by DiAnn Mills
Silence.
He opened the door. Evening shadows dimmed the small chamber, but he could see her clothing heaped upon the floor. Soap filmed the water in the unoccupied tub. Georgette lay prone upon the bed, clad in something white. Her golden hair cloaked her shoulders and most of her face. LaTournay knelt and touched her forehead. Damp and warm, but not feverish. He let his hand slide the length of her hair, down her back to her waist.
She moaned and her eyelids fluttered. “Mr. LaTournay … so sorry. My head …”
“Hush.” He dipped a handkerchief in the tepid water in his basin, wrung it out, and pressed it upon her forehead. Soon she slept again, her expression more relaxed.
LaTournay ate a lonely supper of cheese, bread, and sliced fruit. While prowling about his apartments, he cast occasional glances at the activity in the lamp-lit street below. Though the hour grew late, men headed toward the southern tip of the island, singly and in groups. LaTournay shook his head, refusing to believe, and turned away.
Shouts from below brought him to the window again. What he saw raised the hair at his nape. Making no effort at concealment, dozens of men hauled cannons up Broadway, grunting and groaning as they dragged at the heavy ropes. In defiance of reason, the rebels proceeded with their plot to purloin British cannons from the Grand Battery at Fort George.
LaTournay checked on Georgette. Candlelight revealed her peaceful face, turned her hair to a curtain of gold, and shimmered amid the silken folds of her garment. She would not notice his brief absence. Better to be occupied than to brood upon his wife’s temporarily inaccessible charms.
While changing into dark woolen garments, he pondered the repercussions to this provocative move by the Provincial Congress. The British must be aware of the rebels’ movements. Until now, they had displayed remarkable forbearance with the Americans, but blatant thievery of sovereign property was another matter.
Leaving his candle behind, he slipped into the dark hallway and down the stairs.
Boom! The first earthshaking explosion pierced Georgette’s fuzzy dreams. Several more salvos in rapid succession brought her eyes wide open. Darkness met her gaze. Shouts of panic reached her ears. “What was that? Where am I?” she asked aloud, struggling to sit upright. “What time is it?”
She sat upon a bed, clad in the scanty satin chemise her mother had insisted would be ideal for her wedding night. Wedding. She was a married woman. Memories of the ceremony flitted through her mind.
At least her head no longer ached.
“Mr. LaTournay?” She dimly recalled him bathing her forehead with cool rags, but that was all. She must have fallen asleep.
A thin line of light showed beneath the door. He must be in the other room. She groped around in the dark but could not find a bedgown. No matter. What had caused the noise outside? Was the city under attack? No further explosions had ensued, but now drums began to pound. Someone inside the boardinghouse screamed, and Georgette’s heart thudded.
“Jean-Maurice?” Shoving open the door, she almost fell into the sitting room. A candle burned upon a table in the deserted chamber.
Georgette rubbed her bare arms. Perhaps her husband had stepped outside for a moment. Surely he would not desert her on their wedding night. Taking the candle back to the bedchamber, she located her lace bedgown. Mr. LaTournay must have removed the tub and straightened the room while she slept.
She dared to peer down into the street through an open window. A number of large wheeled objects—cannons?—lined Broadway. Men appeared to be towing them north toward the common, using ropes. The streetlamps revealed other people throwing their possessions into wagons, handcarts, and wheelbarrows. Many rushed along the street. Voices and traffic blended into a cacophony. Mounted horses pushed through the crowds, endangering pedestrians. Fear thickened the night air.
Feeling helpless, Georgette plopped upon the settee, nibbled at her stale supper, and watched the candle burn low. Should she dress herself and prepare for flight? If she were in any danger, Mr. LaTournay would return for her. He might be fighting even now to save New York from annihilation. Haven Farm suddenly sounded like heaven. “We must leave this dreadful place,” she told the candle.
Her eyelids drifted shut despite the commotion outside. She awakened with a cry as flashes illuminated the room and explosions shook the night. Boom, boom, boom—one after another, in seemingly endless succession. An eerie whistle and a crash, sounding horribly close, followed each shot. Clapping both hands over her ears, Georgette slid to the floor and sobbed in panic. “Lord God, save us!” Could this be the end of the world?
