Distant Fires

by D. A. Woodward

  Under her sure hand, the chateau was running at the peak of production, producing a record crop in both grapes and mushrooms, over a five-year period.

  According to her long, much anticipated letters, the child, Shanata, still the apple of her mothers’ eye, excelled herself as a bright student. Fluent in French, she had been educated by a tutor, formerly from the court. She was now a well-turned young lady, and his mothers’ letters were full of praise for her goodly nature and pride at her accomplishments.

  He had not seen a picture of the child, but he understood, from his mother, that she had lately commissioned a work, and that a miniature was forthcoming. He looked forward to seeing the pretty child he had only fleetingly known.

  Strange, the way events unfolded, he thought, certain he had made the right decision in taking the child to his mother, rather than placing her with the Ursulines or a native family. But for the language he had learned from a turncoat Iroquois trader, years before, and his peripheral involvement in a Mohawk skirmish against a patrol, he had virtually, no contact with them, generally understood, to be a ruthless, ignorant people, by the French, possessed of little to no redeeming characteristics—a mutual hatred, despite their uneasy truce.

  Luckily, the child had been saved from this fate. If nothing else, he had given this poor girl a chance to find a moral, civilized nature in French society. For this, he told himself in self-satisfaction, she would someday be grateful.

  Plans to visit France for some time had always been postponed. Recently though, some troubling information had come to light, involving his mother, and, much as he denied it, they coloured his impressions, most painfully, in a need to need to either dismiss or validate them.

  Life had taken a downswing over the past year. And no one could be blamed but himself. In a single act of stupidity, he was caught in a morass of rancour and obligation that harnessed his conscience, and continually filled his days with self-approbation.

  What might have been a time to rejoice, had become for him, a bane of relentless self - reproach and ultimately, servitude.

  But how this came to be and by what means it was attained, began innocently enough, on the night of the first summer ball, in the great hall of the Governors house, in the Chateau de Ramzay.

  ..........................

  Following the installation of the new Governor and Intendant of the colony years before, Monsieur Girald resumed his former position as Governor of Montreal, languishing, once again, to the chagrin of his socially ambitious daughters, in the much less prominent seat of the colonial hierarchy.

  Time passed, and each of the daughters, in turn, married reasonably well—all, that is, with the exception of Sophie, who, through pursuit of title and social standing, refused any hand that was offered.

  Nicholas, having courted a few young daughters of men in local political office, notably, one Jose Beaupres, who left him for the affections of her cousin, a wealthy plantation owner returning to Haiti, he was living the life of a free-Spirited bachelor, more interested in career than a social life.

  And so, at twenty nine, he found himself without a woman on his arm, arriving at the chateau, looking charming and elegant in his best uniform, every inch the handsome and eligible bachelor son, of Louise de Belaise, as the gaze of every young lady, looked longingly, his way.

  Chatting with the amiable Madame Girald and her son, his friend, Alexandre—now a town merchant and married to a tradesman’s’ daughter—was somewhat unpleasantly surprised by the sudden appearance of the inimitable Sophie, making her entrance in a decidedly conspicuous manner and who often seemed to find some pretext to enjoin him in conversation.

  Due to her often brash statements, he usually found a need to extricate himself, but on this occasion, she appeared almost demure, and somehow distressed.

  “May I have a word with you, Nicholas,” she pleaded quietly, nearly masking the reediness in her voice, as she briskly unfolded her fan, to speak with greater intimacy. “I am in a dreadful state over...a certain something relating to...our family, and I was wondering if you might do me a kindness...”

  He looked around the crowded room. Socializing was now over and the ball was about to commence.

  He had noticed a number of attractive ladies with whom he had hoped to dance, but this problem with Sophie, would not go away. He found her most annoying at the best of times, but he was also aware of that she was known to be unremittingly persistent when she wanted something.

  Still, perhaps, the look of strain on her face, betold a legitimate problem, which he was capable of resolving. He should hear her out, he reasoned, but how, in light of present company? “Mademoiselle Sophie, while I would like to help you in any way possible, I do not think that this is either, the time or the place …”

  “You do not understand,” she said in a desperate, but quiet tone, “not here, not now... later…after the ball.” She leaned nearer, and he could smell the heavy odour of pomade wafting unpleasantly, from her wig.

  “Meet me in the summer house. There we can speak more freely...please,” she added, pouting her rouged lips, in encouragement, “I do entreat you to come as soon as is heavenly possible...I am beside myself with worry...”

  He nodded. She daubed her eye with her neatly embroidered handkerchief, collapsed her painted fan, and swept past him the dainty steps made awkward by her height, to a position near her sister, at the patisserie table.

  Nicholas had few dances, and instead, found himself imbibing more than his usual share of brandy. His curiosity was piqued. Each time he glimpsed Sophie, he found her soberly looking down, and quite perturbed. What, he wondered, could have taken place within the family, to engender such worry?

  Sometime after midnight, the soiree ended, the revellers filing out.

