Chapter Thirteen Scene 2 La Belle Christiane

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La Belle Christiane

by Lyn Cote

2011 copyright Lyn Cote

All rights reserved

Chapter Thirteen, Scene 2

“Oh, aye, there be Widow Schulz. She lives but two houses north. She is a wonder at healing,” the guilty innkeeper explained eagerly. Christiane and the major locked eyes.

“Very well. We will see what Widow Schulz can do,” the major said.

The man started to move.

“No,” the major stopped him and then turned to the soldiers who’d accompanied them. “Private, go two houses north. Explain the situation to Widow Schulz and ask her to join us.” Eastham was not going to let this disreputable innkeeper out of his sight. He had no respect for any man who did not care for his animals. Waiting, the trio stood in an uncomfortable, shivering silence, broken only by Nancy’s painful breathing. The major moved closer to Christiane, shielding her from the drafts.

As Christiane waited, different memories passed through her mind. She saw Nancy and herself, escaping the devastated Rumsveld with the two little boys. She saw Tobias Ander walking beside Nancy, turning up his face to look at Christiane as they travelled southward. At the end, she saw the mare in the stark moonlight on the night they had searched for young Michael together.  Nancy had been through so much with her. Tears welled up in her eyes, so she looked down at her shoes.

The major mistook her glance at her shoes. “Madame, would you prefer to wait inside by the fire?”

“No,” she answered, looking up at him. He saw her wet eyes and once again she won his sympathy. He knew what it was to be attached to an animal. Pulling out a handkerchief, he handed it to her. “Thank you,” she murmured.

Then they heard the voices: one a loud female with a thick German accent and the other the private’s piping tones. The barn doors opened, admitting the two along with a fresh blast of icy air.

“The old biddy is hard of hearing,” the innkeeper said quietly.

As though she understood him, she cast him a disgusted look.

“You got sick horse?” she asked lustily.

“Yes, can you do anything for her?” the major replied in kind.

“I see! I see!” she yelled back. She knelt by Nancy, first kicking away at the soiled straw. Poking and looking, stroking and humming, she examined her patient. “Dis horse has got the lung congestion. And some of her stripes is festerin’.” She pointed to the red welts and cast the innkeeper a dark look.

“Can you do anything for her?” the major bawled.

“Ja, Ja,” she answered in booming tones. “But not in dis dirt!” She put her shawl to her nose to demonstrate her disgust.

The major and Christiane exchanged looks. She nodded.

Carefully Christiane threaded her way through the refuse to Nancy’s side again. Then she knelt beside the horse and began stroking her neck and explaining to her as though the mare were her child. Then Christiane stood and slipped a nearby bridle over the mare’s head and coaxed in gentle tones, pulling lightly on the rein.

The four observers watched silently, each one evidently curious to see if she could get the mare on her feet. Then Nancy began to rock, front and back. Painfully, slowly she pulled herself to her knees and then to her feet. She stood, wheezing and gasping for breath. Christiane threw her arms around the mare’s neck and hugged her. “Oh, Nancy, good girl!”

“Ve take her to mein barn!” The old woman looked around and located a dusty old horse blanket, hanging from a peg. Quickly the two women draped it over the horse’s back and led her from the stall.

Major Eastham fixed an eye on the culprit. He knew it would be very difficult to prove any charge against this innkeeper, at least, this time. “You will be watched,” he said ominously to the worried man. The man bobbed his head and sweated even more.

The major jerked his head and the private followed him out the door. The two women and the horse were already stumbling over the frozen ruts. The major hurried forward to assist Christiane while the private took care of directing the driver to bring the carriage along. The major could see that many neighbors came to their windows to view the strange parade: Widow Schulz, an ailing horse, a beautiful woman, a British major, a carriage, and one lobsterback.

The widow’s barn was a total contrast to the previous one. It was built adjoining the house, so it was snug, spotless, inhabited by an old cow, a nanny goat, and a cat with a few kittens. The widow led Christiane and Nancy into the empty corner directly next to the chimney back and then left them. A few minutes later she bustled back out of the house with her arms full.

“Ve got to poultice her to break her lungs up,” she informed them, still speaking forte. With that she went to work mixing a smelly concoction and stuffing it into a small flour sack which she tied shut. “Help her get back down,” she instructed Christiane. Christiane and the widow fussed around the mare while the major, private, and driver stood inside the door, silently observing.