Quick steps rang on the hardwood floor and strong hands pulled her into a secure embrace. “Georgette.” Mr. LaTournay spoke between the blasts, making fervent entreaties to God. Scratchy wool rubbed her forehead and shoulders as she burrowed into her husband’s chest. Lying beside her on the rag rug, he sheltered her with his body.
At last the barrage ceased. Outside, the city’s stunned populace continued to wail and shout. “What was it?” Georgette whispered. Her candle must have expired, for the room was dark.
“The Asia, I would guess, expressing her captain’s displeasure concerning the removal of His Majesty’s cannons from the Battery. Stay down, my dear. I shall check for possible fires.” He scrambled to his feet, and Georgette immediately wished him back. His silhouette appeared at the window.
“I see no flames, and no alarm has been sounded. I imagine the purloined cannons will remain where they are for the present. It was a foolish attempt, at any rate.”
“The Asia fired upon us? Upon our city? But why? We might have been killed!” Georgette could not stop trembling.
“And yet the Lord has preserved us this night, my wife. You shiver. Come to bed; I believe it will be safest to remain here for the night. Chaos reigns in the streets below. I returned to you with difficulty.” He pulled her to her feet.
“But where did you go? You left me here alone?”
“I intended to step outside for only a moment. The folly of that plan is now clear to me, but at the time it seemed wise. You slept, and I meant to return before you knew of my absence. I apologize, Georgette. I was wrong to leave you unprotected.”
“Why did you wait so long to return?” Her teeth chattered.
“I attempted to come back after the first shots were fired, but a crowd of panicked humanity pushing me in the opposite direction delayed my return. The ferries must be inundated.”
“My parents! Are they safe?”
“We cannot tell until morning. You must entrust them to God’s care.” He put his arm across her shoulders and guided her toward the bedchamber.
“What time is it?”
“Past three o’clock.” He turned back the coverlet while Georgette slipped off her bedgown. Although the room was dark, she felt shy about climbing into bed in his presence. He tucked the coverlet around her. “Warm enough?”
“Mr. LaTournay, were you in this city last week?”
A pause. “I was sometimes in the vicinity. Why do you ask?”
“You were seen visiting Lady Forester on one of the merchant ships.” The strength of her own voice amazed her. The truth could not be worse than her doubts.
“I did not board the ship intending to visit her.”
“Then why were you there?”
“Conducting business. I am a merchant; it was a merchant ship. I spoke to Lady Forester only of business.” His voice held the ring of truth.
“If you were in the vicinity, why did you not visit me?” She tried but failed to sound unconcerned.
“I have labored to complete my work in this area so that I may enjoy many uninterrupted months at home with my wife during the winter. My desire would be never to return here, though I fear this will prove impossible.” His voice deepened. “I dreamed of you every night, Georgette.”
Her eyes closed as passion flooded her veins. She longed to believe him. This was no time to reconsider the consequences of her decisions.
A godly wife had but one choice.
“Now I am here,” she said. “Are you not coming to bed? You must sleep, too.”
“If you wish it.”
She heard the rustle of fabric and a moment later felt him slide beneath the coverlet beside her. Fear vanished, leaving breathless excitement in its wake. “I am sorry for falling asleep earlier. My head ached so, I could not bear it.”
“It no longer aches?”
“Due to your tender care, Jean-Maurice. Will you hold me again?” She scooted over, and his eager arms drew her close.
The following afternoon, Georgette’s parents hugged her good-bye and shook hands with their new son-in-law. “So the warships will not fire upon New York in the foreseeable future, eh?” her father said, savoring Mr. LaTournay’s error one last time. Georgette had lost count hours ago of repetitions on the same theme.
“I thought I should die of fear,” her mother said. “If only we had taken ship yesterday! Mr. LaTournay, I trust you will hurriedly remove our daughter to safety. I shudder to think of her in this treacherous city.”
