Freedom to Love

by Susanna Fraser

  Henry would have preferred to make for Mobile. There was still a chance that his army was there, and the sooner he found a ship bound for England or an English possession, the happier he would be. He didn’t belong here, and he wasn’t a deserter. He needed to get back to his own countrymen and his proper place in the world. But they couldn’t plunge ahead in ignorance. In the end he and Thérèse concluded Nashville was their best choice. They would find a pawnshop in Natchez, sell the garnet earrings and the rosary beads that were the least remarkable of her father’s treasure trove and buy the horses and gear they’d need for the next stage of the journey.

  “Must it be horses?” Thérèse asked as he sat up with her and Jeannette on the night before they were to arrive in Natchez.

  “It’s faster than walking. Easier, too, once you have the knack of it.”

  “Not a wagon or a carriage?”

  “A riding horse for each of us should be cheaper. Also, I gather the road isn’t ideal, especially in the winter. A horse won’t bog down in mud the way a wagon might.”

  “You’re looking forward to it.”

  He didn’t deny it. “We’ll make a horsewoman out of you yet,” he promised.

  “I never wanted to be one.”

  “Sometimes life forces us to learn unexpected lessons.”

  She smiled, a little sourly. “True, and as long as I can avoid breaking my neck, I suppose riding will be one of the easier ones.”

  He and Thérèse had come to a wary peace since the night he’d shot the alligator. They were careful never to be alone in private, and when in public to maintain an elegant courtesy that befitted both the runaway lovers Cutler and Wilson believed them to be and the happy young married couple everyone else aboard took them for. Oh, he still dreamed of her some nights, and found himself burning with lust from something as simple as her slim, elegant profile silhouetted against the Enterprize’s rail at sunset or the way her black hair gleamed in candlelight. But it was hardly the first time he’d wanted something he had no right to have.

  Chapter Eight

  Thérèse tried not to look as frightened as she felt as she watched Captain Farlow bargain with a horse trader for the tall, rolling-eyed beasts that would carry them to Nashville and maybe beyond. He’d already settled on a restless chestnut mare for himself and a calm little gray gelding for Jeannette, who was playing the part of a meek slave and therefore could not voice her protests aloud, though Thérèse was privy to her mutterings in Creole about being forced to ride a poky little pony.

  “Don’t worry,” Thérèse murmured in the same language. “If he really buys me that giant monster, I’ll trade with you.”

  “Ah, now she’s a beauty.” Jeannette sighed in love-struck appreciation.

  The dark bay mare was taller even than the captain’s chestnut. Thérèse supposed if she saw someone else riding her, she too would’ve found beauty in the glossy dark coat accented by a single white stocking on one of her forelegs and in the high, proud way the mare carried her head atop her long, elegant neck. But the horse was entirely too big. How could Captain Farlow think her capable of controlling such an enormous creature? And when she fell, as she inevitably would, how was she to survive a tumble from such a height? She hadn’t made it this far to break her neck falling from a horse.

  The captain and the horse trader had reached the bargaining stage now. Earlier that morning, while they had shopped for clothing and food, Thérèse had done her best to subtly guide Captain Farlow to keep him from paying too much for anything in what was to him unfamiliar currency. Here she was no help at all. She had no idea how much was appropriate to pay for three horses, and even if she’d been an expert horsewoman, she sensed that a woman’s opinions would not be welcomed.

  But the captain was in his element. He was using a subtler version of his French accent, just enough to keep him from sounding English, and his eyes sparkled as he pointed out various subtle weaknesses of the three horses in an effort to lower their price. At least, Thérèse hoped the weaknesses were subtle. Surely the gray gelding wasn’t really too old for such a long journey, nor the chestnut too bad-tempered to be ridden in company with other beasts, and she couldn’t begin to see what was wrong with the length of the bay’s back, except that it was just as large and long as the rest of her.

  But after about half an hour the two men shook hands with every expression of mutual satisfaction, and the dealer remarked on what a pleasure it was to deal with a true horseman for a change.

  “We’ll be back for them just after dawn tomorrow,” Captain Farlow said.

  “I’ll have them saddled and bridled as promised,” the dealer said.

  The captain grinned as he offered her his arm to lead her back into the street, with Jeannette trailing behind like a good servant.

  “Now, that was quite a bargain, if I’m any judge at all,” he said in French.

  “Why is it bad for a horse to have a long back?” she asked.

  “Long backs aren’t as strong.”

  “You bought me a horse with a weak back?”

  He laughed. “Not at all, for our purposes. I merely pointed out that the mare’s conformation isn’t perfect. She’ll do very well for you. She’s fairly young still, nine years old, and you’re slender. Now, if she were twice her age and you were twice your weight, her back might pose a difficulty.”

  “And the other two?”

  “Well, the gray is rather elderly, but it isn’t as though I’m buying him to keep in my stable for the next decade. He’s a good horse for a new rider.”

  “I know how to ride,” Jeannette protested.

  “Hush,” Thérèse told her.

