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La Belle Christiane

2011 Copyright Lyn Cote

All rights reserved

Chapter Eighteen  Scene 3

A sour taste welled up into her mouth. It was not only from her stomach, but from her heart also. Now she understood the phrase, “bitter as gall.” How could the major have lied to her so convincingly, so cruelly? How could he have conceived such a clever falsehood? Unable to father a child? Liar! He had, at least, a daughter in London and now in American the child she carried. It was difficult to decide which made her more sick with anger–his deception or her own gullibility.

But placing blame was no solution. It was nearing the end of April. By the time the summer campaign began her condition would be very difficult to conceal. She could not disgrace Henry by staying. The ugly consequences of her wrongdoing in December crowded around her. Swinging her legs outside the warm blankets, she pushed herself up gingerly. If she lay abed any longer, it might be thought unusual.

Pressing a wet cloth against her face, she stared at her reflection in the mirror. Fatigue made her tremble. Did she really look that pale? A full day and a full evening of duties lined up before her. The concealment of her condition made them all the more difficult. If only she could rest in the afternoon or sit down and put her feet up. For a moment she allowed her mind to dwell on the many little courtesies that her first husband had shown her during her first pregnancy. How kind he had been. A tiny sigh escaped her. She wiped her face one last time with the cloth. Then methodically she dressed. A soft knock came.

“Come in,” Christiane said.

Mrs. Washington bustled in. “How are you, my dear? You have seemed pale lately.”

“I just need some sunshine.”

“Well, the weather seems to accommodate us more and more. I am so grateful that this dreadful winter has gone.”

They were both silent as they remembered the hardships–six days in February when no flour had come, horses dying of starvation, men losing fingers and toes from the cold. It had been a winter of unbelievable, unspeakable pain. Six thousand men had survived it and Christiane respected each and every one of them.

Mrs. Washington broke their sober moment. “Excitement. And we must go and witness it.” She clapped her hands in childlike cheer.

Christiane turned her back, silently asking for help with the lashes of her dress. “What is it?”

“The shad are running. It is an unusually big run. Most years, I am told, they do not go farther than the Delaware River. But this year, Christiane, this year they have come far up the Schuylkill River right here and the fishing has begun. We must go see it. The Old Man says it is something to see.” As she spoke, she quickly finished tightening Christiane’s laces up the back of her plaid dress and tied them.

Though outside a hint of cold lingered in the breeze, under the warming sunshine, the dogwood trees were all in blossom, millions of white blooms. The camp seemed less busy, emptier than usual. As they neared the river, they discovered where most of the army had gone. Above the sound of the rushing spring run-off, voices shouted all around them. Cavalrymen rode their gaunt mounts mid-river and beat the water with large bushes, driving the fish toward both shores. Men stood in the shallow water shore side ready to spear or net or scoop the fish as they came near.

Just watching all this activity made Christiane’s pulse quickened. The men had not looked so happy since March when they had heard the news that they were to receive an extra month’s pay and an extra tot of rum for sticking it out through the winter.

Christiane recognized Henry as one of the cavalrymen and she waved. He was thinner, too, after the winter, but his broad shoulders were still notable as he maneuvered his horse. She knew that she was engaged to one of the most eligible men of the Revolution. The fact made her heartsick. Henry surprised them then by riding up beside them. He swung down and bowed to them. “Good day to the two most beautiful ladies at Valley Forge!” The physical activity and the sunshine seemed to have released his high spirits that the winter had vainly tried to conquer.

Mrs. Washington curtseyed and returned his banter, “I fear that I am included in your compliment only because of the company I keep.”

“Oh, never, my dear lady, never.” He breathed deeply from his exertion. His eyes lingered on Christiane’s face and inwardly she squirmed.

How she wished she could respond to him as he desired her to. She would have to leave him and soon. She smiled and concealed the looming betrayal.

“Oh, go ahead and kiss her,” the older woman said gaily, “that is what you came for.”

He grinned and then bent to place a kiss on Christiane’s cheek. Then he leaped back into his saddle and galloped back into the fray. Christiane’s face froze into a deceiving smile.

After the two women watched for over an hour, drinking in all the excitement, they strolled back. Mrs. Washington continued chatting and Christiane made the correct listening sounds.  How painful it will be to leave this dear woman. Until today, Christiane had avoided thoughts of leaving, but seeing Henry so happy had moved her past this. Soon she would have no choice. Where will I go and how will I live?

They arrived at the stone house and joined the other ladies in the parlor. Christiane picked up her sewing basket and continued stitching one more pair of moccasins. The ladies were listening avidly to the  general’s wife as she described the shad run.

Christiane, on the other hand, was mentally making a list of possible people to turn to. Tildy? She knew that Tildy would not approve of what she had done, but she could not picture Tildy turning her away. But Tildy was living on the charity of another. No, Tildy would want to help, but would not be able to. The Richardsons? They, too, would be willing to help, but Christiane inwardly shrank at the thought of how hurt they would be at her immoral behavior. More importantly Jean Claude would be harmed. He would not be the bastard, but when Christiane delivered him a bastard brother or sister, the stigma of illegitimacy would stain  him also.

She had lived among these people long enough to know the cost of unclear parentage. Look how it had affected Alexander Hamilton. He was a brilliant man, a fine officer, but if someone wished to insult him, they only had to breath the word, “bastard.” No wonder he was so touchy. Her own illegitimacy had never bothered her in France only because of the special circumstances of her family. But she did not want either of her children to suffer the consequences of her act. If she could protect, at least, one of them, she would. She had already sinned against her son enough by leaving him twice. No, she could not turn to the Richardsons.

The Washington’s? No, they had been good to her, but she would only bring disgrace to them. If only Old Sarah at Rumsveld were still alive, she would gladly return to the frontier tavern and Sarah’s old feather bed. How could she support herself?

As she bent over her work, she castigated herself. All her grand plans were ashes now. Suddenly she felt hard and brittle inside. It seemed she had only one talent. She was beautiful and desirable and men wanted her. One man had concocted an elaborate lie to win her favors. Men propositioned her with their eyes, with their words, as naturally as they took breath.

A cold wind blew through her mind. If this were her only ace, why not use it? The very thought shook her. She had fled France seven years ago to avoid what she was now contemplating. How could she even let herself think this idea? Lost in her thoughts, she stuck her sewing needle deep into her thumb. “Oh!”

“Well, she has finally come back to us,” Mrs. Knox observed cheerfully. “Penny for your thoughts?”

Christiane smiled fraudulently. “I was thinking about all those fish for dinner.”

General amusement followed her comment. “Not fish,” Mrs. Knox waggled her finger playfully. “You were dreaming about a handsome young captain, now weren’t you?”

Everyone chuckled and then sewing resumed. Christiane stitched the supple leather and wrestled mentally. Can I really live as my mother’s daughter? The repellent thought made her sick and weak–yet her false smile held.

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