She sighed, and turned her head slightly to look into his face. “It was in all the newspapers, just before you arrived in England. Did you read about it? He was murdered by an assassin’s bullet. It was the first Sara and I had ever heard of it.”
“Yes.” His fingertips brushed without ceasing over her arms. His expression was very grave, as was his voice. “I’m sorry. It must have been a terrible shock to you.”
“I could hardly believe it. When we were children, we were told that Papa was thrown by a horse, you see. Uncle Rolfe only wanted to protect us, I suppose. Still, you can imagine how we felt when we opened the newspaper one morning and read that our papa was murdered all those years ago.”
His arms tightened involuntarily about her. “I’m sorry that it was one of my own countrymen who was responsible. There is no defense for what happened. I don’t know how to explain it except to say that in those days madness stalked France. No one who did not actually live through it will ever understand how it was.”
Her voice held a trace of bitterness. “My father was an Englishman. What did he have to do with France? His only crime was that he was generous to a fault. He gave money to good causes, causes to which a group of fanatics took exception.”
There was a long silence before she went on. “You mustn’t think that I am so prejudiced as to lay the blame for my father’s death at the door of every Frenchman.”
“No?”
“No. Don’t you think I know that your own parents lost their lives during the Revolution? It’s fanatics of whatever persuasion whom I hate.”
“Careful,” he said, and there was no teasing light in his eyes. “That attitude is the beginning of fanaticism.”
“Is it wrong to hope that murderers come by their just deserts?”
“Is that what you wish?”
“Certainly. Don’t you? Don’t all decent people wish for it, too?”
He managed a convincing smile. “You never used to be so bloodthirsty.”
“I am not bloodthirsty. I want justice, that’s all.”
The silence lengthened. Emily’s eyelids began to droop. Leon nestled her more closely to him. Before long, she had drifted into sleep, her head pillowed on his shoulder.
He was thinking that those days seemed so far removed, it might have been another life. He had hoped never to hear of La Compagnie again. Sighing, he turned into his wife, and drew her more closely to him with an arm clasped around her waist.
Chapter Fourteen
One month slipped into the next. Suddenly Christmas was upon them and then they were into the New Year. Leon was even more content than he had hoped to be. He gave his wife her fair share of the credit for this happy state of affairs. If she ever thought of William Addison or pined for her old life in England, he would never have known it. She had adapted to her new role with surprising grace.
They were in their own home now, a rented house on Cherry Street, and Emily had been in her element furnishing the place and hiring and training servants. He entered the foyer and paused there for a moment, savoring the pleasant odors that wafted to him from the kitchens. Before he had done more than remove his hat, Emily came out to greet him.
She helped him out of his warm winter overcoat. “How did your meeting go with Mr. Roberts?” she asked.
“He’s a good risk. I think I shall lend him the capital he needs to get started.”
“Steamboats? I just can’t imagine such a thing.” As she spoke, she carefully folded his coat and set it over the back of a chair. “Come and warm yourself at the fire. You look half frozen. Dinner won’t be long, now that you are here.”
He caught her easily by the wrist as she moved to lead him into the parlor. “What’s that I smell?” he asked, wanting to prolong the moment of intimacy.
She raised her pert little nose to sniff the air and he quickly kissed her. Laughing, she pulled away. “Leon, what’s got into you?”
He knew that he was standing there with a foolish grin on his face. “Put it down to a case of déjà vu,” he said, and without releasing her, escorted her into the parlor.
“What? Isn’t my niece here? I was beginning to think that young Sarah had taken up residence with us.”
“You don’t mind that she spends so much time with us, do you, Leon?”
“No. Of course not. I think it’s rather touching. Sarah has become your disciple, do you know? She copies you lavishly. Adam was telling me that his daughter’s inflection is almost as English as your own, and her brothers tease the life out of her because of it.”
“I don’t have an accent,” said Emily, then pointed out reasonably, “How should I? I’m English.”
Leon made no verbal response to this, but proceeded, with eyes glinting with laughter, to a sideboard where a decanter of sherry and two glasses had been set out. Within moments, he was handing a glass to his wife.
As they sat on opposite sides of the fireplace, sipping at their sherries and conversing on the events of the day, he was struck with the thought that the small domestic rituals that made up their married life held a charm for him far surpassing any of the society dos which they were frequently obliged to attend. If he had his way, he would never go to another ball.
“I received a letter from my sister this morning,” said Emily at one point.
“And?”
She made a grimace, conveying distress touched with impatience. “She says much the same as ever. Would you care to read it?”
“That won’t be necessary.”
His sister-in-law’s letters were boringly predictable. Sara was not settling in to the life of a soldier’s wife. Peter was absent for long stretches at a time and Sara was not happy with only Lady Hester to keep her company. Nor was she happy with the society to be found in Fort York. It was not what she was used to. She had few friends. She was lonely. She begged Emily to join her for an extended visit.
“Did you promise Peter that we would go to Canada at some point?” Emily asked. She had picked up a piece of embroidery and was clicking her tongue, unpicking her stitches.
“I may have said something, you know, for politeness’ sake.”
