Francoise blew her nose into a handkerchief. “What have you named him?”
“Benjamin. For my brother.” But in her brother’s case, it was the baby who lived and the mother who died. Gladly would Julianne have given her life so that this boy could have brightened the world. Gladly would she join him now, if the Lord’s mercy would but summon her.
Tearing her gaze from her son was like ripping nails from a board as Francoise took him back. With all the care his grandmother might have had, the older woman laid him inside a small wooden box.
“Etienne made the box for him. Lined with blue serge, which Captain Girard cut from one of his uniform waistcoats.” Tears streaked Francoise’s careworn cheeks, and Julianne suspected she cried not just for Benjamin, but for the little daughter she had also laid to rest years ago.
When Francoise fit the lid to the casket, Julianne cried out in pain.
“I don’t—” She gasped for breath. “I don’t know how to do this. I don’t know how to shut him away! How did you manage it, Francoise? I can’t—” Sobbing racked her shoulders, sending small cracks through the fresh scabs on her back. It took all her strength to keep from crying out that her baby was suffocating in that closed box. But Julianne was the one who could not get air.
She was not just laying her baby to rest, but Simon’s. Once little Ben was buried, she would have nothing left of her late husband.
Francoise’s skirts rustled as she eased herself onto the bed. Julianne sobbed onto her soft shoulder while Francoise stroked her hair. “I know, ma chère. I would spare you this if such were in my power.” The older woman’s voice broke with empathy. “But I want you to listen to me. You will survive it. If God wanted you with Him now too, He would have taken you. But here you are. There is more life for you to live. The sun will shine again.”
With her hand pressed to her heart, Julianne trapped a groan in her chest. “Does the pain ease?” she whispered.
Francoise sighed. “The pain changes, and you will change with it. The sharp edges wear away in time, but the loss remains. You’ll learn how to live with it. There’s not a day that goes by that I don’t think of my little girl, and I warrant you won’t forget your son. Never, as long as you live. And when we get to heaven, our little ones will know their mamas. I believe God Almighty and the Blessed Virgin, who also knows what it is to lose a child, will see to that.”
Nodding, Julianne lifted her head and sluiced the tears from her cheeks with trembling hands. “Thank you. And now, please go home to rest. You have done all you can for me, and I thank you.”
Slowly, Francoise stood and pinned her lace cap to her curls. “Talk to the Lord, Julianne. Even if you’re mad as hornets. If you keep it all bottled up, you’ll only end up with a belly full of bee stings.” Straightening, she patted her hair before pointing to a chair. “Denise brought a fresh gown for whenever you’re ready. But the captain is in no hurry for his bed, so take your time.” She bent and kissed Julianne on both tearstained cheeks before taking her leave.
Alone again, save for the tiny coffin, Julianne blew out the candle and returned to bed, where she prayed for a dreamless sleep to cover her, for she could not stomach another wakeful moment.
By the time the first light of day trickled into the room, she was awake again. She raised herself up, walked stiffly to the window, and lifted the linen shade. A cool breeze feathered over her and stirred through the captain’s bedchamber. It was the sixth day since she’d been carried here. She could not bear to stay any longer.
At the washstand, Julianne wiped the film of tears and sweat from her face and neck, then crossed to the clothing on the chair and found Denise had remembered to bring a binding towel. Carefully, she slipped her arms out of her chemise, wrapped and pinned the length of muslin around her torso, and pulled the chemise back over her shoulders. As she did so, the stripes on her back rekindled, and her breasts ached for a babe she would never nurse. Though the binding towel helped protect her scabs as she moved, sliding the loose-fitting robe volante over one arm and then the other still made her suck in her breath. Standing ramrod straight, she fitted the buttons in their holes from her chest to her waist, then gathered up the blue silk damask skirt to fasten the rest so she would not need to bend to reach them.
Wincing, Julianne brushed out her hair and pinned it up again. Denise had brought small pots of paste and rouge for her toilette as well, but she skipped these, availing herself only of the roots that freshened one’s teeth.
Once she was dressed and coifed, she took up her baby and prepared to emerge from the captain’s bedchamber a different woman than when she had been carried in.
Marc-Paul sat forward in the chair he’d placed outside his bedchamber. If Julianne called for anything—water, or nourishment, or herbs, or Lisette—he’d hear and fetch it for her. But since Francoise had gone home last night, all had been quiet.
Elbows on his knees and head in his hands, he dipped in and out of prayer for Julianne’s physical and emotional recovery. Vesuvius wedged himself between Marc-Paul’s right thigh and the arm of the chair and snored, but not loudly enough to drown out the haunting memory of Julianne’s cries.
On his voyages to and from Louisiana, Marc-Paul had seen his share of prentice seamen tied to the mast and lashed, then plunged into a barrel of stinging brine. One boatswain was so cruel and so expert with the whip that he laid the blows over and again on exactly the same place until the leather had bitten clear through the muscle to the bone.
This was what came to his mind as he thought of Julianne. Loss had fallen three times upon her, three cruel blows to the same raw heart that had not had time to heal from the last.