  Madame Girald approached him. “Nicholas, if you have need, you may take one of the guest rooms, they have been prepared...”

  “No, merci bien, Madame, it is not necessary. I will be leaving momentarily.”

  She gave him a tired smile, and was moved to note a resemblance to his mother. Helene often thought about her, wondered how she was keeping in her loneliness, and with the burden of her secret...

  She often thought back to that long ago day, when Louise had come to visit...their laughter in the garden ... Helene had thought that there had been a reason for her joie de vivre and she was right.

  Louise, she now knew, was indeed involved in an intrigue; an affair of the heart. And although she had not been aware of the identity of the gentleman, it was not long before she did. It happened innocently enough, when she and her daughter Sophie went to the former Intendants’ residence to offer their services to Louise in readying items for auction, and witnessed through an open door, her reading of a love poem, whilst clutching a small portrait of the man, tears streaming down her face. In an instant, it became clear. These were not the tears of an acquaintance for another, but that of a bereft lover, in deep and inconsolable pain.

  Helene wanted to extend her understanding, relieve Louise in some way, but she liked her far too much, to further her fear of discovery. Instead, she swore her daughter to secrecy, and began an intermittent correspondence with Louise which lasted these many years, and nary a reference to this knowledge.

  Nicholas had grown into quite a handsome man, much taller than his father, though not altogether, different. His face was, in fact, a blend of both parents; light skinned, with a small expressive mouth, a straight, slightly large nose, and deep blue eyes with hooded lids that lent him a dreamy, pensive aspect. Being in the military and a member of the aristocracy, his bearing was correct and manners impeccable, though free of the airs and the supercilious posturing of his peers.

  He had spent so much time with the Giralds that, over the years, he had virtually become a member of the family. Unfortunately, since Alexandre’s marriage, he was seen at their table less and less. She had held a secret hope that he might seek to marry her eldest daughter, Sophie, but she could pl
ainly see that there was no attraction, and certainly such a union would bring no financial benefit, if indeed, it were a consideration.

  He kissed her hand. “Have a good rest; I may see you on the morrow,” he said, as she passed through the door into the corridor, lifting her heavy skirts.

  Stepping out the rear door terrace, he looked up into the starry sky and drank in the warm night air, feeling the effects of the brandy. There was a full moon—a time for mischief and madness. Perhaps he was in for a little of both.

  The summer house was mainly used as an indoor centre for cultivating plants early in the season, and for gardening tools and supplies, but had a small table and chairs with a cot in the back corner, once used by the old gardener—the new one resided in town.

  He rapped quietly on the rickety door, until a tearful voice replied,

  “Come in.”

  Seated on a chair by the table was Sophie, wringing a crumpled handkerchief between her fingers. Her face, while not pretty, was capable of turning some heads, and was now clean of rouge and powder, glowing in the light of a single candle.

  He was tempted to leave.

  “Please, sit by me here,” she said, sensing his instincts as she gestured to the chair. “You must understand,” she began, trailing off. “I did not know where to turn... You see, it concerns my brother...”

  She paused for a moment. “Would you like a drink?” she asked, pouring a goblet of claret placed on the table in front of him.

  He did not want another drink, but accepted because it had been offered.

  “You see,” she went on, as he tossed it back, “I am aware of the value you place upon my brother’s friendship, and it is for this reason I am wont to tell you of his dealings.”

  Fortunately the claret seemed to be going down smoothly, and she quickly refilled his goblet. Pausing to wipe her nose, she continued, the words spilling forth like a well-rehearsed monologue.

  “You see, although I cannot reveal my sources, it appears that Alexandre has been involved in a serious affair...a kind of conspiracy of thieves, which involves stealing from our friends and other prominent members of our society, then selling or trading the items to English traders, at great profit. Is it not horrifying?” she stated, shrilly. “My own dear brother involved in such a scheme? Of course, no one in the family must know. Should the conspirators turn against him, or the authorities suspect, he will certainly have to answer for the consequences.”

  Had he not been fortified with Spirits, this ugly revelation would have toppled him. No, there must be some mistake; his friend Alexandre was not capable of such acts of treachery. He was an honest, law-abiding young man, who, other than showing a penchant for the ladies prior to his marriage, could not be considered anything but honourable.

  How could he, Nicholas, be so poor a judge of character that he fails to see these traits? To involve oneself in theft was a serious enough charge, but to trade with the English...the penalty was hanging...

  “Sophie, you must tell me where you received this information,” he slurred, as frantically as his drunken state allowed. “I cannot help you, unless I am certain of its truth.”

  She looked at him and burst into hysterical sobs, causing him to kneel rather unsteadily with his arms about her, in an attempt to console. His head began to spin, and it was all he could do to keep his balance. “I have been sworn not to reveal his identity, he promised to...to kill me...”

  None of this seemed to make sense, and moreover, he was given to ever-increasing dizziness.

