Moonlit Desire

by Carolann Camillo

  “If you will follow me,” she said in a hushed tone, leading them into a large entryway. A metal and glass fixture, which held a single candle, hung by a chain from the ceiling and shed very pale light over the interior. A decided chill hung in the air.

  The nun, whose light footsteps made it seem as if her feet hardly touched the polished wood floor, guided them down a wide corridor lined with several doors. Paintings depicting what Catherine assumed were holy figures—perhaps saints—lined the walls. Except for her and Rive’s footsteps, not a single sound issued from any other part of the building. When they reached a door at the end of the corridor, the nun rapped lightly.

  A woman’s voice said, “You may enter.” After pushing the door open, the nun bowed her head and backed silently away, leaving Rive and Catherine at the entrance to the room.

  Diffused light beckoned them forward. Once inside, they found a comfortable room where a fire blazed in the hearth. Heavy draperies closed off the windows to keep the heat inside. Several more paintings of religious figures, mostly executed in dark, somber colors, hung from the walls. The furnishings included a good-sized mahogany desk, an armchair situated behind it. Both sat on a burgundy carpet. A pair of matching wooden chairs, the seats upholstered in a deep blue plush, faced the desk. A large crucifix hung on the wall.

  A woman wearing the same habit as the nun who had admitted them rose from the desk chair. Although her face bore the creases of middle age, Catherine suspected that at one time she had been quite comely. Though short in stature and slight of frame, as Mother Superior she was, nevertheless, imposing.

  “Welcome, Captain St. Clair,” she said in a soft, almost musical voice as she approached from behind the desk, “and Madame St. Clair.”

  Still holding the sack of produce, Rive stepped forward and dipped his head in a bow. Catherine could hardly suppress a smile at the sight of her tall, stalwart, and admittedly adventurous husband paying obeisance to this petite woman.

  “Mother Superior.” He set the sack on the floor at his feet. “My wife is in dire need of your protection.” In a concise fashion, he stated Catherine’s situation. “So, you see, she can no longer turn to my family, and I am extremely reluctant to leave her alone.”

  “I understand perfectly. Of course we will offer the protection of our convent.” Mother Superior smiled at Catherine and continued in heavily accented English. “As your husband has stated, you were born in England. Are you of our faith, my dear?”

  “No, Mother Superior.”

  “Then we will not require you to attend our religious services, unless, of course, you wish to do so. We have a lovely chapel, and you will always be welcome there.”

  “That is a very kind offer.” Touched by the nun’s compassion and grateful for the invitation to make use of the chapel, Catherine felt her eyes mist with tears. “I will be sure to avail myself of it, and often.”

  “We have many duties here, although we do not have any students in our school at the moment, with the situation so critical. We are always grateful for a helping hand. You will find that some of our sisters speak English, which they have taughtover the years to our young ladies.”

  “I speak French, although not as well as I would wish. I am sure I will not have too much difficulty conversing with them.”

  “That is of little concern,” Mother Superior said gently. “Without our students to service, we have become a more contemplative society.”

  “Contemplation should suit my wife well.” Catherine could hear just the tiniest echo of amusement in Rive’s tone. “She has often spent time in quiet reflection. So that she not come without dower, we have brought what meager stores we could gather.” He indicated the sack.

  “All offerings are welcome.” Mother Superior glanced from one to the other. “I will give you time alone now. I wish you God’s blessing, Captain.”

  Ramrod straight, arms at his sides, Rive dipped his head in another bow. “Thank you, Mother Superior.”

  After she was gone, Rive took Catherine in his arms and held her in a tight, lingering embrace, while she clutched the front of his coat and buried her face in his chest. He kissed the tumble of golden hair at her crown, and she turned her face toward his so he could capture her lips. His hands raked through her hair. When his lips left hers, he kissed her throat and cheek and returned finally to recapture her mouth. His kiss was deep, and Catherine could sense all the pent-up longing in it—a longing that matched her own in intensity.

