Saving The Marquise's Granddaughter

by Carrie Fancett Pagels

  Suzanne’s fists balled, matching the tightening in her chest. No wonder he couldn’t visit. She took Sarah’s hand and pulled her toward the bevy, all unaccompanied. Where were their fathers or their brothers? Her cheeks heated as she realized she had no male companion, either. But this was her…husband? She certainly felt like a jealous wife.

  Johan’s golden queue bobbed against his broad back as he called out to another man, hammering the hot metal. “I’ll grab the fuller and mandrel for when we shape that iron, next.” He turned, revealing dark circles under his eyes.

  And he didn’t even notice her. Her eyes began to water. Must be from the smoke.

  ~*~

  Johan wiped the sweat from his brow, sensing movement in the small gathering of women. He’d never imagined them to be so interested in blacksmith work. Perhaps it was because of the fancy pot rack he and Friederich were making.

  How he wished he could sleep better. If he wasn’t completely exhausted at night, he lay uncomfortably in his hammock and imagined what married life might be like. Papa warned him about intimacy without the sanction of marriage. But he was married. Was it wrong to desire to be with her, to touch her soft skin and hold her close against him?

  As he turned with the hot metal, he could have sworn he’d heard Sarah’s voice but he daren’t look away from his work. When he paused, he spied only a trio of young women, each waving brightly colored fans.

  Perhaps Suzanne hid behind her claim of memory loss. She acted as though their vows had never been said. But if she didn’t accept a Quaker’s pronouncements as valid, then perhaps they could be married by the English priest at St. Joseph’s. He needed to talk with her about it.

  As he removed the horn-like mandrel from its peg, his gut twisted. Suzanne had been so ill that theirs was not a real wedding. He’d been wrong to think she was in her right mind. But she’d answered every question so plainly. Even the priest believed she understood. The physician said she might not have. Perhaps he should act as though their marriage never occurred. Free her to marry whom she wanted.

  The onlookers pursed their lips and gasped in surprise, looking over their shoulders.

  What now? Irritation prickled his scalp. He was too tired to get involved with the customer’s problems. He’d prayed for some sign from Suzanne. Had made himself prone before the throne of God, but there had been no answer. Unless “wait” was an answer.

  He sighed. God no longer cared to hear from him. He lifted the fuller, this one especially good at pounding fine grooves into metal, from its spot on the wall near the forge. This Etienne, her old beau, he imagined the fuller driving him away from them.

  Johan lifted the molten iron from the fire. Not hot enough yet for the next piece. Glancing toward the onlookers, he almost dropped the rod as he placed it back in the fire.

  Suzanne’s eyes burned with anger, and her full lips were pulled into a tight, censuring line.

  He nodded at her but she continued to glare.

  Johan removed the iron rod. Blazing orange—just right. From the corner of his eye, it seemed as though the other women were dispersing quickly.

  Sarah waved her hands at the ladies for them to go, like she had with the chickens back home.

  He laughed. Johan hit the piece with one precise blow before setting the flattened segment aside to cool. His frau, what did she need to cool off from?

  ~*~

  Suzanne hoped her tone was a cold as she felt despite the heat from the forge. “I see you’re very busy, but I need to talk with you.”

  Friederich nodded at him. “Go on.”

  Stepping out of the forge area, Johan lifted Sarah up to give her a kiss and then set her back down. He turned to Suzanne.

  She crossed her arms. With narrowed eyes, she dared him to touch her.

  Johan dared.

  He took her elbow, sending a shiver through her, and firmly guided her away from the wood smoke and acrid metal fumes.

  She made her voice formal. “Wyatt wants to know if his carriage is ready.”

  “He could have come himself to ask. Why are you here?” He didn’t have to sound so irritated. Should be glad they’d come.

  “I…”

  Sarah grabbed his arm. “We wanted to see you. We missed you!”

  Johan snorted. “You have a funny way of showing it.”

  “She’s jealous of all those ladies watching you.” Sarah raised her eyebrows in smug superiority of this knowledge.

  “Sarah!” If Suzanne had a fan in her hands like all those twittering girls who’d run off, she’d have been tempted to use it to swat the impertinent child.