Christiane helped the old woman put several more old blankets over the mare’s back on top of the poultice. “Ve sveat it out o’ her,” the widow declaimed and stood back with her hands on her hips. “Ve vait now, just vait. Come. Come in. Ve have tea.” She herded Christiane through the low door into her kitchen and motioned for the men to follow. The major nodded to the two men. They looked surprised to be included, but happily followed the major into the house. They all stood in the half-circle of light cast by the hearth. The sunlight was nearly gone, but the glow of the fire was cheering.

Once inside Christiane was aware that her feet were more like chunks of ice than flesh. She took another step closer to the warmth and then turned to look around the dim interior of the little house. It reminded Christiane of cabins she had lived in, though this one had a wooden floor and was framed with pine boards that covered the logs inside and out. This made it snug against the winter winds.

“You men, bring chairs up to da fire and sit. Sit.” The old woman seemed happy to have their company. The private and driver accepted mugs of tea from their hostess and went to sit in the shadows on the settle. A dish of large ginger cookies waited there for them. Christiane and the major sat in the two ladder-backed chairs near the fire, next to a commodious and ancient rocker and accepted tea and cookies also. The widow sat in the rocker. “I just bake dis morning,” she offered conversationally, a bit quieter.

“They are delicious,” the major announced clearly, downing one in two bites. The widow chuckled in reply, looking pleased with the compliment.

Christiane’s anxiety over Nancy’s health waned and she relaxed cozily. Conversation floated around her. She found herself glancing at the man beside her repeatedly, wondering what he thought of this event, wondering why he was such a peculiar mixture of kindness and coldness. No doubt there was a story behind his actions, but she could not imagine him volunteering any personal information. No wonder his memory had repeatedly come to her over the last three years. He was a man to respect, a man to remember.

The hours passed till they all dozed in the warmth of the hearth. Then the widow heard something and jumped up hastily and went to the connecting door. “The poultice it vorks!”

Christiane yawned and smiled. “She’ll be all right then?”

“I pretty sure. You go home now. It is late. Come see her next day, ja?”

“I’ll just take a look as we leave.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Schulz,” the major said as he and Christiane stood up. “You will be paid well.”

“I happy to help.” The woman smiled. “Guten nacht.”

Inside the carriage, Christiane nearly fell asleep. Back at their room the major and she silently went through their nightly routine. Each took turns changing behind the lacquered dressing screen. Then he slid into the just-warmed sheets and she snuggled herself into a nest of blankets by the fire.

Christiane broke the silence. “As soon as Nancy is well, I will be able to leave. How long did the widow say it would be?”

“A week to ten days.” He stood by his bed, trying to block the intimacy of this sharing his room with this beautiful woman.

“I hate to bother you any longer than I absolutely have to.”

He shivered, trying to shake off the feelings she ignited. I want her here; I want her gone. “I understand, but it won’t do to try to travel with a weak horse in this weather.” He was pleased that his voice did not betray him.

“You’re right, of course.” Christiane wanted to say more, to thank him, to let him know how much she appreciated everything he’d done for her, but she knew instinctively he did not want her to. A wave of loneliness washed over her. If she had not left so impulsively, she could be safely asleep at the Richardson’s farm with her son only a few steps away. Or if she had waited to send for Henry, she could now be safely at Washington’s headquarters, waiting for Mrs. Washington to arrive.

In this moment she realized with sudden clarity that her whole life thusfar had been one impulsive decision after another. Her first had been the night long ago in Paris when she had left her grandmother’s home. Then she had married the fur trapper Jean Claude under unusual circumstances. After his death she had gone to Rumsveld alone and then had married Jakob. All these had been rash actions. Some of the decisions had been wise and some not so wise, but all of them had been impetuous.

The flames burned hypnotically before her. This last one of leaving the Richardson’s Meadow Farm had been the most ill-advised. No more impulsive decisions from now on. She would marry Henry Lee, regain her son, and spend the rest of her life, living calmly and deliberately.

Have you ever made a rash decision? Mine are usually offering to do something I really don’t want to do. Ever done that? 🙂 If a person is impulsive like Christiane, is it possible for that person to change and become more cautious?



