Probably the only reason that she had felt him so strongly before was that he had been so certain she was his Faith; he had been reaching out to her. Now that he knew better, he'd most likely head for wherever old ghosts were supposed to go.
All the way up the hill she prepared herself for his absence. When she reached the top and stepped under the large oak tree, she realized she had been right.
No one was there.
An indescribable disappointment flooded over her. Carefully, deliberately, she unfolded the plastic sheet and spread it just so on the ground. Sitting cross-legged with the cloth under her, she unscrewed the metal cap of the wine bottle, poured some wine into a plastic glass and gulped down a large swallow. She was going to have fun on her first picnic in years if it killed her—with or without a certain mysterious French officer's company!
As if she were setting up a shot, she placed the food on the cloth. That done, she took another swallow of wine. At this rate she wouldn't care whether he was here or not...she'd be too drunk to notice!
A lightly whistled tune caught her attention. A melody, faintly familiar to her, drifted on the late-morning air currents. She raised her head, her wide brown eyes darting to a far clump of trees, her slight frame poised for flight. That tune. That haunting melody was the one she had been humming earlier. She knew that she had never heard it before.
She paused, wary. It could be that someone had docked on her island while she was in the house and that she hadn't heard the boat. Occasionally visitors came here without realizing it was private property, because it was so close to the Boundary Waters area and a camping ground. She waited, holding her breath in fear of the unknown.
Armand stopped in the small clearing to the right of the rock. The tune he had been whistling stuck in his throat when he spotted her poised like a small fawn under the oak tree, sniffing danger yet unaware of its source. Faith. No, Hope. Hope, who looked so much like his love. She even acted very much as Faith had, all bravado outside, sweetness and melted sugar within. Despite her brashness, he could see the caring in her eyes. And the depth of emotion she had experienced this morning was more revealing than any of her words. So like his Faith.
Deliberately he broke the dry twig he held in his hand, drawing her startled gaze toward him.
At first she looked wary, then startled, then—although she probably didn't know it—pleasantly surprised to see him.
“Hello!” she called. “I thought you'd left.”
One brow arched over a sardonic eye. “Where would I go?”
All she could do was guess. “Back to the rock?”
“Is that where you think I came from?” He stood at the edge of the picnic sheet, his head bent toward her, his stance relaxed. But she could feel the tension emanating from him.
She nodded. “I think so. Ever since I can remember I've thought that rock was alive. It seemed to know me, protect me, even care for me.”
“And did you think that instead of it being just another rock, it could have been the soul of a man? A man who was very much in love?”
She lowered her eyes and stared down at the wine bottle. “Never,” she said, covering her embarrassment by taking a sip of the wine. It warmed her throat and stomach pleasantly, making her feel flushed all over her body.
Armand sat in front of her on the sheet, stretching his long legs out on the grass and propping himself up on a bent elbow. He twiddled the broken twig in his hand. “Do not be embarrassed by true emotions and serious feelings, chérie. They are as important to the soul as real love,” he said in his warm-as-whisky voice.
She smiled. “Spoken like a true Frenchman.”
“And why not?” he countered. “I am a true Frenchman.”
She bowed her head quickly, covering a smile with her hand. “You're quite right.” The smile was harder to contain than she had thought. Every Frenchman she had ever met had held that same attitude. Why should he be any different?
“Why are you smiling? And why are you trying to hide it?”
Her eyes widened innocently “Who, me?”
His jet-black brows drew together. “Is there someone else on the island?”
“Well, no,” she admitted, then decided to continue. He might as well be brought up to date on current events. “But you see, there has long been a rumor that Frenchmen were autocratic and in love with love. They are also known to be chauvinistic.”
“What is this, chauvinistic?”
“It's a phrase coined after one of your countrymen, Chauvin, a soldier who was totally devoted to Napoleon and his cause. The word has come to mean exaggerated patriotism, or exaggerated anything, in today's world. Women often use it when they refer to a man who believes he's supreme.”
His dark frown grew darker. “I knew nothing of this,” he said stiffly. “I have never heard of this Napoleon.”
“No.” She reached out to touch his hand and he clasped hers. “I’m sorry, I forgot. He was a general, then the emperor of France in the very early eighteen hundreds. But you see, it's kind of hard to remember where you are in history compared to today.” Her voice was gentle. “I'm afraid I only took a few history courses in university. And what I remember doesn't hold a candle to what I forgot.” His hand was almost too warm, too strong, and she withdrew hers. His touch was erotic.
Again his eyes locked with hers, surprise showing there now. “You went to a university?”
She nodded. “Yes. The University of Maryland.”
“Do all women go to this university, or just a few?”
She smiled. “About half the students are women in almost all the schools. At least during the first two years.”
His brows rose in almost comic disbelief. “Women go to the same university as men?”
She nodded, her smile widening. “In the early days of America, women went to schools that were just for them. But soon that changed, and now we can even live with a man we like without having to marry him. As a matter of fact, many of my university friends lived with men while they were attending school. Women are no longer merely breeders. They can enjoy the same freedom, including sexual freedom, as men.”
Armand sat up. “But that is wrong! How can those women face themselves without shame?”