  Finally, he stepped back, reached into his coat and brought out a folded paper. “I prepared this hastily, but it should be adequate.”

  Catherine felt her face tighten with alarm. “What is it?”

  Rive glanced from her to the document in his hand. “I didn’t intend to frighten you. Did you think it was my will?” He gave her a familiar look, the one that produced a combination half smile and half frown. “It’s not a will, per se. It is a set of instructions to my Uncle Hubert in Paris. Do not read them until after I leave.” He placed the paper in her hand.

  “How is he to receive this?” There were times when her husband made no sense at all.

  “It will be delivered to him by you.”

  Only then did she understand. She could not form the words that swam in her head, could not form any words that spoke of the possibility of Rive dying in battle.

  Yet he seemed to have no such qualms. “In the event that something happens to me and I am unable to return here for you, Louis will take up that charge. If he is unable, a trusted fellow officer will come in his stead. Your passage will be secured to France and to my family. Hubert will know how to proceed from there.”

  She could only stare at him and shake her head.

  “I feel confident none of this will be necessary. I plan to come through this war with nary a scratch. Then I shall whisk you away to a place where I can make love to you all day, every day, until we sail together.” He kissed the tip of her nose.

  She felt tears gather behind her lids and blinked them back. She would indulge in no cowardly weeping this day. She gave him the bravest smile she could muster. “I shall await you here, my love. I shall pray for you in the chapel each day. I shall remind God you are far too ornery to ever—”

  His lips silenced her. After he finally ended the kiss, he said, ”Wait here while I speak once more with Mother Superior.”

  He was absent no more than a few minutes. When he returned, he took her hand and they retraced their steps to the front door.

  “Now behave yourself,” he chided in his teasing way.

  “I shall be the perfect guest, so quiet and obedient the sisters will hardly know I am among them.” There was a slight catch in her voice. “When you return, you will find a most humble and docile wife who will spend the remainder of her life providing for your every need.”

  “Ah. Is that not every man’s dream?” He kissed her once more with tender restraint then opened the door and stepped outside. The wind was blowing harder and sang a discordant strain; leaves gusted across the ground in a reddish swirl. He walked to his horse, waiting until he was mounted to look back at her. “I love you.”

  “And I you.” She managed a weak smile.

  As he urged the horse onto the road leading away from the convent, he waved to her. Her fingers fluttered in response, a halfhearted answer to his farewell. She kept the tears at bay until he was so far from sight that his broad back was barely visible. She closed the door and gave into a paroxysm of weeping.

  A short time later, Mother Superior sent one of the young nuns to escort Catherine to her room. The tiny cell-like enclosure held a narrow cot, a prie dieu on which to kneel in prayer, a commode and simple china pitcher and washbasin. When she was alone, Catherine opened the folded paper Rive had placed in her care. The words were written in French, which took all her concentration to decipher:

  Using monies from my shares in the family enterprises, the debts of Mr. Thomas Bradshaw, father of my wife, Catherine, are to be a
bsolved in whatever legal manner necessary and in the appropriate court in the city of London. Also, my wife is to receive an allowance each month, enough to keep her and her parents comfortable for the remainder of their lives.

  There were also several bank notes, of large denomination, both in French francs and English pounds.

  After reading the document twice, Catherine put it and the money aside. She recalled Mother Superior’s peaceful demeanor and pledged to emulate it while she waited for Rive. Then she lowered herself onto the kneeler and prayed for the speedy and safe return of her husband.

  Chapter 31

  An icy wind, one that would make most men wish for a blazing hearth, swirled down from the north and sent currents of air skipping over the choppy surface of the river. Dusk had turned the sky to smoke; then, with the passing hours, it deepened into an ominous black. The night welcomed few stars into the dark void, and only a paltry sliver of moon allowed any light at all.

