12
He was probably going to have to kill her too.
As he waited for Geneviève Gaillain to meet him at the gate, Julien took his stepmother’s letter from the pocket inside his coat and read it again. He had long since memorized it, probably should have burned it, but there was something about the weight of it in his hand, the curl of the words on the page, that steadied and focused the anger that now fueled his every waking thought.
Of course I knew about the other boy, for what man of your father’s virility has not had one or more indiscretions? But because he—the boy, not your father—went off to live in the Canadian wilderness with his mother, and one never heard another word of him, praise to the Almighty, I deemed it prudent to withhold his existence from dear Gilbert, and I presume he—your father, not the boy—wouldn’t have any reason to mention him—the boy, not your father—to you or your mother.
“The boy,” of course, was Tristan Lanier, and it had taken the countess half a scrawling page to clarify the fact that his father had managed to sire not one, but two, illegitimate sons presently living in the wilds of America. Furthermore, her reason for suddenly divulging this shocking information was due to his father’s inexplicable decision to legitimize his eldest son and confer on him all due rights of inheritance—to the exclusion of the other two. The letter had rambled on for another page or two before coming to the point: Anne Chevalier, Comtess de Leméry, expected Julien to politely murder his half brother, as well as Father Mathieu, the priest who had journeyed to Louisiane to inform him of his good fortune.
Several implications had occurred to him in succession that day, when he had opened and read that fateful letter. First was the bare fact of a third contender for his father’s name and fortune. Having grown up knowing that he was a bastard, Julien had more or less come to terms with the idea that he would never receive the privileges of legitimacy. His father might be negligent and somewhat arrogant toward his younger son, but Julien had never wanted for any physical necessity. He had been educated, groomed for gainful employment, and taught manners appropriate, as the comtess acknowledged, for his station.
Discovering that he was not the comte’s only love child put to death any notion that his father had ever loved his mother. She had been merely a mistress—one of two, probably many. And she hadn’t even been the first.
Tristan Lanier was his brother. Tristan Lanier is your brother.
He said it aloud. “Tristan Lanier is your brother.” The words still tasted metallic on his tongue.
Standing here in the sun waiting for Lanier’s wife, he knew a burst of rage so hot he thought his head might explode. A man who loved his child so little that he would send him and the mother across the ocean to live with another man—that kind of man was his own sire.
The latent pride that Julien had always kept well hidden, pride that he was the son of the noble Comte de Leméry, died a violent death in that moment.
Pride gave way to resolve. There weren’t many things Julien knew how to do better than revenge. He had never murdered anyone, but as he searched himself, he knew that he could do it. Brothers from the beginning of time had done what they must in order to survive. Cain had served well, and what thanks had he received? Rejection. Abel’s sacrifice is better. Julien understood perfectly why the insult required blood.
The thought of killing the priest gave him pause. But he understood that if the priest lived, it would be more difficult to hide what he had done. Father Mathieu would ask questions, and questions would inevitably lead to one who would profit from Lanier’s death. Two accidental deaths in this wild and dangerous land would not be so remarkable. Yes, it would have to be done.
Of course, once he had taken care of Lanier, there would be Gilbert himself, and possibly his mother.
He opened his hand and smoothed the letter, which he had crumpled in his distress. He read it once more, biting his lip. Anne Chevalier was a twit, but like most women, understood self-preservation. What did she mean, precisely, by a “proper reward”? He would want more than money—at least a title and some of the de Leméry lands. Gilbert was easy to persuade.
Shoving the letter back into his uniform coat, he began to pace along the stockade. He must find a way to do the thing without it being traced to himself. Perhaps he should start with Geneviève. If he’d known his half brother was going to wed the girl before departing for Indian territory, he would have found a way to prevent it. But it had never occurred to him that Tristan Lanier would overcome his antipathy for white society and choose a Frenchwoman as his bride. In fact, in a twist of diabolical irony, by the looks of it, Lanier had fathered a couple of illegitimate Indian whelps of his own and foisted them on the unsuspecting son of the Mobile chief.
