The Displaced

by Frieda Watt

  “Of course, I knew,” she admitted. “I really thought it was an accident at first. But Nic showed me the papers. Who is General Picard?”

  Pierre’s angular features hardened. “He’s a General stationed in Montreal. The only connection I can think of is a trial Renault and I prosecuted. Picard’s younger brother was a judge caught accepting bribes. It was a scandal that ended the judge’s career.” Pierre’s bitterness was clear.

  “I thought I would hang,” he said eventually. “I think Picard wanted me to, but Captain Robert, the head of the prison, was suspicious of my lack of military record. I don’t think Robert trusted Picard, but since Picard was his superior officer, Robert couldn’t confront him about it. All the same, Picard must have known that Robert suspected something was amiss, so I think that’s why, instead of being hanged, I was left to rot.”

  A haunted look came into his eyes, and he stopped, staring at his hands. Marie had never seen that kind of pain in his strong features and instinctively reached her hand across the table. Without thinking, she gently began to stroke the back of his hand.

  He smiled at her touch. “It was a long time ago.”

  “Was it terrible?”

  He nodded. “I was beaten and starved on a regular basis. I was kept with some British prisoners. Became good friends with some of them. Or as close as criminals can be. No one cared what happened to us.”

  “But you got out.”

  “Once war was declared, they needed every able-bodied man.”

  Marie started to draw circles on the back of his hand. Because his hair was blond, it was hard to tell from a distance how hairy he was, but up close, it was obvious that his body was covered in soft fuzz. Marie smiled. She’d forgotten that detail.

  “Where did you go?” asked Marie.

  “Everywhere.”

  She gave him a look.

  “I’m serious. I even went south to La Balize in Louisiana. It’s between the ocean and the Mississippi River. Flat, marshy land for as far as the eye can see.”

  Marie paused, intrigued. “Really?”

  He grinned. “I did.” He sat up a little taller. “It’s amazing down there. So much different than anything I’ve ever seen before. Boiling hot, though. I don’t know how anyone can stand living there all the time.”

  “What else?” She was enthralled now. La Balize was about as far south as anyone could go before reaching ocean water again. She had never met anyone who’d travelled to that remote outpost.

  “And the bugs,” he grimaced comically. “I thought they were bad here, but you can’t even piss down there without mosquitoes sucking you dry.”

  She bit her lip to keep from laughing.

  “I saw an alligator.”

  “You’re joking.” An alligator was almost as mythical as a unicorn in the imagination of French colonists.

  Pierre was really enjoying himself now. “Not just one. Hundreds—in the swamps. They weren’t afraid of us either. During the day, they would stay in the water because of the heat. All you could see were their eyes. But at night, they would wander around on land on these tiny, stubby legs. You wouldn’t think they’d be fast, but they could outrun a man.”

  Marie leaned forward, her good arm resting on the table. “Did they attack you?”

  “They tried. If one gets a hold of you, you’re done for. We had to set up sentinels just to watch out for those beasts. Once, we shot one and ate it.”

  “Now you’re just telling stories.”

  “On my honour, it’s true. It tasted a bit like raccoon.”

  Marie was holding her sides, trying not to move as her body shook with laughter. “How on earth do you know what raccoon tastes like?”

  There was a mischievous glint in his blue eyes that she hadn’t seen in years. “You’ve never had raccoon?”

  “Not knowingly.”

  “Then tell me what you’ve been doing for the last eight years.”

  Marie hesitated.

  “Just because you haven’t wrestled alligators doesn’t mean I’m not interested,” he said gently.

  So she told him, slowly at first, avoiding key subjects, then building momentum when she started talking about how she had trained with the nuns at the hospital to be a ramancheur. She became more animated as she talked about assisting the priests and setting bones. She told him about patients and surgeries. As one of the largest hospitals on the continent, the Hôpital du Roi had visitors from all over the world. Her hands moved with excitement as she talked about the royal doctors who had visited to train the surgeons and staff.

