recognize it…but…the war now being waged in this land is a war for and against slavery.”

  —Frederick Douglass

  West Point Academy

  1856

  “This is enough!”

  Pierre Fontaine steeled himself. His wife paced the room, her cheeks red with anger and he swore steam spilled from her ears. “Marie, ma chère—”

  She stopped, spinning to face him. “No! Do not start! You brought her here and treat her as family, when you know better!”

  He sighed, closing his eyes as he pinched the bridge of his nose. “We came for Jacques’s graduation, not to bicker.”

  “Oui, we did. Yet, among our slaves, you hid her. I object that you treat her as anything but help. I have put up with this charade long enough!”

  Pierre inhaled. His wife was right and he knew it. Jaquita was more than chattel. He owed her mother more than a life as a slave with a promise for a future that they all knew was probable at best.

  “Ma chère,” he started again, but Marie would have none of it. She stomped over to him, her eyes blazing. She slapped his cheek so hard it took every ounce of strength he had not to move.

  “Mon dieu! Do not return to that old argument that you ‘owe’ Marguerite anything! She was a house slave you took a fancy to! I had to put up with the humiliation that you bedded her while I recovered up here from losing my mama! And for that, I’ve had to put up with this child you blatantly claim as yours!”

  His cheek smarted and he could tell from the burning sensation that her palm print was blazed on it. Yet he couldn’t dismiss her feelings. He had been wrong to do what he did, but he was young, no better than any buck his age. So he let her rage smolder, giving her a moment to recoup and him one to word his response.

  “You are correct. My dalliance was poorly timed. Perhaps the loss of you, while I had to remain home to run our plantation, drove me to her. I have apologized numerous times over the years and will continue to do so,” he walked up to her, taking her hands in his. He saw the tears forming in her eyes.

  “Yet, you must realize, I made a promise—”

  “A promise to a slave is not holding!”

  “Perhaps.” He dropped his tone. “But she nursed me through that bout of yellow fever, the summer before I met you. If it wasn’t for Marguerite, I would have died. I told her I was forever in her debt.”

  Marie glared. “And fathering her child meant you would raise the child with your legitimate children? Posh!”

  She had broken his hold and stormed to the other side of the chamber. He rolled back on his heels, the throbbing inside his head picking up speed. Always a problem he had up here in the north, during spring, when their flowering trees bloomed.

  “And what would you have me do?” He gave up trying to calm her. Giving her ground might solve the issue, or so he hoped.

  Marie stopped and turned to face him. “You raised her as an independent child. You had her educated and taught the finer points of life, always dangling the idea she was a Fontaine. You can’t ‘sell’ her at this point and I refuse to continue this ruse any longer. She is of an age to be on her own so release her to do so. And not in Louisiana.”

  Pierre frowned. “She’s barely Jacques’s age.”

  “She’s nineteen,” Marie virtually snarled. “She is old enough to figure out her way. It is the price you’ll pay for your indiscretion.”

  Pierre mulled the idea. Jaquita was a bright child, even he could see that when she was barely able to walk. She was so cute, with the steel blue/gray eyes always glowing with mischief, though he reckoned she was always processing everything she saw, storing everything away for the future. The problem he found was what was the girl’s future?

  Marguerite had been a house slave since the moment his father bought her. Lithe and sweet, she’d moved up in the rank, in charge of most but still under their main house slave. As a young man, he couldn’t help but be attracted to the light-skinned girl. Their affair, though, was never to be given free rein to continue. He had to marry, and even in French Louisiana, once the land was under the control of the U.S., he couldn’t take Marguerite as wife, not for his family’s wealth and stature to continue. So he kept her as he married Marie Dupont, a lady he didn’t know but whose family held similar rank and prestige as his.

  As time flew, and after the birth of his oldest child, Pierre found his attraction to Marie grew deeper but there was still Marguerite. When he was ready to leave his concubine alone, she told him she carried his child. He was doomed. His only way to make up this situation was to raise this love child as his own. And when he let Marguerite go, giving her her freedom in her final days as yellow fever raged over the land, he promised he’d continue to raise Jaquita right and set her free.

  Was the age of nineteen old enough to set his child free? His sons, yes, but a daughter’s future often meant marriage. There’d be no coming out for his mulatto daughter, hence no suitors of worth in his eyes. He swallowed at what he knew he had to do.

