The Displaced

by Frieda Watt

  “Hello, beautiful.”

  Marie stared down at her hands. Embarrassed, angry, and unsure of what to say, she continued to look carefully at the clover flower as she twisted it around and around.

  Pierre knelt down in front of her and put his hand under her chin. “I’m sorry I left.”

  Marie sighed and stared at the ground. “Are you one of those people who just walks out whenever you get angry?”

  “Not usually. I was angry, but that’s not really why I left.”

  Marie stared resolutely at the clover. “Then why did you leave?”

  Pierre shifted his weight on the stone slab under his knees. “I talked to some people, tried to figure out what to do. I even asked Father Weber if he would marry us without permission from my commanders. He didn’t like that very much.”

  Marie shut her eyes and ground her teeth together. “I don’t understand why this is so complicated. What happened? What did we do?”

  Pierre sighed. “We didn’t do anything.”

  Her eyes snapped open. “You know why this is all going on?”

  He nodded and pulled himself onto the bench beside her, leaning his head against the stone wall of the house. “When I was younger, I used to joke that my parents didn’t like each other very much. I’m an only child. There were no others. No pregnancies that didn’t make it to term, no children who died of terrible illnesses—just me. It wasn’t until I got older that I realized that was true. After me, my mother felt that she had done her duty to my father by providing him with a son.”

  Marie’s mouth fell open. “I always just assumed that there were problems that weren’t discussed.”

  “There were.” He laughed bitterly. “But not the kind most people think of. My father swears he never wandered while she was alive. He doesn’t think she ever did, considering she was always so busy helping everyone else. So it was just the three of us in this house. They never fought, but I don’t think they ever interacted much.” He paused and rubbed his face as if washing away some memory.

  “After she died, things between my father and me were … strained. He worked all the time. I knew he was a busy man with lots of ships that had diseases and pirates and all sorts of issues. So I just accepted that this was normal life. We never talked to each other about anything of great substance, but I didn’t understand why. Then he started seeing someone. For years, I didn’t know who it was. He sent me to Quebec partly so that he could be with her. I was an unwanted distraction. He swears he loved her in a way he never loved my mother, but he spent his time with her, not me.” His tone was unbelievably bitter.

  Marie put her hand on his arm. “Oh Pierre, I’m so sorry.”

  “Not as sorry as you will be. Do you remember when I asked you to marry me?”

  “Yes.” Her lips twisted at the corners. It was a moment she had brought back to mind many times, to give herself some peace and joy during the darkest moments of the last few years.

  “Do you remember when Annette was sick in bed?”

  “Yes, she had a fever. She almost died,” Marie whispered uncertainly.

  Pierre shifted his weight uncomfortably. “No, Claude threw her down the stairs.”

  “What?! Why?” But she had a feeling she knew the answer.

  “She was pregnant. She and Claude couldn’t have children, so she thought she was barren. When she told my father what had happened, Augustus convinced her to trick Claude into going to bed with her. Claude refused. I don’t know why. Maybe that’s why my father and your aunt bonded: having spouses who didn’t want them.

  “I didn’t know any of this. Augustus didn’t tell me until after it all happened. But I literally went and asked Claude if I could marry you the day his wife had the miscarriage of my father’s bastard child. How could that not end badly?”

  Marie was stunned. Unsure of what she had been expecting Pierre to say, it definitely wasn’t this. Thinking back now, though, it made sense. Annette’s absences from the house, Augustus’s concern for their welfare. And she had suspected nothing.

  “Is that why Claude never hits Annette?”

  Pierre looked surprised. “He doesn’t?”

  Marie’s long hair waved around her head as she shook it from side to side. “Except for that one time when you said he threw her down the stairs. I always wondered what I did to deserve his outrageous hatred and his beatings, while he never lifted a hand against her. He screamed at her all the time, but he took most of it out on me after Nic left the house.” Marie sighed and squeezed Pierre’s hand. He looked down at their joined hands and smiled.

