by Beth White
Geneviève bit her lip. She had no choice but to trust Nika and her couriers. She slid her hand into the interior pocket of her skirt. Her feelings about sending this message were more than mixed. Though its contents were little more than an acknowledgment of her arrival in the colony, writing to the King’s enemy could still be construed as treason.
But she had promised Cavalier.
She slowly slipped the letter out of her pocket and proffered it to Nika with a trembling hand. “This must go to a man in Charlestown, named Elie Prioleau. He is a . . . pastor, a very holy man, well respected. He will handsomely reward whoever brings him this letter.”
Nika looked at her for a moment before setting the sizzling frying pan aside. She took the paper from Geneviève’s hand, carefully folded it, and tucked it inside the bodice of her dress. “I will make sure it gets to him. Do you expect him to answer right away?”
Geneviève looked away. “I don’t know. Probably not.” Had she been foolish to choose to come to New France instead of finding a way to get to the Carolinas herself? But to come among a people who served the British king, even though they worshiped as her family had worshiped . . .
But if she had not come to Fort Louis, she would never have met Tristan Lanier. Never to have known his laughter, his burning dark eyes, the kiss that had all but drowned her. His awkward, courtly bow, his scarred hands that had touched her so gently in the darkness.
Nika gave her another searching look, then nodded. “All right then. I will let you know if anything comes back.”
With that she had to be satisfied.
14
Geneviève had no idea what to do about Aimée’s rage, demonstrated in the way she politely did the opposite of everything Geneviève asked her to do in Monsieur Burelle’s kitchen. The sisters were practicing making popelins for Madame L’Anglois’s ball, which was to mark the end of the social season as well as Commander Bienville’s support of the so-called Pélican brides. If the cream-filled pastry puffs lived up to her father’s training, Geneviève’s talent as a pâtissière would be set.
As she had explained to her sister, the soft balls of paste must be handled gently, lest they collapse into flat, chewy disks. Aimée smiled sweetly and dropped a pan full of them upside-down on the floor. “Oh, dear,” she said, blinking dry blue eyes. “I’m so sorry.”
Speechless, Geneviève stared at the bottom of the tray.
In one of her earliest memories, she sat with her little sister at Papa’s broad kitchen table, making patty-pan tarts and singing the nursery songs their mother had taught them as babies. “Sing it again!” Aimée would lisp, puffing up a cloud of flour as she clapped her little dimpled hands. “Sing it again, Ginette!”
So Geneviève would start over once more on Aimée’s favorite—the one about fishing for mussels in Marennes. Mama had learned it as a girl growing up on the seacoast, where she had met Papa when he came to apprentice with the great chef Massialot. Aimée would try to sing along, warbling the rhyming word at the end of every other line and making up the parts she didn’t know. When Geneviève grew tired of the repetition and moved on to another song, Aimée would poke out her bottom lip. “Papa, Ginette is mean!” And Papa would give Geneviève that disappointed look that made her sigh and go back again to the mussels of Marennes.
Aimée must never be made to cry. As a baby she had been fragile and almost died, though as a little girl she seemed to Geneviève to be healthy as the mule that pulled Papa’s wagon back and forth from the flour mill.
But today, when she dropped that tray and spoilt a pound of white milled flour, along with half the morning’s work, Geneviève knew a strong urge to box her sister’s ears. She clutched the starched apron Madame Burelle had made for her in honor of the opening of the bakery, slowly releasing her breath until she could speak evenly. “Pick them up, Aimée, and scrub the floor. You have cost me and the Burelles a day’s wages.”
Aimée’s mouth trembled, but the resentment in the clear blue eyes was startling in its intensity. “I hate you, Geneviève.” She fell to her knees, sobbing aloud. Turning the tray over, she began to plop the blobs of dough onto it higgledy-piggledy.
“Why?” Geneviève released the apron to spread her hands. “What have I done but feed you and clothe you and treat you as my beloved sister?”
