by Frieda Watt
Pierre glared up at her, eyes swollen and rimmed with red. He ran his hand through his tangled hair and then swung himself back onto the bed. “I’m sorry about that,” he mumbled, pressing his fingers into his eyelids. “I was very drunk and may have had some ideas that were much less than honourable.”
She laughed. “I assumed as much.”
“Luckily, I was too drunk to carry them out.”
The sound of drums carried through the window. “Aren’t you supposed to be responding to that?” Marie asked.
Pierre threw one arm over his eyes. “Not today. I have connections with the Captain. I can be late.”
Marie rolled her eyes. “Nic was one of your drinking partners last night?”
“Only for the beginning. Then he left, but he knew I wouldn’t be in any shape to come in this morning.” He sat up. “I need more sleep, or I’m going to be very sick.”
“I’d like some too,” Marie said conversationally. She was enjoying herself. “The couch isn’t exactly comfortable.”
He pulled himself out of bed with great effort. “Good, but don’t talk so loud.” He headed to the door slowly. His entire body ached. “Once you’re up and dressed, come and find me.”
Marie laughed. She crept back into her bed, pulling the quilt around her. She could faintly make out the smell of him in the fabric. She closed her eyes and drew the quilt tighter around her body.
***
It was almost midday by the time Marie pulled herself out of bed. The water on the washstand was as cold as always, but she scrubbed her face and chest as well as she could before dressing.
Augustus spent most of his day away from the house, either at the docks or in the warehouse beside the home. Marie’s presence had made it such that he was no longer able to bring people to the house, and therefore did most of his networking at the tavern. He wasn’t happy about the arrangement, but Marie was appreciative.
The house was silent except for the sound of servants scurrying around. She wondered how much Augustus was paying them to remain discreet about Marie’s presence. Most of them knew who she was, the ones who’d been on hand to see her dramatic arrival (with Pierre) in the middle of the night. Evidently, the news had not made its way to Claude, since he hadn’t banged down the door yet. She shivered at the thought.
She found Pierre sitting at the scrubbed wooden table in the kitchen, a bowl of soup in his hands, his back to the door. Madame Cloutier was moving around the dark room, talking to Pierre adamantly about something. Then, in the middle of the conversation, her dark eyes spotted Marie, who was standing in the doorway. She nodded in her direction, drawing Pierre’s attention away from his food.
Pierre grinned and motioned for Marie to join him. He looked slightly the worse for wear after his late night, but he was happy to see her nonetheless. “Good to see you finally awake. The day’s almost over,” he teased.
Marie plopped herself down beside him on the worn bench and happily accepted a very watery but steaming bowl of onion soup from Madame Cloutier. “Merci,” she said, inhaling the aroma. It wasn’t much, but any food was appreciated at this time.
Marie hadn’t bothered to tie her hair back, and it fell down over her shoulders in waves, almost to her hips. Pierre pushed one side of the cascade back so he could see her profile. Whatever conversation had been going on between him and Madame Cloutier was now over. Marie glanced sideways in concern, but nothing seemed to be bothering Pierre.
“How are you, Marie?” Madame Cloutier asked, frowning with worry. “I heard someone decided to make a scene last night.” She threw Pierre a disapproving look. “I don’t know where I went wrong with that one.”
Marie smirked. “You shouldn’t blame yourself, Madame. You did your best. I think he just got in with a bad crowd.”
The subject of their banter glowered up at them.
“That’s true,” the elderly dame chortled. “Pierre here was something else as a young man. I can’t believe he turned out as well as he did—though that’s not saying much.”
“I don’t know,” Marie mused, scraping the last morsels out of her blue and white porcelain bowl. “I wouldn’t exactly call him well adjusted.”
“At least he never broke anyone’s nose,” Pierre piped in, looking pointedly at Marie, his eyes twinkling.
“Oh, that was you, Marie!” Madame Cloutier was delighted. “He never admitted what happened. Now I know why.”