He’d watched Lanier carefully every time he appeared at Fort Louis. There had been no sign of attachment to any of the Pélican girls, let alone the standoffish Geneviève Gaillain. So while Julien had turned his back for less than a day, Lanier took the woman to wife and bedded her without anyone else the wiser.
Bienville was, of course, apoplectic that one of his expensive Pélican brides had married the renegade Lanier, leaving one less family with which to convince the king of the settlement’s growth and prosperity. As soon as word reached him, the commandant had convened a tribunal of officers to interrogate the woman. Julien had sat amongst them, outwardly icy, watching Geneviève’s white face flush as Bienville did his best to undo what Father Mathieu had done—and humiliate her in the process.
Bienville’s main objection was that the marriage had taken place outside the authority of Father Albert or Father Henri, a fact which Henri himself loudly decried. Ironically, in other circumstances Bienville might have stood in support of the Jesuit Father Mathieu, with whom he was politically aligned. However, there was nothing anyone could do about a signed and witnessed marriage contract. Vows had been—according to the crimson-faced bride—duly consummated, and she refused to consider annulment.
In the end, Bienville had to let her go, coldly informing her that the financial support of the Crown had come to an end for her. She must scrape together a living for herself as best she might.
With a dignity that would have befitted the Queen herself, Geneviève had given the commander a brief curtsey and quitted headquarters without a word or a glance for anyone else in the room.
Julien could only admire her composure, though the marriage created one more obstacle in his bid for his late father’s fortune. If Geneviève should be with child, Julien’s claims upon the de Leméry dynasty became even more distant, and the route he must take to bring himself back in line became that much more complex.
He paused in his endless perambulations as he tried, not for the first time, to untangle Father Mathieu’s role in the family drama. If the priest were functioning as legal as well as spiritual counselor to the comte, logically he would have been apprised of Julien’s existence, which did not seem to be the case. After reading the comtess’s letter, Julien had almost confronted Father Mathieu. Erring on the side of caution, however, he had simply watched the priest’s eyes for recognition or signs of a hidden agenda. In vain.
“Good morning, Monsieur l’Aide-Major. I am sorry to have kept you waiting.”
Julien turned to find his companion for the day picking her way through the muddy trampled grass around the stockade entrance. He sketched a bow, extending his arm to assist her around a puddle. “No apology necessary, mademoiselle.”
Geneviève’s request that he accompany her to the Mobile village in search of cooking instruction had struck him as fortuitous as well as strange. Any one of the layabouts infesting Burelle’s tavern would have served, but during his last visit to the L’Anglois’s home to court her so-lovely younger sister, Geneviève had steered the conversation to Indian corn bread. Before he could blink, he had been conscripted to escort her to the Mobile village on the first clear day.
He surreptitiously studied her. She was dressed in a simple but neat ensemble he had not seen before, and he recognized the blue Rouen cloth imported on the Profond. He had checked the inventory himself and handed it to La Salle with only a few minor adjustments. Details being his bread and butter, Julien noted her modest décolletage and loose-fitting sleeves. Not so modest was the gored skirt, which cleared the ground by at least three inches and gave one a generous view of slender ankles above a pair of deerskin moccasins. Lanier was going to find his wife in need of a stern beating when he returned.
But as Lanier wasn’t likely to return, perhaps some other man would have to assume that chore. Hiding a smile, Julien shifted his gaze to his companion’s uncovered dark curls. She had adopted the role of married woman, going about without a cap, though she would have been wiser to keep the sun off that fair skin.
She seemed unaware of his regard, keeping her attention on the uneven ground. “I’m grateful you were willing to give up your valuable free time to come with me. I feared that without introduction the Indians might not allow me to enter the village.”
His eyebrows rose. “Mademoiselle, you should never leave the settlement without escort. The Indians aren’t the only danger you would face.”
