by Beth White
“My choice has long been made.” La Salle’s face settled into the habitual frown that had plowed a permanent line between his graying eyebrows. “Bienville agreed that, my comfort being critical to the smooth flow of commodities in and out of the settlement, the appropriate female should be set aside for me before the Pélican left France.”
“How very obliging of him.” Tristan hid his amusement by focusing on the dark crown of Geneviève Gaillain’s head, which towered above the other women. She had unsuccessfully tamed her hair for the occasion into a loose knot from which dark curls escaped in every direction. It occurred to him that she bore an uncanny resemblance to the mermaid he had carved at the bowsprit of his barque. He glanced at La Salle. “Which one is yours?” Poor woman, traveling for months across the ocean blue, only to find herself strapped for life to Sourpuss La Salle.
“Her name is Jeanne de Berenhardt,” La Salle replied. “She was chosen for me from the convent at Notre Dame, by the Grand Duchess d’Orleans of Tuscany herself.”
Tristan followed La Salle’s oddly pained gaze to the far corner of the crowded salon, where a statuesque young woman held court, dressed in a black silk skirt under a burnt orange coat-looking garment, belted with a black sash. Her boned corset was so stiff that when she dropped a dried plum on the floor, all she could do was stare at it in chagrin. Bending at the waist was clearly an impossible feat.
When no less than three men lunged to retrieve the escaped fruit, Tristan smiled. If La Salle remained less than impressed, there would appear to be a long line waiting to take his place. “Have your sons met their proposed step-mama?” Less than a month after their arrival in Louisiane, La Salle’s first wife had died of a fever, leaving him with three young boys to rear alone. Tristan could only imagine the state of wildness poor Mademoiselle de Berenhardt would face when she took them in hand.
“I did not think it wise to introduce them to the lady so soon.” A flash of fear—or perhaps guilt—humanized La Salle’s hawkish visage. “Time enough for that after the betrothal contract is signed.”
“Your reputation for clear thinking is well-founded.” Grinning at La Salle’s humorless grunt, Tristan turned to watch his brother dancing a rather clumsy jig with Aimée Gaillain.
If she had been lovely on the day of her arrival, pale-faced and limp with fever, today she was aglow, cheeks flushed from exertion and golden curls bouncing against her shoulders. She danced, hands fisted at her narrow waist to lift her skirts away from dainty flying feet.
The violinist, master of the house Robert L’Anglois, fiddled with more enthusiasm than skill, while a circle of guests clapped time. Though a noticeable air of inebriation pervaded the company, Tristan suspected his brother’s giddy state could be attributed as much to his partner’s blue eyes and bouncing bosom as the liberal lacing of liquor in the punch.
He stood against the wall and observed for a minute or so, reluctant to call attention to himself. Then he happened to catch the eye of Geneviève Gaillain, who had been watching her sister dance, her expression a mixture of pride and alarm. When he unthinkingly smiled, something he would almost call relief flooded her cheeks with color.
Do not approach her, he told himself sternly, even as his feet took him in a circuitous route to the other side of the crowded room. The L’Anglois family’s house had been designed in typical box-shaped fashion, with one big front room and two small bedrooms behind, one of which doubled as the kitchen. It was one of the largest homes in the settlement, but the wedding crowd seemed about to burst the crooked knotty pine walls. Tristan compared it to his own cottage, constructed Canadian-style from shingled cedar. His furniture, simple and homemade, was designed for comfort and durability rather than beauty, but he wouldn’t have traded it for Madame’s fragile French furniture.
He hung back for a moment, just outside Geneviève’s line of vision, watching her watch her sister. Her patent anxiety stirred something odd within him, something he could not name, but which drew him all the same. He had not seen her since handing her off his boat two days ago. She looked considerably more rested, the greenish eyes bright, her smile mischievous as he approached. He bowed, resisting the urge to kiss her hand.
“One would think that a wedding would be the last place to find the most confirmed bachelor in the territory,” she said, laughing.
