Chapter
4

Pierre crossed the open field Papa had cleared many years ago when they’d first settled on Michilimackinac Island. By the full light of afternoon, Pierre was able to assess much more than he had the previous day when he’d rushed past the cabin before dawn.

The mist and darkness of his early morning visit had cloaked the farm, yet now the sun’s rays touched every broken fence post, every weed jutting from the unplowed field, every scraggly fruit tree, every piece of crumbling chinking in the cabin wall.

And it glared particularly bright on one side of the roof where several shingles had fallen away, leaving a gaping hole.

If he hadn’t seen his maman in the cabin yesterday, he would have assumed the farm was deserted.

He stopped, lifted his heavy haversack, and tried to shrug off the uncomfortable weight of guilt that bore down on him.

Beyond the house, the barn was too quiet. The door hung ajar, and darkness was the only thing that filled the stone building Papa had constructed from all the rocks they’d cleared out of the fields.

Where were the hens that normally strutted around the yard and the pigs that Papa had often let roam freely? He strained to hear the whinny of one of the horses or even the soft bellow of their milk cow. But the farm was deathly silent. Only the drums, music, and songs from the feast on the beach drifted in the air.

The knot that had slipped around his stomach cinched tighter. Why hadn’t Maman come down to the shore to see the first ships of spring with everyone else?

He’d helped his men unload the canoes during the past couple of hours. And he’d greeted the Indians when they’d arrived a short while later. Finally he’d worked up enough nerve to begin the mile walk from town.

One of the tall, dry weeds that crowded what had once been Maman’s flourishing vegetable garden waved in the breeze as if to warn him to run back to the beach and avoid the meeting that he’d been mentally planning since God had finally gotten his attention.

But he shook his head and pushed aside the temptation.

The island breeze rippled across his freshly shaven face and brought with it the sweetness of lilacs. At least the lilac bushes Maman had planted when he’d been just a boy were still growing on either side of the front door of the cabin. Surprisingly they were trimmed and bursting with hundreds of tiny purple blooms.

At least one thing hadn’t changed. She still loved her lilacs.

He dragged in a deep breath and forced his feet to move forward again, and he didn’t stop until he stood facing the door.

It was time to ask for her forgiveness. He wouldn’t be able to rest until he did. It was what he’d felt God urging him to do since the night a year ago when in one of his drunken stupors he’d almost killed another voyageur during a stupid argument.

Thankfully, Red Fox had pried his fingers away from the man’s neck in time. But the incident had scared him, had awakened him to the drunken brute he’d become. He’d realized he hadn’t liked who he was, the kind of man Papa had once been—exactly the kind of man Papa had wanted to prevent him from becoming.

He could understand now why Papa had been so angry with him when he’d told him of his plans to join a brigade. He had indeed fallen into the drinking and debauchery that accompanied the life of the voyageur.

But not anymore. Not since he’d repented before God for the despicable man he’d become.

Of course, he wasn’t perfect. God was still working to change him. But he’d come a long way in a year’s time.

Pierre straightened his shoulders and doffed his cap. He ran his fingers through his hair, combing the wayward curls into submission.

Then slowly he opened the door.

As it swung wide, his attention shifted to Maman, kneeling before the hearth, fumbling with a teakettle and much too close to the small flames scattered among scraps of bark and wood shavings.

At the swish of the door opening, Maman’s back stiffened and her hands stilled. From what he could tell, she hadn’t changed much in the years he’d been gone. Her hair was still tied in the knot she’d always worn at the back of her neck and was the familiar blond, perhaps a little lighter now with silver threads. She was much thinner, but still had the willowy graceful form he remembered.

For a long, tense moment he held his breath and waited for her to turn. His muscles twitched with the urge to flee.

“Angelique?” she said. “Is that you?”

Angelique?

His mind flashed with the picture of the gangly redheaded girl Maman had loved as a daughter, the sweet girl who had followed him and Jean all over the island and had become the little sister he’d never had. She was apparently still very much a part of Maman’s life.

Maman turned slightly.

Pierre’s mouth went dry, but he forced himself to speak. “Non, Maman. It’s not Angelique.”

She gasped. The teapot slipped from her fingers and fell with a clank into her pitiful fire. She started to rise but in the process brushed her hand against the steaming spout. She uttered a pained cry and struggled to move away from the fire, dragging her sleeve across one of the flames and causing the threadbare material to ignite.

