Sins of the Sister I: Genesis, A Romance Novel

By Elle Doan

In the summer of 1917, Angelique and her older sister, Charlotte, are two lovely but sheltered Creole sisters from the countryside who are entering the convent in New Orleans. The sisters are best friends but Angelique has always lived in Charlotte's shadow because of Charlotte's great beauty and tremendous academic ability. On their way to New Orleans, they encounter a dashing yet mysterious priest, Father Pascal, and Angelique is immediately enamored with him. Living in the harsh and divided city of New Orleans finally forces the two sisters deal with discrimination, class differences, and even romance. Angelique, who has never desired marriage or even sex, must confront her growing feelings towards Father Pascal, who is also haunted by his torturous past. Her rivalry with her sister and other wealthier nuns threaten Angelique's relationship with Charlotte. The Reverend Mother takes an immediate dislike to the free-spirited and free-thinking Angelique, and wants to expel her from the nunnery. Will Angelique remain in the convent? Can she repair her relationship with Charlotte? Can she resolve her feelings towards the brooding and aloof Father Pascal?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Elle Doan
• Release date: May 14, 2014
• ISBN: 9781311102690

Book preview

Sins of the Sister:Genesis

Elle Doan

Copyright 2014 by Lich Doan

Smashwords Edition

Table of Contents

Chapter 1:Leonville

Chapter 2:The Train Ride

Chapter 3:Poverty, Chastity, and Obedience

Chapter 4:Day One

Chapter 5:Fourth of July Fireworks

Chapter 6:The Other Side

Chapter 7:The Substitute Teacher

Chapter 8:Kitchen Duty

Chapter 9:The Rectory Library

Chapter 10:A New Way of Teaching

Chapter 11:Complaints

Chapter 12:The Petition

Chapter 13:The War Within

Chapter 14:Reconciliation

Chapter 15:Public Confession

Chapter 16:About the War

Chapter 17:Agnes Vanishes

Chapter 18:A Chat with Agnes

Chapter 19:Don’t Ruin Him

Chapter 20:New Year’s Day

Chapter 1 Leonville

Leonville, Lousiana, June, 1917

"Fait attention á la ville de Nouvelle-Orléans, ma chérie, Angelique! C’est une lieu de l’avidité, du péché, et de la luxure!"

"Oui, Mère," I replied.

I had asked my mother what she remembered about her childhood in New Orleans, about a half-day’s journey from where we lived. I had never been there, and had always been curious about The Crescent City. Her warning to beware of New Orleans, as it was a place of greed, sin and lust, intrigued me.

Whenever Mère was gravely serious about something and wanted to nail her point down, she always said it en français. After all, French was her mother tongue. Unlike her children, she still spoke English with a strong accent.

Français symbolized the fading flower of our youth. Before the Civil War, the gentle sound of French flowed throughout the Louisiana Creole countryside, and flourished in our humble, little town of Leonville. In the same way a child clings to her favorite doll, we held onto the French language as long as we could. We hoped we could halt—or at least delay—the eventual conquest of English.

It was a lazy Friday afternoon. School was out for the summer and we had just finished our household chores. We were not as wealthy as other Creole families that owned vast acres of land or maintained various businesses in town, and thus, we could not afford Colored servants as they could. Our late father’s affluent family had cut him off for marrying our mother, but we still managed to do pretty well for ourselves.

I had graduated from high school the year before, and my older sister and I were preparing to enter the convent together. Although we had already graduated, we still attended school daily and studied a rigorous course load, while aiding our wonderful instructors. I was in the middle of reading my science books when my ridiculously furry white cat, Gérard, brushed his chassis against my bare leg.

Gérard, what will you do when I’m gone? You better keep Mama company!

