by Jody Hedlund
After that first day of sitting together on the rock ledge and then wading in the lake, he’d asked her to come back to the farm and visit with Miriam. He’d mentioned that even though he wanted to run off and play with her again, his mother had longed to spend time with her.
Angelique had been surprised with his request. The Pierre she’d known from childhood wouldn’t have considered Miriam’s needs, would have rushed off without any thought to anyone but himself and his own pleasure.
Pierre hammered at the new picket, driving it into the ground in place of the rotting piece he’d tossed aside.
He’d changed.
A sense of wonder warmed Angelique as it had all week as she’d watched him. She believed his claim that he wasn’t the same foolish boy he’d once been, that he was trying to live to please God.
She glanced over the dark loam of the freshly plowed field. The weeds were gone and the soil ready for sowing. The far fence along the west side of the field had been repaired. The long grass and weeds around the cabin had been cut, the roof repaired, the barn door fixed. Pierre had even purchased a cow and a dozen hens in St. Ignace.
He’d obviously worked tirelessly for long hours. With his own required labor on the new fort, she wondered when he found time to sleep.
A spot of sweat plastered his shirt to his back, defining his chiseled muscles. The June sun was high and hot, but after the long Michigan winter, she never complained about the warm temperatures of summer. They were too fleeting, and she knew she must enjoy every second.
Just like she knew she must savor every second of Pierre’s time on the island. He too was as fleeting as the summer.
She could sense the urgency within him to complete the farm tasks so that he could be on his way. He didn’t find joy in the farm the way Jean did. He was only pouring out his energy so he could move on to bigger and better things.
With a sigh, Angelique rubbed a fresh handful of sand in the bowl, letting the coarse grains slip between her fingers.
Why must he go?
“I’ve enjoyed this week of having you here at the noon hour,” Miriam said, her hand growing still on the kittens curled in her lap—two fluffy mousers Pierre had brought to his mother only yesterday, more evidence that he was preparing to leave them. “Even though you’re done with your work at the fort, will you find a way to come join us for dinner again tomorrow?”
“I’ll try.” Angelique sat back on her heels. “But you know Ebenezer. He’ll be keeping a close watch on all my activities.”
“Maybe he’ll be too busy with all of his business now.”
Ebenezer was always busier in the summer when the inn was full of customers . . . and the beach overflowing with Indian women.
Angelique gave an involuntary shudder at the thought of him slinking out the back door of the tavern last evening. She’d wished she had a place to hide so that she didn’t have to witness the angry ripple across Betty’s face or listen to her whispered curses. It hadn’t taken Betty long to figure out where Ebenezer went and what he did when he left the tavern in the evenings.
“I might be able to sneak over occasionally.” Angelique wished her days of work at the fort didn’t have to end. After Pierre had asked the officer in charge to give her lighter duties, she’d found her days there almost pleasant. She’d had freedom from Ebenezer’s constant control, along with the precious hours at noon to spend with Miriam and Pierre.
Miriam’s fingers began their gentle caressing again of the kittens. “Be careful, Angel. I don’t want you to get in trouble with Ebenezer.”
“Speaking of getting in trouble, I should probably be heading back to Fort George.” She pushed up from the ground, brushing the sand from her skirt. Even the walk to and from the fort had been something she’d looked forward to all week. The time alone with Pierre for the short hike had filled her hungry heart, even if they’d done nothing more than chatter and joke.
As if he’d been watching her out of the corner of his eye, Pierre rose and tossed his hammer into the grass. “Ready?”
“Do I have a choice?”
“Oui. I could pay for you to have the entire afternoon free,” he offered with a grin.
“See, I told you that you couldn’t hang on to your money.”
“Why have money if you can’t use it for a good cause?” He started toward her, taking off his hat and wiping his sweaty brow.
Her mind returned to the afternoon when they’d perched on the rock and how she’d dared to take off his hat and touch his hair. Her pulse still lurched every time she remembered the way he’d pressed a handful of her hair to his lips—almost as if he’d wanted to kiss her but had settled on her hair instead.
He hadn’t taken her cap off since that day. He’d kept a proper distance between them and had almost seemed to go out of his way to treat her like a friend and nothing more.
She crossed to Miriam and placed a kiss against the woman’s head. In the two weeks that Pierre had been back on the island, Miriam had blossomed like one of the spring flowers. Not only was his work around the farm helpful to her, but his sweetness and his smiles were the sunshine that brought everything to life.
How had they lived without him for five years?
“I could use a cool swim right about now,” he said, scratching his damp hair before replacing his hat. “What do you say we stop by the swimming hole for a dip before heading back to the fort?”
She could only laugh at the impulsiveness of his suggestion. On the one hand, he’d matured. But on the other, he was still the same fun-loving boy he’d always been. “I’m sure the captain would be quite shocked to see me arrive for my afternoon duties soaking wet.”
“You can take off your clothes for swimming like you always have.”
Miriam gave a soft gasp.
Heat rushed to Angelique’s cheeks.
“Now, Pierre,” Miriam said, “remember, times have changed—Angelique has changed—from when she went swimming with you and Jean all those years ago.”