Pierre dropped his bundle and in three strides was across the room and kneeling next to her. With the edge of his leather shirt he smothered the flame on her sleeve and at the same time captured her hand.

“Let’s get some cold water on that burn,” he said.

But she tugged away and with a cry of joy flung her arms around him and pulled him into a hug. “Oh, Pierre . . .” Her voice wobbled. “My dear, dear son. Is it really you?”

“Oui, Maman. It’s really me.”

Her fingers came up to his hair, and she smoothed her hand over his curls the way she had whenever he’d come running to her needing her reassurance, especially after he’d done something he’d known he shouldn’t, which had been more times than he cared to admit.

His chest tightened and he drew in a breath of the lilac fragrance that surrounded her. He’d hoped and longed for her embrace, but had been afraid he’d never get to experience it again.

“Oh, Pierre,” she said again through a broken sob. She pressed her face against his, wetting his cheek with her tears.

He was about to wrap his arms around her when she leaned back and put him at arm’s length. Tears trickled down her cheeks. She lifted her fingers to his face and grazed his chin, nose, and cheeks, as if she couldn’t get enough of him. A smile lit up her face amidst the tears. “God be praised. It is you.”

“Oui, it’s me,” he said softly.

Her fingers continued to explore his face, almost as if she were seeing him through her sense of touch rather than her eyes.

He looked into her light-blue eyes. They were glassy, like a foggy sky in the early morning. And they didn’t look back into his with the directness she’d always used.

Something was wrong. “How are you?” he asked, grasping her arms, studying her, taking in the stains on her tattered apron, the black singes on her sleeves where she’d obviously had further accidents with the fire, and the red blisters on the back of her hand.

“I think I’m in heaven.”

Beneath his fingers he felt nothing but her bones. She barely had any flesh left. What had happened to her? To the farm?

“I’ve been praying for this moment for so long,” she said, reaching for him again to draw him into another embrace.

This time he held back, trying to catch her gaze, wanting her to look deep inside him and see the new man he was becoming. But she only stared at his face unseeingly, as if she were . . .

“Yes, Pierre,” she said, her smile dimming a little, “I’m almost blind.”

“How . . . ?” He cleared the squeakiness out of his voice. “How long have you been unable to see?” Her blindness would account for much of the neglect and disrepair he’d seen around the farm.

“For a while now.” She laid her smooth palm against his cheek.

He looked around at the interior of the cabin. On one side of the window hung Papa’s paddle, painted in stripes of red and blue. On the other side was Papa’s fishing rod. The same hand-hewn table and chairs filled the space of half the room, while a sagging bed occupied the other half. The ladder leading to the attic room that he’d shared with Jean was covered with cobwebs.

Very little had changed about his childhood home except the barrenness. Always before there had been freshly baked bread, soup or stew simmering above the hearth fire, bundles of dried herbs dangling from the ceiling, and some kind of sweet treat for him and Jean and Angelique to share.

But now, as far as he could tell, there wasn’t a crumb of food anywhere. Had she been living in the cabin alone all winter with nothing to eat? How had she survived?

With her blindness she wouldn’t have been able to plant a garden or plow a field. She wouldn’t have been able to hunt for wild berries or nuts. She wouldn’t have been able to manage feeding hens or milking a cow—even if she’d had them.

Helplessness poured over him. Someone should have been here to assist her. “Why did Jean leave you here all alone?”

“Jean didn’t have a choice.”

“He should have stayed.”

“He agonized over leaving, Pierre. He really did. He didn’t want to go.”

Then he shouldn’t have, he wanted to say. But he held the words in. He didn’t want his reunion with Maman to become clouded with his anger.

“The British learned he was a loyal American,” Maman rushed to explain. “If he’d faked his allegiance to them, they wouldn’t have trusted him. Eventually they may have accused him of treachery or spying and sent him away anyway.”

Pierre sat back on his heels and tried to ignore the guilt that pricked him and reminded him that he’d left the island too, but his reasons hadn’t been quite as noble as Jean’s.

“Don’t blame Jean.” Maman caressed his cheek again. “He didn’t know I was going blind when he left or I’m sure he wouldn’t have gone. And now if word ever reached him of my condition, I know he’d try to return, even though he’d put his life in danger to do so.”

