by Frieda Watt
He looked alarmed. “No. Not that. Just—”
“Just what? You think you can walk in here after so long and find everything the same?” Marie felt irrational anger bubbling up inside her. For years, she’d wanted to have this conversation. Wanted to see him again, touch him again, hear his explanation for all the time gone by with no word from him. But now that he was here in front of her, all she felt was bitterness and anger that threatened to overwhelm her.
Pierre reached gently for her hand, but she snapped it back. “Go! Get out of here! I don’t want to see you. You left before. It shouldn’t be so hard to do that again!”
Pierre’s head snapped up, his jaw clenched. “You’ve just been assaulted. I want to make sure you’re not hurt.”
“Well, it’s too late for that. Too late. You think everything is the same? It’s not the same! Things have changed!” She glanced over her shoulder toward her destination. The stately house stood just across the street. She was so close but running dangerously out of time.
“I know that!”
“No you don’t, you bastard!” The tears were far too close to the surface. Swallowing hard, she turned toward the house. Pierre shifted so he stood between her and her destination.
“Get out of my way,” she whispered.
Marie stared at Pierre. His face was a mere few inches from hers. The lines around his eyes were deeper than they used to be. “Goodbye, Pierre.” The finality in her voice frightened him.
“Marie … please.”
Marie was just opening her mouth to reply when she heard the sound of hooves on the sun-hardened road. Her time was up. Terrified, she pushed past the wall of muscle and disappeared into the house.
Pierre stood still, in the middle of the street, shivers of disappointment coursing through his veins. He turned as the horse drew nearer and recognized the compact rider as the horse came closer. He ducked into the shadows and hurried off the way he’d come. He turned his face away from the road. The last person in the world he needed to recognize him right now was Claude-Jean des Babineaux.
***
He hadn’t made it very far when a wild, chestnut horse came tearing around the corner. It came to a halt—mere feet from him. Nicolas Lévesque pulled the reigns violently as the horse bucked. Nic looked angrier than Pierre had ever seen him.
“What the hell, Nic?” Pierre yelled, jumping away from the panting beast.
“Have you seen Marie?” he demanded.
Pierre rubbed the back of his neck. Nic had given him explicit instructions to stay away from his sister.
“It’s important!” Nic hissed. The horse pawed the ground, imitating its rider’s agitation.
Pierre looked up. “She’s at home,” he muttered.
“Damn it!” Nic cursed. “Has Babineaux been this way?”
Pierre nodded. He had known Nic a long time—known him to goad the nuns at the school and take on men twice his size under the influence of liquor. He’d also heard the stories of the fearless fighter he was on the battlefield. But he had never seen fear like this in his eyes.
“What’s wrong?” Pierre grabbed the horse’s bridle.
Nic swore under his breath. “Claude’s going to kill her.”
“He’s what?”
Nic paid him no attention. He dug his spurs into the horse’s flanks and tore off down the deserted road.
Pierre stood, torn for a fraction of a second, and then ran after the horse.
***
Later that evening, Augustus Thibault was sitting in his study, looking over his shipping logs. The British were planning another invasion of Louisbourg—that much was common knowledge—and the situation was already affecting business. The failed naval attack of Louisbourg in 1757, only a year before, had been but a minor setback for the British. France’s attempt at sending reinforcements from Toulon had been blocked in Cartagena, Spain. Augustus’s own ship captains were already being very cautious about coming from and going to Louisbourg, for fear of British bombardment.
As long as France controlled Île-Royale, the Saint-Laurent was supposedly safe for French ships bringing the supplies that kept the colony alive. During the last siege, some boat traffic had managed to get through, but almost nothing was getting through now. In some ways, Augustus was looking forward to the inevitable invasion. At least whatever came of it would make it clear whether he should keep his business going or just retire.
Pierre had returned, but things were not going well. He had heard about Marie’s engagement, and Nic had warned him not to bother her. He was also angry and sullen, refusing to respond to the efforts his father was making to repair their fractured relationship.
