Chapter Seventeen

Three years later

Adriana walked through the thick forest of swamp oaks and cypresses, bending to avoid the gray moss that hung from the branches. The winter air stung her cheeks, but she made no effort to cover her face. The Carolina winters were far milder than those of Brittany. In the three years of her stay, she had grown to appreciate the winter’s chill after the sweltering heat of the southern summers.

She shifted the weight of the wild turkey that lay lifeless against her back. Using a musket as a walking stick, she waded through the underbrush near the bank of the flooded rice fields. Her leather moccasins brushed over the carpet of marsh grass and bulrushes, and the hem of her coarse woolen skirt collected thistles and dried twigs.

She surveyed the shallow lake that covered the fields for the winter. Flooded to attract migrating game, the fields bore no resemblance to the rolling green tracts of France. It was a constant wonder to her that so much life could come out of the reclaimed swamplands. In a month the cycle would begin again. The Gaillard family would have the field drained and dredge the canals. The rich, dark Carolina soil would thaw in the open air. The brook would swell as the melting snow coursed down from far-off mountains, and the sluice gates would direct the excess water into the tawny Santee River. Then summer would come, and with it, the humid, stifling heat, the endless, windless days, and the rapid growth of the green shoots of rice.

One year after another, three long years now, she had watched this place grow cold and wither only to come back to life again.

She was still waiting for the same to happen to her.

Now she veered away from the swamps and headed towards the old winnowing building. With each step, the head of the turkey bumped against the back of her legs. Adriana was satisfied that she had caught some fresh meat for the family she worked for. Monsieur Gaillard and his eldest son, Etienne, were due back from Charles Town any day. If she fed them a full dinner of freshly killed turkey, succotash and corn bread, she might coax them into telling a story or two about the English settlement, and take her mind off the predictable relentlessness of the days.

She smelled the odor of burning pitch pine long before she reached the plantation. Newly fitted with gleaming white weatherboarding, the Gaillard’s residence seemed out of place against the untamed forests of the inland swamp. When she had first seen it, during those first hazy days when she was brought here, this house had been a simple log cabin made of cypress trees. The changes made since were visible reminders of how hard these French Huguenots had worked to build a new life for themselves—and a stark reminder of how little she’d done to rebuild her own.

She opened the back door and walked into the main room. A fire blazed in the fireplace. Madame Gaillard turned at her entrance.

“Where have you been? My husband and Etienne are coming. Claire glimpsed their canoe coming upstream.”

“It’s about time,” Adriana said, as she heaved the wild turkey onto the large center table. “They’re a week overdue.”

Madame Gaillard poked the turkey. Her thin features struggled between pleasant surprise and matronly disapproval. “You borrowed Etienne’s musket again.”

“He gave me leave.” She shrugged out of her woolen cape lined with beaver. “He told me I could use it before he left for Charles Town.”

“Elisabeth!” Madame called her twelve-year-old daughter from her chores in the next room. “Take this turkey out back and have one of the women pluck it for tomorrow’s supper.” Then Madame’s sharp, dark gaze returned to Adriana. “Adriana, is this the example you will set for my daughters?”

Adriana glanced down at her dress. A streak of reddish soil stained the front of the woolen skirt. She walked to a pail of water near the hearth and tried to scrub it out. Her corset bit into her side as she bent over. She suspected that she would never become accustomed to this awkward garment, no matter how many years passed. Many a day she’d been tempted not to wear one, but Madame Gaillard had strict ideas about feminine propriety.

And about me, she thought ruefully, as she dipped her hands in the water and scrubbed them clean. The Gaillard children—Etienne, Claire, Elisabeth and Martha—all treated her with sisterly affection, even when Madame shot commands at her like a bosun ordering his mate. Adriana knew that the eagle-eyed woman never really believed the story that Adriana had told them about how she ended up pawing through the wreckage of a pirate ship after a hurricane.

But the story she’d told the Gaillard family was no wilder than some of the stories the Huguenots told about their own emigration. Several noblewomen who now lived modestly along the Santee had escaped religious persecution by dressing up as shepherdesses and driving huge herds of sheep over the French border into the German states or Spain. Others had hidden in empty casks of wine and smuggled on ships heading to England. Her simple story of an emigration cut short by pirates, of dressing as a boy to escape the pirates’ attentions, of how she’d clung to wreckage to survive the hurricane, certainly it paled in comparison.