Why did Jean have to be the good son, the one who was always doing what was noble?

“My dear, dear son.” She pulled him into another hug, wrapping her arms around him and squeezing him with surprising strength.

He slipped his arms around her. He closed his eyes to hold back the urge to weep at her fragile condition.

“I’m so glad you’re here.” She smoothed his hair. “I’ve missed you terribly.”

“I didn’t know if you’d be glad to see me again or not,” he said hesitantly. “Especially after all the horrible things I said before I left.”

“Pierre, my love for you is unconditional, just as the Lord’s is. No matter where you’ve been or what you’ve done, both the Lord and I will always be waiting here with open arms.”

“I don’t deserve your love or forgiveness for the way I treated you and Papa and Jean when I left.” A swell of emotion clogged his throat, making him need to clear it before he could continue. “I’m deeply sorry for not respecting you the way I should have. And I pray you’ll forgive me, although I know I don’t deserve it.”

“Of course I forgive you.”

“Oh, Maman . . .” He hated that his voice wavered.

A squeak in a floorboard near the door made him jump. He let go of Maman and turned, taking a breath to compose himself. He hoped a tear or two of his own hadn’t escaped. His brigade would tease him mercilessly if they ever found out he’d been near to crying in his maman’s arms.

Maman let the tears run freely down her cheeks, rising with a smile at the newcomer. “Look who’s here.”

A young woman stood in the doorway holding a rag-covered bundle. She was frozen in her spot and was staring at him with wide eyes.

Pierre stared back, taking in the mobcap that covered her hair, the pretty face smudged with dirt, the high collar above her bodice, and the ugly gray of her skirt. Where had he seen her?

Accusation flashed through her doe-like brown eyes.

Then he knew. Yesterday. In the woods.

The unspoken words hung between them and propelled him to his feet.

She was the same woman he’d come upon during his spying mission on the island, the woman he’d rescued from the hands of the British soldier. And she apparently recognized him even after his shave and bath.

He narrowed his eyes. She wouldn’t reveal his secret, would she? With a curt shake of his head he warned her from saying anything.

But she looked away from him, clearly ignoring his admonition, and started across the room toward the table.

Angelique’s heart pounded in her chest like the Indians’ drums thumping out their rhythm back at the camps along the lakeshore.

Pierre had come.

And he was standing only a few feet away from her.

Now that he’d shaven and cleaned himself, he was more handsome than she’d remembered. From his dark wavy hair to the strength in his features to the ability of his dark brown eyes to melt even the coldest of hearts—everything about his appearance was striking. She stopped in front of the table and leaned against it, trying to calm herself before facing him again.

She flattened her hand against her heart, willing it to slow its crazy banging that she was sure both Pierre and Miriam could hear.

“It’s Pierre.” Miriam’s voice held such joy.

“Yes, I see that,” Angelique replied, frustrated at her breathlessness.

She glanced over her shoulder and found him glaring at her. He remembered her from their brief meeting yesterday. And from furrowed brows above his stormy eyes, it was also clear he didn’t want her to say anything about their encounter.

But didn’t he know that she was Angelique MacKenzie and that she wouldn’t purposefully put him in any danger?

She turned away again and placed her bundle on the table. Whatever his trouble, he should have made time to visit Miriam. And even though she’d overheard his plea asking for Miriam’s forgiveness, she couldn’t stop the bitterness of the past five years from surfacing.

Maybe he’d asked for forgiveness, but that didn’t change what had happened, the fact that he’d deserted them and had been gone all these years without sending them a single word. And now that he was back, he didn’t remember who she was.

“I’ve brought you some food from the feast,” she said to Miriam, opening the rag to reveal the breast of roasted pigeon and several wedges of potato she’d managed to set aside. The tantalizing smoky aroma of the fowl caused her stomach to quiver.

Although she’d returned to the beach during the feasting, she hadn’t wanted to draw any attention to herself again, and had only stayed long enough to gather what she could for Miriam.

“Describe Pierre to me,” Miriam said, her voice wistful.

Angelique couldn’t resist taking another peek at Pierre. He’d always been strong and sun-browned. But now, after his years of living out of a canoe and hefting the heavy bundles he transported, he had turned into the kind of man who would turn the head of any woman.

He quirked his brow at her, which only made him more irresistible.

Her stomach did a funny flip. If only he didn’t have the same effect on her after all these years apart.