Suddenly, Augustus’s peaceful evening was interrupted by a commotion outside his study door. Reaching the front entrance of his house, he found his son in a state of great agitation and excitement, holding a bleeding, moaning, grey bundle that appeared to be a woman.
“What the hell is going on?” Augustus roared, blinking rapidly to make sure he wasn’t imagining the macabre scene. “What are you doing here?”
Pierre just ignored his father and started to order the servants around. That part wasn’t out of the ordinary. The strange part was the wounded woman. Without a backward glance, Pierre marched purposefully up the stairs with the moaning woman in his arms and strode into one of the spare bedrooms.
“Just a minute,” Augustus yelled up the stairwell. “What the hell is going on?”
Augustus went up the stairs two at a time and walked right into the bedroom. Now he could see the face of the young woman his son was holding in his arms. The beautiful face of Marie Lévesque, covered in blood and bruises, was pressed against his son’s chest. While not surprised by her broken condition, Augustus was amazed that Pierre had finally involved himself in her problems.
“She needs the hospital,” Augustus said, finally appraising the situation. “She can’t stay here. What can we do for her?”
“She can’t go. Claude will be looking for her.” Pierre threw his father a look of deepest loathing. “Nic’s already gone for a physician.” He turned from his father and shut the bedroom door, leaving his father standing helplessly in the corridor.
***
Pierre tried to lay Marie on the bed, but she clung to him with her hand wrapped into his shirt folds. The bedroom door opened, and two maids came in to light candles and start a fire in the empty hearth. Another brought in towels and linens and yet another, a steaming bowl of boiled water, garlic, and witch hazel. Madame Cloutier, the tall, willowy, and formidable housekeeper, supervised the operation. No one asked questions.
Pierre felt helpless. No one met his eyes as they dashed around, completing their duties. Then, after a last burst of activity, all the servants left the room, with Madame Cloutier going last, shutting the door smartly behind her.
The sudden silence of the room was unsettling. Marie still clung to Pierre with alarming strength. “Please don’t go,” she whispered so softly he could barely hear her.
He gave up trying to extricate himself from her grip and sat down on the bed with her cradled in his lap. She didn’t say anything, but he could feel her shaking—from shock, pain, tears, or all three, he didn’t know, but he rocked her gently as her small body kept trembling. He reached for one of the quilts that had been piled up on the bed and clumsily wrapped it around her slender frame with his free arm.
He’d been a soldier for two years and had fought in fierce battles all over the continent. He’d seen men shot, killed, scalped, and ripped apart by cannon fire. Nothing, however, had prepared him for the sight that had met him half an hour before.
He had followed Nic through the dark streets back to the manor house. Light was flooding out from every window. When Nic knocked on the front door, Madame Badeau opened it for him and Pierre walked in behind. The housekeeper said nothing to Nic but stared in amazement at the sight of Pierre. He couldn’t blame her for being shocked; it had been a long time since he’d darkened
the doorstep of the Babineaux mansion. Once inside, Pierre looked around and saw no sign of Claude. That was a relief. Hopefully, he’d left before Marie arrived. But that didn’t explain the fact that the house was in a state of panic and confusion.
“How bad is it?” Nic asked without waiting for an answer.
“She’ll live,” Madame Badeau replied grimly, moving her large weight behind Nic as he crossed the foyer, heading for the stairs.
Nic glanced toward the top of the stairs. “Get Thibault a horse. He’ll transport her,” he said as Madame Badeau continued to stare at Pierre.
Pierre, unable to follow the conversation, had followed Nic’s gaze up the stairs and saw there a sight that made his heart stop. Marie was lying on the floor, on her side, completely unconscious, blood slowly oozing from her head. Pierre rushed up the stairs, stopped just before her body, and bent down to gently brush some of her chestnut hair away from her face. The damage was horrifying. How could this have happened? He had left her only a short time before.
