Moonlit Desire

by Carolann Camillo

  Catherine’s body went limp. She clutched the sides of his jacket and held on as if her very existence depended upon it. Try as she might to temper her response, the battle had been lost the moment he touched her. Her lips, opened as eagerly as a bud exposed to brilliant sunlight, willingly sought his. All the while her mind, which had temporarily abdicated its control of her body, echoed the imprudence of her actions and sounded a warning that took all her resolve to obey.

  It was he who ended the kiss. Almost abruptly, he set her aside. He raked his fingers through his hair. “Go to your room, Catherine.”

  She hesitated as if her feet were rooted in pitch.

  “Go to your room. Now.”

  His expression indicated he was doing all he could to hold himself in restraint. It finally shook her from her reverie. Slowly at first, then with a quicker step, she hurried to the door. She grasped the knob and could not help noticing the gold band encircling her finger. This one she would keep forever, but tucked safely away from view.

  “Goodbye,” she whispered under her breath. Then she pulled open the door, certain she had seen the last of Rive St. Clair.

  Chapter 25

  Catherine sat bolt upright in bed, her heart drumming inside her chest, her fingers clutching at the comforter that had dropped to her waist. There was a pounding in her ears from a sound she could not distinguish. She waited a moment until the last vestiges of sleep dissipated and her eyes adjusted to the darkness. The candle beside her bed had extinguished, and no light showed through the chink in the heavy drapes closed against the night drafts. It could be any hour, but she guessed it was probably well past midnight.

  She pulled the comforter back up to her shoulders and listened again for whatever sound had awakened her. Now she heard it quite distinctly. Slipping out of bed, she quickly donned her robe. Then she went to the bedroom door and opened it. Frantic shouts, accompanied by fists pounding upon wood, greeted her from somewhere outside the house.

  Stepping into the hallway, she fully expected to meet André or Lise, but aside from the disturbance that drew her toward the stairs, the house remained quiet. She proceeded with caution, feeling her way in the dark along the stair wall, until she stood, wide-eyed with fright, at the front door.

  “Rouse yourself quickly,” a voice cried, before another assault was made upon the stout wood. Fumbling with the heavy lock, she finally threw the door wide.

  The moon spread only a faint light, but enough to illuminate a tall, sturdily built youth of about sixteen. He stumbled in, almost knocking her off her feet. His face was streaked with dirt, his clothes in a not much better state. Clutching his side as if in pain, he leaned against the wall, panting.

  Catherine stepped back and wondered if admitting the boy had been a mistake. His eyes did indeed look wild. Then she saw his fatigue. If he were bent on mischief, he had little strength left to carry it out.

  “Who are you? What brings you here at this hour of the night?”

  He took a deep breath and exhaled in a rush of air. “My name is Baptiste. I have been sent by Captain St. Clair to warn you that the British are planning to fire on the city before dawn. He said it will be a heavy assault and much worse than ever before.”

  She wondered how Rive could be privy to such information. She took the boy’s arm and led him away from the door. As yet, she could hear nothing of the coming onslaught. However, if the information proved correct, she did not want either of them exposed to danger. An eerie silence pervaded the streets, which at any moment could be torn apart by cannon fire.

  “Captain St. Clair said you understood the steps you must take. The ship lies ready in the harbor. He insisted that you prepare yourselves in all haste. I am to take you there myself.”

  “What is all the commotion?” André slowly descended the stairs. Behind him, Lise held a candle aloft, her expression as puzzled as her husband’s.

  Catherine relayed the boy’s message and stepped back, leaving André in charge. He spoke to Baptiste for a few minutes before addressing the women, his face etched with worry.

  “Dear God, they expect the worst. The British have almost doubled the number of cannons on Pointe Levis. Also, they have increased the complement of soldiers quartered there. Something is in the wind and bodes ill for those who remain in the city. Oh, that fool, Montcalm!” The rage in his voice was fueled by frustration, if not heartiness.

  Lise patted her husband’s back in an attempt to soothe him. “Do not get so excited. We intended to leave. We shall simply do it sooner.”

