21

Aimée sat in her corner chair in Commander Bienville’s dirty, cluttered office, half listening to the men argue over their next course of action. Probably they had forgotten her. Why could men not talk about their problems, as women did, until they worked them out peacefully? They must always be producing a gun or a knife, or setting fire to something, as if the violence would not inevitably cause some man on the other side to react with bigger guns and longer swords and hotter fires.

A spasm of worry for her sister disturbed the carefully constructed unconcern that was her only protection from the sort of insanity that had swamped Ysabeau. She had tried to tell Ginette to leave behind her Bible and all else that stank of their old life in Pont-de-Montvert. But Geneviève was always the hardheaded one. Just like Papa, she must always stick to principles, no matter the consequences to everyone around them. And look where that had gotten Papa. Now they had hauled her off to the guardhouse.

Ginette should have been more careful. If she’d already burned the letter from Cavalier, Aimée could have gone back to Julien and truthfully said there was nothing to worry about. But he had made her swear to bring it to him. So while Ginette was in the Burelle kitchen baking, she had slipped upstairs and unlocked the identical trunk with her own little key and extracted Cavalier’s note from the Bible. It was too bad Julien had been obliged to produce it as proof of the poison.

It was a little odd that Ginette had done that, but perhaps there had been some mistake. Ginette always landed on her feet. She would be fine.

All Aimée wanted was a little house with a garden, clean floors, and a picture or two on the walls, and maybe a baby to rock. The husband that would come with such a scenario was truly a necessary evil—but if one must have a husband, preferable that he be easily manipulated like Monsieur Dufresne . . . Julien, as he liked to be called.

She considered him, over there arguing with the commander about what should happen to her sister. Julien was so heroic, insisting that Geneviève be given a chance to recant, when Aimée could have told him that Ginette would recant when the Pope gave up the palace in Rome and moved to an Indian camp in Quebec.

Drying her eyes, she rose and tucked her handkerchief into her sleeve. She glided over to address Bienville. “Please, Monsieur le Commandant, will you excuse me now? I should like to go home and compose myself before our afternoon ladies’ soiree. Madame L’Anglois will expect me to entertain with a song or two, and I must practice.”

Bienville scowled at her. “There will be no soirees this afternoon or anytime in the near future. You may go home and say the rosary in memory of the soldiers who will be leaving the fort to protect you.”

Aimée blinked. “There’s no need to be rude—”

“I’ll escort her home, Commander, with your permission,” Julien said, taking her hand and drawing it through his arm. “You can see that my betrothed is too innocent to fully comprehend the seriousness of our circumstances.”

Betrothed? That had a lovely sound. She bestowed a smile upon Julien.

Bienville grunted. “By all means, take her out of my sight. But make sure she understands that no further Huguenotish leanings will be tolerated in the colony. Good day, mademoiselle.”

Aimée clung to Julien’s arm and allowed him to lead her from the office. She could hear Bienville’s gruff voice in sharp altercation with Commissioner La Salle, a most disagreeable man if ever she had met one. She didn’t know how Françoise tolerated dwelling in the same house with him, with only her cousin Jeanne there to provide civil discourse over breakfast. Presumably Bienville would cave in at some point and request Françoise’s hand in marriage. In Aimée’s opinion, they were the only two people in the entire colony strong enough to deal together, without devouring one another whole.

Outside the office she came upon Françoise and Father Henri.

Aimée dropped Julien’s arm. “Oh, Françoise, that beastly commander accused my sister of treason! I can never hold my head up again!” She allowed Françoise to fold her in comforting arms.

“Never mind, I’m sure it’s all a terrible mistake. We will insist that Geneviève be treated well.” Françoise held her away, hands on her shoulders. “Isn’t that so, Father?”

“Oh.” The priest harrumphed. “Of course. Yes, of course.”

Françoise’s gaze lit on the open office door. “Commander! I wish to speak to you, if you please!”

“I’m afraid he’s very busy with state business, mademoiselle,” Julien said.

“Which is why I must have his attention right now.” Françoise marched to the office door.

Aimée held her breath. To her surprise, Bienville appeared, La Salle on his heels like a cur following an alpha wolf.

“What is it now, Mademoiselle Dubonnier?” Bienville rubbed his belly, eyebrows hooked together. “I don’t have time for visiting the Indian school this afternoon. I have repeatedly told you—”

“Yes, yes, I know.” Françoise waved away his objections. “I only wanted to ask if anyone has located this Nika woman, to ask about her part in this farce. I’m sure Aide-Major Dufresne has good intentions—” she looked at Julien as though she doubted any such thing—“but appearances can be so deceiving.”

