Journey to victory, p.22
Journey to Victory, page 22
Hazelton took his turn and then smiled at Mrs. Loring. “It was my privilege to be a close friend of Christiane’s mother, Renee, for almost fifteen years. She was a jewel of a woman, lovely, intelligent, witty, a credit to her family.” He paused to emphasize his next words. “Her family has included some of the most famous courtesans in Paris, special favorites at the French court for the last three generations.”
Mrs. Loring’s eyes widened. “You mean this girl has been presented at the French court?” To her, as to the rest of the civilized world, being presented at the French court was the pinnacle of social acceptance.
“No,” Hazelton answered as he studied his cards, “she left Paris at too early an age, but her family has always been received at court and she would have been also, of course. In fact, all of her preceding kin have had private apartments at Versailles at one time or another.”
“No!” Mrs. Loring exclaimed. Everyone knew that a private apartment at Versailles meant an affair with the reigning monarch. She almost swooned just imagining it: the flattery, the gifts, to be the mistress of a French king.
“Yes, hers is quite an interesting family history. It all began with her great-grandmother. She managed to appear at court and charmed her way into old Louis’s bed and stayed till she acquired the start of a family fortune.”
“The family is wealthy?” Mrs. Loring asked with a dry mouth.
“Incredibly. Generations of royal and noble generosity and appreciation, need I say more? And they have unique distinction. They control their fortune themselves. They remain single. Usually, as I am sure you know, to play at court a woman must be married. Pelletiers never marry and no one ever questions it. I don’t know why, but that is the way of it. I was surprised to hear Christiane announce that she was a widow. She is the first Pelletier in my memory to marry.”
“You mean she is a bastard?” Mrs. Loring asked, prickling with excitement at this exotic story.
“Of course,” Howe put in, “but with some of the bluest blood in France. Am I right, Colonel?”
“Definitely. Christiane’s grandfather was Louis XIII himself.”
The Sultana was speechless. She had met royalty, finally. And royalty she could approach.
The colonel went on, “Christiane’s grandmother, Madeleine, was always a bit upset that her daughter had a child by an Irish émigré. The fellow always represented himself as of noble blood, but the grandmother disliked him. He was rather ‘hot’ politically and not around much. Still she tolerated him because he had fathered a girl to carry on the line.”
Mensing asked, “Why did this girl leave then? Sounds to me she would have been much better off in Paris than here.”
Hazelton frowned. “It is a sad tale. I was in England at the time. If I had been there, maybe I could have helped Christiane.”
“Yes?” Mrs. Loring urged.
“I am ashamed to say an Englishman was the culprit. A lord from the north of England formed an unhealthy attachment to Christiane’s mother. He couldn’t stand the thought of Renee Marie being with anyone but himself. Quite unbalanced.”
“Go on,” the Sultana coaxed.
“Well, I understand from what her grandmother told me later that he had become intolerable and Renee had broken with him. One night not long after, he stabbed Renee to death. Then he took his own life.”
“That must have been a shock for the girl,” Howe remarked kindly. “When I heard her name, I remembered that there had been some kind of scandal, but I could not recall the details.”
Mrs. Loring’s mind was spinning. The story was so romantic like something out of a play. And the girl was royalty, really and truly. The ambitious woman made up her mind right then. That girl needed a friend, and no one was going to beat Elizabeth Loring to her. Her keen mind began a plan. Without announcement she rose and left the room, ignoring. her lover’s quizzical expression.
Down the hall and stairs as the major and Christiane walked silently, he asked himself why had he acquiesced to her appeal. He wanted nothing to do with any woman ever again. So then why was this beautiful young woman walking beside him? And why had he suddenly noticed how much more beautiful she’d become in the intervening years? Disgruntled, Eastham opened the door of his room and ushered her inside. Still, the situation of seeing her again so long after they’d met intrigued him.
Once inside, she went directly to the fireplace and stood, looking down into the flames moodily. Early winter darkness left no sun to cheer the room. She stared at the fire; he stared at her. As a test, he asked tentatively, “Have we met before?” Would she admit that she recognized him, too?
She turned to face him, “Yes.” There was tension in her words.
What would she tell him? “No clue, just yes?”
“It is difficult for me, I suppose, because you were so important in my life and yet I was evidently just a brief incident in yours.”
“Will you explain, please?” He motioned for her to sit. Important in her life. He realized now that he’d thought of her over the intervening years. And he’d dismissed it as curiosity about what had become of her.
Christiane nodded. She perched on the edge of an unfamiliar chair by the fire and waited till he sat in the chair opposite hers. As the major sat down, he wondered at the addition of this second chair. He would have to speak to Alfred about removing it. This woman would not be staying long. No doubt one of the officers would soon claim her favors. The thought burned inside him; he crossed his legs and propped an elbow on the chair arm.
“You were a captain when I met you.”
“It was in Canada then?” So she would tell him.
“Yes, at the fort on the Ottawa River. Does that help you?”
“There were very few white women who visited while I was there, just a handful in five years.” He wanted to hear her recollection of their meeting first.
“Then I’m sure you will remember me.” A touch of annoyance spiced her tone.