She gave herself a shake. He wasn’t irresistible to her. She could keep from falling prey to his charm if she worked hard enough. “If he put on his capote and hood and hid in the woods,” she said, “you might mistake him for a loup-garou.”

He scowled at her. She ignored it, reached for one of the wooden trenchers on Miriam’s table, and placed the pigeon and potatoes on it.

After his insensitivity to Miriam, he deserved to squirm for just a few minutes. “I’m guessing—just guessing, mind you—that he’d look even more like a loup-garou, especially with a dark beard and mustache covering his face.”

Miriam’s smile began to fade, and a flicker of confusion stole over her gentle features.

“But of course now that he’s cleaned up,” Angelique went on, “I probably wouldn’t mistake him for a monster.”

“Probably?” he asked.

She paused and gave him a false perusal. “You’re right. It still would be a difficult choice.”

“Angelique,” Miriam said, “you shouldn’t tease Pierre today, not on his first day home.”

Whatever she knew about teasing, she’d learned from Pierre. Jean was always so much more serious and sensitive, which was something she appreciated about him. He would be a good provider and give her the kind of life she’d always craved.

Even so, she had to admit, she’d missed bantering with Pierre.

“Angelique?” Pierre said slowly, his scowl disappearing and his eyes widening. “My little sister, Angelique?”

“Yes,” she said, spinning to face him. Something within her protested his title for her. She wasn’t little anymore. And she wasn’t his sister either—although she was almost his sister-in-law.

“I can’t believe it.” This time he took his time studying her from her face down to one of her bare feet peeking out from beneath her muddy hem.

Her face was unwashed, the muck of the hen house still splattered over her skirt, the stench of it probably in the air. Embarrassment seeped through her. She should have taken more time to clean herself, at the very least change into the other skirt she owned.

But ever since the previous spring when Therese had reached her eighteenth birthday, when Ebenezer had married her off to the trader willing to pay the highest price for her, Angelique had done her best to hide any trace of beauty. She couldn’t bear to think that Ebenezer might sell her too, especially now that he no longer considered the marriage agreement with Jean valid.

And since she’d recently turned eighteen, she had no doubt Ebenezer would start looking for a husband for her soon.

Who else would want her—a poor, uneducated woman—if not a trader? The idea of having to marry a fur trader strangled her every time she thought of such a fate. She’d decided the best course of action for the duration of the war was to do the best she could to cooperate with Ebenezer and make herself into the kind of woman no man would want.

And hopefully she’d survive until the end of the war, until Jean came home and she could finally marry him.

“You’ve grown up,” Pierre said.

Gone was the animosity that had filled his eyes. Instead they reflected pity, which seemed to reach across the room and slap her cheeks. Although she’d been the object of pity plenty of times over the past couple of years—like the pretty woman on the beach earlier in the day—none of the pity had stung quite like Pierre’s.

“Angelique has developed into a lovely young woman, hasn’t she?” Miriam said.

“She’s changed so much I didn’t recognize her.” Pierre avoided eye contact with Angelique just as smoothly as he avoided his mother’s question.

Angelique’s face burned. Of course she couldn’t expect him to agree with Miriam that she was lovely, but deep inside she wished he’d missed her the same way she’d missed him. The truth was he hadn’t known who she was and had likely been too busy to think about her even once during all the time he was away.

“Angelique has been a gift from the Lord,” Miriam added, smiling in her direction. “I don’t know how I would have survived this past winter without her.”

At Miriam’s words, Pierre looked at her again, this time with new interest.

“She’s been such a blessing to me.” Miriam shuffled toward her, in slow, halting steps, her hands outstretched. “I thank the Lord for her every day.”

Angelique reached for the dear woman’s hands and immediately found herself wrapped in Miriam’s embrace.

“You’ve been a blessing to me too,” Angelique whispered. “And now I must run home. Before I’m missed.”

It didn’t matter what Pierre thought of her, she told herself as she released Miriam and backed out of the cabin. It didn’t matter in the least.

She’d pledged herself to Jean. And from the letters they’d received from him, she knew he thought of her every day and missed her. When he returned, she’d clean herself up once and for all. She’d marry him, and they’d finally start the life they’d been planning.

Pierre’s opinion wasn’t important. He’d likely be gone by the week’s end anyway. And this time she’d make sure he didn’t carry away another piece of her heart.