Catherine nodded to show she'd heard, but didn't respond further. She remembered now. The alligator had been real, not a dream, and when she had given up on escaping, a man had grabbed her. He must have brought her here, and this was his wife.
"Merci," Catherine croaked. Her throat was raw and dry.
"Your poor throat! Do not speak. You must have some water. I cannot imagine how long you have been without it." Emmalyn left Catherine's field of vision, but kept talking. "We heard that a ship had gone down and have talked to two men who escaped drowning along with the rest of the crew. You are the only other person to be found alive. What were you doing on that ship? The men we talked to said they were merchants hauling goods to New Orleans. Women aren't often found on such trips."
Catherine's eyes closed again and a tear escaped. Genevieve must be dead! If there were only three survivors, she was truly alone, as whatever men who made it to shore would have been her captors and she had no desire to encounter them again. She would mourn all the poor female souls who had died, but Genevieve had been her vraie amie, and the loss left her feeling empty.
"Here, drink this." Emmalyn held a tin cup to Catherine's lips. The water in the cup was warm, but welcome. "I should not make you try to talk, madame. You must have been through terrible travails before Gilbert brought you here."
Catherine tried her voice again. "Merci, Emmalyn. This is the most wonderful place I've opened my eyes in many months."
"A few words and another sip of water. This?" Emmalyn looked around the close room, its low ceiling, and whitewashed earth walls, and sighed. "We have only this one room, and while the walls are thick enough in winter to keep us warm, they are not thick enough to keep out the mosquitoes in the summer."
"Yes, this. My home for too long has been a ship."
Emmalyn returned to the bucket near the enormous stone fireplace that dominated the north wall of the room and refilled the cup. Following her with her eyes, Catherine noted that the space, though small, was neatly kept and the dirt floor smooth. A primitive broom leaned against the door frame on the Southern wall, and while the door was closed, a bit of light shone through the oiled paper that covered a small window to its right.
"Your story is more fantastic than I could have imagined," Emmalyn said. "But there will be time to tell me everything later. You must rest, and when you feel stronger, we will decide what to do next."
"I'm afraid if I go to sleep I will wake up somewhere else." Catherine tried to keep the fretfulness of the invalid out of her tone. Her mother had never sounded impatient or peevish, even as she became bound to her bed because of her illness, and Catherine knew, even as weak as she felt, that she would be loosed of the bed soon. She didn't want to sound like a burden to the woman she knew to be ministering to her so much in so short a time. The memory of her mother once again strengthened her.
"No, madame. You will still be here." Emmalyn used the hand that had shaken her awake to stroke Catherine's hair out of her face and offered her another drink of water. "But before you go to sleep again, tell me your name so I can wake you more sweetly when it's time."
"Catherine. My name is Catherine."
"That is all? What surname do you carry?"
"My Christian name is the only one that matters." Even weakened by her ordeal, Catherine's voice was as rigid as an oak, and her muscles tensed like bark clinging to its trunk. "My husband was a brute. I will not claim Picard anymore, as he is an ocean away. My family is lost to me; they have no way of knowing where I am. I am just Catherine now."
Her declaration seemed to soften her whole body, as though some infrastructure had melted away, leaving her limp. As Catherine's eyes closed, Emmalyn stood watching the strange woman sink into sleep. In the twilight between waking and unconsciousness, Catherine thought to call out to her mother.
"Maman?" she said aloud, but only Emmalyn heard her and the spirit of her mother, the presence she had communicated with as she struggled with the terrible marriage to Robert Picard and the revolting drudgery of the asylum at Charenton, eluded her call. Fretful at the lack of response, Catherine slept, but even as she entered the place of dreams she took up another burden on the load she already carried. Her subconscious now struggled with the problem of why her mother's spirit was not answering her when she called out to her. Was the lack of response a message that her mother had moved on, not just from this world, but to a place where she could not respond to Catherine at all? Perhaps in dreams she would find the answer, and as her body healed itself from its misadventures, her mind might find peace as well.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
"I am happy to see you stronger this morning. It is well you can come to the table with us now and break bread instead of feeling too weak to move about the room here." Emmalyn beamed at Catherine.
