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La Belle Christiane

By Lyn Cote

All rights reserved.

Chapter Three, Scene 1

August 1776, Rumsveld

Sitting astride and clothed in her stepson’s spare buckskins, Christiane urged Jakob’s mare Nancy to enter the forest just north of Rumsveld. Christiane had taught herself to mount and dismount without aid and ride astride, all very unladylike behavior. Her grandmere, who’d insisted Christiane take elegant sidesaddle lessons, would have been appalled. Christiane drew what satisfaction she could from this bit of rebellion.

Sliding off, she looped the reins around a nearby sapling, and hung Jean Claude’s Indian baby carrier on a low branch where her son could finish his after-supper nap. She must hurry before the lowering sun unleashed swarms of mosquitoes, thirsting for her blood. She’d come to harvest wild raspberries, ripe and thick on the prickly vines. A small oak basket over one arm, she began quickly gathering the soft, red berries. The thorns of the raspberry bushes snatched at her leather and would have ruined her only dress.

But what Jakob would say if he saw his bride wearing Jon’s deerskins? His bride. As always thoughts of Jakob leaving her for Washington’s Army chafed, dragged her down. She’d been so certain she could change his mind. But he’d reminded her of his deep personal reason for fighting for freedom. So he, and surprisingly Tom also, had left in early-June for a six-month enlistment. Just her few days as Jakob’s wife had convinced her she’d married the right man. But had he reached the army? Had he been in battle? Was he well, alive? “Jakob,” she whispered to the leaves fluttering on the wind, sounding like callous laughter, “I miss you.”

Suddenly distant sounds interrupted the peaceful twilight. Swatting away a fly, she eased up from the bushes and scanned the horizon through the trees that hemmed her in. Smoke. Smoke was billowing from the direction of the settlement. Fire? Snatching Jean Claude from the tree, she hurried closer to the edge of the forest, ready to mount Nancy and ride to help put out the flames.

But then she recognized the sounds. She’d heard those cries in Canada. Mohawks. Mohawk war cries. Musket shots echoed on the wind. But so few men were left. More war cries. The muskets fell silent. “No,” she tried to deny it.

Her heart raced, pounded and she turned, crashing through the brush, fleeing. A low branch slapped her cheek and Jean Claude cried out. Terror jolted her. Less than quarter of a mile separated them from the village. Would his cry be heard? Would the Mohawk find them? She pressed her hand over her son’s mouth. He squirmed and twisted. Her heart throbbing in her ears, she murmured hushing noises to him. She dropped to her knees. “God, please don’t let them find us.” I don’t want us to die.

She squeezed her eyes shut, willing away her memory of the one scalping she’d witnessed. Her hand over her son’s mouth enraged him, he struggled against her. On shaky legs, she rose, moving silently to Nancy. She managed to lead the mare deeper into the forest.

Minutes, then hours crawled by. The commotion at the start of the raid ended, spawning an eerie silence. She had a time keeping Jean Claude quiet. Nearly ten months old, he wanted to get out and crawl. Finally she let him down but watched him closely, so he didn’t get snarled in nettles or thorns and perhaps cry out again. She fed him raspberries and nursed him—anything that would keep him quiet. Her mind brought up Jakob’s fear that the British would bribe the Iroquois tribes to war against them. Had this happened already?

Deep in the sheltering trees, she faced night alone without fire. She paced back and forth, holding Jean Claude and fanning away mosquitoes. The hellish glow from the fires in Rumsveld died down but did not go out. All was still. Only insects clicked, buzzed and whined. Finally with a sleeping child in her arms, she crept to the forest’s edge. Was there any movement at the smoldering settlement? Should she chance it? Past images of war-painted Mohawks sprinted through her mind, nearly freezing her in place.

Torn between a need to see what had taken place and a horror of finding what she feared, she hesitated a long time at the edge of the sheltering trees. Then the bright full moon rose high. She strapped Jean Claude to her back once more, took up her courage and mounted the mare.

Her stepson Jon had been alone, cultivating his rows of corn. Had he escaped into the forest, too? As she approached Jakob’s familiar acres, she saw the charred ruins of her husband’s cabin. Pressing her hand to her mouth, she held back a sob that threatened to sweep away her reason. I’ve lost another home.

She scanned the nearby moon-silvered field of high tasseled corn, the locusts and cicadas buzzing and shrieking, insistent in her ears. The back of her hand still pressed over her quivering mouth, she rode down the end of the rows, hoping, praying that she would not find Jon. Then by the bright moonlight, she glimpsed his mocassined feet protruding at the end of a row. I can’t go . . . can’t.

