Saving The Marquise's Granddaughter

by Carrie Fancett Pagels

  ~*~

  Vann’s Blacksmith & Carriage Makers Shoppe

  Johan descended the inn’s narrow stairs with ease now that he’d rediscovered his land legs. Scents of vanilla, strong coffee, and cinnamon greeted him at the bottom of the staircase in front of the proprietor’s desk.

  “Good morning to ye.” Polly, the innkeeper’s wife, held out a trio of cakes atop a pewter plate.

  Johan plucked one covered with sugar. “Danke.”

  “Nay, they’re fer ye. Take ’em all.” She jiggled the plate. “Vann won’t be callin’ me stingy.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Sit yerself over at that round table, and I’ll pour ye some coffee afore ye head out.”

  Johan tried to fit his legs under the table but finally turned sideways so that he could stretch them out. He didn’t want to break the furniture.

  “Yer master is good, hard-working, and honest. But leave his daughter be,” the innkeeper’s wife had cautioned him. “She’ll bring yer meals and ale in the afternoon. Don’t be lookin’ at her or Vann’ll cuff ye. And his son will work alongside ye. Vann shows no favoritism to the boy over the workers.”

  Shouldn’t Vann’s own blood kin be treated differently—better? Johan hoped this meant that his master treated them all well—like sons. “Danke. I’ll come back later to check on my wife.”

  “We’ll watch yer wee wife. Don’t worry yerself, eh?”

  “Ja. Danke.”

  Johan exhaled as he stepped out into the cobblestone street. His steps lightened as he headed to his new job. Vann was a good master and Suzanne would be watched over. Watching for carts and riders on horseback, Johan crossed the street to his new workplace.

  Vann’s blacksmith and bustling carriage shop occupied almost an entire city block near the wharf. Johan ran a hand through his hair, surveying the impressive operation—not a country forge. What would the expectations be? He located the office, centered between the blacksmith and wheelwright shops. Inside, a big man, hat askew on his grizzled dark head, perched on a stool behind a high desk.

  Vann’s muscular upper body suggested that, unlike some shop owners, he still engaged in his craft. He stood and ambled to the entryway, attired in a stained leather apron whose pockets bulged with tools. With skin the rich color of Suzanne’s café au lait, his master’s Dutch features combined with African, resulting in a happy blend.

  The blacksmith extended his hand to Johan. “You must be my new servant, Johan?”

  Johan clasped the man’s hand with both of his and bowed slightly.

  His master gave him an odd look.

  Johan’s stomach squeezed. He’d done something wrong already, his first day.

  The older man chuckled and Johan’s face grew hot with humiliation. “I’m not laughing. I’m cheered a man from the continent would show such respect.” He lowered his voice and set his mouth in a firm line. “We have trouble here sometimes, because of my skin color.”

  Johan frowned. “Why trouble? You cannot change how God made you.”

  Vann’s large, dark eyes fixed on him, and Johan squirmed under his gaze. “I wish all felt as you do. Watch for any gangs of men, Johan. Tell me if more than three men are gathered out front. Learn our regular customers’ faces.”

  “Ja.” Johan exhaled. He felt himself itching for a fight, an urge he’d hoped he’d left behind in the Palatinate, with Nicholas. Now his fists pulsed with blood flow, readying for action.

  Why? Anger toward God, despairing Suzanne might forever bear this passage in ill effects upon her body and her mind. But not her soul. If anything, she possessed a new peace about her that he’d never sensed before.

  “Tell me about yourself. All I know is that you’re robust and willing to work hard and learn new skills.”

  “I want to learn many things. I hope to go to the frontier—to have my own land and a business.” A family, he thought, but didn’t say. “One day, that is.”

  Vann smiled in approval. “Are you Dutch?”

  “I’m from the Palatinate.”

  “Not too far from there,” Vann noted. “My mother was from Amsterdam. She bought me this property after she sold her land in what is now New York colony.”

  Which was where Suzanne was supposed to meet her brother.

  Smoke and the smell of melting iron drifted in their direction. Metal clanged on metal.

