Journey to victory, p.21
Journey to Victory, page 21
When the major closed the door behind himself, he mentally sighed in relief. For almost six years he had avoided being alone with any woman. He was proud that she had not made him overly uncomfortable. Now all he wanted to do was give a report about her and send her on her way. Frankly he did not care whether she was a spy, which he really doubted, or not. Something niggled at the back of his mind. She must remind him of someone he had known. He shook his head.
***
Quietly Alfred went about straightening the room. Occasionally he would glance at the form buried in the feather pillows. Since he had rejoined his master here in these colonies, he had been hoping that something or someone would intervene. His lord had grown even quieter and almost reclusive during his years in the wilderness. Maybe this young woman could spark a change for the better. A man would have to be made of stone to be unaffected by her beauty and vulnerability, he thought, and smiled to himself.
***
Several hours later Christiane stirred from her sleep. Gingerly she sat up, waiting for the headache to resume.
“Are you feeling better, madam?” Alfred asked softly. He was standing by the fire.
“I am, a bit,” Christiane responded timidly. The headache had shrunk now to merely a tenderness on the cap of her skull.
“You have slept the day away. I brought up your tea just now. The major is still away. I know it will be much too large, but I have placed his lordship’s dressing gown on the bed for your use. And over on the dressing table I have brought warm water and toiletries so that you may freshen yourself.”
“It is Alfred?”
“Yes, madam.”
“What time is it?” She moved slowly, not wanting to ignite the pain again.
“Nearly five, madam.”
“Thank you for everything, Alfred. This is very kind of you.”
“My pleasure, madam. I will be in the next room if you need me.” He bowed slightly and left.
When she was alone, she rose carefully and went to the dressing table. The pitcher of warm water splashed slowly into the wash bowl. Though the pain was gone now, she feared that movement might bring it crashing back. She made a lather with the lavender-scented soft soap and smoothed it over her face lightly. Then she rinsed and dried it with a spotless linen cloth. She undid her tangled braids and tried to brush her thick chestnut hair. But her hair could not be tamed and remained full and free around her face. Though the wood crackled and sizzled on the hearth, she shivered. She pulled on the heavy, emerald-green velvet dressing gown. It made a train around her feet. She wrapped its thin cord belt several times around her waist and tied it in front.
Christiane swished over the shining floor to sit by the fire. Her knee-high moccasins waited for her beside the fireplace. Quickly she pulled them on. Beside her was a tray on a small mahogany table. First she fingered the gleaming white linen dinner napkin and placed it on her lap. Next she carefully lifted the silver lid from the dish. She beheld a feast: half a roast chicken; a deep yellow squash puree, sprinkled with dark brown sugar; a hill of mashed potatoes with a well of light brown gravy; two generous slices of buttered, brown bread; finally a rich fruit compote for dessert.
Her stomach, though, was not up to the challenge. Barely half the meal was eaten when Alfred was at her side, gathering up the plates and crumbs. He finished and started to leave.
She stopped him. “Do you know when the major will return?”
“The major? No, madam, he is in conference with some of the command here.”
“Oh,” Christiane said, fearing that she was the topic of their conference.
Alfred bowed and left for the kitchen. Christiane noticed the morning’s newspaper folded on the carpet by her chair. To pass the time she picked it up, but reading it was vexing. Evidently all editors who supported the Revolution had left town with the Continental Congress. The local populace was agog over General Howe and his mistress, an American woman, a Mrs. Loring.
Of course, it did not come right out and say she was his mistress, but Christiane could read between the lines. They called Mrs. Loring the “Sultana” of Philadelphia. How the allure of nobility could change the way people viewed matters. Any other time the worthy matrons of Philadelphia would shun such a woman; now they were giving parties in her honor! Were these the same people that had welcomed General Washington in the past? Christiane tossed the paper into the fire and watched it turn into ashes.