She forced herself to approach and face the stark carnage. Jon’s scalped body lay in its own blood. A scavenging animal scurried away from the lifeless form. She slid from her horse and was sick. On her back, Jean Claude jarred, bawled loud against the night sounds, but she could not think what to do. The child squalled on. She held herself with her arms and shook with nausea and horror. At last, she forced herself to mount again. She shivered in the muggy August night, but pressed on. Someone might yet live. Please let someone, be alive.

In front of the smoldering ruins of the tavern, she could find no sign of Sarah. “Oh, Sarah, why?” Her friend’s ruddy face glimmered in her memory. Christiane dismounted, forcing her mind to shut down. If she allowed herself to open up to this, she’d be lost. And be no use at all. The Mohawk had been thorough in their killing, stealing, burning. A night owl screeched overhead, spurring her to action. She couldn’t let the dead suffer further desecration.

With brands from various fires, she fed the embers, blowing on them to make the flames high, but not too high. Who knew how far away the Mohawk had gone? On this clear night, a bonfire could be seen for miles. She dragged the remaining bodies to one large fire. Most were unrecognizable and shadows hid faces. She choked back a persistent need to gag. Her shoulders ached and her empty stomach heaved.

As she pulled one of the last forms to the communal pyre, a young voice shrieked, “Stop! Don’t touch my ma!” Two small fists pounded the base Christiane’s bent spine. She turned to grasp them and discovered Anson, a boy of ten. She yanked him to her and gagged him with her hand. “Quiet. They might hear you.” The quivering child quieted in an instant. She groaned softly with relief. I’m not alone. Realizing the boy mistook her in buckskin, she made her voice cool and decisive. “I’m not an Indian, Anson.” She lifted her hand from his mouth. “I’m Mrs. Kruger, Jakob’s wife. You know me.”

The hysterical child collapsed against her, sobbing. To muffle this, she knelt and held him against her. Then his little brother, Phillip, came running from the trees to join them. She offered him a place in her embrace and he shyly clung to her. She did not urge Anson to be still, but kept him against her. His raw, unrestrained sobs shuddered through her, nearly unleashing her own. But now she had two more depending on her. At length, his sobs became small gasps. Anson stepped back and using his sleeves, rubbed his eyes and nose and stared at her, his shattered heart in his eyes.

“Where were you two hiding?” she asked in a calm tone, turning them away from the flames.

“We were…we were playing in the woods,” Anson answered, between intermittent gasps. “We hid.”

“That was very clever of you,” she said, keeping her voice matter-of-fact. “I was picking raspberries. Why don’t you boys lead the mare down to the creek and let her get a drink of water?” Christiane’s dry throat also begged for water. But she must finish here and she wanted the boys away, so they would not have to witness their mother consumed by flame.

Though Anson’s eyes glanced one last time at his mother’s still form, he took his brother’s hand and led the mare away. Christiane turned back to her gruesome task in order to escape this haunted place. Yet danger would dog them. The Mohawk had taken no captives; that meant they could still be on the prowl–not heading home with plunder. She would have to be clever to elude them. Her mind scrambled to bring up everything about Indian raids she’d learned when with the Algonquin and from her first and second husbands. Pitiful bits of facts.

“I’m hungry,” Phillip’s little voice complained. She stood still for a moment planning. Then she led the horse, carrying the boys, to Jakob’s well where she filled the empty water skin she’d brought with her earlier. With brands from the ashes of the cabin, she started a fire over and around her stepson. Then she hurried the boys back to the berry patch. After the boys devoured fistfuls of the berries, she settled one of them in front and one behind her on Nancy’s back and with Jean Claude secure in the carrier on her back. They turned away from what had been their home. Exhausted, weeping inside, she tried to think of the direction to the nearest fort.

She reeked of sweat, smoke, and the odor of burning flesh. The combination was repulsive and launched an overwhelming desire to flee the frontier. She’d left Canada to escape the wilderness, but Rumsveld hadn’t been far enough for protection’s sake. She straightened her spine. I don’t want to be here or anywhere like here ever again. And the sooner the better.

#

A ragged sigh of relief, a bubble of hope escaped Christiane. After two frightening, hungry days passed, she saw, at last, the outline of a fort ahead. Behind her the sunset hung in long trails of magenta, purple, and blazing gold. She halted at the gates of the small rugged fort. From above, a grizzled man aimed a musket down at her. “Who are you? Where you from?”

“Mrs. Jakob Kruger. Rumsveld,” she croaked, her throat parched.

“A woman?”

“Yes, and I have children with me. Please let me in. We’ve had no food . . . .” Relief had weakened her. She lowered the two boys and slid from Nancy before she fell.

The gate swung open. Men rushed out. Her knees buckled and one of them caught her. “What happened at Rumsveld?”

“Water please,” she muttered, gagging on her swollen tongue.

Gourds of fresh water were offered them. The warm but fresh water dripped down her chin as she gulped it. The boys drank and then hovered around Christiane’s legs, preventing her from moving. From the gate, a crowd muttered and murmured around them.