Hope sat straighter. “What shame? Is it more shameful for the man to live with a woman—or the woman to live with the man?”
“Certainly that is apparent! The shame should be the woman's for allowing such a thing to happen. We have a word for women like that, and it is not nice,” he stated autocratically.
“I can see we have a mutual education problem,” she said slowly. “There is no shame in either circumstance. As long as they are above the age of consent, it's their choice and their business. No one else's.”
He leaned back, and Hope could tell he was trying to digest these facts that, at least from his standpoint, were astounding. Finally he looked at her, his eyes probing. “You can read?”
She blinked at the change of subject, but answered. “Yes. Everyone is supposed to go to school until they're at least sixteen. Those who want can continue their education and then go on to college or university. Both women and men.”
“How remarkable,” he murmured, pondering that for a moment. Then he caught her eye. “You will read to me,” he said, as if it was a foregone conclusion.
“Will I?” Could this man be Chauvin himself? Her voice was stiff with sarcasm. “And just what is it you want me to read to you?”
He waved a hand in the air. “Anything. Perhaps something that tells me what this world is like today.” His gaze wavered, and she realized how insecure he was in this new world in which he found himself. “There are still books and such, are there not?”
“Yes. I think I even have some old newspapers and periodicals at the house.”
He smiled delightedly. “Wonderful. That will do for a start.”
“Oh,” she said softly, almost too softly. Had he known her as well as he thought he did, he would have known
that she was balking at his presumptions. “And why the hell can't you read them for yourself?”
“Do not swear. It is most unbecoming a lady. Even those who wear pantaloons,” he admonished as he stared with a mixture of pleasure and disdain at the shapely limbs, so tightly encased in dark blue denim. He sighed deeply, as if his patience was almost at an end, “Because, ma chérie, I cannot read English well. And since you are English and speak English, I would assume you also read English. Am I not right?”
This time her smile was wide and warm, drawing one from him, as well. True wisdom must come with being more than two hundred years old. And she wouldn't bother arguing the point about her being English right now. He was coping with enough information. “Right.”
“So, do you think you might fetch them and let me hear the news of today?” he continued patiently.
She waved her hand in the air as he had done. “Later. Right now I'm hungry.”
His expression darkened again, but not another word was spoken as he reached for the bottle of wine and poured himself a glass and she munched on a peanut-butter-and-honey sandwich.
“Uggh!” he exclaimed, sputtering and slamming the glass onto the sheet. A torrent of French assaulted the air. Hope had the distinct feeling he was cursing her for something, but she couldn't make out for what. High-school French hadn't prepared her to say much more than the pen of my aunt is on the table.
She took another bite of her sandwich, watching him with a cautious eye to see if he would continue with his diatribe or give her an explanation.
“What is this? The urine of a goat? It is disgusting!” His expression underscored his words. “I thought you were drinking wine, but this liquid must be something new, a torture perhaps, or a cure for some dreaded disease!” He tried to decipher the label.
She swallowed her bite of sandwich, hiding her grin. “It’s an inexpensive American wine. I'm not much of a wine drinker, so I find it adequate.”
“Wine? Bah! This is nothing but sour, colored water! What is the name of the wine it is supposed to be disguising itself as?”
She turned the bottle around so it faced her. “It says it’s a Chablis—”
“This isn't even a good enough table wine to serve the British!”
Finally she couldn't hold it in anymore and began chuckling. Her chuckles turned into laughter, then uncontrolled mirth.
“What is so funny?” he asked, exasperation etched on his features, and she knew he was wondering if she couldn't be just the slightest bit looney. She laughed even harder. He wasn't too far from wrong if that was what he was thinking!
“I'm sorry,” she gasped when she finally caught her breath. “It's just that this is such a stupid situation! I'm supposed to be here to rest and regain my health. Instead, I find a ghost, even sit down to have a meal with him. And all we can do is argue about bad wine!”
Armand's face cleared, showing smug satisfaction. “Ahhh, so you agree with me about the wine?”
“The wine?” she sputtered, laughter bubbling out again. “Leave it to a man to try to prove his point, even when the world stops spinning!”
Gradually she calmed down to a giggle. He glanced at her, then reached for a sandwich. He examined the filling carefully before taking a wary bite. “Tell me. Do you not like men? Is that why you make such barbs about us?”
Her smile faded. “I'm not too fond of men right now. But if you're asking whether I prefer women, the answer is definitely no.”
His frown disappeared. A bird twittered above. “I see. I did not think so, for when I held you in my arms, you responded.”
“It was only an instinctive response, just like your body responding to holding me. You were warm, and I was cold and wet.”
“You should not have noticed my response,” he admonished sternly, a frown puckering his wide brow, “It is most unladylike.”
“Oh, for heaven's sake,” she said, feeling better now that he was the uncomfortable one.
His brows rose, but he made no reply. Hope reached for another half sandwich. So did Armand. He was hungry enough not to ask about the contents, even though he was obviously suspicious.
“What will happen next, do you think?” he asked; she paused before answering.
“I think we need to find out why you have never rested since, uh, since your demise.”
