by Jody Hedlund
“I’ll be there,” she promised, trying to keep the misery from her tone.
Pierre pulled on one arm, and Jean held her fast with the other. She wavered between the two men, her heart wrenching into pieces. But Jean’s grip was weakening, and one last tug from Pierre was all it took for Jean to lose his hold and for her to fall against Pierre.
“There’s no time to waste.” Pierre dragged her toward the cave entrance. “We’ve got to get you back inside the fort before the battle ends or you’ll come under suspicion too.”
She didn’t argue with Pierre. She followed him out of the cave, into the woods, and ran silently after him as he led her in the direction of the fort. She tried to think of some excuse she could offer the sentinel for why she was so late in returning from her fishing, but all she could think about was Jean lying in the darkness, in pain, and how he’d be in greater agony if he learned she’d broken her commitment to him.
Could she really break it?
The question pounded louder with each step she took away from the cave until it drowned everything else out.
When they were within sight of the walls of the fort, Pierre halted. He pulled her down to a crouch next to him so that they were hidden in the shrubs.
His chest heaved with his breathing, much the same as hers.
“My fish?” she asked.
“No time to go back for them.”
She nodded. In the sticky heat of the morning, the fish would likely be covered with flies and starting to turn putrid anyway.
“This is as far as I can go.” He peered toward the west blockhouse and the North Sally Port beyond. “Tell the sentinel you got caught in the path of the battle. He’ll believe you.”
In the distance the popping of gunfire continued to echo with the occasional blast of a cannon. The Indian war shrieks had faded, and she could only pray that Pierre had been wrong, that the tide of the battle had changed to favor the American troops.
She started to rise, but then stopped and grabbed Pierre’s arm before he could slip away. “Don’t tell Jean about us yet, Pierre. Please. Promise me.”
His brows came together in a stormy furrow. “We need to tell him sooner or later. Why wait?”
“He’s hurt, and I can’t stand the thought of causing him more pain.”
“I suppose that’s why you lied to him—why you told him you’d be there for him?”
“I don’t know,” she said, wanting to block out the anger flashing in Pierre’s eyes. “I didn’t know what to tell him. I don’t know what to do anymore.”
“You don’t know what to do?” Pierre gripped her shoulders and made her face him. “How can there even be a choice? You love me. Not him.”
“I care about him too. He loves me and he was there for me all those years when you weren’t.”
“But you don’t love him,” Pierre insisted. “You couldn’t say the words to him. I saw it.”
The high morning sun beat down on her bare head, pounding with unrelenting pressure. “Maybe that doesn’t matter.”
With a growl Pierre jerked her against his chest, so that his face was only a breath away. His face was smeared with the dirt of battle and lined with weariness. But something powerful filled his eyes.
When he leaned into her, closing the gap between them, she didn’t have the strength or the will to resist him. He bent his face against hers, and she met his lips with eagerness. She was hungry for him and let his lips demand from her a response that she was all too willing to give.
Then he groaned and cut off the kiss, dragging his mouth away and leaving her lips bruised but wanting more.
“Don’t tell me that Jean’s kiss was anything like that.” Pierre’s chest heaved, his face once again a mask of frustration. “Don’t tell me you kissed him back the way you just kissed me.”
She couldn’t deny Pierre’s words. She shared a passion with Pierre that she’d never once felt with Jean. But could their passion and love survive the challenges they would face in the days to come? Yes, Pierre had claimed he’d give up his voyaging ways. But could he? Could they really be happy together?
She couldn’t bear the thought that Pierre would grow miserable on the island. And if she forced him to stay, she knew it was only a matter of time before he’d grow restless. Besides, she’d just promised that she’d wait for Jean’s return. How could she break her word?
Her mind spun with the memory of the winter morning her father had surprised them with his visit, of the joy that had spread across his face when he’d picked her up and embraced her with his big arms. His nose had been icy against hers, and the snow in his beard had tickled her cheeks.