A tall militia officer stepped forward; everyone else fell back. “Mrs. Kruger, I’m Captain James Rupert,” the young officer addressed her with a bow, “I would like to hear your account of the events at Rumsveld.” He offered her his arm.

Weak, Christiane clung to him, nudging the boys forward. In the captain’s office, venison stew was brought to them and Christiane recounted the bare facts of the raid at Rumsveld. As soon as the boys emptied their wooden bowls, they dozed off before the fire, lying against one another. Jean Claude nibbled from Christiane’s bowl, then nursed soundlessly and fell asleep. The light from a low fire on the hearth sent shadows, streaking and flickering against the rough log walls. Christiane felt sleep sneaking through her body bit by bit, stealing away sensation, focus.

“What are your plans, Madam?” the captain asked at length, his eyes on her, almost caressing her.

His unwelcome forwardness brought her back. “First I will have to find a home for the boys. Then I will join my husband with the Continental Army.”

“But, Madam,” he said, sounding startled, “that is hundreds of miles from here. And with the Mohawk and two armies abroad, you will hardly be safe.”

Christiane closed her eyes. “Safe?” she whispered. Where was safety? She’d felt secure in Rumsveld, but hadn’t been. A memory flowed through her senses, Jakob clasping her in his strong arms, pressing her close to his uncompromising chest. That was safety. The officer leaned closer, his warm breath fanned her face. Jolted, she staggered to her feet.

The captain rose also. “I’ll escort you to your quarters.”

Scrabbling to pull herself together, Christiane shook the boys awake and lifted Jean Claude onto one arm. The captain scowled at the children, ranged around her as a shield. “You’ll sleep in my quarters.”

“Your quarters?” she balked.

“I’ll sleep in my office.” He bowed, again the gallant.

She murmured her thanks and forced herself to let him guide her. She’d keep the boys with her in bed and make sure the door was barricaded. When Captain Rupert bid her goodnight, his hot gaze singed her. Fool.

#

A few days later, at the gate of the fort, Captain Rupert caught up with her—she astride Nancy with the children around her and him looking up. “Madam, where do you think you’re going?”

The proprietary tone in his voice nearly made her snap back at him. But instead, the smile she gave him was a false coin. “I’m spending the night with the Hastings.” Mrs. Hastings had treated Christiane with kindness, unlike the other women crowded into the fort. She’d given Christiane the neat homespun dress she wore today.

“The Hastings left the safety of this fort prematurely.” He had the gall to touch her leg. “I don’t like to see you exposed to danger.”

She moved Nancy forward, disengaging the man’s hand. And you keep thinking that you will wear me down and I’ll agree to stay here as your mistress. Overweening fool. She smiled again, another false coin. “You’re gracious to concern yourself about me, but it is unnecessary. Good evening, Captain.” And good riddance. With the eyes of the whole fort on them, what could he do, say to stop her?

Nancy carried them through the open gates and Christiane suppressed a shout of victory. The few miles to the Hastings cabin passed quickly. The boys sitting before her were silent. She’d already told them they would be staying with the Hastings and even though both the husband and wife had been kind, the boys were still fearful. That couldn’t be helped.

She had her own fears to contend with and her nightmares. She’d go to sleep exhausted and they would begin. A war-painted Mohawk brave would reach out and pull up her hair. Just as she watched him begin to slice the top of her scalp away from her skull, she would wake to her own screaming. Jean Claude would also be crying frantically, so she knew she had been screaming loud enough and long enough to be heard. She would be drenched in her own cold sweat and shivering.

Other times she would merely awaken, expecting to be in Old Sarah’s bed at the tavern. She would reach over to touch her friend to stir her and the bed beside her would be empty except for her son. Then the loneliness, grief and loss pierced her like the sharpest needle. Perhaps these would end when she was far from the wilderness.

The sun was low, casting the corn fields in an amber glow. She rode up to the Hastings’ cabin and slid from Nancy’s back.

As if on cue, Mr. Hastings bustled out of the small thatched barn and relieved her of the reins. “Why don’t you boys come help me with the milking?”

His chin down, Anson nodded. Mr. Hastings led them away.

Christiane turned and found Mrs. Hastings, plump and about ten years older than Christiane, in the doorway of their cabin, welcoming her inside. “Supper’s ready and waiting for Kyle to finish the milking,” the woman said. Inside, Jean Claude yelled at his being restrained and Christiane took off the carrier and let him down to crawl.

Mrs. Hastings grinned at him and then motioned to Christiane. “Come here I have some things that you may be able to make use of.”

