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La Belle Christiane

Copyrigth 2011 by Lyn Cote

All rights reserved

Chapter Seven Scene 3

On another afternoon, the three women in the kitchen were making muffins and churning cream into butter. Mrs. Hardy was in a loquacious mood. “Yes,” she said reminiscently, “Emma come to me as just a babe. The mister and me had been married for almost eight years and still no children. Then I got word that a cousin of mine, not far from here, had had a child with a harelip.” She sighed. “And her husband was terrible upset about it. Not knowing what had caused this terrible judgment to come on their house.”

This comment made Christiane squirmed uncomfortably, but she continued carefully spooning batter into muffin tins.

“Anyway,” the woman continued, “we, me and my mister, decided to go and see them. Comfort them you know. They already had five children–all good-looking and bright. But the youngest before Emma was only sixteen months old. My cousin was having a time, doing her work, caring for the children, helping her husband and here was this baby. The child couldn’t suck and she was having a terrible time feeding her.” Another pause.

“So my mister, he had such a good heart, says to me, why don’t we take the babe home with us and give this woman a chance to get on her feet? My cousin was that glad when we put it to her–so grateful she was. So we brought Emma home and they was to come and get her when things had settled down. But they never came to get her,” she finished spritely.

“And we were glad, too. She, my cousin, had five more children before she was through and here I was happy to have Emma–no matter how she looked. Why some people told us we were foolish to care for her. They said she would have died if I hadn’t taken such special care of her. And they said it would have been a mercy. But I say no! Not everyone is meant to be beautiful like you Christiane.”

Christiane was shocked and showed it. Emma, sitting beside her with the churn, made her own statement by kicking Christiane sharply under the table. Christiane jumped and bit her tongue.

“No, not everyone is meant to be a beauty, but we all have our place. Emma has hers here in the kitchen.” Not noticing Christiane’s reaction, Mrs. Hardy smiled at her ward fondly. “My mister has been gone for almost six years now and how lonely I would be without her.” The widow shook her head as she took out another two tins of hot applemuffins from the hearth oven. Their rich cinnamon fragrance filled the kitchen.

There was a knock at the door. Christiane quickly rose to answer it, though her slight limp slowed her. All of them expected to see Tom, so Christiane was surprised when it was strange soldier in the doorway between the inn and kitchen.

He was tall, unkempt, and was clothed in well-worn buckskins. He stood, leering at her. The open door caused a draft of cold wind which blew through her skirts and chilled her. “Yes?” she asked, her tone tart.

He smiled slyly and continued leering at her. The hair on the back of her neck prickled, she straightened herself almost haughtily under his stare. “Yes?” she repeated stiffly.

At last he spoke, “Girlie, the general’s lady is come and the general he wants his tea early.”

“Anything further?” she asked, wanting to shut out his unpleasant presence.

“Not this time, darlin’.” And he turned and disappear, probably heading back to his duties.

He was completely and immediately forgotten as the kitchen went into a dither. The three women had known that Mrs. Washington was expected, but had not known exactly when. Mrs. Hardy rose to the occasion and began directing her two minions.

Very soon a large silver tray was complete with the best china tea set and Mrs. Hardy’s delectable apple muffins and fresh creamy butter. The cook inspected the tray one last time and then turned a speculative eye on Christiane. She stood a long moment, cradling in one hand her elbow and in the other hand, her chin. “Christiane, you will serve tea.”

“Me?” Always before Mrs. Hardy or a maid from the house had done the serving. “Me?”

“Why not?” Mrs. Hardy responded. “Let’s just show Lady Washington what kind of house this is. I want Morristown to show off its best.”

Serve the general’s lady and his officers? Christiane had been raised waited upon by servants. Somehow working at a tavern in Rumsveld hadn’t humiliated her, but serving a lady as a maid would be mortification. Christiane began to protest.

Mrs. Hardy cut her off. “Quickly, Christiane, put on a fresh apron and cap. Let me see your hands.” Within a few minutes Christiane was groomed to Mrs. Hardy’s satisfaction and holding the tray.