“I wish you to address me as ‘madame,’ if you please. I am a married woman.” For all their bluntness, the words were spoken with composure.
“Pardon, madem—madame.” He smiled. “It is difficult to think of one so youthful as yourself as a matron.”
“Yet you court my sister, who is two years my junior.” The clear, green-gray eyes flicked his way. “Perhaps you should withdraw your suit until she grows up.”
“Touché.” He smirked at her. “We shall agree that you are quite on the edge of the grave and must be addressed as such.”
“Indeed.” Her lips quivered on a suppressed smile. “And as one whose advanced age and marital state informs her responsibility for protecting a younger sibling, sir, I claim the right to propose a few questions regarding your background.”
“Ask away, my dear, though I claim no equal responsibility for answers.”
She laughed. “Well, that’s honest at least! The problem is, information is difficult to come by. No one seems to know much about where you came from.”
“Straight from the head of Zeus, I swear.” He lifted a hand. “Though society is reluctant to believe in my supernatural parentage. Careful—that branch is rotten.”
She leaped lightly over the fallen limb, and he suddenly appreciated the wisdom in her decision to resort to native footwear. Many of the women had taken to going about barefoot when their fragile Paris-made shoes disintegrated in the damp, sandy coastal terrain. They had passed from the cleared settlement area to enter the forest, through which a hard-packed and crooked Indian trail led to the Mobile village some eight miles distant. The dense trees blocked the sunlight, so that they walked in a dappled half-light, accompanied by the rustling and twitter of birds and small animals. Geneviève betrayed no discomfiture; rather, the tension in her hand upon his arm relaxed.
It occurred to him that he was every bit as curious about her as she seemed to be about him, and that he had made little headway in discovering what the ex-Protestant shipbuilder suspected. That must be corrected.
They chatted of inconsequential things as they walked on at a brisk pace, until Dufresne deemed that she had relaxed sufficiently to have let down her guard. “It seems you have much in common with my friend Ardouin. He speaks highly of you.”
Her expression closed at the abrupt change in subject. “Catherine’s husband?”
“Yes. He says you remind him of his sister.”
“I don’t know what you mean. I barely know the man.”
“Frankly, I’m not sure what he meant either. Ardouin is a very sober fellow, raised by Protestant parents. He converted to the true religion so that he would be allowed to marry your friend Catherine. Most commendable.”
“Indeed.” She glanced at him, then up at the canopy of branches overhead. The leaves had begun to turn colors and drop off, creating a pleasant crunch underfoot as they walked. “How much farther to the village?”
“Another hour’s walk. Are you tired? We could rest for a few minutes.”
“No, it is merely that I’m anxious to arrive.” She picked up her pace, all but tugging on his arm to drag him along. “One never knows what the weather will do in this climate.”
“True.” He kept his tone neutral. “I can understand, I suppose, why Ardouin recanted his so-called religion, in favor of that of our King. But I should have admired him even more had he stood fast in his beliefs. So many are like the trees, swayed this way and that by every wind.” His expansive gesture encompassed their surroundings.
She was silent so long he thought she wasn’t going to answer. He looked at her and found her lips buttoned tightly together. After a moment, she said stiffly, “I’m sure Monsieur Ardouin had his reasons for recanting. One must give grace where it is due.”
“Well, in the end, one religion is much like another, in my opinion. The Indians worship a god who is in the trees and the wind itself. Who is to say that they are wrong?”
“Monsieur l’Aide-Major, you’d best have a care who hears you propose such blasphemous questions.” There was an intensity beneath her light tone that told him he had hit a nerve.
“Madame, am I to understand that you sympathize with our dark-skinned brethren?”
“You can understand whatever you wish, it is neither here nor there to me.” She gave him a penetrating look. “Surely you don’t believe the Creator of the trees and the wind could be held captive in his creation.”