“I shall endeavor to protect my wife to the best of my ability, Mrs. Talbot. We covet your prayers on our behalf.”
“And you shall have them.” She hugged Georgette one last time, then allowed her husband to help her into the Lily Fair’s boat. Burly seamen applied the oars, and the boat slipped into the open harbor.
Georgette wiped away fresh tears and waved until the tiny figures disappeared from her sight. “Will they be safe, do you think?”
“Safer than we are here.” Mr. LaTournay slipped an arm around her waist. She leaned into his chest and let a few tears dampen his waistcoat, grateful for his strong embrace.
“I wish we could leave today for Haven Farm.” She wanted away from this horrible city surrounded by warships. Away from the drilling militia and ranting newspapers. Away from other women who might try to steal her husband.
“Saturday will be better. We shall soon be home, my wife.”
Although they stood on the slip in public view, Georgette pressed closer to his side. “May we return home now?”
“Home?”
“To our boardinghouse. My home is wherever you are.”
He wrapped her in a warm hug. Georgette could not bother to worry about her husband’s past nor concern herself about the future. The present was enough.
Chapter 10
Every wise woman buildeth her house: but the foolish plucketh it down with her hands.
PROVERBS 14:1
We are nearly home. Do you see the house?” Mr. LaTournay pointed ahead. “The large white building surrounded by elms.”
“I see it.” After days of travel by boat and horseback, Georgette was more than ready to settle in at Haven Farm. However, the thought of meeting her new family while in this bedraggled state held little appeal.
“The house on our left belongs to my sister, Francine, and her husband, Jan. There she is—Francine!” Mr. LaTournay waved an arm above his head and urged his tired horse into a canter. Georgette’s gray gelding followed.
The woman in the doorway waved back and ran toward them down the sloping green lawn surrounding her house. Two dogs barked and leaped about her skirts. A flock of geese ran honking in the opposite direction.
“I thought you would never get here!” she shouted. “Welcome to Haven Farm, Georgette!” As the horses slowed, Francine fell into step between them and laid her hand on Georgette’s knee, beaming an irresistible smile. “Did you have a bon voyage? You must be exhausted! Yvonne—she is Noel’s wife—has prepared supper up at the big house. First you can have a hot bath, and—”
“Is a brother now beneath your notice? Or am I invisible?” Mr. LaTournay demanded.
Francine turned. “Hello to you, too, Jean-Maurice. I hope your wife keeps you from wasting another winter.” She gave Georgette a grin. “Georgette, I cannot express my gratitude to you for marrying mon frère. Jan and I thought he might pine himself to death last year on account of you.”
Georgette gave Mr. LaTournay a startled glance. He rose in his stirrups to study something across the fields, ignoring the remark. “Would you like a quick tour of the farm on horseback?” he asked.
“I would prefer to see the farm another time. I am tired.” That promised hot bath beckoned.
“Of course you are. Jean-Maurice is not thinking clearly. He should know better.” Francine patted Georgette’s horse. “A fine animal this is.”
“Royal was a gift to me from Mr. LaTournay,” Georgette said. “I am pleased to meet you, Francine.” Her return greeting felt awkward, coming so late in the conversation.
Francine smiled up at her again. “I am pleased to have a sister after all these years. May I call you Georgie?”
Georgette tried to conceal her horror. “My friend Marianne calls me Gigi.”
“Gigi? Eh, bien. My husband, Jan, asked me to extend his apologies for not greeting you yet; he will join us this evening.” Francine gave Royal’s sweaty neck another pat and stopped, allowing the horses to pass as she called after them. “I shall give you time to settle in, Gigi, but later you will tire of my company. Yvonne and I have joyfully anticipated the arrival of another woman!” She waved and trotted back toward her house.
“Francine seems an exuberant woman,” Georgette observed. “I think I shall enjoy her company.” She read approval in her husband’s smile.
A young black man emerged from the barn to take the horses, greeting Mr. LaTournay in rapid French. He extended a sealed note.
Mr. LaTournay thrust the letter inside his waistcoat without a glance. “Thank you. Georgette, this is Pierre Dimieux, son of Noel and Yvonne. Pierre, my wife.”