  Johan’s cheeks reddened as he stooped to whisper to Suzanne. “I miss you, too, and I’m also jealous.” He squeezed her hand and released it. Johan pulled Sarah over and kissed her tawny head. “We need to test Wyatt Scott’s new carriage. But Vann wants a rider or two.”

  Sarah bounced on her toes in expectation.

  “Vann doesn’t want Mister Scott being the one to say if the coach handles well. He rides like the demons of hell chase after him.” Johan’s brows knit together as he shifted one hip to the side and appraised the two of them.

  Suzanne laughed. “Vann is très intelligent. And Johan, I feel sure the colonel’s coachman would be happy to take it for a ride.” It warmed Suzanne inside to see the smile of affection that passed between the two cousins. “Sarah and I could go along.”

  The little girl jumped. “Yes, I love riding. Please say yes, Uncle Johan.”

  Johan pinched her nose. “Ja. Go play with the hoops over there.” He pointed to a clearing near the well.

  Two dimples creased the child’s cheeks as she ran off.

  Johan wrapped his hand around Suzanne’s and led her to the privacy of the small garden behind the buildings.

  No wonder those young women flocked around him when he worked. Johan had become a very appealing man. Even more than she’d imagined in her artist’s mind when she labored over painting the enthralling youth he’d been, often setting aside other work her art instructor had assigned. “You begin to look more like Nicholas.” Suzanne’s words caught in her throat. They sounded like an accusation.

  Johan rubbed his jaw. “Ja, but I’m more handsome, don’t you think?” His crooked grin told her that he was jesting. But it was true.

  Suzanne jabbed a finger at his chest. “You have circles under your eyes. Aren’t you sleeping well? Do you walk in your sleep here?”

  He laughed. “They tie me in the hammock.” Johan drew her toward him, his warm arms enfolding her.

  Memories came over her in waves. This big man had sat her on his lap like a little girl and let her cry into his shirt night after night when she awoke from her nightmares, his beard brushing the top of her head. She’d fallen in love with him. With his kindness. She trembled as intense gratitude flowed through her. God had provided for her. Surely, Johan was her helpmeet.

  This search to replace what she’d lost was absurd. God had already given her what she needed. And somehow, on that ship, even in her darkest hour, somehow her soul had known. She reveled in the feel of his steady arms around her.

  “Suzie?” Johan’s shaky voice jarred her senses. “Would you accept a marriage blessed by a Quaker?”

  She stiffened. “What do you mean?”

  There certainly were plenty of Quaker ministers in Pennsylvania. She tried to tug free, but he held her there like a vise. She recalled other arms wrapped tight around her. Another promise. Etienne implied they would marry. Johan claimed they already had. And was now changing his story. Etienne had known her all her life. And this man only a few months. Had some woman in Philadelphia caught his eye?

  She yanked away from Johan. The guilty look on his face confirmed her suspicions. He hadn’t been telling her the truth about something.

  “Please, I need to know if you’d accept only a wedding conducted by a Catholic priest.”

  This seemed the most ridiculous question to her. She’d met her Maker
on that ship. First and foremost, He required a relationship with her, whether she professed to be a Huguenot, a Roman Catholic, a Lutheran, or even a Quaker. Grand-mère had her own faith, as did Papa. She’d attended church with Johan and now with Wyatt at the Anglican church. Suzanne wasn’t sure she could claim any particular denomination as her own. Did Johan not understand what had happened inside of her, in her soul?

  “Johan, Master Vann needs you!” Anton popped his head above the bushes. “Pardon me! Those men are back again. He wants you to keep an eye on them. And he asked if the ladies would like a ride home in Scott’s carriage.”

  28

  As the coachman assisted Suzanne and Sarah up, he mumbled, “Don’t know how Master Scott thinks this light coach will get him all the way to Virginie.”

  “Oui, I agree.” Sarah and Suzanne settled into the padded leather seats and they set off. The carriage lurched.

  Suzanne clutched Sarah. “I think the horses are excited about the new carriage.”

  Sarah squeezed her arm. “I’m excited, too. Mister Scott told me he might race it when he gets it.”

