Between Two Shores

by Jocelyn Green

  A fresh wave of heat crawled up her neck. She glanced around. “No.” She knew what he meant to do. If she weren’t so hungry, she wouldn’t let him.

  “Here.”

  Wrinkling her nose, she opened her mouth. Samuel dropped some seeds inside, and she kept them there as long as she could, making them last before chewing. The warmth she’d felt before burst into a blazing inferno.

  This was ridiculous. Here she was, sweating beneath the noonday sun, unpresentable hands covered in strong-smelling unguent, being fed weeds and blushing over it. The absurdity of it bubbled up inside her, eventually finding release in laughter.

  Grinning, Sam helped himself to his own portion of seeds, then gave her a few more.

  Was she going mad to laugh at a time like this? She went to cover her mouth with her hand, then stopped herself, but not before she’d smeared her cheek with salve.

  Chuckling, Samuel wiped it off with the pad of his thumb. “How I’ve missed you, Catie.”

  For a fleeting instant, possibility fluttered. Fire and ice came together inside her, each warring for the upper hand. She had burned for him, and burned against him. She had gone numb in his absence, and his return had left her cold.

  “Please,” she whispered, all levity sifted away. “Don’t call me that anymore.”

  Samuel studied her. “What then, you who push me away and then eat from my hand? You who stole the whole of my heart and keep it still? What would you have me call you?”

  Yours. The word burst upon her mind with a suddenness, an intensity that overwhelmed her. With a violent shift, the gate to her guarded longings cracked open.

  “What do you mean, I keep your heart?” She nudged peels of white bark on the ground with her toe. “Not now, I don’t. Not for years.”

  A long moment passed, heavy with things unspoken. “I said too much. Forgive me.”

  Catherine needed to summon her wits. In their limited time alone together, there was much to discuss. She needed to think. “Samuel,” she whispered, “we must talk about the war and your role in it while we have the chance, and not continue talking in circles about our past. But I will tell you I’m trying to forgive it all. Can you at least tell me why you changed your mind about us? Was it Joel’s death that altered our course? Was it the war and your loyalties to the British crown?”

  He leaned back against a thin birch trunk. Plucking a leaf from a low-hanging branch, he smoothed it between thumb and fingers. “No. War was no match for our love.”

  Bewilderment lodged in her throat. Catherine looped her arm around a tree opposite him, pressing her hip to the slender support. Sunlight speared through the leaves above them. “I just wish I understood why you stopped loving me.”

  Samuel’s lips parted. The leaf slipped from his hand as he leaned forward. “Did you not hear me? I never stopped. Whatever happens, believe me: There is nothing wrong with you. You are far too good for the trials you suffer. Find a husband, Catherine, to bring you the happiness you deserve.”

  She found no sense in his contradiction. “You still love me and yet tell me to seek another man to marry?”

  “We cannot resume our relationship now. Too much has happened. There’s no going back.”

  Unconvinced but not ready to show it, Catherine massaged the salve into her hands, coaxing it into her skin. Hurt and hope tangled together. “Why didn’t you at least write?”

  “Catherine, I did.”

  A gasp escaped her. “What? When? You mean before Joel’s death?”

  “And after.”

  The words burrowed into her and expanded until the pressure grew nearly unbearable. He could be lying. It would be easy enough to do and could not be proven either way. But she knew by his expression that he wasn’t. “That’s why you reacted the way you did when I asked about Joel.”

  A ridge forming between his eyebrows, Samuel tapped his thumb against the hammer hooked into his waistband. “I thought you knew. I thought you’d received my letter, and that your lack of reply was response enough.”

  The air left her lungs. Ache rushed in. Catherine felt hot and cold by turns. Water riffled and purled in the creek, and memory spilled over in her mind. The proposal, the parting, the promise that he’d return. The letter that never came. The empires must have been at war by the time Samuel sent it. You could have sent another, tried again a different way. She wouldn’t say it. One could drown in should-haves and what-ifs. These were distractions from the chief matter at hand.

  But he still loved her. Or had she only dreamed it? She could not—would not—name the stirring she felt. Catherine kneaded her hands. Possessing herself, she met his unblinking gaze.

