Shaking, Julianne sank to her knees. Marc-Paul knelt on the other side of the glittering mess she’d made and pulled the myrtle wax taper and candlestick holder out of the broken glass, setting them aside. She reached to pluck the larger pieces from the floor, but he held out his hand to stop her.
“You cannot fix this.” The edge in his tone told her he spoke about more than just the glass. His words sliced at her heart.
Silently, he took the broom and shovel from the fireplace and swept the shards away. Once the mess was cleared, he leaned both arms on the bed, bowing over his half-packed bag while the room grew thick with fog.
“Someone else saw you with a man. Said that you embraced him. Kissed him.” He looked at the broken glass in the shovel on the hearth, his voice gruff.
It’s not what you think! But if she told him it was Benjamin, what then? “Who said this?” she whispered, pushing herself up from the floor. The witness must have been someone he trusted. Etienne? Red Bird? Lily? If it was Red Bird who’d seen Benjamin, was his life already at risk?
Marc-Paul shook his head, dismissing her question. The anger receded from his eyes, leaving only raw sorrow behind. “Have you given your heart to another? Who is he? I’m asking you plainly.”
But nothing was plain, nothing clear. Julianne clenched her teeth lest a lie—or the truth—slip free. In her hesitation, his lips parted and his shoulders slumped slightly, as if her silence were a confession. What have I done? The truth about Benjamin would absolve her, but was that worth her brother’s life? The two men she loved most hung in the balance, and she could not bring herself to tip to either side.
She stepped through the mist toward her husband. “Mon coeur—I am faithful to you! I vow, I have not taken a lover!” The words burst from her as she grasped his cold hands in hers. “You insult me by believing this slander!”
“Why would they say these things, if there were not at least an element of truth?”
Desperately, she considered blaming her mark for her maligned reputation. But she could not pretend, even to herself, that the fleur-de-lys had opened this chasm that yawned between them. Instead, all she said was, “You must believe me. I’ve given myself to none but you. I love you.”
Marc-Paul did not squeeze her hands, or dry her tears, or smooth her hair back from her face. He merely returned to his packing, ignoring Julianne until she fled the room.
Chapter Twenty-seven
With a heavy heart, Lily watched her papa strap his gun over his back. Its silver glinted in the sun that soaked into her hair until it nearly burned her scalp. Tugging her dress away from her sticky skin, she sidled closer to Papa, who was also wearing too many clothes for the weather. But she had learned that arguing the point was useless. “Do you really have to go away?” she asked him.
“I really do. But I’ll come back.”
In the corner of her eye, Lily noticed Madame Girard standing quietly apart from the two of them. Her eyes wore the dull look of one who didn’t understand. Lily knew exactly how she felt. When her papa was not around to interpret, Lily hadn’t understood much when she first arrived here either. But she’d been learning. French words felt so thick in her mouth, like a wooden spoon that swelled on the tongue, or like corn boiled in water too long. She was too embarrassed to try to speak them to anyone but Papa.
“Is it a hunting party?” Lily wanted to know.
“I’m hunting for a good place along the Riviere de la Madelaine to build a new fort. Does that count?” He chucked Lily under the chin, but he still didn’t look at Madame. Lily cast a glance in the woman’s direction, hoping he’d follow her gaze and speak a French word or two to her.
Instead, Papa reached down and scratched behind the ears of the dog whose name Lily could never pronounce. She’d renamed the animal Fist Face, because it looked like he’d been punched in the nose. Fist Face wagged his tail so hard his entire back end moved from side to side. Lily giggled. Fist Face was easy to understand.
“I must leave now.” Papa pulled Lily in for a hug and kissed the top of her head in the space where her hair parted down the middle. “Be good for Madame. Just try.”
“Oui, Papa.” Lily grinned at the smile this drew to his face.
Her smile wilted, however, as Lily watched him go. He’d forgotten to kiss Madame.
Madame turned as white as the flower for which Lily was named. Lily tucked her hands behind the skirt Madame had sewn for her from one of her old dresses. Maybe if Lily could say something to her, something Madame could understand, then Madame would smile. But she could not think fast enough to do it properly. Madame was already slipping back inside.
