Legacy: A Novel

by Danielle Steel

  She wandered around the room, opening drawers and cupboards, in awe of everything she saw, and eventually an enormous silver tray appeared, with meats and vegetables and fruit on it. There was a choice of sauces, a plate with cheese and bread, and a beautifully presented dessert. She cried when she saw it because they were being so kind to her, but all she really wanted here was Jean.

  She slept fitfully in the enormous canopied bed, draped in swaths of pink satin, with tassels everywhere, and a wondrous feather bed. She dreamed of the white buffalo again, and didn’t know what it meant. The last time it happened, Jean had died, and she wondered if he was coming back to her now in spirit. She wished he would tell her what to do now. She was lost here without him, and Tristan was equally so about what to do with her. He had visions of her living in the attic of the château until she was an old woman, a legacy left to him by his brother. But what else could he do with her? He couldn’t send her back to America, since she said she couldn’t return to her people. He couldn’t turn her away, or refuse her shelter and care. He couldn’t really keep her there forever, unless he found something useful for her to do, and he had no idea what she was capable of. Probably not much. None of the women he knew would have been capable of surviving on their own, without the protection of their families and men. And Wachiwi was from an entirely different world and knew nothing of theirs. She was totally alone.

  In the morning, Wachiwi dressed carefully in one of the dresses Jean had given her. She would have liked to go out to the gardens, but had no idea how to get there, so she walked up the stairs to where she guessed the nursery was instead. And she was right. The children’s voices grew louder as she approached a room just over her own, and she could hear the governess scolding them. She knocked as Jean had taught her to do and opened the door, and there they were. Agathe was sitting on the floor holding a doll and playing a game, and Matthieu was playing with a hoop, which the governess had just told him to put down at once.

  Wachiwi smiled at them, and they bounded over to her the moment they saw her. They looked delighted, and she talked to them for a few minutes. She said she wanted to go to the gardens but didn’t know how to get there, and Matthieu instantly begged the governess to let them show her. Looking pained by the whole experience and Wachiwi’s visit, she agreed, and a few minutes later, with coats on, they all ran down the stairs, as Wachiwi followed. It was cold outside, but sunny, and there was a stiff November wind, but running through the maze, across the grass and in between the flower beds, both children stayed warm, and chasing them in their games, so did Wachiwi. She was having a wonderful time with them, and looked like a child herself. None of them noticed when the children’s father appeared and stood to one side watching them. He had never seen his children have so much fun.

  Wachiwi noticed him only when she crashed into him, running away from Matthieu. She was startled when she saw him, and out of breath. She apologized profusely and looked embarrassed.

  “Don’t let them wear you out!” he warned.

  “I love playing with them,” Wachiwi said, breathless from their games, and he could see that she meant it. And with that Mademoiselle used the opportunity to say it was time to wash up before lunch, and spirited them away. “You have wonderful children!” Wachiwi said admiringly. “We’ve had a lovely time together this morning.” She was still smiling as she said it, and sorry they had left.

  “How did you sleep?” he asked, looking serious.

  “Very well, thank you.” It was one of those standard responses that was one of the first Jean had taught her. But in fact, she hadn’t. She had barely slept at all. “It’s a very comfortable bed.” That was true, but her bad dreams and concerns about her future now made it irrelevant how soft the bed was. And she didn’t want to seem ungrateful to him. She was well aware that what happened to her now was not his problem, and he was being very kind, out of love and respect for his brother and the woman he had wanted to make his wife.

  “I’m glad to hear that. I hope you’re warm enough. The house can get a little chilly.” She laughed then.

  “So can a tipi.” He looked at her, not sure what to say, and he laughed too. She was so open about everything, and not afraid to be who she was, or say what she thought, without ever being inappropriate or rude. “Your brother said you have wonderful stables.” She was aching to see them, but she didn’t want to push.

  “I wouldn’t go that far. I was going to buy some new horses in the spring. We have some good ones. I use them mostly for hunting.” She nodded. “Would you like to see the stables?” He didn’t know what else to suggest to her. He was planning to have lunch with her, to be polite, but the stables would provide a welcome distraction before that. He assumed they had very little in common, and conversation would be pretty thin. His brother must have talked to her about something, or maybe their relationship was all about physical attraction and passion. But he had to admit, the French Jean had taught her was excellent. She made few mistakes, and usually corrected them herself when she did. He had taught her well, and she had had two months of constant practice on the boat. Jean had been very diligent with her about it, preparing her for their arrival in France, into his world.

  Wachiwi followed him to the stables, and Tristan saw her face come alive when she entered. She went from stall to stall, checking out his horses, sometimes she went in, and felt their muscles or their legs. She talked to them soothingly in what Tristan assumed was Sioux, and she singled out each of his best horses with a practiced eye.

  “You must like to ride,” he said pleasantly, impressed by how at ease she was with them and what she seemed to know.

  She laughed at what he said. “Yes, I do. I have five brothers. I used to ride with them, and sometimes they would have me race against their friends.”