She was painfully aware that she could still end up in prison. This officer who’d not remembered her had not sounded overly convinced of her story. If anyone delved deeper, they might uncover her political and personal connections with the Revolution and the Washingtons. Her relationship with the general and his lady would open many doors for her, but here they would only be cell doors. The idea of escape entered her mind, but how could she get away, clad only in a man’s dressing gown? Besides, she must maintain the facade of innocence, it was her only defense.
There was a knock at the door. Alfred came out of the inner room. Christiane had not realized that he had returned. When he opened the door, a burly sergeant stood, waiting. “Yes?” Alfred asked politely.
“I am here to fetch Madam Belmond.” The voice was rough and loud.
Alfred turned to her. “Madam?”
She stood up. “Pardon me?”
“I am to take you to the rear parlor. General Howe’s orders.”
“I am not dressed, as you can see,” she said. She walked closer to the door and held out the skirt of the dressing gown.
“My orders is to bring Madam Belmond to General Howe,” the man insisted.
The significance of this demand suddenly sparked Christiane’s temper. She did not care if she was a prisoner. This was not proper behavior toward a lady. “I am sorry, but I must refuse. I am not properly dressed to appear in public.” She motioned Alfred to close the door, which he did.
Before either of them could speak or move, the closed door opened again with force. “The general says I am to bring you down,” the large man boomed, “and bring you I will!” He reached over and took Christiane’s arm, jerking her out of the room like the crack of a whip.
She struggled against his grip, but she had all she could do to stay on her feet as he hurried down the landing and stairs with her in his wake. Soon they stood before a door. She heard loud voices from inside and then the tipsy trill of a woman’s laugh. This did not seem a proper room for an interrogation. “I will not go in.”
With a deep growl, the soldier opened the door and catapulted Christiane into the room. She bumped against the nearest card table, almost upsetting it. The clatter of the scattered playing chips caught the attention of the surrounding players. All eyes turned to her.
Christiane felt her spine stiffen. Did they expect to treat her with such disrespect with impunity? Her chin lifted, her hands clasped in front of her, she defiantly surveyed the room. She’d been brought to a gaming room. Officers in pairs and groups were playing cards and chess. Some women were present, elegantly dressed and coifed. The room was white with powdered wigs. Then she saw her major rise from the table by the fire and stride over to her.
“Major, here is the prisoner,” the sergeant announced.
“Take your hands off her. You were told to bring her, not abuse her.” The major stepped close to Christiane, his voice low. “Madam, are you all right?”
“Why have I been brought here?” She vibrated with outrage.
“I was overruled,” he murmured into her ear. “Mensing is a fool and Howe thought it a joke.” His volume rose. “Please follow me, madam. General Howe would like to speak with you.” He offered his arm.
Christiane’s insides congealed. She did not want to meet the commanding officer of the British Army in America. Imprisonment, death, or freedom—Howe had complete power over her. Then as defiance surged in her, her fear evaporated. How dare he treat her in such a common manner? Whether he condemned her to prison or not, she was a lady, and General Howe would know it.
She took a deep breath and tossed her head, making her hair that still flowed freely to her waist ripple. Accepting the major’s arm, she arranged her long emerald skirt and, holding its hem with one hand, gracefully accompanied him over to the table. When they arrived at the general’s gaming table, the major cleared his throat.
As if just remembering their manners, the two men stood up, causing their chairs to scrape the polished floor. The major murmured, “Gentlemen, and Mrs. Loring, Madam Christiane Belmond.” On her right the general, a tall man in his middle years, took the hand she had extended to him and bent over it.
He did not look as though he had intended to, but her manner must have decreed it. Inwardly she smiled. Her grandmother’s lessons on panache would most definitely be of use in this situation.
“General Howe at your service, madam,” Howe said wryly.
“An honor, general.” Christiane answered correctly and turned to the colonel on her left.
“Colonel Mensing,” the man said curtly, but he also kissed her hand.
“Colonel,” she acknowledged. Then in accordance with etiquette she turned her attention to the blonde who sat beyond the general to Christiane’s right.