  “Sam, I—”

  Footfalls sounded. They were too widely spaced to be Thankful.

  Samuel closed the gap between them. “Say you’ll help me. You know the way north, and you know I can’t get there on my own. I must get there before all the wheat does.”

  She scanned their surroundings. Gabriel was returning for more water but was still too far away to hear their whispers. “Fontaine said this morning that the last of the harvest would arrive in Quebec by September 15.”

  “Then I must get there before that date.” Urgency tightened his voice.

  The knot of resistance inside her broke apart, transforming into an overwhelming conviction that a chance to end the war was worth the risks. Joseph and Bright Star didn’t think so, but Catherine had disagreed with them before.

  “I’ll take you.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  September 1759

  Two weeks had passed since Fontaine and Moreau had come to supervise the harvest, and the fields were now more stubble than grain. Sweat glued Catherine’s cotton gown to her skin as she swung the scythe, but this time the sun was not to blame. She couldn’t put off the trip to Quebec much longer, but she still needed to talk with Yvette and Bright Star before she left. She hadn’t had time to seek them out all week.

  Stalks of wheat swished at the slice of her blade. Hundreds of women and a dozen soldiers peppered the field, but it was Captain Moreau who drew Catherine’s eye.

  He looked well rested. More than that, he appeared in high spirits.

  “Good news, Captain?” Catherine asked when he ambled near enough to hear.

  A genuine smile warmed his stony face, the first he’d offered her in a week. “Mademoiselle, I admit my mistrust in you was misplaced. You’ve been nothing but faithful in this work, and I’m pleased to say it’s nearly done. The worst is over.”

  “Oh?” She rested one hand on the top of her scythe. “What makes you think so?”

  “News. The English burned their entrenchment at Montmorency Falls after evacuating their troops and carrying off their effects.”

  Not far away, Samuel paused in his work, and she knew he was listening intently. The falls were just east of Quebec. If the British had abandoned that location, it could only mean one thing. “They’re giving up on taking Quebec?” she asked.

  Moreau rocked back on his heels. “Their General Wolfe certainly seems to have lost any chance of taking it. What can we conclude from his actions but his imminent departure? Everyone in Quebec is filled with joy. Confidence has replaced despair.” Perhaps it was that confidence that loosened the captain’s tongue, for he wasn’t finished yet. “News here in Montreal is just as encouraging. The British intend to halt their advance toward us at Fort Saint-Frédéric, partway up Lake Champlain.”

  “That’s only seventy miles to the south of us,” Catherine remarked. Lake Champlain was part of the trade corridor her porters normally used between Montreal and Albany, at least during peacetime. The route from here to Fort Saint-Frédéric could be covered in less than a week.

  “I would to God the distance were greater, but if they stop there, it will do. No one will burn our wheat. We shall survive the winter to fight again.”

  Catherine ran her thumb along the callused ridge at the top of her palm. “You do seem confident,” she prodded.
“If what you say is true, we have reason to rejoice, indeed.”

  “Rejoice, then. My intelligence is sound. It comes straight from the mouths of a British engineer and six soldiers recently captured on Lake Champlain. Canada will not be taken this year.” He bellowed the last statement, arms raised in an impromptu hurrah. The field workers paused and turned to stare. “I’ve kept you too long from your work,” he said, clasping his hands at his back. “Carry on. A few more days, and you will be finished with this business entirely. We all will. The schooners will be here soon.”

  Catherine gripped her tool. They needed to leave. Tonight, if possible.

  Ten paces distant, Thankful’s scythe slowed to a stop. A gust of wind blew chaff from her straw hat’s brim as she pressed a fist to the small of her back. Pink-cheeked from exertion, she signaled to Catherine that she was taking a break to find water.

  Watching her go, Catherine felt a stab and a twist in her gut.

  Thankful. Could they leave her here, alone with Gabriel, Fontaine, and Moreau? The journey to Quebec was dangerous and treasonous, for few would agree with Catherine’s logic. Surely Thankful would be safer here at home. Catherine would deliver Sam and come back as quickly as possible.