The mistress of the small house had set bread and cups of rich coffee on the table, and Catherine ate the warm slices set before her with a thick carpet of fresh butter and honey. The bitterness of the coffee was a perfect counterpoint to the sweet repast.
"Gilbert, are you not happy to have our guest at our table?"
The man who sat opposite Catherine at the small, square table simply grunted.
"Oh, he is happy, I know. So quick to rescue you from that alligator. You could have been its breakfast instead of eating a breakfast here with us."
"I appreciate what you did for me, Monsieur Plessier, more than I can express in a few humble words." Catherine paused eating long enough to offer what was a markedly meager thanks. But really, how could she thank the man for her very life? His taciturn reaction to Emmalyn's question was typical for him. A quiet man, he was as capable an outdoorsman as he was a terrible conversationalist. The simple breakfast was no harbinger of the generous meals she had seen Emmalyn prepare from the game that her husband brought home so frequently.
"It is only happenstance that he was the one to come upon that scene. What providence was it that made him walk that way on the very morning you were to be found?" Emmalyn asked, and without waiting for an answer continued on. "The very work of God, I think. We should be giving thanks to Him as well. I am only sorry your friend was not found."
"Yes, madame, every day I do give thanks," Catherine assured her hostess. She knew, even from the few short days she had already spent with the couple, that Emmalyn was quite devout. Every morning before Catherine and Gilbert set off to walk the riverbank, the woman insisted they kneel for a prayer of protection and that Genevieve might be found alive. The thought of Genevieve, lost so close to the shore where the ship had foundered, made a sharp pain in her heart, but still, Catherine was alive. She had no idea what life would bring next, but she was alive.
Gilbert and Catherine continued to eat. She marveled at the eggs she had gathered herself, an experience she had never had as a merchant's daughter or later at Lac d'Or. The simple pleasures of helping Emmalyn around the farm made Catherine reflect on her place.
"What am I to do now?" she asked. "I cannot stay here with you. I will become a burden if I do, and this space is so small and so right for just the two of you. I lumber around it like a bull lumbering around a lady's dressing room."
"You have become part of our little family so quickly; of course you are welcome here as long as you need to stay. I know that the pallet we've made on the floor is not as comfortable as a bed, but we are warm and safe here, even though the season is ripe for storms."
"The pallet is a most comfortable bed, but I do feel that my presence is an imposition." Hospitality demanded that she press her case, even though if Emmalyn and Gilbert rejected her, she would be without a place to go.
"My dear, it is just Gilbert and I. We have never had the blessing of children, and now that I am at an age when most women are welcoming their grandchildren, I do not think we will be welcoming any bébés at all. Do not fret about space. You are fine company when Gilbert goes out on the hunt, and your willingness to do what you can to help means I have not any extra exertion because
of your presence."
Catherine nodded. She felt safe and welcomed in the house. She was hardly Cinderella; the pallet Emmalyn had made for her was more comfortable than the piles of straw she had been sleeping on the last few months, first in the asylum and then on the ship. Emmalyn might be exaggerating her contribution, but she did try to be conscious of the extra work she made and did her part when she could. On the small piece of land where the Plessier house stood, there was a tiny garden with vegetables, a milk cow, and several chickens. This agrarian setting meant there was always something to do. And even though she had grown up a merchant's daughter, when Emmalyn explained a job to her, she rarely had to ask how to perform it again but went to each new task willingly.
Still, the house was small and Catherine felt a deep instinct to strike out to find what might be waiting for her beyond the small acreage Gilbert and Emmalyn worked.
"When I was in town, I heard news of the ship that wrecked," Gilbert offered.