The latch sounded on the door to his chamber, and he shot out of his chair. While Vesuvius circled three times on the seat cushion before lying down again, Marc-Paul brushed the fur from his rumpled breeches and looked expectantly at the door as it creaked open.
Stiffly, Julianne backed out of the chamber, one arm bearing the baby’s coffin while the other hand pulled the door closed behind her. Turning, she gave a start upon seeing him standing there in the dawn’s watery light.
“I didn’t mean to startle you,” he began, rubbing a hand over his stubbled jaw. “Are you—is there anything I can do for you?” The question sounded as inept as he felt. The sorrow in her eyes seized his heart.
“I wish I could thank you properly for what you’ve already done. But—forgive me—I barely know what to do from one moment to the next right now,” Julianne confessed. “I need to lay my son to rest. At least, his body.” She clutched the box to her middle. “I just—I don’t know how to let him go.” Her voice trailed away, as though she spoke to herself now and not to him.
He touched her elbow, and indeed, she looked surprised to see him still at her side. “Whatever you need, I will supply. If you allow it, I will help you bury him. But, madame, could you not eat something first?”
Her gaze slid to the sunlight gliding slowly across the floor. “Afterwards I will. I’d like to do this before the town is fully awake. If you please.”
“Of course.” The sooner they went to the levee and back, the fewer people they’d be likely to meet along the way. “Shall I send for Francoise, or Lisette or Denise? The priest?”
Julianne shook her head. “I’ve taken enough of my friends’ time. And the priest would not bless the baby of a branded convict, would he?”
Marc-Paul blew out a frustrated breath. “A different priest would. But the priest we have here is not likely to trouble himself for this. We don’t need that man to assure us of your baby’s heavenly home.” His gaze fell to the casket and her white-knuckled grip on the lid. “There can be no doubt where he is.”
“Yes, quite my own thoughts,” Julianne whispered and then looked up with red-veined eyes. “Have you a spade, then?”
He assured her he did and excused himself for a moment to change his clothes. When he returned, he was in a fresh uniform: grey-white full-skirted coat
with wide blue cuffs over his blue waistcoat, blue breeches, and white gaiters from the tops of his black leather shoes to his lower thighs. Cautiously, he approached her and wordlessly offered to carry her load as they walked to the riverbank.
“Oh no, merci.” Julianne stepped back from him. “He will leave my arms soon enough.”
With a bow to her wishes, he ushered her out into the cool October morning. After fetching a small shovel from the work shed, he rejoined her and led her toward the river.
The pace was understandably slow, and he wished time and again she would forfeit her burden to him. But she had labored to bring her baby into the world, and she would labor to give him back to the earth. Meanwhile, he gathered rocks from the ground, dropping them quietly into a basket as they walked.
“Here,” Julianne said when they came to the whitewashed cross marking Simon’s grave. “Please,” she added, “at his feet.”
Marc-Paul drove his shovel into the earth and dug until the ground yawned open at the foot of Simon’s grave. It did not take long. Finished, he stood back, placed his hat over his heart, and waited.
The smells of damp soil and river water floated on the breeze as the early morning sun doubled itself on the glass of the Mississippi River. Julianne’s clutch tightened around the box. “Adieu, mon amour,” she whispered. “Your papa will take care of you now.” She handed the tiny coffin to Marc-Paul to lower into the earth. “I know, more than most, how common it is for babies to die.” Her voice trembled. “So I also know how uncommon it is that mine should have such a formal burial. Thank you.”
He would do more for her than bury her son, if she would let him. For now, he laid the rocks on the casket, then replaced the dirt and packed it into a neat, smooth mound. Dust to dust.
Keeping her back awkwardly straight, Julianne knelt and placed her hands on the dirt, smoothing away any lumps she found, as he imagined she would if she were tucking her son into bed. When she bowed her head, he did the same.
At length, Julianne looked up, and he offered his hand to help her rise. When she turned her palms up to inspect them, he easily read the sentiment shadowing her weary eyes. There should have been a baby in those hands. Not the dirt that covered the child before his lungs had a chance to fill. Slowly, she brushed the grains of earth from her hands and watched them scatter in the wind.
“Marc-Paul,” she whispered, and his Christian name on her lips throbbed in his ears. Tears lined her lashes as she looked at him. “I am shipwrecked on these shoals.”
His throat tight, he offered his arm, and she clung to it. He would lead her to calmer seas if he could. He’d give her all that he had, and all that he was. He needed to tell her the path that lay ahead of her, according to Bienville, but not now. And as much as he dreaded it, he should clear his conscience and tell her of his role in Benjamin’s death. Better sooner rather than later, for secrets festered the longer they were kept. But this was not the moment for that either.
Right now, all he said was, “I’m so sorry.” He kissed the top of her hair, warmed by the morning sun, and led her slowly from the graves.
Chapter Seventeen
To avoid being rude, Julianne forced herself to eat the food Etienne had placed before her, though she had no appetite at all. The food shortage in the colony made Marc-Paul’s hospitality even more precious, and she would hate to insult her host, even if all he had to offer her was sagamité, salted deer, and dried figs.