“You’ve already been so kind—”

Mrs. Hastings tutted her to silence. Atop a large trunk, the woman had laid out some baby dresses, diapers, knitted sweaters, caps and booties. Also a worn quilt and knife. “I hope you will be able to use these. It’s hard to think of winter already, but you’ll be needing these things for your little one and this quilt is so old, it’s nearly ready to go to the barn to cover the cow in winter. My John said you’d need a knife. He sharpened it fresh for you.”

The couple’s generosity clogged Christiane’s throat. Until she reunited with Jakob, she was again a penniless wanderer. “Thank you,” she whispered, shame at needing charity burning her cheeks.

The woman put an arm around her. “You’ve given us so much more. Two sons.”

“You and your good husband were the only ones who looked at Anson and Phillip as sons, not just two more pairs of hands to work.”

Mrs. Hastings rubbed her neck and looked away. “We buried three sons, all gone before they reached a year old. And then I fell barren. You know we’ll treat them like our own blood. It’s good to have sons to pass the land on to.”

Unable to imagine the toll of losing three sons, Christiane embraced the woman. After a plain tasty supper, she spent the night on a pallet by their fire.

The next morning at dawn before the boys awoke, Christiane and Jean Claude waved farewell to the Hastings and headed away before Captain Rupert would know of their flight.

From Rupert’s scout, Christiane knew that she only needed to head due east till she reached the Hudson River and then to follow it south to New York City. Even the thought of the journey that lay ahead of her did not daunt her high spirits. Jakob was waiting for her. All would be well when she was in his arms again.

Do you think she’s right? Don’t miss the rest of Chapter Three, posted on Wednesday and Friday this week!–Lyn

La Belle Christiane

By Lyn Cote

All rights reserved.

Chapter Two, Scene Three

The April day had started with a cool, gray dawn. But now Christiane felt a tiny thread of perspiration trickle down her back. Just as the weather had changed unexpectedly so had the day in the little village. The pastor from Oriskany had arrived to marry a young couple and the whole village of Rumsveld had turned out for the afternoon ceremony, performed on the village green.

Christiane shifted Jean Claude from her right hip to her left. Sarah leaned over and took him. Christiane smiled her thanks. Across from her stood Jakob. Ever since the afternoon Jakob had told her his story, they’d tried to behave normally in each other’s presence. But they had not fooled Sarah who was even now glancing back and forth between the two of them. And Christiane herself was having trouble keeping her eyes from straying to Jakob.

He would have drawn looks anywhere with his dark blond hair tightly pulled back into a club at the base of his neck, his broad shoulders, the smooth line of back. His tanned face and neck stood out in contrast to his white dress shirt and he exuded strength and vitality. But most of all, he’d opened his life like a book and shared it with her. She couldn’t prevent him from leaving soon. But how could she just let him go?

The wedding ceremony ended with the bashful groom kissing his bride. Then several men came up, pulled the groom away. Before long, he was being tossed up in a blanket to the sound of hurrahs. The bride was also taken prisoner, surrounded by the women who sang a silly song about love and courting that Christiane had never heard. Then the men let down the breathless and rumpled groom from the blanket. Twin brothers brought out fiddles and couples formed the circles and squares for dancing.

The impromptu wedding party amazed Christiane. She had never been to a frontier gathering and she could not seem to take it all in. Years before in Paris she had been allowed to make appearances at the beginning of her grandmother’s balls, partly to show off the next Pelletier and partly to accustom her from childhood to perform at such festivities. So a party to her meant the sedate music of the minuet and the cultured behavior of noble guests. This was nothing like those affairs. The unabashed gaiety of the dancers here was in complete contrast to the highborn pose of boredom.

She took a seat in the shade of a group of elms, the gathering spot for the grandmother’s and the babies. Smiles and nods greeted her and Sarah. When she sat down, Jean Claude whimpered and began falling asleep.

As she watched the dancing, Jakob slipped away and went to the far side of a nearby barn. Why he was going there? As though to answer her unspoken question, Sarah murmured, “The men are passing the jug over there. They will want to congratulate the groom and toast him, do ya see?” Christiane nodded and listened to the flow of women’s chatter. Then Jakob was in front of her.

Smiling with mischief, Sarah lifted the sleeping Jean Claude from Christiane’s arms and shooed her away. “Go have fun. Dance while you can.” Christiane took Jakob’s outstretched hand hesitantly. Could she dance with Jakob as if he weren’t leaving on the morrow?

Jakob led her through the steps of the rollicking dance. As the gaiety around them mounted, he looked more and more pensive. His story had connected them in this indefinable way and continued to heighten, sharpen her awareness, her attraction to him. Through all the reels, the rasp of his rough hands on her palm, arm, and waist intensified the same sensation as though her flesh were reaching for him. Just the same as the last time he’d touched her.

