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La Belle Christiane
2011 copyright by Lyn Cote
All rights reserved
BOOK TWO
Chapter Nine, Scene 4
The following days were the some of the most confused Christiane had ever known. While trying to go on with her duties as usual, the emotions she’d been able to keep below the surface until now bubbled up without warning or cause. She was careful not to speak often because she never knew if she would suddenly forget her line of thought or begin weeping.
One afternoon stopping in the midst of dictating a letter to her which she was to translate into French, General Washington had fixed her with a distracted frown.
“Is there something wrong, sir?”
“I wish, Christiane, I wish Martha were here.”
Christiane didn’t move. From the way he was looking at her, she knew better than to ask why. Any word of sympathy could send her into tears. At last, they finished the letter and he had let her go.
She went upstairs and sat on her bed in her small tidy room and tried unsuccessfully to make sense of the churning thoughts and feelings inside her. Who could untangle this mess? The image of a tall, thin woman with a baby in her arms came. Tildy, of course.
Christiane quickly went through her mental list of things to do for the day. Most could be done immediately or postponed till tomorrow. She would not be needed again till evening. Quickly she went down to the kitchen to go over the menu for the evening meal.
Finally Christiane donned her bonnet and gloves. Just as she was about to leave, she turned back to the kitchen. She wrapped up a dozen sugar cookies in a cloth. As she made her way to the family camp, she thought over what to say and what to ask Tildy. A war raged inside her–the past versus the future.
Soon she was making her way through the family campground near the stream. Many women were slapping the rocks along the bank trying to get their laundry done. There Tildy was–sitting under a deep red maple–nursing her baby.
“Tildy!” Christiane called. Soon she was sitting beside Tildy on a sturdy camp stool. “I brought the boys some sugar cookies,” Christiane said, opening the cloth in her lap.
“Oh, they will be delighted. Is there one for mother, too?” They both chuckled.
“Of course. I didn’t forget you or me.” Christiane handed Tildy one and selected one for herself. They sat munching happily together. The boys appeared almost magically to claim their cookies and scampered off to share pieces with favored friends. Christiane’s buoyant mood evaporated suddenly and she was somber again. What did I come to say? What should I do?
“Christiane,” Tildy asked quietly, “what is the matter?”
At this, Christiane dissolved into tears. “I don’t know. I feel so strange.”
Tildy put her arm around her and waited. The autumn wind blew briskly, making ruffle of their caps flap around their faces and the clouds overhead flew easily across the sky, but the warmth of the sun still held them comfortably. The small infant slept now peacefully on a doubled blanket at their feet. Only a thin flour sack draped over her. Finally Christiane’s tears ended. She wiped her cheeks with her handkerchief and sighed deeply. “Oh, Tildy, what am I going to do?”
With her hands folded in her lap, Tildy faced her thoughtfully. “Christiane, I have been thinking of you for months. Ever since we came back, I wanted to see you and talk to you, but there didn’t seem to be any way. You were at the General’s quarters and we were here.”
Christiane tried to speak.
“No, let me go on,” Tildy insisted. “Tom told us how things had happened for you and I was glad, really glad. You deserved it. But I still missed you. Then I saw you that day after Brandywine with the General and everyone and I almost spoke to–”
Christiane broke in, “Tildy, I’m so sorry about that day. I saw you. I acted terribly and I know it.”
“Christiane, I understand.” The woman’s tone was firm.
But Christiane was convinced that her friend really did not comprehend what had caused Christiane to act the way she had. But how could she explain the fear that drove her?
“Now,” Tildy paused to breathe deeply, “what else is bothering you?”
“I don’t know. I seemed to have gotten over losing Jakob, at least, I wasn’t crying anymore, but when Tom died, I don’t know…,”
Tildy waited patiently.
Finally Christiane began again, “I keep seeing images from the past, unpleasant ones.” My mother’s murder, she said silently. Losing my first husband, Rumsveld, Jakob. It’s like having nightmares during the daytime.” Christiane shivered. “And ever since Tom died, everything has gotten more muddled in my head.”
