Emilie caught up with the men and exchanged a quick glance with Lorenz. Her eyes still burned with the wrath of the night before, still angry over his loss of self-control with the soldiers. Lorenz lifted his hand and rubbed his cheek. He thought of Emilie’s ultimatum as she slapped his face, of her refusal to understand his motives with the soldiers as strong as her refusal to offer an explanation for her constant rejections of marriage.
This morning, he was too tired to care whether Emilie approved of anything. Lorenz was tired of her games. If she wanted to be angry, let her stew in her own discomfort. Let her walk ten paces to the rear in silence.
“You’re not listening, are you?” Phillip asked, when he noticed Lorenz’s mind wander back to Emilie.
Lorenz looked at his friend with his good eye, trying to keep the impatience out of his voice. “Like you said, Phillip, we have to put some leagues between the Frédérics homestead and Cabannocé.”
Lorenz picked up Phillip’s rifle, flung it over his shoulder and continued down the road, praying that the beating inside his head would cease along with Phillip’s endless prattle. But Phillip had other plans.
“We should stop for a while. We’ve been walking steady since midnight and I’m famished.”
Emilie caught up with the men and Lorenz could hear her wooden shoes beating a patter against the mud behind him. “Stubborn female,” Lorenz muttered.
“Did you say something?” It was the first words Emilie had spoken to him since the previous night. Normally, Lorenz would have been thankful for the break in the ice, but he was in no mood to spar with her.
“Can’t lunch wait until we reach another settlement,” Lorenz asked Phillip. In his mood, it was best to keep walking.
“No, it can’t.” Emilie threw her satchel on the ground and sat down on a nearby stump. She withdrew her feet from the sabots and began to rub them, while Phillip unloaded his satchel and joined her. It was clear they were going nowhere, so Lorenz admitted defeat, dropping his own supplies and sitting on the damp ground.
“You really should wear those moccasins Anna made for you,” Phillip said to Emilie. “Leather is better for traveling. It’s less harsher on your feet.”
“Don’t bother,” Lorenz said. “Logic doesn’t work with her.”
Emilie shot him a fierce look. “You have a lot of nerve. You threatened all of our lives last night because of an incident that happened thirteen years ago and you’re saying I’m illogical?”
Lorenz wasn’t in the mood for an argument. He had explained his actions, made his apologies. He felt remorse for his mistake, ashamed that he had put their lives in jeopardy while thinking only of personal revenge. He should have been more careful, but his anger snapped inside him like a dry twig under his foot. He lost control over his emotions in a delicate situation, and for that he was very sorry.
But of all the people in the world who should have understood his actions, it was Emilie. Yet she joined the rest in their condemnation. For that reason, although they were numerous others, Lorenz couldn’t bear to speak to her.
He felt betrayed, abandoned. How much pain could one woman inflict upon a man? In Emilie’s case, the amount seemed fathomless.
“I wanted conversation,” Phillip piped in, “but friendly conversation please.”
“It’s not possible,” Lorenz said, standing. “I’m going to search the area for food.”
“Anna gave us plenty,” Phillip said. “We have only to enjoy it and be on our way. Now sit.”
Lorenz paused, gazing out on the Mississippi River sparkling in the midday sunshine. Such an enormous river, he thought. Such a wild, untamed land. It wasn’t home, but a man could get used to such limitless possibilities. Especially if he had a woman by his side.
When Lorenz sent his gaze back towards Emilie, her bronze hair curling loosely about her shoulders, her dress hugging every curve of her voluptuous figure, Lorenz felt his heart constrict. She was a beauty to other men, something lovely to look upon and dream about. To him, her appearance caused constrictions in other parts of his body, but Emilie was more than a pretty face; she encompassed his heart and soul. Lorenz sighed thinking of the torture she inflicted on him, the waiting, the accusations. The woman was pure poison.
Emilie must have heard his painful exhalation for her hazel eyes looked his way. Lorenz’s fury returned when he realized her anger lingered.
“Sit,” Phillip commanded.