  Pierre gazed at her in wonder. The light and passion that were radiating from her gave him a feeling of peace. She was still the same woman, strong and independent underneath the bruises.

  “Are you still working at the hospital?” he asked when she finally paused for breath.

  Her shoulders slumped, and the light immediately faded from her face. “No,” she said sadly. “When the engagement between Jacques and me was agreed upon, he insisted I give it up. He didn’t want a bonesetter for a wife.”

  Pierre felt a flash of anger rise in his stomach.

  Marie nodded as if she knew what he was thinking. “I wanted to fight him about it, but then there was Claude.”

  Pierre made an involuntary movement toward her. He hadn’t thought it was possible to hate Claude more than he did, but now he realized the man must be a sadist.

  Just then, Marie and Pierre could hear Augustus’s heavy footsteps on the stairs. The silvery-blond head of the master of the house appeared in the doorway. Seeing the two of them engaged in conversation, he quickly retreated with a hasty apology.

  Pierre glanced out the window. “It’s very late. I should be going.”

  Marie stood up slowly. “Thank you for coming,” she smiled at him from under her thick lashes. He felt his heart skip a beat.

  “Can I come tomorrow?”

  Marie nodded.

  “Until tomorrow then.” He squeezed her hand in farewell.

  ***

  Marie sat at the fire in her room trying to fight off the chill of the stormy night. It was May, but with the howling storm that battered the fortress, it felt more like a cold night in April. She preferred the quiet of her room to the busyness of the house. She hated how the servants stared at her and muttered behind their hands. She knew her arrival had started a most delicious scandal that they could not repeat outside the walls, but she hated feeling like an exhibit and so stayed alone in her room as much as she could, waiting for her body to heal.

  She spent the day reading and waiting for the sounds of Pierre on the stairs. She knew that she’d missed him, but she’d forgotten just how much she enjoyed his company. There were no barriers when she was with him. At least there hadn’t been in the past. She shivered at the thought. Eight years. A lot could happen in eight years. He would have to know everything that had happened. But she doubted he would stay after he knew the truth.

  Despite the drafts coming in through the window, she was wearing only her chemise and a light robe because she was tired of the heavy night clothes she’d been wearing when she was in bed almost all the time. The cut on her head had scabbed, and Madame Cloutier had removed the stitches, but the place where the wound had been itched fiercely. She wore her waist-length hair braided to try to deter herself from scratching the scab off in a fit of frustration. Marie had definitely made an effort to look her best today. She had no wardrobe to change into, but she’d cleaned herself up, and Madame Cloutier had helped braid her hair. She’d avoided looking in a mirror ever since her arrival at the house. Glancing in one this morning, though, she felt she could definitely have looked worse.

  There was a soft knock at the door, and Pierre’s large frame appeared. He let the door stay open behind him.

  She must have forgotten how large he was. While the room was fairly big, he seemed to take up most of it. He had to duck slightly as he came in through the doorway. Seeing that sight again made Marie want t
o laugh.

  He sat down across from her in the spare chair, the same spot he had occupied the night before.

  He saw her staring and grinned at her. “How are you?”

  “Better than I have been,” she replied truthfully. “The books have helped immensely. But I do miss going outside.”

  “If it makes you feel any better, it’s raining non-stop. Everyone is staying inside anyway—if they can.” He stretched his long legs in front of him.

  Marie laughed. “I’m not sure if that should make me happy, but it does.”

  He leaned forward across the table. “What did you get up to today?”

  “I read,” Marie said. “And I slept and I tried not to think about the British. That’s it.”

  Pierre smiled, a grin that lit up his entire face. The lines around his eyes were deeper now. “Just to reassure you about the British, the trenches around the fortress are looking pretty good. Better than the walls at least.”

  Marie wrinkled her nose. “The walls still aren’t complete?”

