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La Belle Christiane

Copyright 2011 by Lyn Cote

All rights reserved

Chapter Seven Scene 2

In the days that followed, the icy sensation stayed with her. In the past she had lost loved ones, but always before she had witnessed their going. Jakob’s death retained a feeling of unreality. Sometimes as she rested, she glanced up at the door and she would imagine it opening. Then Jakob would walk in and smile down at her. The vision–at first–was comforting and then crushing. Jakob would never come to her again.

Finally the evening came when the doctor was ready to take off the bandages. The supper dishes were done. The wind moaned bleakly outside. Christiane sat up and watched. She still did not remember the savage attack that had caused this calamity, but there was the evidence, two red welts on her left thigh. After pronouncing her healed, the doctor received his thanks and left.

“Christiane, we have a surprise for you. Don’t we, Emma?” The usual muffled voice agreed and Mrs. Hardy continued, “Get out the hair mixture first.”

Mrs. Hardy turned to Christiane. “We decided to give you a real bath this evening. We couldn’t do it before because of your leg, and you being so all in. But now we’re really going to do you up.”

Christiane forced herself to smile and tried to look cheerful. The two women bustled around her, getting out a large wooden tub and buckets. Mrs. Hardy stood behind Christiane and brushed a loathsome black mixture lavishly into Christiane’s tangled and matted hair. Christiane gasped and the woman chuckled, “Smell’s sure strong, ain’t it? But it’ll do the job. Don’t cotton to having lice in my kitchen, but we couldn’t do nothing till you mended.”

The mixture oozed and dripped from Christiane’s scalp which tingled almost painfully. Christiane hoped silently that the mixture would take the lice, but leave her hair. Then Mrs. Hardy wrapped an old linen cloth around Christiane’s head several times, tying it on securely. “Latch the door, Emma. We don’t want any sudden drafts.” The woman went over and tested the water with her hand. “This water ain’t warm enough! She might take a chill!”

“Sorry,” Emma muttered through her veil, but she did not sound as though she meant it. It took several minutes to heat enough water to bring the tub water up to the correct temperature. Emma was sent out to draw two more buckets from the well. Then it took a time to warm up the kitchen again. At last Christiane was helped into the warm bath. Mrs. Hardy beamed and hustled Emma over to the table to leave Christiane in privacy.

Letting out a sigh of pleasure, Christiane let her limbs stretch as much as she could in the small tub. The bath soothed the chronic ache that remained in her thigh muscles from her wound and it seemed to melt away the sheets of ice that had encased her since she came to this kitchen. Memories of her childhood baths fluttered through her mind and the dark walls around her reminded her of last winter with Sarah Rumsveld and the baths she had taken in Sarah’s rough, old tub. And she remembered her bath at the fort in Canada and the lavender soap Captain Eastham had given her. The face of her son came to her. Jean Claude. He was nearer now, in the same colony, but still she could not go to him. Their separation was no longer a sharp pain, but remained a dull grieving that never left her.

Slowly she began to rasp her skin with a long-handled brush and strong soap. Then she began to work at her hair. It took time and effort to work out all the original tangles and Mrs. Hardy’s hair mixture, but finally it was floating around her in the tub.

“Christiane, we have a vinegar rinse for your hair, so it will shine nice.” The cold, pungent liquid was dumped on her head. Christiane sputtered and pushed her hair back from her face. Then they helped Christiane to stand, so they could douse her several times with the tepid rinse water. Afterwards the two women quickly dried her, so that the cold hovering just away from the fire would not bring on the chills.

Christiane sat contentedly on her pallet in a fresh gown, reveling in the feeling of being clean once more. Then Emma stood beside her and began to rake her head with a large comb. Before she could help herself, Christiane yelped in pained surprise.

“Emma! Easy. Don’t be so clumsy!” Mrs. Hardy scolded.

Christiane reached up and took the comb from the girl’s hand. “Thank you, Emma. But I’d like to comb it myself,” Christiane said and smiled gratefully. Emma reached down to Christiane’s shoulder. Christiane anticipated a friendly pat and jumped at the pinch that came instead. She sat, stunned, holding the comb in mid-air.