“Mademoiselle, I brave the gravest of dangers on the mere promise of food.” He glanced at the refreshment table and gave an exaggerated grimace. “Though I confess, the reality doesn’t quite measure up to expectation.”
“If you are referring to the croissants,” she leaned in to whisper, “I’m afraid I have to agree with you. Poor Madame L’Anglois is very kind, but she has no concept of the proper use of leavening.”
“As do you?”
She shrugged. “My papa was a renowned pastry chef. He allowed me to assist before he was—” she bit her lip—“before he died.”
Tristan waited for her to elaborate, but apparently the confidence was at an end. In spite of himself, curiosity bloomed. “And what was the secret of the leavening?”
She gave him another quick grin. “Ah, but if I told you, then it would no longer be a secret, eh?”
“Touché, mademoiselle.” Amused, he laid a hand over his heart. “At least promise you’ll give me a taste of the product of this secret. I’ve just bought two barrels of flour, and I’ll pay you handsomely to turn some of it into real croissants.”
“Now that is an intriguing offer. Unfortunately, my sister and I are guests of the L’Anglois family at present. I don’t have access to my own kitchen.” She tipped her head, thinking. “But if Madame will allow me to use her oven, perhaps we might come to some arrangement.”
Briefly, ridiculously, he thought she might be hinting at a more permanent agreement, one which would involve the exchange of vows they had both just witnessed. Then common sense returned. There was nothing about him—exiled, bitter, old before his time—to attract the favor of any woman, let alone one such as this.
Then he realized that he had hesitated just a moment too long.
Her bright expression clouded with embarrassment, the beautiful full lips pressed together. “I am sorry, I didn’t mean—”
“No—I mean, yes, that’s what I meant!” Tristan wished wildly that he’d sailed with the morning tide; he’d be halfway home by now, instead of trading awkward half-sentences with this too-beautiful, secretive Pélican girl. “Please forgive me, I must speak to my brother!” With a jerky bow, he stalked toward Marc-Antoine and pulled him, protesting loudly, from the room. He could feel Geneviève Gaillain’s puzzled green eyes following him all the way.
“Mademoiselle Gaillain, I would be honored if you would partner with me in the next dance.”
Monsieur Dufresne gave Aimée an elegant bow, and she dipped a curtsey in return. She was pleased at his attention, though she must reserve judgment as to his prospects as a suitor until she had been introduced to the other eligible bachelors of the settlement. One could not be too careful.
The aide-major offered his arm and a self-possessed smile just as Monsieur L’Anglois broke into an unsteady passepied. When she placed her gloved hand upon his blue coat sleeve, he whisked her into the patterns of the dance. She couldn’t resist a triumphant smile at Geneviève, who was fending off the awkward advances of three or four Canadian bumpkins. Monsieur Dufresne was a much better catch than any of them.
Now that the dreadful ennui of the fever had passed, and the sensation of walking upon a heaving landscape was merely an unpleasant memory, she thought she could make a sensible decision regarding matrimony. Dufresne had risen near the top of her list but, despite Geneviève’s pessimistic assumptions, Commander Bienville—wild and tattooed though he might be—remained her first choice.
Above the tweedling of Monsieur L’Anglois’s violin, she could hear Bienville’s uninhibited laughter. As she and Monsieur Dufresne glided up and back, feet crossing and recrossing quickly, through th
e crowd she caught glimpses of the commander’s dark head and broad shoulders. He seemed to dwarf every other man in the room. She could easily envision herself as the mistress of his estate, with large numbers of slaves to fetch and carry for her. It was said that Bienville bedded his female slaves . . .
The moment the thought crossed her mind, she choked on a wave of nausea. She shut her eyes against ghastly, suffocating images.
You are not that powerless girl, she told herself frantically. You are young and beautiful. You are free, and you can choose.
“Ahem.”
Wrenching her eyes open with a gasp, Aide-Major Dufresne’s face came into focus. She couldn’t tell if he was more amused or indignant at her obvious woolgathering. He seemed to be clever at masking his true feelings.
“I’m sorry, monsieur, did you say something?”
