by Beth White
To her relief, the priest was seated to her right at dinner, a blessed buffer to Jean Alexandre on her left. The brickmaker’s contributions to the conversation consisted of frequent references to the splendor of the home he had built on his large corner lot. He considered the location of this choice property, only four lots away from the influential L’Anglois family and one block from the marketplace and communal well, sufficient motivation for her to reconsider her rash refusal of his marriage proposal. By the introduction of the fish course, Geneviève was so weary of nodding with noncommittal politeness that she would have welcomed the intrusion of a cleaver-bearing savage or two.
Mercifully, Father Mathieu requested her attention with a gentle hand upon her forearm.
“Yes, Father?” She turned to him with an eagerness that brought a twinkle to his eyes.
“I was wondering how your bakery enterprise has progressed during the last week.”
Geneviève sighed. “Lieutenant Roy has been very kind to give me room to work, but I could do so much more in my own kitchen, with my own dishes and pans and oven.” She could almost hear Madame’s solution: marry one of these lonely, good-hearted Canadians, and a kitchen of your own comes with it.
Unfortunately, the husband who accompanied the kitchen would object to having a bakery run out of his home. And her first obligation would be to the husband. With a husband came household chores, a garden to tend, meals to prepare, children to raise as good Catholics . . .
Had she considered these things back in Rochefort, when Father Mathieu had first suggested she and Aimée take passage on the Pélican? Perhaps, in a cursory way—but uppermost on her mind had been escape. After all, what other choice had she had? She had signed the contract, promising to marry. She was bound to do so.
Father Mathieu was gazing at her quizzically.
She blinked. “In any case, the soldiers don’t seem to mind eating my mistakes.”
“Everywhere I go about the settlement, I hear of the lovely Mademoiselle Gaillain’s crusty loaves.” Father Mathieu smiled. “In fact, Monsieur Burelle has something of a business proposition for you. He asked me to inquire if you would entertain the idea of selling your bread through his shop.”
“I think I haven’t met Monsieur Burelle.” She tried to remember the man.
“This is a terrible idea!” Alexandre leaned over Geneviève to address the priest. “No reputable woman would associate her name—or that of her husband—with commerce through a tavern!”
Geneviève felt the blood flush to the roots of her hair. This presumptuous crétin, with whom she had been acquainted for less than a week, dared to tell her what was proper?
The priest laid a gentle hand upon her wrist. “Your concern for Mademoiselle Gaillain’s reputation is very kind,” he said to Alexandre with a commendable absence of irony. “I’m sure she will take it under advisement.”
One of the slave girls appeared at Geneviève’s elbow with a dessert. She turned to smile up at the woman and caught a look of naked hatred in the dark eyes before they were shuttered by downcast lashes. “Enjoy, mademoiselle,” the girl murmured as she moved to serve Father Mathieu.
Taken aback, Geneviève watched her move along the table from guest to guest. They all seemed oblivious to the ones serving, as if inanimate objects with movable arms, legs, hands, gave them what they wanted. No word of thanks, no smile of gratitude.
Of course the slave women would be resentful. But there had been a more active rage in the face of the one who had leaned over Geneviève’s shoulder, as if the girl would like to have cut her throat. As she studied her graceful form, the shiny ebony plait swaying against the narrow back, the dainty ears and pink lips, it dawned on her how beautiful the servant was.
Her gaze moved to the commander at the end of the long table. Bienville was watching the servant girl as well, his expression possessive, masculine.
Suddenly Geneviève understood the girl’s resentment. One of these Frenchwomen had come across the ocean to take her place, demoting her to a possession no more important than a milk cow or a broodmare. No surprise that a man with Bienville’s power would take his pleasure from among the dusky beauties who surrounded him—especially with no white women available. After all, wasn’t that the reason the King had summoned the Pélican girls in the first place? To keep the bloodlines of the new French colony pure?
Until now the implications had not dawned on her.