That night, Lily lay on the floor of her room, for even the bed was too hot. The rug being rolled away for the summer, she spread herself out on the smooth wood floor, arms and legs open wide. Staring at the open window, she begged a breeze to come swishing through its gaping mouth, to sweep the sweat from her skin and give her goose bumps instead. I am a water lily, she told herself, and her lips tipped up with amusement at her own game. The lake is my bed, and I float, flat, on its cool surface. Drowsily, she brushed her fingertips along the floorboards, pretending they trailed in water. When she felt mosquitoes land on her skin, she told herself that little fish mistook her fingers for worms and nibbled at her flesh.
The click of claws on wood alerted her that Fist Face was approaching. Before she could think of what role he might play in her game, he sneezed on her face and broke the spell.
With a squeal, Lily sat up and wiped the dog’s spittle from her cheek, then went to her washstand and rinsed her face clean. She gazed at the water in the basin and at the mosquitoes and midges dimpling its silver skin. She wrinkled her nose. Most people wrinkled their nose at Lily’s skin too. Papa didn’t though. He said Madame didn’t either, even though it was harder to tell with her. He said she had helped some half-Indian, half-French babies to come safely out of their mamas, and when one of them died once, she cried and cried. So she must not hate Lily for her skin. Papa said that Madame had a baby once, but the baby didn’t live, and her heart hadn’t healed from that yet. Lily knew what that was like too. She still missed her mother something fierce. The missionary who taught her mama about the French Jesus-God said she’d be waiting for Lily in heaven. But that was little comfort. A daughter had more need of her mother on earth.
Lily lifted her gaze to the cross-shaped shadow on the wall above the washstand. Papa had called it a crucifix, an impossible word to say. But she’d looked upon it often enough that she could see it in her mind through the darkness. Her fingers walked up the wall to touch the silver metal at the bottom of the cross, for she could reach no higher than that. The missionary who had come to her village carried a similar crucifix. He told them about the God who created the entire world—the sun, the water, the land, the animals and people—everything. And then that same God sent His son Jesus to walk the earth so people would listen to Him, even though they hung Him on that cross to die. The people had a hard time believing He was who He said He was, that He loved them and had a purpose for everything. So God had sent signs to show them that He had everything worked out, and they just needed to believe.
Lily tried hard to believe. She prayed to the French Jesus-God—since the missionary said He wasn’t actually on the cross anymore, but in heaven—and she asked Him to send her a sign too. Because pretending to be somewhere else was a lot easier than really living where she was.
Crossing to the open window, she leaned on the sill. She thrust out her arm as far as it would reach and wiggled her fingers just to feel the air kiss her skin with its hot summer breath. She pulled her arm back inside. If she listened carefully enough, she could hear beyond the thrumming mosquitoes to the chirping crickets, the gurgling owls, the vibrating tones of the frogs. She could hear . . . crying.
It was Madame. She was weeping. Lily imagined the sound as a long purple ribbon floating out of Madame’s window and fluttering inside Lily’s, a fragile brid
ge connecting them.
Carefully, she lit a candle in its glass chimney. The flame flared tall for a moment, then settled back down and bobbed agreeably on its wick. Lily smiled. The light was a small glowing head, nodding Oui, oui, mademoiselle, we should go see what the trouble is. She left Fist Face to snore where he was.
The light pushed back the darkness, one step at a time, until she reached the doorway to Madame’s chamber. Timidly, she knocked on the frame, then pushed open the door.
Immediately, Madame muffled her cries, likely startled by the sudden appearance of light out of the abyss. Lily wondered if she resembled a ghost. She should speak, or Madame would be frightened more. But in French.
Lily licked her lips nervously. “C’est moi, Lily.”
Madame’s eyes grew large. They were silver with her tears. “Lily? I’m sorry I woke you.” She wiped the wetness from her cheeks, looking ashamed. “That was excellent French, by the way. Very good. Très bien.” She was nodding now, like Lily’s tiny flame.
Lily pursed her lips. She wasn’t sure how to say, I was not asleep, don’t be sorry. So she merely shook her head, probed further into the room, and placed her light on the bureau. She was afraid she might drop it by accident and cause a fire.