  “Yes, ma chère. We will set her free.” And God save his soul!

  Chapter 1

  “We have conquered and occupy the capital of the haughty state that instigated...the treason which has brought on this desolating war…”

  —A Federal soldier under General William T Sherman, February 17 1865 at Columbia, South Carolina

  Al
bany, New York

  December 1863

  Jaquita McHenry leaned back on the cushions of the carriage, trying to ignore the coolness of the fabric by concentrating on the heat generating out of the foot warmer underneath the soles of her shoes. She had fanned out her silk skirts, hoping nothing was overly close to the small wooden box below with its caged cut-outs, allowing the warmth of the heated brick to be trapped under her petticoat. Winter was dreadfully cold, and no matter how long she lived up here, her Southern heart always craved for home down in Louisiana.

  Louisiana. The memories of home hit hard tonight at the Prescott Ball. Seeing her brother Francois, a true Southerner, up here in New York as the war continued had totally shocked her. She couldn’t believe what she was seeing. When was the last time she’d seen him, or anyone in the family? Family. That idea made her want to laugh. That ‘family’ was not only so by blood but also by financial ties…

  “Jaquita, darling, are you all right?”

  She squinted in the moonlit conveyance to eye her husband as he sat across from her. Thomas McHenry III gave her a quizzical look. She’d almost think he was worried about her—if she let herself.

  “I’m fine. Just surprised, that is all.” She adjusted her skirt folds absently, silently noting how her white leather gloves gleaned in the moonlight off the canary-yellowed silk with its green and black lacing and ribbons.

  Thomas nodded, then reached across and squeezed her left hand. “You’re so beautiful.”

  She gave him a half smile as a reply. That was his standard statement when he was lost as to what to say. She wouldn’t razz him for it, because her own emotions were in turmoil. How could the half sister with her darker skin feel when the white family appeared out of no where? Especially here, in New York? And it being Francois, too? How could she explain the whirlwind of memories that involved? And now, of all times?

  She stared out the window as they drove down the street, gazing at the town homes and letting the past come to life…

  Summer 1856

  * * *

  The house in the outskirts of Albany, New York, was an ornate Federalist style house, made of brick and clapboard with Corinthian columns in the front and an upper landing over the front door, outside the doorway on the second floor. Wrought iron shutter locks and adornments decorated the front. It was in every sense a Yankee-styled house with little yardage in the front and not much more in the back, except if the stable with the fenced pasture was counted then the space seemed bigger, though Jaquita still thought this mansion lacked what her home in the South had. She had to shake her head. For now, this was home. She inhaled deeply for a long sigh.

  The entire trip north had been a surprise, its ending more so. Jack’s graduation at West Point was so grand, it still made her smile, despite the far view that the Fontaine’s slaves had. Oh, she wasn’t delusional. Her father adored her, like he did her half brothers and sister, but Mrs. Fontaine was tolerant. The woman was never rude to Jaquita and allowed her to be taught by the same tutors her siblings had, though she bet her father pushed that. Yet she definitely learned ‘her place’ by the mistress very well. Only her father made life in the Big House good.

  After her own mother died, when she was a small thing, Aunt Jenny, the slave who ran the house, took her under her wing, teaching her things she knew her white siblings didn’t know. Through Jenny, she learned more about her mother. The Fontaine slaves were civil to her, a very small nod that she was favored by the master, though the depth of their dismissal of her from their ranks took years for her to fathom. Like her mother, many lived here for generations, always slaves.

  Yet one thing was perfectly clear the older she got. Jaquita fit into neither world, white or slave, and that proved uncomfortable at times.

  As she closed the door behind her, she stared at the staircase before her in the grand foray with the hardwood flooring, striped wallpapered hallway with its large mounted looking glass and side table. It screamed wealth, a richness that clung to everything except her. She shuddered, taking it in that she was alone.

  “This is not the doorway for the help!”

  The sour voice that boomed down the hallway startled her. Scanning ahead, she saw an elderly man dressed in butler attire barreling towards her with frightening speed. She backed up as he got closer.

  “Are ye deaf as well as dumb?” he demanded, now standing in front of her. His dark cheeks were crimson and she swore fire came from his nostrils. She didn’t recognize him, but how could she? She hadn’t been here since childhood.

  “Good afternoon,” she replied, tightening her hold on her reticule. “I came with no servants.”