  “Claude will never, ever give permission for us to wed,” Pierre said, “and unfortunately, he has enough power that people listen to his wishes.”

  They sat in silence for a while.

  “Does Claude ruin the lives of everyone who upsets him?” Marie asked, not really expecting an answer.

  Pierre scratched the back of his head. “Claude had a Bishop sent back to France because the Bishop suggested Claude try to work on his marriage.”

  Marie had forgotten about that event; she was only eleven at the time. Suddenly, she didn’t feel so isolated. Glancing at Pierre, she reached out and brushed the moisture that clung to the corner of his eye.

  “I lost everything. For those six years in prison, all I could think about was you, but once I got out …” His voice cracked. “I-I can’t believe how close you were. How close we were two years ago. But I messed it all up. Marie, I’m so sorry. I’m …”

  Marie put her hand on top of his mouth. “It doesn’t matter anymore. It doesn’t matter what you did, what I did. What matters is that we’re here.” She wrapped her arm around his and laid her head on his shoulder.

  He closed his eyes and enjoyed the feeling of having her so close. Then he extricated himself and lowered his body to the ground again. The moon shone off her skin, the ghost of the bruises now completely invisible in the inky night.

  Pierre pulled out a simple silver ring from his pocket. “This was my mother’s—Camille’s. I want you to have it. I can’t marry you in a church before a priest, but I promise you and God that I will love you until the end of my life. I will do everything I can to protect you from anything or anyone who may want to harm you. I’ll honour you and cherish you, and I promise that someday, when this is all over, if I can ever be my own man, I will marry you properly.”

  Marie covered her face with her good, right hand for a moment. She was grinning like an idiot and giddy with excitement. She took her hand away from her face and extended it. Pierre then slipped the band over the knuckle on her third finger. “I love you,” he whispered and kissed her hand gently, mindful of the bandages on her left arm.

  “Do you still want me to leave?” Marie asked hesitantly.

  “Yes and no. I want you to be out of harm’s way, but I’m so afraid that if you leave again, I’ll never find you.”

  “Me too,” Marie said.

  “So I’d like to be selfish and keep you here if you’ll have me. I’ll keep you as safe as I can, and when this is over … I don’t know.” He sighed heavily. “I don’t know what’s going to happen. Maybe I need to stop thinking about it.”

  Marie ruffled his hair. “If Louisbourg falls, we’ll all go back to France.”

  “You say that as if it was all so simple. Besides, you hate France.” He stood up slowly. “I think my knees are broken.”

  Marie laughed. She was in such a buoyant mood that everything seemed hilarious. She touched the ring on her finger. She never wore jewellery. It felt odd to have it there, feeling far heavier than it actually was. “Do you have one?”

  He chuckled and pulled her to her feet, arms wrapped around her slender waist. “No, my father claims he never had one, though I suspect he just thinks rings are unmanly.”

  Marie giggled. “That seems like something he would think.” She paused for a moment. “What can I promise you?”

  He bent down and kissed her more roughly than before �
�� and for longer. “Nothing,” he said at last, releasing her for a moment. “No promises needed. You’re still here, and that’s all that matters. After everything, you’re still here. Heaven knows why we’re finally with each other again, but I’m glad of it.”

  Marie leaned her forehead against his. Her long hair tumbled all around them. “I don’t want to live without you. I’ve done it. For a while I hoped that somehow you would magically appear, that against the odds, you would come back, but eventually I gave up.”

  “I didn’t know about Claude. Please believe me. If I had known, I would have come back. Done something to try to stop it …”

  Marie smiled sadly. She didn’t doubt him. He wrapped his hands around her fingers, completely covering them.

  “Will you come with me?” Pierre asked.

  She smiled shyly and nodded.

  Pierre helped her get up from where she was sitting, and they silently made their way back into the deserted house.

  “Where is everyone?” Marie asked. It was late, but usually at this hour, the house was still filled with the soft hum of end-of-day chores.