  André shook loose from his wife’s hand. “Montcalm is to blame for everything! His self-serving pride has brought this city to an undeserved pass. What will be left even should France prevail? He seems incapable of stopping the tide that pulls against us.”

  Lise shook her head sadly and walked back to the stairs. “It seems the end might come soon. It remains for us now to save ourselves. I will awaken Marielle. Then we must take what we can carry and make our way to the ship.”

  It took no time at all for Catherine to collect her few belongings. Unlike the St. Clairs, she had little to salvage. Even the clothes she wore belonged to another woman. Since the servants had been released from their duties days before to return to their families, she helped Lise gather whatever she could—silver pieces, the few items of valuable china that had remained intact, two boxes of André’s books, the two small paintings of their daughters and warm clothing for the sea voyage. When at last they were ready, a thin ribbon of light appeared on the horizon. Baptiste hitched up the horses while the four of them crammed their belongings inside the carriage, barely leaving enough room for themselves. What could not fit was strapped to the roof. Then the young man climbed onto the driver’s seat and they began their sad procession through the city’s streets.

  To Catherine’s surprise, they were not the only ones abroad. Besides a fair amount of militiamen, dozens of wagons and carriages slogged along the road. Their wooden frames groaned, as did theirs, under the strain of unaccustomed loads. Had these people been given the same warning to evacuate? How, she wondered for the second time, had Rive become privy to the British plan to launch a new assault?

  Even as she considered this, the thunderous sound of cannon fire erupted in the distance. Having been quiet for the past several nights, it now heralded a fearsome bombardment. The horse shied and the carriage swayed precariously, throwing Catherine into Marielle, who sat, grim and silent, beside her.

  Then a stabbing pain shot through Catherine’s ribs, caused by a fierce thrust from the girl’s elbow. After settling back into the corner to catch her breath, Catherine turned toward Marielle, whose face bore an open look of hostility. All the rage she harbored since the night Catherine and Rive had wed was etched into her childlike features. Catherine accepted the rebuke, for to chastise the girl meant bringing certain discord into the family. Also, once they reached France, her association with Marielle would end.

  The carriage gave a sickening jolt and a moment later drew to a halt. Baptiste threw open the door and leaned inside.

  “It is impossible to negotiate the street. We shall have to take another route.”

  “Can you reach the Palace Gate?” André peered through the door opening. “Perhaps we will find less congestion there. If we can make it that far, we can continue on foot.”

  Lise surveyed the baggage piled up around them and burst into tears. “We shall have to leave almost everything behind.”

  André took her hand and patted it. “Everything we lose can be replaced. All we need is enough clothing to see us through the journey. We shall take the portraits of the children, of course. In any event, you know how you enjoy visiting the shops. Once we are safely in France, you may purchase anything you wish.”

  His promise seemed to appease her somewhat. With a sigh, she sank heavily against the seat.

  Once again, the horses leaped forward and the coach veered off in a different direction. With deadly accuracy, the cannonb
alls found their mark. The first acrid waves of smoke drifted in on them, making their eyes tear. The women held handkerchiefs to their noses and everyone was forced to take shallow breaths. Catherine pressed the edge of her cloak to her eyes, but as fast as she blotted the moisture, it reappeared, blurring the landscape.

  Twice Baptiste had to stop the coach and maneuver around some obstacle. Miraculously they were able to continue, even as fragments of earth and stone pelted the carriage. However, as they drew closer to the wall on the outskirts of the city, it became increasingly clear the route to the ship would be more hazardous than expected. They halted again, and this time Catherine knew from the miserable expression on Baptiste’s face when he looked in the doorway that they could proceed no farther.

  “The road is blocked. The militia is waving everyone back. We must continue on foot. It will be dangerous, but, in the end, quicker.”

  As he spoke, a complement of militiamen approached. Shouting, they tried to urge the people back into the city. Glancing through the window opening, Catherine thought she caught a glimpse of a white and blue uniform, the same uniform as Rive’s. Was he somewhere among the troops? When the end came—and it seemed likely it would not be far off—would he find his way to safety? She refused to acknowledge the possibility of his being killed in a final battle somewhere on a blood-soaked field. She blinked back tears.