Aimée looked up, a log of dough squashed in each hand, tears now streaming pitifully down her flushed cheeks. “What have you done? You know it’s your fault that Julien hasn’t yet made an offer for me!” Giving a pitiful little hiccup, she tossed the dough onto the tray. “He was about to do so when you made him escort you to that horrid Indian village. He hasn’t been the same since then—forever looking over his shoulder, watching to make sure we aren’t watched.”
So that was it. Geneviève knelt and picked up the rest of the ruined dough from the floor, set the tray aside, and took her sister’s trembling hands. “Listen. My dear, I’ve made no secret of the fact that I think you can do better than Monsieur Dufresne. I just don’t trust him.”
“But why? He has beautiful manners and dresses well, and he’s one of Commander Bienville’s intimates. I know Julien loves me, for he tells me so at every opportunity!”
“You mustn’t be so forward as to address him by his Christian name, Aimée. And he shouldn’t be speaking to you intimately unless you are betrothed. It isn’t seemly.”
Aimée snatched her hands away. “You don’t understand! Besides, you are one to call the kettle black! Ysabeau said she looked through the Lemays’ window and saw you kissing Monsieur Lanier outdoors in broad daylight.”
“At least we were married—” Geneviève pinched her lips together. “But that is much beside the point! The reason I asked Monsieur Dufresne to escort me to the Mobile village that day was to discover more about his parentage and gain a sense of his intentions toward you.”
Aimée’s expression clouded further. “And I have told you your interference is unnecessary. If Commander Bienville trusts him as an officer and Father Henri considers him a good Christian, I don’t see what objections you can hold! Are you afraid he’ll run away to Pensacola like Monsieur Connard, leaving me addled like poor Ysabeau? I assure you, Julien—oh, Monsieur Dufresne, if you must—is not like to do so! As to his parentage, he is the son of a nobleman, in line to inherit property and title, so that we may return to France once he has made his fortune here in the colony.” Aimée paused, her eyes widening. “You have begun to regret your own marriage, and so you think to interfere with mine. That must be it!” She scrambled to her feet, smearing tears from her face. “I tried to respect you as my older sister, and to help you with this stupid bakery, but no more. I will see Julien when and where I wish, so there!”
Geneviève rose as well. “You will do no such thing!”
“Oh, yes, I will! I shall do precisely as I wish. Madame likes Julien, and she is my guardian now. I’ll tell her you don’t need me further, and she will see that I have all I need until I marry.” Aimée dropped an impertinent curtsey. “I don’t need you anymore, big sister. Good day.” She sashayed from the kitchen without a backward glance.
Geneviève stared after her sister. Oh, Aimée. Her hand went to her heart, feeling it thud in dull rhythm. Betrayal, she had discovered, felt like another sort of mourning. One could survive it, though each time faith got a little weaker and revived a little more slowly.
She picked up the tray and started to empty its contents into a waste bin. But though the bread could not be sold, it would make flatbread that could be given to hungry traveling soldiers. She would not be guilty of wastefulness. With a sigh she stuck the tray into the brick oven Burelle had commissioned to her specifications and turned to open the larder where her barrels of flour were stored.
As she worked, she listened to the sounds of life stirring overhead in the family rooms, the extra guestroom, and the tavern common room. The five Burelle children would be starting their morning chores, while the lady of the house flurri
ed about, flapping her apron and tucking loose strands of graying hair back under her cap. Monsieur Burelle himself had gone to the market with a list of dry goods needed to restock the pantry.
Relaxing into the rhythm of her task, Geneviève began to hum and pray. Several hours passed. Despite the extra work, she found it almost a relief not to tiptoe around her sister’s mercurial moods. She had done all she could to give Aimée a chance at safety and happiness, and though Madame L’Anglois might be a flibbertigibbet, she had a good heart. God, grant my sister eyes to see the truth.
How ironic that as the gap between herself and Aimée had widened, her friendship with Nika had developed into something approaching sisterhood. Because she couldn’t talk about her faith or her family with other women of the settlement, Geneviève found herself seeking out the Mobile woman. Using her curiosity about Indian food preparation techniques as an excuse to visit twice more during the past week, she had ignored Dufresne’s strictures about traveling unescorted and walked to the village, taking only Raindrop as a companion.
