by Beth White
“Marc-Antoine, I cannot—”
“I know, I know.” Marc-Antoine stood up. “You have a garden to harvest and cows to milk. But if you change your mind . . .” He rapped the table with his knuckles. “Kiss the pretty bakery queen for me.” He was gone, chuckling, before Tristan could untangle his tongue.
Tristan got to his feet just as a deafening clamor crashed from the kitchen, followed by a woman’s shriek. He dropped the tankard and took off running.
Skidding into the kitchen, he found a young Indian wielding a meat cleaver scowling down at a cast-iron kettle lying on its side in front of the fireplace—the obvious source of the crashing noise. The Indian blew on the palm of his free hand as yellowish-white hominy spread in a thick, steaming puddle on the floor.
Geneviève, backed against the far wall, stared with patent horror at the string of scalps hanging at the brave’s hip. The cook stood between the woman and the Indian, regarding the mess on the floor with an expression of immense disgust.
Tristan was relieved to see that, for the moment, no one was being murdered. “What’s the trouble, Roy?”
“Grits pot fell over. Chief here decided to help himself and got in too big a hurry.”
“Is he going to scalp us?” Geneviève’s voice was high and breathless.
The cook shook his massive head. “Not if I give him something to eat.” Using a wooden-handled pot hook, he lifted the kettle and set it back over the fire. He jerked a thumb toward the countertop. “You taking this bread off my hands, Lanier? Sooner it’s gone, the better. Can’t keep wandering cadets and savages out of my kitchen.”
Tristan glanced at the rows of beautiful brown loaves. “Is that mine?”
Geneviève nodded.
As the Indian stalked toward Tristan, he returned the murderous obsidian stare. He didn’t recognize the fellow, but the copper bells and yellow leather bands laced into his hair, as well as the design of his breechclout, were Mobilian.
He extended a civil greeting in the fellow’s native tongue, then added, “If those are Alabama scalps, Bienville will buy them.”
“It is as you say,” the brave answered in his own language. He cast a contemptuous glance at Geneviève. “Crazy white woman.” Dropping the cleaver onto a table, he snatched a loaf of bread and slipped out the back door.
Geneviève’s light freckles stood out against her pale cheeks as she sagged against the wall. “I was going to give him some bread, but he grabbed the knife and shouted at me. And those horrible scalps . . .” She shuddered. “What is he doing with them?”
How to explain to this sheltered young woman the brutal realities of seizing a territory? Tristan remembered the first time he’d come upon a pile of scalped corpses left behind after the massacre of Irondequoit Bay. He’d had nightmares for weeks. “Several months ago,” he said, picking his words, “the Alabama ambushed a priest and a party of Mobilians who were guiding them up to the Little Tomeh. You’ve heard the term ‘savage law’?” At her jerky nod, he spread his hands. “Bienville insists that we Frenchmen won’t be respected as leaders if we don’t repay such attacks in kind, so he offered to buy Alabama scalps from our allies.”
She pushed away from the wall, her hands clenched the soft white fabric of her apron. “If we behave no differently than the savages, how can we call ourselves a Christian nation?” Accusation flared in the grayish-green eyes. “If we return cruelty for cruelty, massacre for massacre—”
“Lady,” Roy interrupted, “life here ain’t gonna be all sweet and clean like it was in that convent back in Paris.” He ran the flat of his hand along the sideboard, swiping crumbs onto the floor. “Better get used to scalps and bugs and Indians and all kinds of ugly creatures, or you might as well sail back home on the next boat.”
The girl’s lips parted as she stared at the cook. Tristan halfway expected her to slap him—or to at least defend herself. He knew that many of the Pélican girls had escaped difficult if not impossible circumstances in France, else they never would have braved that long, harrowing voyage. He suspected the Gaillain sisters’ lives had been harder than most.
Without thinking, he picked up the cleaver abandoned by the Indian and flung it end over end to stick in the table, quivering, right where Roy’s middle finger had been three seconds earlier.
The cook leaped backward, stumbling into the puddle of hominy. His feet flew out from under him, and he landed on his rear.
