A great whoop went up from the men behind them when they realized their treacherous march was at its end, at least for the night. Liam clucked his tongue to his horse and steered him off the path toward the glow of firelight coming from the wretched huts.
That night, while most of the militiamen slept outside beneath canvas army tents as ill suited to their job as the soldiers beneath them, Alex camped inside a hovel and insisted Liam and two other guards named Simpson and Cooper come, too, baleful though their hosts may be.
In a dirt-floor shelter no bigger than twelve feet square, a family of seven scowled at their four “guests,” and Liam could not blame them. From the parents on down through each of their five sons, the youngest aged about two, their faces were marked by dirt and soot, poverty and resentment.
“I s’pose you’ll be taking our dinner.” The mother’s voice was far younger than Liam expected, for her face was sun-blasted and tough.
“Only what you can spare,” Liam said, his stomach clenching in protest.
Alex, unperturbed, said, “Yes. Per the order of the United States government.”
Pointedly, the mother took bowls from her children’s hands and shoved them at Liam, Alex, Cooper, and Simpson. Black dirt lined her fingernails. Shame filled Liam, because God help him, he took that child’s food. It was the worst-tasting gruel he’d ever had to muscle down. After a few bites to placate his belly, he handed the bowl back to the little boy, who eyed him from beneath his thatch of tangled, greasy hair.
When it was time to sleep, the sharp-faced father threw a filthy blanket at his intruders, who bedded down on the hard-packed earth. The family of seven filled a pallet on the opposite wall, with one thin blanket to cover them. The ramshackle dwelling shuddered in the storm. The roof, such as it was, leaked in several places, and a rivulet of rain rushed over the ground beneath Liam, so that the mud chilled his back.
“Alex,” he whispered once he heard snores from the other side of the room. He felt something crawling over his neck and pinched it hard between his fingernails. Lice. He threw his share of the blanket aside, preferring the cold to vermin.
“Mm.”
“These people have nothing. Less than nothing, now that we’re here to clean them out.”
“Orders.” Alex rolled onto his side, then returned to his back.
“This is the type of poverty you’ll find on the other side of the mountains. They barter—they don’t have cash. This is why the tax was bound to fail from the beginning!”
Alex exhaled sharply through his nose. “Our course is set. Even Washington said so in Carlisle. An army in motion will not be stopped. Do not vex me. Good night.”
His breathing steadied and slowed, but for Liam, sleep could not be had. He lay awake and listened to the rain pelting the ratty canvas tents outside—or worse, the men lying in the open rain. Those who didn’t already have dysentery or fever could surely expect to contract it now.
“Blast it!” Cooper had scrambled out of the hovel, apparently tripping over some men as he went to empty his own distressed bowels. Someone shouted at him for not getting far enough away from the tents.
Rain sprayed through the door he left ajar.
Simpson groaned. “There had better be a fight, for all this,” he growled. “I didn’t come here to get the runs and starve to death in the mountains! I will have me some action, even if I have to create it myself.”
That was exactly what Liam was afraid of. With nothing but cold and dread to cover him, he let his eyes close and tried not to think of tomorrow.
Compared to Valley Forge, this discomfort was nothing. He’d been twenty-two then, with hope of a reunion with Maggie to pull him through that bone-numbing winter in Washington’s camp. The irony was that while Liam had been dreaming of Maggie, she had been swooning for the British officer billeted in her townhome during the British occupation of Philadelphia. The woman who held his heart had given hers to an enemy twice over, for England had subjugated Ireland, where Maggie’s people had come from, too, even before tyrannizing the American colonies. Either Liam hadn’t known her at all, or she hadn’t even known herself.
He could consider the matter coolly and without passion now, with no regrets for what might have been. Maggie was not the one he wanted to see in his dreams.
The urge to take Vivienne in his arms when he saw her last had been sudden and strong, but she’d been upset from nearly losing Henri, and it hadn’t seemed right to take advantage of that vulnerability, even in the interest of comforting her.