  An angry shout echoed, and a soldier rushed toward them. Gripping Baptiste by the shoulders, he gave him a shove that sent him reeling into the front wheel of the carriage.

  “Get this blasted thing out of the road.” The soldier advanced on the boy, the butt of his rifle raised in the air. “If you have any sense at all, you will seek immediate shelter for yourself and those in your party.”

  “Just a moment.” André eased himself from the carriage. “There is no need to browbeat the lad. He is merely trying to see us safely out of the city.” Hastily, he introduced himself and explained their purpose for being abroad.

  The soldier stared at André, then at the three women.

  “You are mad, Monsieur, to even consider such an action. The enemy seems bent on reducing everything to rubble, and the roads are nearly impassable. I cannot make too clear the danger in which you place yourself and the ladies if you try to go beyond this point.”

  Just then an explosion rocked the ground, and a massive section of the wall collapsed under a thunderous avalanche of stone. Although it took place perhaps two hundred yards ahead, the concussion almost caused André to lose his footing.

  “Do you see what I mean? The cannon fire is murderous. You would do well to reconsider. Now I must return to my men.”

  André, head bent, appeared deep in thought. Then he addressed the women, “Perhaps it would be wiser to return to the house, and yet, if we are ever to leave, it must be done quickly. It should not take more than an hour to reach the harbor. That hour might be the most treacherous of our lives.”

  After a brief discussion, they agreed to go on. Perhaps Catherine’s determination decided it, for she steadfastly refused to turn back, even if it meant proceeding alone. The coach, of course, would have to be abandoned and, with it, everything of a frivolous nature. They repacked the clothing into three stout carpetbags, one of which Catherine volunteered to carry. Marielle, sour as ever, was handed another, and André insisted upon taking the third. Baptiste unhitched the horses and gave them a smart slap on the rump. They trotted off through the crowded road.

  “They will find their way home.” André sighed. “Just as we, pray God, will find our way to France. Now let us be off. Every minute we waste here could cost us our lives.”

  Once they reached the Palace Gate, it became apparent André could not keep up the pace. His face had turned the color of fine gray ash, and his breathing was becoming increasingly labored. Baptiste, who had gone on ahead to reconnoiter, was nowhere in sight. Finally, Lise insisted they halt for a brief rest before proceeding.

  “No need to stop on my account,” André gasped. “When we board the ship, there will be nothing else to do but rest.”

  Lise put an arm around her husband, brushing off his protests. However, they were forced to move on shortly as the sun rose higher in a murky sky.

  Catherine trudged alongside André, ever watchful for his flagging energy. With each step, the bag she carried seemed to grow heavier, and she shifted it from hand to hand, often dragging it in the dust. It was impossible to take more than half a dozen steps before stumbling into a rut. Every so often she would feel her ankle give way, forcing her to walk with an uneven gait before managing to regain her footing.

  Finally, Baptiste returned. The sight of him, whole and unhurt, made Catherine want to cry out with joy. How easily he seemed to take command, and she felt a rush of gratitude toward Rive for having sent him.

  “The road leading down to the harbor has been heavily damaged.” Baptiste struggled to regain his breath. “It is still passable on foot if you stay away from the edge. The earth is loose there and whole sections have crumbled away, narrowing the path.” At the sight of André, his face filled with worry. “Are you certain you are up to this, Monsieur? I do not wish to alarm you, but it will take some skill and a good deal of strength to complete the descent.”

  André laid a hand on the boy’s shoulder and forced a weak smile. “I appreciate your concern. I have come this far and, by God, I intend to continue.” He turned toward Lise as if anticipating an argument. “No one will tell me otherwise. Now if we are ready, I suggest we proceed before some damn fool sends a cannonball into our very midst.”

  “If you wish to continue, follow me closely.” Baptiste relieved André of his bag and stepped through the gate.