  “Horse races?” Tristan looked startled. He had never known a woman who raced horses. But Wachiwi knew he had never known a Sioux, although she had been unusual in her tribe too. None of the young girls raced horses against the men, or at all, except Wachiwi. He was guessing that the horses she had ridden had been very tame. “Would you like to go for a ride this afternoon?” he suggested. It would be something for her to do. He was treating her like an honored guest, which she was. She had come all the way from New Orleans to marry his brother, and now she had nothing to do and no reason to be here, and he had even less reason to be with her. If riding would help pass the time while he attempted to entertain her, he was game. Her eyes lit up the minute he suggested it.

  “You ride sidesaddle, of course?” he questioned, and she shook her head.

  “No, I don’t.” She had seen women riding sidesaddle in New Orleans, but it looked awkward and uncomfortable to her, and like a very insecure and silly way to ride. She had said as much to Jean at the time, and he laughed and told her she would have to learn. It was the only thing he had ever told her that she refused. Riding was sacred to her.

  “What do you prefer?” Tristan asked, looking bemused. He couldn’t imagine her riding astride like a man, although perhaps it was a tradition for women to do so among the Sioux.

  “No saddle at all. Just bridle and reins.” Jean had told her what they were called. “I’ve ridden that way all my life.” She didn’t mention her little trick of sometimes riding along the side of the horse. Tristan looked startled at what she had suggested, but he was suddenly curious to see what kind of rider she was. “Will anyone see us?” she asked, which shocked him even more.

  “Just the grooms and stable boys.”

  “May I wear whatever I choose?” He was a little frightened by what she was suggesting, and wanting to be polite to his brother’s almost-bride, he nodded. “I’d like to wear one of my old dresses when I ride. I can’t ride properly in all this.” She looked down at her voluminous skirt, the gloves, the bonnet, the shoes. It was just too much, and impossible for her to ride that way.

  “Do whatever pleases you, my dear,” he said kindly. “We’ll have a nice ride in the hil
ls after lunch. Did you see any particular horse that struck your fancy in the stables?” he asked, as they walked back to the château. The stables were set apart and had been built more recently. She had seen one horse she liked, and described him to Tristan, who looked shocked. “He’s quite dangerous. He’s not fully broken yet. I don’t want you to get hurt.” His brother would never have forgiven him. He had a responsibility to her now, even if it was different from the custom in her tribe, where a surviving brother had to marry his dead brother’s wife, as Napayshni had. She hadn’t been Jean’s wife. And that wasn’t the custom in France. But he did feel somewhat responsible for her, and was still trying to figure out what that meant, how far the obligation went, and what he should do. For now it meant entertaining her civilly, and providing her a home until she figured out somewhere else to go. And he realized that under the circumstances it might take months, so they had to make the best of it for now. He was trying, but that didn’t mean getting her killed on an unreliable horse.

  They had lunch in the enormous dining room, at the far end of an endless table. And the cook had made them a very good fish soup. Wachiwi ate it all and the plentiful cheese and fruit they served afterward. And then she went upstairs to get ready for their ride. When she came back, Tristan was more than a little surprised to see her wrapped in a blanket. She had brought it with her, and beneath it she was wearing her elkskin dress with the quills, and the doeskin leggings that went with it. On her feet were the beaded moccasins she had made herself. She was entirely comfortable and at ease and moved with a striking grace. Looking at her, Tristan was mildly embarrassed and hoped that no one but the grooms would see her, but as he followed her to the stables, he noticed that she moved with the lithe agility of a dancer, worthy of her name. And he made no comment about her dress other than to ask her if she was sure she could ride in that. He had already tried to talk her into a different horse, to no avail. When she was pressed, he could see that she was a headstrong girl. He tried not to notice the look on the grooms’ faces when she mounted bareback in the elkskin dress. Their eyes bulged in amazement, but they said not a word. Her jet-black hair streamed down her back. The horse began to prance as soon as she was mounted, and instantly he saw something different come over her, and within a second she was one with the horse, and the skittish mount began to calm down. She rode him serenely from the stables with a practiced hand, and Tristan followed her on his own familiar horse, which was spirited and solid, but not as wild or as fast or as racy as the one she was on. Wachiwi looked peaceful and happy, as Tristan watched her, fascinated by her control of the horse. She mastered him with ease.

  They said nothing for a few minutes as they followed a path Tristan knew well, and when her horse began to dance again, she startled Tristan by giving him his head and took off like a shot. The horse was so fast and she so glued to it that he couldn’t even follow, and suddenly as he watched her, Tristan knew what he was seeing, an incredibly gifted rider with more skill than any man he had ever seen. She flew, she galloped, she jumped over a hedge, she lay flat against the horse, she controlled him totally, and he wasn’t sure who was having more fun, Wachiwi or her mount. She was the most incredible rider he had ever seen. She was a joy to watch. And he was laughing when he caught up to her at last. He was breathless. She was not. She looked blissful and totally at ease.

  “Remind me never to try and teach you anything about a horse. Good God, you’re an amazing rider. Now I can see why your brothers bet on you in races. I imagine they never lost. It’s a pity we can’t do that here.” And he looked as though he meant it. Watching her on horseback was poetry in motion. He had never had a riding partner anything like her, woman or man.

