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La Belle Christiane

Copyright 2011 by Lyn Cote

All rights reserved.

Chapter Four, Scene 1

“No, I don’t want anything. No, my throat hurts. Why it is so hot? Open the windows. I need air,” Christiane complained weakly. A woman was helping her up to vomit again. The convulsions started, almost squeezing the life out of her. Exhausted, she laid back on the wet sheet. “Water,” she begged in a dry whisper. Then she was floating again.

There was maman, sitting in her room, dressed for bed. “Maman, sil vous plait.” No, leave her alone!  L’aide!, au secours!! Maman! The crimson flow poured out on her mother’s white lace negligee. Christiane opened her mouth to scream, but no sound came out. Then she could hear herself moaning, “I don’t want to remember. Take it away.”

Broth was warming her throat. She could feel it coursing all the way down into her chest. More, please, more.

Rumsveld. Only this time she was not safely hidden away. The Mohawk war cries, the screams, and the smell of gunpowder overpowered her. She felt herself losing consciousness. The English captain, appearing from nowhere, caught her as she fell. His face looked down on her sadly and then the face changed to Jakob’s. “Jakob,” Christiane moaned.

Someone was wiping her flaming face with a cool cloth. Christiane reached for and grasped the hand. “Don’t leave me! I’m afraid,” Christiane begged. Soft words flowed over her, comforting her without being understood.

#

Christiane woke almost without knowing it. The world came back to her gradually. Finally she could see that she was lying on a small bed in a tidy, white room that had two simply curtained windows, a dresser, and a chair. Christiane felt clammy in the damp gown and sheets, but was too weak to do anything about it. So she lay, waiting for someone to come through the door directly at the foot of her bed.

From somewhere in the house she heard a baby’s cry. At first she did not take notice of it. Then she knew it was her baby’s cry. Jean Claude. With difficulty she pulled the damp covers off herself and worked her legs over to the edge of the bed. She sat up slowly, realizing as she did that she did not have the strength to stand. She tried to call her son’s name. The words came out as a pathetic croaking.

The child’s cries ended and then she heard footsteps mounting a flight of stairs. Quietly the door opened. She raised her eyes and saw a small, trim woman with silver-streaked, brown hair. “Thee has come back to us then,” said the unknown woman in a gentle voice that seemed familiar. But the used of “thee” confused Christiane enough to make her silent.

The woman touched Christiane’s forehead with the back of her hand and continued, “Thy fever has broken. Thanks be to God. But that gown and those sheets must be changed. Thee is likely to take a chill if we are not careful.”

Christiane could only stare. Her gown was lifted over her head and a dry one replaced it swiftly. Then she was helped, almost carried to the nearby chair and the bed sheets were deftly changed. “Now back to bed with thee.”

Without thinking, Christiane put up her hands to ward off the woman.

The woman paused. “I see, thee is tired of bed.”

Christiane nodded. “My son?” she whispered.

“Thee wishes to see thy babe?”

Christiane nodded.

The woman stood, musing with a finger pressed to her chin. “Mayhap it would be best.” With that she left the room.

In a short while Christiane heard heavier footsteps mounting the stairs. The door opened and a tall, silver-haired man entered the room.

“Friend,” he addressed her politely, “I am here to fetch thee downstairs.” Christiane stared at him wide-eyed. With no further ado, he gently put a shawl he was carrying around her shoulders and lifted her effortlessly. Soon she was downstairs, ensconced in a wooden rocker near the fire. To the shawl, an old wool blanket was added around her knees.

She was surprised by the size of the kitchen she was in. Sarah’s two rooms at the tavern could have fit inside it with space to spare. She had not been in a two-story house since leaving Paris. The room was plain, but cheerfully decorated in blue and white.

Nearby her son was eagerly eating a bowl of porridge with the woman’s cheerful assistance. He finished and then squirmed to be let down to crawl. At first he did not see his mother. When he did, however, he let out a squeal of happiness and scrambled to her swiftly. He dragged himself up to stand at his mother’s knee.

Christiane bent down and encircled him with her arms. She was too weak to lift him, but the joy of touching him again brought tears to her eyes. The woman was quickly beside Christiane, lifting Jean Claude onto Christiane’s lap. As soon as he was settled, he began searching for her breast. A few moments at the familiar breast, however, caused outraged protests from the infant. He glared up at his mother.

“Here, dear, try to give him this.” The woman was handing her a small metal cup from the table. “He has taken to goat’s milk.”

In a daze, Christiane took the cup and held it up to Jean Claude’s lips. With unusual fury he knocked the cup from his mother’s hand, splashing the floor and her with milk. Without pause the woman bent to wipe up the milk and the man lifted the screaming child up and carried him out the door, all the while reciting a silly rhyme to him. The baby’s angry screaming changed to giggles.

Christiane sobbed without any attempt at hiding the fact.

“Now, now, my dear, I know ’tis upsetting, but he is well and has taken to goat’s milk as I said,” the woman tried to calm her.