  “Come on. I’ll show you where the servants keep their belongings.” Vann strolled out front and led him around the ironworks area, the men lifting their eyes only briefly from the hot metal they melted in the forge.

  Johan watched in fascination as one of the men deftly bent the metal into a fine large hook and then quickly twisted the other end, making it decorative.

  “I’ll work hard for you, Master Vann.” Now wasn’t the time to ask him about how much longer he’d need to work to redeem Suzanne’s passage. But he needed to thank him.

  Vann turned his head and smiled, his eyes agreeing with Johan’s statement. “I have quarters here for single men.” Vann placed his hands on his hips. “Do I understand you have a wife?”

  “Ja.” Surely the blacksmith knew, since he was paying their room and board at the inn. “Ja, danke for allowing me to work longer so I may redeem her as well.”

  Vann hesitated at the end of a long, low building. “My apologies, but I don’t know what you speak of.”

  Thankfully, Vann had turned away and didn’t see Johan’s consternation and confusion.

  “Come in and see the men’s living quarters.”

  What about Suzanne? He’d have to broach the subject again.

  Vann gestured down the long interior. “A hammock for each man, blanket, pillow, and trunk. The necessary is out back. We provide hot water daily. Most men bathe once or twice a week because of sweat. We offer wash water morning, noon, and night. Clean towel given daily.”

  “Very generous.” He was surprised.

  “A happy worker is a good worker, and a clean one is a healthy one.”

  Johan nodded. “My mother also had this saying.”

  Vann adjusted a trunk askew beneath a creamy rope hammock.

  “Your married men—where do they stay?”

  Vann straightened. “Never had one before.”

  Johan tapped his hat against his thigh. “There’s no place here for us?”

  “Afraid not. But let me see.”

  Birds chirped and flew into a cherry tree nearby, the pair small, likely only hatched earlier that spring. Didn’t seem possible he’d known Suzanne only a short while. There must be a way for them to be together.

  “Where do you wish to start—smithing or wheelwork?”

  “I want to learn it all.”

  Vann laughed. “Most start with the easy jobs. But we have a large carriage wheel we must complete. Willing to try?”

  “Ja, show me where to start.”

  A youth, dressed in work clothes that hung on his slight frame, joined them.

  “This is my son, Abram. He’ll take you to the master wheelwright.”

  Vann’s son, a slighter version of his father, pressed his lips together in disapproval.

  “How do you feel about belonging to a black man?” Abram’s voice held a challenge.

  Johan clenched his jaw, unsure if he understood the odd comment.

  Abram repeated it.

  “I belong to God, and I don’t think He has a skin color.” Johan replied. “But if He did, it would be like all of ours mixed together, because we’re made in His image.”

  “You like your Bible?” Vann’s jovial voice cut some of the tension. “You and Abram share faith then.” His employer trotted out with great quickness for a man his size.

  The younger man watched as Johan emptied his haversack into a wooden box that Vann had pointed out for his use.

  “You may attend church on Sundays, but during the week you do what Father says, when he says it. Understand?”

  Johan’s neck muscles bunched. “Ja. I’ll w
ork for him like a slave works for a master.”

  The young man’s eyes widened and he took a step back. “I didn’t mean you’re our slave. But Father owns your time for the next few years.”

  “Unless I can purchase my contract sooner.” He had to, if he was to be together with Suzanne.

  20

  Utter darkness. How long had Suzanne’s eyes remained closed? Her mind commanded her body to move, to revive, while another softer voice suggested that she lie still and listen. Long, slow breaths, eerily similar to winter’s wind, stirred the air nearby. Someone else lay in this room, in a deep sleep. Not a single candle pierced the darkness. Where she sensed there should be windows, she could perceive no light. Was this purgatory?

  No, she’d been in purgatory and now she was released. Those horrendous sounds were missing, the passengers’ agony and their death rattles. The cacophony. A torment of groans that persisted for the longest time. The howls of Hades surrounding her. Groaning wood, people coughing, children crying, men arguing, women scolding, and the pious praying.

  Now just a velvet darkness and silence other than a nearby companion’s even breathing.