  A faint blush crept up the back of Pierre’s neck. “I may have told my father what I was planning to do. I think he told everyone to be scarce tonight, so we can have some privacy.”

  Marie’s eyes widened in surprise. “And your father? Where is he?”

  “Out drinking, I expect, with some of his less reputable partners.” Pierre glanced down. “You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to.”

  The room was warm and inviting after the chill of the dark garden. Marie sat down on her bed, but Pierre stayed by the door. “I realize this might not be easy for you,” he said awkwardly, a fierce crimson rising in his cheeks.

  Marie shook her head and walked back toward him. “Don’t worry about me.”

  He leaned against the wall and pulled her closer. “But that’s my job—worrying about you.”

  She brushed the short hairs away from his eyes. “I just don’t want any comparisons. I’m not as experienced as you are.”

  Pierre scoffed. “You think I’m stupid? Besides, there’s no comparison.”

  He gathered her in his arms and held her tightly against him.

  ***

  Sometime later, Marie lay in his arms. Cradled between his muscular arms and chest, she felt a security and satisfaction that she had never felt before in her life. She wiggled as close to his warmth as possible.

  Pierre smoothed her hair away from his nose. “Can I call you my wife now?”

  Marie grinned. “I like the sound of that.”

  “My beautiful wife,” he whispered into her hair. “Madame Thibault.” He pulled the bedclothes over them both.

  Marie giggled happily. “How long do we have?”

  “Forever.”

  She slapped his arm. “You know what I mean.”

  “Yes,” he sighed, unwilling to go back to reality. He rolled onto his back but kept his arm tightly around her so she moved with him. “We have tomorrow and then I have to drag myself away from you and back to the army.”

  Marie sat up, startled. “How on earth won’t you be missed for another day with the British fleet on their way? You didn’t do anything today.”

  “Speak for yourself.” He grinned and pulled her back down so her head rested on his chest. “I did a few things. But my Captain told me personally that he didn’t want to see me for at least a day.”

  Marie laughed in amazement. “You didn’t tell him, did you?”

  “As a matter of fact, I did. I figured if I can’t ask your father because he’s dead or your uncle because he’s a madman, then I should at least ask your brother.”

  “What did he say?”

  “A lot of terrible things that I will never repeat to you,” Pierre said, staring at the canvas canopy above them. “He blamed me for a lot of things, but I think he knew he couldn’t convince you to leave if we’d reached a decision, so he finally conceded. He’s not happy about it, of course.”

  “I’ll bet he’s not.”

  Her fingers traced a raised outline of scar tissue on his left breast. She felt a sickening wave of revulsion as she recognized the letter “D.”

  “Always a deserter,” he muttered.

  “They branded you?” He grabbed her hand and intertwined his fingers with hers.

  “Yes, so I’ll never be able to forget.” His eyes were sad.

  She traced a small scar near his temple. “What did they do to you?” She suddenly realized how long they really had been apart. He had lived terrible things that she would never know.

  Pierre placed a large finger at the top of her shoulder and began to follow a long, thin, white line downward, over the curve of her breast, and across the nipple to her stomach. There were other thin scars too—some only the thickness of a hair strand, carefully crisscrossing over the pale skin of her torso. The scars of a horsewhip.

  “I could ask you the same thing.”

  Marie looked down. “He usually just used his fists but not that time in Montreal.”

  Pierre shuddered at the matter-of-fact tone of her voice. “I want to kill him.”

  Marie smiled sadly. “I know, but that would accomplish nothing but vengeance followed shortly by more heartbreak after they hang you. I would prefer that you spend the rest of your life in bed with me.”

  He smirked. “You like it?”

  “Yes,” she whispered, turning a brilliant shade of red.

  He rolled onto his back, moving her with him so she was on top of him. Her long hair fell to her waist. She felt much less self-conscious than she had the last time. He pushed her hair behind her shoulders and admired her for a moment, reaching up to kiss her lightly.