“I was just asking the same thing,” put in La Salle, adjusting his ill-fitting wig. “We have jumped to so many illogical conclusions in the last four years that it’s a wonder we aren’t drowning in them. We must question this woman Nika. Where is she?”

Looking harassed, Bienville gave Julien a pointed stare.

Julien cleared his throat. “She—ah, she has not been located, sir. She seems to have escaped from the village along with her two children.” He tugged at his immaculate neckcloth. “I will apprise you first thing when she returns.”

Bienville folded his arms across his broad chest. “There’s your answer, mademoiselle. Now will you please allow me—”

“One more thing,” Françoise interrupted smoothly. “I’m sure you are aware that Monsieur l’Aide-Major has every reason to wish Geneviève Lanier discredited. She has noted his tendency to, shall we say, get creative with the warehouse books and has, at Monsieur La Salle’s request, observed and noted certain illicit transactions occurring about the warehouse. I know for a fact that she can prove that Monsieur Burelle has bought and resold stolen goods with Monsieur Dufresne’s full knowledge and assistance.”

Aimée had no notion what Françoise’s words meant, but they sounded awful, and she could tell by his heightened color that Julien was getting angrier and angrier by the minute.

Bienville had listened, mouth clamped shut, but he put up a hand to forestall Julien’s response. “I’ve had enough unsolicited interference for one afternoon, Mademoiselle Dubonnier,” he said evenly. “Dufresne’s father is of a higher rank than your own, and a significant investor in our colonial enterprise. It will take more than the word of a British spy—and a whining accountant—to convince me to distrust him.” He sighed. “Now you will oblige me by occupying your fertile imagination with something less critical to our survival. Good day, mademoiselle.” He backed into his office, shoved La Salle out, and slammed the door.

Aimée, wide-eyed, met Françoise’s shocked gaze. “Oh dear,” she said.

Bienville, Julien was convinced, sat fully in his pocket. His jubilation only slightly doused by the driving rain, he assisted Aimée Gaillain’s descent of the headquarters gallery steps, resigned to the fact that her mincing steps would turn the short walk from headquarters to the chapel into a thirty-minute funeral procession.

The commander had no idea that Vital Hayot, the Comte de Leméry, had gone to his eternal reward, leaving the feckless Gilbert holding the reins of the estate in his incompetent grasp. All Julien had to do was wait for the Brits to land at Massacre Island, and he would be forever shut of this miserable, waterlogged colony and its illiterate bourgeois inhabitants. Of course, should he be able to bring about his original plan to do away with the seemingly un-killable Tristan Lanier, he might change his mind and make use of the title after all.

One must keep one’s options open, after all.

He began to listen to Aimée’s artless prattle. The girl occasionally had something interesting to say, and she might be useful in his pursuit of fame and fortune. Besides, as his future wife and mother of his heirs, one could argue that she held a minor stake in the game.

“. . . so I was all taken aback when you told the commander about Geneviève’s Bible. That was very bad of you, I vow.”

He gave her an amused look. “Sometimes one must do something a little bad for a very good reason. You do understand that your sister has been breaking the law for quite some time, do you not?”

“Y-yes, I suppose.” She looked away. “Though owning a Bible does not seem such a terrible crime. She wasn’t hurting anyone.”

“I know, cherie, but think. First it’s reading an illegal Bible. Then it’s helping spies to hide in one’s house. Then it’s actually spying for the enemy. Before you know it, you’re shooting dragoons!” He dropped her arm and mimed aiming a rifle. “Boom!”

Aimée jumped. “Don’t do that! You startled me!”

He grinned at her. She was adorable with raindrops in her long eyelashes and her rosebud mouth puckered in irritation. He took her hand and kissed it. “Forgive me,” he said with just the right amount of chagrin.

She sniffed. “I suppose. But I wish you had told me you’d asked the commander for permission to address me. We could have asked Father Henri to post banns yesterday in mass. I was taken all a-fluster when you called me your . . . betrothed.”

He couldn’t tell if she was gratified or angry at his presumption. “It seemed the expedient thing to do. Bienville doesn’t approve of young ladies who take themselves to be more important than they are.”

“Yes, he’s very angry with Françoise.” She wrinkled her little nose. “But it could be that he’s only angry because he loves her and resents it.”

He laughed. “What do you mean?”

“A man who wishes to become married must give up all his mistresses.”