When the subject of religion naturally arose, she was delighted to discover that Nika had done quite a bit of thinking about the French Jesus-God. The Indian woman had heard many Bible stories from priests who had visited her childhood village, as well as Father Albert, who had apparently in previous years spent some time with the Mobile people. When Geneviève kindly corrected some of her rather peculiar misunderstandings, created no doubt by the language barrier, Nika had no trouble accepting the concept of God-Become-Man, atonement for sin by perfect substitution, and resurrection from the dead.
The day of Nika’s conversion came as a blinding ray of light in a very dark time for Geneviève. Later they sat poring together over Geneviève’s precious Huguenot Bible on the creek bank near the Mobile village, while the children wrestled about in the icy water nearby.
After reading the story of Jesus’s conversation with the woman at the well, Nika looked up with a pucker between her perfect dark eyebrows. “Jesus behaves just like a Frenchman.”
Geneviève laughed. “Why do you say that?”
“He asks the woman for a drink, then confuses her with many words. At last she understands that he loves her, but when she becomes happy, he goes away.” There was great sadness in the perceptive dark eyes.
Geneviève nodded, remembering the way she had felt waking up to find Tristan gone. “I know what you mean, I think,” she said slowly. Had something similar happened to Nika? “But remember that Jesus is more than a man. He had to go away in order to save everyone. And he comes back to live here.” She pressed her fist to her heart. “When I am lonely or sad, he fills the emptiness.”
“It is so.” Nika looked away, watching her boys splash one another. “I thought Chazeh was going to die, but I prayed, and God healed him. Perhaps he will one day answer my other prayers.”
“I’m sure he will. But, Nika—” Geneviève hesitated, not sure if the truth would be wise. “Sometimes his answer is no.”
Nika’s eyes filled, but she blinked the tears away, clearly embarrassed. “I know this in my heart. But I must keep asking anyway.”
“Can you tell me what you ask, so that I may pray too?”
“No! Some things must not be spoken aloud.”
Remembering Nika’s genuine alarm, Geneviève had to respect her reticence. After all, she had secrets of her own.
She folded the dough under her hands and pushed her fist hard into its center. God, keep my husband safe. Perhaps he left me out of love for me. Maybe he will come back in due time.
And maybe she was every bit as delusional as Aimée. She should be grateful that her monthly flow had begun during the night, proving that Tristan had not left her behind with a child.
“Geneviève? Why are you weeping into the bread dough?”
She looked up with a start to find one of the Burelle daughters standing in the kitchen doorway, regarding her with a puzzled frown. “It’s nothing, Yolande.” She forced a smile. “Just the smoke from the oven, making my eyes water.”
“You aren’t going to burn the bread, are you?” Yolande was a miniature version of her mother, anxiously passing from one crisis to another.
“No, it’s fine.” Geneviève dusted her hands together over the dough, removing the loose flour, then wiped them on a hank of cheesecloth lying on the counter. She peeked into the oven to make sure. “Did you need me for something?”
“There’s an Indian man outside asking for you. Papa told me to come find you.” Yolande looked worried. “I wish he’d go away. I’m scared of Indians.”
“Be a good girl and tell him I’ll be right out.” An Indian man? Geneviève couldn’t think who it would be, but she removed her apron and hung it on a hook behind the door. She entered the tavern and found Monsieur Burelle sweeping a perfectly clean floor.
He stopped and smiled at her as she crossed toward the front door. “How goes the popelin business?”
Well he would ask. Since she used his kitchen and sold her product out of the tavern, they had agreed on a 50 percent split of profits. Madame’s popelin commission was a business boon.
She paused and sighed. “Rather a bumpy start, but once Aimée quit and went home, things got back on track.” When his eyebrows rose, she shook her head. “I’ll tell you about it later. Yolande says I have a visitor outside.”