  Suzanne kept an arm wrapped around Sarah. “Don’t you dare go with him.”

  Sunbeams flickered off the metal trimwork as they road down city streets bordered by hardwoods whose foliage was awash with red and yellow.

  The pink of her gown seemed to clash with nature. She fingered the hand-me-down clothing, a pretty day dress belonging to Christy’s wife.

  In another lifetime, mother-of-pearl buttons would line her under blouse, and two large cabochon rings would adorn her fingers. Chains of gold with glittering crystal beads would circle her neck, reflecting light as she moved. Her hair would be woven into hundreds of small braids and decorated with pearls.

  She touched Sarah’s golden hair. Johan had seen her own completely unbound, had brushed it for Suzanne when she was ill. A rush of pleasure went through her at the thought of his warm hands touching her face, of him pulling her into what he would call a hug and she would term an embrace. How she missed being with him. She sighed.

  The carriage driver slowed the bays as they turned onto their street, horseshoes clanking against the cobblestones. As they pulled into the long drive, a silver-haired stranger emerged from the stables, dressed only in buff breeches and a shirt covered by a vest. No jacket. Dirty riding boots immediately brought Guy to mind. This man had ridden long and hard.

  The man’s aristocratic face rose in their direction and he froze. The slim man ran with a speed that challenged Suzanne’s senses, and without a sound, like an animal. He exuded sheer physical power as he approached the carriage, staring at her. His solemn, almost statue-like visage transformed into disappointment as he neared, then stopped. The man glanced away, a quizzical look washing his classical features.

  “Father!” a dark-haired boy called as he darted from the carriage house. He was half-naked, wearing a breech cloth, leggings, and a loose tunic.

  She tried not to gape but couldn’t prevent it.

  This must be Colonel Christy and his son. But was the child an Indian? The boy let out a whoop and his father hoisted him overhead and spun him around several times.

  Once the carriage was halted, the driver helped her and Sarah out.

  “I miss my Papa.” Sarah pressed a tear-streaked face into Suzanne’s skirt.

  She stroked the child’s hair. Noel was a good man. Like Johan.

  “You must be Suzanne and Sarah.” The striking man drew near, his son close at his side.

  Up close, Suzanne could see his hair was un-powdered. His complexion was that of someone in his early middle years—it didn’t match his white hair.

  “He looks like a ghost,” Sarah whispered in German. “But a nice one.”

  “I’m William.” The boy tapped his chest. He narrowed his almost black eyes at Sarah as though challenging her.

  “I’m Sarah and I hope you like to play chase.”

  With that, the boy ran off and Sarah followed.

  “Forgive my lack of manners. I’m Colonel Lee Christy and you gave me a bit of a start.”

  She curtseyed. “Suzanne Richelieu.” If Johan continued to obfuscate she’d not use his name.

  “My wife was also French. Métis actually.” He gestured toward where the children ran. “As I’m sure you could discern, my son is, as well.” His tight smile asked a question.

  “He’s a handsome boy.”

  “Gets those good looks from his mother.” Sadness tugged his features downward. “You wear my wife’s dress.”

  Suzanne blushed. She smoothed out the pink linen-and-silk gown. “Oui.”

  Cool gray eyes appraised her. “It suits you.”

  ~*~

  Now that he knew who to watch for at the forge, Johan and the other new men would be better prepared if something happened on their watch. If only it was easy to look at his beloved’s face and know how she felt. From what he’d seen there, a Quaker minister wasn’t acceptable for a wedding. Johan would woo her, win her.

  He’d received Suzanne’s request to come to Christy’s house. Was it true that the boy had come home? Was God answering his prayers again?

  Skies full of billowing white clouds covered and then released the sun’s rays as he walked. Soon it would be autumn. Back at home, the hay would need to be brought in. But his family had no harvest this year. How would Mama and Papa make do? How much of the funds Suzanne had left were used by Noel to bring his family across?

  Wyatt Scott threw the front door open. “What fortune you sent the ladies. Providential. Come in and I’ll get your beautiful wife for you.” He offered one of his contagious smiles over his shoulder. “And your little cousin, too, or niece, or whatever you wish to call her. Sarah.”