  Mopping a kerchief across her brow, Catherine calculated how long she’d be away. The distance between Montreal and Quebec was more than one hundred and fifty miles. They would travel by river to avoid leaving tracks. Three miles an hour, ten hours a day. Barring any delays, they’d reach the city in less than six days, and then Catherine could double back alone.

  Her hands tightened on the scythe, and she kept swinging, rolling questions and answers in her mind. The schooners would be coming to pick up the wheat soon. How would that affect their journey on the same river?

  A burst of female laughter jarred her from her thoughts. When Captain Moreau’s voice rose, ordering the women back to work, Catherine cast a glance toward him.

  She did not see Gaspard Fontaine.

  Neither had Thankful returned.

  This morning Fontaine had been fractious and shaky, and he might well be resting somewhere in the shade. Too much drink, she had guessed at first sight, but on the contrary, he reported the opposite was true. “As there is not enough rum to drown my sorrows, I’ve decided to face them, at last,” he had confessed. It would take as much bravery as the private possessed. Gabriel certainly didn’t have enough.

  Tightening the ribbons of her hat beneath her chin, Catherine scanned the fields, then squinted toward the canvas tent the soldiers had erected for small spells of rest. Women lined up for their turn with the dipper at the buckets of water. Thankful was surely just waiting in the queue. Catherine returned to the task at hand.

  But minutes passed, and still Thankful’s scythe lay idle.

  Unease clamped Catherine’s chest. Her own scythe still firmly in her hand, she cut across the field toward the tent. “Have you seen Thankful in the last twenty minutes?” she called as she passed Samuel, whose movements were made awkward by his shackles.

  Straightening, he shaded his eyes with a hand and pivoted to take in the fields. “Something amiss?”

  She waved his question away. She didn’t know how to answer it.

  In moments, she had ducked into the shade of the tent. Conversations stilled as women raked her with silent appraisal, from the scythe in her fist to the moccasins beneath her hem.

  “Half-breed,” one whispered. “But I’d say the balance is not quite equal. Does she not look more savage than French?”

  Catherine would not relinquish her scythe. Given her growing concern, she would have drawn comfort from having Bright Star’s hunting knife around her neck. “Thankful,” she called, craning her neck to see among them. “Thankful Winslet?”

  “Her captive.” Another voice. “She collects them, didn’t you know? Partial to blondes, it appears. Although in the case of that strapping man in the field, I can’t say as I fault her for that. Pity he’s the enemy.”

  “That’s quite enough, mesdames.” Yvette Trudeau stepped from her place in the line, bony fists on slender hips. “You ought to be ashamed of yourselves.”

  “Yvette!” Catherine went to her and bussed her cheek. “How are you?”

  She gave a tremulous smile. “I’m well enough, ma chère, well enough for the times. Can’t say the same for Lucie, though.” She dusted wheat chaff from her shoulders. “But at least we had our fill for a night. It won’t be long before I must sacrifice Maude to the pot, too.” Her sour breath spoke of a chronically empty stomach.

  “I’m sorry,” Catherine said, knowing how fond Yvette had been of her chickens. “And I’m sorry I still have your ledger book. My notes are complete and tucked inside—I should have brought it with me today so I could give it to you.”

  Yvette waved her hand. “I haven’t missed it.”

  “But it belongs to you. My notes may help make sense of Monsieur’s dealings.” Catherine dabbed her handkerchief to the back of her neck, grateful that at least the mosquitoes weren’t as numerous. Soon they’d be no nuisance to speak of.

  The line shuffled forward. Eyes crinkling at the corners, Yvette patted Catherine’s back. “I’ll tell you what. Come visit me once this harvest is done and explain it to me yourself. We may not have croissants to share, but I still have some tea set by for special occasions.”

  But Catherine fully intended to be gone by the time the harvest ended, well on her way to Quebec. “I’ll be glad to come, Yvette. I may be delayed with other work, but I’ll come just as soon as I can.”