Tom and others claimed her for dances too. But always she could feel Jakob’s gaze on her, marking her, keeping her blood running warm and liquid through her veins. Finally the coolness of dusk crept upon the celebrants. At the end of a dance, Jakob whispered, “Be ready to follow my lead.”

He drew her away into the shadows. When they reached the cover of a thicket, Jakob turned and gathered her into his arms. As if she’d waited for this for days, she buried her face against his throat. “Jakob,” she whispered, her voice quavering.

“Marry me,” he murmured, fanning her with his warm breath. “Marry me, Christiane.”

“But, Jakob–”

He smothered her caution with a reckless kiss. Then he lifted his lips the barest fraction. “Marry me.”

“But you’ll be leaving–”

“I come back in winter. Maybe the war be over by fall–”

“But–”

“Marry me, Christiane.” He prevented her reply with his lips.

Crushed against his unrelenting strength, she was tempted with a promise of fullness she’d never experienced. Her heart had never pounded like this when her late husband had embraced her, coaxed her. It was as though she were held together with tight wire springs, and Jakob’s touch, kisses, loosened the spirals that held her together. She felt if he did not stop, she might come apart.

His kiss drew all that remained of her denial. “Yes,” she gasped, “yes.”

Then she became a channel for warm, lush currents and she clung to him, her only solid anchor. The lush night sounds, the distant music, the scent of the pine, the filmy light from the moon over them became a part of them as Jakob held her close and whispered his love. She sighed. He kissed her deftly, leisurely, fully.

“Now we find the parson,” he said at last.

She answered with a tender smile. He pulled her with him through the dusky shadows. He’d lulled her doubts but with each step, they flew up like sparks. Jakob was leaving for war tomorrow. She’d accepted that. What she couldn’t accept, what froze her to her marrow, was a fresh spurt petrifying dread. Soldiers could die. Would she end up being Jakob’s widow too?

La Belle Christiane

By Lyn Cote

All rights reserved.

Chapter Two, Scene 2

Two weeks later

Standing in the doorway of Sarah’s barn, Christiane, pulled up her single braid so that she could feel the spring breeze on her neck. Though small patches of snow still lingered in shaded spots, the warm wind swept billowy white clouds northward across a perfect, blue sky. The wild grass was green again from recent showers and the trees had unfurled tight little buds. On this spring day, now seventeen years old, she felt delightfully alive, but somehow unsettled.

She’d just finished milking the cow. During the harsh gray winter, sitting on the milking stool and leaning her cheek against the warm cow’s furry hide, had been comforting. Physical evidence that she and her son had a home again and that had been enough. Now the restlessness that had begun that evening a few weeks ago unfurled inside her. And somehow it was all tied up with Jakob Kruger. Deep in her thoughts, she did not notice Jakob until cleared his throat in front of her.

“Kleines Frau, I think you would like these. I find them this morning just inside my clearing.” He pushed a small, uneven bouquet of wild flowers into her hands.

Christiane inhaled their pungent, wild fragrance. Her hesitant smile answered him. “They smell like spring.” Though no man had ever given her flowers before, she knew what this attention meant. Avoiding Jakob’s eyes, she bent her face above the blooms once again. “Thank you, Mr. Kruger,” she said in a prim tone.

“You are welcome, kleines Frau.” His voice caressed her.

She knew a she should get away from him, but she could not think of a way to excuse herself without appearing rude.

He rested one moccasined foot on the door sill in front of her. “It is a beautiful day, ja?”

She slid a bit to the right, preparing to leave. “Yes, it’s hard to believe winter has finally ended, Mr. Kruger.”

He continued to smile and in spite of herself, she liked the way the skin around his eyes crinkled. Approaching the point of leaving, she asked, “Did you want to see Sarah about something?”

“No, I come only to bring you flowers.”

His bold response startled her. She couldn’t stop her cheeks from coloring. “I have thanked you for them, so I will bid you good day,” she said with precise courtesy. Lifting the full milk pail, she tried to step past him.

His outstretched arm arrested her.

Her chin lifted. “Was there something else?” Her words stiff.

“Yes.” His rough hand reached over to support her arm, which held the pail of milk. She opened her mouth to ask why and found she couldn’t speak. His eyes held hers and she watched, mesmerized, as his face drew nearer, nearer. Then he pressed his warm, dry lips to hers.

“Pull away,” her mind instructed. But pure amazement filled her, her eyes still wide open. Her late husband’s kisses were a distant memory. Had they ever held sway over her like this?

“Mr. Kruger,” she whispered his name against his lips, giddy with a sudden rush of sensations.

“Kleines Frau,” he whispered back and began a second kiss. She closed her eyes and drifted against him. Finally he spoke, “Kleines Frau, I ask you a favor.”

His voice rumbled through her. “What?”

“I wish you call me Jakob.”