“But I don’t have a goat! How will I feed him? I barely keep myself fed!”

“Please, please, child. Don’t take on so. Thee is breaking my heart! Do not fear. We will not let the child hunger. Please, please. I cannot bear thy sorrow. I tell thee, it is breaking my heart.”

The sincerity of the woman’s words did slow Christiane’s distress. She breathed deeply in and out, letting go of her fear.

After a brief pause, Christiane looked up at the woman. “Who are you please?”

“Thy friend,” the woman said softly, taking Christiane’s hand in her two. “My name is Sarah Anne, wife of Josiah Richardson. Thee came to our meeting house on First Day. We were fortunate to be the ones selected to take you home.”

Christiane again felt soothing comfort flow from this woman. Another Sarah was in her life. She sighed. “How do you do, Mrs. Richardson. I am Christiane, wife of Jakob Kruger.”

“Call me Sarah Anne please, Christiane.”

Christiane nodded, smiling, and using her fingertips, she wiped her tear-stained cheeks. “I’m sorry I became upset, but I feel…so flat.”

“I know what thee means. About two years ago I was down with a fever and I did feel ‘flat’ a day or two after it left me. Yes, I did.”

Josiah strode back into the room, carrying a beaming Jean Claude.

In spite of her good fortune in finding help, a moment of sadness sliced through Christiane. No longer would she be able to nurse her son. She knew now that it was not just the bare fact that she would have a harder time providing for him. But also it signified a weakening of the tie that bound her to her precious child.

Josiah set Jean Claude on the floor beside a pile of small wooden blocks. Jean Claude immediately began clacking them against the wooden floor.

But when Christiane spoke, both Richardsons turned their eyes on her. “Why do you call me ‘thee’? Is that how people talk in New Jersey?”

The couple smiled at her. “Has thee never known a Friend before?” Sarah replied.

Christiane shook her head.

“Perhaps thee knows us by our other names–Quakes or Quakers?” Josiah offered.

Shaking her head no again, Christiane was afraid of appearing rude, but she had no idea what they were talking about.

“Where is thee from, Christiane?” Sarah asked.

“Well, most recently north of the Mohawk River near Lake Ontario.”

“Thee was born there?”

“No, Paris.” Christiane watched the woman’s kind face. What was she talking about?

“Ah, thee is French.”

Christiane nodded.

“That explains it,” Sarah said with a smile. “There are no Friends in France and few in Canada.”

“Oh,” Christiane said, gazing at each of them in turn.

“We are members of the Society of Friends,” Josiah joined in the conversation.” Our movement began in England in 1652. A man named George Fox was the first to begin. Our desire is to strip away religious conventions and to know the Spirit of God intimately. We believe that each man possesses his own inner light.” He paused and looked at Christiane.

“That’s why you call me ‘thee’?” she asked weakly.

“No, child, calling people ‘you’ is a form of vain flattery which we wish to avoid.”

“Why is it flattery?”

“Because it is like the royal ‘we’. When one calls a singular person, ‘you’ the plural form, it is supposed to flatter them. But it is not correct. We believe in the equality of all men and woman and to emphasize that we still use the singular form, ‘thee’. Does thee understand?” Josiah asked.

Christiane thought a moment and then nodded. “You don’t mind my calling you–you?” she asked hesitantly.

“No, my dear, thee does not offend us,” Sarah replied.

Christiane smiled in relief. “Are there many Friends in America?”

“Oh, yes, Pennsylvania, the colony directly south of us, is named for a Quaker, William Penn. It is odd that thee has never met one of us before.”

“I’ve lived a rather isolated life.” Not by choice.

“I see.” The two contemplated her silently. Then Josiah excused himself and left to attend to his outside work.

Christiane sipped her tea silently as she mulled over this information. Discovering a whole new religion would take some digesting. As a child in Paris, she had barely been conscious of the fact that some people in the world were not Roman Catholic, but that fact had been meaningless. Now she was reminded that as a Catholic, she was still in the minority in this part of the world.

“Thee said thy husband was with the army?” Sarah asked.

“Yes?” Christiane could tell from the way she asked that she did not approve of this. “You aren’t loyalists, are you?”

“We are loyal, but not in the way thee means,” the kind woman said. “Friends do not participate in this Revolution or any other war. Friends seek only peace.”

This answer also confounded Christiane. She chewed her bottom lip, contemplating all this new information.

Sarah Anne left her to ponder undisturbed while she puttered around the kitchen cleaning up after tea. Jean Claude crawled and rolled on the wooden floor contentedly, jabbering to himself.

After a long while Christiane broke her silence, “Do you know where Washington’s army is located?”

“Close to Harlem Heights, I believe.” Sarah said, wiping down the wooden table.

“Have there been battles in New York City?”

“Yes, unfortunately. Sometimes even we can hear the cannon in the distance.” Sarah sighed and shook her head.

“Has Washington been winning?”

A very important question. All of us know how the American Revolution turned out, but at that time, the outcome was still very much in doubt. Have you ever read any other stories which used the Revolution as the time period?