  Yvette touched the back of her hand to her flushed cheeks. “I know you will. And bring Thankful. If she is as good with a needle and thread as you say, she may enjoy helping me with a piece of trim I just can’t seem to get right.” She winked.

  A soldier called above the din to keep the drinks short. A wave of disapproving murmurs followed.

  Catherine wiped her palms on her apron and re-gripped the scythe handle. “Yes, of course. Have you seen Thankful today, by the way?”

  A gnarled hand rose along the side of the tent. The seamed face of an elderly man looked up at her from where he sat on a stool. “I think I know who you seek,” he said. “She went to help that fiery private, the one with red hair. Although he seems to have lost his fire today.” He pointed to a barn.

  If Fontaine had laid a hand on her . . . Catherine bid a hasty adieu to Yvette and ran through a shaven field, petticoats tangling around her legs, her scythe a weapon she was willing to wield. The ferocity she felt was nearly overpowering.

  The barn door had been left open. On broken hinges, the warping wooden planks hung askance. “Thankful! Fontaine!” She pushed inside.

  Dust motes peppered the air. Spears of light stabbed a cracked leather saddle and rusted tools pinned to the wall. There, between untidy mounds of hay, lay Fontaine, with Thankful kneeling over him.

  He had her by the wrists.

  “Catherine!” Thankful gasped. “He is unwell. Put down the scythe, for mercy’s sake!”

  Catherine stepped closer, the tip of the curved metal blade pointed at Fontaine’s chest. “Let her go.”

  His teeth were clenched, and his entire body was possessed by tremors and filmed with a sour-smelling sweat. He was already in pain without her inflicting more. Catherine thrust the scythe into a bale of hay and drew near. His eyes were glassy and wild, staring into some unseen place.

  “What’s wrong?” She pried his fingers from Thankful’s flesh, but the marks of his grip remained. “What happened?”

  Thankful wiggled her fingers and rubbed a red streak above her wrist. “I went for a drink and saw him in the tent. He was soaked in sweat and holding his head, groaning. His head ached, his stomach ached, everything hurt, he said. I offered to help him to the barn so he could rest here.”

  Catherine stiffened at the girl’s naïveté. “Did you not suspect it might be a ruse? To get you alone and away from everyone else, to a place you would not be seen or heard?”<
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  Sitting back on her heels, Thankful pushed a strand of hair from her cheek with the back of her hand. “You’ll call me foolish, but honestly, I didn’t.”

  Catherine bit her tongue before she could lay out the danger Thankful had put herself in. Foolish was only one of the words that came to mind.

  “I could tell he was ill. I gave him water to drink, but his stomach rejected it.” Thankful gestured to a matted pile of hay.

  The sound of shuffling footsteps and jangling chains announced Samuel’s arrival before his shadow fell inside the barn. “What’s this?” Shackles slowing his stride, he still seemed to hurtle toward Fontaine. One glance at the fingerprints on Thankful’s wrists, and he had Fontaine by the shirt, yanking him to his feet. “What have you done?” Though his voice was low and controlled, it was a thin mask to his anger.

  The militiaman’s pupils were pinpricks, his hair dark with sweat and slicked back. “Don’t you touch me,” he seethed, but his words seemed to be formed around marbles. “Unhand me.”

  “You’ll tell me why you left marks on Mademoiselle Winslet first.”

  Fontaine’s head lolled as he turned to Thankful, then back again, his expression hardening like cooling wax as he matched Samuel’s stony stare. “She’s fine. I didn’t hurt her.” He began laughing, but it was a mirthless sound. “Truth is, I never hurt anyone, never wanted to hurt anyone, and yet here I am, serving in a war I never wanted to be part of!” He struggled to be free, but Samuel held him by the shoulders. “And now my brother’s dead, and I can’t figure out a way to go home to my parents without him, at least not without doing something, anything, to make them proud of me. To make all of this worth it, you understand?”

  He calmed, and Samuel slowly released him.

  Quiet expanded inside the barn. The stalls that had held livestock had been emptied when the militia took the animals for food. That was how Gaspard Fontaine looked now—hollowed out and spent. Catherine stepped back from him, and Thankful did the same.