“Do you think it was because he was the last person to die from Rumsveld?” her friend asked quietly.
“I don’t know. It could be.” Yes, I think that’s it, some of it. “Why is life so sad, Tildy? Tears filled her eyes for the second time and she let them fall freely.
“It does seem to me that life sometimes has ‘runs’, do you know what I mean?” Tildy asked. “A person for no logical reason will have a long run of bad luck or of sadness.”
Christiane nodded. Certainly her run of sorrow and poverty should be just about over. One of these two, poverty, she could control. The other one she could not. A glance around at the squalor of family camp reminded her of her own resolve never to be destitute again. And she wanted more than just a reasonable margin against poverty. In this life one needed it. And she would get what she needed. I can’t go back. I can’t.
They sat silently then, Christiane thinking her own thoughts. One of the precious facets of Tildy’s heart was that she never rushed one into further confusion. The baby at their feet began to stir in her sleep. They watched her, as mothers do, enjoying the cherub cheeks and the movement of the tiny hands and feet.
Finally the child awakened and stretched drowsily, blinking up at her mother. Tildy bent to pick her up. “My little catnapper,” she murmured as she nuzzled the child’s cheek.
“I’m so happy you have your little girl.” And that she has remained healthy in this awful place.
“Yes, I am grateful to God for my two strong sons, but my heart did long for a girl to share womanly arts with.” Tildy looked at Christiane. “Would you like to hold her?”
Christiane held out her arms.
Tildy held up a hand. “First let me introduce you. Christiane Kruger, may I present to you, Christiane Matilda Main?”
Christiane’s mouth formed an “O” as she took the babe in her arms. “Tildy, you named her for me!”
“Of course, who else? I only hope she will grow to be as lovely as you are.”
Christiane held the dear little baby close to her. How honored she felt. Then unbidden it came, just a whisper from deep inside her , “I want Jean Claude.” Christiane looked down. “I want my son.”
“How old is he now?” Tildy questioned softly.
“Two. Two years old the first day of this month. I have not seen him for a year.” She waited fearfully for a word of condemnation.
“I remember how you wanted to go to him when you first came to New York,” her friend said sympathetically. “If only we hadn’t taken your horse, you could have gone to him this spring.”
Christiane wanted to deny this, but she could not put her motives into words though. Almost bitterly she said, “when we fled New York City, I should have gone for him.”
“You couldn’t. Jakob needed you. If you hadn’t stayed, maybe young Michael would never have been returned to me.” Tildy paused. “I can never thank you enough for finding him that night.”
Christiane shied away from recalling to mind that appalling night of marrow-freezing terror.
Tildy picked up the thread of the conversation. “Now you can have your mare Nancy back anytime you want. We are grateful of the loan, but she is yours.”
Christiane pursed her lips. How can I go to Jean Claude. With a horse of no, I will not travel to New Jersey or anywhere else alone.
“Would you want to go north with us? Michael’s six months is over later this month. Then we’ll go back to Massachusetts for the winter. Michael’s located an aged cousin of his who lives alone on her farm northwest of Boston. She is a zealous patriot and has consented to take us in with her for the duration of the war. I hate the thought of not being with Michael for a year or more at a time. But he has insisted that this is our last summer in family camp.”
“You mean you are leaving for good?” The thought hit Christiane hard. Knowing Tildy was near had been a comfort.
“Yes, Michael is going to spend this winter repairing the barn and stockpiling wood and other things. Then he will come back next spring for good. New Jersey is right on our way,” she offered hopefully.
A silent battle crashed and raged within Christiane. Her well-made, logical plans were shaken under the onslaught of her maternal feelings. Her well ordered plans for her future meant nothing right then. “When would we leave?”
“Two weeks from tomorrow.”
“I’ll be ready,” Christiane heard herself say. She stood up resolutely. “I have to go now.” Their interlude ended abruptly, but what needed deciding had been settled. Christiane could visit Jean Claude and still return before Mrs. Washington arrived when the armies closed down for winter. The thought of Henry Lee was dismissed. I can’t think of that now.