  Rive held to the stout wooden frame of the boat as the oarsman sent it forward in ragged spurts. With any luck, they would stay on course and find a safe beachhead at Point Levis, a spit of land across the river from Quebec. Dressed in the scarlet tunic of a British grenadier, he kept a vigilant watch over the river and listened as it beat against the distant shore. There, somewhere in the patchy darkness, the British camp was situated. By all expectations, several hundred men were quartered in preparation for the final assault on Quebec.

  The boat cut an almost soundless path through the swells spraying across her bow. At a signal from Rive, the burly man stilled the oars.

  “There, ahead are the rocks,” Rive said in a voice barely above a whisper.

  The man nodded and continued rowing. He knew these waters well, which was why Rive had selected him for the mission. He and his father and grandfather had fished them for over half a century. Just beyond lay a cove that offered the best opportunity for a safe landing.

  A cloud obscured the moon then slid by just as the small craft rounded the curve of the rocky outcropping. Dead ahead landfall beckoned, and within minutes, the boat scraped bottom. Rive leapt for shore. After a silent wave of farewell, he immediately abandoned the spot, heading inland with haste, crouching low to the ground. So far his only company was a brace of shorebirds and the merciless howl of the wind.

  His progress proved swift, for he dared not stop to ease the strained muscles in his legs and back. When he spotted the flickering lights of the campfires in the distance, he stopped and dropped to the ground. Hard and cold, it nevertheless cradled his exhausted body with no less a welcome than a fine feather mattress. On this night he would find no rest. Exercising caution, he studied the configurations ahead, his eyes and ears alert to any danger.

  As he had expected, the camp was large. Numerous tents dotted the landscape. Constructed of drab canvas, they were illuminated by flames leaping from dozens of fires. Coated in the brilliant scarlet of their regiment, the men hunkered close by. Some sang a melancholy tune longing for home; others talked, played cards or rolled dice. Their voices carried on the wind, and he sought a way to bring about the next phase of his plan: to become one of them.

  Then he heard a muffled oath and pressed flat against the ground, breathing in the soil and spiky grass. In the murky gloom, he could just make out a man’s tall, lanky form, musket barrel resting against his shoulder, head and body slightly bent into the wind. A sentry and certainly not the only one in a camp this size.

  He had been too fortunate; now would come the first test upon which rested his survival. To move in any direction might give his position away. Yet to stay virtually in the man’s path was to invite detection.

  Seconds passed with dread alacrity. With the barest movement, Rive inched toward the periphery of the camp. A cluster of stones beneath him shifted and slid under his weight. He mouthed a silent epithet. There was no time for care. He must make haste if he hoped to remain undetected.

  The sentry halted. Rive froze, then edged forward again and used both forearms to bear the brunt of his weight. He had often employed such a ruse as a boy when he stalked deer and rabbits. He understood the consequences of the slightest sound. Then he might merely have lost his prey; now he would lose his life. The thought was potent enough to drive him forward and carry him away from the sentry.

  A ribbon of light spilled from the moon, barely enough for him to gauge the camp’s distance. When the sentry turned toward the sea, he quickly gained his feet and ran silently, dropping into a crouch. He skirted the perimeter, staying well away from the huddled figures of the soldiers, whose scarlet coats were identical to his. Briefly, he wondered which of His Majesty’s subjects had worn the coat before he had relieved him of it and dismissed the thought. The man had been dispatched to where no war would ever touch him again and Rive, for one, had no intention of joining him.

  Trusting to luck and his own instincts and skill—he had, after all, accomplished this feat once before at the British encampment on the Îsle d’Orléans—he made a bold dash for the camp, using the nearest tent to shield him from view. Exercising caution, he made his way toward the central area where the voices of the men grew louder. Several soldiers sat around an open fire. Intent on their own needs for companionship and warmth, they seemed not to notice the Grenadier who slipped in amongst them, held his hands toward the flames and, with a grunt of disgust, dropped onto the ground.