Pierre smiled, bowed, and spoke in perfect English. “Welcome, Mrs. LaTournay. I pray you will be happy here at Haven Farm.”
Georgette nodded. “Thank you, Pierre.”
Mr. LaTournay hopped lightly to the ground. “Please give the horses both a good rubdown tonight. The new gelding belongs to Mrs. LaTournay.”
“Oui, monsieur. He is handsome.” Pierre held the horse while Georgette dismounted. She handed over the reins with relief, wondering if she would ever again be able to walk normally.
Pierre questioned Mr. LaTournay in rapid French. This time her husband replied sharply in French. Pierre’s expression darkened. Not for the first time, Georgette wished she knew more of the language.
As her husband took her arm and escorted her from the barn, she asked, “Is anything wrong?”
“Nothing that need concern you.” He looked up at the house, and his face brightened. “Your home, Madame LaTournay.”
Georgette thought it looked like a barn with windows, but she dared not voice that opinion. “I have never before seen such a house.”
“It is gambrel style. Dutch. My grandfather built it.” He reached inside to unlatch the lower half of the door.
“Why are the doors split in half?”
“So we can let light and air into the house without also allowing hogs, dogs, and geese inside. All the outer doors are that way.” Suddenly he scooped her into his arms and pushed the door with his foot. Gasping at the suddenness of his move, Georgette clutched at his neck.
“Now this I like to see,” a rich female voice said from inside the house.
“Bonjour, Yvonne.” Mr. LaTournay sounded at once embarrassed and exultant. Georgette looked up to see a woman with dark skin, gray-streaked hair, and white teeth.
“Très bien to have you home, and the new madam, too!” The woman wiped her hands on her apron.
Mr. LaTournay set Georgette down, keeping one arm wrapped around her waist. “Georgette, meet our housekeeper and friend, Yvonne Dimieux. Yvonne, this is Georgette, my wife.”
Georgette nodded. “I am pleased to meet you, Yvonne.”
Yvonne bobbed a curtsy.
“Yvonne grew up in Tobago; she dislikes our northern winters. She is an excellent cook and housekeeper, so every autumn I must convince her to st
ay.”
Yvonne grinned. “Liar that you are, monsieur. The Lord Jesus keeps me and Noel here with you. We will never go where He does not lead.” Without pausing for breath, she added, “Bath water heats in the kitchen, and the tub awaits madam in her chamber. You speak the word, and I’ll send the boys up with the hot water. The beds are turned, the linens fresh. I shall unpack for madam while she rests. I have something of hers in the kitchen. I’ll bring it with me when I come upstairs.”
“Merci, Yvonne.”
All this French talk startled Georgette. Of course she had known that Mr. LaTournay spoke French, but now it seemed to flow from his tongue and accent even his English.
The housekeeper’s dark eyes twinkled. “If you do not realize it already, madam, this husband of yours speaks only half his thoughts and even fewer of his feelings. You must make the man talk.” With a nod and a wink, she whirled about and left.
Bemused by the advice, Georgette stared up at her husband’s face.
Stepping back, Mr. LaTournay smiled. “Yvonne has wisdom to equal her remarkable intellect and a loving heart like none other. Now, be at home and do whatever you wish. This house is yours, Georgette. You have first bath. I shall join you upstairs later.”
“You will read your letter?”
He seemed startled by the question. “Oui. The letter. I shall read it, of a certain.”
Yvonne delivered Georgette’s possession to her bedchamber. “For you, madam. He was asleep on the hearth when you arrived.”
“Caramel!” Georgette held out her arms.
The pug’s floppy ears lifted at the sound of her voice, and he struggled to get down. As soon as Yvonne placed him on the floor, he yipped and spun in circles near Georgette’s feet. “I do believe he is crying,” Georgette said, attempting to hold the frantic dog. Tears of relief burned her eyes. The pug looked hearty and plump; Noel had truly been good to him. Georgette had trained Caramel not to lick her face; but when she picked him up, his tongue darted in and out near her cheek as if to taste the air.