But only moments later, his limbs had stiffened, and his expression had clouded with a confusion and pain that had ripped her little-girl heart, when her mother, wrapped only in a blanket, had swung open the bedroom door. The bare man-sized feet poking out from the end of the bed had been all her father had needed to see before he’d moaned in agony.
And his moan had ricocheted through the depths of Angelique’s soul. There were times in the quiet of the early morning before dawn that she could still hear it.
It was the groan of betrayal.
How could she ever bear to hear it come from Jean’s lips? And it would come eventually—if he learned she’d been cheating on him. Cheating just the way her mother had done with her father.
Angelique lifted trembling fingers to her lips to stifle a cry at the realization of what she’d been doing. She’d been unfaithful to Jean. She’d neglected her promise to him at the slightest attention from Pierre. She’d allowed Pierre’s flattery, his kisses, and his declarations of love to turn her head from doing the right thing, honoring her commitment to the man who adored her.
As much as she’d tried to prevent it, she’d become as brazen and forward as her mother. She’d reveled in forbidden kisses and touches. She’d let her flesh dictate the situation. What was to prevent it from happening again when the next man came along who turned her head? An anguished cry slipped from her lips, and tears sprang to her eyes. What kind of woman had she become?
She shouldn’t have let herself care about Pierre and make plans with him, at least not until she’d had the chance to talk honestly with Jean. She and Pierre should have waited, should have used restraint until Jean returned. If their love was strong enough and meant to be, wouldn’t it have lasted until after they’d done the honorable thing?
Instead she’d spurned all that Jean had offered her, his sweetness and goodness to her over the years. She’d gone behind his back, deceived him, and trampled his kindness in the dirt as if it meant nothing, just as her mother had done to her father, time and time again.
“Pierre, I’m sorry,” she whispered, yanking away from him, panic giving her new strength. “I can’t hurt Jean any further.”
Pierre fumbled for her, but she slipped out of his grasp and tumbled out into the open grass, where the soldiers in the blockhouse would be able to see her.
“Come back, Angelique,” Pierre hissed from his hiding spot in the brush.
She darted across the distance that separated her from the walls of the fort. She knew Pierre couldn’t follow her, not without putting himself in great danger.
“Angelique, ma cherie,” he called in a raspy whisper, “please come back.”
She forced her legs to run away from him, putting as much distance between them as she could.
The shout of a soldier came from one of the square firing holes in the blockhouse. They’d spotted her.
She couldn’t turn around now even if she wanted to. With a sob she forced her feet forward, even though she wanted to do nothing more than fling herself back into Pierre’s arms.
“I’m back,” Pierre said as he climbed through the narrow opening of the cavern.
“I’m surprised you returned,” Jean said weakly, “and didn’t leave me here to die.”
Pierre made his way across the incline to the back of the cave, to the dark reces
s where he’d hidden his brother. He didn’t reply. He was too angry, and ashamed to admit that he’d considered abandoning Jean.
Part of him wanted to let Jean fend for himself. After all, he was the one who’d gotten himself into trouble. If Jean was gone, then he wouldn’t have to fight for Angelique’s affection anymore. He’d have her without any worry of Jean. But the other part of him knew he couldn’t abandon his brother, that his anger was irrational, and that he was only upset because of Angelique’s stubbornness.
Why did she have to feel so strongly about her commitment to Jean anyway. Why did it matter?
It wasn’t as if she’d married him yet. She had every right to change her mind about who she wanted to be with. And she clearly didn’t love Jean the way she loved him. Did she?
His muscles rippled in protest at the thought that she might harbor affection for Jean.
“Here. I’ve brought you fresh water.” Pierre held up Jean’s head and lifted the canteen to his lips.
Jean took a long sip before falling back with a groan.
Pierre skimmed his fingers across Jean’s wound, then trickled water over it. If only he had something from Dr. Henderson that would allow him to tend the wound. He’d contemplated finding the doctor and begging him for medicine—anything that could help ease Jean’s discomfort during the long wait ahead of them.
