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La Belle Christiane

2011 copyright by Lyn Cote

All rights reserved

BOOK TWO

Chapter Nine, Scene 1

Germantown, Pennsylvania

Autumn 1777

Christiane paced before  the window, watching the first evidences of sunrise flicker with the movement of branches on the walls The night spent nursing Marie Joseph Paul Yves Roch Gilbert du Motier, Marquis de Lafayette had been a crucible for her. Another dreadful night of remembering and trying in vain to forget… She turned from the window and stood over her charge as he slept. He was breathing easily and the unhealthy flush was already ebbing slightly from his cheeks. What a twist of fate that the two of them would meet here like this. She pressed a damp cloth to his face. The cloth still turned pink from the last of the blood from the deep cut to his forehead.

The sight of blood dragged her backward. The morning at Rumsveld and bodies of friends lying in their own blood, mutilated—Stop. Stop thinking. She hit her clenched forehead with her fist.

She turned her focus to Major General Lafayette of the Continental Army, only eighteen. He seemed as unlikely a participant in this Revolution as she, Madame Christiane Renee Marie Pelletier, Belmond, Kruger, also eighteen. They had met formally months before. And surprisingly since his arrival in July, they had not seen each other often. He’d drawn her attention; he was so like the men she’d known as a child, so like her mother’s admirers.

Both of them had come to the New World, but for very different reasons. She fleeing her grandmere’s plans for her and he to fight for liberty . But the Marquis de Lafayette had not left behind his money or position as she had. She had only wanted to live her own life, not her mother’s or grandmother’s lives. But at what cost? How could she have known how events would spin out of control?

Her first husband’s screams ripped through her mind; her heart pounded with panic. She fought against the image that burst into her mind. He’d surprised a bear and had been mauled. The blood, all the blood and nothing she could do to save him from a painful death. She pressed her fists against her temples, wishing she could reach inside and rip out these memories. But everyone on the frontier had memories like this. Living far from civilization could snatch life away in a minute.

She sank into the bedside chair, her pulse still racing. Jean Claude, he’d been such a happy, kind man and now all she had of him was their son. And he was miles away from her.  Her leaving her son with the Richardson’s had not been deemed out of the ordinary. Other wives followed their husbands and left their children safe at home with family. The last letter from the Richardson’s she kept in her pocket. She pressed it now through her cotton skirt. But events had carried her, the revolution on.

After the awful winter just past, Admiral “Black Dick” Howe had sailed from New York City on July 23, 1777.  When at last Howe had made his move by sailing south into Chesapeake Bay, the Americans had marched south to protect Philadelphia, the seat of Congress. They had camped at Brandywine Creek, a branch of the Delaware River.

Christiane frowned. The battle that had taken place there just one day before had been a bloody defeat for the Revolution. It had been a long time since Washington’s last victory, nine months ago at Trenton and Princeton.

Princeton–the name jarred Christiane. Jakob, my Jakob. That battle had robbed her of him. She passed a tired, trembling hand over her forehead. The British had killed her Jakob. That was why she’d stayed with the army. Or it was the reason she’d given. The other reason she’d stayed with Washington’s party had another less noble cause. She rose and to pace again. I can’t go back. I can’t go back, lose my place here.

She tried to take a step and staggered with fatigue. With a glance at her sleeping patient, she stumbled to the corner of the room to a narrow cot that had been placed there for her. She kicked off her shoes and slid under the woolen blanket, still dressed. Her body sighed with relief, but her mind was not ready to surrender to rest.

In a little over two weeks, her son would be two years old. She had fought this realization successfully, but now exhausted in the predawn she could not fend it off. Her son was at this moment sleeping peacefully, safely at the Richardson’s farm in New Jersey. According to Sarah Anne’s letter of August third, he was already talking and following Josiah around as he did the farm chores. Christiane had excused herself  to Sarah Anne, from coming to Jean Claude, citing her attachment to the cause of liberty. But now her heart felt as though a laundress were wringing it out and she was forced to face the truth. She loved her son, but she could not go to him–not till her new position was secure.

An inner voice chided her: “Is your social position more important than being with your own son?”

Soberly she reviewed the stations of her life: pampered child, Indian captive, fur trader’s wife, tavern wench, farmer’s wife, Lady Washington’s companion and now what? Her present position had been given no real title since Mrs. Washington had left. At that time Christiane had agreed to stay and supervise the staff that took care of the General. She had not been certain why.

