#Booktour ----> Lalin Bonheur
About the Book
Title: Lalin Bonheur
Author: Margaret O. Howard
Genre: Paranormal Mystery / Romance
But on her debut at a Quadroon Ball in 1830 this octoroon beauty meets and falls in love with French aristocrat, Etienne Legendre. Etienne becomes her protector and he soon learns that his mistress leads a second life as a healer and voudou priestess.
Their story takes a bizarre turn after Lalin's protector marries. His wife, Minette, dies mysteriously and he is charged with murder. Lalin concocts a zombie potion to assist him in his escape from jail.
Book Excerpts
EXCERPT ONE
Etienne watches me drinking from the calabash, my giant gourd. The libation to the spirits I pour onto the courtyard stones. My feet shift, spirits pass through me. I twirl in waves of motion, never breaking the rhythm of my dance. Breathing fast, I lift my body, spinning on my toes. He stands in the darkness near the doorway, passion in his moonlit eyes, not knowing that I see him. My wide skirt swirls above the candle circle. Watch me dance, my love, I whisper. Now my feet lift high and pound the stones like flying mallets, while candle flames lick my toes.
Etienne watches me drinking from the calabash, my giant gourd. The libation to the spirits I pour onto the courtyard stones. My feet shift, spirits pass through me. I twirl in waves of motion, never breaking the rhythm of my dance. Breathing fast, I lift my body, spinning on my toes. He stands in the darkness near the doorway, passion in his moonlit eyes, not knowing that I see him. My wide skirt swirls above the candle circle. Watch me dance, my love, I whisper. Now my feet lift high and pound the stones like flying mallets, while candle flames lick my toes.
A tangle of
bedclothes is spread across the four-poster in my boudoir. Only hours ago we
rolled on that mattress, making the canopy rattle. He does love me, that I
know. And he’s seen my talents with the magic. His devotion sends the voudou
pumping through veins.
This café au
lait woman, his octoroon mistress, dances full out. But soon my body will be
melting, shrinking, and that he’s never seen. My spinning stops, my skirt
ripples as I stand before my altar praying to the saints. My candles flicker.
The power’s in me, and just like that I see the flames turn blue. My skin
tightens, bristles. I’m sinking now. Breathe, breathe, I say to myself. I’m
down, I’m down.
It’s too dark
for Etienne to see what’s happening to me, but his eyes widen as my form
changes in the shadows of the yard. He watches from the open doorway of my
parlor and then rushes through onto the courtyard stones. He stands tall in his
finely tailored suit. But the mist rises around me, so that I am hidden. At
this moment I am changing, rising up on my haunches.
“Lalin,” he
calls, “Lalin, where are you?”
I sit, still
and elegant, and then lower my head to lick my midnight fur and wipe my
whiskers with a paw. But Etienne stumbles in the mist, swaying in the darkness
as he trips over my candles and falls on the stone floor. But magic makes him
sleep, distorts his memory, and gives me time to find my answers.
I have much to
learn this night when I travel in my feline shape. And this is how I know what
happens in the back streets and secret hideaways in our New Orleans.
EXCERPT TWO
In this year,
1830, life here in the Creole Quarter of my city can be elegant. The French
aristocrats live high. They do no labor. No, they leave all that to those that
come from Santo Domingo or some black folks from lands across the ocean in
Africa. They call us people of color, quadroons or octoroons like me. Our
papas, they are white men, sometimes from France or Spain. But we are free
people. Still there are some who are slaves to French Creoles. It’s not a happy
thing, but I give my magic to all who wish to have it.
About us women,
we’re lucky there’s no labor for us. No, when we are sixteen years or so, we
get picked to be a mistress for these fine gentlemen like my Etienne. Creoles,
those French or Spanish people, are the first in their families to be born in
this country. These folks have white skin and say they have no mixed blood for
themselves. There are French Creole girls, too, but they don’t like us so much.
Guess I know why that is.
The men say we
are beautiful. Features so fine and some of us almost blond like a French
Creole girl. But my hair is black with no curl in it. My skin is what they call
café au lait. When Monsieur Legendre, Etienne’s papa, saw me, he
said, “You have good taste, my son. A jewel set in gold, that girl is. The
loveliest of all.”
When I hear him
say it, I feel I’ve just swallowed a tiny bit of sunshine that sends sparks all
through my body. My life begins to blossom right in my head.
They have the
big coming-out party for us, a Quadroon Ball. And we get introduced to society,
which means these Creole gentlemen get to choose us for a lover—not a wife,
mind you. But they take good care of us. Buy us a house and anything we need.
And some quadroons even have babies with these men. Me, I don’t want that. I
devote myself to him, but also to my magic. A Creole wife may someday give him
children, if he wishes.
At my first
Quadroon Ball long ago, I see Etienne from a distance. Then I catch his eye and
he comes to me like I have conjured him. We make some small talk, and he wants
to dance with me, so we waltz, making giant circles on the ballroom floor. He
whispers in my ear, and I feel his breath on me. This man is the most handsome
I’ve seen anywhere. Tall, he is, with broad shoulders stretching seams along
his waistcoat. Deep brown eyes give me hints of a fierce emotion flowing
through him. One strand of his dark hair falls across his smooth forehead, as
he lifts my fingers to his lips. A smile, he has, to melt my heart. He is
indeed the most perfect gentleman.
Then he asks
me, Please to come on the balcony with me. I cannot resist. There, leaning
against the railings, we share our first kisses. Mon Dieu, I say to myself, I
hope this man will want to keep me. And it all comes true. He did make his
choice that night.