Two mosquitoes looped and dipped in the space between Lily and Madame. But when Lily looked beyond them, she noticed the thick gold-brown rope hanging over Madame’s shoulder. A smile spread slowly on Lily’s face as she pointed approvingly to Madame’s braid, and then to her own dark plaits.
“Ah, oui! We both wear braids, don’t we?” Madame smiled too, but her eyes were rimmed with red, her lids swollen.
Lily moved closer until she stood at the edge of the bed, where Madame sat against her pillows. “Madame,” Lily began. Her voice shook with concentration. She wanted to say something important. But it had to be simple, or she’d never manage to get it out.
“Oui?”
“Madame, I—I—see—you.” Hesitantly, Lily reached out and laid her hand on Madame’s back. “I see you. I hear you.”
Madame’s lips trembled, and another tear spilled down her cheek.
Lily wiped it away with one finger, then patted Madame’s white cheek. “I see you,” she said again. Lily pointed to her own heart and then to Madame’s. “I know. It hurts.”
Madame’s face cleared like the sky rinsed clean by the rain. She cupped Lily’s shoulders in her hands. Candlelight sparkled in her soft grey eyes. “Lily, ma belle, I see you too. And I want to hear more from you.” She raised her eyebrows. “Please? Shall we try?”
Lily grinned. “Oui, oui, Madame!”
Smiling, Madame patted the bed beside her. When Lily climbed up, Madame folded her in a warm embrace, rocking gently, as a mother might. Her braid tickled Lily’s nose, but Lily didn’t mind. When Madame placed her hand on Lily’s head, her faint rose scent enveloped her. Lily sank into it, eyes closed, and did not imagine herself anywhere else.
When sweat dampened the nightgowns between them, Lily leaned back and noticed something dark beneath the lace trim on Madame’s short sleeve. Gently, Lily touched a fingertip to the scar and lifted her questioning gaze to Madame. “What is it?”
Madame pulled her sleeve up to her shoulder, revealing a black brand shaped like a flower. But not just any flower. Wonder filled Lily as she traced the ragged edges on Madame’s skin. “Lily? My name! You have my name on your shoulder!”
Madame’s lips parted in surprise. “So I do!”
“You wear my name!” Lily repeated, just in case her French wasn’t clear on her first attempt.
It must mean I belong here, she wanted to say, but could not find the right words. Instead, she only pointed delightedly at herself and then touched her fingertips to Madame’s mark. She did not need to ask where it came from. Lily knew it was there for her.
Merci, Jésus. She need not be afraid, for she was exactly where she was meant to be.
While Marc-Paul was gone, spring bubbled and simmered until the full boil of a Louisiana summer took its place. With Lily’s hand hot and damp in her own, Julianne shielded her eyes from the morning sun and gazed at the St. Jean Inn as they approached. A childish squeal drifted to her ears.
“Angelique is here,” she said to Lily and led her around to the back of the inn.
“Bonjour!” Lily skipped over to the redheaded two-year-old splashing in a pan of water on the ground.
“Bonjour, Lily and Julianne!” Francoise rose from her wooden chair on the gallery and kissed them both on their cheeks in turn. The scent of her jasmine hair pomade wafted behind her. Denise sat on the gallery with her skirts full of peas. “Join us?” Francoise tossed an apron to Julianne.
Knotting the apron strings behind her waist, Julianne bent to kiss Denise on her rouged cheek, then grabbed a mess of beans and settled into a chair in the shade. Blue-bodied dragonflies darted through the heavy air, the glassy panes of their wings glinting with rainbows.
“It’s good to see you, Julianne,” Denise offered with a smile. “And Lily.” Her tone held no judgment, though Julianne knew she had stayed away too long. “Lisette will be sorry she missed you, I’m sure.”
Julianne nodded. “She isn’t ill, is she?” Fever had come along with the summer and had already laid more than a few colonists low.
“No, she’s with a client. Laurent is watching their baby and mine.”
“Ah. Good.” Humidity coiled the hair at Julianne’s temples and neck. Spun between the gallery’s overhang and the wooden post that supported it, a spider web glistened with dewdrops. Each strand of silk thread had become a necklace of glass beads overnight.