“Where did you get that peculiar notion?”

She removed her hand from his elbow. “A good man would do so.”

“Then I am exceptionally relieved not to be a good man.” He caught her arm and hauled her close to him again. “Cherie, I am teasing you. Never fear, there is only a little more to do, and we will be the happiest and richest married couple on two continents.”

She gave him her lovely smile then, and flung her arms around his waist. “Why, what else is there to do? Oh, I know! You’re going to intervene for my sister and make sure she doesn’t stay in prison.”

“I’ll do what I can, of course, but that wasn’t what I meant. I’ve intercepted some rather bad news that will mean we must leave the colony for a little while. You must go home and pack your belongings and be ready at a moment’s notice.” When she looked up at him in wide-eyed fear, he laid a finger over her lips. “But you mustn’t tell anyone. Not your sister, not Madame L’Anglois, not anyone. Do you understand?”

Nika stopped to catch her breath, turning her face up to the pouring rain. The litter she had made from Mah-Kah-Twah’s blanket and rope had been getting heavier and harder to pull, and the rain made it worse. The yoke system she had fashioned from a tree branch braced across her chest had worked well, until her bruised muscles began to scream with pain and fatigue.

She dropped the yoke and walked back to assess Mah-Kah-Twah’s condition. She knelt and laid the back of her hand against his cheek. Not long after they staggered away from Azalea’s hogan, his skin had started to burn like a winter fire. Soon he descended into delusional conversations with the priest he called Father Mah-Tu, and an hour later he was too weak to walk. Nika didn’t know how she was going to drag him another step. If only she had a horse or a boat . . .

But wishes got one nowhere. She had prayed for help, and there had been no answer. If only she hadn’t promised to go with him back to the French fort. Leaving her two boys asleep, with only a kiss on each forehead, had brought on pain of life-giving proportions. The knowledge that they remained safe with Azalea, playing with her children, eating well and sleeping soundly, was the only thing that gave her courage to slip away with Mah-Kah-Twah.

Ah, that and watching his face as he first laid eyes upon his children, tumbled together on a sleeping mat like gangly puppies. He had laid his hand first on Chazeh’s head, then on Tonaw’s, as if in blessing. When she drew him away to rest in another corner of the hogan, he came reluctantly. “I didn’t know,” he murmured in French as he sank exhausted onto his back. His eyes closed. “Nika, I didn’t know.”

“Nika, do you have the book safe?”

At first she thought the question came from her swirling thoughts, but when she looked down at Mah-Kah-Twah, she found his eyes open and lucid. She put her hands on either side of his face. Was it cooler to the touch, or did she only imagine it?

“Is it? Do you have it safe?” His voice was hoarse but clear.

She hurried to uncork her gourd, lift his head, and hold the canteen to his mouth. “Drink,” she commanded. “Yes, it’s safe. How do you feel?”

“Like I’ve been wrestling an alligator.” He smiled a little.

Her tears, near the surface, overflowed. “Mah-Kah-Twah . . .”

“I was joking,” he said, frowning. “Don’t cry.”

“I’m not.” She sniffed and wiped her face on her rain-drenched skirt.

“Where are we?”

She sighed and looked around. The forest looked familiar. Maybe. “I’m not sure. I wanted to skirt the Mobile village, so I’ve had to go off my usual trail.”

“I hear running water. We’re close to the river.”

“Yes, we could save time if we crossed, but the rain has swollen it so—I’m afraid there will be floods. Mah-Kah-Twah, I’m worried. It’s getting more dangerous with every step.”

He struggled to sit up. She protested and started to make him lie back, but he pushed her hand away. “No, let me—Ah.” Grimacing, he propped himself on his good elbow. “How did you pull me so far?” Admiration and something else shone in his eyes.

She blushed. “I had to. Or Azalea would have ended your misery with her corn pestle.” When he laughed, she grinned at him. “God has given me unusual strength.”

“Yes, he has.” He sobered. “But we can’t continue this way. You have to let me walk.” He looked down at his wound and plucked at the makeshift bandage, which Azalea had re-formed with medicinal herbs and clean leather stripping. It was wet through with rain and seeping blood again. “This feels better.”

“You are not a good liar, my friend.” Nika sighed. “But at least the rain has slacked off a bit. Maybe we should find a place to shelter for an hour or so.”

“No.” Stubborn lines bracketed his mouth. “I have to get to the fort and warn them—” He stopped abruptly. “What is that noise?”