“Sara has taken it into her head that it’s all arranged and only the date of our arrival is yet to be decided.”
“It was nothing so definite as that!”
His vehemence brought her head up and he said more calmly, “What’s to stop Sara coming here to us for an extended visit? When I think of it, she would be much more comfortable here. New York is more cosmopolitan. There are more entertainments and so on, and…” He paused and grinned wickedly. “And there is no Lady Hester to make her toe the line.”
This brought an answering smile from Emily. “Poor Sara,” she said. “Who would have believed that such a charming gentleman as Peter could be related to someone like Hester? And they are devoted to each other, you know, or so Sara says. I think that’s a splendid idea. I shall write at once and invite her to come to us.”
There was a long silence as Emily bent to her embroidery. Leon’s eyes rested on her, but he was involved in his own thoughts. He was thinking of his annoyance of a few moments before, when Emily had raised the question of their going to Canada. He didn’t want to go to Canada. In New York, there had been no accidents, no attacks, nothing that could be construed as a threat to either one of them. He wanted things to remain that way.
“Do you wish to go to Canada?” he asked carefully.
“No!”
She said the word so emphatically than Leon suddenly recognized that a small part of what he had been experiencing was pique. If Emily had wanted to go to Canada, it might mean that she was becoming bored with domesticity in general and him in particular. That small expletive convinced him otherwise and he smiled.
She giggled.
“What?” Leon asked.
“I was thinking that we ought to invite Hester, too.”
“Over my dead body!” he exclaimed, and they both laughed.
In the sp
ace of a month, everything had changed. The letter which Emily put into her husband’s hand was not from Sara but from Peter Benson.
Leon scanned it quickly, then read it at a more leisurely pace. Coming to the end, he murmured, “Poor devil! I truly feel for him.”
Emily took exception to this. “Of course, we must sympathize with Peter, but it is Sara who has taken to her bed. She is the one we must think of now.”
“You surely don’t pity Sara?”
“Don’t you?”
He threw the letter aside. “That girl is spoiled beyond redemption. What does she think she is playing at?”
“She’s not playing! She is genuinely ill. ‘Going into a decline’ is how Peter describes it. He is at his wit’s end. She has fallen into a deep despondency, Leon. I must go to her. Don’t you see that?”
“What that girl needs…” He stopped abruptly and shook his head.
She knew what he was thinking, Sara was a past master at getting her own way. Her “decline” might be nothing more than a ploy to lure them both up to Canada. Emily was half inclined to think that was all it was. But she could not be sure. Sara had not wanted to marry Peter Benson. Nor would it be the first time Sara had gone into a decline. She felt things deeply, more deeply than Leon realized.
She told him nothing of this. She said, “I know my sister, Leon. For whatever reason, she wants me with her. For my own peace of mind, I must go.”
He looked at her as though he did not see her. She said nothing, knowing that he was undecided, debating with himself. After an interval, he gave a resigned sigh. “Of course you must go. We shall both go. Besides, I have many friends and colleagues in Canada. We could kill two birds with one stone. You shall see Sara, and I shall look up old friends.”
“Old friends?”
“Old friends,” he said, and left it at that.
Emily was to ponder that remark for some time. His words had alarmed her. She was keeping secrets from Leon and had thought for one awful moment that he had discovered it. Then they might never go to Canada and she would never forgive herself if Sara’s illness was as serious as Peter had described.
This was the thought that was in her mind as she lay in Leon’s arms that night waiting for sleep to overtake her.
Feeling the wretchedness of her situation, she sighed, and he asked softly, “What is it, Emily? What’s troubling you? Is it Sara? I promised you we would go, and I always keep my promises,” and, turning her into him, he wound long strands of her hair around his throat.
She hated to deceive him. For a moment she hovered on the brink of confessing everything, but he drew her more closely to him and the moment slipped away as the pleasuring began.
Almost invariably, she cried in the ebb of their passion, not copiously, but tears would brim over for no apparent reason. It was all the more perplexing, because afterward Leon never failed to lavish her with praise and sweetly affectionate kisses.
“Why do you always cry,” he asked, and there was a tenderness in his eyes. “Do I make you sad? Does this make you sad?” and he pressed a kiss to the valley between her breasts, kneading her soft flesh with his hand.
“You know it’s not that. It’s only that I never thought to find this joy with…”
“With me? Is that what you were going to say?”
Strangely, he had not taken offense. “Aren’t you surprised, too?” she asked.
“Husbands and wives are supposed to find joy in their marriage bed,” he said, which was no answer at all really.
She was still restless long after Leon had fallen asleep, but her thoughts had taken a new direction. She was thinking that her marriage pleased her far more than she ever thought it would. She was discovering that she liked her husband very well. In some things, she had completely misjudged him. Leon was no wastrel. He was no womanizer. He was very much in the stamp of his brother-in-law, Adam Dillon—a respected pillar of the community. It seemed that her uncle was right. America had been the making of Leon Devereux.
In fairness to Leon, she had resolved not to pine away for the impossible. Her girlish dreams of love and the memory of William Addison were locked away deep in her heart. Having once determined to make the best of the present, the present had turned out to be surprisingly agreeable.