Pierre’s face was bright red. “I was twelve. No one wants to admit they were beat up by a girl when they’re that age.”
Madame Cloutier’s reedy laugh drifted across the room. “Would you want to admit that at thirty?”
Pierre appraised the woman sitting beside him. “I don’t think she could do it now.”
“You were a lot smaller then.” Marie leaned over and squeezed one of his considerable biceps.
“What did he do to deserve a broken nose?” Madame Cloutier asked. She picked up the used dishes and deposited them in the scrub basin.
“Why do you assume I deserved it?” Pierre asked indignantly.
Madame Cloutier arched an eyebrow and put her hands on her hips. “Did you?”
“Yes,” Pierre conceded, a light pink colour creeping onto his cheekbones.
Marie glanced at him.
Pierre nodded as if to say “If you must.” “She knows about far worse things I’ve done,” he said out loud.
Marie laughed. “Pierre, Nic, and a bunch of other boys, including two of my friend Elise’s brothers, were swimming in the harbour. Elise and I were there too because our parents had sent us to tell them to get out of the water and go home. But the boys were having such a good time they didn’t want to leave.”
Pierre gazed down at the table, looking very much the part of a guilty young boy.
“Anyway, we finally got them out of the water, but then they started teasing us and generally being unbearable. They reduced Elise to tears. I tried to get them to stop, but they wouldn’t. Eventually, I just lost my patience and punched the closest one, who happened to be Pierre. That shut them up.”
Pierre stood up and stretched as Madame Cloutier roared with mirth. “I never would have thought you were strong enough.”
Marie was a little embarrassed. “I’m sorry about that now. I’m not sure I ever apologized for what I did.”
Pierre waved his large hand. “It’s not really important anymore. I’m sure I’ve paid you back with interest.”
The young maid that Marie had seen earlier that morning came into the kitchen looking for Madame Cloutier.
Pierre gestured to the door and Marie followed him into the sitting room. Pierre settled his long frame on the couch. He seemed preoccupied, but it could just have been the hangover’s lingering effects. Marie sat carefully beside him, smoothing her skirts.
“I need to talk to you,” he began reluctantly, not making eye contact.
“That sounds ominous.”
Pierre rubbed the back of his neck.
“Please just tell me what is going on,” she sighed. She had a feeling she knew what was coming.
Pierre ran his fingers through his hair so the short pieces at the front stood on end. He continued to avoid her eyes. “Nic wants you out of here as soon as possible, before the British arrive,” he said in a despairing tone.
“Where does he want me to go?” she asked, trying to sound detached. “And why isn’t he telling me this himself?”
“He wants you to go to Quebec under the guise of living at your Uncle Joseph’s. However, he’s making arrangements for you to join a convent.”
Marie said something rude.
Pierre tried again. “The British are coming, but reinforcements from France are not. The estimate from the gathering in Halifax is that we’ll be outnumbered five to one. We can’t win, and when we lose, I don’t know how safe Quebec will be, but it will be safer than here at least.” He paused to draw in breath.
Marie didn’t say anything for a moment. Sh
e now understood the reason behind the late-night binge. “Is Nic sending his wife to a convent?”
He had known this was how the conversation would go, but he wasn’t sure what he was supposed to do about it.
“The British have been mobilizing in Halifax. The Mi’kmaq say they’ve already left. They should be here any day now. When they get here, no one will get in or out until the siege is over. There’s a ship, probably one of the last to leave, going in three days for Montreal. It will stop at Quebec. If you leave now, Claude won’t be able to follow.”
“I gathered that,” Marie said bitterly. “But why does Nic want me to become a nun?”
Pierre sighed and looked at her for the first time. “You can’t think of any reason why he wants that?”
Marie tilted her head to one side, thinking. “If I go now, you also wouldn’t be able to follow until after the war is over. If he gets me into a convent, you definitely won’t follow.” She could feel herself trembling with indignation.
