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La Belle Christiane

by Lyn Cote

2011 copyright Lyn Cote

All rights reserved

Chapter Twelve, Scene 1

Many replies to this flitted through Major John Eastham’s mind, such as how personal could a man be to a woman who was in his bed, but he resisted them manfully. “My apologies, madam. Well, everything you have told me is plausible, but it could be a tissue of lies,” he said, still matter-of-fact.
“I have told the truth.”

“That remains to be seen.” He went on before she could reply, “How is your head?”

“It aches, but if I lie still, it is better.” What was it about her that niggled at his memory?

“Then lie still. Pardon me while I dress. Alfred!” he called and pulled the curtains shut.

“My lord, pardon me?” she called gingerly from her nest of blankets and pillows.

“Yes, madam?”

“When you are finished dressing, may I have my saddle bags?  I would like to dress, too. I don’t enjoy dressing as a boy.”

“Pardon me, madam, but you came to me sans saddlebags.”

“What?” Christiane gasped.

He heard the silence that followed. Most likely with her exclamation the agony of her head had returned full force.

“Where are my things then?”  she asked, sounding fretful and in pain.

“Please remain calm, Mrs. Belmond. What items were with you when you were apprehended?”

“My saddlebags and my horse, an old dapple mare, named Nancy.”

“I will institute a search for them.”

“Until then what am I to wear?” Her tone was plaintive .

He didn’t blame her but what did she expect? “You may not believe this, but I do not usually keep female accoutrements in my quarters. I suggest that you stay in bed until something can be found or procured. Anything else, madam?”

“Yes.” The woman paused. “What am I doing here?”

“I thought we had already discussed that.”

“Shock prevented me from asking this earlier, but is it normal, sir, for an officer to question a prisoner in bed?” she asked.

“No, it isn’t, but I thought you would prefer it to freezing to death in an unheated room in the stables overnight.” He opened the curtains and looked down at her.

Christiane folded back the top of the comforter an inch or two and peered out. “I don’t understand.”

The major, now neatly dressed felt more himself. “It is simple. You were being held in the stables. The normal jail is full of patriots and general miscreants, so you were left there for me. When I discovered you, you were unconscious and beginning to suffer from exposure. Dr. Justin, whom I summoned to examine you, suggested a warm fire would revive you. So we brought you up here and we put you to bed.”

“Thank you, major.” She sounded subdued, not grateful.

“You are welcome, madam. I must leave you for a time. Even in winter quarters there are some duties to be done. If you require anything, just call on Alfred.” He turned to his man. “Take care of her.” The valet bowed slightly and escorted the major to the door.

When the major closed the door behind himself, he mentally sighed in relief. For almost six years he had avoided being alone with any woman. He was proud that she had not made him overly uncomfortable. Now all he wanted to do was give a report about her and send her on her way. Frankly he did not care whether she was a spy, which he really doubted, or not. Something niggled at the back of his mind. She must remind him of someone he had known. He shook his head.

#

Quietly Alfred, the valet, went about straightening the room. Occasionally he would glance at the form buried in the feather pillows. Since he had re-joined his master here in these colonies, he had been hoping that something or someone would intervene. His lord had grown even quieter and almost reclusive during his years in the wilderness. Maybe this young woman could spark a change for the better. A man would have to be made of stone to be unaffected by her beauty and vulnerability, he thought, and smiled to himself.

#

Several hours later Christiane stirred from her sleep. Gingerly she sat up, waiting for the headache to resume.

“Are you feeling better, madam?” Alfred asked softly. He was standing by the fire.

“I am–a bit,” Christiane responded timidly. The headache had shrunk now to merely a tenderness on the cap of her skull.

“You have slept the day away. I brought up your tea just now. The major is still away. I know it will be much too large, but I have placed his lordship’s dressing gown on the bed for your use. And over on the dressing table I have brought warm water and toiletries so that you may freshen yourself.”

“It is Alfred?”

“Yes, madam.”

“What time is it?” She moved slowly, not wanting to ignite the pain again.