“But I can’t curtsey,” Christiane blurted out. Her leg muscles were still quite stiff and sore from her wounds.

“They will understand. After all, it was the general himself that put you in my care.”

Christiane could see that there was no way out. She would have to do this. Mentally she braced herself. It had not bothered her to serve ale in Sarah’s tavern, but these people were of quality. To appear before gentle folk as a serving maid caught in her throat. But Mrs. Hardy and Emma would never understand her reluctance, so Christiane straightened her back as Mrs. Hardy placed a shawl around her shoulders. Out she went through the cold breezeway to the back door, and into the inn. She shrugged off her shawl into the hands of the waiting innkeeper whom she’d met on a few occasions.

“Where’s Mrs. Hardy?” the innkeeper asked.

“She wants me to serve tea.”

“Oh, good,” the man said,  looking relieved. “They all be in there.” Without further conversation, she led Christiane to the door of the parlor. As he opened the door for Christiane, he whispered, “The tea table is by the hearth.”

Christiane took a deep breath. Grandmere had always pronounced that a true lady was never discommoded by any circumstance. Christiane repeated this to herself and then stepped through the door. One by one, the faces turned to look at her, frozen just inside the door.

“Mrs. Kruger,” John Laurens stood up and came over to her. “How are you?”

“Much better. Thank you, sir,” she murmured. His friendliness was just what she needed to calm her. “I have brought your tea.”

“Of course. Of course.” He motioned toward the nearby tea table. At this Christiane moved forward as gracefully as possible and set the heavy tray on the tea table.

Glancing up, she met the clear eyes of Mrs. Washington. The general’s lady was no beauty, small, plump and with gray hair peeking our around the ruffle of her cap. Christiane smiled shyly and began to arrange the tea things.

“My dear girl, I will be happy to pour,” the general’s lady said.

“As you wish, my lady,” Christiane replied softly. She turned to leave and met the general, looking down at her. “Do you need anything before I leave, sir?”

“No, Mrs. Kruger, I was just happy to see you up and around.”

Anger sliced through her, startling her. This was the man who had persuaded her husband to re-enlist for six more weeks. If Jakob had left when his original term was up, he would still be alive. But when she looked up again into that lined face, all the outrage left her. This was the man who could take time to speak politely to a poor woman, who could send a courier to take a letter for her and later see that her wounds were cared for. Then a real sympathy for him poured through her. How could a caring man bear the burden of all the men who fought and died under him?

“Except for a slight stiffness I am very well. Thank you, sir,” Christiane murmured quickly. She wished to thank him for his aid, but she would wait for a more private moment. She nodded, smiled, and let herself out of the room.

Standing just outside the closed door, she overheard Mrs. Washington’s voice, “Mr. Laurens, how did that young woman come to be injured?”

“It was quite a story,” Mr. Laurens began and in brief terms told us Christiane’s injury. “Then she was brought to headquarters and the general arranged for her to be cared for.”

“Oh, I’m so glad, George. What a brave and resourceful, young woman! And so lovely, too.”

Feeling lighter, Christiane limped down the hall and sat down on a chair by a window. The transition from the dark, solid kitchen to this sunny hallway brought back memories.

Her phantom grandmere chided, A lady does not eavesdrop.

At least, nothing boring,” her mother teased.

Christiane smiled. It was good to remember them as they had been together. Her mother had been dead now for four years. With a twinge of guilt, she wondered how grandmere was or if she were even still living.

Christiane looked up and down the hall, admiring the gray and pink-blossomed wall paper, the gleaming, ornamented tables, and the two portraits that stared down on her. Now she was glad she had been asked to serve the tea. She had learned something that grandmere had never discovered. She now knew that she could serve tea to a lady and still feel like a lady herself.

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La Belle Christiane

Copyright 2011 by Lyn Cote

All rights reserved

Chapter Seven Scene 2

In the days that followed, the icy sensation stayed with her. In the past she had lost loved ones, but always before she had witnessed their going. Jakob’s death retained a feeling of unreality. Sometimes as she rested, she glanced up at the door and she would imagine it opening. Then Jakob would walk in and smile down at her. The vision–at first–was comforting and then crushing. Jakob would never come to her again.