Bu Madame had sharp eyes. The woman had watched her as Etienne had pulled her away from Roarke’s lifeless body all those years ago. When her grief madness passed and cold practicality returned, Adriana had told everyone that the man whose head was crushed under the wreckage had been her brother.

Somehow, Madame had known that she’d lied.

Suddenly one of the Gaillard daughters tugged at her skirts, a snub-nosed little urchin with her mother’s dark eyes.

Claire said, “I saw Papa.”

“So your mother told me. Was he alone?”

“‘Tienne was with him, and Joachim.”

“Did he have bags and packages with him?”

“Oui. Bags and bags and bags.” The little girl’s eyes widened. “Full of dolls.”

“Perhaps they’re full of other things, Claire.” Adriana gave up cleaning her skirt and went to the hearth to give the joint of meat a twist. “But there’s always a chance.”

“Claire,” Madame said. “Put on your coat and go outside to greet Papa, now, so Miss Joubert can get back to work.”

Claire raced to where her cloak was hung by the door. Adriana gave the pot a stir, and then settled by the fire to take up a mortar and pestle to pound corn into a coarse powder.

“I’ve been meaning to talk with you for weeks,” Madame said, as soon as Claire had left. “But now the men will be home so my time has run out.”

Madame Gaillard focused on stirring stiff, lumpy dough with unnecessary forcefulness. Adriana had a creeping feeling that she wasn’t going to like what her employer had to say.

“This concerns,” Madame said, “my son.”

Adriana focused her attention on pounding the corn into meal. She remembered how, three weeks ago, Madame had caught Adriana with her skirts hitched up into her waist while she waded into the marshes to retrieve an egret she and Etienne had shot for its feathers. She’d expected a good talking-to that time. When it hadn’t come, she figured Madame had decided to let the incident pass.

“Adriana,” Madame said on a sigh, “when a woman lifts up her skirts in the presence of a young man, she incites sentiments in him that are not altogether holy.”

Adriana fixed her face so she wouldn’t grimace at Madame’s efforts at delicacy. “If you’re talking about when I fetched that egret in the marshes,” she said, “I was simply trying not to soil this good English tweed.”

“My dear.” Madame’s bosom rose and fell on a sigh. “I’m not privy to what you and Etienne do when you wander off into the woods—”

“We hunt,” she said. “Our kills prove that.”

“You are not killing something every moment of every hour you’re gone.”

Adriana stopped grinding corn in irritation. “How can you accuse your own son of anything dishonorable? He’s a fine boy.”

“I know.” She knocked the spoon on the edge of the wooden bowl. “Perhaps that’s why he’s itching to marry you.”

Marry.

The word rang in her head.

Her mind balked.

“You are well aware,” the lady continued, “that there are few women here in the up-country. Few enough to be considered proper wives, that is.”

“I know that well enough.” Men stared at her whenever she gathered with the Gaillard family at the Huguenot church in Jamestown, though she wore the same plain clothing as everyone else. “But I don’t see—"

“Etienne is a young man, and young men think about these things.” Madame kneaded the dough with more force than necessary. “I have to assume, because you two spend so much time together, that it’s natural that his interest has focused on you.”

“It’s not interest, he’s just kind.” Etienne was just a boy—a few years younger than herself—skinny and long-legged and always getting dirty, at ease in the wilderness as if he were part native. She’d never thought of him in any other way but as a boon companion, as she had for many a sailor upon the sea. “He is like a brother to me.”

“A brother? Is that truly how you think of him?”

“Of course.” After she’d lived only a few weeks at the homestead, she’d picked up a musket and followed him into the hunt. Etienne hadn’t blinked—he’d welcomed the company, and she was grateful for the friendship. “Etienne has said nothing to me of this sort. I’m sure you’re mistaking his intent.”

“You’re as bad as any man ignoring a flirting young woman.” Madame shook her head. “You’re blind to his feelings.”

Her first instinct was to deny the words but Adriana hesitated. In the first few months Adriana had tried to settle in the Gaillard’s household as a young woman, she’d tripped over her borrowed skirts, sat with her knees splayed, walked like a lumbering boy, and referred to herself as Français, not Française. No one but Madame Gaillard had truly noticed how different she really was.

So now a memory floated back to her, of when she’d last said good-bye to Etienne before he left for Charles Town. He had hesitated before climbing onto the canoe. His gaze had fallen to her lips.