“My death?”
“Yes,” she said. “There must be a reason.” She began digging through the picnic bag, finally finding the photos on the bottom. He had been so concerned earlier with the process of photography that she had forgotten to show him all the shots and to ask him about the event they represented. “Here. Study these and tell me what you remember.” She held them out.
Armand stared at the photos, obviously reluctant.
She shook them. “They won't hurt you. Take them.”
With careful deliberation he sat up, crossing his legs and sitting directly across from her. He wiped his hands on his pants, then reached for the photos. One by one, he studied them, his face becoming more set with every print. When he was through, he started over.
“Well? Do you remember anything?” she asked, excitement lacing her voice.
“Yes. I remember it all.”
“Great!” She leaned forward expectantly. “Who were they? What did they want? Which one hurt you?”
A lean finger pointed to the man in high boots with a cape of furs tied around his shoulders. “This one is a trapper who lived more at Grand Portage than in the wild. His name was François Tourbet. This one—” he indicated the long-faced man next to Tourbet “—used to scout for Faith's father. He was a quiet man. Jacques Pillon. And this one—” He pointed to the one who stood alone at the side. “This is one of the crudest men I have ever encountered. His name is Henri Houdon, and he used to tease the men constantly to urge them to fight. He hated everyone. Everyone except Captain Trevor. And sometimes I think he only tolerated the captain because Henri needed his goodwill so he would not be thrown out of the territory.”
“Which one killed you?”
He looked at the photographs again, laying them carefully on the sheet, then rearranging them, just as Hope had done earlier. “There is no picture of the murder,” Armand muttered, as if to himself. Then he stared out toward the rock, his mind obviously turning back to that hideous scene. “I was so impatient. I had traveled to Port Huron disguised as a voyageur, because the French soldiers were not welcome there. I had hired Jacques Pillon at Port Huron to guide me to my brother at Fort Francis, his last known location. We stopped at Grand Portage, only to find out that the Ottawa tribe was at war with another tribe. Jacques picked up the other two men because they knew the territory by land, and instead of following the Pigeon River to Fort Francis, we had to skirt the tribes by going overland in a circular route. We came south from Grand Portage and began swinging up when we came to this islands staying on it so the roaming Indians could not reach us easily. It was here that I buried my small brass chest and changed into my uniform. From this point on we were in the territory France controlled. However, the chest was too cumbersome to carry, and I did not trust my fellow travelers. I had a journal, and a miniature of Faith in that chest.”
He closed his eyes for a moment, and when he opened them again they held a bleakness that wrenched at Hope's soul. “I had been trying to talk my brother into returning home and taking up his duties as head of the household. But he refused. I finally gave up and we returned by the same path we had taken before. When we reached this island, the others camped down below, and I came up here. I was getting ready to dig up my chest when they came upon me.”
Hope's brow furrowed. “Why would they want the chest? It doesn't seem to have much value to me.”
He continued as if she hadn't spoken. “I had the key on my person. A large ivory key bound in brass. I treasured the chest because it contained my wedding gift for Faith. I was going to present her with it when we reached the ship and the captain performed the wedding ceremony.
” His expression clouded with the darkness of bitter memories washing over him. “She was my life, my love. Everything.”
A lump formed in Hope's throat as she watched the handsome man in front of her crying quietly, tears coursing unstemmed down his cheeks. “She was everything to me,” he whispered. “The sun would not shine if she was not near.” He was lost in his memories of a love so strong that, hoping to find her again, he hadn't been able to leave this earth when he should have.
She cleared her throat. “Why would they want a miniature of Faith?”
He looked at her as if seeing her for the first time since he had begun speaking. He smiled, a sad, bittersweet gesture that touched her heart. “Not the painting. They wanted my journal, knowing that it would be harmful to Faith's father and themselves. Things were not right at the trading posts the voyageurs were using. Men were cheating France as well as England. And they knew I had probably kept a record of it.”
“So that was their motive for killing you?” Hope leaned forward, her hand touching his as if to encourage him to keep talking.
“Oui. That, and the fact that somehow they knew Faith and I were to leave in four nights' time, when I reached Port Huron.” His face twisted in pain. “But how did they know? No one knew, except Faith and myself and the man who was to help us navigate the lakes and rivers.”
“Perhaps the navigator got scared. Perhaps he went to the captain.”
“No.” Armand's tone was definite. “He wanted to get away as badly as we did. His wife was with child and waiting for him in New York. They were to open a bakery together. He was so excited, so happy to be leaving the wilderness and returning to civilization, if you could call the muddy streets of New York that.”
Hope remembered her last visit to New York. If Armand could only see it now! “Could Faith's father have badgered her into telling him? After all, he was her father.”
He shook his head. “No. She was frightened of him, I know, but she wanted to leave with me as much as I wanted her to come. She loved me. I know it!”
Hope's heart went out to him. Despite what he said, she knew he now doubted Faith's love. In the beginning she'd been willing to believe that Faith had not loved him enough, but now she wasn't sure. Was it wishful thinking on her part, wanting to believe in a love more real to her than Romeo and Juliet?
The Ivory Key Page 4