“No, mademoiselle, but I am concerned for your sudden pallor. Are you feeling ill?” He took her hand and drew her toward a couple of spindly chairs against the wall—away from the commander and his retinue of officers. “Perhaps you would like to sit for a moment and rest?”
Biting her lip, she plied her fan to mask her discomfiture. “I am well, sir. But if you would procure me a cup of punch, I would be grateful.”
“Of course.” He turned and repaired to Madame’s bounteous if boring refreshment table.
In truth, she had a bit of a headache, and the crush of bodies with all their odors and noise made it worse. How many evenings on board the Pélican had she longed for just such a party? It went to prove how seldom reality lived up to one’s expectations.
The fan fell to her lap as the crowd shifted and her gaze picked out Marc-Antoine Lanier, who had asked her for a dance with gratifying swiftness upon her arrival. Now there was an interesting man, handsome and cheerful of countenance, well-spoken and clearly admiring of her beauty. Her first impulse had been to fix his obvious interest. But perhaps the wiser move would be to play him and Dufresne against the commander. Men were such competitive creatures.
Geneviève would be shocked to discover how much her little sister had learned about the ways of the world while aboard the Pélican. Indeed her childhood had ended, in many ways, when Papa had so foolishly defied the King, putting his religious beliefs ahead of protecting his wife and daughters. Aimée had no intention of allowing herself to be subject to the whims of any man, ever again.
5
Geneviève and Aimée shared the L’Anglois family’s second bedroom with Madame’s ten-year-old Indian slave, Raindrop. Her Apalacheee name had apparently gotten lost in translation when Robert L’Anglois purchased her from her family four years ago for the price of a cow, three knives, and a Turkish rug.
Raindrop seemed not to mind the new houseguests. Dressed in a shapeless gray homespun shift with legs and feet bare, she helped the sisters settle their few belongings, reverently touching Aimée’s full-skirted dress with her pink mouth drawn into an O of admiration.
Two days after the Le Pinteaux-Loisel wedding, she was helping Geneviève stuff pine straw into blankets brought from Rochefort, all the while chattering in perfect French. Her dark eyes sparkled as she showed Geneviève how to treat the blankets with oil of lemon grass to discourage mosquitoes.
Geneviève found the little girl an amusing fount of information.
“Madame says you are going to get married and make babies for me to help care for.” Raindrop wrinkled her nose. “I don’t know why Madame has no babies herself, she’s not that old. My mother had twelve, but the last two got the fever and died before they were a week old.” She paused, frowning, both hands buried in a pile of pine straw. “That was after the black robes came to live in our village and brought the baptism. Perhaps baptism is not good for little babies.”
“Perhaps.” Geneviève had never before met a slave—or anyone who owned one, for that matter. She looked around to make sure Madame and Aimée were occupied in the other room. “Do your mother and father not try to bring you back home?” She had seen half-naked Indian men squatting here and there, smoking their funny clay pipes or tossing knives—apparently some game that involved gambling with tiny bells and seashells. There were no Indian families in the settlement, save three or four young slaves like Raindrop and a handful of women who served as housekeepers to the officers.
Raindrop’s eyes widened. “Why would they do that? They love me very much and want me to learn from Madame! And if I am good, Monsieur sends a piglet to my father every Christmas.”
Geneviève pursed her lips. It was a very strange world, where parents sold their children into slavery and priests rescued infants from hell by freezing them in cold water.
She finished the last seam of Aimée’s pallet and bit off the thread. “Would you like to learn how to make bread, Raindrop?” As promised, on the morning after the wedding, Tristan Lanier had sent a barrel of flour to Madame’s house with instructions for Geneviève to bake as many loaves as she had time for. He would retrieve them in two days’ time before he pointed his barque toward home.
“Madame taught me already.” Raindrop scrunched her button nose. “I don’t like bread.”
Geneviève laughed. “Perhaps my bread is a little different from Madame’s.”
“Raindrop!” Madame poked her head into the bedroom. “I want you to run and fetch the surgeon to the Loisels’ house, and probably—yes, definitely bring Father Henri too. Tell them Madame Loisel is very ill. Geneviève, I want you to come with me. Élisabeth is asking for you.”