  “Your hair keeps getting in the way,” he laughed.

  “I could cut it if it’s a distraction to you.”

  Pierre pulled her head down so he could kiss her. “No, it’s beautiful. It just keeps smothering me.”

  Marie collapsed in a fit of laughter.

  “What? It does!” he said indignantly.

  “All right,” she wheezed, reaching for a hair ribbon on the bedside table. “I know you hate short hair.” She quickly fastened most of her locks behind her head. “Happy?”

  “I’ve never been happier,” he grinned as she moved toward him.

  ***

  He stared at her sleeping form as the moonlight shone off her slender body. She lay there so beautiful beside him, her face turned toward his chest, looking completely at peace. He ran a hand down her smooth back as he tried to fight off the feelings of guilt that were overcoming him.

  She was here now, and she wasn’t going to leave. He could have sent her away, fought harder to convince her that her safety was the most important thing. He could still recall Nic’s look of betrayal as Pierre had explained that she wasn’t leaving but staying here with him. The possibility that they would both be killed in the coming conflict was great. Was it really worth the few days they would have together until then?

  Marie stirred and gazed dreamily up at him.

  “I’m not used to sharing my bed,” she said, stretching sleepily.

  “Me neither.”

  “Can’t sleep?” She touched his face gently with concern.

  “I’m just wondering if I made the right decision keeping you here.”

  Marie smiled and curled closer into him. “It wasn’t your decision to make. It was mine. You can’t make me leave.”

  “Would you leave now, even if I promised to find you afterwards?”

  “Of course not.”

  He pressed his lips against the top of her head. “I didn’t think so.”

  ***

  The sun was well up in the sky before Marie asked, “Aren’t you hungry?”

  “Of course.” He pinched her bottom, making her jump. “But there isn’t very much to eat. The last of the wheat stores have already been opened.”

  “I still want something, even if it’s stale bre
ad. Maybe it’s time we went back into the real world.” Marie eased her way off the bed and began to rummage around the floor, looking for her clothes that had been strewn here and there during the night.

  “Will anyone still be here at this time?” Marie asked.

  “Do you mean do you have to get dressed?” Pierre laughed. “Probably be a good idea. You don’t want to distract anyone from their duties.”

  Marie reached back to the bed and tossed a pillow at him.

  The rest of the house was silent except for the deafening pounding of rain on the windows. Marie had given up on finding all her clothes, so Pierre got dressed and went to the kitchen in search of some food. Marie walked to the window, leaning her forehead against the cool glass. It had been raining heavily for so many days that it felt as if it would never stop. Hopefully, the constant downpours would keep on delaying the British, but the rain was turning the city’s streets into impassable rivers of mud.

  Marie was so transfixed by the droplets of water clinging to the glass, watching them dance and swirl on their journey to the ground, that she didn’t hear Pierre come up behind her until he’d wrapped his arms around her waist.

  “I have some soup for us to eat here. With the amount of excitement I caused showing up in the kitchen, I think I’d rather starve than go back there.”

  Marie giggled and turned around, leaning her head on his chest, breathing in his scent. It was so calm here in the house that the coming war seemed very far away.

  “Want to go outside before we eat?” she asked suddenly.

  Pierre frowned. “No. It’s pouring rain and the soup’s going to get cold.”

  “I know, but I love the rain.” She let go of him and moved toward the door. Pierre sighed. She had a tendency to do things like this. He stepped between her and the door.

  “It’s daytime. You’re supposed to stay inside.”

  “Who’s going out in this?” she pointed to the downpour. “I just want to feel the rain on my face.”

  Pierre rolled his eyes.

  Marie crept down the stairs, avoiding everyone, and pushed open the side door leading to the garden and stood in the doorway, smelling the sweet scent of rainwater, damp earth, and plants. She stepped out into the storm, face turned up toward the heavens, letting the water wash over her. She closed her eyes and sighed contentedly.