“Some creatures are uglier than others,” Tristan said, winking at Geneviève. “I’ll take my bread now, if you please.”
6
Julien Dufresne, seated at his desk in the outer office of the Le Moyne brothers’ warehouse, leaned over his account book as he totaled the receipt column. He wished his father were here to witness the respect with which he had come to be regarded in the settlement. As the commander’s accounting officer, second only to La Salle himself, he was privy to exclusive information regarding Bienville’s dealings with the local savages, as well as the commander’s profits from the sale of His Majesty’s surplus supplies.
Interestingly, many of the supplies were not so surplus as Bienville claimed . . . and his profits had climbed to quite eyebrow-raising proportions of late. Not that Julien had any intention of spilling such golden information until the time was right. Besides, he could only admire such enterprising leadership.
For the moment, he was quite content to slip some of those profits into his own pocket and call it a fair exchange.
He looked up as the door opened and one of the savages Bienville was so fond of stalked in. Without a word the man flung a string of scalps onto the account book.
For a stunned moment Julien stared at the tails of long, coarse black hair, still attached to brownish skins curled like dark parchment at the edges. Each lock, he had been told, represented its owner’s stolen soul, and Bienville had given clear instructions that only scalps of the warlike northern Alabama tribes were to be treated as bounty. His own scalp prickling, Julien gingerly picked up the leather thong that bound the scalps together and examined the arrangement of hair and decorations. These were definitely Alabama. He made himself count.
After recording the number in his account book, he wiped his pen and looked up at the scowling young Indian. Dressed in the familiar Mobilian breechclout and beads, he stood, arms folded over his sleek brown chest, bare feet spread in an aggressive stance. He smelled like an animal.
Julien had learned enough of the Mobilian tongue to transact business without resorting to a translator. “Ten ecus each. Coins or powder?”
The Indian hesitated, then his mouth tightened. “Powder.” He cupped his hand, then showed four fingers.
Julien shook his head once, vehemently, then cupped his own hand. “No, two.”
“Three.”
Julien pretended to think about it. “Very well. Three.” In the account book he wrote four handfuls powder, worth two hundred ecus. He would sell the extra powder off the books and pocket fifty ecus from the transaction. “Name?”
“Mitannu.”
He looked up at the Indian. He knew the name. He was the son of the chief, and the mate of a particularly lovely Mobilian woman, with whom Julien had attempted to strike a certain bargain. Because the man was a prolific and renowned hunter, rarely in the village, Julien had not crossed paths with him until today. He silently assessed the hawkish, alien features, the almond-shaped eyes and arched nose, comparing them to Nika’s small twin sons, who were always dashing around underfoot when Julien was in the village conducting business with the chief.
Mitannu’s posture shifted with suspicious aggression, and Julien transferred his attention back to the account book. After all, what difference did the parentage of a couple of Indian whelps make? Finishing the entry, he capped the pen, then rose and unlocked the warehouse door behind his desk.
An hour after the Indian left with the powder in a leather pouch tied at his waist, André Ardouin came in to purchase a smoked turkey. The ship’s car
penter studied his receipt with suspicion. “Ten ecus is an exorbitant price for such a small smoked turkey.”
Ardouin was one of a handful of colonists who could both read and write, so Julien was always careful not to cheat him. “The Profond is due to arrive any day now. Until it does . . .” Julien shrugged. “Supply and demand, my friend. Are you planning an entertainment?”
“My betrothed and her family will dine with me this evening. I want to demonstrate that I’m a man of sufficient income to support a growing family.”
“Are you afraid the girl will withdraw her consent?” Julien asked slyly.
“The contract has been signed and notarized.” Ardouin, who had converted from the humorless Reformist religion in order to secure one of His Majesty’s Catholic brides, clearly resented being tweaked.
Julien smiled. “Isn’t your bride-to-be related to the nun they call Sister Gris?”
“Yes—and Bienville has just named her midwife, an important post in light of the expected growth of our colony.”