While Raindrop pattered from the room, Geneviève rose and put on her cap. Stomach knotted with worry, she followed Madame, picking her way around standing puddles of water in a vain effort to keep her feet dry. Madame’s protests notwithstanding, rain seemed to be more the norm than the exception in Louisiane. Geneviève was beginning to feel rather froggish.
Whimsically imagining webs growing between her fingers and toes, she barely acknowledged Jean Alexandre’s bashful greeting as he fell into step with her and Madame. But when he stepped squarely into a muddy patch, splashing her skirt, stockings, and shoes, she halted, unable to restrain a startled gasp. She stared in dismay as his large boots sucked clear of the mud one at a time, sending yet another double spray of goop her way.
“Sorry, mademoiselle!” The crimson-faced Alexandre seemed about to cast himself to his knees until Madame intervened, wagging a plump finger in his face.
“Monsieur Alexandre, you will please take yourself somewhere more useful. Mademoiselle Gaillain and I have no time at the moment for entertaining louts with feet the size of gunboats.”
“But I only wanted to ask the favor of her company—”
“That is exactly what I mean!” Madame clapped her hands, then shooed him away like a mosquito. “If you want to be helpful, go ask Father Henri and Father Albert to pray.” She took Geneviève by the arm and left the young mason to skulk away.
Geneviève struggled to keep up with her chaperone’s balletic navigation of the muddy yard. “Really, Madame—gunboats? That seems excessively cruel.”
“Pooh!” Madame waved a hand and skipped over a pool of water. “Jean Alexandre is like to propose to the first thing in skirts that crosses his path—no offense to you, my dear. His wife died nearly a year ago, and he has been like a lost lamb without her. You can do much better than him!”
Geneviève hardly thought it modest to agree. “He seems like a very nice man. And he couldn’t have avoided that puddle without building a bridge!”
“Never mind. He will approach you in a much more seemly manner next time.”
By this time, the two women had arrived at the Loisels’ small cottage. Built of wooden timbers set directly into the ground, filled in with an oyster-shell-and-mud cement that the locals called tabby, it sat back several yards from the street.
Madame knocked upon the yellow pine door. “Paul! Élisabeth! I have sent for the surgeon, my dears, and I have brought your friend Geneviève to attend you.”
There wa
s a long moment of silence. “Perhaps we should knock again,” Geneviève said. “Maybe they didn’t hear you—”
But a set of slow, heavy footfalls preceded the reluctant opening of the door. The moment Paul Loisel’s pale, red-eyed features appeared, Geneviève knew they had arrived too late.
“I am sorry, madame, mademoiselle,” he said, voice raspy with restrained tears. “I—could not save her.”
Geneviève reached for his large, shaking hands. “Ah, monsieur, I am so sorry.” His marriage had been so very brief, but his joy had seemed intense.
He gripped her fingers. “Will you come in and attend her? I don’t know what to do.”
Geneviève and Madame followed Loisel into the house and found Élisabeth lying face-up on a pallet near the door, her hands folded neatly at her waist. Her simple white nightgown and cap, both trimmed with Alençon lace and almost transparent with perspiration, clung to the pitifully thin body. When Geneviève knelt beside her friend to close the staring eyes, she heard Loisel sigh behind her.
“How long ago, monsieur?” She brought up the coverlet to protect Élisabeth’s modesty.
“I don’t know. Madame? Shortly after you left . . .” His voice broke.
“I wouldn’t have left,” Madame said, “but I thought the surgeon should come”—she turned to Geneviève—“and I knew you’d done some nursing with the Sisters aboard ship. Both of them are still ill themselves.”
“I did. But once yellow fever takes hold, it’s almost sure to return.” Geneviève looked at Loisel. “Élisabeth wanted very much to be married. You made her so happy.” Propriety forbade touching him again, though she longed to comfort him.
He walked to the open window and leaned on the sill. “The fever came back so suddenly. No time to send for one of the priests . . . last rites . . . she’s gone now, gone, and it’s too late. I don’t know how to pray.”