“Well, I reckon it be time to turn in. Emma, bank the fire before going to bed. And good night to you, Christiane,” Mrs. Hardy said.

“Good night,” Christiane replied mechanically. “And thank you again for the bath.”

“Think naught of it. Besides tomorrow you’ll start to work for your keep. Night!” Mrs. Hardy was out the door to go to her room in the main part of the house. Emma finished the fire and went wordlessly to her little room which had once been a pantry. Christiane sat on her pallet, staring into the embers, combing her hair. For the first time in many weeks, she wondered what the morrow would bring.

#

The next day Christiane found herself sitting at the kitchen table for breakfast. Then Christiane helped with the bread baking for the day and peeled potatoes for a hearty soup. By noon her hands were trembling and her back ached. Noticing her fatigue, Mrs. Hardy told her to lie down after the midday meal. After the nap, Christiane was roused again to help with the preparation of supper. As soon as she was dismissed after the final meal of the day, Christiane fell into a deep sleep.

Several hours after the kitchen had become silent Christiane began to toss in her sleep. Soon her soft moans crested into screams, “Jakob! Jakob!”

Strong hands clutched her upper arms and a violent shaking awoke her. Christiane looked up, still half in her dream. A vision of ugliness–a face with only a misshapen space for a nose and a twisted upper lip, loomed above her. Christiane screamed again.

The shaking started again. “I came out because I thought you needed help. Don’t look at me like that!”

“Emma,” Christiane gasped, “I didn’t know it was you.”

“Aunt told you I am a harelip.”

“Yes, but….I was having a nightmare….” Christiane writhed inside. She hadn’t meant to hurt Emma.

“Shut up. I know what you are thinking. I’m too ugly to live.”

“Emma! You shouldn’t even say such a thing.”

“Why not? People have said it about me. I hate you, Christiane Kruger. I hate you and your pretty face. I’ll get even someday. Someday.” The words were bitter and resentful.

“Emma,” Christiane whispered, but the young woman had already stomped back to her tiny room. The emotional confrontation completely unsettled Christiane. She lay for a long while staring into the waning flames. The dream had been of her Jakob, but the bitterness of Emma’s words distressed her more. Jakob was dead, past help or hurt, but Emma was alive, so young and bitterly angry. At eighteen, it made Christiane feel old and sad.

#

In her days and nights that followed there were three constants: Mrs. Hardy, the jovial, strict taskmaster; Emma, the surreptitious tormentor; and the nightmares. Mrs. Hardy was not harsh, but she was a tireless worker herself and expected others to keep up with her. Christiane understood well that most all the patients in the nearby makeshift hospitals died. She owed Mrs. Hardy her life and she knew it.

Emma troubled Christiane. She pitied and resented her at the same time. Being born and having to live with such a deformity as Emma’s was a cross to bear. But it was hard to feel compassion for a person when she pinched you in the same spot three days in a row.

The nightmares were the final blow to her peace of mind. Though exhausted, she dreaded going to bed each night because she never knew which scene would waken her with her own screams–her mother’s murder, her father’s death, the Indian raid or the vision of Jakob, lying dead. Her eyes were smudged beneath with dark circles and she rarely smiled.

Tom remained her faithful visitor. Whenever he had a few minutes, he would stop at the kitchen door to pass a word or two with her. Afterward Mrs. Hardy would wink or chuckle knowingly. Christiane knew what the woman meant and resented it, but she had other more pressing concerns.

A few times she had thought of asking Tom to travel to the Richardson’s farm with her to get her son. But the idea of submitting herself to the relentless cold was unthinkable. And with her wounded leg still troubling her, she could not stand, much less walk for long. she still ached over the Main’s leaving. Over and over, she rationalized that Tildy was very ill and much better off away. But it still hurt that they had left when she had needed them most. If only Tildy were here to talk to, to cry with.

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