“It’s an interesting supposition.” He shrugged. “When we first began clearing the land for the settlement, the Indians spoke of the idols of five gods who dwelt on Bottle Creek Island just north of here. The natives considered these idols a form of holy protection. Bienville convinced some lesser Mobilian headsmen to take him there, to see for himself. While Bienville approached the idols, the Indians cowered on the beach, begging him not to touch them lest he be struck dead. What he found were five plaster figures—a man, a woman, a child, a bear, and an owl—apparently left by the Spanish in an earlier exploration. Our intrepid commander, of course, swept them right up and had them transported to Massacre Island.”
Geneviève’s eyes sparkled. “Indeed! And yet he was not struck dead!”
Julien shook his head. “Miraculously not—and so our Indian friends were even more impressed with French courage and superior authority. Iberville later took the idols back to France, where he demonstrated at court that our simple Indians would be easy to sway to our support.”
“This seems to me further proof that Almighty God doesn’t dwell in man-made icons, as the Church would have us believe.”
Julien studied Geneviève and found her expression thoughtful, her mouth wry. She seemed unaware that she had just uttered a much more sacrilegious remark than any which he had proffered. He did not call attention to the slip but filed it away for further speculation.
“Of course you are right, madame.” He couldn’t quite put his finger on why he found the inner workings of this insignificant woman’s mind so fascinating. That she had married his half brother, whom he knew to be rough-mannered and ill-dressed, irreligious and often antisocial, strengthened Julien’s conviction that some ulterior motive drove her actions.
Could it be that the priest had taken Geneviève into his confidence? Maybe she was even the priest’s handpicked choice as Tristan Lanier’s bride.
“Monsieur?” Geneviève’s clear voice broke into Julien’s ruminations. “I see light ahead. Are we coming to the end of the forest?”
He blinked. “I believe it is so. Forgive my inattention.” He smiled at her. “We’ve arrived much sooner than I’d anticipated. Perhaps we’ll find food at the end of our journey. Come, let us walk a little faster.”
No sooner were the words out of his mouth than a peculiar buzzing sound ripped past his head. He reached up to touch his stinging ear, then stared at his hand, incredulous. His trembling fingers were smeared with blood.
Aimée, hauling a heavy wooden bucket, trudged along the muddy trail which bore the rather grandiose name “rue de Sérigny.” She shifted the bucket to the other hand and thought resentfully of the bruises that would no doubt mar the fair skin of her legs later today. Why must she be the one sent to fetch water, when Raindrop could just as well have gone after she finished her own chores? And heaven forefend that Madame actually carry anything heavier than a thimble herself!
She consoled herself by singing a little song her mother had taught her as a child, wishing for the hundredth time that she could have Mama here to advise her as to which of her two blue ribbons most closely mimicked the color of her eyes. But Mama had pined herself into the grave over Papa, and Aimée had been forced to leave their home and get on the boat in La Rochelle, just because Ginette and that beastly Jean Cavalier said she must.
She had thought things would be better once they reached dry land. New France, they called it—Louisiane, in honor of the Sun King. But there was nothing “new” about this moldy, dingy, waterlogged swamp. Bugs and snakes and pestilence everywhere, and she had not felt completely clean since the day she got off the Pélican fifty-four endless days ago.
Worse still, she had assumed that the handsomest of the purportedly brave and resourceful young Canadians, desperate for women to grace their homes, would kneel at her feet and offer her the life of luxury that was her due. But not one suitable gentleman had offered her marriage, and she was one of two Pélican brides who remained unwed. Well, three, if one counted the unfortunate Ysabeau Bonnet. Nearly a week ago, Edmé Oüanet had married Denis Lafleur, and even homely Noël Dumesnil had accepted a sudden and inexplicable offer from Claude Fautisse. They were to say their vows later this afternoon, when Father Henri returned from baptizing a couple of Indian babies.