  He heard her vaguely state: “Is there something wrong with you, Nicholas? I am very sorry to have troubled you... Perhaps the libation was too strong...” He had risen, and she was assisting him to walk, “Here, I will help you to lay down...no, you must not do that! Stop that!...” He heard her yell as she pushed and pulled at his body, but he was not aware of what he was doing wrong, and soon, words and thoughts trailed into nothingness…

  Chapter 12

  He awoke to the sound of songbirds scolding each other loudly on the rooftop, just as the sun was beginning to lighten the shadows.

  His head was pounding. But a movement, a little moan at his back, caused him to turn and nearly fall out of bed.

  There beside him, lay Sophie, the bodice of her gown, torn slightly, while the skirts were lifted above her bare thighs, and on it, traces of blood.

  When he jerked back in shock, her eyes came awake and, within an instant, fixated in horror, welling up with tears.

  “Why?!” She hissed, in anger and despair, “Why did you do it? I... I thought you were my friend...a...a gentleman!” She sat up slightly, rubbing her forehead with her hand in tremendous anguish, and broke down.

  “I struggled with you,” she finally managed to say through heaving sobs, “...pleaded with you, and still you forced your drunken way upon me... How could you...?

  He looked at himself and saw that he had scratches on his chest, where his uniform opened, and his pants were undone. He swiftly covered himself, attempting to sit up, racking his brain to make some sense of the situation.

  Had he, in fact, taken advantage of this woman, thrown himself on her in this base and disgusting manner, when he had never felt any attraction for her before? True, he had been drinking... He remembered now... They were talking about...whom? ...Ah, yes, Armand... Conspiracy of thieves... And then she began to cry, almost hysterically, and he put his arms abound her and tried to console her...and ...Yes, there was a struggle, and he recalled her saying, “Stop?”... And then he lay down, and there was movement and confusion...

  Had he truly committed such an act… could he, when he was totally unaware? He had only her word for it, and the physical evidence on each of them. She certainly appeared injured and shaken.

  The recriminations continued: “...You, who have always known how to treat a lady...have stooped to this?! If you wanted me, why did you not proceed with a proper courtship? Had I only known of your desires... I might have given you my consideration, but...To take my virtue...In such a manner!” she began to cry more loudly.

  The weeping and terrible guilt caused his head to throb, culminating in a need to escape at that very moment.

  “I cannot express my feelings adequately... You must try to forgive me. I... if I have committed this grievous act, I will bear the consequences, and do right by you, of that, you need not fear.”

  He shook his head, “Please,” we must go now, the sun is almost risen and soon the entire household will be about ... “ He helped her gather her things. “Do not tell anyone about ... This,” he whispered, fearfully,

  “I will contact you again, very soon, and we shall discuss it further.”

  He opened the door a crack. He was lucky. All was quiet, save the chirping of the birds.

  “I shall leave first,” he said, straightening his uniform, “give me five minutes, then you follow...”

  With that, he stepped out onto the dewy grass, as the sun was beginning to rise, with a monumental headache, an aching body, and a mind full of confused thoughts, not knowing how surely he had sealed his fate.

  A little over five weeks elapsed, and in that time he had sent several messages in an effort to arrange a meeting, but had met with no success.

  She was either out or “indisposed”, and he prayed that it signalled her recovery from the ordeal, and was willing to forgive and forget. He was just at the point of accepting the latter when a missive arrived, which carried the alarming news. She had recently learned that she was indeed pregnant. Although she forgave him, she was beside herself with fear and anguish. What did he wish her to do?

  The answer was clear. He was a gentleman. He had no choice but to follow through on his promise.

  After mulling over his dilemma for several days, he realized he had no option, but to formally ask Monsieur Girald for his daughter’s hand, and the need for an early date. Wedding plans were set in motion.

  His second concern related her brother, and though he broached
it several times, the question of Alexandre’s involvement in illicit activity was never satisfactorily explained, other than to say that her unnamed source later claimed to have fabricated the story. He realized that she might have purposely set the scene for what had happened, but the physical evidence could not refute the fact.

  She made him promise that, in order to begin their marriage on solid ground, neither issue was ever to be mentioned. He reluctantly gave his word. He was not in love with her, but she was pleasant enough, during the course of their brief engagement, to lead him to suppose that she might be an amiable companion, there were no displays of temper or domination; she seemed merely content to plan her trousseau and share with him the exciting event.

  The wedding was elaborate, but strangely surreal. He felt more like a spectator watching himself in a play; reciting the words of another character.

  The first few days of wedded bliss were pleasant enough, but by the end of the second week, her true spirit came to light.

  Now that she had been made the new “Duchesse de Belaise”, she demanded a large abode in upper town, replete with servants, stables and all the accoutrements of privilege.

  When the ship arrived from France, a week after the wedding, she embarked on a spending spree, buying the finest materials for draperies and clothing, employing the most skilled craftsmen to design furniture and nursery items.

  Not only did she set out to exhaust his personal resources, but also she expected him to attend her needs; even while commanding his post at the garrison, setting out a social agenda, impossible to meet.