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La Belle Christiane

2011 copyright by Lyn Cote

All rights reserved

Chapter Eleven, Scene 3

The light of the morning filtered through Christiane’s closed eyes. Sighing deeply in her half-sleep, she rolled onto her back and opened her eyes sleepily. Above her was a high white coved ceiling, an unfamiliar one. Where am I?

Memories of the road block popped into her mind. Her eyes flew wide. In one quick motion Christiane stood up. Just as suddenly the top of her skull throbbed with a surged. Like an ocean wave the pain flooded her, making her nauseated and weak. Moaning, she staggered back and clutched a bed post.

“Your head hurts?” a quiet male voice asked.

Christiane looked up slightly, but the agony above her brow made her mute.

“Lay back down,” the voice instructed her.

“Where?” she gasped. A stranger came over, lifted her effortlessly onto the high feather bed and swept up a quilt from the floor covered her. “Now lie still. Maybe the pain will subside,” he continued matter-of-factly.

With closed eyes, she lay still, feeling the pain ever so slightly begin to ebb. She heard logs tumbling onto the fire; then the curtain rings scraped as they were opened wide to the side of the bed that was nearest the hearth.

“Is your pain easing any?” he asked.

“Yes,” Christiane managed to whisper. Through tiny slits between her eyelashes, she saw him, standing across from her by the bed, wearing a British officer’s uniform. The sight jolted her head and the increased pain nauseated her. “Who are you?” And even as she whispered it, she knew who he was–the young captain at the little fort on the Ottawa River, Captain Eastham. She closed her eyes again, unable to believe what they told her.

“The question is, ma’am, who are you?”

“Where am I?”

He looked at her intently. “On my bed,” he said wryly.

“Where?” Her nausea was becoming worse and she was having trouble drawing up enough energy even to speak.

“Philadelphia. And this particular part of Philadelphia is one of the senior officers’ quarters,” the major spoke as a teacher to a rather slow pupil. “Yesterday afternoon you were apprehended at a roadblock as a suspicious person. You were brought here for questioning. I am the officer in charge of that questioning. From now on I will ask the questions and you will answer them.”

Christiane barely nodded, hardly able to see, the morning light stabbing her eyes. Her headache was overpowering her, but she was certain of what she’d seen. This was the captain. His brown hair was pulled back into a tight club, as she remembered, but now it was touched with gray at the temples. But his piercing blue eyes were the same.

He doesn’t remember me.

This truth cut her like razors. He had played such a big part in her life. For the past three years, he had appeared in her dreams. How could he not remember her? She pressed her fist against her heart, to stop the ache there. Unable to stop herself, she moaned.

“Are you feeling sick to your stomach?” he asked, sounding concern.

She shook her head slightly. She hadn’t known this kind of heart-pain since Jacob had turned away from her that day she found him in New York City. She squeezed her eyelids tight and forced down the tears that were a hair’s breadth away.

The incident at the roadblock popped into her mind. Why hadn’t she stayed safely at the Richardsons? She was in real peril here. The British officers quarters, dear heaven. The torment of her head threatened to overcome her.  Yet she must gather her wits. This time the captain was her enemy, not her ally. She would have to fight this feeling of drowning in the pain and disappointment and try to think of a plausible story to explain her masquerade. If not, she might very well spend the duration of the war imprisoned. Seconds passed, but she found she could not think of a single false, but believable explanation.

As if reading her thoughts, he said, “Have you come up with a good story yet?”

“No,” she said helplessly.

Unexpectedly he laughed and the sound struck her head like a blow. “Then, ma’am, tell me the truth.”

“I’ll have to,” she said softly, still looking away. She wanted to cry out, “It is I, Captain! Don’t you remember me? You helped choose my first husband. I have never forgotten you. Why have you forgotten me?” She sucked in a deep breath to choke back the weeping that was in her throat.

“Very well. Begin please.”

Since she was in too much pain to lie effectively, she decided to tell the truth, but as little as she could. “What do you want to know?”

“Your name?”

“Mrs. Christiane Belmond.” Thinking about Canada had prompted her to use her former name. She almost corrected herself, but stopped. It might be better to use her former name. Christiane Belmond had no connections to the Washingtons. But would her married name jog his memory?

“Where is your husband?”

“I am a widow.” Carefully she relaxed her body and her voice to give no evidence of her fear. Nonetheless, her head felt ready to split into two.

“Mrs. Belmond, why were you travelling disguised as a boy?”

“It is safer.”

He paused to think. “I see. A woman would cause a stir travelling alone. But the question is: why were you alone?”

“I had no one to travel with.” Miserable, she eased back further into the feather pillows and pulled the quilt higher.

“Then why not stay where you were?”

She thought a moment. “I could tell you why, but it is quite personal and I would prefer not to. It has nothing to do with politics,” she said honestly.

He thought about this some more. “Personal, you say?”

“Yes, very.”

“Where were you going?’

“To visit friends,” she answered faintly. Where was her own clothing?  She would need it to flee this house as soon as she could dress and–stand.

“Where is your home?”

“I don’t really have a permanent residence right now,” Christiane admitted.

“You’re a vagrant then?”

“Not really.” She knew that vagrancy was against the law. “I have worked as a lady’s companion. I am merely between positions.”

“A lady’s companion?” the major sounded doubtful.

Christiane said, “Yes,” as firmly as she could.

“Somehow I don’t see you as a lady’s companion–a gentleman’s companion, yes. A lady’s, no.”

“You are too personal, sir,” Christiane said as hotly as she was able. Only the fear of more pain stopped her from sitting upright.

What will the major say to that?

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