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Author Yvonne Lehman & The Strength in Knowing Weakness

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My guest today Author Yvonne Lehman has not only written many, many fine books, she has also influenced other writers for God. Here’s some of her story:

“After my church rejected my idea of putting into action what I was teaching girls, ages 17-married, in Sunday School, my faith in pastors and Christians diminished and I considered leaving the church and questioned God. After a six-month period of doubt and distress, I chose to trust God, realized that He and I are a majority, and asked Him how I could reach out to others. That led to my attending the Billy Graham School of Christian Writing where a whole new world opened up to me. At that time the School (in MN) and Mount Herman (in CA) were the only conferences for writers. I knew there was a need for writing instruction in the southeast. For 2 ½ years I tried to get Billy Graham Evangelistic Association and others to sponsor a conference.

Defeated, I gave up and told God I heard him wrong, or had failed to adequately convey the message. Or if I was a hindrance, I was stepping aside. After giving up, I received encouragement, along with the money to incorporate such a conference. The dean of the School offered to be emcee and contact editors and faculty.

The short of a long story is that I became director (without being qualified), treasurer, secretary, etc. and held that position for 25 years for the Blue Ridge Conference. A few years ago, after turning that over to someone else, I founded and direct the Blue Ridge “Summer” and “Autumn” in the mountains Novel Retreats.

Did all that happen because I’m strong? No way! It happened because I knew my weakness, knew my lack of qualifications, but believed God shows his strength when we are weakest, when we know we’re not in control, when we want to serve instead of be served.

My idea of a strong woman is one who realizes her weaknesses, limitations, and inadequacies, but trusts God to use her according to what he has given her, where He has put her, and she finds means to improve herself mentally, physically, and spiritually. Those are qualities I put in my characters. The hero/heroine has problems, goals, or conflicts in which they know they aren’t handling well. They learn, or someone enlightens them, that they need to turn their lives, their desires, their will over to the Lord. Not always, but usually I have an older woman character who is an example to the younger ones. Matilda, in Aloha Brides, serves that guiding purpose in all three novels. She is flamboyant and eccentric, but is the one to whom the characters go for insight and instruction for they know she is a woman who trusts in the Lord and inspires in them a stronger faith and always gives them hope.

In defense of that church, they have gone on to being very mission-minded and put action to what they teach. I think God closed their minds and hearts for a while so He could lead me into a writing career that I had not previously considered.”–Yvonne

BIO: YVONNE LEHMAN is a best-selling, award-winning writer of 50 novels. She directed the Blue Ridge Conference for 25 years, now directs the Blue Ridge “Summer” and “Autumn in the Mountains” Novel Retreats. She is co-director of the Honored Authors of the Gideon Media Arts Conference and is a mentor with the Christian Writers Guild. Her latest release is Aloha Brides, a collection of three historical Hawaiian novels. She earned a Master’s Degree in English from Western North Carolina University and has taught English and Creative Writing.

For more information, drop by:

www.gideonfilmfestival.com (for “Summer” Novel Retreat)
www.lifeway.com/novelretreat (for “Autumn” Novel Retreat)

Yvonne’s story is one I can identify with. Has God ever used “Wait” in your life to bring about more than you could have thought of on your own?



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Chapter Thirteen Scene 1 La Belle Christiane

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If you’ve just discovered this free read, click Archived Free Read and start at the beginning.

La Belle Christiane

by Lyn Cote

2011 copyright Lyn Cote

All rights reserved

Chapter Thirteen, Scene 1

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 farther 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 inoppotune 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 then 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 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 any man did have 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.

At that moment the major strolled in casually. As usual, he nodded at her formally, poured them sherry, brought it 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.

Her face must have given her away because the major looked up and asked coolly, “Anything amiss?”

Caught unprepared and unfortunately in a fractious state of mind, she stood up and swept over to the window.

This intrigued the major since this was the first bit of spirit she had shown since her arrival days before. Perversely he rose and followed her. “Anything amiss?” he repeated.

“I’m just restless, I suppose,” she forced herself to say since she could not afford to reveal her true feelings. If only circumstances were different she would put a bee in his ear!

“Oh,” he said disappointedly, realizing that he would have enjoyed a little conflict. This startled him. Turning away, he sought the refuge of his chair and newspaper. Automatically he began to read to her as was his practice.

Christiane stayed at the window till the chill from it forced her back to her own seat near the hearth. His voice droned on recounting to her the events of the day, according to the evening sheet and unaccountably she felt her irritation draining away. She was not interested in the news, but the quality of his voice always soothed her. She had to admit when he wanted to, he could be interesting and she found these evenings a respite to the emotional turmoil she had experienced at the Richardsons.

