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La Belle Christiane

by Lyn Cote

2011 copyright Lyn Cote

All rights reserved

Chapter Thirteen, Scene 1

Christiane sat, staring at the flames, which were an image of her own anger and frustration. Snow and ice and bitter cold had overtaken Philadelphia and Valley Forge. Only a day away the Forge seemed to slip farther away from her reach daily. And with her mare Nancy not located yet, she was held captive in the major’s quarters. How she resented him at times.

She knew he was doing her a great service, but bearing up under his sardonic attitude infuriated her. The irony of their situation evidently fueled his dry humor. When they were out among people, performing the charade of lover and mistress, he–at the most inoppotune times–would whisper maddening phrases into her ear. Maddening because they were usually hilarious comments about those present and Christiane could not allow herself to laugh. Instead she had to smile and behave as though he had just said something especially endearing.

She glanced down then at the dark green gown she wore. Mrs. Loring had given her the brown dress and a few days later the major had commissioned this green frock. She had protested at the time that she did not want him to go to the expense of dressing her. He had countered that it would look odd if he did not provide for her, considering the relationship they were implying. She writhed inside over her dependence on him.

And his behavior when they were alone together in his quarters was nearly insulting.  He acted as though she did not exist. It was not his amorous attention that she desired. She was experienced enough to know any man did have his limits and she did not want to push the major beyond his. Because of this, she read quietly during their evenings alone and she slept on the floor by the fire, keeping out of his bed. But he could, at least, acknowledge her existence.

And the days were going by quickly. She was accomplishing nothing of her purpose in leaving the Richardsons. If Nancy did not turn up soon, in spite of the cold, she would have to leave on foot. She and the major would have to concoct some argument or excuse so she would have reason to leave. Eight days under these circumstances. Enough.

At that moment the major strolled in casually. As usual, he nodded at her formally, poured them sherry, brought it to her, and settled himself in the chair opposite. Their late afternoon ritual had begun. His attitude grated on her, the unruffled aristocrat, smirking at life. Henry Lee cared enough to die for a man’s right to live free and have a vote that counted. And what a contrast between this cool gentleman and her impassioned and passionate Jakob.

Her face must have given her away because the major looked up and asked coolly, “Anything amiss?”

Caught unprepared and unfortunately in a fractious state of mind, she stood up and swept over to the window.

This intrigued the major since this was the first bit of spirit she had shown since her arrival days before. Perversely he rose and followed her. “Anything amiss?” he repeated.

“I’m just restless, I suppose,” she forced herself to say since she could not afford to reveal her true feelings. If only circumstances were different she would put a bee in his ear!

“Oh,” he said disappointedly, realizing that he would have enjoyed a little conflict. This startled him. Turning away, he sought the refuge of his chair and newspaper. Automatically he began to read to her as was his practice.

Christiane stayed at the window till the chill from it forced her back to her own seat near the hearth. His voice droned on recounting to her the events of the day, according to the evening sheet and unaccountably she felt her irritation draining away. She was not interested in the news, but the quality of his voice always soothed her. She had to admit when he wanted to, he could be interesting and she found these evenings a respite to the emotional turmoil she had experienced at the Richardsons.

Taking leave of Tildy and then facing her dilemma over Jean Claude; the combination of the two was still more that she could bear. Why couldn’t life run smoothly? Why did she face difficult choices and contradicitng impulses? Unruly tears threatened her. Blinking rapidly, she rose and went back to the shimmering, iced-over windows, hoping that the darkness would mask her distress. She struggled to regain her composure.

“Something is wrong.”  His voice–suddenly so near–startled her. He had come up beside her. “Has someone upset you?” His tone was stern.

She looked up at him with tears just beginning. If only she could tell someone what she was feeling.

There was a knock at the door. When Alfred did not appear, the major answered it himself. A corporal spoke quickly in an undertone. Christiane caught none of it, but heard the major’s “very good”. Then he turned and walked over to her. “Madame Belmond,” he spoke formally as he did when they were alone.