“Exactly,” Pierre said, grim-faced.
The blood was pounding in Marie’s ears. She knew Nic had planned to send her away from Louisbourg, and she appreciated the need for her safety. But who did he think he was, purposely trying to separate her from Pierre. She stood up and began to pace around the room.
“No,” she said finally.
“Excuse me?” Pierre asked warily.
“I said, no. I’m not going.”
Pierre had expected that. He shook his head and walked over to her. “And why the hell not?” He’d meant to respond more diplomatically than that.
“I don’t want to go.”
“You have to go, even if you don’t join the convent.” Despite his promise to Nic, he didn’t know if he had the resolve to win this argument.
Marie set her jaw stubbornly. “No.”
“There’s nothing for you here!” he exclaimed, exasperated.
Marie glared at him. For a moment, he was afraid she was going to slap him.
“Really? Nothing?” She was shouting.
“What do you want me to say?” His voice was rising as well. “There’s war, hunger, bloodshed, and a madman trying to kill you. You need to get out of here. The sooner, the better.”
“Is that what you want?”
“What I want doesn’t matter. What matters is that you get permanently out of harm’s way. Harm from both Claude and the British.”
“Does what I want matter?”
Pierre hissed in frustration. “You want to spend the rest of your life hiding in a bedroom? Want to spend the rest of your life inside, hiding from daylight, only coming out at night? Do you want to wait until we’re conquered and then shipped back to France like the Acadians? ’Cause you can if you want. You can keep on being a prisoner of this house until the British break down the door and then go back to Europe with whoever else survives this. But you won’t be free from Claude.”
Marie stormed out of the room, heading back to her refuge. But she paused a moment, at the door. “If you just wanted to send me away, then why have you come back here? Why? Why not just leave me to get better alone?” She turned on her heel and slammed the door behind her.
She made it to her room before tears of anger started burning in her eyes. She was a fool. A damned fool for not having seen this coming. Of course, it was no surprise that Nic expected her to leave. That had always been the plan. The fact that Pierre’s explanation of his behaviour in Montreal had changed her mind would be unimportant to Nic. She wanted to stay in Louisbourg as long as Pierre was here.
She heard the door open quietly. Pierre stepped in. They stood facing each other awkwardly for a moment.
“I can’t marry you,” he spoke quietly, uncertainly. “You know that, right?”
Marie froze. Yes, she knew that. Pierre was a colonial French soldier and needed permission to marry. Permission that Claude would clearly use his influence to prevent.
Pierre stepped toward her, his blue eyes blazing. “I need Claude’s permission to marry anyone, and he certainly won’t give me permission to marry you.”
Marie stood quietly for a moment, twisting her hands violently.
“I haven’t seen you for eight years. There hasn’t been a day that I haven’t thought of you. Somehow, you’ve come back into my life. I have you back again.”
Pierre reached out a hand and squeezed hers gently. “I love you so much. I want you so badly, but I can’t marry you. I have nothing to give you. There was a time when I did. I could have given you a good life. But that’s all gone now.”
He paused, and she looked up into his eyes. “That’s the first time you’ve said that in a long time,” Marie said.
“What?”
“That you love me.”
Pierre paused for a moment, reflecting on what he’d just said. “It’s true, but you’ve been terrorized for all these past years,” he said softly. “You were beaten again two weeks ago. You’ve been locked away, hidden, unable to go outside, blocked off from the world. You can’t make major life decisions now. This is the worst possible time for that. Nic has your best interests at heart. Leaving will keep you safe.”
“And what do you want?” she repeated, staring fiercely up at him.
He looked away. “I told you, it doesn’t matter. You need to get away to safety.”
“It matters to me,” she insisted. “Do you want me to go?”
He swallowed and bowed his head for a moment as if in prayer. “Yes, I do. I want you to be safe more than anything else.”
“Tell me the truth,” she demanded.