A flurry of motion in the doorway to the kitchen drew her attention, and a dark-skinned toddler darted around the legs of a male slave bringing in a tray of drinks. The little boy was dressed in a sleeveless tunic and breeches, his feet bare and the dark-brown hair chopped as if someone had set a bowl upon his head and cut around it. He ran to fling his arms around the legs of the woman who had just served Geneviève, giggling up at her. The woman laid a maternal hand atop his head, then peeled him off her leg, turned him back toward the kitchen, and swatted his bottom with a firm “Go play!” in French.
The child ducked away from her and ran toward Bienville, who scooped him up with one arm and planted a noisy kiss upon his round cheek. “Ho, Father Mathieu!” the commander called. “This little imp clearly needs a baptism. I would that you conduct it at the first opportunity.” He made a production of sniffing the little boy’s neck. “And some soap would not go amiss.”
The child squirmed to get down. “No!” he shrieked. “No soap!”
Chuckling, Bienville let him go, and he darted back to the kitchen.
As if scales had dropped from her eyes, Geneviève watched the commander return to his flirtation with Aimée. His charisma like a powerful magnet drew the attention of every woman in the room. Forcing her gaze away, she finished her dessert, hardly tasting the delicious custard, grateful for Father Mathieu’s willingness to engage Alexandre in conversation, which relieved her of the necessity of making small talk.
If Bienville took a wife from among the Pélican girls, what would happen to the women he called slaves and their children? How could a man keep a child whom he had fathered in the bonds of slavery?
More to the point, what if the man Geneviève chose as husband should elect to keep an Indian mistress? Would she have anything to say about it? A wife was in many ways little more than a servant. All her worldly goods transferred to her husband upon her marriage, and she would be pledged to obey him. Would she truly be any better off than she would be on her own?
By the time Bienville had moved his guests into the salon for drinks, Geneviève was considerably sobered. To her alarm, the commander sent Father Mathieu off to argue plans for the settlement’s new chapel with the two seminary pastors, rotund Father Henri and ascetic Father Albert, who dwelt in a rather Spartan cabin on the outskirts of town. He then drew Geneviève into a conversational circle comprising himself, Surgeon-Major Barraud, and the La Salle family.
Commissioner La Salle was a thin, dour gentleman of some forty years, fond of large, expensive wigs; with his new bride, Jeanne de Berenhardt, of course, she was well acquainted, as they had made the journey together aboard the Pélican.
“And I told the duchess—she and I were great friends, you know—that she mustn’t keep giving me all her dresses, or she would end up quite naked!” Jeanne lifted her fan to titter behind it. “Oh, dear, I keep forgetting there are gentlemen in the company!” She glanced around to make sure everyone had heard and chosen to overlook her risqué comment. Satisfied, she snapped the fan shut. “But, there, my trunk was so full that it took three soldiers to carry it up from the boat!”
Poor La Salle, failing to find anything constructive to add to his wife’s remark, cleared his throat and tugged at his cravat. Bienville winked at Geneviève and motioned for one of the male servants to refill his tankard.
“Speaking of heavy weights, Commander,” she said, hoping to head off the new Madame La Salle’s unfortunate proclivity for uncensored discourse, “I noticed what look like millstones piled near the river. I hope that means c
onstruction of a mill is soon to begin.”
Bienville’s expression blackened. He allowed his drink to be topped off, then dismissed the servant with a curt nod. “His Majesty has sent neither the rest of the materials nor an artisan with the skills to build it.” He drank deeply and wiped his mouth. “Perhaps Mademoiselle would like to try her hand at convincing him to either loosen the royal purse strings or give me authority to raise the money myself.”
Jeanne, oblivious to her husband’s scowl, batted her lashes at the commander. “But surely, sir, as governor you must be the final authority on this side of the Atlantic!”
“Bienville has not been appointed governor,” La Salle growled. “That position belongs to his brother Iberville, and they are both subject to the King’s will through Minister Pontchartrain.”