She listened. “I still hear the river. Wait. It’s—footsteps. Shhh. We’ve got to hide.” She got to her feet and crept to the yoke, bent to pick it up.

But Mah-Kah-Twah rolled off the litter and struggled to his hands and knees. He was going to try to walk.

“No!” she whispered. “No, don’t!” She ran to catch him, for surely he was too weak—

But it was too late. He had fainted.

Despairing, she sank down cross-legged and lifted Mah-Kah-Twah’s upper body, cradling his head in her arms.

And that was how they found her.

Dressed in a man’s jacket, breeches, and stockings, Aimée knelt in front of her open trunk, thinking wistfully of her little bedroom above the bakery in Pont-de-Montvert. She had not remembered it in quite a long time, because it always brought to mind the dragoon with sour breath who had taken it and made her sleep with Ginette. That was after he had tried to sleep in her bed with her, and Papa had made him get out.

For months on end, she’d had nightmares about that dragoon, often awakening screaming until Ginette sang to her and dried her tears. She had not had those disturbing dreams in weeks—and she could even think of Papa, and home, without experiencing that horrid suffocating sensation.

Now she was going to leave Louisiane and all her friends behind. She looked around at Madame’s charming little guest room, with its cheval mirror, damask coverlet, and gilded shepherdesses bracketing either side of the door. Madame would be sad to find her gone in the morning, but it couldn’t be helped. One must grow up and take on adult responsibilities.

With a sigh, she fingered her lacy Sunday chemise and the blue mantua that matched her eyes. Julien insisted she could bring nothing with her but a blanket roll and the clothes upon her back. The long overland trip would render female garb impractical. Besides, he added, they would be wise to hide her identity until they reached their destination.

This explanation had mainly served to make her wonder if leaving in such a havey-cavey fashion was a good idea. She and Geneviève had managed to accomplish the journey from the Cévennes all the way to the western coast of France without resorting to disguise. But Julien refused to listen. Perhaps he would become more amenable to her wishes once they were married.

“Mademoiselle, would you like a cup of tea before bed?” chirped a little voice behind her.

Aimée gave a squeak and whirled. “Raindrop! I told you to always knock before you open the door!”

“I thought I heard you call.” The child gave her a sunny smile as she inspected Aimée’s peculiar garb. “Perhaps you would like company. Wherever you are going.”

“I didn’t call!” Aimée frowned, then added hastily, “And I’m not going anywhere.”

“Madame thought you might be sick, you have stayed in here so long by yourself. She is very easily upset, and I don’t believe she would like to think of you walking alone in the dark.” Raindrop folded her arms as if daring Aimée to contradict her. “Wherever you are going.”

Aimée gave her an annoyed look. “Where I am going you may not come.”

“Didn’t Jesus say that to somebody?”

“How should I know?” Aimée rolled her eyes. “I’m not the biblical scholar that my sister is.”

Raindrop looked wistful. “I love your sister. I wish she was my sister too.”

The pang of remorse that pierced Aimée directly under Julien’s starched neckcloth was so unfamiliar that she almost didn’t recognize it. Geneviève was a good sister, and it was too bad she must stay locked up in the guardhouse long enough for Aimée to escape with Julien.

“You can borrow her,” Aimée said. “I will not need her for a while.” At least until she and Julien were comfortably situated in Carolina with a baby or two and a house full of servants. Then perhaps she could send for Geneviève to come and live with her. Maiden aunts could be useful, she had heard.

Raindrop giggled. “Mademoiselle, you are funny.”

Aimée sniffed. “I’m happy to amuse you.” Hoping she’d distracted the child, she waved a hand. “I don’t want any tea, and I’m very tired, so please go away.” She pretended to yawn.

But Raindrop looked stubborn. “A moment ago you said you are going somewhere.”

Perhaps she could take Raindrop into her confidence and keep her from tattling to Madame or Ginette. She crooked a finger. “Come here. I’m going to tell you a secret.” When Raindrop’s eyes widened, Aimée lowered her voice. “Monsieur Dufresne wants to marry me.” That much at least was true.

Raindrop shrugged. “That is no secret.”

“Yes, but we are going to do it tonight. Monsieur is waiting for me at the little storehouse on the river bluff.”

“I knew you were going somewhere!” Raindrop’s big eyes suddenly narrowed in suspicion. “But why are you not going to the chapel?”

“Shh! Lower your voice.” She leaned in close to the child’s ear. “We are . . . going on a trip, and Madame would not like it, so don’t tell her. Listen, Julien will be worried, and I’m not quite ready to go. Please run down to the warehouse and tell him I’ll be there directly.” Julien would think she had gone as far out of her mind as Ysabeau, but on such short notice, Aimée couldn’t think of another way to get rid of her little nemesis.

