Moonlit Desire

by Carolann Camillo

  Why did he have to bring her here? Why, especially when she, Marielle, wanted nothing more than for him to pick her up and twirl her around, even tease her like he usually did, which showed he cared something for her? She would never understand why he chose to spend his precious time with another man’s widow.

  On the verge of tears, she stamped her foot, not once but several times. Her father must find a way to deliver Madame back to New York and out of their lives. He simply must. And quickly.

  Chapter 21

  In the two weeks since Catherine’s arrival in New France, her days and nights had been fraught with anxiety: the fear that her return to England would never be accomplished, the British barrage on Quebec, and Marielle’s persistent questions as to Catherine’s relationship with Rive. She had seen nothing of him since the evening in her bedroom. At dinner, André announced Rive had left to reestablish himself with the French forces. Because no news to the contrary had reached them, she assumed he was safe. However, news might be difficult to deliver in the midst of a war.

  So, at night, when she tossed alone in her bed, she tortured herself with the thought that perhaps he lay wounded in a makeshift hospital with neither adequate food nor medicine. She had made light of his falling in battle, but whenever she thought it a real possibility, pain squeezed her heart. Although most nights she slept poorly, when she did dream, he still played a central role.

  Usually, after dinner, Catherine returned to her room to snuggle deep into the feather bed. Propped against a pair of plump pillows, she read until the candle on the nightstand was nearly extinguished. André had an extensive library and invited her to avail herself of it. Literature had always been a great source of enjoyment and now, more than ever, she welcomed the escape it provided. Sometimes, when she found sleep elusive, she would read long into the night, immersed in the flowing passages of the French philosopher and author, Voltaire. Also, she tried never to intrude on Lise and André. They had treated her with warmth and kindness, insisting she call them by their given names, as they did her. Marielle, to the girl’s consternation, had been instructed by her mother to always address their guest as Madame.

  One evening, during her third week in Quebec, with the early August weather favorable, Catherine was walking in the secluded garden behind the house. Neatly trimmed shrubs, tall trees and colorful flower beds spread across the grounds. In their midst sat a small gazebo, its latticed sides painted white, with seating inside.

  Her anxiety had been especially acute that evening. Although the garden provided a haven of serenity, she felt beset on all sides by circumstances that seemed calculated to shatter her tenuous calm. Each day brought ever-increasing concern for her parents. When would the news of Flint’s death be dispatched to London? Perhaps it already had been. She felt it ever more critical that Rive arrange her travel to New York.

  She stepped into the gazebo and sat quietly, her head bent and hands clasped in her lap.

  “My dear, are you not well?”

  She looked up to find Lise standing before her. Although she made an effort to appear composed, her anxiety must have showed.

  “You look more than a trifle pale.” Lise seated herself beside Catherine. “I hope you are not coming down with the fever.”

  Catherine’s throat felt tight, and she forced herself to swallow and make light of her dismay. “It’s nothing.”

  “Oh, but my dear young lady, it is decidedly something. Are you concerned for your safety?”

  “No.”

  “You are worried, all the same. That is quite obvious.”

  “I was thinking of my parents. I have not seen them for many months.” These last words escaped almost as a sob, and Lise gathered Catherine into her arms.

  They sat quietly for a few moments. “I am not a meddling woman, but sometimes it is best for the—how do you say it—the wellness, yes, that we confide in another person. You are far from your home and family, but I am here and you may say to me anything and know it will remain only with me. I give you my word. Come, tell me what makes a woman so young and beautiful so sad.”

  “You are very kind.” Catherine had a moment’s hesitation about unburdening herself. The moment passed, and with a sense of relief, she disclosed something of her family and the circumstances that led to her father’s bankruptcy. “Surprisingly, I was able to earn a small amount of money. A woman who knew my mother arranged for me to give piano lessons to a young girl. Twice a week, I walked to her house, where we worked first on scales, then simple pieces and finally more difficult ones. A serious pupil, she learned quickly. After several months, her mother approached me and asked if her daughter might have advanced enough to give a recital in their home. I readily agreed.”

  With the memory of that night, Catherine’s hands clenched and she fell silent.

  After a lapse of several seconds, Lise placed her hand over Catherine’s. “I think this recital changed your life. N’est-ce pas?”

  Catherine nodded before turning her gaze toward the garden. “It was the night I met Mr. Flint.”

  Speaking his name chilled her, and she paused to collect herself. “He had passed the Season in London and was a guest at the recital. After my pupil played several pieces, her mother insisted I also favor them with a selection. Not wishing to take anything from the girl’s success, I picked a simple sonata. At its conclusion, I found Mr. Flint at my elbow. He introduced himself, and we chatted for several minutes. When I excused myself in preparation for returning home, he insisted upon delivering me there in his carriage. Since it had grown late, I accepted.

  “The next day, his servant arrived with an invitation from Mr. Flint inviting me to lunch. I wrote a polite refusal and thought that the end of it. I was mistaken. Other invitations followed, one to a concert, and another to the theater. Although it had been many months since I had enjoyed such entertainments, again I declined. Several times I observed him walking past my home. I became quite alarmed at his persistence and finally told him outright I would not entertain his suit. That said, he disappeared, but not for long. Then I began to feel afraid.”