  She should pray. Suzanne searched under the covers for her grandmother’s rosary. Nothing. Must remain calm. No fever now, but she trembled. Someone in the soft bed rolled toward her. She lay back as a heavy, well-muscled arm wrapped around and clutched her waist. Had she not been so startled, she’d have screamed, but her very breath was sucked out of her. Stiffening herself into stillness, she heard the man’s even breathing resume and carefully snaked her hand out from under the coverlet. She inched away from him to the mattress’s edge.

  Her eyes needed to adjust to the dark room, for she could distinguish nothing. Heart pounding, she took a deep, shaky breath. A vague recollection, of being thrown over someone’s shoulder like a sack of feed, seized her. Had she been bought by this man?

  “I’ll be a good husband, I promise.” The man’s German words were sleepy, slurred, but his voice recognizable. But from where? The man rolled away, pulling the coverlet with him.

  Was this her husband? When had a ceremony and the exchange of vows occurred? Her head ached as though someone had thumped it with a wooden bucket. But she was alive. Tugging at the quilts, she covered herself and lay there for what seemed like hours, drifting into and out of sleep.

  At first light, Suzanne lowered herself from the high bed. With sunlight drifting through slatted shutters, lines illuminated a rag rug of vibrant colors that covered a large portion of the planked floor. She swayed and grabbed one of the elaborately carved bedposts, its grapes and vines similar to one she’d seen in Paris, a Caribbean import. The vague recollection of Etienne being sent to the islands came to her. They were to have married and gone there together. Hadn’t they? She rubbed her head.

  The shaggy golden head on the pillow didn’t belong to Etienne LeFort. Glimpsing his broad back above the sheet, she saw no comparison with her beau. She patted her muslin nightgown. Had he dressed her? Undressed her? Heat sped up her chest.

  Shaking, she went to the washstand, thankful when she spied water in the tall ceramic pitcher, its basin chipped but clean. Making her way, she almost stumbled, found her feet covered by a blanket and a pillow, as though someone had slept on the floor but had gotten up. Untangling herself, she continued to the wooden stand. Thank goodness, it was sturdy, for she needed to lean upon it for a moment to steady herself.

  A ball of soap lay atop a stack of cloths. She slowly poured a modest amount of the cool water into the bowl. Then, lifting a rough square of fabric, she saturated it in the cool water before wrapping it around the fragrant bayberry soap. She washed her face slowly, deliberately, enjoying the feel of cleansing her gritty skin.

  Dear God, I’m alive. Alive!

  All of her needed a good washing, but not in front of this stranger. A sudden movement in her periphery startled her. The cloth and soap plopped into the receptacle, water splashing on her bodice. Suzanne backed away from the stand, wiping at her chest, the flesh bony and hard. Turning toward her left, she caught the reflected movement in a silvered mirror on the wall above a burlwood bombe chest. In the mirror, she viewed a woman whose dark hair hung lank around a white face, punctuated by dark circles under her eyes. Hollows in her cheeks made her appear much older than her years. Suzanne’s hands flew up to her face. She looked dreadful indeed. Très miserable.

  But she was alive. Still here. Pressing a hand above the beating of her heart, she closed her eyes and tried to steady herself as her legs began to tremble, unaccustomed to bearing her weight.

  What kind of man would have wanted a wife such as this? So dirty. She must bathe. The basin water was cool. She’d request hot water for a bath.

  “Good morning!” A man’s deep voice boomed from behind her.

  Suzanne’s heart seemed to drop into her stomach. Raising her eyes to the mirror, a smooth-faced young man reflected back at her. Blue-green eyes twinkled. Could it be? Was it the young man from the forest near Grand-mère’s—only older? Her breath caught in her chest. The portrait had come to life. How? Rooted to the spot, she stared at him as he sat up in the bed. The coverlet fell, revealing his wide muscled shoulders and a slim torso dark from the sun. He smiled broadly at her, revealing large white teeth. Reaching behind her, she felt for the chair and lowered herself into it.