  Pierre shrugged. “They’re trying to finish them, but they’ve been trying to do that for nearly a decade. There’s only so much that can be done in this amount of time.” Pierre could see that his attempt at reassurance wasn’t working. What was the use of having good trenches if the walls were still a mess?

  “So the siege is imminent?”

  “Not necessarily, but the higher-ups believe so. Once the British leave Halifax, it will be only a few days.” He sighed, remembering the last siege. Despite being in the militia, he had visited Marie as often as he could. He’d found great comfort in just sitting on the floor beside her, listening to the bombs fall.

  Marie stared into the depths of the fire, watching the flames dance in a fury of orange and gold. “Do we have a chance?”

  “Less than last time.”

  She nodded. “That’s what I thought.” Silence fell between them, both thinking of 1745. Suddenly remembering something else, Pierre pulled a small package from his coat pocket. “I brought you this. Thought it might help with the boredom.” He pulled out a bundle of paper and charcoal and placed it on the table between them.

  Tears sprang to Marie’s eyes. She brushed them away impatiently.

  “I don’t know if you still draw but—”

  Marie interrupted. “Of course, I do.” Without thinking, she stood up, swooped down, and pecked Pierre on the cheek, feeling the stubble against her lips.

  He turned his face toward her and pulled her in for a longer kiss. She began to squirm and pulled away.

  “What’s wrong?” he asked blankly.

  She shook her head and retreated a few steps away.

  “Do you want me to leave?” he asked uncertainly.

  She glanced at him for a moment and then realized he was serious.

  “No! Of course not. It’s just …”

  “Just what?” Frustration was creeping into his voice.

  Marie paused and looked around the room desperately for a distraction. She could feel her face flushing with anxiety.

  “Is it Jacques?” he asked quietly.

  “No, it’s not Jacques!” Her voice was climbing.

  “Then what is it?”

  “Things have happened.”

  “All right …” He was still very confused. “What things?”

  He stood, staring at her with such concern and tenderness that she wanted to run from the room screaming. She felt as if she was breaking apart. The panic was bubbling up inside her, threatening to burst out, and the thin layer of armour that she held around herself was slowly cracking away. She wrapped her arms around her chest, trying vainly to keep the emotion from exploding out of her. The time had come, but she wasn’t ready.

  “Please stop,” she whispered. “Go. Just go. Leave me alone.” Her body began to shake with the emotion she could no longer control. “I’m … I’m not that girl you loved so many years ago.” Tears were beginning to roll down her cheeks.

  “I’m … not the same … I’m b-broken … I-I’m damaged.” She was gasping for breath. “You d-don’t … want … me.”

  Pierre moved toward her, but she retreated to a corner of the room, arms still locked around her torso, staring resolutely at the wooden floor.

  “What happened?”

  She glanced up. Pierre was still standing in the middle of the room, looking terrified at the scene before him. She shook her head violently.

  “I can’t tell you.” Her voice was shaking. “I just …” She swallowed. “Pierre, things have happened.”

  “I know that.”

  She shook her head furiously. “No, you don’t! You don’t know!” She was shouting.

  “Then tell me.” His voice was patient, but that made her feel even more trapped.

  She retreated until her back was against the wall and slowly sank down to the ground. She wrapped her arms tightly around her knees.

  Very slowly, Pierre walked across the room and sat down on the floor in front of her. He stayed motionless for a few minutes. She avoided his eyes.

  “What happened?” he asked again softly.

  “You wouldn’t understand,” she mumbled lamely.

  “Maybe not, but I’m not about to leave. No matter what happened.”

  Marie snorted in disbelief.

  “Marie, since the last time I saw you, I’ve killed people. More than I can count or remember.”

  “It was war.” She mumbled.

  “Do you think that makes it any easier to live with?” he asked fiercely.

  She flinched at the edge in his voice. Reluctantly, she had to agree with him. She mumbled something as quickly as she could.

  “I didn’t catch that.”