Through half-closed eyes, she studied him and how she’d relaxed against him. What had he asked? The words came back to her. This request was a step toward intimacy. I should say no. He’s almost twice my age and I haven’t known him long. Instead of denial, she felt her lips form the word “yes”.

“I wondered what was holding back the milk being brought in,” Old Sarah’s wry voice boomed across the yard between the tavern and its barn.

Christiane jerked back. If Jakob’s hand had not steadied her grip on the milk pail, she would have spilled it. As it was, a few drops spilled and trickled down her bare ankle into her moccasin, pitching her back to reality.

She wrested her arm from Jakob’s grip. “I’m sorry, Sarah,” she said, taking a step past him.

“Sorry, Sarah,” Jakob echoed, sounding not a bit sorry. He leaned back against the door jam and folded his arms across his chest.

From the corner of her eye, Christiane observed his nonchalant pose and self-satisfied expression. She would have liked to slap it from his face. And she should have. How could she have let him slip under her intentions and kiss her?

Several minutes later still inwardly fuming, Christiane sat on the stoop of the inn, concentrating on stitching a small shirt for Jean Claude, who was crawling on the wild grass nearby. Coming outside, Sarah sat on a ladder-back chair beside her. Had she seen Christiane letting Jakob kiss her? Christiane wondered if Sarah would have more to say. Or she corrected herself, what more would Old Sarah have to say?

A few moments in the golden sunshine passed. Sarah broke the silence. “So you have a man courting you?”

Christiane sat still, contemplating the word, “courting.” She’d have been an idiot not to recognize Jakob’s interest in her. But somehow the word, “courting” turned Christiane stomach inside out. “Do you really think he is courting me?”

“Course.” Sarah snorted. “That kiss should have told you that. And I see the way he looks at you. Like a farmer looks at the grain he’s about to harvest.”

To give herself time to think, Christiane picked up her chubby son and nuzzled him. He squealed with delight. The truth, a straight arrow, came to her. I don’t want anyone courting me.

Then she voiced her reason aloud to herself as well as Sarah. “My first marriage was arranged. This time I want to choose. What if I make the wrong choice?”

“Picking a man ain’t easy. Though most don’t think about it much. They just do it as a matter of course, do ya see? And some poor women just don’t have many chances. But you, yes, you will have choices.”

Christiane pondered this.

Then Sarah said, “Jakob has a good head on his shoulders. I have to admit that if I were in the market for a man, I would be looking Jakob over as a good choice.” The old woman chuckled at herself.

“Sarah!” Christiane slapped her friend’s knee as though scolding a child. Then her tone abruptly became serious as she voiced one of her concerns, “He is too old for me, don’t you think?”

“He’s only in his thirties. And age don’t mean much. Jakob is a strong, a hearty man. I’m certain he would be around many a year more.”

“But I would want more of a family,” Christiane said cautiously. Didn’t age affect that?

Sarah snorted again. “Don’t worry about Jakob. He’s man enough to take care of any woman. His wife was a sweet woman, but she was barren after Jon and that’s all there was to it.”

“I suppose age is not the best reason to marry someone or not,” Christiane conceded with honesty. “My first husband was younger than Jakob and he has passed already.”

“Aye, there are no guarantees in life. That’s a fact.”

“But Sarah, Jakob doesn’t have time to court me if he goes ahead and joins Washington’s army.” This brought a confusing mix of relief and tension. Christiane’s lungs tightened and her heart jigged.

Sarah let the subject go. Companionable silence ensued. Overlaying Christiane thoughts, the unbidden face of the English captain momentarily floated before her and the memory of her cheek against the wool of his red coat. She’d known Captain Eastham only a day, less than a day, much less than a day. Why did she continue to think of him? She waited, but no answer came to her. Where are you, Captain Eastham? Do you ever think of me?

Sarah broke into her reverie. “Just remember you don’t have to be in a hurry. Jakob isn’t the only bachelor in New York Colony. Word is getting ’round about you. Now that the weather is better, others will come looking. You know what they say, ‘Marry in haste and repent in leisure’.”

Good advice surely. I’m not ready yet. “I think I should wait another year. I’m in no hurry.”

Sarah grinned. “But your callers may be.”

“Then they will have to learn patience, won’t they?” Christiane answered with a saucy grin. They shared a chuckle over this. Then Christiane scooped up her drowsy son to take him in for his nap, leaving Old Sarah outside absently fanning away stray mosquitoes.

La Belle Christiane

By Lyn Cote

All rights reserved

Chapter One, Scene 3 (If you haven’t read them, scroll down to read Chapter One Scenes 1 and 2, posted previously)

In the morning, she leaned back against the cramped wooden tub, luxuriating in the warm water. She sniffed again the bar of lavender-scented soap she caressed in her hand. The captain had sent breakfast, a bath, and clothing. On her bed were her new clothes, the common dress for a peasant girl–a white blouse, gathered at the neckline, a white apron over a dark brown skirt and matching bodice that laced up the front.