Lorenz sat back down, but he refused to look at Emilie. “So what was the name of your niece?” he asked Phillip.
“Pardon?” Phillip cut a slice of apple and handed it to him.
“Your niece,” Lorenz continued. “You said you have an agreeable niece who is of marrying age.” Through the corner of his eye, Lorenz saw the apple wedge pause before Emilie’s open mouth. “The beauty,” Lorenz added, enjoying his own form of torture. “The one who’s a master in the kitchen and sweet as honeysuckle.”
Phillip said nothing and continued slicing the apples. It was fun jesting when Emilie was caked in mud and pretending to be a man, but now that Phillip had witnessed Emilie in all her feminine glory, he would be a difficult accomplice.
“Celestine. Wasn’t that her name?”
Phillip sighed. “Yes, Lorenz. Her name is Celestine.”
Lorenz wanted to make Emilie jealous, to prove that he wasn’t going to wait while she observed his every fault as a reason not to marry him. In his anger, the thought of meeting a beautiful Acadian girl, an agreeable one at that, became enticing. He almost convinced himself it was time to move on, to consider marrying another.
“Celestine,” Emilie remarked between bites of apple. “A name suggesting heaven or divinity. She would be perfect for you, Lorenz. She would have to be a saint if she would be your wife.”
Lorenz almost smiled at the comment. Maybe an argument was just what he needed. “Well a saint would be a nice change.” Emilie never reacted, keeping her wits about her, a trait Lorenz had always admired. Today, however, he wanted to see her suffer. “Of course,” he continued, “it would be a drastic change considering what I’ve been used to.”
Emilie rose and dusted the dirt from her skirt. “You have my blessings, then.” She picked up her satchel and headed for the river, turning one last time to get in the final word. “And dear Celestine has my condolences.”
The men watched her tall elegant form disappear toward the river. Lorenz saw the appreciation in Phillip’s eyes, and for a moment he wanted to knock the desire from his friend’s gaze. Instead, he aggressively combed his fingers through his hair, nearly yelling when the action caused a cut at his forehead to rip open. Lorenz stood and kicked the satchel before him. When he realized it contained the pots and pans, Lorenz did yell.
“For God’s sakes, son, haven’t you had enough agony for one twenty-four hour period?”
Lorenz couldn’t comprehend which hurt more, his head or his big toe. He could only point toward the river. “She is going to be the death of me.”
Phillip rose and offered Lorenz his tree stump. When Lorenz stubbornly refused to sit, jumping around on one foot hoping the pain would relieve some of his frustrations, Phillip firmly but gently pushed him on to the stump. “You are going to be the death of you.”
Realizing his fury was getting him nowhere and exhausting him in the process, Lorenz let his shoulders slump, dropping his head into his heads.
“You’re tired,” he heard Phillip said. “You need some rest.”
Rest was exactly what Lorenz needed, rest from the constant pain Emilie inflicted on his heart.
“He needs more than rest. He needs a good dose of common sense.” Lorenz felt Emilie’s skirts brush his legs as she sat next to him, but he wasn’t about to give her the pleasure of responding to her remarks.
“Move your hands, Lorenz, so I can clean you up.” Lorenz glanced sideways and found Emilie posed with a strip of wet petticoat in her hand. “Move your hands,” she commanded him.
Lore
nz grudgingly sat up straight and placed his hands into his lap and Emilie began to wipe the dried blood from his face. The cool water relieved some of the pain at his eye, or was it her long fingers caressing his temple that seemed to alleviate the pounding headache? Lorenz didn’t care; he closed his eyes and gave in to the fight.
“Stubborn man.” She uttered it in anger, but Lorenz detected a note of sorrow in her voice.
He should retort, he should try and explain, but Lorenz was too tired to speak. And too focused on the delicate hands stroking his face. What he really wanted to do was guide those exploring, nurturing fingers to other parts of his body.
“What is my father going to say when he sees you?” Emilie asked, breaking Lorenz from his illicit thoughts.
“He would be proud of me,” Lorenz slurred as Emilie wiped the cut above his lip.
