The Displaced

by Frieda Watt

  Elise was standing beside Marie, her hair gleaming elegantly in the candlelight, but the effect was spoiled when she started nervously twisting an auburn curl around her finger and tapping her toes in anxiety.

  “Have you seen him at all?” Marie whispered out of the corner of her mouth, her eyes combing the crowd of swirling silk.

  “Not since you came in.” Elise glanced around the room over her fluttering fan. “I don’t know where he is, but I’m sure he’ll be back soon.” She didn’t believe that Jacques was doing anything innocent, but she didn’t want to emphasize that.

  Marie snorted. She had already done her part, playing the blushing bride as she and her fiancé walked into the ballroom together. Though she’d put up a good front, she was well aware that behind the smiles and best wishes was a furious wave of hateful gossip. Marie knew the marriage was a sham, and it was frustrating that people thought she was too stupid not to know what she was getting herself into.

  In the last quarter of an hour, three people had congratulated Marie on the upcoming nuptials and pointedly asked where the groom was. “What am I supposed to tell them?” Marie complained, pulling at her bodice. Her green silk dress was starting to feel constrictive. It had been made before the war started, and surprisingly, she had been thinner then. A diet made up almost exclusively of salted cod had caused her, and everyone else in the city, to retain water. The boning in the stays were poking painfully into Marie’s ribs, which wasn’t improving her mood.

  Elise sighed. “Tell them he’s indisposed at the moment.”

  “With his mistress.” Marie stared miserably at the dancers.

  Elise threw her a look.

  “What? Everybody knows it. Why do you think they keep drawing attention to the fact? He’s never been discreet.” Marie twisted the stem of her wine glass anxiously between her fingers.

  Elise hung her head. She knew only part of what went on behind the doors of the Babineaux house, but she knew the situation must be worse than she’d imagined for Marie to agree to this arrangement. “It’s not perfect, no,” Elise went on, “but what are you going to do about it?”

  Marie smirked.

  “Oh, no!” Elise hissed. “You’re not about to do anything stupid.”

  Marie harrumphed and took a large sip of wine to try to cover her frustration. Marie still loved Elise dearly, but Elise’s enthusiasm for Marie’s upcoming marriage had caused some friction between them.

  Marie gazed around the room, looking for a distraction, when her eyes fell upon a squat form waddling toward her. “Save me!” she hissed in Elise’s ear. “Here comes Lady Isabelle.”

  Lady Isabelle was the fortress’s chief gossip. With no children and a husband too busy with politics to notice her activities, she spent her time sticking her considerable nose into other people’s business. Marie was well aware that Lady Isabelle knew exactly where her fiancé was but wanted to gloat over Marie’s misfortune.

  She was a short, plump woman who came up only to Marie’s collar bone. To make up for her challenge in height, she wore a powdered wig that protruded at least a foot above the top of her head. It wobbled precariously whenever she moved. Elise and Marie tried to manoeuvre their way behind a nearby clavecin to get out of the elderly lady’s sight, but she reached them before they could hide themselves.

  “Oh, my dear,” she cooed in her high-pitched, birdsong voice. “You must be so excited!” Lady Isabelle always stood slightly too close for comfort. Marie could see the shallow scars from smallpox on her face, expertly hidden under several layers of makeup.

  Elise put a supportive hand on Marie’s arm. Marie plastered a horribly forced smile on her face.

  “How many more days is it now? twenty-two?” Lady Isabelle continued in her sickly-sweet voice, moving slightly closer so her perfume filled Marie’s nostrils.

  Leave it to Isabelle to count down the days to someone else’s wedding, Marie thought darkly. “I’m not sure. About three weeks.”

  Lady Isabelle laughed her horrible, high-pitched laugh. “Oh, my dear, you’re not counting down the days? I most definitely would be if it was me. Although I never thought the day would come that you would be married. Never thought it would happen.” She waved her hand dismissively.