  Lise took hold of her husband’s arm. They began to walk, followed by Marielle and finally Catherine. Just past the wall, Catherine stopped on impulse and glanced back toward the city. Once-beautiful houses stood as ghostly reminders of their former glory, some leveled almost completely, others leaning in an unsteady fashion, supported by the few walls left standing. Great gaping holes, like waterless lakes, dotted the lawns, and uprooted trees lay everywhere. Crimson flames leaped toward a sky leaden gray with smoke. She could have cried for the once lovely city, now in ruins.

  For a moment she felt caught in a hypnotic spell, and it took much effort to tear her eyes away. Only then did she realize she lagged far behind the others. She began to hurry and slipped on some loose rocks. She fell, dropping her bag and skinning her palms, which she used to cushion her fall. People rushed by, seemingly oblivious to her presence. Then a man reached down and hauled her to her feet. Without a word, he hurried on, leaving her to make her own way as best she could. She retrieved the bag and plunged ahead, swept along with the crowd, craning her neck for a glimpse of Lise and André.

  A sudden explosion hit with enough force to make the ground heave. As if an invisible hand had reached down to snatch her, Catherine was lifted off her feet. She screamed, along with others around her. She slammed down hard and pitched sideways. The bag she had carried careened down the hillside. Suddenly, there seemed to be nothing beneath her except empty space. Then, sliding through a shower of rocks and dirt, pain knifed into her shoulder. Finally, she was able to dig her fingers into the earth and grasp a handhold.

  She lay there, below the side of the road, afraid to move and fighting a wave of nausea. Tiny pinpricks stabbed at her eyes. A black cloud seemed to obscure the weak sun. Her ears pounded with a steady drumming that cut off all other sound, and she fought to stay conscious. Through half-lowered lids, she stared at the road. Somehow, she must reach it. Marshalling her strength, she clawed her way upward. As she neared the edge, she became aware of a dark shape looming above her.

  “Help me, please,” she whispered.

  Marielle stooped, bringing her face close to Catherine’s. Her eyes burned with the brightness of fever, and a thin cold smile tilted up the corners of her lips. “Do you beg a favor, Madame? Really, how unfortunate. As you have
done no favors for me, I feel disinclined to grant you one now.” Abruptly, the smile faded.

  Catherine thought to reason with her but couldn’t form the necessary words. She felt physically and mentally paralyzed, as if she were plunging head first into a dark abyss. She steeled herself for one last effort and raised a hand toward Marielle, who loomed above her, brandishing a stout rock. Then a crushing blow caught the side of Catherine’s head, and she was sucked deeper into the black pit.

  Chapter 26

  As the afternoon waned, a cool breeze rustled through the leafy trees and bent the grass in gentle undulating waves. A welcome silence replaced the din that had enveloped the city hours earlier—a temporary relief, perhaps, almost unnoticed by Catherine, who lay on the scarred hillside.

  Still later, as twilight approached, a chill wind brushed her cheek and billowed through her hair. When finally she felt able to move, she rolled onto her back and looked up at the swirling clouds scudding by under a gray sky. Her body ached and a searing pain tore through her head. Fear mingled with the cold and held her limbs stiff and immobile. For a moment, she could not remember what had brought her to this bleak, wind-torn spot, but after a while, her memory returned. Once again she saw Marielle’s face, shorn of all innocence, as if she still hovered within sight. She must have left the scene long since, having inflicted what she no doubt considered a fit punishment for an imagined betrayal.

  A cold drizzle began to fall, chilling Catherine further. Struggling to sit up, she peered through the mist. Like a sheer, gray curtain, it almost obliterated the landscape. Somewhere below was the harbor and the ship. In spite of the approaching darkness and unfamiliar terrain, she knew she must try to reach it.

  Calling upon her last bit of strength, she gathered her cloak about her. Turning onto her knees, she edged toward the roadway. It felt like an eternity passed before she managed to pull herself onto its muddy surface. The front of her gown was hopelessly soiled, and her cloak—wet and caked with dirt—hung heavy and useless from her shoulders. The wind whipped her wet garments about her legs, and she peered at the ominous shapes—abandoned carriages and ruined homes—rising from the gloom.