Portion of an RP post from a 1790’s based historical fiction roleplay set on Hispaniola. This is a post made by my character, Gaston IV Moreau(you can see some of his WiP application I posted for a previous Morsel here) who is titled Baron de Moreau and is from France though came to act as manager of the family’s cotton and indigo plantation in 1789 as an escape following the death of his wife and their fourth child after a difficult labor, and recently (current time: approaching Spring, 1790) bought a townhouse in the city for when away from the plantation.
Location: Baron de Moreau’s Townhouse, Port-de-Paix
Titled: Hope In The Darkest Of Times
[. . .]
It was a humorous thing how one could find hope even when it seemed to be lost. Gaston had thought it was gone for good; lost to him the moment Henriette-Julie and Madeleine had been taken from his life just as when he had lost his mother as a child. Until he’d met the woman that became his wife, and she’d gave all that hope back to him. To feel that loss again had been difficult. Henriette-Julie had been a woman deserving of sainthood, at least in his mind’s eye, instead of one that barely survived bringing their fourth child into the world.
She had fought hard for little Madeleine to live, and then achingly the baby had only had four days of life before being taken and. . . Henriette-Julie had followed only a couple days later. Gaston had heard the midwives say that both mother and child were weak. Both had been strong; stronger than any man he’d seen take a hit at one of the club sporting matches of his youth. His sweet wife had bore him two children at once on her first labor experience, and though customs dictated that he not be in the room when she demanded his presence he was there from the first moment. He’d seen the full strength the Lord had blessed her with in that moment as she fought determinedly to bring Marie-Jeanne and Margaret into the light; that same strength that she’d continued to use with Madeleine even when it looked like all her own life was fading. And Madeleine had fought as well, her cry was weak yet that didn’t stop her from making the sound as she kicked her legs and waved her fists.
No, he hadn’t believed a single word the midwives told him from the moment they had called his wife and child weak. Had refused to on the grounds that in his gut something didn’t feel right. . . and not listening to them was the best decision he could’ve made for his future. Buying this townhouse last month, bringing the children here with him almost two weeks ago, to get away from the plantation had been one of the second, and not-so-subtly forbidding his Grandmother to stay here had been the third.
Not that Anne-Marie Moreau, Dowager Marquise de Champlay, would deign to stay in a townhouse that was formerly owned by ‘trade folk’ especially not ones that had ‘soiled themselves by breeding with those animals’ she had sniffed. Of course, that her own sons had done such things were overlooked by her in true hypocritical form.
This place, a simple townhouse, had given Gaston back that lost hope.
[. . .]