Finally the evening came when the doctor was ready to take off the bandages. The supper dishes were done. The wind moaned bleakly outside. Christiane sat up and watched. She still did not remember the savage attack that had caused this calamity, but there was the evidence, two red welts on her left thigh. After pronouncing her healed, the doctor received his thanks and left.

“Christiane, we have a surprise for you. Don’t we, Emma?” The usual muffled voice agreed and Mrs. Hardy continued, “Get out the hair mixture first.”

Mrs. Hardy turned to Christiane. “We decided to give you a real bath this evening. We couldn’t do it before because of your leg, and you being so all in. But now we’re really going to do you up.”

Christiane forced herself to smile and tried to look cheerful. The two women bustled around her, getting out a large wooden tub and buckets. Mrs. Hardy stood behind Christiane and brushed a loathsome black mixture lavishly into Christiane’s tangled and matted hair. Christiane gasped and the woman chuckled, “Smell’s sure strong, ain’t it? But it’ll do the job. Don’t cotton to having lice in my kitchen, but we couldn’t do nothing till you mended.”

The mixture oozed and dripped from Christiane’s scalp which tingled almost painfully. Christiane hoped silently that the mixture would take the lice, but leave her hair. Then Mrs. Hardy wrapped an old linen cloth around Christiane’s head several times, tying it on securely. “Latch the door, Emma. We don’t want any sudden drafts.” The woman went over and tested the water with her hand. “This water ain’t warm enough! She might take a chill!”

“Sorry,” Emma muttered through her veil, but she did not sound as though she meant it. It took several minutes to heat enough water to bring the tub water up to the correct temperature. Emma was sent out to draw two more buckets from the well. Then it took a time to warm up the kitchen again. At last Christiane was helped into the warm bath. Mrs. Hardy beamed and hustled Emma over to the table to leave Christiane in privacy.

Letting out a sigh of pleasure, Christiane let her limbs stretch as much as she could in the small tub. The bath soothed the chronic ache that remained in her thigh muscles from her wound and it seemed to melt away the sheets of ice that had encased her since she came to this kitchen. Memories of her childhood baths fluttered through her mind and the dark walls around her reminded her of last winter with Sarah Rumsveld and the baths she had taken in Sarah’s rough, old tub. And she remembered her bath at the fort in Canada and the lavender soap Captain Eastham had given her. The face of her son came to her. Jean Claude. He was nearer now, in the same colony, but still she could not go to him. Their separation was no longer a sharp pain, but remained a dull grieving that never left her.

Slowly she began to rasp her skin with a long-handled brush and strong soap. Then she began to work at her hair. It took time and effort to work out all the original tangles and Mrs. Hardy’s hair mixture, but finally it was floating around her in the tub.

“Christiane, we have a vinegar rinse for your hair, so it will shine nice.” The cold, pungent liquid was dumped on her head. Christiane sputtered and pushed her hair back from her face. Then they helped Christiane to stand, so they could douse her several times with the tepid rinse water. Afterwards the two women quickly dried her, so that the cold hovering just away from the fire would not bring on the chills.

Christiane sat contentedly on her pallet in a fresh gown, reveling in the feeling of being clean once more. Then Emma stood beside her and began to rake her head with a large comb. Before she could help herself, Christiane yelped in pained surprise.

“Emma! Easy. Don’t be so clumsy!” Mrs. Hardy scolded.

Christiane reached up and took the comb from the girl’s hand. “Thank you, Emma. But I’d like to comb it myself,” Christiane said and smiled gratefully. Emma reached down to Christiane’s shoulder. Christiane anticipated a friendly pat and jumped at the pinch that came instead. She sat, stunned, holding the comb in mid-air.

“Well, I reckon it be time to turn in. Emma, bank the fire before going to bed. And good night to you, Christiane,” Mrs. Hardy said.

“Good night,” Christiane replied mechanically. “And thank you again for the bath.”