  “Why not?” She was interested in what he said, as they slowly turned back to the château after a two-hour ride in the hills. She hated to go back, and this time so did he.

  “Women don’t race horses,” he said simply, and she nodded.

  “They don’t with my people either.” And then she added, “Your brother was a good rider.” She remembered their long flight from the Crow village to St. Louis. Lesser riders than both of them would have been killed. Their skill and expertise had saved their lives.

  “Yes, he was,” Tristan agreed.

  “So are you,” she said, smiling at him. “I had a good time riding with you today.” He was far more circumspect than she, and was astride a slower horse, but she could see that he was an excellent rider too. Just not as wild as she. Few riders were.

  “So did I,” he admitted easily. He was enjoying her company. And her conversation was easy and intelligent. “It’s fun riding with you, Wachiwi. Maybe it’s the dress,” he teased her. “It must be a magic dress.”

  “I wore it when your brother and I escaped from the village where the Crow had taken me as a slave.” He was shocked to hear it. It made him realize how little he knew about her life, and the customs of her people. Being taken as a slave sounded horrifying to him. “Your brother saved me. We rode hard for many days to get away.” She didn’t tell him about killing Napayshni. He didn’t need to know.

  “That must have been frightening,” he said in an awed voice, aware of how uninformed he was about her relationship with his brother.

  “Yes, it was,” she said calmly. “I tried to escape many times, but they always caught me and brought me back.” She showed him the mark on her dress where she had been shot with the arrow. She had repaired it, but the mark was still there, as it was on her shoulder as well. She had a nasty scar where she’d been shot, but didn’t show him that. Jean knew it well.

  “How terrifying. You’re a very brave girl.” He was curious about her then. There was more to this young woman than met the eye. She was not just beautiful, pleasant to talk to, and an excellent rider, she had a history and abilities that he knew nothing about, and which he suspected were fascinating. She looked like a child, but she wasn’t. Perhaps his brother knew what he was doing after all. Tristan had doubted it for a moment when he first saw her, and thought her only an exotic, pretty girl. But he didn’t now. “Was your father a chief?” She nodded. He had suspected as much from her confidence, dignity, and grace.

  “A great one. White Bear. My brothers will be too one day. They are already brave warriors now.” And then she looked at him sadly. She missed them so much and thought of them often. They were so far away now, and she fully realized she would never see them again. It brought tears to her eyes. “Two of them were killed when I was taken by the Crow. I never saw the others again. And I never will now. If I go back to my father’s tribe, the Crow will make war on them, because I ran away from them. I was given to their chief.”

  “Remarkable,” Tristan said quietly, wondering what else she had in her history, other than that amazing story and her incredible skill with horses. They led their horses into the stable, and Wachiwi followed him back to the château after they dismounted. It was late by then. They had ridden longer than planned, but they had both enjoyed it. He was tired now, but Wachiwi looked more alive than ever. The ride in the hills at full speed had been good for her soul.

  “I’m going to Paris tomorrow for a few days,” Tristan told her before he left her.

  “To visit the king’s court?” she asked with interest, sounding like Matthieu or Agathe.

  “Probably. I have some other things to do as well. When I come back, we’ll have to ride again. Perhaps you can show me some of your tricks.” She laughed openly as he said it, and she turned to smile at him.

  “I will teach you to ride like a Sioux.”

  “After what I saw today, I think I’d like that. Thank you, Wachiwi.” He smiled back at her, and went up the grand staircase to his rooms.

  As Wachiwi found her way back to her own suite, she could hear the children laughing in the nursery. Instead of going straight to her room, she stopped to say hello to them. She forgot that she was still wearing her elkskin dress, and they were fascinated by it. Predictably, their governess looked shocked an
d turned away from such a disgusting sight.

  “I saw you ride with Papa today,” Matthieu commented, “from the window. You were riding very fast.”

  “Yes, I was,” she admitted. “I like to do that sometimes.”

  “I don’t like horses,” Agathe interjected, and Wachiwi didn’t try to change her mind. In their world, that was probably a good thing, and entirely expected.

  “Will you teach me to ride like that?” Matthieu asked her, looking wistful.

  “If your father says I may.” She didn’t tell him that his father wanted to learn to ride that way too, and had asked. Maybe teaching both of them was something she could do for them in exchange for their kindness and hospitality to her. She felt useless here otherwise. She had not come here to do nothing. She had come to be Jean’s wife. And now she had to find something else to do. Teaching the marquis and his son to ride like Sioux warriors was going to be fun for her, and maybe for them too. “You have to ask your father. I will do whatever he says,” Wachiwi said wisely, as the governess sniffed and glared at her. She had never in her entire life seen anything as shocking as Wachiwi’s elkskin dress, and she said as much to Agathe after she left.

  “I liked it!” the little girl said defiantly. “And the blue things on it are pretty. She said she made them herself with berries.” Agathe was proud of her new friend. It was nice having a young woman around, one who was kind to them, and not a sourpuss like Mademoiselle.