But he couldn’t risk being seen by anyone. Not until he’d gotten Jean safely off the island.
“She’s mine,” Jean said.
Pierre wanted to pretend he didn’t know what Jean was talking about. But what good would that do? Jean had obviously sensed the attraction between him and Angelique. “Angelique’s a grown woman and can make up her own mind about who she wants.”
“Not with you around whispering sweet nothings in her ear every time she comes around.” Jean’s pained voice held an unfamiliar bitterness.
“I don’t have to whisper sweet nothings for a woman to like me.”
“Stay away from her, Pierre.”
It’s too late! he wanted to shout. He then remembered how Angelique had begged him not to say anything to Jean about their plans. As much as he wanted to tell Jean that he was marrying Angelique, he knew he couldn’t break her trust. If he said anything to Jean now, he’d only push Angelique further away.
Non. He needed to let her share the news with Jean in her own time and in her own way. Maybe she could write him a letter to inform him that she wasn’t planning to marry him anymore.
“You wouldn’t make her happy anyway,” Jean said.
“And what makes you think you would?”
“Because I can give her everything she wants, a home and a family on the island. I’ll give her plenty of children, and someday I’ll even be able to build her a bigger house.”
“Who says I can’t give her that too?” Once he sold his equipment and his brigade, he’d have more than enough money to build Angelique a big house and give her everything she wanted.
Jean gave a short laugh. “You’d never be happy here on the island. You’d go crazy, just as crazy as you did that spring before you blew up at Dad and all of us.”
“I’ve changed.”
Jean didn’t say anything.
Was Jean right? Would he go crazy if he had to stay on the island? He thought back to the long hours he’d worked in the fields that summer, to the monotony of the plowing, the sowing, and the weeding. He was already tired of working the land day after day, and he still had the harvesting to do, the hardest work of all.
Even so, there were plenty of other things he loved doing on the island, and he’d be able to do them with Angelique. Maybe he could open his own business. Maybe together they could build a fishing business. After all, the fur trade in the Great Lakes region wouldn’t last forever, just like it hadn’t lasted out East. Eventually the islanders would have to find another means to survive out in the wilderness, without relying upon fur. Maybe he could forge the way into developing the fishing industry for the island.
He unfolded his stiff limbs and sat back against the cold dampness of the cave wall. The uneven rocks jutted into him, and he shifted, trying to find a comfortable spot for the long day of waiting. He stretched out his legs and leaned his head back. He was exhausted, but his mind spun with a thousand questions about Angelique and Jean and him and the future.
Jean’s labored breathing softened, and Pierre could only pray his brother would sleep or fall into unconsciousness so that he wouldn’t have to feel the burning agony from his wound. For all the frustration he felt about Jean and Angelique, he didn’t want to see his brother suffer.
“I used to be angry that you’d rejected us and run off.” Jean’s hoarse voice came out of the silence and startled Pierre. “I was angry that you thought you were too good for the island and for farming. I resented you for thinking you were better than me.”
“As I told you earlier, I’m sorry for all that. I was wrong—”
“Your pride was wrong,” Jean said with surprising strength. “But when I think back to that last argument you had with Papa before leaving the island, I can see now that Papa was wrong.”
Pierre’s mind flashed with images of Papa standing in the horse stall in the barn, his wide stance and his broad shoulders blocking his escape. His black eyes had been hot with anger, and he’d brandished a shovel in his hands. He shouted at Pierre, called him stubborn and foolish for wanting to join a brigade and for refusing his offer to pay for school in Detroit.
He swung the shovel in the air. And even though he’d never hit Pierre before, for once Pierre believed Papa was angry enough to knock him down.
“Go ahead,” Pierre taunted, stepping away from the wall. “Hit me.”
Papa glared at him.
“If you want to hit me, I won’t stop you.” Pierre straightened his shoulders and puffed out his chest, preparing for the first swing. He’d seen Papa come to blows with plenty of other men. Though Papa had claimed to be a changed man, his temper still flared all too often.