Taking leave of Tildy and then facing her dilemma over Jean Claude; the combination of the two was still more that she could bear. Why couldn’t life run smoothly? Why did she face difficult choices and contradicitng impulses? Unruly tears threatened her. Blinking rapidly, she rose and went back to the shimmering, iced-over windows, hoping that the darkness would mask her distress. She struggled to regain her composure.

“Something is wrong.”  His voice–suddenly so near–startled her. He had come up beside her. “Has someone upset you?” His tone was stern.

She looked up at him with tears just beginning. If only she could tell someone what she was feeling.

There was a knock at the door. When Alfred did not appear, the major answered it himself. A corporal spoke quickly in an undertone. Christiane caught none of it, but heard the major’s “very good”. Then he turned and walked over to her. “Madame Belmond,” he spoke formally as he did when they were alone.

She looked up in the dim light. “What is it, Major?”

“Your mare has been located.”

His hard-faced expression and tone stopped her from showing any happiness.  “Is she alive?”

He nodded. “I will go and see about it now.”

“Not without me.”

“It may not be pleasant.”

“I am coming.”

“Very well,” he allowed grudgingly.

In the carriage Eastham took the opportunity to examine her profile. She was a beauty, no doubt about it. And in eight days and nights with her he had felt no twinge of desire. It was only to be expected, he thought dispassionately. He had had over six years of this and no doubt many more to be endured.

She was a rare woman, though. When they did speak, she could talk sensibly, keeping her mind on the topic. He also had to admit that he liked the way his reputation had improved among the other officers because of their implied relationship. He was aware that he was no longer deemed a sexless oddity, just a man with very good taste and very high standards. This was a pleasant dividend, but it troubled him that he still cared–even a little–about what others might think of him and his choices.

They arrived at the disreputable-looking inn he had been advised of. Across the yard was a dilapidated barn. The lady across from  cast a worried look in his direction.

“One of my men noticed a dapple mare, pulling a dray for this inn. The horse had the black marking on the right foreleg that you described to me.” She moved forward to leave the carriage. He put a hand in front of her. “I want to warn you. This isn’t the kind of place that takes very good care of their animals.” She pursed her lips and nodded. Outside of the carriage, he supported her as she in her dainy shoes slipped her way over the rutted yard. Inside the stable a soldier stood, guarding a sullen, greasy-looking man.

Christiane uttered, “Oh!”  She knelt down in the filthy straw in the nearest stall. The old mare was down, wheezing painfully, staring vacantly ahead.

Her completely unexpected but genuine action shocked him. And spoke to his own love of his animals. He edged nearer, hoping the animal would not die.

Christiane began stroking the mare’s neck, saying her name over and over. At first there was no response. But within a few minutes, the old horse glanced at Christiane and then tried to neigh. On the mare’s back were welts, some still inflamed and oozing. Her face blazing with anger, Christiane turned to the sullen man. “Did you do this?”

He shifted uneasily, glancing in turn at each of the men who flanked him. “‘Tis the drivers,” he muttered, twisting a frayed tri-corn hat in his hands. “They’re a rough lot.”

She glowered at him with her hands on her hips. “Any man who would mistreat an old animal like this….” She paused significantly, letting his imagination devise a proper punishment.

The major spoke up, “He claims he bought the mare from an English soldier.”

Christiane’s answering look stated clearly that she believed this to be highly likely.

“So we might have some trouble pressing a charge of horse thievery.” The major made his voice suggest that he’d like to do this anyway.

The man paled visibly.

“However I think a charge of receiving stolen property would be easily proven.” The major suddenly wished he could do this and make it stick. But in time of war….

In spite of the drafty, frigid barn, sweat dotted the man’s forehead. “Major,” the man pleaded pitifully, “I didn’t know. You got to believe me. I didn’t know.”

“It’s just too bad there are no laws against mistreating animals and keeping them in a filthy barn,” Christiane charged. The stench of the barn was almost unbearable even in the dead of winter.

“I’ll give the lady the price of the mare,” the miserable man bargained.

“I don’t want your money,” Christiane snapped. “I want my mare back the way she was eight days ago.”

The man tried to placate her still. “Well, ma’am, your mare’s sick and truly I don’t think she’ll make it through the night. I’ll pay you what I owe. I will.” He cast a nervous glance at the two soldiers and twisted his hat again.

Christiane crossed her arms over her breast, scowling. Nancy wheezed painfully. Then an idea came to her. “Certainly there must be someone near that knows how to care for animals.”