Everyone knew that Françoise Dubonnier was holding out for Commander Bienville, though Aimée could have told her that Bienville was as likely to get married as he was to fly to the moon. After all, why should he buy a cow when he could get free milk whenever he liked? But that was neither here nor there. Françoise would listen to no one.
She looked up at the sky, trying to gauge the likelihood of rain. Blue morning skies could turn to howling storms by afternoon, and one had best be prepared to duck into the closest building at a moment’s notice. The weak September sun flirted from behind a bank of innocent, puffy white clouds, giving no indication of their intent.
Which put her in mind of her deceitful sister, who had disappeared that very morning with Aimée’s only hope of advantageous matrimony, leaving her hostage to Madame’s endless nagging to be “useful.” She kicked at a chicken that had wandered into the road and watched it run away squawking and flapping. Wouldn’t it be just like Ginette to dissuade Julien from his determined courtship? She couldn’t understand why he’d agreed to escort Ginette to the Indian village on his day of leave, instead of squiring Aimée about on a fashionable promenade.
In fact, Geneviève herself had turned into quite a queer sort of person, ever since she had married that backwoods Canadian, Tristan Lanier. The day after the wedding, she had actually delivered the Lemay baby all by herself—Sister Gris had been there as well, but one could hardly count her as any useful help—and then later defied the commander’s attempt to annul her marriage, despite the fact that Monsieur Lanier was for all intents and purposes a traitor to the French Crown. Julien said it was so, and he must be believed.
As she entered the marketplace, Aimée could see the community well located in the center of the square. Two women stood there waiting their turns to draw water, while a third leaned into the well almost to the waist. Aimée recognized Noël Dumesnil by the wilted brown hair trailing from the back of her cap and Jeanne de Berenhardt’s Amazonian height, but it was impossible to identify the woman hanging over into the well.
What on earth was she doing? Had she dropped something down the well and decided to fish for it? Who would be so foolish as to—
Then in an instant she knew who it was. She had seen that petticoat many times on board the Pélican.
Ysabeau had had little to do with Aimée of late. There had been a couple of skirmishes early on, genteel catfights over the handsomest, richest, and most courtly of the unattached men. However, Ysabeau’s engagement to the highly respected Levasseur, a coup of the first order, soon set her in a completely different social circle. By the time Levasseur succumbed to the fever, leaving Ysabeau abruptly free, Aimée was satisfied with the flattering attentions of Aide-Major Dufresne. Her friend’s desperate and pathetic engagement to the handsome and raffish Denis Lafleur, who promptly traded her off in a card game, left Aimée with no choice but to treat Ysabeau with smug pity.
Mama used to always tell her that “pride goes before a fall,” which was apparently somewhere in the Bible. Ysabeau’s misadventures certainly proved it. The girl had been proud as a peacock.
Now here she was in the middle of town in broad daylight, barefoot as a yard dog and dressed in nothing but her shift and petticoat, with her head inside the well. It was entirely too much.
Aimée dropped the bucket in the dirt and marched over to join Noël and Jeanne. “What on earth is she doing?” She could hear Ysabeau’s high, sweet voice echoing from the well like the keening of the wind on a winter night in the Cévennes. “Is she singing?”
“I—I d-don’t know,” Noël stuttered. “It s-sounds like it.”
“How long has she been there?”
Even the stately Jeanne looked worried. “At least an hour . . . maybe more. Noël and I tried to get her to come out, but she just ignores us.”
“This is unacceptable! She must go home and put on her dress.”
Noël wrung her hands. “Do you suppose she’s ill? Maybe she has the fever too.”
Aimée snorted. “She was perfectly healthy at mass yesterday morning. Where is her husband? Monsieur Connard is responsible for her now.”
“I don’t know him,” said Jeanne. “I think he is a soldier. Perhaps he is on duty.”
Aimée looked at Noël, who shrugged. She stamped her foot. “You two are no help at all!” She would just have to take care of it herself.