In my spare time, I devoured science books like sweet beignets, whereas my sister preferred tasting the tart French novels of Victor Hugo and Honoré de Balzac. In the past, I had tried reading Darwin but his writing and ideas confused and bored me to pieces. Instead, I discovered a textbook called Lions, Tigers, and House Cats: Understanding Feline Behavior, and had read it three times. I found it much more interesting and useful than anything Mr. Darwin had to say about finches, armadillos, and earthworms! And besides, evolution was a subject no proper Catholic girl, as I tried to be, should dare touch!

After I read my first handbook on felines, I gobbled up any book I could find about animal behavior, including those on primates, canines, birds, and horses. I avoided reading books about human behavior because humans bored me so with all their drama and problems! Animals were considerably easier to sympathize with and understand; after all, I believed everything I needed to know about humans could be gleaned from reading the Bible.

Few things excited me like learning something new. That day I had already learned that a cat’s purr most likely signals a feeling of safety and comfort, and that whenever Gérard brought me a dead mouse, he was offering me a gift and trying to feed me!

Now, I understand all the weird things you do, Daddy-o! I said as I lifted Gerard up to my face.

Meow, he replied.

I stashed all my animal behavior and science books far back underneath my bed so Mama would never find them. I was certain she would have a conniption if she knew I was studying biology—or anything other than the Bible. I never understood what the big deal was; I loved God and I loved science. For me, the two were totally compatible. I simply adored studying all of God’s wonderful creations.

Suddenly, I heard somebody knocking on our front door. Who could it be? Rarely anyone came to visit us on a Friday. I peeped through the window and saw a dashing young Creole man dressed in an elegant suit, stunning hat, and shiny shoes.

"Bonjour, Madame Mélange," he greeted.

"Bonjour, Pierre," my mother replied.

Pierre was the eldest son of the Devereaux family—the wealthiest family in town and the largest landowners in Leonville. He had light eyes, a tall nose, and soft beige skin. He was in his early twenties, and had just graduated from Howard Law School in Washington D.C.

How can I help you, Pierre? Mother asked.

I would like to ask for your daughter’s hand in marriage, he said with confidence.

I held my breath as my heart beat like a wild drum. Finally, after all these years, a marriage proposal for me? I would politely decline it, of course!

Is Charlotte available? he asked.

Drat! I thought to myself. It’s always Charlotte! Nobody ever wants me!

My sister, Charlotte, was a true doll that all the boys and desired. She was prettier than any debutante in town, and had a chassis, derriere, and a pair of stilts that caused men to stare like wolves at her. Compared to Charlotte, I was just an old pair of shoes buried in the back of the closet.

"Pardon, monsieur. Charlotte is off to serve the Lord as a nun," Mother answered.

Charlotte stood there next to Mère and nodded, and lowered her head. Pierre’s face crumbled. He had known Charlotte and me since we were little, and would always stop by our home to play with us during breaks from his boarding school in New Orleans. Now, he stood there before us, tall, striking, and now, defeated. My heart sunk with his when I saw his handsome face turn pale.

Well, I do not regret trying, he said, holding his head up high.

Your timing is not wise, Pierre, said Charlotte, finally breaking her silence.

"Au revoir, Charlotte et Angelique. Bon chance!" he said. If you ever need anything, do not hesitate to ask. I will be working as an attorney in New Orleans at my uncle’s law firm. And if you ever change your mind, I’ll be waiting for you, Charlotte, he promised. He mounted his dazzling Arab stallion and rode off into the yonder.

When Charlotte, our brother Claude, and I were of school age, we attended St. Mary’s Parish School, about two skips and a jump from home. There, two tender, aging White nuns taught us in a rustic one-room school. In Colored communities, schoolchildren were lucky if they were able to learn how to write their names and count to one hundred by the time they finished their schooling. God had blessed us Mélange children with two wonderful teachers who wanted us to succeed.

Claude, Charlotte, and Angelique, we see greatness in all of you, said Sister Helen. Times are changing, and we think all three of you lads can rise very far in the church. Thus, you will receive an education even the most privileged White children of Louisiana will envy!

Sisters Helen and Grace were university-educated—a rarity among nuns, and women in general. While other children our age struggled to read the newspaper, we read classic novels and wrote poetry. The sisters drilled us with French and Latin lessons, and we even studied philosophy, civics, and mathematics.