She looked up in the dim light. “What is it, Major?”

“Your mare has been located.”

His hard-faced expression and tone stopped her from showing any happiness.  “Is she alive?”

He nodded. “I will go and see about it now.”

“Not without me.”

“It may not be pleasant.”

“I am coming.”

“Very well,” he allowed grudgingly.

In the carriage Eastham took the opportunity to examine her profile. She was a beauty, no doubt about it. And in eight days and nights with her he had felt no twinge of desire. It was only to be expected, he thought dispassionately. He had had over six years of this and no doubt many more to be endured.

She was a rare woman, though. When they did speak, she could talk sensibly, keeping her mind on the topic. He also had to admit that he liked the way his reputation had improved among the other officers because of their implied relationship. He was aware that he was no longer deemed a sexless oddity, just a man with very good taste and very high standards. This was a pleasant dividend, but it troubled him that he still cared–even a little–about what others might think of him and his choices.

They arrived at the disreputable-looking inn he had been advised of. Across the yard was a dilapidated barn. The lady across from  cast a worried look in his direction.

“One of my men noticed a dapple mare, pulling a dray for this inn. The horse had the black marking on the right foreleg that you described to me.” She moved forward to leave the carriage. He put a hand in front of her. “I want to warn you. This isn’t the kind of place that takes very good care of their animals.” She pursed her lips and nodded. Outside of the carriage, he supported her as she in her dainy shoes slipped her way over the rutted yard. Inside the stable a soldier stood, guarding a sullen, greasy-looking man.

Christiane uttered, “Oh!”  She knelt down in the filthy straw in the nearest stall. The old mare was down, wheezing painfully, staring vacantly ahead.

Her completely unexpected but genuine action shocked him. And spoke to his own love of his animals. He edged nearer, hoping the animal would not die.

Christiane began stroking the mare’s neck, saying her name over and over. At first there was no response. But within a few minutes, the old horse glanced at Christiane and then tried to neigh. On the mare’s back were welts, some still inflamed and oozing. Her face blazing with anger, Christiane turned to the sullen man. “Did you do this?”

He shifted uneasily, glancing in turn at each of the men who flanked him. “‘Tis the drivers,” he muttered, twisting a frayed tri-corn hat in his hands. “They’re a rough lot.”

She glowered at him with her hands on her hips. “Any man who would mistreat an old animal like this….” She paused significantly, letting his imagination devise a proper punishment.

The major spoke up, “He claims he bought the mare from an English soldier.”

Christiane’s answering look stated clearly that she believed this to be highly likely.

“So we might have some trouble pressing a charge of horse thievery.” The major made his voice suggest that he’d like to do this anyway.

The man paled visibly.

“However I think a charge of receiving stolen property would be easily proven.” The major suddenly wished he could do this and make it stick. But in time of war….

In spite of the drafty, frigid barn, sweat dotted the man’s forehead. “Major,” the man pleaded pitifully, “I didn’t know. You got to believe me. I didn’t know.”

“It’s just too bad there are no laws against mistreating animals and keeping them in a filthy barn,” Christiane charged. The stench of the barn was almost unbearable even in the dead of winter.

“I’ll give the lady the price of the mare,” the miserable man bargained.

“I don’t want your money,” Christiane snapped. “I want my mare back the way she was eight days ago.”

The man tried to placate her still. “Well, ma’am, your mare’s sick and truly I don’t think she’ll make it through the night. I’ll pay you what I owe. I will.” He cast a nervous glance at the two soldiers and twisted his hat again.

Christiane crossed her arms over her breast, scowling. Nancy wheezed painfully. Then an idea came to her. “Certainly there must be someone near that knows how to care for animals.”

I can understand Chrsitiane’s love for this mare, can’t you? Animals become part of our history, our families.

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