"Will they recover it?" Catherine asked.
"No, there's not much left of her. I heard that it went down and what the most important cargo was." He didn't meet Catherine's eyes, but waited for her response.
Catherine looked down at the empty trencher before her, avoiding Gilbert's eyes in case there was sanction there. Although she had been a victim from the start, when her husband Picard had sent her away and mercenary men had dragged her, along with others, onto the ship to deliver them in New France as wives, he might not understand. She had told Emmalyn her entire story, but Gilbert knew little of where she had come from and how she got to New France. What must he think of her, a woman brought to this new place much like a piece of furniture for someone to bid on to put in their salon.
"We knew the ship had foundered. What could they have been bringing?" Emmalyn asked, unaware of the weight of the question.
"Women."
"Women? How odd. What would they have been doing bringing women to this port?"
"They say the captain was a speculator and brought a cargo hold full of women to deliver to our newest men for wives. The two crewmen I talked to seemed to think there was a pretty penny to be made by delivering up a good wife to a lonely farmer."
"He was going to sell them? I am appalled! Coming out to help our Belle France make a new place on this side of the ocean is an honor and a privilege! Selling women to the highest bidder? That's slavery on its face. Imagine a man spending money on a woman and the poor thing being treated like a purchase!" Emmalyn had dropped into the third chair at the table as she tried to understand what Gilbert was saying. "Buying a wife!"
"Oh, I reckon a man spends enough on a woman he might as well have paid for her up front," Gilbert remarked.
Emmalyn was not amused.
"And I supposed I've spent my youth and beauty on you, Gilbert Plessier! Do not make a joke of it. It's despicable what that man, those men—someone—thought they were doing."
"I do not disagree," Gilbert said. "Our King has sent women to help raise families here in our new home, but they were sent to the convent in Nouvelle Orleans upon arrival. I did not hear of any money changing hands. And I think you've got plenty of your beauty still in the bank, ma femme, so do not fly into some outrage over what I meant as a jest. I do want to know what Catherine thought was happening when she began her trip."
Catherine paused before she started speaking, because she had certainly not been consulted about the events that brought her to the table she shared with the couple.
"I thought that I was being brought to New France to marry, and that the man who took us from the asylum was getting paid to deliver us here." How simple a statement to cover the monstrously long voyage that brought her to the Plessiers' table. "I had no choice. I was forced onto the ship, chained to my sister captives."
Gilbert took his wife's hand across the table and spoke. "You must stay with us, Catherine. The men I heard talking thought that all their 'cargo' had been lost, but were making plans to investigate the countryside in case some of their cargo had escaped. As long as you are in our house, you will be safe."
"Then here I will stay,' Catherine said.
"If anyone finds their way here, Gilbert will protect both of us. You do not have to go any further, Catherine. Our home is yours now." Emmalyn took Catherine's hand in hers so the three sat at the table, clasping hands as if they were about to pray.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
"Our little garden will feed us well enough, but Gilbert must look after the sugarcane crop." Emmalyn wielded a hoe and struck at the weeds between the neat clumps of produce in the tiny garden. In the flat sun of early winter, the garden glowed with emerald leaves ready to pluck for consumption or putting by for winter. "Even with an extra mouth, between what we have here in the dirt, the chickens in their house, and the cow for milk, we have everything we need."
"Except coffee," Catherine commented from her place on the ground. With only one hoe between them, she had taken to plucking the offensive weeds by hand. Hard work with a good companion was hardly work at all, and the hot sun didn't burn when she thought to appreciate the ability to move as she pleased, without bars or chains to keep her in one place.
"Oh, yes, we must have coffee." Emmalyn shook her head and kept hoeing. "Gilbert will have his coffee when he comes back from town. I think it is our one last bit of civilization, the coffee and milk we drink every morning."
"Have you and Gilbert always lived on a farm? Did you grow up working like this?"