  “Yes. You were right to fear him.”

  Catherine turned toward Lise, who bore a sympathetic expression. Her hand still rested atop hers, making it easier to confide in her about the night Flint proposed marriage. “He made it clear my refusal would in all likelihood bring about my father’s swift imprisonment. He spoke as if he, in some way, might even hastily accomplish it. Deeply in debt, my father’s fate would be sealed. Still he would never have condoned my marriage to Mr. Flint under those circumstances.”

  “So your father never suspected.”

  Catherine shook her head. “No. The next morning, Mr. Flint, aided by my complicity, obtained his consent to the union.

  “Mr. Flint had booked passage to New York and was due to sail with the evening tide. I insisted I could not make ready in such haste. By then, I knew something of him and gambled he would not press the issue too strenuously. I refused to back down. It was the one concession he granted. A month later, I, too, sailed for New York. Before I boarded the ship, I informed my father that my future husband had insisted upon undertaking his and my mother’s welfare. Eight weeks later, I married Mr. Flint.”

  Lise placed her arm around Catherine’s shoulders. “Have you told any of this to Rive?”

  “No. Nor will I ever. There is no purpose.”

  “He can help you. He is a man of some means. Under the circumstances, I know he would insist upon it.”

  It didn’t matter whether Lise referred to Catherine’s abduction or her parents’ financial distress. She must forestall involving Rive. “I know you mean well, but I would never enlist his assistance.”

  “Why ever not?”

  Catherine tried to choose her words carefully so as not to cause disharmony. Certainly, Lise’s suggestion had come about through her own kind nature and was offered in all innocence.

  “You see, I have already traveled such a familiar r
oute, one upon which I shall never embark again. Not with Rive, nor anyone. Perhaps I am too proud. Having surrendered not just my pride but my liberty to one man, I cannot countenance doing so again.”

  “My dear, unlike Mr. Flint, Rive would never demand repayment from you, certainly not anything as far-reaching and permanent as marriage.” Then, apparently reading the shock on Catherine’s face, she immediately clapped a hand against her cheek. “I did not mean to imply he would require ... that he would compromise your ... oh, what am I trying to say? I cannot seem to find the right words.”

  Catherine sought to put the woman at ease. “I believe you meant he would expect nothing in return, certainly

  not ...” Here she, too, sought the appropriate language, words more delicate than the ones that first sprang to mind. “He would expect nothing of a personal nature.”

  “Exactly.” Lise sounded greatly relieved. “I assure you he is not the kind of man to take advantage. He is ... well ...”

  “A man of high moral character who possesses a keen sense of justice. I have already been apprised by his friend Louis as to his virtues. I understand he has been to court!” She could not subdue the smile spreading across her face, and the two women dissolved into peals of laughter.

  “Oh, such nonsense!” Lise composed herself. “If I know Rive, it was only to confirm for himself the excesses of the monarchy and to mock them. You know something of him, enough to see he is anything but a sycophant and a fop.”

  Catherine felt her cheeks flush. “Yes, he is anything but those.”

  “So at least we have settled something. Regarding my suggestion, you alone must decide whether or not to seek his assistance.” Lise stood and offered her hand to Catherine. “Come inside now. André has some news concerning your departure from New France.”

  “Then there is a chance?”

  “Yes. Nothing is certain. André will explain.”

  Catherine hurried with Lise back to the house. They found André in the library with a map spread across one of the mahogany tables.

  “I wish I had something more conclusive to offer, but at the moment it is only a possibility. Rive sent word he believes that the privateer he engaged in New York to transport munitions to Quebec might still be somewhere in the city. The man has been most effective in slipping through the British blockade, bringing much-needed supplies from the American colonies.”

  Catherine was cheered by the news. “Is he English?”

  “No, no, my dear. He is French. He plies the sea between the West Indies and New England.”

  A look of confusion crossed Catherine’s face. “I am not sure I follow you.”

  “I suppose it does sound rather complicated.” He beckoned Catherine closer to the map. “Do you know anything of the Indies?”

  “Only that they are made up of many islands. England and France have staked claims there.”

  André pointed to several small configurations, some no larger than a dot. “Here you see the principal French islands. In spite of the war, a flourishing trade is still carried on with the American colonies. The islands produce molasses, which is distilled into rum in New England for the western fur trade and the African slave trade. In return, the colonies provide flour, meat and lumber, much needed in the Indies.”

  It was an interesting lesson and, at any other time, Catherine would have found herself a willing pupil. Yet the connection between the far-off islands and her own predicament continued to elude her.

  “What have those islands to do with me?”

  “Everything. You see, it is entirely too risky to arrange an overland journey at this time. So it appears more sensible to concentrate on the sea. The privateer of whom I spoke, Captain Desault, will set sail for the Indies with only half a cargo. The other half, mainly food stores, he has sold here for many times what they would bring in the islands. At the first opportunity, he will return there. Most likely, he would be willing to take on a passenger. Let there be no doubt that such an enterprise is not without its risks.”