I can understand Chrsitiane’s love for this mare, can’t you? Animals become part of our history, our families.

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Author Trish Perry & A Scrumptious Recipe!

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Tea for Two
(Now Available)

book cover: tea for two

Although heroine Tina Milano and her women’s group are mentioned in The Perfect Blend (the first book in this series), Tea for Two is where we meet her and hero Zack Cooper. I knew I would write this book while I wrote the first, so it was fun to plant a passing mention of Zack and Tina while I wrote Steph’s story in The Perfect Blend. By the time I was able to write Tina and Zack’s story, I was eager to unfold their lives, conflicts, and love. I hope readers will be eager to experience what happens to them!

Zack Cooper tries his best to raise his children, but he’s losing his grip on them in their teen years. They’ve both had scrapes with the local law.

Tea Shop owner Milly Jewel has the perfect woman in mind to help Zack. Counselor Tina Milano meets weekly at the tea shop with her women’s group. Milly encourages Zack and Tina to work together to draw the teens back before they get in even hotter water. Milly never thought things might heat up between Zack and Tina. Or did she?

Tina’s connections with the Middleburg police department prove a mixed blessing for Zack and his kids. Both her best friend and old boyfriend are officers on the force.

And when Tina’s women’s group gets wind of her personal pursuits and clashes, they want to help. The group’s meetings at the tea shop take on a slightly different flavor. Tina wonders who, exactly, is counseling whom.

Order this book at Amazon.com

Order this book at Barnes and Noble

“In this novel of hope after loss, Trish Perry brings together characters most readers will be able to recognize among their own families and friends.”? CBA Retailers+Resources

Now for the Scrumptious Recipe!

Chocolate Mousse Cake

Ingredients:

6 ounces crushed malt balls

8.8 ounce container mascarpone cheese

7 ounces heavy cream, whipped

3 seven ounce packages white chocolate & Macadamia cookies

1 cup Bailey’s Irish cream liqueur (for non-alcoholic version use Irish Crème coffee creamer)

Chocolate mousse:

10 ounces chopped dark chocolate

2 eggs (room temperature)

¼ cup caster sugar (very fine granulated sugar)

¾ cup heavy cream, whipped

Directions:

Make chocolate mousse—

  • In microwave-safe bowl, microwave chopped chocolate until almost melted, stirring after each minute. Set aside to cool slightly.
  • Beat eggs and caster sugar with electric beater for five minutes.
  • Stir in cooled chocolate.
  • Fold in ¾ cup whipped cream.
  • Refrigerate until needed.

Set aside ¼ cup crushed malt balls.

Fold together mascarpone, 7 ounces whipped cream, and remaining malt balls. Remove the base of an 8-inch spring form pan and place the ring on a large serving plate (ring will serve as a mold for the cake). Cut a strip of parchment paper and line side of ring. Dip cookies, one at a time, into liqueur and place in single layer in mold to cover base. Spread half mascarpone mixture over cookies. Top with another layer of cookies dipped in liqueur.

Spread chocolate mousse over cookies. Top with one more layer of cookies dipped in liqueur. Spread remaining mascarpone mixture over cookies and sprinkle with the ¼ cup reserved malt balls.

Cover and refrigerate overnight. Then remove spring form, peel away parchment paper, cut, and serve.

That sounds delish! And Tea for Two sounds like a fun book. I know that Trish often has book giveaways on her blog.

BTW, I’m going to be on 4 the Love of Books Weds and Thursday this week. Drop by to read my interview and for another chance to win my Daddy in the Making.–Lyn

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Chapter Twelve Scene 4 La Belle Christiane

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If you’ve just discovered this free read, click Archived Free Read and start at the beginning!

La Belle Christiane

by Lyn Cote

2011 copyright Lyn Cote

All rights reserved

Chapter Twelve, Scene 4

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 a 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 a new 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 Rendevous. So 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 re-gain 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 match-making 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 that 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 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 never felt that I belonged 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, “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 visibly 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. Travelling 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’s voice 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 forced a smile and bid him good luck. Alfred disappeared, looking confused. Christiane and the seamstress lit more candles and busied themselves with the altering of the lovely brown woolen dress with touches of a highland plaid.

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.

I wonder why he says that last line? Any guesses?

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Chapter Twelve Scene 3 La Belle Christiane

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If you’ve just discovered this free read, click Archived Free Read above and start at the beginning!