“You’re not right for him, my dear. He is meant to have a quiet wife who will serve him well. Not a wife who—”

“Who can shoot better than he,” she interrupted. Who can swear like the sailors of Charles Town.

“He would not make you happy.”

Her mind balked at this, too. Happiness was not something she had strived for since she’d lost Roarke, but Etienne’s friendship did bring her a quiet contentment. Etienne was sweet, kind, gentle. Hardworking, uncomplaining, and strong. In those early days, she’d cried on his shoulder, back when she still had tears left to shed.

“You would be bored with him within a month,” Madame persisted, “and then what would you do? Would you stay complacently by his side for the years to come, bear him his children, and cook his meals? Or would you escape and leave him heartbroken?”

Adriana sat with the pestle tight in one hand and the mortar cupped in the other while her thoughts swirled. Yes, Etienne was young, but it was strange, really, that she hadn’t considered this before. She couldn’t stay in this house forever, she had known that from the start. Yet as a single woman, the opportunities this bountiful new country offered were difficult to access without the help of a husband.

She shook her head to leave off the strange thoughts.

She could not marry Etienne because she did not love Etienne.

Adriana knew what it meant to love.

“So,” Madame persisted, “you have no intentions of being his wife?”

No.

Her heart blurted the word.

But her tongue remained silent.

Then the front door opened with a bang and put an end to the discussion. Pierre Gaillard stepped into the room and his wife straightened to attention. Pierre’s blue eyes twinkled as he approached and threw his arms out for an embrace. Madame Gaillard, blushing like a girl rather than a matron well into her forties, crossed the room to suffer the enfolding. She scolded him as he lifted her clear off the ground.

“Why, I’ve been away for nigh four weeks!” Pierre exclaimed. “Don’t I deserve a sweeter greeting than this?”

“Depends on how well you’ve done in Charles Town,” Madame said as she extricated herself from her husband’s arms.

“I made enough to buy you wheat flour, sugar, some strong English tweeds and enough molasses from Jamaica to make sticky cakes for years.” He winked at her. “I’ve bought some rum, too, to keep us warm during these long, cold winters.”

“You’ve been trading with pirates again, Pierre Gaillard—”

“Of course I bartered with pirates. I bargained with the Sewee and the Kiawah and Santee Indians, as well. If I hadn’t, we wouldn’t be able to afford such luxuries with the English-controlled prices.”

Etienne squeezed by his father into the kitchen. Though as tall as his father, Etienne was thin and leanly-muscled where his father was broad and thickly-made.

She felt a flush of heat and anger at Madame for suddenly making her conscious of such things.

Etienne came to her side, his grin wide. “You would have liked Charles Town this season, Adriana. It was full of trading ships with their sails unfurled.”

Her mind suddenly flooded with images of Saint-Malo bay and the vessels that crowded around the walled city. She felt a strange longing, but suppressed it because Etienne was looking at her with an expression she didn’t want to read.

“Don’t tempt her with talk of Charles Town, Etienne,” Madame said, a bit too sharply. “You know I cannot do without Miss Joubert here, and once the outer kitchens are built we’ll need more help, not less.”

Etienne rolled his eyes. “So, Adriana,” he said, “what did you kill for dinner to welcome us home?”

“A wild turkey it was.” Madame answered for her, trying to capture her son’s attention. “It’s unseemly for a lady to be hunting in the brush.”

“I suspect Adriana would hunt with or without my permission, Maman.”

Adriana knew better than to respond. Etienne’s cheeks were flushed red from the cold, his hair stuck up in odd directions, and he looked as irresistibly happy as a half-grown pup.

“So where is this turkey?” Pierre lifted his daughter Claire and tossed her up high above his head. “Etienne and I have traveled long and far today.”

“The turkey is still being plucked, so tonight we’re having venison.” Madame glanced at Adriana, a wordless command. “I’ll serve it as soon as the table is set.”

Adriana set the mortar and pestle aside and bustled around the rough wooden table, setting down the pewter dishware that Pierre Gaillard had bought for his wife during the last trip to Charles Town. After the family had seated themselves, she served them corn bread and bean stew from huge wooden platters, then filled a plate for herself and sat nearby, by the hearth. Pierre Gaillard carved the haunch of venison with relish.

The family joined hands and prayed, as was their custom, then began to eat.

“What news do you have of Charles Town?” Madame asked as everyone dug into their food. “Is Governor Joseph Blake as bad as his uncle, Archdale?”

Pierre’s blue eyes twinkled as he looked at his children. “At least she waited until the prayers were said.”