Nic came up and stood beside him. Pierre then gently turned Marie over to see if she had other injuries. She did. Her left arm lay at an odd angle, and he could see the bone of her left forearm sticking out. A small, crimson stain was slowly blossoming across the intricate bodice of her green silk gown. Her face was already beginning to swell, one eye and a split lip ahead of the rest of it, every inch of her usually flawless skin now covered in bruises and lacerations.
Pierre’s shoulders slumped. “What happened?” He felt that all his strength had left him.
“Claude,” was all Nic said, distracted in conversation with the servants who had come to where Marie was lying.
“Claude did this?!” Pierre spluttered. He had always been told that Claude hit Nic only because Nic egged him on. If that was true in the past, it definitely wasn’t now. Things had obviously escalated to a terrible level.
“Yes.” Nic looked down at his sister, then glanced at Pierre with pity. Claude would never forgive Marie for loving Pierre or for going to search for him in Montreal. He wouldn’t be humiliated by a habitant. Worse, she had defied his orders once again tonight and shamed him by rejecting Jacques.
“She can’t stay here, Pierre,” Nic said, “and she can’t stay with Elise and me because Claude would find her there. She has to go somewhere else where there’s a possibility she’ll be left alone.”
Pierre looked up, struggling to understand. His fingers were beginning to tremble.
“Can she stay with your father?” Nic bent down to survey the damage more closely. He seemed detached from the situation, as if he had seen this sad tableau many times before.
“You think Augustus wants to get entangled with whatever this is?” Pierre dismissed the idea with a shake of his head. He balled his hands into fists to try to stop the tremors that had spread to the rest of his hands.
“He will,” Nic said simply, and with authority. “I’m going to get a physician. I’ll meet you at your father’s.” He had grasped Pierre’s broad shoulders and stood to leave.
“You don’t understand,” Pierre called out, anxiety rising in his chest. “She doesn’t want anything to do with me. I saw her earlier on patrol, and she told me so. I can’t take her anywhere.”
Nic looked at his friend with a mixture of amusement and exasperation. “You really think she meant it?” No matter what Marie said, or suffered, Nic knew Marie had never stopped loving Pierre. He knew her too well to believe her when she said otherwise. She’d take Pierre back in a heartbeat if he could somehow explain Montreal.
Pierre stared. “Of course, she meant it.”
Nic shook his head and started walking down the stairs. “No, she didn’t,” he called over his shoulder.
Apprehensively, fearing he would wake her or otherwise cause more damage, Pierre gently wrapped Marie’s body in a thick blanket and took her downstairs. He called for Madame Badeau to bring her grey cloak. Ferdinand was already standing outside the front door, his hand on the bridle of one of the Babineaux horses. (Nic had ordered that transportation, confident that Pierre would be convinced to take Marie to Augustus’s home.) Pierre wanted to make that steed gallop as fast as it could, to get Marie to safety before anyone could pursue them, but he knew they had to move slowly enough not to wake Marie up. She did wake up, though, about five minutes into the journey, shaken into consciousness by the jostling of the horse on the uneven ground. While she said nothing, her good arm clung tightly to Pierre’s body, and he could hear her gasping in pain when the horse hit rough ground. Luckily, they encountered no one on the dark roads. No one to report to Claude what they had seen.
***
Pierre looked down at Marie now, cradled in his arms in his father’s house, wondering how things had degenerated to this point. Marie lived in his memory, strong and healthy. What lay in his arms was a stranger. He was terrified. He rocked her slowly and whispered reassurances into her ear, but he didn’t know what else to do. Her head had finally stopped bleeding. Her intricate hairstyle was matted with sticky, congealed blood. He could feel the dampness where her blood had seeped through his uniform.
“Marie?” he whispered tentatively. It was his first attempt to speak since she’d awoken.
She opened her eyes and gazed steadily at him. “Nic is coming with a physician,” Pierre said. “He’ll be here soon. Can I help?” Her large, hazel eyes still looked as deep as the ocean, and her thick black lashes were still intact. But one eye was almost completely swollen shut, while the other stared at him. She blinked solemnly and leaned her head against his chest again without saying a word.
