Welcome to my stop on F.J. Wilson's Virtual Book Tour for Celestine: The House on Rue du Maine. F.J. has prepared a guest post for us below. Please be sure to leave a comment or question below for her in as she will be awarding one(1) ebook copy of her book at each stop. You can follow the tour stops here.
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The Inspiration for Celestine by J.F. Wilson
I’ve
lived in New Orleans off and on since 1968.
The romance and mystique of the beautiful old city engulfed my soul from
my first train ride into the station on the “Humming Bird Limited”. It was a beautiful train that traveled daily
from Biloxi to New Orleans and carried businessmen to and from work along with
starry eyed girls watching cranes and herons lift from Cypress swamps and
seagulls screaming at shrimp boats going out to deep water. Sitting in the dining car being waited on as
royalty by white coated porters serving elegant dishes of trout almandine and
tall glasses of iced tea, was a beginning to a love affair that has never ended
even after the trains no longer ran and the white coated waiters had gone on to
other jobs.
I dreamed of Celestine one night as I lay comfortably in a large feather mattress in a huge two hundred year old fourposter bed in a mansion on Louisiana Ave. I saw her as a small delicate lady of yesterday sitting in an ancient courtyard having a cup of strong black chicory coffee and remembering lover’s years dead. I wanted to know who she was and where this lovely creature came from. The next morning I began to write, “The Hornet Slayer” and Celestine appeared, if by magic sitting at a small iron table under a banana tree in a courtyard drinking her coffee. She was a cameo character, a person of little interest, a will-o-the wisp to the story, but she haunted me still. The second novel she appeared and took the story and ran with it. She sprang from my creative mind like a spirit needing an escape and told me her story. Thus began her journey and mine in “Celestine, The House on rue du Maine”. I offer her up to you and know you will find her as fascinating as I do; as well as half the men in her world.
The Pirate Jean Lafitte was a ladies man, but no woman could capture his heart. Ah, except one, the beautiful Celestine. He was handsome, debonair, intelligent and an incredible lover. I know in my heart she lived, because she came to tell me her story, but I can find nothing in any of my resource books to prove it. Those of us who know the truth about the real world will understand when I say, she just didn’t want her life to be forgotten. I hope she becomes a friend to you as she has to me.
I never write of Voodoo. I think it is best left alone. Maybe one day I will attempt it, but for now, just suffice it to say, there are things we are not privy to and until we are, I won’t buy the tourist voodoo dolls nor will I delve into that world. If you choose, it is your choice and I applaud you for it.
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Celestine: The House on Rue du Maine
by F.J. Wilson
by F.J. Wilson
Genre: Historical Fiction, Historical Romance
Publisher: Chances Press, LLC
ISBN: 978-0988230217
ASIN: B0093U6Z48
Number
of pages: 272
Word
Count: 80,000
Cover
Artist: Geronimo Quitoriano
Book Description:
In 1795 New Orleans, the Spanish controlled city
struggles to rebuild after two devastating fires, and a young teenage girl is
just as determined to leave her past behind and start anew. Celestine, the
daughter of a Mississippi River prostitute spends most of her time hating
herself, her life and the dirty men who rut with her mama.
When she turns thirteen and her mama informs her
she’ll be servicing the very men she hates and fears, she has no other option
but to run to the good nuns of the Ursulines Convent where for the first time
she encounters kindness and a different kind of life.
After meeting the dashing ship captain Maurice
Dubois, a man with his own past demons to reckon with, Celestine allows herself
to be truly loved for the first time.
But when a shocking turn of events leaves her
once again with nothing more than her own wits to survive, Celestine begins to
realize the power her intoxicating beauty gives her over men including the
debonair and infamous pirate Jean Lafitte.
It’s this very power that Celestine learns to
capitalize on to begin a new career...not as the common riverfront lady of the
night her mother had been...but as the most sought after courtesan in all of
New Orleans.
Excerpt:
Chapter 1 Celestine
1795
‘Tine waited outside for the
stinking customer to get off her mama and button his breeches. When he was done
she could go inside and get warm; clean her mama and make sure she wasn’t sick
on the bed. If the man was generous, there’d be enough money for supper. If
not, she’d go hungry again and count the noises in her stomach ’til she fell
asleep.