  Elise squeezed Marie’s arm. Despite her best efforts, Marie could feel her blood rising as Isabelle prattled on.

  “But where is the happy groom?” Lady Isabelle asked with a nasty glint in her eye. “I thought I saw him earlier.”

  Marie unclenched her jaw long enough to make a stiff reply. “He’s momentarily indisposed, but I’m sure he’ll be back shortly.”

  Lady Isabelle chortled. “Best keep your eye on him. Don’t want to lose him to some sweet young thing.” She elbowed Marie knowingly in the ribs and waddled off, white wig swinging dangerously to one side.

  “Well, that could have been worse,” Elise muttered, relaxing slightly.

  Marie said nothing but downed her glass of wine as quickly as possible. “I need something stronger.” She eyed the table across the room, laden with bottles of whisky and rum from people’s cellars.

  Elise pursed her lips together disapprovingly as she watched Marie navigate her way through the crowd.

  ***

  Marie waited until she was out of sight of her sister-in-law and then ducked into the corridor where the air was slightly cooler. Nic had given Elise strict instructions to stay as close to his sister as possible. He knew Marie was getting cold feet.

  Still out of sight of Elise, Marie stood in the hallway for a moment, thinking hard. She was tired, humiliated, and angry. She felt trapped in a corner, with no possibility of escape. The wedding was only three weeks away, and already she could feel the weight of matrimony heavy on her shoulders. She pulled at the bodice of her gown again, trying in vain to rearrange the folds of fabric so she wasn’t stabbed every time she inhaled.

  The sound of Elise’s voice drew closer, breaking through Marie’s thoughts and moving her into action.

  The de la Rocque’s property was the largest private home in the city, with multiple rooms covering the second floor. Even with the sounds of the festivities drifting up the staircase, Marie could still hear both of them before she entered the room. How Jacques could invite himself to use another man’s bedroom was beyond her. She didn’t knock but just threw open the door to shrieks of terror from within.

  Jacques-Xavier was tall and thin, with black hair and dark features that endeared him to almost every female he met. He was an influential man with a powerful family, but at the moment, he was sitting completely naked, red as a tomato, staring up at his fiancée much like a toddler caught with a biscuit in his mouth.

  Laure, Jacques’s mistress of the moment, fled into the corner of the room, shielding herself as best she could with the bed sheet. She seemed absolutely terrified to find herself in a situation where her lover and lover’s betrothed were in the same room with her.

  “Hello, darling,” Marie spat wickedly. “People are starting to wonder where you are.” Jacques turned a dangerous shade of purple as he struggled to retain some form of dignity. It was difficult, since Laure had taken most of the bedclothes with her.

  “Shall I tell them you’re busy fornicating?”

  “Get out, you little bitch!” he snarled.

  “Going to make me?” Marie was feeling reckless. Pushed to her limit, she no longer cared about the outcome. “It’s going to take a while for the two of you to be presentable again.” She sneered at the woman cowering in the corner.

  Jacques started to lunge toward her but then thought better of it. She yanked her engagement ring off her finger. It was expensive, sapphire, and from France. The ring alone had caused almost as much gossip among the members of upper society as the betrothal itself. Few people in the military town had ever seen anything so luxurious. She held the ring at arm’s length over the open fire.

  “You want it?” Worth a small fortune, it was far more important to Jacques than she
would ever be.

  Jacques glared at her from under his curtain of black hair. With some satisfaction, Marie saw a glint of fear in his eyes. As much as everyone in the fortress was more liberal than their colonial counterparts, this particular incident would create quite the scandal within the community. Being found in bed with the daughter of a prominent Louisburg official, who was also another man’s wife, might be a large enough scandal that even the great House of Charlevoix might not recover from it. Jacques certainly never would.

  Marie threw the ring into the fire. “You can make the announcement.” She turned on her heel and headed out the door.