She reached Ysabeau in three quick strides. It was worse than she’d feared. Not only was Ysabeau en déshabillé below the waist, her lacy shift was covered only by a loosely fastened corset, leaving her back and shoulders almost completely bare. Her beautiful mane of red-gold curls hung loose against the slimy brick walls of the well, her arms dangling like pale ropes. She was looking down into the darkness as if into an oracle.
Aimée planted her hands on the rim of the well. “Ysabeau! Stand up this minute! You are getting your hair wet and dirty. What will Commander Bienville think of this behavior?” She waited, but Ysabeau only continued to sing in that thin, unearthly soprano, words that Aimée finally recognized as the nursery song she herself had been singing on the way to the market.
Shivers prickled her arms and crept up the nape of her neck into her scalp as Ysabeau warbled into the well,
Fishing for mussels,
I no longer want to go, Mommy,
Fishing for mussels,
I no longer want to go.
They left me, Mommy,
The boys from Marennes,
They left me.
I shouldn’t have believed
All their fine vows, Mommy,
I shouldn’t have believed
All their fine vows.
Boys are fickle
Like rain and wind, Mommy,
Boys are fickle
Like rain and wind.
Girls are faithful
Like gold and silver, Mommy,
Girls are faithful
Like gold and silver.
Shaking off her momentary paralysis, Aimée seized Ysabeau by the waist and pulled. At first Ysabeau was limp as a sack of flour. But she stiffened, her voice escalating into a shriek, as Aimée pulled her backward, scraping her bosom and chin against the bricks. Ysabeau began to buck and flail her arms.
“Ysabeau! I’m trying to help you!” Aimée dodged Ysabeau’s elbows. “Let me take you home, there’s a good girl. Where’s your—where is René? He will miss you, and you can’t stay out here in public with nothing—Stop it!” Aimée looked around to find both Noël and Jeanne gawking at her like a couple of ninnies. “Jeanne, go get her husband! Or get one of the guards! Hurry!”
Jeanne recovered and hurried away in the direction of the fort, clearly relieved to have something useful to do.
“Noël! Come help me. She’s going to hurt herself. Ow!” Ysabeau had just elbowed her in the eye socket. Freshly indignant, Aimée gave one more tug and went reeling backward to land on her rump with an undignified “oof,” Ysabeau in her lap. Shoving the girl off into the dirt, Aimée scrambled to her feet, shaking with righteous indignation.
Noël crept closer. “I’m so sorry, Ysabeau—I don’t know how to help. Are you all right?”
“Is she all right?” Aimée rounded on Noël. “I’m the one with a black eye!” When Noël backed away, bleating another apology, Aimée made a disgusted noise and glared down at Ysabeau. She was sobbing like a child, fists knotted against her eyes. Her dirty hair streamed over her shoulders and bosom, curling past her waist. “What is the matter with you, Ysette? You cannot come out of doors dressed like a strumpet.”
Ysabeau peeked through her fingers. Her swollen eyes were red, and her nose was running. “No one wants me,” she said dully. “Papa says I must get on the boat in the morning.”
Ignoring her throbbing eye, Aimée knelt beside Ysabeau and took her by the shoulders. “Your papa is in France. Did you have a bad dream?”
Ysabeau picked at her fingernails. “There isn’t enough money for all of us. The baby is dead. Dresses and shoes cost too much. I must go to New France and find a husband.”
“What are you talking about? You married René Connard nearly a week ago!” Aimée shook Ysabeau hard. “Wake up, you stupid goose!”
“Fishing for mussels I no longer want to go, Mommy,” Ysabeau sang sweetly, “fishing for mussels I no longer want to go.” She folded her legs crisscross and began to play with her hair.
Aimée stared at the girl, listening to the heartbreaking rhyme that used to make her think of her own mama. Something had happened to send Ysabeau into an interior place that no one else could reach. In the docile acceptance of the same winds of fate which had blown her from home to an alien wilderness, from man to man to man, she had succumbed to some illusion of childhood, and there was no saying if or when she might emerge.