She sat on the carriage block crying
into her papa’s old neckcloth. She
carried it everywhere hoping he’d come to rescue them. He’d bring nice things
to eat and maybe a new dress for her and her mama; she prayed on it, wished on
it and tried to count on it. He’d been gone the thirteen years of her young
life, but he could still come back; he could.
‘Tine hated men. She hated how they smelled of rum and sour
living. She hated their dirty smelly clothes and their big boots full of mud
and horse crap on her mama’s worn out rugs. She hated when they grabbed her
mama, demanded, grunted and hit her for not being the woman they thought they deserved. But mostly, she hated her mama for allowing
the horrible men to destroy and age her far beyond her thirty years.
The man was coming down the little
steps buttoning his last button and spitting a mouthful of slimy brown tobacco
juice into the street. He stopped to
look at her.
“What? You want some too? Your mama said you might be ready. I’m spent; next time, baby tits.” He was
looking her all over making her sick.
He grabbed the neckcloth from her
hand and wiped the tobacco juice off his mouth and stuffed it down the front of
her dress. Feeling around inside her
bodice, he chuckled as he took his hand out and turned to walk away.
“I promise.” He said and let out a
breath from a nasty place under his breeches.
His horrible laugh and foul breath filled her nose and ears as he
swaggered down the street.
She knew this was coming. Her mama yelled at her for a week; she was
thirteen and time for her to take customers and help pay her keep. ‘Tine grabbed the dirty neckcloth out of her
dress and threw it in the gutter. No
one was coming to save her; she’d have to do it herself. God didn’t answer prayers from the daughters
of sinful women who lay with lust crazed men. She’d be damned if she was going
to wait for the man to come back. She’d
kill him first.
She walked back into the dirty
little room and packed her few belongings while her mama slept off the effects
of the man and the rum. She went to the
side of the bed and looked at the single picayune the man left. She thought of
taking it; but decided she wanted nothing from the man, especially the tiny bit
of money paid for rutting with her mama.
She walked back out and looked down
at the neckcloth soaking up rainwater and horse pee. She picked it up, wrung it
out and stuffed it way down in her ragged apron pocket and walked toward the
Ursulines Convent.
The city of New Orleans was once
filled with joie de vivre but since
the big fires and hurricanes, it held only stink and sadness. The smell of sour
ashes and the defeat of burned out hopes filled the air with misery and
fatigue. The city was a good wife to some and a dock whore to others, and ‘Tine
was certainly its daughter and the streets were her schoolroom.
She watched it burn to the ground
from her hiding perch on the roof of the Ursulines Convent. The screams of burning men and women running
out of houses toward the river still haunted her dreams. Mostly, they fell like
pieces of charred wood from a neglected fire place; falling and rolling out of
the burning buildings; their clothes smoking after their voices were finally
silenced.
She watched from the roof of the French Market
as the winds and waters of two hurricanes swept the city into chaos and death.
The water took people and livestock, alike; some, still alive tried to swim
through the big water. Others, their dead faces peaceful floated in the filth
that’d been their world. She’d saved herself by quick wits and cunning.
She fought as well as any boy her
age and cut many men with the knife she kept in her stocking as they tried to grab
her, but she’d never cheated and she’d never lied. She was proud of that.
‘Tine knew everything about
everything and everyone and what she didn’t know, she found out. She knew which white Creole gentleman kept a
Quadroon mistress; how often he visited and how many children he had by both
his wife and mistress. She visited the
Vou-dou ceremonies to make gris-gris
bags of black magic to use on her enemies, but rarely used it as it could
backfire on a little girl who used it unwisely.
She danced with the slaves on Congo Square and knew their patois and how to interpret their chants
and messages to each other. She followed the food vendor’s home and picked up
cake and fruit that fell from a basket worn on a tired head. But it wasn’t enough, her world was too small
and she wanted more.