  ***

  Marie made it through the square garden plots and almost to the stables before Elise caught her arm. Puffing and panting, she pulled Marie to a stop and held her hand firmly, her chest heaving as she tried to catch her breath.

  “What is your problem?” Elise huffed when she could speak again. “You can’t leave!” Her pale, freckled features were bleached in the moonlight.

  Marie glared at her. “Yes, I can!” She pulled her hand away.

  Elise drew her petite self up to her full height and squared her shoulders. It was a posture Marie had often seen her take when she was cross with Nic. “What did you do?”

  “Nothing,” Marie turned away. She was almost at the gate that led to the street.

  “Yes. You did something!” Elise caught her hand again. Though tiny, her grip was enough to prevent Marie from leaving. “You confronted him, didn’t you?” Her voice was growing louder with panic. “He’ll kill you! You know that, right? Why? Why are you so stubborn?!”

  Marie glanced nervously at the house behind them. The music and laughter were loud enough to cover the argument, but if anyone noticed them, her situation was going to become dangerous.

  “Shut up or they’ll hear you.” With a tremendous effort, Marie yanked her arm free and headed toward the street.

  “You can’t do this,” Elise hissed, following as closely as she could. A few goats in a nearby pen poked their heads between the wooden slats. “Where will you go? What will you do? You can’t just abandon your life because Jacques has mistresses.”

  “Mistresses?” Marie spun around. “There’s more than just Laure?”

  Elise bit her lip, looking furious with herself.

  “And everyone knows?” Marie muttered to herself. An ugly look crossed her face. “I’m not marrying him when the entire city knows about his extramarital affairs.” She turned and walked out of the garden, letting the gate stay open behind her.

  Elise hitched up her skirts and followed, trying to keep up. “He’s not coming back, you know. He’s gone. Just accept that!”

  Marie froze and turned, an odd expression on her face. “Don’t you think I know that?”

  Elise fumbled for an answer. “I didn’t mean that. It’s just … you … stop holding out for a happy ending. It’s not coming … He’s gone … Don’t run away from a good life because you wish it was something else.”

  “That’s not what this is about!” Marie cried, panic and exasperation rising in her chest. “I know he’s gone for good! But getting back to the point: Would you like a life like this? a husband like Jacques? All of society laughing at you because they think you’re too stupid to know what’s going on? Just leave me alone!” Close to tears, she ran as fast as she could into the night.

  She kept going farther and farther into the solitude of the darkness. The streets were unlit, but the glow of the moon illuminated the dirt streets ahead of her. Fog was still creeping up from the harbour, swirling around her ankles. She was consumed with thoughts of the argument. Anger and frustration at Lady Isabelle, Claude, Jacques, and herself overwhelmed her. She stormed through the streets, rage blinding her vision, not watching where she was going, blood pounding in her ears.

  A small knot of men was standing just ahead of her. They were laughing uproariously, but she didn’t think much about them. There were plenty of taverns and inns around, and most soldiers and sailors spent their free time with a bottle. She was too concerned with who might soon be following her to think about what might be lying ahead.

  Despite the military patrols, the street was empty, except for the men. Shadows fell in strips on the unpaved road as the moon was blocked by the buildings. The men were standing by an alleyway created by the surrounding structures. Marie glanced behind her nervously. The road was empty.

  Suddenly, they were all around her. Breaking fully from her thoughts for the first time since she’d left the ball, she found herself surrounded, the men larger and older than she’d first guessed. She tried to step around the group, but her arm was then abruptly twisted behind her back. One of the men bent down and leered at her, showing gums with many missing teeth.

  “Well, hello there,” he laughed. Marie turned away from the fumes of raw spirits coming from his mouth.

  “Help!” Marie shrieked. A closed fist smashed into her stomach, and her arm was twisted farther up her back. She gasped in pain. The men guffawed around her. A hand pinched her. She lashed out to kick the offender but fell sideways, unbalanced. She screamed again as her arm was wrenched in its socket. She thought it would break from the force of her captor’s grip, and her sides burned from the bones of her stays, which were still jabbing into her. A dirty hand clamped itself against her mouth, making it difficult to breathe.