Which connection, Julien presumed, increased Ardouin’s stature in the community and somewhat mitigated the lingering taint of Protestantism. But there was little sport in a verbal joust with an opponent who insisted on taking one quite literally.
Julien shrugged and rose. “Commander Bienville has bid his officers and several of the unattached ladies to dine with him this evening. Perhaps I may follow your lead and fix my own interest.”
Ardouin nodded. “The commander grows impatient with the girls who are prolonging their decisions. They may find the support of the royal coffers withdrawn.”
Julien stopped in the act of gathering his papers. “Who told you that?”
“My betrothed. The Pélican girls grew to know one another well during their confinement aboard ship—despite the fact that a few perceive themselves to be better connected. As if relatives in France could influence one’s day-to-day life in a community as remote as ours.” Ardouin’s mouth tightened. “And as if a ship’s carpenter weren’t good enough.”
“I see nothing wrong in taking time to choose one’s life mate with care.” Julien slid the papers into a drawer and locked it. “Bienville is impatient with everything that does not move to his liking. The Gaillain sisters have been invited to the gathering tonight. Do you find anything arrogant in the behavior of either?”
“They both seem to be sweet young women. My Catherine is a confidante of the elder.” Ardouin paused. “Mademoiselle Geneviève has the more serious mind of the two, I would say, though I would not describe her as arrogant. In fact, she reminds me a great deal of my own sister back in La Rochelle.” Ardouin blinked rapidly, then said hurriedly, “Although I’m certain Bienville would never have allowed . . .”
“Allowed?” Julien prompted when Ardouin seemed to find the rest of his sentence too shocking to utter aloud.
Ardouin looked away. “I abhor the spreading of gossip, Monsieur Aide-Major. Forgive me—I must retrieve my purchases in order for my cook to prepare dinner.” After a clumsy bow, he exited in haste, clutching his receipt.
Julien released a soundless whistle. Ardouin had confirmed his suspicion that there was more to the Gaillain sisters than appeared. And was he implying some taint of Protestantism? Where there was secrecy, the persistent man could generally find money. Cheerfully he locked his desk and pocketed the key.
Julien Dufresne was nothing if not persistent.
All of life, Geneviève was beginning to suspect, consisted of slavery in one form or another.
She caught a glimpse of her unfamiliar self in the large gilt mirror hanging opposite the doorway into Commander Bienville’s living room as she followed Madame and Monsieur L’Anglois inside. Grimacing, she resisted the urge to rub her aching scalp. Raindrop, who proved to be clever at dressing hair, had twisted the curly mass atop her head and jammed in a pair of large tortoise shell combs borrowed from her fashionable hostess. “Ooh, mademoiselle!” the little girl had chirped, bouncing on bare toes. “You look just like the princess in my book!”
Smiling at the thought, Geneviève glanced back at her sister. Aimée of the shining golden curls and rosebud mouth, gowned in the azure blue of her eyes, was the true illustration of fairytale royalty.
“Come, my dear.” Madame reached back to pull Geneviève along. “The commander expects betrothals before the week is out.” Her critical gaze flicked over Geneviève’s Indian print robe, layered over a solid burgundy jupe and pinned beneath the bosom to its white-on-white embroidered stomacher.
Aware that the lace-edged chemise peeking above the stomacher drew attention to her décolletage, Geneviève laid a hand over the unaccustomed expanse of bare flesh. Madame had insisted upon loaning her a boned corset, which dug into her ribs with every breath. “We were told we might take our time to become acquainted with all our potential suitors,” Geneviève said, torn between resentment and amusement. Madame seemed to take it as a personal affront that her charges were among the last of the Pélican brides to find husbands.
“I sympathize with your desire to contract the most favorable match possible, but Bienville’s patience is at an end.” Clearly Madame’s was as well. She took Geneviève’s wrist with a shake of her head that threatened to send her towering coiffure to ruins. “An ambitious lady displays all the wares at her—”
“Ginette!” Aimée leaned in to speak urgently in Geneviève’s ear. “The gentleman over there . . . isn’t that Monsieur Alexandre?—no, beside the buffet, behind Father Mathieu. What are you going to do?”