Tara had been right when she’d teased him on his last visit. “You’d sooner risk your life in battle before risking your heart again,” she’d said. “You’ll woo a horse but not a woman!” There was more truth in her words than he liked.
Rolling to his side in the hovel, Liam put his arm beneath his head for a pillow. As his ribs and hip pressed into the ground, Vivienne filled his mind, a vision of green eyes and soft curves and strong hands eager to work. And now she bore the added responsibility of raising Henri. She could do it. He had faith in her, and in the God who had sustained his own mother as she raised Tara, Liam, and Finn. Still, it was a sobering role, even without the added stress of attempted abductions.
Rain pounded overhead, gurgling in small streams from the roof. A frown aching on his brow, he prayed for Vivienne and Henri, as he had every night since he’d left. He should have held her to comfort her before leaving her alone. He had done as much for Tara. He could have embraced her in a brotherly manner. She was part of the Four Winds Tavern family now, after all.
Liam stared into the dark with a frustrated sigh. For there was no mistaking Vienne for a sister.
Philadelphia
November 1, 1794
“Ready?” Vienne asked Henri, slipping her arms through her woolen cape. The fur muff she wore had been Martine’s.
In truth, she did not feel quite ready herself to take Henri outside again after his near-abduction, but it was time to break through her fear. No matter who he was, she could not imprison him in the pension and declare it was for his own well-being. She drew what comfort she could from the fact that his new broadcloth coat and American-style hat would help him blend in with the city better. As he outgrew his courtly suits, she would replace them with more sensible, sturdy clothing, as well.
Henri fastened his top button and pulled on his hat. “Ready.” Together, they left the Sainte-Marie.
Trees stretched bare arms against a sky of pale blue silk. Wisps of cloud, like ostrich feathers, floated by. “When is Mr. Delaney coming back?” the boy asked. “It’s been a long time. Long enough, wouldn’t you say, for his trip?”
Vienne put her hand on Henri’s shoulder as they passed a lamplighter on his ladder, trimming a wick. “He said it might be months before his return.” And it had only been thirty-one days, though it felt far longer than that.
She missed Liam. More than she wanted to.
“Oh.” Henri hopped over a broken pipe stem on the sidewalk. “Where are we going?”
“We’ll stop at the tavern on our way home so I can make the sponge for the baguettes, of course. But we have time to go somewhere else first. Your choice.”
He grinned, nose already pink from the cold. Smoke curled from chimneys behind him. “I want to see the ships, please.”
“Again?”
Henri shrugged. “It’s been a long time.” There was a bounce in his step. “You can’t say there’s a danger of fever now.”
She conceded the point. Toes tingling with cold, Vienne agreed to his destination, and in mere minutes, they turned onto Front Street. Just below it, the Delaware River lapped at wharves and ships. Even in November, smells of tar and wood from the nearby shipyard mingled with the spice of rum floating out of the taverns and grog shops lining the street.
“Mademoiselle, look!” Henri pointed to the sky. “Look how they fly! In a V! V for Vivienne!”
Smiling, Vienne watched the graceful formation of Canada geese
as they soared above the water.
“I should like to see them make other letters in the sky.” Henri shaded his eyes with one hand.
“An H for Henri, perhaps?” She laughed. “Now that would be something special indeed.” The birds’ honking echoed faintly even after they had flown from view.
“Vienne!”
She wheeled toward the voice. “Armand.”
He hastened toward her, small white clouds puffing from his nose. His hair had grayed some since July, or perhaps she just hadn’t remembered this shade of weathered driftwood. No longer thinned by hunger, his face sagged in fleshier folds. “Vienne,” he said again, and the familiarity chafed her. “Have a drink with me.”
She glanced at Henri beside her. “Where? Don’t forget, women and children are not welcome in taverns.” Unless they were working for them, she mused.
“Ah.” Deflated, Armand blinked down at the boy. “Hello! Henri, is it?”
Wagons and carts rumbled past. “Yes, monsieur. Pleased to see you again.” Henri swept him a courtly bow.