“Mrs. Loring, Mrs. Belmond.” Christiane curtseyed.
Mrs. Loring nodded cautiously.
So this was the notorious Mrs. Loring. Christiane stood stiffly. There was a strained pause. The major quickly dragged an unoccupied chair from a nearby table. Christiane sat down, modestly arranging the dressing gown around her.
The general cleared his throat. “Major Eastham, let me understand this. Is this the woman that you say was disguised as a boy?” His voice sounded as though this were possibly a joke of the major’s.
“Yes, general, this is she,” he replied stiffly.
The general turned to Christiane. “Would you explain this to me please, madam? The major gave me his version, but I would like to hear it from you.”
“Of course, General Howe—though I do believe that this interview has been made unnecessarily awkward—it is all very simple. I was traveling from New Jersey to western Pennsylvania to visit friends. Since I was alone, I disguised myself as a young boy to avoid trouble.” Silence greeted her explanation.
Mensing looked disgruntled. “That sounds peculiar to me,” he muttered. He put a great deal of emphasis onto the word “peculiar.”
Major Eastham put in mildly, “Oh, I don’t know. The more I think about it, the more sense it makes.” The colonel scowled at him in return.
General Howe looked at Christiane thoughtfully. Smiling conspiratorially to Mrs. Loring, he asked as innocently as possible, “What type of trouble could you possibly be referring to, Mrs. Belmond?”
“I beg your pardon?” Christiane answered, her face stony.
“The sentries thought her suspicious. She must have given them some cause,” Colonel Mensing spat out.
General Howe could not hold back his mirth. “Colonel, though I have severe doubts about the intelligence of General Washington, I do not think he has started dressing woman as boys to act as couriers. Why not just use boys? And it is no wonder that the sentries thought her suspicious. Mrs. Loring would look suspicious in men’s breeches, too.” Howe laughed at his own jest and the rest of the room joined him.
Christiane scanned the room. This had gone on long enough. In a moment she would rise and excuse herself. All those around her were laughing, enjoying the intriguing situation, and the joke at the expense of the disgruntled, obviously unpopular colonel.
Then unexpectedly a face at the table directly to her right startled her, arresting her attention. She studied it carefully. Seven years or more had passed since she had seen him. Yes, it was him. Suddenly her heart beat faster. Without thinking, Christiane stood up and slowly went to stand in front of the English officer.
As she scrutinized him carefully, she almost ceased to notice the actions and voices around her. At her unexpected attention, the distinguished-looking man stopped laughing, stood up, and gave her a detailed examination in return. Little by little, the gaiety around them subsided. Complete silence came and Christiane was now almost oblivious to everyone but the gentleman before her. Finally she spoke wonderingly, “Lord Hazelton?”
At this appellation he took her face in his hands. “Madam, you do remind me of someone. Could you really be—”
“You knew my mother, Renee Marie,” she said softly. “I have not seen you since I was thirteen years old.” Tears sprang to her eyes. She would not have predicted that seeing someone who had been close to her mother would affect her so.
“It is little Chrissy, isn’t it?” he asked in French.
“Oh, Lord Hazelton, it is so good to see someone from home,” she said also in French. She swallowed tears.
“How is it that you are here in Philadelphia, Christiane?”
“Oh, it is a long story, but I came with my father to Canada first.” She shuddered at the mention of that awful trip and fatal end.
“After your mother’s death?”
“Oui,” she said in a small voice. She still found it difficult to speak of her mother’s death, even to this old friend.
“I was so sorry, Christiane, so very sorry when I heard about it. I was so sad to have been away just when you needed a friend. It must have been dreadful—dreadful,” he consoled her.
“General, what are they saying?” Mrs. Loring asked, breaking into the exchange. “Why don’t they speak in English?”
“Evidently, my dear, they are old friends,” he answered, his eyes still on Christiane. “Colonel Hazelton, do you know this young woman?” he asked loudly.