At almost eighteen, Pierre was as tall as Papa and just as broad-shouldered, but he knew he wasn’t a match for Papa’s strength. Even so, he stood without flinching as Papa lifted the shovel above his head.
In the loft, Jean’s glare matched that of Papa’s. He remembered thinking, If they all hate me so much, why should I bother staying?
“I hate you.” He ground the words out and flung them at Papa.
Papa rocked backward almost as if the hate had knocked him in the stomach. Slowly he lowered the shovel and then let it fall from his fingers into the soiled hay. His shoulders slumped, and his eyes filled with an incredible sadness that still pierced Pierre whenever he thought about it.
His declaration of hate was the last thing he ever said to Papa. He shoved his way past the big man, stuffed a bag with his belongings, and left the farm without looking back.
Papa was right. He was a stubborn fool.
If only he’d had the chance to tell Papa the truth before he died, the truth that he’d never stopped loving him, that he’d respected him, and that now he understood.
“Papa wasn’t wrong,” Pierre said into the cavern. “He was just trying to keep me from making the mistakes he did.”
“But he was wrong to try to force you to do what he wanted,” Jean replied. “We each have to forge our own way in this world, and that includes making a few mistakes along the way.”
“And I’ve made plenty.”
“That doesn’t mean you should give up doing something you love.”
Pierre’s soul burned with the remorse of all his sins, even though he’d long ago confessed them to God and pleaded for forgiveness. He’d been as guilty as Papa for all the drunkenness and debauchery that came with the voyageur life. He’d fallen into the trap of living for the next beach and the next night of drinking.
But he’d tried to turn his ways around. “I haven’t had a drop of rum in a whole year.”
“You’ve got the best qualities of
both Maman and Papa in you,” Jean said, his voice growing weak again. “You’ve got Papa’s physical abilities and Maman’s spiritual strength. If anyone can live a godly life in the wilderness, it’s you.”
At Jean’s words, Pierre’s chest grew tight. “Thanks, Jean.”
Silence fell between them. He imagined themselves as if boys again, that they were merely resting in the cave after playing all morning. He wanted to forget that a bloody battle was still being fought only a few miles away. He wanted to pretend that he and Jean weren’t fighting over Angelique.
“Go back to the wilderness, Pierre,” Jean said. “It’s where you belong.”
He wanted to deny Jean’s words, yet his heart beat faster at the truth of them. “You’re just trying to get rid of me, aren’t you?” His words were meant as a joke, but somehow they lacked the mirth he’d intended.
“I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t afraid of you tempting Angelique away from me. I realize the friendship you’ve always had with her. She always followed after you first, always sought you out more than me.”
“True.” Pierre forced a laugh, hoping to cover his discomfort at Jean’s words. If his brother knew Pierre had already tempted Angelique away, he’d want nothing more to do with him. Maybe Jean hadn’t really hated him the way he’d rationalized that day in the barn, but when Jean learned Angelique was going to marry him, this time the hatred would be real.
“Besides keeping you away from my bride-to-be,” Jean continued, his voice falling to a whisper, “I know you need to go. The fur trade is part of who you are. It’s what you love most.”
“Someone has to stay and take care of Maman now that she’s blind.”
“Blind?” Jean groaned. “What do you mean? How? When?”
At the agony in Jean’s questions, Pierre wished he could take back his words. But Jean demanded to know everything. And by the time Pierre had finished telling him about the blindness and the condition of the farm that spring when he’d returned, Jean was thrashing in agitation.
“I’ll stay until you return,” Pierre assured, reaching out a steadying hand to Jean’s shaking one. “I won’t leave Maman here alone. I promise.” He wasn’t deserting Angelique either. No matter what Jean said about him needing to go, he loved and wanted to be with Angelique more. He wouldn’t think about leaving her, especially not at the mercy of Ebenezer.