Angelique couldn’t make herself look at Pierre. Was he thinking about the time when he’d found her in the pond and jumped in next to her?
Miriam started. “I almost forgot to tell you, Angelique. We received a letter from Jean today.”
“We did?” Letters from anyone were rare—even more so from the men who’d been forced to leave the island. In the past she’d always been excited to get news from Jean. But now the thought of reading Jean’s letter in front of Pierre only made her nervous.
“Pierre, would you get the letter from the Bible?”
Pierre’s smile faded, and he hesitated.
“Then you can read it to Angelique,” Miriam persisted.
They all knew Angelique couldn’t read. Since Miriam had become blind, any time they’d gotten a letter from Jean, they’d had to rely on Father Fontaine of St. Anne’s Church to visit and read it for them.
Pierre ducked into the cabin and, a few moments later, returned with a rumpled sheet of paper. He opened it, cleared his throat, and then looked at her over the edge of the paper, as if reluctant to read the letter aloud.
“Please, Pierre,” Miriam said quietly.
Angelique nodded. If Jean’s letter was like his previous ones, he’d write a line or two for her at the end.
Pierre dragged his attention back to the letter, and he began to read slowly without any enthusiasm. The news was the same. Jean was careful not to reveal anything about the United States Army, knowing full well his letter could fall into the wrong hands.
Instead he spoke of all the things he’d done during the winter months, mostly studying the books he’d borrowed from one of the local parish priests. He gave the usual instructions about how to care for the animals and the farm in his absence, and he ended with his earnest prayers for them and his hope that they’d soon be together again.
“Give my deepest regards to Angelique,” Pierre read in closing, his voice growing taut. “Tell her that I long for our reunion. My
absence from her has only solidified my conviction that we are right for each other. And I eagerly await the day when we can begin our life together as man and wife.”
Pierre looked at her again, probing her, searching for her reaction to the letter.
She was ashamed to admit Jean’s words didn’t stir her the same way they had in the past, and she lowered her lashes to hide her reaction from Pierre. She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of knowing maybe he was right in his assumption about her and Jean.
Maybe she wasn’t as fond of Jean as he was of her, but no matter what she felt, she would marry him. She’d made her pledge to him, and she wouldn’t break it, not for anything.
Jean offered her something steady and certain—something she’d never had before, or at least for a very long time, not since the years her mother and father had lived happily together. Her father claimed to love them, but that hadn’t stopped him from leaving every fall for his fur trading.
Which had he loved more, his family or the fur trading? The question had always haunted her.
With Jean, she would never have to wonder if she only had half his heart and devotion. She wouldn’t have to take second place to his work. He would be her solid rock, as strong and permanent as the island itself.
She straightened her shoulders. She had nothing to be embarrassed about. “I’m also eagerly awaiting the day when Jean and I can start our lives together,” she said with more force than she’d intended.
“Of course you are, Angel.” Miriam reached for her hand and squeezed it. “The two of you will be happy together.”
“Yes. Very happy.”
Pierre folded the letter and returned it to the Bible without a word.
On the walk back to Fort George, he was quieter than usual. He didn’t mention swimming again, and she tried to tell herself it didn’t matter. She didn’t need to worry about what Pierre thought. He was leaving soon. In fact, she’d heard rumors he was looking for a hired hand to do the work on the farm for the rest of the summer so he could be on his way.
The tapping of a drum grew louder as they drew closer to Fort Michilimackinac. When Pierre’s stride lengthened and he veered in the woods toward the North Sally Port, Angelique knew his curiosity was as great as hers to learn why the drummer was playing his music at midday.
The red-coated sentinel at the north entrance admitted Pierre with a nod, not questioning him or even stopping to search him.
They passed through the gate, surrounded by the pointed palisades, and entered into what was usually a bustling, crowded interior. Strangely there were no soldiers engaged in the target practice or drilling that had become common since Colonel McDouall’s arrival. Instead, the grounds and bunkhouse were silent, except for the steady tapping of the drum.
From the position of the fort on the cliff, they had a perfect view of the bay. The waters were calm and shimmered under the bright June sun. Other than the Indian and voyageur canoes along the shore, and the British sloops anchored in deeper water, the lake was empty of the American ships she’d been hoping would arrive.
Still, she couldn’t keep from praying that the drumming meant the Americans had been sighted somewhere.
Pierre led her down the hill past the soldiers’ barracks, a large two-story structure. When they rounded the building into the center green of the fort, he stopped abruptly and shoved her behind him. “Don’t look, Angelique.” His voice was harsh.
His arm held her against his back, but not before she’d caught a glimpse of the lines of British soldiers standing at attention on the green, their long red coats gleaming, their tall black hats standing proud upon their heads.
A slap and then a cry, like that of a wounded animal, echoed in the clearing. It was followed by another tap of the drum.
She didn’t have to look to know what was happening. A soldier was being disciplined.
“How many lashes?” Pierre asked under his breath to a nearby woman, one of the laundresses, who stood next to a wooden bucket on a plank table. Her sleeves were rolled up, and she held a dripping shirt in one of her chapped red hands.
