Pride of the King, The Read Online Free

every bit of strength she could muster, Lauren straightened her back, took a deep breath and repeated the words of the priest, “I, Lauren De Beauville, take--”
    She would never forget September 4, 1748. It was a day that would begin with dread and trepidation and end in terror and panic. She would witness two disasters that day, marriage to a man she detested, and the complete destruction of the only home she had ever known.
     
     
     
    Chapter 4
    Lauren opened her eyes and struggled to focus. She remembered everything now, Simone staying at the convent, the wedding and the hurricane. She felt the coffin bump into something, and she pulled herself up onto her elbows. The rain and winds had ceased, and the sky had cleared. Lauren looked at the casket. The very container, which held death for so long, had saved her life. It bumped again, and she looked over the side. It was bumping a shed. The storm surge had washed her beyond the ruined palisades of the city into the rural back country.
    She strained to see any sign of town, but there was only cypress and mangrove trees sheltering her like umbrellas. Lauren was afraid to get out and wade to dry land. She did not know what was swimming in these backwaters. Mustering up her courage, she threw one leg over the side of the casket. The pain in her ribs was excruciating, and she slumped back down, panting.
    After several moments, she decided to try it again. Biting her lip, she threw both legs over this time, and when the casket tipped, she quickly slid into the murky green water. Fighting the urge to faint, she took a few breaths to steady herself. Algae swirled around her as she waded through the bog, pushing aside fallen branches and weeds. Her skirt pluming out around her waist, Lauren dragged herself through the muck, turning this way and that, searching for some sign of habitation. She realized the swamp was completely silent. There were no birds singing, no squirrels jumping, not even a croaking toad. It was ominously quiet as if the swamp was holding its breath.
    Shaking off the feeling of doom, Lauren climbed over the tangled roots of two large mangroves and stepped out of the water onto a grassy rise. She looked up and saw a house, a large dilapidated plantation surrounded by cypress and Spanish moss, abandoned and overgrown. It appeared to have been a fine home in its day but now wore a look of melancholy and despair.
    She picked up her soggy skirts and waded through the grass and weeds to get a better look. She walked up the hill and saw the river. This home, like any of the great plantations of the day, was on the Mississippi. It was a two-storied manor with whitewashed clapboard siding and faded green shutters. The roof, worn thin from years of wind and rain, had several holes in it and the porch, which spanned the front of the house, was sagging badly. Although the decay was pathetic, what contributed most to the wretched appearance of the house was the overgrown landscape.
    As if hypnotized, Lauren stared at the home. Goosebumps rose on her arms. She had an eerie feeling as she approached the house, hugging herself. Suddenly, she gasped. Lauren could not believe her eyes. This was her childhood home! Memories flooded her like ghosts from the past. There on the front steps of the house was a little girl with a doll. Lauren recognized Simone, not the pious and melancholy teen at the convent, but the Simone of childhood, a carefree girl of the De Beauville plantation. Her memories were dim, but she remembered this place. All her life she had dreamed about returning here and the pastoral days on the river. More than once, she fought the impulse to jump over the walls of the convent and dash back here, but sadly it had changed.
    Lauren walked around the house. Everything looked so small. She remembered the house being enormous. The grounds were not imposing now and the trees, which at one time seemed enormous, were now mediocre in height. It was no longer the pristine