Her thoughts had come full circle and she groaned, wondering how long her happiness could continue.
At one time, Albany had been an important center for the fur trade. It was on the old Iroquois trail and conveniently placed between Montreal and New York.
Leon arrived by boat. His friend, who had made the journey from Montreal, was there ahead of him. They met by arrangement in one of the newer coaching houses, which was abuzz with activity, for though the fur trade in the area had declined, Albany was now the state capital.
The gentleman who greeted Leon had the look of a Spanish conquistador. His skin was the hue of bronze, his cheekbones high and prominent. His eyes, like his hair, were as black as pitchblende. He was of an age with Leon and wore his finely tailored garments with the same careless ease. His name was James Fraser and he had met Leon when they were youths at university in England. Their friendship spanned more than a dozen years.
There was no effusive salutation, merely a firm handclasp in the American manner and a few words of greeting. It was James Fraser who led the way up the narrow staircase to a private parlor on the second floor where covered dishes were already set out on a sideboard.
“I was just about to dine,” he said. “You will join me?”
Leon murmured his assent, and stood aside as the servants were dismissed. When the door was closed, he moved to the sideboard, following his friend’s example.
The comestibles were hardly tempting—a stew of indeterminate ingredients, floury dumplings, and over-salted potatoes boiled to a mush. Leon helped himself sparingly. James was not so fastidious.
Chuckling, he remarked, “Eat and be thankful, Leon. It could be worse. It could be pemmican.” Like his name, James’s accent was Scottish, but only faintly. He was of mixed blood. His mother was an Ojibway Indian princess and his father, before his death, a partner in the North West Company. James had inherited his father’s business interests, and was a trustee for his younger brothers and sisters. The fur trade had made him a rich man.
Leon grinned, remembering his introduction to pemmican, that unsavory staple of dried buffalo meat without which fur traders on the trail would starve to death. “You forget I am French. My palate is more refined than most. I’ve never accustomed myself to this English swill.”
James cocked an interested eyebrow. “And Lady Emily?” he quizzed. “Is her palate French or English?”
Laughing, groaning, Leon admitted ruefully, “English, but one day I hope to rectify that.” He could not help smiling, though the joke was on himself. His little wife was taking her duties as chatelaine very seriously. She had hired an English cook and was spending hours in the kitchen in their house on Cherry Street perfecting the woman’s skills in preparing an English cuisine. If he never saw another suet pudding it would be too soon for him. Not that he had complained. The sight of his wife in the kitchen with a towel tied around her middle and flour on her nose and her hair coming undone was something to behold. It fascinated him. It enchanted him. Incredibly, it also aroused him.
Shaking his head as if to clear the image from his mind, he said, “And we shall dispense with the ‘Lady,’ if you please. This is America. Emily is plain ‘Mrs. Devereux’ here.”
“But I am not an American,” responded James, faintly baiting. “On my father’s side, I am British, a Scot to be exact, as you well know. Frankly, I considered declining your summons. The British are none too popular in your neck of the woods at present. I feared for my life. There’s talk of war, you know.”
Leon smiled a slow smile. “You have never been afraid in your life!”
James laughed, but merely said, “Eat your dinner, and we shall talk business later, like civilized people.”<
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Leon obligingly complied. Though there was much he wished to say to his friend, for the next little while, he was content to let the conversation drift. Before long, they were reminiscing about their own days at Oxford.
A bond had been established between them for the simple reason that they had both felt like odd men out, James because he was of mixed blood and Leon because he was a foreigner. To English ears, they had peculiar accents. Had they been children, the taunts from their peers would have been made to their faces. Young Englishman who aspired to be known as “gentlemen” eschewed these barbaric methods. They hid their contempt, but it was there.
To Leon and James, this ingrained sense of English superiority had spurred them to prove themselves. Whatever an Englishman could do, they could do better. They rode better, they dueled better, they gamed better, they drank better, they whored better. These were the accomplishments of a young English gentleman. The only thing university did not do for them was give them an education. Few Englishmen ever sent their sons to university for that purpose, but rather to give them a polish, a veneer. When it suited them, these two fast friends wore the veneer without chafing. But with them, it was not ingrained, could never be ingrained. Their early years had shaped them, more perhaps than they would have wished.
This last thought was in Leon’s mind as his companion went to fetch glasses and a decanter of brandy. He was reflecting that in many respects his friend’s road had been more rocky than his own. He had found acceptance and his niche in American society. James had a foot in two cultures and felt at home in neither.
Leon accepted a glass from James’s hand. “Whatever happened to Miss Prentice? When I was last in Montreal, you were debating whether or not you should offer for her. But that was before you went off with the fur brigades.”
“Her parents married her off to her cousin before anything could come of it,” James replied easily. “It seems that not all my wealth could tempt her avaricious father to give his daughter into the hands of a half-breed savage.” Before Leon could do more than register the bite behind the lightly spoken words, James went on. “But I did not come here to discuss my matrimonial prospects. Now, may I make my report on Lady Sara?”
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