“Think naught of it. Besides tomorrow you’ll start to work for your keep. Night!” Mrs. Hardy was out the door to go to her room in the main part of the house. Emma finished the fire and went wordlessly to her little room which had once been a pantry. Christiane sat on her pallet, staring into the embers, combing her hair. For the first time in many weeks, she wondered what the morrow would bring.

#

The next day Christiane found herself sitting at the kitchen table for breakfast. Then Christiane helped with the bread baking for the day and peeled potatoes for a hearty soup. By noon her hands were trembling and her back ached. Noticing her fatigue, Mrs. Hardy told her to lie down after the midday meal. After the nap, Christiane was roused again to help with the preparation of supper. As soon as she was dismissed after the final meal of the day, Christiane fell into a deep sleep.

Several hours after the kitchen had become silent Christiane began to toss in her sleep. Soon her soft moans crested into screams, “Jakob! Jakob!”

Strong hands clutched her upper arms and a violent shaking awoke her. Christiane looked up, still half in her dream. A vision of ugliness–a face with only a misshapen space for a nose and a twisted upper lip, loomed above her. Christiane screamed again.

The shaking started again. “I came out because I thought you needed help. Don’t look at me like that!”

“Emma,” Christiane gasped, “I didn’t know it was you.”

“Aunt told you I am a harelip.”

“Yes, but….I was having a nightmare….” Christiane writhed inside. She hadn’t meant to hurt Emma.

“Shut up. I know what you are thinking. I’m too ugly to live.”

“Emma! You shouldn’t even say such a thing.”

“Why not? People have said it about me. I hate you, Christiane Kruger. I hate you and your pretty face. I’ll get even someday. Someday.” The words were bitter and resentful.

“Emma,” Christiane whispered, but the young woman had already stomped back to her tiny room. The emotional confrontation completely unsettled Christiane. She lay for a long while staring into the waning flames. The dream had been of her Jakob, but the bitterness of Emma’s words distressed her more. Jakob was dead, past help or hurt, but Emma was alive, so young and bitterly angry. At eighteen, it made Christiane feel old and sad.

#

In her days and nights that followed there were three constants: Mrs. Hardy, the jovial, strict taskmaster; Emma, the surreptitious tormentor; and the nightmares. Mrs. Hardy was not harsh, but she was a tireless worker herself and expected others to keep up with her. Christiane understood well that most all the patients in the nearby makeshift hospitals died. She owed Mrs. Hardy her life and she knew it.

Emma troubled Christiane. She pitied and resented her at the same time. Being born and having to live with such a deformity as Emma’s was a cross to bear. But it was hard to feel compassion for a person when she pinched you in the same spot three days in a row.

The nightmares were the final blow to her peace of mind. Though exhausted, she dreaded going to bed each night because she never knew which scene would waken her with her own screams–her mother’s murder, her father’s death, the Indian raid or the vision of Jakob, lying dead. Her eyes were smudged beneath with dark circles and she rarely smiled.

Tom remained her faithful visitor. Whenever he had a few minutes, he would stop at the kitchen door to pass a word or two with her. Afterward Mrs. Hardy would wink or chuckle knowingly. Christiane knew what the woman meant and resented it, but she had other more pressing concerns.

A few times she had thought of asking Tom to travel to the Richardson’s farm with her to get her son. But the idea of submitting herself to the relentless cold was unthinkable. And with her wounded leg still troubling her, she could not stand, much less walk for long. she still ached over the Main’s leaving. Over and over, she rationalized that Tildy was very ill and much better off away. But it still hurt that they had left when she had needed them most. If only Tildy were here to talk to, to cry with.

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La Belle Christiane

Copyrigth 2011 by Lyn Cote

All rights reserved

Chapter Seven Scene 1

Slowly Christiane became aware of herself in the dim light around her. She was warm. At first it was enough just to feel the warmth. Then the fuzziness in her head cleared and she could see that she was lying on a pallet by a fire. She felt the pain then, a burning in her right thigh. She could hear the sound of a knife, chopping on a board. She willed herself to sit up, but she could manage only a slight quiver. She tried to speak, but a dry croaking was all that sounded.

“Emma, see if she’s awake,” a hearty voice commanded.

A large form loomed over Christiane. “She’s awake, Aunt,” an odd, muffled female voice labored to be heard.