"Both of us come from fine, big families, but from farther north. As hot as it is now? The way our skin steams from the sun we work under and burns as if you'd held an iron hot from the fire to it? That's how cold it might be in the winters in the land where we grew."
"And how did you make your way here?" Catherine had enjoyed the Plessiers' hospitality for almost a month, but had learned little about them. Emmalyn could talk incessantly, but was closed-mouthed about herself.
Catherine knew that the closest neighbors, some five miles away, were Germans who had come to Louisiana to raise rice, fruit, and vegetables in the rich soil along the river. The couple had a dozen children at least, Emmalyn had told her.
"The King himself sponsored the seeds and tools they used to make their crops, but it has been very difficult. The Hanharts are lucky they have so many natural farmhands, as hired help doesn't come cheap, and they have produced only about enough to feed themselves." Emmalyn laughed as she tried to describe the life the neighboring family had made for themselves. "And their neighbors, they are almost French like you, Catherine. They traveled all the way from Canada. Well, Thomas came from Canada. His wife was a fille a la cassette, so she is truly French."
Catherine had never heard that phrase before. "A girl with a casket? What does that mean?" she asked. Emmalyn seemed embarrassed to tell her.
"These women, young women, almost girls they were, these women were sent over by the King to marry the settlers who needed a helpmate to make good on their land. Like you."
Catherine had heard Gilbert talk of this in passing, but no more. "What does it mean, 'fille a la cassette'? Why would they bring caskets with them?"
"It is not what you think. The caskets were little boxes with all their worldly goods in them. Everything they brought had to fit in the little box they carried off the ship when they arrived."
"So they were women who knew where they were coming and had things of their own to bring," Catherine said in wonder. "And no one paid for them."
Catherine had struggled against restraints, but here in the bosom of the Plessiers' farm, Catherine had begun to struggle against comfort. A longing for her own life grew inside her each day she worked alongside Emmalyn. Returning to her father's home was not enough. She wanted to send him a letter and ask him to come to her and join her in making a life in New France. She could be a help if he started a business in the new world, and she could find husband to start a family of her own. He must be lonely without her mother, and the two of the
m could love and support each other as they found their way.
To distract herself from her musings, Catherine tried to learn more about Emmalyn.
"There is not much to tell." Emmalyn shrugged, but kept hoeing. "We grew up far north of here, almost due north, but hundreds of miles away. So many miles that we did not count them as we made our way here. The land of our birth is very unlike this wet, swampy place. Wide fields, fields of wheat, stretch as far as you can see, and if you look farther, you only see more wheat. My father raised the wheat that made the flour that made the bread for our farms and for the bakeries. Gilbert's family farmed as well."
"And that still does not tell me how you came here." Catherine pursued the information even though she feared that Emmalyn and Gilbert's story might be as sad as Genevieve's. But to know where they came from would illuminate them in a new way. As hospitable as they were, knowing their origin story would help her understand the way they lived.
"I will give you the short version of our journey," Emmalyn said. "We met at a party. Not a fancy party, but a family party thrown by one of the families in the big country where we lived. People would bring everyone, from their grand-mère to the smallest bébé, and gather at someone's home for a few days. We celebrated harvest, every year, but sometimes we celebrated only the fact that we could gather."
Catherine nodded, but didn't interrupt the story. Finally, Emmalyn was talking about herself.
"And so when we were quite young, not even properly a young woman and young man, still just children, we met and played together. As we grew, our friendship grew as well. Then finally the day arrived that we saw something in each other we had never seen before, and soon we were married." Emmalyn's skin reddened a little as she remembered how it was when she had recognized that Gilbert was something more than a playmate.
"How long ago?" Catherine asked.
"Twenty years, I think." Emmalyn was silent. The only sounds Catherine heard were the hoe in the soft dirt and the random calls of the birds in the trees beyond the garden. Now that Emmalyn had shared the beginning of the story, Catherine wanted to hear the rest.
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