  Captain Farlow glanced over his shoulder. “Yes, but you haven’t had a great deal of practice. I daresay by the time we reach Nashville, you’ll be seasoned enough to ride almost anything, but you aren’t there yet.”

  “Could I ride your horse?”

  “I said almost anything. That one is stubborn and hasn’t always been well treated, unless I miss my guess. I can manage her, though. I like a challenging horse.”

  “I wish you’d found me a smaller one,” Thérèse said. “I’d feel safer on Jeannette’s pony.”

  “You’ll change your mind once you’ve ridden your bay. She’s an ambler.”

  “An ambler?”

  “Yes. She’s smooth-gaited. She’ll rattle your bones less on a long day on the trail than either of the other two.”

  “Oh. I don’t suppose they had any small amblers.”

  “No. She was the only one.”

  Thérèse sighed. “Very well. I trust you. I think.”

  He inclined his head. “I am honored.”

  She was glad to be off the boat, with solid ground under her feet, though she’d be gladder still to be out of Natchez. Though the town had its share of splendid mansions high on the bluffs overlooking the river, she, Captain Farlow and Jeannette were keeping to the rougher environs of Natchez-Under-the-Hill, the area immediately surrounding the landing where boats took on their cargoes. In the course of a few hours, they had found a pawnshop that gave her a decent price for the garnets and the rosary and a room in a ramshackle inn for the night, along with clothing, supplies and horses. Thérèse couldn’t say she was looking forward to spending several weeks riding through rough country and staying in places that would doubtless make tonight’s inn look like the finest in New Orleans by comparison, but at least they’d begin their journey with the proper supplies.

  “Captain.” Jeannette’s voice was so low and urgent it stopped both Thérèse and Captain Farlow in their tracks. They whirled to face her.

  “What is it?” he asked.

  She thrust a printed sheet of paper into Captain Farlow’s hands. It looked to be the sort of handbill commonly posted on walls or in windows to adverti
se an auction, seek sailors for a ship’s crew or something of similar public interest. “I don’t read English as well as French,” she said. “But does this say what I think it says?”

  Captain Farlow’s eyes widened, and his hands shook. Thérèse leaned closer to peer at the page and had to clutch his elbow tightly against the sudden wobbling of her knees when she saw the five words printed in large, black type atop the handbill.

  “Murderer,” he read, pronouncing the syllables as carefully as a child just learning to read. “Thieves. Runaways. Reward offered.”

  Then he squinted at the small, closely printed text that filled the rest of the page. His lips worked uncertainly, and his brows drew together in obvious bafflement. It was as if he couldn’t read the smaller print. But surely there was nothing wrong with his vision, or he wouldn’t be such a confident and deadly marksman.

  The past few days on the Enterprize, when she’d made Jeannette practice her reading, Captain Farlow had always been careful to avoid putting himself in a position where he’d be asked to read, hadn’t he? He’d sat a little apart, and that one time Jeannette had asked him to read a passage, he’d claimed the bright sunlight was paining his eyes.

  Now Thérèse met her sister’s eyes and saw the same realization dawn on her face. Captain Farlow, son of privilege that he was, could barely read. How was it possible? It couldn’t be that no one had tried to teach him. He spoke both English and French with ease and fluency, and he certainly seemed quick-thinking and alert in general. Was that why he kept saying that he wasn’t clever like his brothers, when he’d given every appearance of being intelligent in all of her dealings with him?

  But she couldn’t think about this now. She had to know if this handbill was about them. “Here,” she said in the calmest voice she could manage. “I’ll read it.”

  She took the page from his unresisting hands and read aloud in a voice that seemed to belong to someone else. “‘On the fourteenth day of January, Bertrand Bondurant—’” she swayed, and Captain Farlow’s grip on her elbow tightened, “‘—planter of Orleans Parish, was slaughtered in cold blood on the old Bondurant Plantation in St. Bernard Parish, near the site of the late battle in which General Jackson’s troops secured so glorious a victory to our nation’s honor and credit. He was slain by a stranger, a man pretending to be a Frenchman, but there is ample reason to suppose him a British DESERTER’—that part is in all capitals—”

  “I’m not a deserter,” Captain Farlow said woodenly. Thérèse glanced up at him. He looked paler than he had on the worst day of his fever when she’d expected him to die.

  “What does it matter?” Jeannette said in a fierce whisper.

  His eyes widened in shock and outrage, but he swallowed and motioned for Thérèse to continue.

  “‘This criminal is a man between twenty and thirty years, of middling height, with fair hair, light eyes and an air of deceptive courtesy and mildness. He fled and was last seen at the docks in New Orleans in the company of Thérèse Bondurant, a quadroon of one-and-twenty years, fair in both complexion and form, and a young mulatto girl, Jeannette, a slave belonging to the Bondurant estate. It must be assumed they took ship, but we do not know whether they traveled upriver or down. For the man who captures any or all of these fugitives, Jean-Baptiste Bondurant, brother of the deceased, will provide a handsome REWARD—’ again, capital letters, ‘—of five hundred dollars for all three of them together, or three hundred for the murderer alone, and...’” Thérèse’s voice trailed off. She balled the notice up in her fist. “I suppose it’s good to know how much each of us is worth.”