Christiane blinked, trying to bring the form into focus.

“Well, get her a dipper of water, Emma. Do I have to tell you everything?”

The form neared and Christiane was able to bring her into focus that it was a very overweight, young woman. She jerked Christiane’s head up and spilled a dipper of water into and around her mouth. Christiane coughed.

“Don’t choke her!” The older woman bustled over, looming suddenly above Christiane. “Go back to your dicing.” Then kneeling, she raised Christiane’s head gently and carefully put the dipper to Christiane’s lips. “I’m Mrs. Hardy. There now. Just sip the water. That’s it. We were wondering when you would come back to us.” The woman was large with a florid face and fly-away gray hair, showing around her white cap.

“What happened?” Christiane managed to whisper.

“What? Don’t you remember?” The loud woman’s voice hurt Christiane’s ears. She closed her eyes and shook her head.

The woman’s words poured forth, “Well, they told us you was wounded by a Hessian deserter. And it wouldn’t be decent to put a woman in hospital with all those men. Not proper at all. The General sent word himself that you wished you to be brought here to Jakob Arnold’s Tavern,  the General’s headquarters in Morristown. And I agreed. I’m the cook here at Arnold’s. Have been for years.”

The voice beat against her, but Christiane clung to consciousness. I must know where I am. Where is Michael? And Tildy? Jakob?

“There was no other room for you in the Tavern, so I said bring her to my kitchen out behind the inn. Mr. Arnold agreed. Better you stay here in my kitchen than in a hospital–or in a tent on the Green. Imagine men and their families living out in tents, barns or just-made cabins in January. I never did think I’d live to see anything like this right here in Morristown.”

Christiane’s head swirled with all the words. Faces flickered in her mind and the memory of bone-deep cold and icy terror that drenched her all over again.

Mrs. Hardy raised her voice, giving more instructions. “Emma, put a piece of bread in a bowl and add some milk and sugar. We better get some food into her while we can.” The woman deftly propped Christiane up with pillows. “Now, Emma, I want you to sit here and spoon this bread down her careful. I don’t want to find half of it on her chin and gown when I get back. The doctor said he wanted to see her as soon as she wakened.”

Christiane evaded the spoon and whispered, “Jakob?”

“Jakob?” Mrs. Hardy stopped and cocked her head. “That the name of the soldier that keeps stopping at the door to ask about her?” she asked Emma. “That your husband?”

Christiane nodded, her panic easing. Jakob wasn’t far then.

“Well, he’ll be back soon I reckon.” Then the woman hurried out the door.

Emma methodically and sullenly shoved the milk toast into Christiane’s mouth, spoonful by spoonful. At this close range Christiane was able to study Emma in spite of the dimness of the light. The most startling thing about the young woman was that the lower half of her face was covered by a thick veil. Christiane wondered why, but could not seem to think. Of course, she remebered now that she’d burned with fever. That probably explained it. Wearily she hoped Jakob would come back soon and explain everything.

Christiane closed her eyes briefly. The spoon stopped and Emma stood up. “More,” Christiane whispered. Emma sat down and once more the spoon scraped the bowl till it was empty. Then she left without a word and soon Christiane heard again the rhythmic meeting of a knife and board.

Several minutes later the energetic Mrs. Hardy swept into the kitchen with an elderly man in her wake. “She’s over here, Dr. Craik. Emma, did she finish the milk toast?”

“Yes, ma’am.” The girl’s words, indistinct and raspy, were muffled by the thick veil.

“Did she want more?” the woman demanded.

“I’m fine, Mrs. Hardy,” Christiane said, though the effort of speaking loud enough to be heard, drained her.

“Ma’am,” the doctor addressed Christiane formally. “I am glad to see that you have finally regained yourself.” He went down on one knee beside her pallet. “For two days you’ve slept.”                Christiane shook her head slightly in denial.

“Yes, two days. But after your surgery–”

“Surgery?” Christiane whispered.

“She don’t remember what happened,” Mrs. Hardy said from her station on the other side of Christiane’s pallet.