  As Catherine studied the map, her spirits lifted. “I accept the risks and thank you for your endeavors.” Then a sudden thought struck her. “If I do reach the islands, how do you propose I proceed from there?”

  “You will be put ashore, most likely in St. Domingue.” He pointed to a spot on the map east of Jamaica. “The island is settled jointly by France and Spain, but your destination will be French soil. If you reach it—and there can be no guarantee—you will be within one hundred miles of Jamaica. Once there you will encounter your own countrymen. It should be possible to book passage either to New York or England.”

  “Oh, England, for sure,” Catherine’s enthusiasm peaked then just as quickly plunged. “You have failed to consider how I might pay for so complex a trip. I have not a shilling to my name.”

  A look passed between husband and wife, and Catherine thought she noticed Lise give an almost imperceptible shake of her head.

  “Captain Desault will expect no payment. He was more than adequately compensated by the government of New France in his most recent endeavor.”

  “Are you quite certain? I will not countenance a debt on my behalf being incurred by you, nor by anyone else in your family.” This last statement she hoped made clear what she had disclosed earlier: under no circumstances would she allow herself to become indebted to Rive. She looked directly at Lise but could say no more without calling into question her and her husband’s honesty.

  Chapter 22

  The next week passed with nary a variation in routine. Catherine kept to herself as much as possible and waited expectantly for word of the privateer. Most evenings were spent her in her room, but sometimes—when overly restless and lured by the pleasant weather—she sought solitude in the garden. One night, after a rare festive dinner of roast hen, carrots, potatoes and a small sugared cake, she fetched a light shawl and slipped outside unnoticed.

  A carpet of moonlight spilled across the gravel path, and stones crunched under her feet as she walked slowly away from the house. The night was ablaze with stars that splashed a silvery-white light across the dark sky. For once, even the British guns were stilled.

  Crickets chirped in the lilac-scented air. The only other sounds issued from inside the house, where André’s voice, rising occasionally over the softer tones of his wife’s, attested to the fact the two were not yet abed. They were engaging in the topic that had held everyone’s attention earlier at the dinner table—the endless war. By then, Catherine knew André’s sentiments by heart. At his excited words “the damn fool ought to be shot,” she could hardly suppress a smile, for the object of his wrath could be none other than the redoubtable general, Montcalm.

  She moved farther down the path. Their voices faded, and she settled herself on a bench in the gazebo. Flushed from the glass of wine she had drunk at dinner, she leaned her head back and let the cool night breeze brush her face. She closed her eyes and attempted to clear her mind of all but this rare moment of peace and the sweet scents permeating the garden.

  That exercise rarely brought the rewards she sought, and her thoughts consistently drifted back to Rive. Now, approaching mid-August, they’d had only one missive from him. He stated that he was safe and a British assault on the city did not appear imminent. Still, his welfare was uppermost in her mind. Often, she awakened in the night, her skin moist, her heart pounding, worried that his regiment had been overrun or he faced some other serious danger.

  “Catherine.”

  Startled, she opened her eyes and jumped to her feet. Rive stood in the doorway, his hand and forearm braced against the side frame.

  “Did I frighten you? I did not mean to.”

  It took a moment for her to catch her breath. “Must you forever sneak up on me?” Seeing him—not in a dream but very much in the flesh—renewed her caution, lest she fall victim to her own weakness in his presence.

  “That was not my intention.”

  The uniform he wore reminded her of his re
sponsibility as a soldier. “What brings you here? Does not your duty require you to be somewhere else repelling an attack?”

  He cocked his head. “Listen.”

  She paused a moment. “I hear nothing.”

  “Exactly my point. There is nothing to hear. Since the British have taken a respite, so, I decided, should I. After all, whenever possible, I have given my men short leaves. Some have family nearby. For others it is a godsend just to abandon the hard ground and warm themselves in the mess tent.”

  “You are generous.”

  He shrugged. “Some of the men are very young. Many might not live to see a French victory if it comes.”

  At his words, a wave of sadness swept through her, then fright at the thought that he, too, might be killed. She wanted to reach out and touch him, to make certain he had come to no harm, but she recognized the danger of even the lightest touch.

  “You have done them a good service, then.”

  He smiled. “It is necessary for morale, my own included. So I decided that I, too, should share in the bounty. That explains my presence. However, I did not mean to startle you. You looked so pensive that I could have watched you all night.” He stepped into the gazebo. “What occupies your thoughts?”

  Tonight his eyes seemed as green and unfathomable as the sea; the light thrown from the pale moon softened his features.

  “I was thinking of you.” For once, she could not deny the truth.

  “Ah.” He stepped closer, a pleased expression on his face.

  “Let me remind you, lest you take encouragement, that my thoughts can be of a dark and uncomplimentary nature when turned toward you.” With mere inches between them, she thought it wise to choose words that disguised her true feelings for him.

  “Surely, not always.” He reached beneath the delicate tumble of curls that brushed her cheek. His other hand settled against her back. “Can you find no room in your heart for a sweet sentiment on my behalf?”