“I hate to impose,” she tried again. “I’ll head home this afternoon. I do thank you for everything.” Weak words next to the care the captain and his servant had provided.
Marc-Paul’s silverware clinked on his plate as he laid it to rest. “In your professional opinion, has the danger for your health passed?”
Julianne turned her lips up determinedly. “I’m quite well, thank you. At least, well enough to return home. And I’ve already proven I’m not afraid to use my gun.”
The captain did not return her smile. Sighing, he pushed his plate away and rested his arms on the table. “Now, madame, I have news for you.” His brown eyes were troubled, his shadowed jawline set.
“Please tell me.”
“I’ve spoken to Bienville on your behalf, to try to wrench some justice for what happened to you at the hands of Pascal Dupree and his men.”
“Justice?”
“I wanted to save your position. As the colony midwife.”
“Oh.” Her hands fluttered to her napkin, and she dabbed the corners of her mouth with it before smoothing it again in her lap. She did not need to ask how it went. Defeat rested in the furrows of his brow, and by degrees the implications nested within her chest.
“I told him what you told me. He tasked me with lecturing the officers on abusing their slaves but won’t punish Pascal without evidence.”
A lecture. Julianne clenched her teeth.
“The circumstances of your defense against Hurlot cannot be proven either. He said the only evidence he has is the soldier’s wound, the ball from your gun, and—”
“My brand,” she finished for him. Humiliated, she focused on the yellow trim of his waistcoat. “And he cannot employ a convict.”
Marc-Paul folded his hands on the table. Cleared his throat. “He told me to pass along the two options remaining to you. So please understand that what I am about to say comes from Bienville, not from me.”
She nodded but dropped her gaze to her napkin, which she folded like a fan and then flattened again, over and over.
“Your passage was paid for by the Company of the Indies with the express intention that you would help settle the colony. But you are not married, and your occupation as a midwife has concluded. The Company cannot sustain you on charity.”
She balled her napkin into her fist and fought against narrowing her eyes at the messenger. “And where are these choices you speak of?”
He drank from his pewter cup of water before responding. “There is a ship due soon in New Orleans. When it sails back to France, you may return with it.”
Julianne’s chair scudded across the floor as she rose from the table, and Vesuvius scampered away. “I’m being exiled from exile?”
Marc-Paul rose from his seat as well. “If I were to speak freely, I’d say you were but a pawn in a political move. Bienville tires of settlers who unsettle the colony, he says. He wants to make a point by sending back ‘unsuitable’ colonists. But have a care, Julianne. Your brand—”
“Yes, I know full well if I return to France it will not be to practice midwifery. Perhaps a convent would take me. And there is always Salpêtrière.” But she could not return there. She’d sooner throw herself overboard than commit herself to that place for life. She stalked out of the dining room, out of doors, and onto the gallery.
Footsteps told her Marc-Paul was close behind. “I meant no offense.” He grabbed her hand and turned her to face him. Her pulse quickened at the warmth of his touch. “Is it your desire to leave Louisiana? Do you wish to go back to France, if you could only be assured of your freedom?”
Wind blew through the gallery, swirling his leather and coffee scent about her. “Is it even possible?” she asked.
“If this is what you want above all else, I’ll do all in my power to secure your freedom beyond all doubt. Your sentence was already commuted once, and you cannot be tried for the same crime twice.” He took her other hand in his, and his eyes smoldered with intensity. “Tell me what you want, Julianne. Would you return to France if you could? Is there some way you could be happy there, if you were free?”
If there was, Julianne could not envision it. She could see nothing beyond the strong lines of Marc-Paul’s face, could feel nothing but his hands enveloping hers. Sighing, she looked out over the vegetable garden, where corn and beans and squash grew together in untidy but happy tandem. “I cannot leave. Yet how can I stay?”
“Marry again.” His voice was solemn. Earnest.
“Marry again,” she repeated. “Is the groom alread
y chosen, or am I to be given a roomful of unwilling bachelors again?”
“Choose a willing partner for yourself. That is, if you yourself are willing.”
Pulling free of his hold, Julianne grasped the back of a chair and lowered herself into it. She closed her eyes, and the panic and fear she had felt at the priory of Saint-Martin-des-Champs trickled back to her. Simon’s face appeared in her mind. She fingered the lace edging her sleeve but by some trick of memory felt the calluses on his broad palms instead. “I’ve not been a widow a full three months yet. Surely it wouldn’t be decent.”
“The rules of marriage are different in the wilderness than they are in Paris. Remarrying would not be a betrayal to Simon’s memory. You wouldn’t even need to love your new husband.” Marc-Paul leaned against one of the gallery’s supporting posts. In the autumn sun, his black hair shone like the polished leather of his shoes. “There must be someone you could abide. Someone you could trust to protect you and care for you as you deserve.” He held Julianne’s gaze for so long she could see tiger flecks in his brown eyes, so long that warmth washed right through her.
But Julianne’s heart had been carved up and buried in the riverbank, in three different coffins of wood, weighted with rocks and covered in earth. And Marc-Paul knew it. “How could any man be satisfied with the little I have left to give?”
The Mark of the King Page 18