“You were bayoneted twice in your right thigh. The bone was only grazed once, not fractured. I merely had to close the wounds and bleed you. Thanks to Mrs. Hardy’s excellent nursing, it seems that your condition is improving.”

Christiane forced herself to speak, make the effort necessary. “I am very grateful–to both of you.” She panted with the effort.

“Mrs. Hardy, if you would help me, I would like to examine the wounds.” The doctor folded back the blankets which covered her.

Christiane was certain that the two were being as careful as they could be, but each touch and movement caused her searing pain. Tears welled in her eyes and she bit her lower lip to keep from crying out.

“So sorry,” the doctor murmured soothingly. Finally the inspection and fresh bandaging were done, but they had left Christiane trembling and slightly nauseated.

“Jakob?” Christiane asked, pleading for him.

“Her husband–she wants to see him,” Mrs Hardy explained.

“Oh, yes, yes,” the doctor said distractedly. He turned away abruptly. “I shall see you on the morrow.” He left, closing the door behind him against the rush of cold air.

“He didn’t even guess, did he, Emma?” Mrs Hardy chuckled. Emma replied with a kind of pleased grunt. “Pay no mind to his soft soap, he thinks it’s all his doctoring that saved you,” the woman confided cheerfully to Christiane. “But Emma and me, we poulticed your leg and got the poison out. Your leg would have gone septic if not for those poultices. My grandma give me the receipt for them herself.” Mrs Hardy chuckled again. “He did the stitchin’, but we did the doctorin’.”

Christiane tried to smile her appreciation, but almost immediately she began to doze as her exhaustion overtook her again.

Finally the long January afternoon was spent and the supper dishes were being washed. Christiane, though still in pain, was fed and warm.

A knock came at the door. Christiane’s heart leapt. Oh, please let it be Jakob. The veiled and ponderous Emma answered the door and then a man was beside her. Even before he reached her in the dimness, she knew it was not Jakob.

“Christiane,” Tom said softly. “I’m so glad to see you awake. We were so worried.”

Christiane voiced the only reason she could think for Jakob’s not coming. “Tom, is Jakob on sentry duty?”

Tom ignored her question. “The Mains left this morning. Tildy was still ailing and the sergeant wanted to get her to better quarters for the winter. They hated to leave you and his enlistment was not really up yet, but they had to get back to Boston.” Tom continued nervously, “And, Christiane, I hope you don’t mind, but I let them take Nancy. Tildy couldn’t walk, you know. And you two being such friends….”

“Jakob?”

A terrible silence met her query.

“Is Jakob hurt?”

A more terrible silence ensued.

“Oh, Christiane,” Tom managed to say and then tears overtook him. He lowered his face to hide them.

And then she knew. She closed her eyes and an icy sensation began to spread through her body. Finally after several minutes, Tom was able to speak again. “Oh, Christiane,” he said wretchedly.

“When?” she whispered.

“He fell at Princeton. The day you went after little Michael.”  Tom wiped his tears on the back of his sleeve.

“How?”

“He didn’t suffer, Christiane.”

“How?”

“A bullet in the head. He never knew any pain. He was gone before I could get to him.”

On the hearth a log broke and shattered in the flames.

“Don’t worry, Christiane. I’ll look after you now. I brought you to the General, so you would get good care.”

To Christiane he sounded like a child comforting his mother. Nothing could ever make everything right again. The icy feeling paralyzed her. She lay still, feigning sleep. At last he bent over her and placed a gentle touch on her forehead.  She wanted to shy away but remained frozen.

“She’s widowed then?” Mrs. Hardy asked softly.

“Yes.” Tom audibly choked back his own grief.

“That’s not good. She’s been asking for him all day.”

Tom nodded. “Thank you, ma’am. Good night.” He let in cold air as he went.

Mrs. Hardy stood over Christiane. Christiane remained silent with her eyes closed till the woman moved away. Then tears slid silently down the sides of her face. I am lost. Jakob, my Jakob.

So Christiane must face another loss. As you can see, this novel follows more the pattern of Gone With the Wind. It follows Christiane through her life until she finds what she has been searching for.  What is her heart’s desire?

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