Evidently no woman wished to be forgotten, slighted. Should he reveal that he’d recognized her? Finally he whispered, “Jean Claude Belmond.”
She nodded.
“But how did you ever get from Versailles to the Ottawa?”
“It is a very long tale, but suffice to say, I ran away from my grandmother with my father to Canada. He was killed by foul play and I was lost in the wilderness till an Algonquin found me.”
He shook his head. Then he scrutinized her. “You’ve grown up.”
“I was only fifteen that summer. On Christmas Day I will be nineteen.”
“What happened? I heard of you and Belmond that first spring and the next spring. But he didn’t show up for the Rendezvous. A few of the trappers went up to your place that summer to investigate. All they found was an empty cabin and a grave. You had disappeared.”
Christiane pursed her lips. “Jean Claude had been out stringing traps. For some reason he was coming back later than usual. I think he must have surprised the bear or maybe the animal was wounded, I don’t know. I heard it and ran out to help. I managed to shoot the bear, but not soon enough,” Christiane’s voice quavered and she bowed her head.
Unconsciously his respect for her was growing. It was not often that one met a woman who coped so well under such adverse circumstances. He remembered how she had faced her challenge that day with him at the fort. The major rose and went to a cabinet nearby. Pouring two glasses of brandy, he brought one to her and then stood by the hearth near her. Silently they sipped their brandies as he gave her time to regain control of herself.
He was sincerely sorry for her loss. She had touched him that day years ago. She had been brought to camp as an Indian captive and he had found her a husband by the luck of the draw. “Evidently my matchmaking was successful.”
Christiane smiled gently. “Jean Claude was very good to me, very good.”
“I am glad. I wondered. The circumstances were so unusual.” More of what he had felt that day with her filtered into his mind. He’d regretted letting her go. He shut down this line of thought. The room was dark now except for the fire. His shadow was long against the white wall opposite the fire.
He sat down, facing her, and stretched his long legs and their shiny black boots toward the fire. He rotated his wrist, swirling the golden brandy in his round glass. “When your husband died, why didn’t you come back to the fort?”
Christiane measured her answer. Speaking of the past had almost loosened her tongue completely. She had to remember that now he was the adversary, not just an acquaintance from the past. “I wanted a different life.”
He looked at her, silently encouraging her.
“I cared for Jean Claude, but when he died, I decided that I did not want to spend my life as a fur trapper’s wife. So I decided to go farther south.”
She had almost explained about her son, but decided he should remain a secret. The less this man knew the better. “I made it to a village near the Mohawk Valley.”
“You found a place there?”
“Yes, there was a crude inn. I worked and spent the winter there.” She thought of Jakob, but to admit to a husband who had died as a Continental soldier would be stepping onto dangerous ground. “I would have stayed there, but during the summer there was an Indian raid. I survived because I was in the hills, picking raspberries. After that, I decided to come farther south, to civilization.”
He nodded slowly. The conversation lapsed here.
Christiane was glad he asked her no more questions, for she did not want to go into detail as to her whereabouts and incriminating activities after Rumsveld. By the hearth glow they sat, she and he lost in their own thoughts.
Trying to focus herself on the dilemma she was in, she looked around the large, sparsely furnished room. It was dominated by the curtained bed and fireplace. White puffed sheers, tied back at the windows, shimmered in the moonlight. The firelight showed tiny blue roses on the wallpaper. And the polished oak floor gleamed in front of the hearth. It was definitely a man’s room, no feminine touches, knickknacks or small portraits, just books, clothes, his weapons, all tended and precisely put away by his manservant.
Would he help her again? She sighed almost silently and glanced at the darkened windows. The feathery patterns of frost climbed higher and higher on them. The church bell chimed six times. Still they did not break the cozy silence. Voices were heard passing down the hall. Laughter. Footsteps. The two of them remained an island of solitude. Though she must stay alert, she felt exhausted by the emotions expended by this unusual day. She had only one course open that she could see. Would he say yes or no? The dull ache at the cap of her head began to creep lower due to her fatigue. She closed her eyes to rest them.
At last she broached what was on her mind, “My lord, I need a favor.” Her voice was somber and it did not shatter their restful peace. “Now that everyone here knows whose daughter I am, they will make certain assumptions about me that will be incorrect.”
“Explain.” He turned his eyes to hers.
Christiane frowned. “My mother was one of the most beautiful women in Europe and she was the companion of many notable men. She lived the life that my grandmother and her mother lived, the life of the courtesan. Men here will assume that I carry on the Pelletier tradition, that I live that life.”
He nodded.
“Major, I have never lived that kind of life—nor have I ever intended to. It was the reason I left France. I felt that I didn’t belong in the salons of Paris. That I would never be able to feel comfortable in that role. It is difficult to put into words.” She paused. “I need your help to get away.”
“Get away?”
“Yes, I cannot stay here. I cannot be my mother’s daughter, but I need clothes and a mount. Will you help me?”
He did not answer right away and she tensed. “Do you think leaving abruptly would be wise?” he asked at last.
“Why?”