Burelle went back to his sweeping. “One of those smelly Indians, she says. Don’t let the bread burn.”
Tempted to mention that the Indians were no smellier than the unwashed Frenchmen she encountered in the tavern every day, she made a face and replied, “I won’t,” on the way out the door.
They had traveled slowly, making barely ten miles a day during the last twelve days. Mathieu knew he must soon speak to Tristan. Each day of delay increased the risk that circumstances would prevent him from unburdening himself.
By now he was certain that Tristan was just the man to whom the comte had hoped to leave his wealth and title. He was not quite so certain, however, that Tristan would wish to accept either one.
The rhythmic splash of paddles in the river accompanied the procession of his mental arguments. Surgeon-Major Barraud sat in the front of the second large pirogue, with Tristan paddling behind and Mathieu balanced amongst their supplies in the middle. Ahead of them in the lead boat were Marc-Antoine and the two cadets, Saucier and Guillory. At first Mathieu had taken a set of oars with the intention of helping. But half a day of Tristan’s gentle but firm corrections convinced him that he had best leave the rowing to the experienced seamen.
Thereafter he spent his time jotting notes and drawing pictures in a small journal he had brought along, in an attempt to describe the riverbanks, the water, the sky, the fish, the flora and fauna that made up this new world. Mathieu was not a gifted artist, but he was good with words. He didn’t know for whom he was recording his experiences, but something told him the information would someday become valuable. At the end of each day, when the six adventurers tied the boats up at the riverbank and disembarked to camp for the night, he had fallen into the habit of reading aloud from his journal. Often one or the other of the men would add a comment or sing a song that he added into the narrative. The journal had grown into quite a history.
The book now lay open in his lap, and he put down the pen, lifting his face to the pleasant breeze. Despite the autumn sun that beat down on his bare head and cooked his poor peeling nose, it was much cooler here on the water than when they camped ashore at night.
“Do you see the deer over there, Father?”
Mathieu looked over his shoulder to find Tristan pointing to the northeast shoreline. After peering a few moments, he distinguished a buck with a large rack of antlers, then a doe and two fawns, camouflaged by the golden-brown foliage and underbrush that lined the river.
“Beautiful,” he breathed, wishing for the hundredth time that he had been gifted to capture on canvas the natural wonders he’d seen since arriving in the New World. He’d
been delighted to discover that gift in Tristan. The young cartographer had brought along ink and blank parchment, along with a set of old maps, stored in a beautiful velvet-lined cedar box. Tristan had been tweaking the maps as they traveled, but in the late evenings around the campfire, Mathieu talked him into producing more creative images.
Tristan must have read his mind. “Take the oars, and I’ll draw it for you.” He traded the oars for Mathieu’s journal and pen, but capped the quill in favor of a stub of charcoal he drew from his pocket.
As Mathieu awkwardly plied the oars, struggling to keep time with Barraud’s lazy, competent pulls, Tristan produced in several quick strokes a fine sketch of the deer in their autumn habitat, with the water rippling below the bluff in the foreground.
“Thank you!” Mathieu took the drawing, returning the oars, and sat admiring it for several minutes. “You have quite a talent,” he said, turning to straddle the seat, but careful not to capsize the boat. “Who taught you?”
Tristan shrugged, switching the oar to the port side. “My father taught me the art of perspective, how to judge distance, how to look for details. Making the leap from maps to pictures was not so difficult. He wouldn’t allow me to draw for fun until I had put in the bread-and-butter work for paying customers.”
“Have you tried oils?”
“A bit.” Tristan’s cheeks turned ruddy. “I don’t think they’re very good.”
Mathieu was silent for a moment. If Tristan accepted the legacy he was about to be offered, he could afford to study with any of the masters currently working in Paris. Finally he said gently, “You underestimate yourself, my young friend. Your father was perhaps a good man, but I think he didn’t encourage your artistic bent.”
“My father was a very good man!” Tristan scowled. “He wanted me to be able to support myself and my family, which is why he discouraged frivolous drawing—and he was right to do so.”