Her grandmother would have been appalled at the outfit. However, after losing everything but the tattered clothes on her back, Christiane was thrilled with it. But the most wonderful part of all were the undergarments. Two full cotton petticoats, edged with white eyelet, a shift and a camisole. Where had the English captain gotten them?

Rising at last from the tepid water, she slowly blotted her body dry. Laying the damp towel around her shoulders, she rummaged through her small leather pouch. Then she began absently stroking her thick hair with a bone comb. Her earlier fears had been dulled by a nourishing breakfast and all the gifts that had come to her. But now her mind turned to the fact that this night she would have…a husband.

She’d fled Paris hoping to become a married woman. But never could she have envisioned such circumstances as the ones which were now hers. She looked down at her naked self. She hoped wryly that her husband, in contrast to Parisian tastes, preferred thin women, with arms and hands darkened by the sun.

To prolong the enjoyment of her new clothing, she began slowly to draw on each piece, feeling it glide over her skin, enjoying the sensation of being washed clean and fragrant with lavender. Her mind kept returning to the Englishman. What had brought him to this outpost? Did he long to return to civilization, too? Did he feel as trapped as she did? But then men were rarely trapped. They made the decisions, not women.

#

Near the appointed hour of noon, Captain Eastham called at the door, “Mademoiselle, may I enter?”

“Oui.” She stood up, dressed in her new finery with her hair neatly pulled back into a chaste braid.

He strode into the room and then stopped. “Very nice,” he commented.

She blushed at his approval. For some reason, she had become breathless again. “Who should I thank for these lovely clothes, sir?”

“Your husband.”

Her eyes flew open wide. “I have one already?”

“No, no, forgive my attempt at humor. What I meant was that your new clothes are part of your bride price. You will pardon me, but this idea of paying the bride’s father for his daughter is quite strange, don’t you agree?”

“No doubt a dowry would seem absurd to Shaw-nee-awk-kee,” she countered lightly, though her stomach quivered in a dangerous way. “Your French is very good,” she said, trying momentarily to turn his focus from herself.

“Merci, I had an excellent French tutor as a child,” he said with a small grin.

She wondered what he would say if she responded in English that she had had an excellent English tutor as well as an English-speaking father.

“To the matter at hand,” he said, looking defensive, “I did manage to sober the Indian up sufficiently to set a price for you.” He became more serious. “Would you like to hear how your husband will be selected?”

She clasped her hands together, her palms moist. Unable to meet his eyes, she stared down at the well-packed dirt floor. “Oui,” she whispered.

“I encouraged your guardian to set your price high enough to narrow the competition, but not high enough to end it. The price is your new clothing, two wool blankets, a musket, ten rounds of powder and ball, a jug of corn liquor and one pound silver.”

“That much?” she breathed in genuine surprise.

“You are an extremely valuable young maiden. Most traders make do with squaws. The man who gets you is getting a treasure, a white woman who can survive on the frontier.”

Was it true? Would she survive in this wilderness? When she’d left Paris, she’d had no idea of the hedge of protection, of privileged comfort she’d surrendered. She shook her head, willing away these doubts.

He went on more briskly, “Shortly I will announce the price. Then any unmarried man who proves he can pay it will be allowed to take part in the drawing.”

She looked up then, asking “Why a drawing?” with her eyes.

“I thought it would be the most equitable and quickest way to choose from among the qualifiers. If this does not suit, we may choose another way.”

She considered this before answering. “It is more than I hoped for. You have been so kind. Merci.” She curtseyed low in the noble style she’d been taught. But recalling who she was now and where she was, she lowered her eyes again.

Unexpectedly, he stepped closer and lifted her chin, looking into her eyes. “Your way has been difficult, hasn’t it?”

His deep tones brushed against her taut nerves. His touch launched a frisson of awareness through her. She returned his attention, suddenly not afraid of his eyes. She yearned for some part of whom she truly was to come through to him. I couldn’t even give you my right name.

An inner voice urged her, “Tell him who you are. Tell him and your life, your career, your everything can be the way it was meant to be. Tell him.” Christiane held her breath, searching his face. Should she? What difference would it make? Then she recognized the urgent voice, it was grandmere’s.

No. Who she had been wasn’t important. Maybe this wasn’t the way matters were supposed to be, but they were the ways things were. His hand moved against her cheek. A gentle, respectful touch.

This officer had applauded her bravery, so she must give him a courageous reply. She pressed her hand over his. “This new world demands much, but I survive.”

He grimaced, his face solemn. “I am still learning that lesson myself.” There was another pause. Again, grandmere’s voice urged her to reveal herself to this man. Christiane ignored it. I can’t tell him. I don’t want him to know I’m not some peasant’s daughter, that I’ve been reared to appear before royalty. It would crush me.