La Belle Christiane

by Lyn Cote

2011 copyright Lyn Cote

All rights reserved

Chapter Twelve, Scene 3

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 phrase, 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 in the candlelit 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, there was 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.”

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!” the blond 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 a start of a family fortune.”

“The family is wealthy?” Mrs. Loring asked with a slightly 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 emigre. 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. Her lover watched her exit quizzically.

So running into an old friend has merely complicated an already complicated situation. And what about this Mrs. Loring? BTW, there really was a Mrs. Loring and she was the mistress of General Howe. She is what we call  now “a piece of work.” Watch out, Christiane!–Lyn


Lyn Cote

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Author Allie Pleiter & Daily Doses of Strength

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My guest today is Author Allie Pleiter. She has had a rough year with her son’s illness. Here’s Allie:

“I used to think of strength as something that came in big, crushing waves, sort of like Moses coming down off the mountain.  An epic surge that carried our heroes through their trials.  I do think strength comes like that, but rarely.

More often than not, strength comes in daily doses.  The sheer will to get up and do it all again.  Life has taught me that even this kind of strength comes in varieties as well.

When my son was undergoing chemotherapy, I had to draw on the keep-pushing-you-can-endure kind of strength.  People ask me how I got though the five months of my son’s aggressive chemo, and the answer is simpler than you might think.  I didn’t get through five months of my son’s aggressive chemo.  I got through today’s chemo.  And then I got through tomorrow’s chemo.  And some days, I just got through this hour’s challenges, and then next hour’s challenges.  It was the a living lesson in the scripture telling us not to worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow has worries of its own from Matthew 6.  My son is doing spectacularly, by the way–full remission and with a long and wonderful future ahead of him.  Still, the take-it-day-by-day lesson hasn’t left me. I hope it never will.

My heroine in Yukon Wedding, Lana Tanner, has a different daily dose.  Lana has that dig-your-heels-in-never-give-up kind of strength that enables her pay any price to stay in Alaska.  She simply will not give in to the massive challenges of the Alaskan landscape.  She agrees to marry the last man she’d choose because it is her only chance to achieve her dreams for her son. Some might call it stubbornness, but when you focus stubbornness on a worthy goal, it becomes strength.  Tenacity.  She may be lace and frills on the outside, but there’s an iron will under that ruffle.  The hero, Mack Tanner, may think he’s done his duty to protect this damsel in distress, but in reality God has handed him a life partner that will teach him how to trust.  And that’s a lesson Mack needs badly to learn.

Mack and Lana think they are strong in spite of each other, but the true treasure in this treasure-hunt story is that they are stronger because of each other.  That’s the power of love.”

Thank, Allie. Your words are heartening. May God bless you and your family in the days to come.

Bio:

An avid knitter, coffee junkie, and devoted chocoholic, Allie Pleiter writes both fiction and non-fiction.  The enthusiastic but slightly untidy mother of two, Allie spends her days writing books, buying yarn, and finding new ways to avoid housework.  Allie hails from Connecticut, moved to the Midwest to attend Northwestern University, and currently lives outside Chicago, Illinois.  The “dare from a friend” to begin writing has produced two parenting books, fourteen novels, and various national speaking engagements on faith, women’s issues, and writing.  Visit her website at www.alliepleiter.com or her knitting blog at www.DestiKNITions.blogspot.com

Many of you have found strength through suffering. Please leave a comment for Allie to bless her and her son. Or maybe a prayer.–Lyn

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Chapter Twelve Scene 2 La Belle Christiane

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If you’ve just discovered this free read, click Archived Free Read and start at the beginning.

La Belle Christiane

by Lyn Cote

2011 copyright Lyn Cote

All rights reserved

Chapter Twelve, Scene 2

Christiane 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 a 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, miscalculating the amount of force needed to bring her through the doorway, he catapulted Christiane into the room. She bumped against the nearest 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 regally, 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 over-ruled,” 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 herself. 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 travelling 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 and turned it toward himself. “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. He did it in such a fashion that it announced to all: This is a lady. Act accordingly. “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.”

Even in 1777, the world could be a small place. Will Christiane’s finding an old friend prove good or ill?

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Getting Ready for Third Annual MEGA May!

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This is the Mother’s Day Postcard which will be part of my THIRD ANNUAL MEGA MAY “A Celebration of Strong Women” on this blog.