He knew it wasn’t important, but suddenly Pierre became very concerned about the last time he’d washed any part of himself.
Nic arrived shortly after that, followed closely by Father Weber, a priest who ran a small mission home that served the poor in the less desirable area of the city. While not a qualified doctor, he was a part-time physician who made a great effort to help any poor soul who came into the sanctuary. Marie had met him years before when she was working in the hospital. When Nic needed someone to help who could be counted on for discretion, Father Weber happily filled the job.
Father Weber was a small man both in height and girth. His wiry white hair stood up on his head as though it were trying very hard to escape from his skull. Although stooped with age, he gave off an air of someone with great amounts of energy. Weber had been born in Prussia but as a young man had joined a merchant vessel headed to New France to avoid some legal trouble at home. He found himself stranded in Louisbourg harbour after a serious bout of illness sent him to the hospital there and the ship he was travelling on kept going, unable to wait for him to get better. He had simply decided to stay there. While he’d been a devout Catholic since birth, he became a priest in the colony and happily lived the next forty years serving in whatever capacity the rest of the clergy refused to be involved with. He’d spent the occupation in Quebec but preferred the isolation of Louisbourg and returned with the French.
Father Weber gently pulled back the quilt. Marie refused to let go of Pierre, but the priest was able to make a cursory examination while she rested her head against the soldier’s chest. She moaned as the little priest prodded her side and shoulder. Finally, Father Weber straightened up and surveyed Marie seriously.
“My dear,” he spoke kindly in thickly accented French. “I am afraid that I am going to have to ask your lovely companion to leave.” He glanced at Pierre. “Madame Cloutier and I need to dress your wounds.” He nodded at the housekeeper.
Marie’s grip on Pierre’s uniform increased, her one good eye wide with fear.
“What’s wrong with her?” Pierre asked quickly.
Father Weber looked at him sharply. “I need you to leave.”
For a moment, Pierre thought of arguing, but a quick glance at Nic told him it was useless. He gently shifted Marie to the bed, forcibly untangling her fingers while she groaned from the pain of the slight movement. He be
nt as he laid her head on the pillow and whispered, “I’ll come back for you, I will.” He squeezed her hand. Nic continued to glare at him as they both went out into the hall.
Pierre met his father pacing at the bottom of the stairs. Neither of them said anything to the other for a minute, the silence billowing between them.
“You knew Claude was doing this to her.” It wasn’t a question. Augustus had shown too little surprise at Marie’s condition when Pierre had carried her into the house.
Augustus nodded.
Pierre walked out of the house and vomited onto the road.
***
Pierre returned later that night after finishing his military patrol. The house was dark and quiet. As he passed by his father’s study, he noticed a light coming out from under the crack at the bottom of the door. He would have gone on, but he heard voices mentioning his name. He knocked softly and went in.
Nic sat across the desk from his father, a bottle of whisky half drained between them. Despite the late hour, Nic seemed restless, his long fingers drumming on a tiny area on the polished table top that had been spared the clutter of the rest of the room. Augustus leaned back, his eyes red under his wire-rimmed glasses.
“Since when are you two friends?” Pierre had never known them to have held a conversation.
Augustus ignored him and fiddled with his glass. Nic laughed unpleasantly. “You’ve been gone a long time, Pierre.” Augustus and Nic were, strictly speaking, not friends. However, they had come to know each other during the search for Pierre, and their mutual concern for the girl upstairs made meetings such as this necessary.
Pierre collapsed into a spare chair, poured himself a healthy measure of whisky, and drained it in a gulp. “What happened?”
Augustus removed his glasses and began to polish them with his handkerchief. He didn’t speak until they were replaced comfortably on the bridge of his nose. “Nothing life-threatening, although it could have been. She was lucky.” Pierre snorted in disbelief, but Augustus carried on as if he hadn’t heard.