  * * * *

  At the Ursaline convent, Catherine quickly settled into a routine that found her emulating the customs of the nuns. Everyone rose shortly after dawn and, after performing a simple ablution, dressed and gathered in the chapel. There an elderly priest, Father Jean—whose name Catherine recognized from the night Rive proposed marriage—often arrived to conduct mass. After this they took a breakfast of thin porridge in the bare, windowless refectory, sitting at a long wooden table flanked by wooden benches.

  At lunchtime she often helped sort out the day’s rations in the kitchen. With supplies dwindling, the decision of which items to consume and which to keep in reserve became vital. Potatoes were never eaten on the same day as bread; and if a slice of apple was favored one day, carrots appeared on the menu the following day. A tiny wedge of the cheese Rive had brought with them was served either at lunch or dinner, a luxury in the face of certain deprivation.

  Weather permitting, Catherine spent part of the afternoon in the rear garden, where the last of the vegetables—potatoes, turnips, cabbages and carrots—grew. She tended the patch with Sister Nathalie, the youngest of the sixteen nuns in residence. She quickly learned to use a trowel to dig up the root vegetables, wash them and even on occasion cook them. Since she had eventually taken over cooking in her parents’ home, she was no stranger to kitchen duties. At other times, wrapped in her cloak, she read from her books of poetry, caressing the soft leather that, not long before, Rive’s hands had touched. However, oftentimes she found that the beautiful words left little impression on her thoughts, for concentration seemed nearly impossible.

  Nights, however, proved the most difficult. Early to bed, she huddled under the thin sheet and blanket that barely dispelled the ever-present chill. Often she heard the sounds of cannon fire. Those explosions, although distant, kept her constantly on edge. She could concentrate on nothing but her steadily growing fear that Rive might be captured, or worse, killed.

  The realization of her deep love for him only increased her anxiety. His own declaration, when she truly became his wife, never strayed far from her memory. When she closed her eyes, she saw his face and, before sleep claimed her, heard his voice saying, “You are my one true love.” Lying in her dark little cell, she often recalled their first night together as man and wife. Then the blood would rush to her face. Married woman or not, the memories still made her blush. Still, she held them close. Also, she suspected that this was the first time he, too, had found love.

  On Catherine’s third day at the convent, there came a break in her routine that brought a welcome but tot
ally unexpected boon. After finishing a meager lunch of half an apple, one biscuit, a wedge of cheese of such small proportion as to only hint at fulfillment, and a cup of tea, she and Sister Nathalie set out into the garden to gather vegetables for the evening meal.

  At first Catherine thought the lack of a proper diet had caused her mind to play tricks. However, further inspection proved that she could still recognize a cow, and a reasonably healthy-looking one, when she encountered it. The animal, for its part, having spied the two women, issued a mournful sound. Then it lowered its head to a small patch of grass and continued to graze.

  Catherine stared in awe. “Where do you suppose it came from?” Somehow it had managed to make its way into this fashionable neighborhood, in spite of the British bombardment. The mystery it presented might well prove unsolvable.

  “It’s from a farm beyond the outskirts of the city, to be sure. Either the farm has been abandoned because of the fighting or this cow wandered off on its own.”

  The animal appeared quite content to go about the business of eating. So it was with a mixture of curiosity and false bravado that Catherine approached. With all due caution, she crept to within an arm’s length of the beast. It interrupted its grazing to raise its head momentarily and glance with round, soulful eyes at this uninvited distraction.

  “Just what do you think you are doing here?” She rested her hands on her hips in a proprietary stance. It was, after all, the sisters’ grass the cow so blissfully chewed.

  Sensing no immediate threat to its well-being, the animal returned to its solitary occupation.

  “Scat. Go back to where you belong.” Catherine punctuated the order with a resounding clap of her hands. To no avail.

  Time passed, and the situation appeared to warrant some action. However, what form should it take? Never before had she found herself in possession of another’s property. While she and the sisters were certainly innocent of any wrongdoing—after all, the cow had come to them—she believed some effort probably should be made to determine ownership.