“I am governor in my brother’s absence.” Bienville’s voice had softened to a dangerous rumble. “And you had best cease testing my authority, Monsieur La Salle, lest you find out just how far it goes.” Without giving the commissary a chance to reply, he leveled a stare at the man’s wife. “I am tired of all this bellyaching about fine Parisian flour, madame, when our native corn meal—which all but falls upon one’s head when one walks down the street—makes perfectly good bread.”
Jeanne squeaked, “But I wasn’t the one who—”
“Indeed you weren’t.” Bienville rounded on Geneviève, folding his arms across his broad chest. “And I had all but forgotten the reason for this charming gathering. It has come to my attention, mademoiselle, that you have turned down not one, not two, but three legitimate offers of marriage since you arrived.”
Geneviève could only stare at him.
“Is this true?” Bienville prompted.
“I—yes, sir, I suppose, but at least one of those—”
Bienville cut her off with a slash of his hand. “This coyness is ill becoming in one dependent upon the Crown for her very subsistence. I cannot afford to support a boatload of unmarried women indefinitely. Indeed you are taking food from the mouths of my soldiers.”
Geneviève stood there in strangled humiliation. Surely it had not been necessary to call her out in such a public fashion. Where was the man who, not an hour ago, had so playfully and affectionately teased the Indian child?
To his credit, the commander looked away as if he knew he’d gone too far. He grimaced and rubbed a hand across his stomach. “Ah, I am plagued to death,” he muttered, slanting Geneviève a sheepish grin. “I should have told the bishop to send only ugly girls—then I would not have my men fighting over you!”
“Please, Monsieur Commandant,” Geneviève said, trying to still the tremor of her voice, “I mean no insult or disrespect. I have my little sister to care for, and . . . the offers I have so far received have been unacceptable.”
Bienville glanced across the room, where Alexandre stood in conversation with a couple of carpenters and the steadily drinking surgeon, Barraud. “I fail to see the negative qualities of a brickmaker with an independent living and the only medical man in the settlement. Besides, your sister seems to be capable of settling her own affairs.”
At that moment, Aimée danced past on the arm of Aide-Major Dufresne, Bienville’s red-haired warehouse adjutant. Geneviève had thought her sister well on the way to capturing the heart of Marc-Antoine Lanier, but the handsome young lieutenant was nowhere in sight, and Aimée gave no indication that she missed him.
Geneviève bit her lip. “She is too young—”
“She is of marriageable age,” Bienville said firmly. “It is my responsibility to grow this colony. I shall be generous and give you two more months to settle upon a husband.” He gave her a curt bow and turned to signal a servant for another drink.
Geneviève could only stand there, her thoughts chasing one another like squirrels. She was not a coward, she reminded herself. She had survived much worse than marriage to a man she didn’t love. She was safe and well fed and could even worship as she chose—as long as she kept her beliefs quiet.
But if all those things were true, the other half of her brain inquired, then why did she feel so abandoned?
Father Mathieu, glancing over his shoulder as he followed Marc-Antoine Lanier out onto Bienville’s gallery, could tell that Geneviève was in trouble, but he could not for the moment come to her aid. Having finally managed this private interview, he must take the opportunity to investigate the man for whom he had sacrificed his life’s work and reputation.
He fingered the rosary upon his chest. God, preserve her. Help her. Help me. We only want your will, your glory, on earth as it is in heaven. Crossing himself, he stepped out into the dark, moist evening.
Young Lanier waited, a broad shoulder propped against one of the yellow pine posts supporting the roof. He looked a bit raffish, long hair curling onto the frayed epaulets of his faded blue coat, a month’s growth of beard shadowing lean cheeks, nose peeling from a recent sunburn. But at least he was clean, his cravat white as snow and fingernails neatly trimmed. The white lace of his shirtsleeves fell over strong, sun-browned hands that looked capable as well as clever.
Beyond the young man’s personal habits of dress and hygiene, Mathieu liked the humor lurking around the firm mouth and a certain expression of self-irony around the dark eyes. Most telling, he had seen genuine affection between the Lanier brothers, as well as a rare mutual confidence.