“One hundred stripes,” the woman replied. Two children sat silently under the table, staring at the whipping post.
Angelique prayed that the man suffering the whipping wasn’t the woman’s husband or the children’s father. Some of the enlisted men brought their wives, who could earn extra rations by scrubbing clothes. The women and their infants lived with their husbands in the cramped barracks, sharing their room with several other soldiers.
Next to marrying a fur trader, Angelique ranked marrying a soldier as the second worst match. The lack of privacy and the absence of any real home life made the life of a soldier’s wife as unappealing as that of a fur trader’s.
“What’s his crime?” Pierre asked the laundress.
“Drunkenness,” the woman said.
“That’s a harsh sentence for drunkenness,” Pierre muttered.
Everyone knew that overindulgence in rum and whiskey was a common problem among the soldiers, certainly not worthy of a hundred lashes. But Colonel McDouall had arrived on the island with one goal in mind—to prepare for an attack by the Americans. Not only was the colonel driving them to finish Fort George as speedily as possible, but he was also apparently trying to crack down on disorderly conduct among the soldiers.
Another slap of the cat-o’-nine-tails against flesh rose in the air, along with a hoarse and tortured cry.
Pierre’s grip on Angelique was unswerving. But Angelique didn’t fight him. She liked the iron of his arm against her body, holding her, shielding her. She relished the warmth of his back so near her cheek she could lean against him if she took but a tiny step closer.
“He broke the curfew last night too,” the laundress added.
“Broke curfew?” Angelique slipped from Pierre’s hold and glanced at the bloody back of the soldier tied to the whipping post, his arms stretched up, leaving him helplessly exposed. She sucked in a sharp breath at the sight of the mutilated flesh.
With a murmur of disapproval, Pierre wrestled her back behind him.
But she’d already glimpsed enough to see that the culprit wasn’t Lieutenant Steele. Thankfully. She didn’t want him thinking she’d been the one to reveal his disobedience that early morning he’d attacked her.
“I told you not to look,” Pierre said, tossing her a frown.
“I’m a big girl. I can handle it,” she said halfheartedly. The sight of the gore didn’t turn her stomach, not after gutting fish day after day. But she fell behind Pierre anyway. She was so accustomed to being strong and carrying so much on her own shoulders that Pierre’s concern was a refreshing change.
The drum kept count with the last of the lashes, and when the discipline was finally over and the soldier dragged away, Pierre released her.
His attention shifted to the officers’ quarters across the wide lawn. There in the shade of the stone building stood Lavinia McDouall. She wore a green muslin gown, and against the whitewashed wall she stood out like a budding leaf on a bare tree.
And of course Pierre had noticed her.
Angelique’s stomach twisted with dismay.
With a new lightness to his step, Pierre started across the yard toward her, past the flagpole where the British colors were raised and flown proudly above the smattering of buildings inside the walls. In good weather the flag was raised faithfully at the beginning of every day. On a clear day she could see it all the way from the Straits when she was out fishing.
Angelique hesitated in crossing the grounds. Should she leave and go back to her duties at Fort George or should she follow Pierre?
“Mr. Durant.” Lavinia smiled and stepped away from the building into the sunshine. Her skin was pale and her cheeks thinner, but she’d obviously survived her illness without diminishing her beauty. “I was beginning to think you had left without saying good-bye.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it.” With a flourish Pierre bowed, reached for her
hand, and kissed it.
He wasn’t supposed to be so sweet to other women. Or to flirt with them. Or look at them with interest. She was his childhood friend—they were practically best friends, weren’t they? His special twinkle, his joking, and his laughter were meant for her and her alone.
“You must come see me more often,” Lavinia said.
“Now that I know you’re recovered, I’ll be breaking down the door to see you.”
Lavinia gave a tinkling laugh that contained her delight over Pierre’s flattery. The sound of it stung Angelique’s heart. The young lady tugged at one of her dangling curls playfully. Angelique had a feeling she was communicating with Pierre in a language only men could understand.
Angelique crossed the lawn toward Pierre. Even if he meant nothing by his flirtations, even if he was only bantering with Lavinia, Angelique still didn’t like it. She knew she had no right to stop him from having a relationship with another woman. She had no claim on him, not when they were only friends.
Even so, she couldn’t stop herself from approaching him. She slipped her hand into the crook of his arm, forcing herself to be bolder than she’d ever needed to be before. Her breath hitched in her chest, and she prayed Pierre wouldn’t push her away.
She held herself stiff, not daring to look at either Pierre or Lavinia.
But the solidness of Pierre’s arm radiated against her fingers, and he surprised her by not only capturing her hand with his but pulling her closer.
“Miss McDouall, you remember my little friend, Angelique?”
Little friend? She wanted to protest. But when he smiled down at her, there was something warm in his expression.
“Yes, I remember Miss MacKenzie,” Lavinia said, turning to Angelique. “It is good to see you again, my dear, although I have to say I’m surprised you’re here today.”
“I’m with Pierre.” The words felt stiff, and Angelique couldn’t keep from wishing she knew how to make polite conversation and flirt with Lavinia’s ease.