Peas tapped into pails and hulls pattered into piles on the ground while Julianne and Denise worked, a calming background to the gleeful chatter between Lily and Angelique. “They understand each other’s French,” Julianne said, and laughter rippled through the women.
Francoise perched on the edge of her chair, scooped softened corn kernels from a basket, and poured them into her mortar. “Where would we be without corn?” she murmured with a shake of her head as she began grinding with her pestle.
Denise sighed, swiping the back of her hand across her brow. She squinted into the sun, where Angelique and Lily played. “But do you think there will be enough? After the flood?”
No one responded. Julianne didn’t want to think of another famine, not after the one that just ended last fall with the arrival of a few ships from France. Over the sound of children playing, she could hear boatmen shouting to each other on the river a block away. They were bringing more Africans or more colonists or both. If they weren’t to settle in New Orleans, they would certainly clog the settlement, as they always did, until enough boats could be found to carry them away. They more than doubled the number of hungry bellies in New Orleans while they sojourned, and they brought nothing with them to contribute.
The lull in conversation amplified the rhythmic grinding of Francoise’s pestle against the kernels. “France will send another shipload of flour,” she said. The flour sent from Illinois was never enough.
Denise arched one dark eyebrow at Julianne, as if to say, But when?
A stifling breeze blew Julianne’s hair against her neck. The lace edging her sleeves at her elbows swayed as she ran her thumb along the inside of a pod, sending eight small peas into her apron. Weightless on her lap, they seemed so insignificant. It would take so many to fill the bucket. To fill a belly. After shelling a handful more, Julianne made a funnel of her apron and tipped the peas into the pail at her feet.
Oblivious to the hunger pawing at the colony, Lily planted herself on her knees and pushed a piece of bark across the pan of water. Angelique caught it and shook it above her bare head, sprinkling herself and Lily with their very own rain. Laughter soared from the little girls’ mouths. “Bravo!” Lily patted Angelique’s curls.
“Angelique!” Denise called out. “You put that hat back on your head this instant! Look at her. Beet red already. She’ll burn
to a crisp.”
Lily glanced at Denise, then lifted Angelique’s straw hat from where it dangled by its ribbon behind her back. Smiling broadly, she set it—just so—on the toddler’s head and waved victoriously back at Denise.
“Merci, Lily!” Denise blew her a kiss.
“Your Lily has bloomed.” Francoise smiled as she tipped her ground corn into an earthenware jar and scooped more kernels into the mortar. “She looks happy, ma chère.”
“She saw my brand.” Julianne looked up from her peas to see if they understood. “She saw her name in it.”
“Of course! The fleur-de-lys!” Denise chuckled, hands momentarily suspended above her apron.
Julianne smiled. “And she hasn’t been the same since. Every day she drinks in more French, and she soaks up any attention I give her. In truth, it’s been good for us that Marc-Paul has been gone. She gravitates toward him, and he does her no good by coddling her. But now she and I share a connection of our own.” She still marveled that God had taken her mark of judgment and used it as an instrument of grace.
Denise turned a frank gaze on Julianne. “So how are you? Really?”
Julianne twisted the ring on her finger, unsticking the metal from her skin. “Marc-Paul questions my fidelity. And now he’s gone for so many weeks, and there’s no way to repair it. Likely, the longer he’s gone, the more he will doubt.”
Denise’s brown eyes flashed. “Why in heaven’s name would he suspect you?”
Julianne thumbed another row of peas into her lap. Gazed at Lily, who was drawing pictures in the dirt with a stick. “People talk.” She shrugged, unwilling to confess that there was another man, even if that man was not a lover.
“Does he have reason to mistrust you?” Francoise’s voice was gentle but firm. “Have you been honest with him in all things?”
“I’m faithful to my husband. I’ve told him so.” But she would not broach with her friends the subject of her brother’s desertion and her husband’s role in his execution. Biting her lip, she fixed her gaze on the peas growing blurry between her fingers. Not even her friends could know that Benjamin lived. The secret was a boulder on her chest. “He’s pulling away from me. I don’t know what else I can do if he won’t believe I’m true. I fear there is no bridge long enough to breach the gap between us now.”
The Mark of the King Page 28