He needed to be able to trust Marc-Antoine Lanier.
“Out with it, Father,” the boy said on a deep chuckle. “Either you need money or I am derelict on confession. Whichever it is, please get it over with quickly so I can get on with enjoying the evening.”
Mathieu laughed, tucking his hands inside opposite sleeves of his surplice. “I’m not privy to your confessional schedule, and I have no need of funds at present.”
Lanier scratched his head. “Then I can’t imagine what the Church wants with me. A less devout man than me you’d have trouble finding.”
Mathieu hesitated. If someone else told him the tale he was about to relate, he would not have believed it. He began obliquely. “I was not specifically sent here by the Church. In fact I should be very surprised if the bishop were aware of my presence.”
Lanier’s dramatic eyebrows rose. “Ho. Then why are you here?”
“It is something of a personal quest, let us say, which involves your brother.”
Lanier slowly straightened away from the post. “Is it so?”
Mathieu nodded, straining to see into the far shadowy corners of the gallery. Empty. Good. He stepped closer and lowered his voice to a murmur. “How much do you know about your parents, Marc-Antoine?”
Lanier shrugged. “As much as one can know about the two people who gave one birth. They are Canadians of Ville Marie, friends of the Le Moynes, which is how we were introduced to Bienville. My father is a cartographer, and he trained Tristan. Me, I’ve always been more interested in languages.” His expression darkened somewhat with anxiety. “They are good people, Father, faithful Catholics.”
“I’m sure they are.” Mathieu weighed his words, not sure how much truth such a young man could withstand. “I bear a commission from one who takes an interest in your brother. An interest which will make a very rich man of him.” When Lanier straightened, Mathieu put out a hand of caution. “It will also give him powerful enemies.”
“My brother is afraid of no man.”
Mathieu did not doubt the truth of those brash words. Still, he shook his head. “This . . . fortune comes with grave responsibility, my son. Should he accept, many lives besides his own will be altered forever, and he would have to return with me to France.”
“I don’t understand,” said the boy. “Why did you not tell Tristan all this when he was here? Why did you not tell him before that, when he met the Pélican at Massacre Island?”
“I had been informed that Tristan was Bienville’s lieutenant. Then upon our arrival, I saw that he is now clearly at odds with the commander—that he has exiled hi
mself, far from his countrymen, unprotected against those who oppose the French Crown. So I decided to wait, watching to see what manner of man he has become.” Mathieu spread his hands. “I confess to you, I can make no sense of his behavior. And so I ask you, his brother, to help me understand.”
7
Father, let us walk to the river.” Without another word, Marc-Antoine Lanier turned and took the steps down from the gallery in one leap. He strode across the marshy yard and headed away from the relative civilization of the fort and town.
Mathieu was left to follow as best he might, splashing through a stretch of lowland swarming with insects, dodging piles of wood left to rot. By the time he arrived, breathing hard, at Lanier’s chosen trysting place, his robe was wet to the knees.
Young Lanier waited, hands on hips, a faintly mocking smile on his lips. The only sound, besides the incessant drone of the mosquitoes, was the chugging of frogs and whir of crickets.
“Are you satisfied that we are alone?” Mathieu tucked his hands into his sleeves.
Lanier shrugged. “I don’t want my brother’s affairs to become public knowledge—particularly if they touch upon the reputation of my parents.”
He had been right to trust Marc-Antoine Lanier. “You were about to explain your brother’s motives in cutting off his connection to Bienville. Does he no longer hold ambition for building the colony for France?”
“I’m not sure he ever had any such ambition. We were both young when we left Canada six years ago with Bienville. I was fourteen, Tristan barely twenty. We were in it mostly for the adventure—Bienville was the one with the ambition. The plan was to map the coastline of the gulf, to track the rivers that fed it, find a settlement site, and stake France’s claim before Spain and England could get a toehold.”
“You helped to build the fort?” For three weeks Mathieu had been asking indirect questions about the beginnings of the settlement. But this was his first opportunity to question one who had actually been present with the commander from the outset.