Raindrop looked at her doubtfully. “How much longer will you be?”

“Another fifteen minutes should do it.” By the time Raindrop returned to tell Madame, Aimée and Julien would be long gone, and no one could catch her and make her stay. “Hurry! Julien will be watching for me.”

Raindrop smiled. “I will run like lightning!”

If Tristan had not believed before that there was a personal God who answered prayer, his faith became a vibrant and glowing thing when he saw his brother lying in the Indian woman’s arms—wounded and unconscious, to be sure, but alive—a scant twenty miles outside the walls of the fort.

Now the two Indian boys carried the litter, upon which Marc-Antoine lay still and silent in his pain. Tristan and the woman walked on either side, with Deerfoot guarding the rear.

Nika claimed to be Kaskaskian, though she was dressed in the light Mobilian dress of palm fronds woven with cotton fabric, fashioned in a loose blouse over a skirted girdle about the hips. Her long, black hair had been parted down the middle and plaited into a single tail down the back, and her small ears were pierced and hung with multiple strings of tiny beads that swung against her shoulders. She walked on bare feet beside Marc-Antoine’s litter, guarding him as jealously as a lioness with her cubs.

Tristan could all but smell the possessiveness in her reluctance to look away from Marc-Antoine’s face, the gentle way she laid the back of her fingers against his forehead every so often.

Most curious of all, she spoke nearly flawless French—simple in vocabulary, but in grammar and pronunciation displaying only a slightly mislaid accent. When he asked which Jesuit missionary had taught her, she gave him an unexpected smile and said it was no missionary, but a very bad boy.

“Do you not remember me, monsieur?” she asked lightly.

He studied the lush mouth, retroussé nose, and black almond eyes. She looked like a hundred other native women he had encountered over the last eight years, including his own wife. He started to shake his head, then a sudden image hit him, and he was leaving fifteen-year-old Marc-Antoine alone in a Kaskaskian village at the northernmost boundary of the Alabama territory. There had been a young maiden standing beside the chief that day—his only daughter, beautiful and exotic as a woodland flower, and already clearly infatuated with the French boy.

Her lips curved as Tristan’s eyes widened. “It is true,” she said softly. “We taught each other languages . . . and many other things.” She looked away. “I had not seen him for a long time, but of course I remembered him. And when I found him wounded so . . .” She shrugged. “Could I leave him to die?”

“You found him? How did you happen to be close by during such a massacre?”

She, in turn, studied him. “You are his older brother, are you not? The one he will die for. The one for whom he will leave everyone, including the girl who loves him.”

He had no answer for that. He glanced at Marc-Antoine. “I didn’t ask him to die for me.”

“Of course not. Which is why he would gladly do so.” She lifted her chin. “But I think there are others he would give his life to now.” Then she grinned at him again. “Though he is much more use to us alive, don’t you agree?”

Tristan chuckled. “Yes. Come now. Tell me the story. We have a long walk ahead of us.”

And she did, downplaying her own courage and strength. She had watched her husband murder three men and wound two more, but still hadn’t left Marc-Antoine to die, even to protect herself.

Tristan tried to understand. “Your husband is Mobilian? But Barraud reported that the attackers were Koasati. How could he possibly confuse the two? And why would Mobilians attack a French peace party? They’ve been our allies for many years.”

Nika was silent for a long moment, staring at Marc-Antoine’s face as if willing him to wake up and answer for her. “My husband is a jealous man. He knew—he seems to have become sure, somehow, that—that your brother and I were once very close.” She glanced at Tristan, shame in her expression. “You will think that I am a wanton woman, but it is not so. I was a maiden when I gave myself to him, only fourteen summers old, and I was sure that Mah-Kah-Twah would stay with me, that my father would allow us to marry. But then—”

“I came back for him.”

Her eyes were sad. “Yes. After he left, I . . . had to marry my father’s choice for me.”

“You’ve been in the Mobile village all this time? Without seeing Marc-Antoine?” That sounded rather far-fetched.

“I was careful.” When he did not answer, she blurted, “He didn’t want me! I wouldn’t follow him like a puppy!”

Ah, pride. That he understood. It had kept Marc-Antoine from reconciling with their father. It had kept Tristan from going home after Sholani’s death. “But what were you doing that far north, if you weren’t traveling with your husband? And you say you weren’t following my brother?”