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La Belle Christiane

by Lyn Cote

2011 copyright Lyn Cote

All rights reserved

Chapter Fourteen, Scene 1

The room was aglow with candles and the “dress” was about to be completed. Christiane stood statue-like as the final, absolutely final, fitting took place. Since dawn all she had done was act as a human pin cushion. Never could she have predicted the events of the past two days. This had all begun when she had encountered Lord Hazelton. And she could not, by any mean, forget Mrs. Loring’s part in bringing about this charade.

At the beginning of the week she had–reluctantly–visited Mrs. Loring at the Sultana’s invitation. The general’s mistress had been brazen in her conversation over Christiane’s lack of results with the major. “My dear,” the blond had begun, “I really feel I must speak to you frankly. You are so young, I mean, so naive for a girl from a background such as your own. Really you are not handling Major Eastham as you should.”

“Pray what do you mean?” Christiane had asked, though she already suspected what the drift of the conversation would be.

“From what the other officers say, your major is fabulously wealthy and you are not taking full advantage of the situation. You have been with him for almost two weeks now and what have you to show for it? One dress? Really. You must make hay while the sun shines. This silly, little Revolution will be crushed in the spring. Washington’s so-called Army won’t even survive till then.”

Christiane had choked down her anger this comment had triggered. In the past two weeks, she had become less afraid of being discovered a revolutionary, but more galled by the way the Continental Army and its cause were laughed at and ridiculed.

The odious woman had continued, “The point is, my dear, that when this war is over, all these officers will return home. Now your major is the only heir of an old, very distinguished and wealthy family. Next to the general–” The woman had visibly preened. “–I would say you made the best choice of the field, but you are not handling him well. You must pout a little, fuss a little, make him a bit jealous, and he will come across. Do you see what I mean? Personally I am planning on returning to Europe with William. London, Paris, that is where I belong. This is my chance to escape the colonies and I’m going to take it.”

In a way, Christiane felt sorry for the woman. It was true that Mrs. Loring was a lovely blond and that she amused the general with her antics, her gambling, and her flamboyance. But if Elizabeth Loring thought she could compete successfully with women the caliber of Christiane’s mother, she was mistaken.

Christiane knew enough of court life to know that beauty and gaiety were not enough. One needed a family crest and a history of titles. A person without these at court would be cut dead in public. General Howe knew this, too, and Christiane doubted he had any intention of taking the blond back to England with him. If he did, Mrs. Loring would most likely end up in a brothel there, not at court.

The American woman’s advice only demonstrated her lack of understanding of the nobility. The noblemen who had patronized her mother had brought gifts, fabulous ones, casually and as a matter-of-course. To worry about one’s purse was bourgeois and declasse. Mrs. Loring’s tactics would brand a woman as a lightskirt used to dealing only with the lower class. Fortunately Christiane had been saved from any further advice by the blond’s appointment for a card game.

Christiane had quickly forgotten this interview till three days later when she had encountered Lord Hazelton on her way back to the major’s room. He had asked to escort her up and then had stopped just outside the door. “My dear girl,” he had begun hesitantly, “there doesn’t seem to be any easy way to say this so I will just ask it. Are you happy with the major?”

She had looked up, startled. “Why do you ask?”

“Well, my dear, you are a young, beautiful woman and how does he expect you to live? Like a cloistered nun? No gaming, no parties, no new gowns. I have yet to see you at the weekly ball at Smith’s City Tavern. I wondered at your choice and now that I see how he treats you.” He threw up his hands theatrically.

“Oh, my lord, how sweet of you to be concerned.” Her mind had raced, trying to concoct an explanation. “I am responsible for our sedateness really. I have not felt well until recently. That blow to my head, you know.”

He had pursed his lips, looking unconvinced. “You are commendable in your loyalty, but you need have no fear of any annoyance if you wish to leave him. I am here and would shield you from any unpleasantness–”

They had been interrupted at that point by Major Eastham himself, who had unfortunately heard their voices in the hallway.

Alone in his room the conversation had begun innocently enough. “What was the Colonel saying to you?”

“Our ‘unusual’ behavior is causing comment.” She sat down in her chair. “You keep me at home like a nun, no dresses, no balls.”

“Oh?” He had arched an eyebrow.

“Yes, I had heard the same from Mrs. Loring earlier this week.”

“Oh?”

“Yes, I am not ‘handling’ you very well. Two weeks and I only have a dress to show for them,” she had continued, trying to make light of it. “I need to pout, and fuss and wheedle. The nerve of the woman. She even believes that General Howe intends to take her home with him.”

“I can’t see what Howe wants consorting with such a common woman.”

She now realized that should have guessd from his tone that these comments had troubled him. Unwisely she had replied, “She doesn’t bother me. But if she says this to my face, what is she saying behind my back? Our charade is wearing thin. major, I must be leaving soon. What is the word from the widow, taking care of my mare?”

“At least, five more days before Nancy will be well enough.”

She had made a frustrated sound and his brow had furrowed. Then he had fallen deep in thought, so she had left him alone, hoping he would forget their discussion. Finally she had heard him say, as if to himself alone, “I will show them.”

“What?”

He had fixed his eyes on her. “They don’t think that I know how to treat my mistress? Well, they are mistaken and I intend to prove the point.”

She had argued in vain that she did not want him to go to any further expense, that he had done enough, that gossip was of no consequence to her. But no argument had prevailed. His honor had been called into question. With that pronouncement, he had dispatched Alfred to bring back a clothier to commission a ball gown for her to wear to this week’s ball at Smith’s Tavern.

She heard their final clash of words again. “Major, you should be thinking of a way out of this situation, not entrenching us in it more deeply.”

“Madame, you will leave as soon as you are able. On that we have already agreed. Until then, however, you are under my protection and I might add, direction. You will do as I say.”                       With her hands on her hips, she had stood in front of him and they had indulged in a short staring competition. Finally she had thrown up her hands in exasperation. “This is ridiculous. Very well. You are in charge, but I refuse to consider the dress mine. It will remain with you when I leave.”

So here she was standing with a couturier and seamstresses fussing around her by candlelight all because the major wanted to dress her and show her off. Very well, she would indulge him. He had been more than generous with her. But she had made up her mind two days ago that on the morning after tonight’s ball, she would slip away. If Nancy were not strong enough to carry her, they would walk together to Valley Forge. It might take two days, but she would dress warmly and the major had fattened her enough that two lean days would do her no harm. Tomorrow morning this episode in her life would be over. It would be a unique memory that she would never be able to share with anyone.

She looked down at the top of Monsieur Paul Andre Lagneaux, the clothier Alfred had returned with. He was new in Philadelphia and had been the only one available to design and produce a dress on such short notice. At first she had taken for granted that he had left France because of a lack of talent, but now she had been impressed by his obvious expertise. No doubt he had offended someone influential.

Just then the couturier and his two seamstresses buzzed excitedly in French on all sides of her. A final tug here, a pull there. All three stepped back to view their masterpiece. “Mangnifique!” the Frenchman breathed. He motioned proudly for Christiane to go nearer the full length mirror to her left. When she looked, she was indeed dazzled by her own reflection. She had never worn a dress as lovely, as grand, as superb. The finest compliment she could give it was that both her mother and her grandmother would have been impressed.

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