“My father never raised his hand against another man in his life.”
Lorenz opened his eyes and stared at her hard. “Maybe that was the problem.”
Emilie threw her cloth into his lap and stood, hands fisted at her waist as she towered above him. “Just because I wasn’t at the church that day, Lorenz Dugas, doesn’t mean that I don’t know what happened. I do know that nothing you or my father could have done would have changed what happened to us.”
Lorenz joined her, as always finding it ironic that they practically stood eye to eye. “We let them take our land away. We practically handed it to them on a platter.”
“That’s not true.” Emilie crossed her arms defiantly, but Lorenz noticed tears forming in her eyes. “Papa told me himself there were little else we could do but comply with the English. No one knew they were going to trick us like that.”
Lorenz felt the fire rising up inside him. Thirteen years and he would never forget the feeling of hopelessness he encountered that fall day, trapped inside a church for days while the English looted their village and the women cried at the church door. The beseeching look in his father’s eyes as he watched his wife slip away on the cold, wet beach.
“We had the best land, Emilie,” Lorenz said, trying to keep his fury at bay. “We were multiplying like rabbits and refusing their religion and their language. Do you honestly think the English would have let us stay in Nova Scotia while their own suffered on less fertile land? And what did we do while they plotted to ship us off to all points of the world? We fed them, we obeyed their laws.” Lorenz leaned in further to emphasize his last thought, the most ironic aspect of their history. “We gave them our arms.”
Now Emilie was crying, despite her better judgment he was certain. “We had to,” she said. “They made us.”
Lorenz shook his head. It couldn’t have been that easy. “We never should have let it come to that.”
The headache returned tenfold and Lorenz winced at the pain. He felt Phillip’s hand on his shoulder. “It wasn’t that easy, son. You were too young to realize what was happening. Emilie’s right. We had no choice.”
Lorenz knew in his heart that what Phillip said was true, but he was angry and thirteen years had failed to relieve his heartache. Now, Emilie was adding to it. God, Lorenz thought, why didn’t his blow to the Spaniard’s face make him feel better?
“It’s time to go,” he said gruffly, picking up his rifle and satchel and heading down the path.
Lorenz didn’t look to see if the others trailed him, but he knew they weren’t hurrying to follow. Probably meant to give him space. Just before he turned a curve to place him out of their view, he heard Emilie remark, “I pray my sisters have better luck with men than I do.”
Funny, Lorenz thought, he was thinking the same thing. Only he wondered why he never had the sense to fall in love with Rose or Gabrielle.
Captain Jean Bouclaire surveyed the stretch of Mississippi, taking in the sight of his flat-bottomed radeau moored off the shore of Fort San Luis de Natchez. Provisions were getting slim, so his boat rode high in the water, a welcome sight. As a result his trouser pockets produced a nice jingle from the sound of English and Spanish coins. All in all, the trip upriver had produced a hefty profit. A few more plantations to service, a few more Spaniards looking for alcohol and Jean could retreat back to New Orleans and reclaim his prize schooner.
“Damn insufferable governments,” Jean coursed at the wind. A Spanish frigate had fired on his ship several months hence and Jean had acted in self-defense, never knowing that Louisiana had become a Spanish colony and the Gulf waters near the mouth of the Mississippi under rigid Spanish rule. Winning the skirmish, Jean had every right to pick the Spanish ship clean, according to the law of the High Seas. But the Spanish hadn’t seen it that way. They were all too happy to confiscate La Belle Amie when it arrived in New Orleans.
While he waited to raise the funds to retrieve his ship, Jean sailed his pitiful boat up and down the Mississippi, selling hard-to-come-by supplies to the colonists at four times the cost. In time, he would have enough to bribe the right officials and regain his beloved ship, but for now he was doomed to relieve Louisiana residents of their money at primitive outposts like the Natchez fort.
The young Englishman was a prime source, he thought as Coleman approached him. He was all too eager to part with his currency for a case of rum. The blonde, blue-eyed man had that desperate look about him that morning. Too bad Jean had sold his last bottle the night before.