Kaintucks, the big rough American
men coming down the river from Kentucky, taught her how to ride horses and jump
the vendors to scare them to death. This
was a favorite of the dock workers, but not the vendors. All the knowledge; where’d it gotten her? A
few misplaced spells with ill-advised gris
gris, knowledge of a language she’d never use, the names of the big
policemen that patrolled the levee and small rice cakes called ‘calas’ or piece
of rotten fruit fished out of the mud and muck of the street. She wanted more.
Going to the Ursulines nuns and
their orphanage was a fear her mama instilled and used to scare her when she
didn’t behave. For as long as she could
remember, she ran to the other side of the street when passing the big convent
for fear they’d come out and snatch her.
The nasty man’s horrible promise
changed her whole future. One sentence,
one thought, of his coming back with his diseased pecker and sour breath and
she was done with her mama and that life. Now she just wanted a hot bowl of
something to eat and a safe place to sleep.
She’d decide what to do once her stomach wasn’t so loud and she could
think without crying.
The good nuns were on her mind
lately. Watching them go about their
daily lives had taken away much of her fear and hearing their prayers to Notre Dame de Bon Secours, from the
morning of the big fire, until the morning after had given her much to think
about. They prayed without stopping and
the convent had been spared. ‘Tine saw this as some powerful gris-gris and she needed that kind of
power in her life.
Friends in the big market told her
they had their hands full with the orphanage, the school and the King’s
Hospital. They could use help and she needed help. It could benefit both parties.
‘Tine couldn’t help with the
hospital or teaching, but she knew she could keep children from running in the
streets and make sure they ate their food.
Anybody could raise children. How hard could it be? Young women in her mama’s profession were
always having babies; some even lived and they knew how to keep them from
dying... sometimes.
She intended to pledge her services
and see if she could receive decent schooling from the sisters in return. She
wanted to read and write the French she spoke and also learn Spanish and
English. She’d heard the little sisters
were from good homes and well educated.
They read and understood Latin, whatever that was and could chant and
recite the prayers and help with the Mass.
All ‘Tine knew was she wanted to be very-well-educated like the little
sisters and get out of the sewage filled gutters that was her life.
She wanted to learn good manners;
how to drink coffee from a saucer; how to tell a fork from a spoon and eat from
a plate instead of a bowl. She wanted a
real privy instead of the river side of the levee and a pair of shoes; she’d
never owned a pair of shoes. She wanted to learn how to cook with the herbs and
vegetables the little sisters grew in their famous gardens. Oh, to
know what it was like to be clean, a wish of a lifetime. She wanted to learn how to sew and make herself a dress
that fit; but mostly, unknowingly she wanted to feel safe and needed.
One thing for sure, she’d never lie
under a filthy man and have him poke, grunt and knock her teeth out. She’d become a nun first. Neither option was to her liking, but being a
nun won hands down over being a whore on the half burned docks of the
Mississippi River.
She walked over to rue
Sainte-Ursule and looked in the gate. It was clean, peaceful and beautiful;
certainly a step up from the whore’s crib she called home. She rang the bell and waited for one of the
little sisters to come and open it. She could hear her own heart beating and
wondered if that was supposed to be.
Ste. Mary Theresa heard the bell and
looked out to see her prayer’s realized.
She’d prayed for years this little hungry girl running the streets
outside the big convent in her filthy clothes would seek their refuge and get
away from her horrid life. She ran to find Mother Superior and tell her the
miracle at their front gate.
“Reverend Mother, look out at the
gate, quickly.” She ran to the window.
“Quick my child, let her in before
she changes her mind. God in his mercy
and wisdom has answered our prayers.” She made the sign of the cross.
“Shouldn’t you go with me?”
“No, my child it’d frighten
her. Go gently and welcome her. Quickly, before she changes her mind.”
The good sisters had no idea that
once ‘Tine made up her mind nothing could stop her or change her mind. Celestine Haussey was stepping into her
future and she wouldn’t turn back.
‘Tine had never seen such a clean
world, from the shining floors to the beautiful curving cypress staircase; she
was amazed at how these women lived. She’d been told they lived in poverty and
said penance each day. If this was
poverty, she wondered what she’d been living all of her life. She was ushered in to Mother Superior’s
office and took a chair.