Terror shook her for a moment. She released Ysabeau’s shoulders and instinctively looked around for Geneviève to tell her what to do. But Ginette was married now and had moved in over the tavern so that she could bake bread for the Burelles. For the first time in her life, Aimée was responsible for her own decisions.
There was only mousy Noël, wringing her hands, staring wide-eyed at Ysabeau.
Then she saw a group of men and women coming toward the marketplace, led by Françoise Dubonnier, who carried a folded length of gray cloth over one arm, with Father Henri limping just behind her. Jeanne and her husband, Nicolas de La Salle, trooped along in the rear in company with a couple of uniformed soldiers. Conspicuously missing was René Connard. Could Connard himself be at the root of Ysabeau’s madness?
Aimée’s aggravation abruptly turned to pity. She put a protective arm around Ysabeau. “Françoise! Make these men go away. Where is Monsieur Connard?” She glared at the priest, whose florid face was purple with disapproval as he inspected Ysabeau’s state of undress. He might be a holy father, but he had no right to stare so. “Ysabeau, be quiet,” she pleaded in a whisper. “What if they arrest you?”
Ysabeau continued to sing, twisting a lock of red-gold hair round her finger.
To Aimée’s relief, Françoise knelt in front of Ysabeau, shielding her from the eyes of the men. “How long has she been like this?” she asked quietly, wrapping the length of fabric she carried around the girl’s shoulders.
“I found her leaning headfirst into the well, when I came to get water about thirty minutes ago.” Aimée didn’t particularly like the bossy Françoise, but she had her uses. “What happened to her husband? What did he do to her?”
“He seems to have disappeared.” Françoise bit her lip. “The commander sent me to escort her in for questioning, and Father Henri insisted on coming.” She glanced over her shoulder.
“Questioning her is pointless. She thinks she’s back in France, about to board the Pélican. And she mentioned a dead baby!”
“Oh dear.” Françoise took Ysabeau’s face in her hands and attempted to catch her gaze.
But Ysabeau’s vacant gray eyes followed the flight of a bird that chased overhead.
“I could take her home with me. I’m sure Madame wouldn’t mind.” She didn’t know any such thing, but what else was she to do? Ysabeau and René had been living with Paul Loisel until René could afford to build a house of their own. Ysabeau could hardly live alone with the widower, and Françoise had moved in with the La Salles, who were otherwise overcrowded with children.
Françoise looked doubtful. “I wish Father Mathieu were here to advise us. I suppose we’d best take her to the commander first. He’ll know what to do.”
“I hardly think that wise.” Father Henri, who had limped close enough to overhear their quiet conversation, stood with his arms folded, looking disapproving. “Bienville is a notorious womanizer who cannot be trusted with young unmarried women.”
“Ysabeau is married,” Aimée said, “and—and the commander gave a direct order. Besides, Françoise and I will be with her.” She glanced at Jeanne and her stodgy husband. “As will the La Salles, I’m sure.”
Father Henri looked affronted at her defiance but stepped aside when the soldiers responded to Aimée’s beckoning. The two young men hoisted Ysabeau to her feet, the younger one reddening when she smiled up at him and clung to his arm.
“My papa said I should watch out for sailors, especially the handsome ones. I’m to remain a maiden until I get to Louisiane.” She flirted her long eyelashes. “But perhaps we could dance under the stars after we get under way. Papa will never know.”
Father Henri looked scandalized, but Aimée took his arm and pulled him in the direction of the fort. “Come, gentlemen,” she said over her shoulder to the soldiers. “The commander will be waiting for us. Françoise, watch out for her, I beg you. She mustn’t be left alone again.” Without giving anyone else a chance to argue, she towed the priest out of earshot of Ysabeau’s babbling.
But inside her head, the nursery song filtered like an evil wraith. Girls are faithful like gold and silver, Mommy, boys are fickle like rain and wind.