“The truth?” He laughed bitterly. “I want you to go.”
She slapped him hard across the face.
“Fine,” he snarled, his blue eyes on fire, stepping quickly across the room to close the distance between them. “I want you to stay here. I want to marry you. I want to take you to bed now and never let you out of it. I want to leave the army and this forsaken island and never come back.”
“All right. Let’s do that then.”
Pierre cocked his head, surprised by her answer. “Excuse me?”
Marie looked up, determined. She was squaring her shoulders, preparing herself for a fight. “I said, let’s do that then.”
Pierre laughed darkly. “You’re telling me that you don’t care if I can’t marry you? You’re willing to stay in a war zone with the threat of Claude, just so you can stay and wait to see if your husband—well, your sort-of husband—doesn’t die?”
“Yes.”
Pierre threw his head back and laughed again, but this time, the edge of bitterness cut deep. “If France beats the British, and I somehow make it out in one piece, it doesn’t change anything! Claude will still hunt for you. I still can’t marry you, and you’ll still have to spend your days hiding from him.”
“So what? Shut up!” Marie shouted. “I don’t care. I’ve waited years and years for you. I’m not leaving you again. I would have married you eight years ago on the night you first asked me. I asked you to … I asked you to take me to a church right then, but you wanted to wait and look where that got us!”
“You don’t think I’d marry you if I could?” he roared. “Of course I would, but my life isn’t my own anymore! I go where they tell me to. I fight who they tell me to. I eat what they tell me to, and I have to marry who they say I can! … After Louisbourg, I’ll go somewhere else, probably a New England prison. That’s no life for you.”
“And I say I don’t care!” Their faces were inches apart. “I’m tired of waiting! I’m tired of other people telling me I can’t be with you! I haven’t done anything wrong except love you!” Her hands began to tingle unpleasantly. She balled them into fists to prevent them from hitting anything. The nerves in the arm that had been broken started to send out jabs of pain.
Pierre pounded his fist on the table by the fireplace. “I can’t take you to a church and call you my wife! Though I’ve wanted to do that since I was seventeen.” His voice was dangerousl
y low, cracking with the strain of holding back his fury. “You hate me for having my way with a whore but expect me to do the same thing to you and call it marriage?”
“I expect you not to abandon me again just because my precious brother asked you to.”
Pierre glared at her, furious. “Fine,” he said in a voice that he wanted to sound calmer. “Fine.” And he stormed out of the house.
Chapter 12
MARIE SPENT THE REST OF THE DAY SWINGING from confusion to anger to despair. As always, she did not leave the house during the daylight hours but paced listlessly from one room to the next, trying to understand what had happened earlier that afternoon. After avoiding servants and Augustus’s inquiries for several hours, she eventually shut herself back in her room. But alone in her room, she had nothing to distract her from her thoughts and her fears for Pierre. Where on earth had he fled to?
It was a relief to finally retreat to the dark garden. It was on a large plot of land directly behind the house, surrounded by a wooden fence that divided it from the neighbours, and it was extensive enough to support many of the home’s food needs. It was her favourite part of the Thibault estate. When she wasn’t hiding in her room or pacing around the upstairs, she spent her time in the garden, taking refuge from the frightening and frustrating realities around her.
It was the first day of June, and the rain had temporarily abated. The cool but calm weather was a welcome change from the blustery storms of the previous week. The smell of damp earth and stone calmed her. The dark mist pressed around her like a blanket. There were no nosy questions here. No odd looks. She settled herself on the wooden bench facing the onion bed and rested her back against the cool stone wall. A thick, leafy grapevine snaked above her head. It never produced any fruit, but it was sumptuous. She stared up at the few stars peeking out from behind the clouds as she slowly twisted a poor clover flower between her fingers.
He appeared silently as he always did, frightening the life out of her. The moon gave off enough light that she could see his face. At least he had the decency to look ashamed.