“Nearly five, madam.”

“Thank you for everything, Alfred. This is very kind of you.”

“My pleasure, madam. I will be in the next room if you need me.” He bowed slightly and left.

When she was alone, she rose carefully and went to the dressing table. The pitcher of warm water splashed slowly into the wash bowl. Though the pain was gone now, she feared that some movement might bring it crashing back. She made a lather with the lavender-scented soft soap and smoothed it over her face lightly. Then she rinsed and then dried it with a spotless linen cloth. She undid her tangled braids and tried to brush her thick chestnut hair. But her hair could not be tamed and remained full and free around her face. Though the wood crackled and sizzled on the hearth, she shivered. She pulled on the heavy, emerald green, velvet dressing gown. It made a train around her feet. She wrapped its thin cord belt several times around her waist and then tied it in front.

Christiane swished over the shining floor to sit by the fire. Her knee-high moccasins waited for her beside the fireplace. Quickly she pulled them on. Beside her was a tray on a small mahogany table. First she fingered the gleaming white linen dinner napkin and placed it on her lap. Next she carefully lifted the silver lid from the dish. She beheld a feast: half a roast chicken; a deep yellow squash puree, sprinkled with dark brown sugar; a hill of mashed potatoes with a well of light brown gravy; two generous slices of buttered, brown bread; finally a rich fruit compote for dessert.

Her stomach though was not up to the challenge. Barely half of the meal was eaten when Alfred was at her side, gathering up the plates and crumbs. He finished and started to leave.

She stopped him. “Do you know when the major will return?”

“The major? No, madam, he seems to be in conference with some of the command here.”

“Oh,” Christiane said, fearing that she was the topic of their conference.

Alfred bowed slightly and left for the kitchen. Christiane noticed the morning’s newspaper folded on the carpet by her chair. To pass the time she picked it up, but reading it was vexing. Evidently all editors who supported the Revolution had left town with the Continental Congress. The local populace was agog over General Howe and his mistress, an American woman, a Mrs. Loring.

Of course, it did not come right out and say she was his mistress, but Christiane could read between the lines. It called Mrs. Loring, the “Sultana” of Philadelphia. How the allure of nobility could change the way people viewed matters. Any other time the worthy matrons of Philadelphia would shun such a woman; now they were giving parties in her honor! Were these the same people that had welcomed General Washington in the past? Christiane tossed the paper into the fire and watched it turn into ashes.

Christiane was painfully aware that she could still end up in prison. This officer who’d not remembered her had not sounded overly convinced of her story. If anyone delved deeper, they might uncover her political and personal connections with the Revolution and the Washington’s. Her relationship with the general and his lady would open many doors for her, but here they would only be cell doors. The idea of escape entered her mind, but how could she get away, clad only in a man’s dressing gown? Besides she must maintain the facade of innocence, it was her only defense.

There was a knock at the door. Alfred came out of the inner room. Christiane had not realized that he had returned. When he opened the door, a burly sergeant stood, waiting. “Yes?” Alfred asked politely.

“I am here to fetch Madam Belmond.” The voice was rough and loud.

Alfred turned to her. “Madam?”

She stood up. “Pardon me?”

“I am to take you to the rear parlor. General Howe’s orders.”

“I am not dressed, as you can see,” she said. She walked closer to the door and held out the skirt of the dressing gown.

“My orders is to bring Madam Belmond to General Howe,” the man insisted.

The significance of this demand suddenly sparked Christiane’s temper. She did not care if she was a prisoner. This was not proper behavior toward a lady. “I am sorry, but I must refuse. I am not properly dressed to appear in public.” She motioned Alfred to close the door, which he did.

Before either of them could speak or move, the closed door opened again with force. “The general says I am to bring you down,” the large man boomed, “and bring you I will!” He reached over and took Christiane’s arm, whipping her out of the room like the crack of a whip.

Well, nothing seems to be going the way she wants it to, but we’ve all had days that like–just not exactly as bad as this!–Lyn

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