Vivienne cupped the boy’s shoulder, marveling that they recalled each other when their previous encounter on July 4 had been so brief and full of distraction.
Armand returned his attention to her. “Monsieur Lemoine told me the boy’s mother died of fever. A pity, that. You’re to be commended for taking him in.” He turned his collar up against the wind. “You look well. I can’t tell you how glad I am of that. When the fever came, I worried more than you would believe. But Sebastien kept me informed of your welfare.”
Henri tweaked her skirt, likely impatient to get to the docks. She tucked her hands back in her muff and told him to wait. To Armand, she asked, “Sebastien Lemoine has been playing the informant?” Two chimney sweeps ambled toward them on the sidewalk, smelling of soot and ash. “You paid him to spy on me?”
“To keep an eye on you. Don’t be cross. He didn’t mind the assignment—quite the opposite, as it happens—and you cannot blame me. I try not to be hurt that you never ask after me.”
Vivienne swallowed the tart reply that sprang to her tongue. “I don’t know what sort of relationship you expect to have with me.”
Armand rubbed his nose. “Whatever you’re comfortable with. Which I know isn’t much. Regardless, hear me out. Sebastien tells me that most of the funds earned by your lace sales were required for hospital and burial fees, and that your work at the tavern doesn’t pay as much as you need.”
Sebastien certainly didn’t hold back in his reports. Irritation warmed her. “I had to cut back my hours, I—”
Armand held up his hand. “No need to defend yourself. Of course you cannot work all day, leaving Henri alone. And now you have two mouths to feed, two bodies to clothe. It’s an impossible position for you. I told Sebastien to extend my offer of help to you, but he refused, saying it would only drive you away. But if you are as desperate as he suspects you are, you owe it to yourself and to the boy to hear me out.” Behind him, a tavern door scraped open, and out spilled a tangle of jocular fishermen. Ever the aristocrat, Armand wrinkled his nose and stepped closer to Vienne, giving the men a wider berth on the sidewalk. “I would not be so bold, ma belle, if what I had to say could wait. I am moving to Asylum and invite you to join me, you and Henri both.”
She held him in her narrowed gaze. “What do you mean?”
Chapter Seventeen
Henri moved behind Vivienne to allow three fishermen to pass. He was so tired of waiting for her and the monsieur to stop talking. The cold pinched his nose and prickled his hands and feet, and they hadn’t even reached the docks yet. Bored, he kicked at a broken piece of pottery, sending it into the street.
A flash of orange caught his eye. A kitten the color of peach preserves rubbed up against his ankle, mewling pitifully. Enthralled, he knelt to pet it. “Bonjour, little one!” The fur beneath his hand was soft as eiderdown. Fishing one of his mother’s ribbons from his pocket, he dangled it, bouncing it up and down, and the kitten batted at the green satin strip.
Henri laughed. “Look! He likes this!”
But Mademoiselle and Monsieur were deep in their conversation. The damp wind seemed to wrap around him and seep right down into his bones. He cast a glance toward the docks, but the way his legs ached, he was no longer eager to go.
Squatting behind Vivienne’s skirts, Henri tempted the kitten again. The small feline crouched, rear end high, tail pointed like a spear. It rocked on its tiny back feet from side to side before pouncing on the ribbon. Henri laughed again.
He repeated the trick several times, until at last the kitten caught the green satin with its tiny claws and teeth. It tugged, and Henri’s fingers were so cold that the ribbon slipped from his grasp. Down the sidewalk the kitten scampered, and suddenly the game wasn’t nearly as fun.
“Wait, kitten!” Henri lunged after him. “That’s mine! Here, kitty, kitty!” Down the street he followed his tiny feline friend, but when he reached an alley, he gave up the pursuit. He’d had enough of alleys the last time he was out. Besides, he had two more ribbons in his pocket still. Next time he would not be so careless with them. They still smelled of his mother’s perfume.
“Henri?” Sebastien Lemoine stood in the open door of a tavern. The many-paned window near it glowed with warmth and light. “I thought I saw you through the window! But where is Vivienne?”