“What may we do for you my
child?” The Reverend Mother was treading
lightly; this miracle was too delicate.
She must watch what she said to this little waif.
“I’m here to help with the
children.” She set her jaw and didn’t
care if she was coming across fresh and brazen.
Just being behind these walls was robbing her bravery and treading on
the determination felt only minutes before.
About the Author:
F. J.
Wilson was raised on the Gulf Coast of Mississippi in the fishing village and
artist community of Ocean Springs, ninety miles east New Orleans; the city far
from her reach but close to her heart. Much of her time growing up was spent
reading under her grandmother’s big camellia bushes hiding from housework and
the inevitable call to come inside and help start ‘supper’. In a time when
young girls dreamed of big weddings and picket fences, she dreamed of the
dangerous but darkly handsome Heathcliff and the English moors of days long
gone. With Hemingway’s Paris, Scott Fitzgerald’s language and Margaret
Mitchell’s South keeping her company, why would she ever want to clean her
room?
Raised with
small town values but dreams of a bigger life, she was more than ready to leave
home in 1965 and began her education in the Theatre Department of the
University of Southern Mississippi. From there she finally reached New Orleans
and began a film career that sent her to New York, where she co-wrote an
episode of the Emmy award winning Kate & Allie. Eventually her work in TV
and film would take her to Los Angeles and all over the United States, Canada
and New Zealand.
Her passion
for the South and New Orleans brought her back to Mississippi in 2000. In 2007,
her love for writing and her love of films collided, and she wrote humorous
articles for the Arts and Entertainment Section of the Hattiesburg American
newspaper. She’s been writing short stories and novels about Southerners since
her retirement in 2008.
F. J.
Wilson has one son, Jason, who lives in Monroe, CT and she now lives in
Hattiesburg with her two Springer Hound Spaniels and is at the time married to
her computer and her love of writing.
You may
email her at fjwilson@chancespress.com
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My Review:
Celestine: The House on Rue du Maine is an interesting historical romance set in New Orleans between the years 1795 to 1858. At the beginning of the story, New Orleans is still part of the French territories in the West and under provincial control, as the story progresses we see New Orleans pass into the hands of the American government while retaining it's French and Spanish influences. With an interesting heroine, several leading men and scintillating dialogue, F.J. Wilson captured my attention and took me back to a different time, when women had no political or legal power and mostly advanced through their wits.
At the start of the book, Celestine is a young 13 year old girl whose mother is a prostitute threatening to make her daughter follow in her footsteps in order to pay the bills. Determined to be different than her mother, Celestine runs off to the nearest convent, where she's determined to get an education and get a job working in the local orphanage they run. She didn't know the nuns had been praying for her for months; specifically that she would run away from her home to the convent and let them raise her and train her. Though their thoughts for her future include marrying her off to a deserving young man of the city.
As Celestine grows up, we get to watch her learn manners, learn to read and write and learn some much needed lessons in hygiene. Now a young woman, she has no intentions of getting married, even though that's what the nuns are praying for her to do. When one of her friends marries a young sea captain, and Celestine becomes friends with him too, she suddenly finds herself wondering if marriage is as bad as she thought. When her friends husband arranges for Celestine to meet Maurice Dubois, a more successful sea captain, she finds herself the object of a man's attention.
I really liked how Ms. Wilson developed Celestine's character and developed the romance between Celestine and Maurice. They both had horrible experiences in their past and took things fairly slowly. Celestine tended to jump to conclusions rather quickly but then so did Maurice - their verbal antics were quite amusing to read. While they marry and have a happy life, their misunderstandings continue to put some excitement into their lives. I also liked the secondary characters in the story, especially Joseph and Marguerite, and her friend's husband Jean.
Will Celestine learn how to use her beauty to gain power when fate takes Maurice from her side? You'll have to read Celestine: The House on Rue de Maine to find out.
My Rating: 3 of 5 Stars
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Please be sure to leave a comment or question below for F.J. Wilson in order to enter her giveaway for one(1) ebook copy of her book.
Sounds wonderful! I love the beauty and mystique of NOLA.
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