In our free time, Charlotte and I swallowed up any novel or book we could find in order to improve our composition and rhetoric skills. Even Father Gaston, who stopped by only on Sundays to conduct mass, would instruct us afterwards on the Liturgy and canon doctrine.

One’s color and shade was everything in Louisiana. We Creoles of Color were stuck in purgatory while the Coloreds, the dark-skinned children of slavery, lived in hell. They were subjected to Les Codes Noir which restricted any semblance of dignity. White politicians blocked them from good schools, good jobs, and the good life. Meanwhile, wealthy Whites lived in heavenly bliss and exercised control over the rest of us. In purgatory, we lived next door to the Cajuns—the White, hillbilly underclass that everybody mocked. In Leonville, we Creoles of Color rarely dealt with any other groups of people, and that was the way we liked it.

A few years ago, Claude had ventured off to St. Joseph’s seminary in the hopes of becoming a priest and the first Creole of Color to serve as a pastor in Louisiana. A Colored woman could rise to become the Reverend Mother of a convent, but woe to the naïve dark-skinned priest who yearned to ascend to the rank of pastor of some remote tiny parish in Louisiana. It was still the South; a Colored man could only rise so high, even within the walls of the church.

Claude’s complexion resembled the swarthy skin tone of Mama. They were both the color of cinnamon, but Mère was never close with him. Instead, she gravitated towards her fairer-skinned daughters, because, as I suspected, we were all women and therefore, had more in common.

Papa’s death hit Claude the hardest. In his workshop, Father taught Claude everything from writing poetry to making a chair from wood scraps to properly killing and plucking a chicken. Every night, Père would sing us French lullabies until we all fell asleep.

He loved holding and kissing Mère—even in front of us children! It was embarrassing, but it always made our usually serious mother smile. On some quiet, lonely nights, Papa’s soft baritone voice enters my mind. I remember when he taught us our family history.

"Your great grandfather owned a large lumber mill, and your grandfather fought for the Union during the Civil War before taking over the family business. Two of your uncles left America for France because they wanted to be accepted as equals with Les Blancs. They took some of my poetry with them, and it impressed a French publisher who published them in a literary journal. I was supposed to join them in the cafés de Paris—that is, until I met ta Mère! I forsook gay Paris in order to raise a family with her. That angered your grandparents."

Mother’s skin tone was too dark and her ancestry too common for my paternal grandparents’ liking. Her mother was a runaway slave, and her father was a Cajun farmer. In contrast, my father’s people descended from some of the first free families of color from before the American Revolution. They built New Orleans, established industries, fought the British for Independence, overthrew the Spanish, and fought in the Civil War to abolish slavery.

Papa’s delicate, pale hue mirrored that of Charlotte—both could almost pass as White. I, however, was a shade darker, and resembled the color of café au lait. Mère loved bragging to our relatives and neighbors about her daughters’ pillowy skin and light eyes. Of course, everyone always complimented Charlotte’s beauty much more than mine.

Charlotte, I wish I was keen as you, I occasionally pouted. I wish I had your lighter skin and blue eyes!

"Pourquoi, Angelique? Ta peau e belle aussi!" I was happy to know she thought my skin was beautiful too, and grateful for a sister who always knew how to cheer me up. I could not have asked for a better sister.

Later in the day, Sisters Helen and Grace would be coming to our home with letters from various orders and convents to see which had accepted us. Charlotte and I had the opportunity to leave Leonville and enter the nunnery two years prior, when I was fifteen. However, we both had decided to stay home to keep Mama company after Father’s unexpected death. Charlotte also refused to let me to enter the convent alone.

Who’s going to look after you in the convent if I am not around? Charlotte chided.

Charlotte, I can take care of myself! I responded.

Oh, no, you can’t Angelique! You will get yourself into mounds of trouble.

That was Mama’s cue. "Why must both my darlings leave me