I will send one of these postcards to any special woman in your life IF you send me her name and address before April 29th. Click “Contact” above and send me the person’s name and her mailing address.

Of course, I would never give or “sell” anyone’s address. I don’t like it when that’s done to me so feel confident, your information is safe with me. (Unless they put a gun to my head. Then you’re on your own!)

The front of the postcard will read

“Happy Mother’s Day from Author Lyn Cote, Someone who loves you asked me to send you these loving wishes.”
On the back, the message reads “This wish comes to you from _________________.”

I will fill your name into the blank and sign the postcard. I have almost 50 of these for this purpose and would love to send out all of them.

Also during MEGA MAY on this blog, I am
going to feature humorous family stories sent to me by readers. Do you have one of those stories that families tell year after year? The ones that start, “Do you remember when…” and then ends with everyone laughing? I will be posting more about this early in May. So start thinking of a story and wait for the day I say to post them. Okay?

Finally I will be giving away a MEGA basket of goodies and autographed books in a drawing of all of those readers who have participated during May on my blog by either requesting a postcard or  sending me a story or by leaving a comment or by doing all three!

Don’t miss this! Mega May is always fun!

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Chapter Twelve Scene 1 La Belle Christiane

booksbylyncote.com Posted on by

If you’ve just discovered this free read, click Archived Free Read and start at the beginning.

La Belle Christiane

by Lyn Cote

2011 copyright Lyn Cote

All rights reserved

Chapter Twelve, Scene 1

Many replies to this flitted through Major John Eastham’s mind, such as how personal could a man be to a woman who was in his bed, but he resisted them manfully. “My apologies, madam. Well, everything you have told me is plausible, but it could be a tissue of lies,” he said, still matter-of-fact.
“I have told the truth.”

“That remains to be seen.” He went on before she could reply, “How is your head?”

“It aches, but if I lie still, it is better.” What was it about her that niggled at his memory?

“Then lie still. Pardon me while I dress. Alfred!” he called and pulled the curtains shut.

“My lord, pardon me?” she called gingerly from her nest of blankets and pillows.

“Yes, madam?”

“When you are finished dressing, may I have my saddle bags?  I would like to dress, too. I don’t enjoy dressing as a boy.”

“Pardon me, madam, but you came to me sans saddlebags.”

“What?” Christiane gasped.

He heard the silence that followed. Most likely with her exclamation the agony of her head had returned full force.

“Where are my things then?”  she asked, sounding fretful and in pain.

“Please remain calm, Mrs. Belmond. What items were with you when you were apprehended?”

“My saddlebags and my horse, an old dapple mare, named Nancy.”

“I will institute a search for them.”

“Until then what am I to wear?” Her tone was plaintive .

He didn’t blame her but what did she expect? “You may not believe this, but I do not usually keep female accoutrements in my quarters. I suggest that you stay in bed until something can be found or procured. Anything else, madam?”

“Yes.” The woman paused. “What am I doing here?”

“I thought we had already discussed that.”

“Shock prevented me from asking this earlier, but is it normal, sir, for an officer to question a prisoner in bed?” she asked.

“No, it isn’t, but I thought you would prefer it to freezing to death in an unheated room in the stables overnight.” He opened the curtains and looked down at her.

Christiane folded back the top of the comforter an inch or two and peered out. “I don’t understand.”

The major, now neatly dressed felt more himself. “It is simple. You were being held in the stables. The normal jail is full of patriots and general miscreants, so you were left there for me. When I discovered you, you were unconscious and beginning to suffer from exposure. Dr. Justin, whom I summoned to examine you, suggested a warm fire would revive you. So we brought you up here and we put you to bed.”

“Thank you, major.” She sounded subdued, not grateful.

“You are welcome, madam. I must leave you for a time. Even in winter quarters there are some duties to be done. If you require anything, just call on Alfred.” He turned to his man. “Take care of her.” The valet bowed slightly and escorted the major to the door.

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, the valet, went about straightening the room. Occasionally he would glance at the form buried in the feather pillows. Since he had re-joined 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 some 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 then 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 then 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 of 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 seems to be in conference with some of the command here.”

“Oh,” Christiane said, fearing that she was the topic of their conference.

Alfred bowed slightly 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. It 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.

Christiane 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 Washington’s. 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, whipping her out of the room like the crack of a whip.

Well, nothing seems to be going the way she wants it to, but we’ve all had days that like–just not exactly as bad as this!–Lyn

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