Colonel Hazelton took Christiane’s hand and led her to the general. “General Howe,” the colonel announced formally, “I would like to present to you, Christiane Marie Renee Pelletier, the daughter of a very dear friend of mine, the late Renee Marie Pelletier of Paris.”
Instantly there was a buzz of voices in the room among the older officers. The name Pelletier was a notorious one in the salons of Paris.
Howe looked surprised. “Are you certain, Colonel? What would a Pelletier be doing in Philadelphia?” By his inflection his low opinion of the provincial capital was made plain.
“Oh, I am positive, my lord. My association with Renee lasted many years and Christiane and I saw each other very often.” He patted her hand.
“I hate to intrude on this tender reunion,” Colonel Mensing cut in acidly, “but why is Miss Pelletier or Mrs. Belmond in Philadelphia? French sympathies for the Revolution are well known.”
Colonel Hazelton gave the man a murderous look. “A lady of the Pelletier family does not need to explain herself to you.”
“But I’m afraid she does have to explain herself to me,” Howe said softly. There was a pause throughout the room.
Christiane faced the general squarely. “I have already explained how I came to be in Philadelphia. Who I am does not alter anything I have said.”
“How do you come to be in Pennsylvania and not Canada? How long since you were in Paris?” Howe asked.
“I came to Canada around six years ago with my father, as I said before. I did not care for Canada in the winter, so I have been slowly moving south.”
“Why did you give us the name Belmond?” he pursued.
“It is my married name. I am a widow.”
The general silently examined her face. His pause lengthened. Christiane began to worry what his verdict would be.
“Then I have only one thing to say,” he said as he waved his hand dramatically. “Welcome to Philadelphia, Madam Belmond.” There was a round of applause and laughter.
Keeping Christiane on his arm, Hazelton introduced her to many of the surrounding officers. Most of them ogled her frankly, dropping genteel hints of their interest in her.
At these suggestive phrases, Christiane felt some panic. Her recognition of her old friend had been completely spontaneous, but had it been wise? She had left Paris to avoid following in her mother’s footsteps. Now that her true identity as the daughter of a royal courtesan had been revealed, they evidently expected her to be an object of amorous adventures. She had wanted to be believed and then dismissed, not noticed and detained further.
Her eye lighted on Major Eastham. This morning he had been brusque, but he had treated her with decency and courtesy, even if he had failed to recognize her. And at that fort over three years ago she had learned he was capable of unexpected kindness.
She whispered an apology to Hazelton. Then putting her hand to her brow, she went over to the major’s side. Her hand shielded her face so that only the major could read the appeal it wore. “Major, I am not feeling well again. Would it be possible for you to escort me back to your quarters?”
***
Major Eastham still reeled from the stunning blow that had come when this woman had entered the room. Last night it had been too dark for him to see her face as more than a shadow. Then this morning, he hadn’t studied her, hadn’t wanted to do more than get her out of his room, out of his life. But when she’d entered the brightly lit room, he’d known who she was. Why hadn’t she told him they’d met in Canada? Did she have something to hide?
Yet now he looked up at her and read only the clear appeal. He wanted to beg off, to turn her over to someone else, but he found he could not. He hadn’t left her unprotected in Canada; he couldn’t here, either. “General?” he asked as he arose to take her arm in his.
“Of course,” Howe replied, looking surprised at her choice. Christiane left the room on Major Eastham’s arm. As the door closed after them, he could hear a collective, disgruntled murmur.
“Who is this Pelletier or Belmond woman anyway?” Mrs. Loring asked peevishly, not liking how everyone was buzzing about this new woman, this new rival.
“She comes from quite an extraordinary family,” her lover answered mildly. “Colonel Hazelton, would you come over and play a hand with us?” The colonel came over and sat in Major Eastham’s chair. A thoroughly disgusted and silent Colonel Mensing dealt the cards and they began another game of hearts. Howe played his card and then asked, “Colonel, Mrs. Loring would like to know about the Pelletier family history. You would know it best.”