  “This isn’t the only one,” Jeannette muttered. “There were at least three posted there.” She jerked her head toward a tavern some ten yards behind them.

  “Did anyone see you take that?” Thérèse asked.

  “I don’t think so. At least, no one is noticing us yet.”

  But they weren’t helping matters by standing in a dismayed cluster in the midst of the bustling crowd. Thérèse looked to Captain Farlow, who’d been so quick to think of a plan when he’d killed Bertrand.

  He stood pale and frozen, staring out toward the river with unseeing eyes.

  She couldn’t let him do this. She had to get him moving again, thinking again. She pinched his arm hard until he looked at her. “Captain,” she said. “Start walking. We can’t keep standing here.”

  He stepped forward.

  “I need you to think,” she said as she fell into step at his side. “We need a plan—a place to go, a way out of here before anyone suspects us. You thought of one that morning. You can think of one now.” He was still the same person. She had to make him see that.

  “It’s different now.”

  “For Jeannette and me it’s exactly the same.”

  That got through to him. He nodded and shook his head like a dog shaking off water. “We can’t stay overnight,” he said. “The longer we’re here, the more likely someone is to notice us. But nor can we make it obvious we’re fleeing. Hmm...you and Jeannette will go back to the inn. Claim you met an old friend who lives in the upper town who very kindly invited you to stay for the evening. Laugh and look delighted, apologize prettily for the trouble and don’t press for your money back.”

  “Wouldn’t it look less suspicious if we asked for it?” Jeannette, who hovered just behind them, put in.

  “We want her to think kindly of us above all. If she sees the handbills, she’ll think it couldn’t possibly mean that lovely couple and that sweet girl who were so generous. And so Jeannette, you will act foolish and happy, because you’ve never stayed in so fine a house before. Thérèse, you will walk into that inn believing that you are white, that you are nothing but white, that no one could possibly suspect otherwise. You’ve nothing to be afraid of. You’re happy to have met your friend again and that she has such a grand new home. Happy and silly, both of you. Then get our things and meet me at the horse dealer’s, but don’t rush or let yourself look afraid.”

  “What will you do?” Thérèse asked. “You told that man to have the horses ready in the morning.”

  “I will have met friends, too, but in my case the friends are ready to ride out within an hour. If we go with them, we’ll be safer on the road and have good company on the journey. How could we say no? If he balks or says he can’t have them ready, I’ll pay him more for his pains. We may need to pawn more of your jewels by Nashville, but it can’t be helped.”

  “At least we’ll get there.” She hoped saying it made it true. “Thank you. I knew you’d think of a clever plan.”

  “Oh, I’m far from clever.” His voice was heavy with sadness. “But I’ll do my best for you. Here, we’ll break apart at the corner, and I’ll see you both soon.”

  * * *

  The horse trader accepted Henry’s explanation of the need for an early departure cheerfully enough, though he warned him the gray pony’s front shoes were a trifle loose—he’d been planning to take him to the farrier that afternoon. Henry promised to keep a watchful eye on him and helped saddle all three horses while he waited for Thérèse and Jeannette.

  They knew. He’d made it all these years without anyone discovering his struggles with the written word. They must wonder at it. They must despise him, especially Jeannette, who’d had so little opportunity to learn but had taken so naturally to her letters.

  And the contents of that handbill! He’d had a niggling worry all along that he might be viewed as a deserter, especially once they’d been forced to flee upriver, but somehow hearing it stated so baldly made it impossible to push it to the back of his mind any longer. What if the army took the same view of it that Jean-Baptiste Bondurant had? What if, when he returned, they did not welcome him with open arms, rejoicing to find him alive, but sent him to be court-martialed? He thought he could bear any penalty, even up to death, but he couldn’t endur
e the shame of dying labeled a coward and a traitor, nor the scandal it would visit upon his family. He’d been too much trouble to them already.

  Yet he couldn’t give up and let himself be captured. Jeannette and Thérèse needed him. He’d gotten them into this mess when he killed Bertrand, and he owed them the best of his poor efforts to see them to safety.

  Ah, there they were now, swaying under the weight of laden saddlebags. Jeannette was laughing and rolling her eyes, while Thérèse had adopted a nice air of regal amusement. They certainly didn’t look like fugitives. Perhaps they would escape this place after all.

  But Thérèse’s smile disappeared when he led her to her horse.

  * * *

  Somehow Thérèse had to will her leaden feet to leave the ground so she could mount that monster of a horse. They wouldn’t be safe until she did.

  “This is Queenie,” Captain Farlow told her. “I saddled her myself, and she couldn’t be more good-natured. I’m sorry there wasn’t a sidesaddle for you, but you may feel more secure riding astride in any case.”

  Thérèse didn’t care what kind of saddle she had. “She’s so big. What if I fall?”

  “Then you’ll dust yourself off and get back on again. I’ve fallen more times than I can recall, and so did my brothers, when we were learning.”

  “And none of you broke your necks?” He’d mentioned two brothers. What if there had once been three?

  “Never worse than bruises.”