Geneviève turned to smile at the priest, but the glimpse of the balding sandy pate of the brickmaker behind him failed to raise even a spasm of discomposure. “Why, I shall warn him to avoid Madame’s macaroons.”
“Ginette! You know that’s not what I—”
“Come, girls,” Madame insisted. “I don’t know why you dawdle so. You may talk to one another when you get home. Commander! Look, I have brought my two darling girls.” She sailed forth into the mass of uniformed bodies crowding Bienville’s salon, towing Geneviève and Aimée like nets behind a fishing boat.
Despite her light response to her sister’s question, Geneviève’s emotions scattered in all directions. What would she say to the man whose abrupt offer of marriage she had refused only yesterday? Alexandre had appeared in the guardhouse kitchen, where for the last week she had been experimenting with adding local grains to the dough, stretching the small amount of wheat flour available without ruining the texture beyond recognition. Wheat had thus far refused to flourish in the moist, sandy coastal ground, and shipments of flour from France were unreliable at best. Chef Roy was so frustrated with the situation that he grudgingly gave Geneviève room to work around him. They had developed a prickly comradeship that only a woman who had trained with her father would be able to tolerate.
But Roy growled like a bear about the constant stream of besotted bachelors who trooped through his domain, hoping for a private word or at least a handout from the celebrated “Bread Girl.” Geneviève had responded to most of the marriage offers she had received in the facetious spirit with which they had been extended. Poor Monsieur Alexandre, however, had been in obvious earnest.
Unfortunately, he took her gentle refusal for coyness.
That Bienville had invited him to this party, when he was not an officer, worried her. Had Alexandre appealed to the commander for her hand? How far would he go in coercing marriages?
“Dear one, you must smile,” Madame whispered. “No man wishes for a bride with a countenance like stewed prunes.”
In spite of her anxiety, Geneviève smiled as the crowd around Bienville parted to allow the three women to curtsey in front of him. Rising, Geneviève looked up to catch the gleam of admiration in his black eyes.
“Good evening, Commander.” Blushing, she looked at her sister.
Aimée dimpled and extended her white hand. “We are honored with your invitation, Commander.”
Bienville transferred his
attention to Aimée, took her hand, and carried it to his lips with a gallantry belied by his rough-and-ready reputation. He was clean-shaven for the occasion, with his curly dark hair hanging loose over the epaulets of his dark blue formal uniform. The bleached white linen tied about his throat had been cleverly knotted to resemble a waterfall, the ends tucked inside the coat’s extravagant lapels. He somehow managed to look both wildly masculine and proper, and she couldn’t help picturing the tattoos Aimée had described.
The sight of the commander’s light attentions to her sister made Geneviève’s thoughts flit again to Tristan Lanier, who had paid her for the bread and bade her adieu with a reminder to be careful of the Indian males wandering about the settlement. “They consider women to be little more than property,” he warned. “Most would think nothing of carrying you off like some prize trinket.” His dark eyes had been serious, the line of his jaw set.
As she thought of his quick-thinking response to the savage in the kitchen, Geneviève couldn’t help wondering why he chose to live so far from the settlement. Clearly he held his brother, Bienville’s clever young translator, in deep affection.
She glanced at Marc-Antoine Lanier, who stood on the other side of the room, entertaining a group of young soldiers with some apparently uproarious tale. He also managed to simultaneously flirt with Bienville’s female slaves as they glided about the room in pursuance of their duties.
The three Indian women were dressed in simple belted shifts of soft gray cotton, their straight black hair confined in single plaits down the back, so similar in features that Geneviève thought they must be sisters or cousins. Their eyes remained downcast, rarely meeting the gaze of a guest, but Geneviève got the feeling the women were aware of conversation around them. She wondered how much French they knew.
Shaking her head, she admonished herself not to be fanciful. Just because her own conscience squirmed in constant discomfort didn’t mean that everyone around her was guilty of espionage. Still, she knew she must guard her tongue. She could speak openly of her faith with no one but Aimée or Father Mathieu.