As the months had passed, her motivation had become more evident to herself. The years, starting with her fleeing Paris until her association with Mrs. Washington, had so separated her from her original life that she had simply suppressed her true identity. She had been raised to live the life of the well-born. She could understand now why the other camp women had called her “milady.” She could not be other than what birth and childhood training had ordained her to be. Now her position in society had brought her back to herself, to her world. Yet she still stood on shaky ground. Memories of begging for food the year before tormented her. She shivered suddenly as if dragged back to the tent she and Tildy had shared last December, less than a year ago.

To fend off these thoughts, she allowed her mind to drift back instead to the spring, to the farewell ball in honor of Mrs. Washington. Lady Stirling had been the hostess. And she had not been pleased that Christiane had been a guest necessary to gain Mrs. Washington’s favor. Lady Stirling had also been unhappy with her niece Dolly for loaning Christiane a party dress. A lovely dress of deep blue, it had been the most stylish dress Christiane had worn since leaving Paris. Christiane had ignored the noble lady’s dismay and–her own guilt over shedding her widow’s black–and had been the belle of the evening. Officer had vied with officer to gain her hand for each dance. She had grasped the opportunity, reveling in the attention, the laughter, the music, the elegance–as if starved for these things. So often her face, called beautiful, had brought her unwelcome attention.Her memory tried to bring up the night she’d been attacked. She shut it out with remembered laughter from the ball. Why shouldn’t she enjoy the heady moments when it brought joy?

And Captain Henry Lee, the most popular young man with the other ladies, had been so attentive. She saw the scene before her again–the candlelight, the pale, shimmering gowns, the officers in their blue-and-white uniforms, the moonlight on the balcony, the stringed music. She had shown Lady Stirling that Christiane knew how to behave as a gentlewoman that evening. Still,her devotion to freedom was sincere.  She’d lost Jakob to it. Sleep was numbing her now.

In this private moment, she admitted that throwing in her lot with this revolution  also served her personal motives. She must continue to form associations with those who would be leaders of the new order. In the back of her mind lay the possibility of an advantageous marriage in the future, much in the future.

This idea she kept vague even to herself. The sorrow of being widowed twice haunted her solitary moments and the specter of being widowed three times before achieving twenty years was a very real prospect in a time of war.

Sleep nearly had her in its grasp. Was she tired enough not to dream, not to wake with her heart pounding and her palms wet with feat?

Marriage could wait. Now she would continue to stay close to the seat of power and influence, the Washington’s, and do whatever service she could for them. And when the Revolution was won and she married some promising, young officer, then she would be able to bring Jean Claude to be part of her new life. With these comforting thoughts, sleep conquered her.

#

A soft moan filtered into Christiane’s half-conscious mind. Another. Then lightning charge shot through her body. Her patient. She leapt out of bed and hurried to his side. “Major?” she said softly.

“Water,” he croaked. Christiane deftly poured a glass of water from the bedside pitcher and carefully lifted his head from the damp pillow cover.

“Here, sir,” she murmured. He drank thirstily till the glass was empty. Christiane lowered his head back to the pillow. Thinking that he would sink back into sleep, she turned to the window. The sun by now was streaming in. She pulled the cord by the window to summon the maid to order breakfast.

“Madame?” his voice summoned her. “Where am I?”

“A wealthy patriot here has taken in the doctors and the wounded officers.” Coming to his side, she laid a soft, white hand, a hand much different than that of the girl who’d worked in the tavern at Rumsveld, across his forehead.

“And you?”

“General Washington sent me to look after you.”

“I am most grateful.”

“Mrs. Washington often visits the camp hospitals to assist in nursing the wounded. She taught me a great deal,” she informed him primly. She forbore telling him that on occasion the General had pressed the camp prostitutes into service as nurses as well.

“Then when I recover I will thank her as well as you, Madame.”

“Really you must thank the General and Dr. Craik,” Christiane replied briskly. “He is an excellent doctor. I know well. He was–” she broke off. She did not want to mention her own wounding. The young officer looked up at her questioningly. Just then the breakfast tray arrived. Christiane gladly turned to the mundane task of feeding her patient. Then the doctor came to check him and Christiane escaped to her own room to freshen herself and begin her daily routine.

So Christiane is trying to find her way, her place in the new society. What pitfalls can you foresee?–Lyn

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