His papa called
on my mama the next day to make all the plans. Then I got my small house with
fine damask drapes and silk dresses ordered from Paris. Many things I have now.
Monsieur Legendre is happy, too, that he’s giving his son the pleasure palace,
which is me.
Many Creole men
take care of two families for their whole lives, the quadroon mistress and
later the married wife. Some few will leave their mistress after they marry;
this will not happen to me. We have been in love for one year. Every night he
comes to me.
* * * *
* * * *
EXCERPT THREE
Lalin Bonheur
Lalin Bonheur
Three men
carrying a wooden box, weave through the crowd. Carvings cover the wood. I
remember Grandmam had one like this. I clutch my amulet. St. Michael, give me
your control.
While I spin
among them, dancers vibrate, faster, faster, writhing, as the drummer’s hands
blur from his heated motion. I slow my turning, breathing hard, almost panting.
Watch them place the box in the center of all the dancing feet.
As I approach
the wooden box, the shouts rise. Taking long breaths, I reach to lift the lid
and look inside.
“Erzulie,
Blessed Mother, help me,” I whisper to her.
And somehow she
gives me strength, controls my fear. She’s the one who makes my arm move inside
the box. I could not do this without her strength.
“The Zombi, the
Zombi,” the crowd screams, as I lift it. It coils up around my arm. That’s what
they call this snake that winds and curls across my shoulder and around my
neck. I feel it, slick and cool, sliding slow against my skin. Not to fear, not
to fear, I tell myself, and watch this creature swing its head side to side,
tongue flickering so fast in contrast to its slinking motion.
St. Michael,
our Legba, is in control now, and, with Erzulie’s help, he makes this crowd be
mine. Many fall to their knees at this moment. I hear words rolling off my
tongue. These words make no sense, I think. Only saints can know their meaning.
Still the people listen like they understand. I feel myself sinking to the
ground, but my eyes still see the crowd. The serpent lurches off my shoulders,
and people scatter, scrambling over roots and vines, running for the
trees.
Papa Lamba
steps into the candle circle. Sweat shines on his forehead. I watch him as I
lie limp on this dusty ground. He scoops up the snake like it’s his pet and
lifts it high above his head.
“The Zombi,” he
calls, “the great Zombi.” Then he drapes the creature over his shoulder, kneels
beside the box, and slowly slides the serpent back into its home, it’s power
now in our control. My head fills again with thoughts of Etienne, and I pray
for his devotion. I can wish no evil for his bride. All such desires beget only
trouble for my own.
EXCERPT FOUR
We’ve only been at this place near Bayou Sara for five days, but already our prospects for the future have improved. My Etienne is very smart.
We’ve only been at this place near Bayou Sara for five days, but already our prospects for the future have improved. My Etienne is very smart.
He did go to
see the lady, Madame Nanette she’s called, at her plantation. And what he
learned there will give us both a chance to start our new lives. First off, the
lady needs a man who knows the market business for her sugarcane. So anxious,
she is, to have some help with this that she doesn’t need a list of references.
I’m sure his charm and handsome face make her decision much easier. My love is
tall with dark hair, deep brown eyes, and creamy, glowing skin.
Etienne will
work for her on trial at Bon Aimée. If she likes his progress, he’ll be the new
manager for her plantation business.
While he’s
there, she tells him that her young son, not yet twenty, has a strange illness,
which makes him very weak. It’s this story that interests me. I may find a
place for my skills, too. Herbs and powders I have with me. And in the woods
and fields around these farms, I can find more plants to supply me with my
treatments. If I can heal her son with my magic, then I’ll be in favor with the
lady of the big house. Etienne has told her of my cures, so today I go to meet
Madame Nanette.
Above the
treetops, pale blue spreads against the bank of clouds. A good sign for me, it
is. Clear skies always bring me power. Madame Nanette has given Etienne one
horse to use. It’s lucky that he knows this skill, as many city boys don’t
learn to ride. But for me, this experience is new.
“Let me handle
the horse. She’s a gentle animal. No need to worry.”
She whinnies,
shakes her mane, and looks at me with big round eyes. He boosts me up, and I
must share the saddle with him. I straighten my long skirt, trying to wrap it
tight around my legs. His warm body pressed against me gives comfort, as the
horse trots on along the path toward the river road.
I laugh now
with relief that I haven’t fallen off, but as she breaks into a gallop, I grip
Etienne’s knees with all my strength. “Pray slow down!” I cry. Still, we
continue at the same speed.
“Merci,” I say,
when he wraps one arm around my waist and holds reins with the other. The wind
blows curls free from my tignon, but I dare not raise my hands to tuck them
back. Bouncing in this saddle will surely give me blisters.
Luckily the
ride’s not too long. We slow to a trot again when we approach the big house.
Live oaks shade the narrow carriage trail. The plantation homes aren’t so very
different from the mansions on Esplanade. Perhaps they’re wider and, with the
grounds spread out for miles around them, they seem enormous.
Author Bio
Margaret O. Howard is
a writer and former dancer, who grew up in the Deep South and currently walks
the gulf beaches of Florida every morning, She adores her two sons, three
rescue cats, cool weather, travel, photography, ballet, books, and mermaids.
Her novel, Lalin Bonheur, is set in the city of voudou queens, New Orleans. You
can visit her at margaretohoward.wordpress,com, Margaret Howard Trammell on
Facebook, or @howardomargaret on Twitter.
Links
Amazon (Paperback): https://www.amazon.com/Lalin-Bonheur-Margaret-O-Howard/dp/161798194X/ref=tmm_pap_swatch_0?_encoding=UTF8&qid=1486920223&sr=8-1
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