  Johan followed Scott, and when the other man ran off up the wide, curving staircase, closed the door, and found his way to the parlor to the right. He lowered into the settee and waited. Dust motes floated, and the room didn’t hold its usual spicy scent.

  He rose as Suzanne entered and resisted the urge to pull his sweetheart into his arms. Sarah launched herself at him, and he lifted her up and kissed her on her cheek before setting her back down.

  Colonel Christy followed them, his arm slung around the shoulder of a boy dressed in buckskins, a feather dangling from the side of his black hair. Eyes as black as crow’s dominated the child’s somber little face.

  Wyatt Scott beamed in contentment as he joined them. He motioned to Johan. “Colonel Christy, this is Suzanne’s husband, Johan Roush.”

  Suzanne chewed her lip but didn’t correct him.

  Christy was busy holding the squirming boy to his side. “Pleasure to meet you.”

  William demanded something in an unintelligible language. He broke free from his father and poked Sarah in the chest. “This Johan is of your tribe, your blood. You belong with him.”

  Johan tensed. Surely, the child’s father would intervene. If Johan were free, he’d take Sarah with him.

  Sarah shoved him away from her, taking the boy off guard.

  William fell backward to the floor at Suzanne’s feet.

  She reached down to help him up.

  But he was crouching, growling, his teeth bared. And he held a knife in his hand.

  Christy placed two fingers at the juncture of the boy’s arm and shoulder, effectively knocking him to his knees. “Put it down, William.”

  Suzanne fanned herself vigorously and peered up at Johan, her eyes wide.

  “He’s funny!” Sarah covered her mouth and laughed.

  Christy led the boy away, telling William in a matter-of-fact voice, “We are not Iroquois, Shawnee, nor any other tribe in this household. Kindly desist from pulling a knife on our guests in the future.”

  Suzanne took Johan’s hand. “Perhaps you should come back another day. I’m sorry.”

  How could he leave them there with a child such as this? Yet he couldn’t stay. “Ja, I’ll be back tomorrow.” He draped an arm over each of “his gir
ls,” as he was beginning to think of them. His dream of buying property near where this child had just come from—was this a crazy plan?

  Suzanne tilted her head at him, her cheeks pink, her face longing for something. A kiss? “Tomorrow, then.”

  ~*~

  After reaching Christy’s property the next day, Johan followed the sound of children’s laughter to the back of the house.

  Sarah and the dark-haired boy were throwing a leather-covered ball at each other and shrieking. They paid him no attention.

  He hesitated, wondering if he should stay and watch them. He wouldn’t interrupt. No one was being scalped, and they both needed some time for fun, for play. They seemed happy.

  Spying Suzanne walking through the rose garden, he went to her. She bestowed a pretty smile upon him, as though he were the finest gentlemen in the world. Her pink gown flounced around her. She reminded him of a rose that unexpectedly bloomed in early autumn, like the opening bud she now touched. “Johan?” That one word was like a caress.

  He closed the span between them. The undisguised longing in her eyes warmed him. But her chin was set in stubbornness, causing his head to swim in confusion. She took his hands and rotated him so that his back was to the mansion. Then she carefully stepped up onto his boots and pressed both of his hands together between her own. She held them fast near her embroidered stomacher as she slowly leaned in toward him, tendrils of dark hair tossed by the light breeze. He could scarcely breathe. She looked so lovely, so delicate. But part of him wanted to crush her in his arms and never let her go. When he tried to move his hands, she resisted.

  He swallowed. “What are you doing, Suzie?”

  She was trying to balance herself atop his feet, avoiding the shoe buckles while straining toward him.

  “I desire that you kiss me, and I don’t wish you to hug me.” Her eyes turned dark as she moistened her full lips and tipped her head back.

  His legs tensed. He lowered his head and covered her warm lips with his own. She tasted of honeyed tea. He tried to tug his hands free to pull her closer, but the pinch she gave his hands reminded him to stop. When she didn’t pull away, he moved his mouth more forcefully against her parted lips, his entire body gripped by a passion he wasn’t sure he could contain if they didn’t stop this instant.