“You’re too late. I’m out of rum.”
Coleman appeared confused. “I need your help.”
“I told you, I’m out of rum.”
When Coleman came closer, he repeated his statement slowly and louder as if Jean hadn’t understood. “I. Need. Your. Help.”
God, but Jean hated the English. They were such an annoying bunch. Aggressive, demanding, always expecting everyone to understand their language even though America was equally colonized by the French and had been years before their lot had landed in Virginia. This upstart was a good example, living on the border of a previous French colony, one comprised of French citizens, yet he didn’t speak a word.
“I heard you the first time,” Jean said slowly and loudly in English. “I no more have rum.”
“I don’t wish for rum. I need your help.”
Now this was a new one, Jean thought. What possible help could a Frenchman give an Englishman, the son of a notorious spy no less? As if he read his mind, Coleman answered the question. “There is a person I wish to speak to and I need a translator.”
Jean eyed him curiously. “Why not ask your father? I understand he speaks French.”
Coleman thrust his hands into his trousers and stared out at the river. “I am not on speaking terms with my father.”
Chalk one up for the French, Jean thought. Still, he wasn’t keen on helping the man. “I’m not a cheap translator,” he said, hoping that would deter the Englishman and send him on his way.
“I can pay.”
“You were hard pressed to buy the rum.”
Coleman withdrew two cigars from his breast pocket, grimacing at the thought of parting with his beloved tobacco. “You may have the last of my cigars.”
Now this was something new. Jean couldn’t remember the last time he enjoyed a good smoke. He grabbed his waistcoat and pulled it on. “Where to then?”
“There’s a family of women who have been separated from their patriarch,” Coleman explained. “I hired them to repair and launder my shirts.”
“You wish to communicate instructions or prices?” This sounded fishy. Money was a universal language.
“Among other things.”
As if uncomfortable divulging more information, Coleman set off down the path toward the Acadian settlement. The Spanish had awarded land grants to the Acadians and slowly the men were constructing houses along the nearby bayous to accommodate the families. Jean’s better judgment urged him to ignore the crazy Englishman, but the taste of a fine cigar lingered in his mouth and he was interested in seeing what the Canadian French had done with their land. They had an interestin
g way of doing everything, including speaking French, which made him constantly wonder why one hundred plus years in Canada had made them so unique.
Jean followed Coleman up the muddy slope leading from the river. When he caught sight of an Acadian woman, her rosy cheeks glowing from beneath her garde de soleil, or sun bonnet, Jean knew exactly what the Englishman was up to.
“It’s a woman,” he said to Coleman’s back.
Coleman paused and waited for Jean to reach his side. “Rose and her mother mend my shirts, nothing more.”
Jean snorted and they both continued walking. “So why hire me to translate?”
Coleman remained silent and Jean wondered what the Englishman was scheming with this poor Acadian family without protection of a man. “I want to know if there is anything she needs. I want to know if there is something I can do for her.”
Jean grabbed his arm and swung Coleman around. “You’re out of your mind if you think I’ll be party to this.”
Just as furiously, Coleman yanked his arm from Jean’s grasp. “Party to what?”
“I know what you’re up to. You can’t marry the woman so that leaves only one recourse. You want the helpless woman as your mistress.”
Coleman eyes lit with a fiery fury and it was he who now leaned menacingly close. “Damn you sir,” he said between gritted teeth. “How dare you speak of the lady in such a fashion.”
Dear God, Jean thought, the man was in love. He recognized that rabid look in Coleman’s eyes. But there were oceans of differences between them, not to mention the fact that Coleman was English, the same nationality that expelled this Rose from her home.
“I don’t expect anything,” Coleman said, as if he knew what Jean was thinking. “I just want to be of service to Rose and her family.”
Service? To a French Catholic? There was trouble brewing here, Jean knew it. “The best thing you could do for her is leave her alone.” He meant it as a threat to this brash Englishman, but it emerged as friendly advice. His congenial tone surprised him as much as Coleman.
Emilie (The Cajun Series Book 1) Page 10