  She averted her gaze from the mirror, her back to the woodsman’s nephew, when she realized he could be naked. “Arrêtez. Stop. Stay right there. I won’t look.” Little good this sheer chemise would do her, but it was something.

  “Ja, all right, but I have my sleeping pants on.”

  Suzanne couldn’t help looking up at his bare back in the mirror. She barely noticed her own body, but now quickly ran her hands over herself. Mince, too thin. A wave of dizziness washed over her. She rested her head on her hands. How had they come to be together? With her eyes closed, she saw his face covered with a short beard. His face was fuller and his body bulkier. Johan—he’d ridden with her through the forest. “You’re Johan. Oui?”

  Silence. Another face flashed through her mind, similar to this one. The kind brother had a beard. The other one looked more like this man. Please, Lord, don’t let him say his name is Nicholas.

  “You don’t know me?” His strained voice was the same as the one she’d heard in the horrible place she’d been.

  He’d been with her there. Through it all. But no. She didn’t remember. Even so, she had clarity that the One who also accompanied them was with her now. She wanted to keep Him always near. She was a new creation and belonged to Him.

  “No, monsieur. I’m very sorry. I cannot say for certain.”

  An ache began on the top of her head and continued down through her neck. No, things were not the same at all.

  ~*~

  “Ja, I’m Johan.” His wife didn’t know him. God was surely having a good joke on him. Why had the Lord turned his back on him? Was he being punished for being so foolish to think he might have a life together with Suzanne? He’d work as many extra jobs as he could to pay off her contract. He’d talk with Vann again today.

  “Johan.” She exhaled his name as though relieved.

  “Let me help you back to bed.”

  “No!”

  He couldn’t help smiling. She must be getting better to already be resisting his suggestion. As he walked to her, he explained, “Suzie, you need to get your strength back. It’s been weeks since you’ve walked.”

  “Weeks?”

  Before she could protest, he slid an arm around her back and the other under her legs.

  Her eyes searched his face.

  “No beard. Do you like it better?”

  “I…” She dropped her head back against his neck.

  Wetness from her eyes dripped down his tunic’s collar. He’d upset her. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to make you cry. I didn’t want you to fall and hurt yourself.”

  “Merci.” Her voice was a fragile as a robin
’s egg.

  “The doctor will come see you tonight. He wanted to talk with you once you were awake again.”

  But she was already asleep in his arms.

  After placing her back in bed, Johan departed for work, trudging toward Vann’s. This wasn’t good. But God would want him to be patient. He went about his work, surprised at the number of young ladies who frequented the blacksmith’s shop. And all so friendly.

  When he returned from work, Suzanne sat by the desk, which doubled as a vanity, and brushed her hair. Her hand shook as she laid it down.

  He closed the short distance between them and resisted the urge to kiss her forehead. “Good to see you up. How are you feeling?” He reached to push a stray lock of her dark hair from her forehead, but she pulled away.

  “I was able to dress.” She frowned as she spread her skirt around her. “Whose clothes are these?”

  She’d worn this outfit in the Palatinate. “My mother remade her dress for you.”

  “I see. It isn’t comfortable and it’s much too big.” She held her arms out. The bodice almost flapped open and she pinched it together.

  Johan felt his face flush. “Maybe pin it together for now.”

  “Can you pull the laces tighter on the back? That would help.” She stood by the desk, turned, and rested her hands on the wood surface.

  Yes, he could, but his fingers fumbled as he tried to unknot the lacing. Starting from the top, he pulled them in until he got to the bottom. He hesitated, taking care to not brush his fingers against the small of her back. He didn’t want any more tears today. She seemed frightened of him. And a good puff of Philadelphia breeze would blow her back out to sea. “You have to eat your meal tonight.”

  She turned and narrowed her eyes at him. “You shoveled gruel into my mouth, didn’t you?”

  He’d rather have her angry than wetting his shirt again. “Ja, I made you eat.”

  She shrugged her bony shoulders. “I want good food. Not pig slop.”

  Oh, no. He swallowed. Was he supposed to provide food like she ate at court? Impossible. “Tell me what you want.”