Madame ignored the amusement rippling around the table. “Come, Pierre. You’ve been gone nigh three weeks and I’ve heard nothing about the new governor. The old governor was nearly the death of all Huguenots.”

“Wife! Such sour sentiments.”

“He didn’t let you vote, husband.”

“Well, things may be changing.” Pierre speared a piece of meat. “There’s a petition in the Assembly to grant full privileges to Huguenots who swear allegiance to England. Including voting.”

Madame made a little gasp. “Including letting us build our own ships?”

“Oui.”

Madame Gaillard slapped her pewter spoon by her plate. “Then you didn’t secure a ship this trip! That’s what you’re telling me, yes?”

“It was impossible,” Etienne said before his father could reply. “Each time we broached the subject, they heard my accent and they turned away. No foreign-born can hold deed to a ship out of Charles Town.”

“They don’t trust us,” Adriana said from her place by the hearth. “Because the English are still fighting the French.”

“Yes, yes, but it’s a faraway war.” Pierre waved his hand. “It’s King William’s war, not ours. How does it affect us here? There have been no French raids on Carolina. Of course, it doesn’t help,” Pierre added, “that they’ve heard rumors that the French intend to settle at the mouth of the Mississippi. According to some backwoodsmen, that land belongs to the Carolinas.”

Madame Gaillard, ever practical, said, “So who, exactly, is shipping our rice?”

“An English middleman, of course.”

“Those thieves take nearly half the profits!”

“Wife, what choice did I have?”

Madame sighed through her teeth. “Did you ask the Guerrards if they had room on their ship?”

“Their ship was full when it left weeks ago, Lise. Must we discuss this now, in front of the children?”

“It affects our children, too, and they may as well know the full of it. How can the Guerrards hold a title to a ship and not you—”

“They have more power in the Assembly.”

“Indeed,” Adriana interjected. “Monsieur Guerrard was wearing French silks at church last Sunday.” She remembered the detail because of how the color stood out in the very plain, very simple Huguenot church in Jamestown. “I’d wager he knows some men in the Assembly on a first-name basis.”

Madame Gaillard said sharply, “And what do you know of such things?”

“Sharp eyes,” Etienne answered. “They help her in hunting and in seeing things others would overlook.”

Was his smile particularly tender, Adriana thought, or had Madame’s scolding colored her perceptions?

She shook off the thought. “It was hard to overlook the coins he gave the churchman after services. You don’t get clean, shiny doubloons from the English merchants. He’s been bartering with pirates, for much more than the necessities like Monsieur.”

“Our young lady is right,” Pierre said. “You don’t like when I trade with pirates, wife, but it is the only way to get coin in this colony, and coin is the only way to gain influence in the Assembly.”

Madame pursed her lips. “There must be another way.”

“Perhaps there now is, as I tried to say in the beginning.” Pierre rolled his eyes at his wife’s impatience in perfect imitation of his son. “That petition in the Assembly—it passed. All French who swear allegiance to England within the next three months will become naturalized citizens. We’ll have the same benefits as Englishmen.”

“So you registered us?” Madame Gaillard tapped the table in impatience.

“Yes, Papa registered us all.” Etienne turned briefly to Adriana. “All the family, that is.”

Adriana blinked. “I’m not registered?”

“I tried, child,” Pierre said. “They said because you had reached your majority, you would have to go and register yourself.”

“Well,” she said, as calmly as she could. “I suppose I’ll have to go to Charles Town now.”

“Come, come,” Pierre said, as he exchanged a glance with his son across the table. “There are easier ways for you to become naturalized, though it’s not as important for a woman—”

“It is important,” she retorted, “if I ever want to own a ship.”

Pierre laughed and the girls giggled in suit, and Adriana realized that she’d said something preposterous again.

But she’d spoken truth, and she felt it ring through her body with all the solemnity of funeral chimes.

“Perhaps,” Madame Gaillard said, “it’s a good idea for Miss Joubert to go to Charles Town.”

Adriana glanced at her employer in unabashed surprise, and saw Etienne do the same.

“I think there’s even some silk left upstairs,” Madame continued, “from the early days when we experimented with those silkworms.” Seeing Adriana’s gape, Madame shrugged her thin shoulders but there was calculation in her eyes. “You can’t go and show yourself off to all those English people in your work clothes, Miss Joubert. I think our young helpmeet has earned one good dress from us, wouldn’t you say, Pierre?”