  Marie felt a sickening swoop of embarrassment. “I’m not a virgin anymore,” she mumbled, slightly louder, staring at her knees.

  Silence. She glanced up at Pierre quickly and saw confusion on his face. “I think you’re aware that I’m not either,” he said slowly.

  She shook her head. “It’s not like that. Six months ago.” She swallowed hard, the word sticking in her throat. “Six months ago, Jacques and I got into a big fight. I was angry that he had said he’d be bringing his mistresses everywhere. Literally everywhere. Everyone knew. It was so humiliating. I was screaming at him, telling him he couldn’t do it anymore. He asked me what I was prepared to do to stop him.” She could feel Pierre stiffen a few feet away. “I didn’t understand at first. But then … then … I did … I refused … but …” She closed her eyes against the memory, trying to block it out. She could feel the heat radiating off her face.

  “I tried to fight him off.” The tears leaked out of the corners of her eyes faster than she could stop them. “I really did. But … but … but I couldn’t.” She dissolved into tears completely.

  Gently, careful not to anger her injuries, Pierre’s strong arms encircled her, and he pulled her onto his lap. He held her as tightly as he could, as if trying to hold her together, to prevent the evil that had happened from ever touching her again. Marie wept bitterly, her head pressed tightly into his chest, afraid of ever leaving the safety of his arms. She could feel Pierre around her, shaking too, weeping for what had happened, for what had been lost.

  Marie felt as if they would sit there forever, but eventually, her tears were spent. They stayed tangled on the floor, simply listening to each other breathe.

  “I’m so sorry,” he whispered finally.

  “It’s not your fault.” Something in her voice made it clear who she felt was responsible. “I’ve never told anyone,” Marie whispered.

  She felt his lips on the crown of her head.

  He shook his head. “Not your fault.”

  She hung her head.

  “No, listen to me!” He placed his rough hand under her chin and tilted it upwards. His eyes were puffy, but they still flashed dangerously. “It wasn’t your fault. You did nothing wrong.” She tried to pull away, but he kept his arms tight around her. “Why would
the evil he did to you change who you are to me?”

  Marie still avoided Pierre’s gaze, but she felt a tiny spark in the pit of her stomach. Rape was something that could destroy a reputation just as easily as loose morals could. She had seen it happen once before, and the woman in question had joined the convent in disgrace. No one ever came out and explicitly blamed the victim, but she was no longer desirable—as if she had chosen that life.

  Marie looked at Pierre, unsure of what to say. They sat in silence for a while, the fire burning lower in the hearth, casting long shadows across the room. “I feel as if it’s all my fault. My fault that Claude hit me. My fault that Jacques used me … I feel as if I deserved it.”

  Pierre laid his cheek against the top of Marie’s head. “You didn’t deserve that. No one does.” He looked at her sharply. “No one.”

  Marie didn’t know what to say. She didn’t quite believe Pierre, and she knew that he knew that.

  “Do you remember when my mother died?” he asked quietly, gently stroking her head.

  Marie hesitated. “Yes.”

  “I remember sitting alone up on the bluffs, not sure of whether I was ever going to leave that place and go back home. I hated the world. I remember when you suddenly showed up and refused to leave.” She could hear the slight smile in his voice. He looked down at her. “I was so angry. But I never realized how much I loved you until that moment.”

  Marie sat up and stared at him despite herself. “You what?”

  Pierre smiled down at her. He smoothed her hair away from her face. “That’s the moment I started loving you. I didn’t realize it for several more years, but that’s when it started.”

  Marie couldn’t meet his gaze. “You were thirteen,” she mumbled.

  “Like I said, it took a while for me to realize it.”

  He traced the plains of her face lightly with his finger. “What do you do when you get shot?”

  She was startled by the question. “I don’t know, I’ve never been shot.” Then a horrifying thought occurred to her. “Have you?”

  He smiled at the look on her face. “Two years ago, I was shot in the thigh.”