Henri pointed down the street. “Just there. She is talking with Monsieur de Champlain.”
“And you ran off? Again?” He cast a glance toward Mademoiselle before pulling Henri inside. “You should not be alone on the street.”
“It was only a minute,” Henri protested. “Maybe less than that. A kitten stole my mother’s ribbon right out of my hand.” He slipped his hand in his pocket and rubbed the remaining ribbons between thumb and forefinger, over and over, but it wasn’t the same as having Bucephalus. His fingers and face began to burn with the welcome change in temperature. Untidy men sat at thick oak tables, and ladies refilled their tankards. The uneven floor was dirt, not wooden, and had turned to mud where boots dripped melting snow. These Americans spoke and laughed too loudly. “I should go back before Mademoiselle wonders where I am.”
“No.” Sebastien’s hand clamped over his shoulder. “Stay with me and get warm while she finishes her conversation. There’s no use in you waiting for her in the cold when you could wait for her here.”
Henri swiped his hat from his head and squeezed it in his hands. “But will she not worry?”
“Well, looky here!” A tavern maid with bright yellow hair and pink lips approached. “Just look what the wind blew in! The finest-looking chap here, that’s what!” She grinned.
Henri felt his cheeks grow hot. Her shirt was too small for her chest.
“Ah!” Sebastien smiled at her. “Would you seat my young friend at my table? And bring him something to drink. Something to warm him, if you please. Henri, I’ll dash out and tell Vivienne you’re with me.”
The woman showed Henri to a high-backed wooden booth and assured him she’d be back soon. He climbed onto the bench, grateful for the chance to sit. Under the table, he pinched the ends of two ribbons between his thumb and forefinger, then wove them between his other three fingers, over, under, over, like the lattice on Mademoiselle’s cherry pies.
Moments later, Sebastien returned and joined him at the table. “This is better than waiting in the cold, isn’t it?”
It was. Maybe after this, he would have energy to go to the docks after all. He swung his dangling, aching legs from his perch on the too-tall bench. “Pardon me,” he said when his shoe knocked into Sebastien’s shin. “My legs hurt.”
Sebastien winced but quickly smiled. “Does swinging your legs make them feel better?”
Henri shrugged. “The doctor said I have rickets and that nothing will help, but I think moving them does. I didn’t mean to hurt you. I’ll take greater care from now on.”
But Sebastien looked more interested than offended.
“Rickets? I just thought you didn’t much care for exercise.” He smiled again. “I’d like to get to know you better, Henri. Shall we start from the beginning? Tell me why you came to America.”
“The revolution, of course,” Henri replied. “My father lost his head. I was supposed to be safe here.” He thought Sebastien already knew all this.
The waitress returned with a pewter mug. “On the house.”
Dropping the purple and white ribbons on the table, he took a drink and shuddered at the spices in what he guessed was apple cider.
She laughed and patted his back. “Such a pretty fellow. Ye’ll warm up in no time, only be sure and drink it all down.” Then she swirled her finger through the ribbons. “What have you got here?”
“They were my mother’s. Her favorite colors.” The drink burned as it went down his throat, but the warmth in his belly was worth it. It spread through his limbs to his toes and fingers.
“Lawsy, but you’re a charmer. Dimples, too? I’m smitten!” She pinched his cheek and swayed away.
“Those were the queen’s favorite colors, too,” said Sebastien. “Marie Antoinette’s.”
“Yes, of course.” Everyone knew that. “But did you know she once had a dream that her fashion maker, Madame Bertin, presented her with a box of ribbons, and when she picked purple, white, and green out of the box, they turned black in her hands? Black for death. And this was before the king was beheaded.” He could see Sebastien was impressed with this story. Henri felt important, talking this way.
“And how do you know what the queen dreamed of?” Sebastien whispered.
“I heard her tell Madame Bertin. They didn’t know I was close enough to listen.”
“I see.” Sebastien took a drink from his own tankard, then set it down and licked his lips. “A few months ago, you told us your name is Louis. Why?”
A Refuge Assured Page 18