Then he slipped his hand from her face and his mouth twisted into a wry smile. “I still say that any woman who would welcome this arrangement is unique. Are you certain?”

She still felt his phantom touch upon her cheek. “Capitaine, this is not a situation I would have sought. But you look at it as a man would. If I were still in France, any marriage would have been arranged, wouldn’t it?”

“I suppose you are right.” He pinned her with his gaze. “Sometimes life, even for a man, leaves no way out.” He looked as though he wanted to say more that was personal, but this breach of decorum passed. He looked away. “Pere Paul Albert will perform the wedding immediately after the drawing. Shall we go?”

Offering her his arm, he escorted her formally to the green in the midst of the small fort. Shaw-nee-awk-kee and his son waited for her by a camp table in the center. Shaw-nee-awk-kee looked gratified at the air of suppressed excitement around the common. He gave Christiane a courteous nod.

She nodded in return.

All around men lounged, trying to appear nonchalant. From under her eyelashes, she noticed, however, all appeared freshly groomed. Again, she found herself the object of intense scrutiny. Today, though she felt it to be complimentary and her confidence rose. She was offered the only chair beside the camp table and she sat primly on display, her heart fluttering like a wounded moth.

The captain cleared his throat. “Gentlemen, I will begin the proceeding by naming the bride price. In order to qualify for a chance to marry this fair young lady.” He paused to motion toward Christiane. “You must pay today. No haggling permitted.” The Englishman sounded most official. “So here is the price.” The audience became alert. He recited it and paused as if giving them time to make mental computations and decisions. Then he spoke again, “All those men who feel they qualify, please come forward.”

After a momentary pause, one-by-one eight men separated from the crowd and came forward. Instinctively, Christiane looked up, but then she forced her eyes down. It would be better not to make any preferment since she knew God, not she would decide. At length, the captain and the storekeeper were satisfied that all eight men met the financial requirement.

“Now each of the qualifiers will have his name written on a piece of paper. The papers will be placed in a hat and the lady will draw out the name of her husband,” the captain continued.

Suddenly, Christiane wished to participate, not merely observe this important event in her life. Also though she had refused to let the Englishman know just how far she’d fallen, she wanted to offer the captain just a glimpse of her true station. She broke her silence, “If you wish, sir, I will write the names.”

There was a rustle of surprise among the observers. Captain Eastham smiled and bowed in her direction. “Mademoiselle, if we had known that you could read and write we would have set the price far higher.” He motioned the sergeant to give her the paper and quill.

Each man then stepped forward in turn and loudly gave his full name. Each tried to catch her eye, but in vain. Christiane kept her eyes on the quill and paper alone. She heard the excitement in the voices of each man. Her own tension grew with each name she wrote. The die that would predict the course of the rest of her life would be cast today, this hour. She whispered a prayer the nuns had taught her.

Finally all the names were written, the paper torn and the pieces placed into the captain’s tri-corn hat which he held above her head. Trembling, she stood up. There was absolute silence as she reached up, stirred the names once and selected one. Without looking at it, she handed it to the captain.

He opened the slip and announced formally, “The lucky bridegroom is Jean Claude Belmond.” Only then did Christiane allow herself to look up.

A broad-shouldered man, wearing a fringed buckskin jacket, stepped up and faced her. A huge smile creased his face. “C’est moi, Mademoiselle.” He was a head taller than she and had dark curly hair and warm brown eyes. She smiled timidly. Shaw-nee-awk-kee nodded to the Frenchman and then walked from the fort.

Pere Paul Albert came forward immediately. “Daughter,” he asked in a grave tone, “do you consent to this match arranged in such an unusual way?”

“I do,” she answered firmly though her stomach jigged in an uneven rhythm.

“My children,” the priest said augustly, “join hands.” When the priest lifted his crucifix above the couple, the surrounding men doffed their caps and folded their hands. The ceremony proceeded quickly. She answered and repeated as the priest directed, all the while listening to and observing this stranger who was becoming hers till death. Then the priest was instructing Belmond to kiss his bride.

She turned shyly toward him, lifting her face. He smiled down and slipped strong arms around her. Rising slightly on her toes, she answered his warm kiss, her very first. The sudden sound of the whole fort cheering its approval made her shudder sharply in her bridegroom’s arms.

Over her husband’s shoulder, she glimpsed the English captain. His mournful expression snared her. Was he staring at her or was he looking inside himself? Had she made the right decision by choosing to keep her secrets?

So Christiane has found a husband, but did she make the right choice? Tomorrow I’ll post Chapter Two, Scene One.  If you’re enjoying this, please tell your friends. I’ve always thought that Christiane, my very first heroine, deserved to have her story told.–Lyn