“First, you are still under some suspicion. If you leave abruptly, it may be misinterpreted and you could be pursued. Also, people like Howe would wonder why a Pelletier would wish to leave the company of the only aristocracy in the New World. It would look very peculiar.”
He was right. She felt a cold lump forming in her middle. If she were questioned again and asked for the names of her friends in Pennsylvania, what answer could she give? She swallowed and went on. “Then will you give me your protection?”
“Protection?”
“Yes, you protected me once before and my need is just as great now.”
“How so?”
“They have already assumed that I have chosen you as my amour. Can’t we let them go on thinking that till I am able to leave?” She trembled at her own request.
Glancing at the frosted window panes, she shivered at the thought of walking the twelve or more miles to Valley Forge, alone and unarmed, dressed in buckskins. She had started this flight in panic, but now the only needs she felt were for warmth, security, and time to recover. Traveling alone last winter had nearly cost her her life. This time it might cost her, at the very least, her unblemished reputation.
She watched him then while he contemplated her request. That it was a fierce battle showed on his face.
He glanced at her and then away. The situation irritated him. He did not want a woman here in his quarters, in his life. She could stir memories he feared to open. Alone. He wished to be alone, single, the rest of his days. But something about her stopped him from saying no. Hadn’t he also left home, determined to break with the past? He felt a grudging admiration for her fight to survive whatever came.
He saw her shiver as she looked at the windows and he read it for what it was—her grappling with the possibility of having to set off in winter on foot in her worn deerskins. He had been responsible for her once before. Surely this association would not last long. She would leave under some pretext soon. How could he deny a woman of such bravery? He looked into her eyes and nodded.
“Oh, thank you, my lord,” she whispered.
“You may stay with me till we find your possessions and concoct a believable reason for your departure.” He spoke in a businesslike voice.
She felt a deep gratitude. She knew she had no hold on him.
A brisk knock on the door shattered their peace. Alfred appeared and answered it. A small woman stood at the door.
“I’m the seamstress, Mrs. Loring’s seamstress. I have a dress here to alter for a lady named Belmond.”
Alfred turned a questioning eye toward Christiane.
She rose and went to the door. “I am Madam Belmond.”
“How do you do, madam. Mrs. Loring has offered you one of her dresses. I am sent to fit it to you, so that it can be ready by morning.”
“But—”
“It is a gift from Mrs. Loring.”
Christiane stood, wondering what she should do.
The major spoke up, “Come in. How kind of Mrs. Loring to think of Madam Belmond.” There was a tinge of the ironic in his voice. He knew enough about the notorious woman to know that she was usually only generous with herself. He stood up and walked over to Christiane. Bending down, he planted a light kiss on her forehead. “I will go play a few hands while you are fitted.” He was pleased to see that his performance was so good, it had obviously astonished Alfred.
Christiane gave him a bemused smile and bid him good luck. Then the seamstress lit more candles and both hovered over the brown woolen dress. Alfred disappeared, looking confused. Eastham headed out the door.
In the hallway Eastham took a deep breath and straightened himself to his full height. What was a woman doing in his life again? Dear God, it would be torture.
Chapter Thirteen
Christiane sat, staring at the flames, which were an image of her own anger and frustration. Snow and ice and bitter cold had overtaken Philadelphia and Valley Forge. Only a day away, the Forge seemed to slip further away from her reach daily. And with her mare Nancy not located yet, she was held captive in the major’s quarters. How she resented him at times.
She knew he was doing her a great service, but bearing up under his sardonic attitude infuriated her. The irony of their situation evidently fueled his dry humor. When they were out among people, performing the charade of lover and mistress, he—at the most inopportune times—would whisper maddening phrases into her ear. Maddening because they were usually hilarious comments about those present and Christiane could not allow herself to laugh. Instead she had to smile and behave as though he had just said something especially endearing.
She glanced down at the dark green gown she wore. Mrs. Loring had given her the brown dress and a few days later the major had commissioned this green frock. She had protested at the time that she did not want him to go to the expense of dressing her. He had countered that it would look odd if he did not provide for her, considering the relationship they were implying. She writhed inside over her dependence on him.
And his behavior when they were alone together in his quarters was as nearly insulting. He acted as though she did not exist. It was not his amorous attention that she desired. She was experienced enough to know that every man has his limits and she did not want to push the major beyond his. Because of this, she read quietly during their evenings alone and she slept on the floor by the fire, keeping out of his bed. But he could, at least, acknowledge her existence.
And the days were going by quickly. She was accomplishing nothing of her purpose in leaving the Richardsons. If Nancy did not turn up soon, in spite of the cold, she would have to leave on foot. She and the major would have to concoct some argument or excuse so she would have reason to leave. Eight days under these circumstances. Enough.
The major strolled in, breaking her thoughts.. As usual, he nodded at her, poured two glasses of sherry, brought one to her, and settled himself in the chair opposite. Their late afternoon ritual had begun. His attitude grated on her—the unruffled aristocrat, smirking at life. Henry Lee cared enough to die for a man’s right to live free and have a vote that counted. And what a contrast between this cool gentleman and her impassioned and passionate Jakob.