  The servant snorted. “You humor is ill-placed. If you’re to replace that no-good Millie, they must have raked the bottom of the river. You won’t last long, making a scene walking in the front door. Hopefully Aunt Lila can make you worth the risk. Take your stuff and head back to her. She is in the kitchen.”

  Jaquita raised her brows. He thought she was the help and took affront at her coming in the street door. It took her a moment to wrap her thinking around that. As she swallowed the lump in her throat, she couldn’t help but realize, after spending her life at Bellefountaine, her father’s residence in the South, she rarely went anywhere without someone who shielded her from such assumptions.

  “And you are?”

  “Clarence, the butler for the Fontaines. Now, you git.”

  She blinked hard. Clarence wasn’t budging until she headed back to see the cook, so she grabbed her satchel that she had dropped and gave the trunk a look. She couldn’t haul that but, after getting the situation settled, she’d have it taken to her room. Giving the old man a hard glare, she went toward the back, confusion and anger brewing deep inside.

  Her walk to the back of the house took longer than she thought. The mansion didn’t look as big as Bellefountaine but appearances were deceiving. What wasn’t broad in the front was long in the back. At the end of the hall stood a wall. Faintly, she could hear noises beyond but how would she get there? She’d seen no one else here outside that brutish butler. Infuriated she couldn’t find the door or passageway, she put down her bag and crossed her arms, tapping her foot. This was ridiculous!

  She fumed, staring at the walls and wanting to use those cuss words she’d heard from the field hands and overseer when crops came in. But even alone, she didn’t vocalize them because she saw the answer. To the right and left of this back wall was a crevice, not big enough to hold more than a statue or plant, the middle was decorated with an eight-foot tall portrait of her father, Mistress Marie and their dog Louis, a large Irish Wolfhound she’d never seen but had heard stories of. The painting was a distraction of the slit in the crevice that had a small onyx knob. Giving the knob a pull, the hidden doorway swung open to another narrow hallway lit by small windows.

  Each step down the hallway brought her closer to the source of the change in the scent. Where the house was clean, the air fresh with a fresh floral tone, back here, the tune changed. The further back she went, the floral disappeared and the smell of roasted beef and all the fixings danced in the air. When she walked into the place, she grinned.

  “Aunt Lila?”

  The big Black woman working over a large mound of dough on the worktable glanced up, a frown on her face from being interrupted until she saw her. “Jaquita? Child, what a surprise to see you! Come to your favorite aunt!”

  Jaquita grinned, dropped her bag and raced over to the cook. “Its so nice to see a friendly face,” she moaned, hugging the lady back.

  Aunt Lila chuckled. “See you must’ve run into Clarence. Yessum, he does come across like an ogre.” The woman looked down at her, tipping her chin up. “Now, did he make you cry?”

  Jaquita bit her bottom lip, trying to wipe the tear that escaped. “No, no. Its just, just,” she inhaled. “Its so strange to be here.”

  “Where’s your pappy and the rest? Thought you all left after Massa Jack’s graduation.”

/>   Jaquita stepped back. “They did. Pappy said it was time I stayed, make my own life.”

  The cook’s face flamed. “He did not!”

  She only nodded. “I think he and Mistress Marie got into a row over me. I know she’s put up with me, as it were, my whole life. Never mean to me, or anything, just let me know I’m not her child.” She shuddered. It’d been a strange relationship with that woman. She was loving to her own children but to Jaquita, she was cool.

  “Well, guess it is about time. Those folks always were a bit off, when there’s a mulatto child involved.”

  Jaquita frowned, aggravated. “You make that sound like this is my fault.”

  The cook rolled back and laughed. “No, child, no. The fault is your pappy’s. Now, take it from me, one who knows this family a bit. He was in love with your momma. They were silly over each other. But this sad world would not let that be. No. He had to marry a white lady, one he barely knew but it was agreed it was a good match. Problem was, he couldn’t give up your momma. No sir! Made things a bit scratch with him and the missus, that’s for sure. Especially when you was comin’. That Miss Marie was nearly fit to be tied! But soon she was carryin’ Massa Jack, so all cooled for a bit.

  “Now, the problem started when you were a youngin’. Massa Pierre only felt it right to raise you with his white children, learn how to read and write and such. But when your momma fell ill, he worried. Made a promise to her you’d be free.” She took Jaquita’s hands. “And you is free. Never take that for granted! Its something we all long for.”