  The louts were pulling her into the alley. Eyes wide with panic, she looked desperately around for some form of assistance. She saw a shadow advancing from a nearby street. Friend or foe, she didn’t care. It was worth the risk. She stomped her heel down on the foot of the man holding her. He jerked her arm upward, but his grip on her mouth loosened. She bit the hand, tasting blood and grime, and screamed at the top of her lungs. The dark shadow yelled something indistinguishable and ran to meet her captors with fists raised.

  The man holding her swore and let go. Marie stumbled to the dirt, her arm throbbing painfully, then clambered as fast as she could from her attacker. Her assailant was walking toward her, large hands clenched. She could see blood dripping down his hand, minute circles of blood sinking into the sandy ground. Marie continued to scramble backwards, and as he advanced, she noticed a glint of gold in his ear. Pirate.

  A shout for assistance came from the pile of writhing limbs behind him. Glancing behind her adversary, she saw that both of his companions were entangled with her champion. With a roar of frustration, the pirate aimed a kick at her, missed, and launched himself into the fray.

  Marie knew she should run, but something kept her rooted to the spot.

  Whoever this fighting man was, he was huge. One of the louts already lay unconscious on the ground, and she could see the other two tiring quickly. After a hard uppercut to the chin, the second man folded to his knees, and his companion backed away, hands held up in supplication before disappearing into the darkness.

  Finally, victorious, her champion stood up, hands on his knees, trying to catch his breath. He was a soldier, his muted white uniform dirty and lopsided from the fight. He bent down to retrieve his hat.

  Marie felt a shiver run down her spine as the soldier stepped into the moonlight. He was as tall as she remembered, although more muscular, especially through the shoulders. His golden hair was swept back from his face, but it was still wild and unruly, despite the leather lace holding it in place. When he turned to face her, she saw the blue eyes, with a splash of yellow, widen in surprise.

  Her own shock was mirrored in his face. She stepped back, afraid of what to say or do next. For a moment, the two stood staring at each other, unconcerned about the unconscious bodies sprawling not far from their feet. Worry was etched in every line of his face. “Are you all right?” His voice was no more than a whisper.

  Marie’s brain seemed to have jammed. “What … what … are you doing here?” she finally asked, her voice hoarse with emotion. She would have been less surprised if a ghost had materialized in front of her.

  The s
oldier looked at her uncertainly, as if he was unsure what the right answer was. “I was transferred back here … six months ago.” He rubbed the back of his neck.

  “Six months?!” She could feel herself beginning to tremble, both from the ordeal she had just suffered and from her anger at his reply. Her eyes began to sting, and she brushed them impatiently. “You’ve been here for six months?”

  He nodded silently, standing a few steps back as if he was afraid of getting too close.

  Emotion overcame her, and she turned from him, racing through the streets. She heard him shout but ignored him. She wasn’t moving as fast as she usually did. Whoever invented raised heels was an idiot, she thought viciously. The two-storey whitewashed stone home came into view just as the heel of her left shoe gave way, and she tumbled to the ground, swearing as she went.

  Pierre had been following her all the way, and he now stopped and bent to help her up.

  “Are you all right?” he asked for the second time. Marie picked herself up, brushing dirt from her voluminous satin dress. She wobbled as she tried to find her balance on her broken shoe and grabbed his proffered hand. Once steady, she ignored him as she pulled off her footwear.

  “Talk to me,” he pleaded.

  Marie glared at the ground, unable to look at him. “What do you want, Pierre?” She was embarrassed to be found in such a state.

  “Give me a chance to explain.”

  “Explain what?” she yelled more loudly than she meant to. “What can you possibly say? You’ve been gone eight years! Eight years! You think we’ve all been just sitting around waiting for you to come home?”