Le Chevalier

by Mary Jean Adams

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Alex and Mont Trignon came downstairs to find Sadie setting a steaming pot in the middle of the table. A savory aroma filled the air, and Alex smiled when Mont Trignon’s stomach growled.

  “Now don’t you two look nice,” Sadie said, with an approving nod.

  “We’re sorry if we kept you waiting,” Alex said, hoping Sadie wouldn’t stop to consider why they might be late for supper.

  “Nonsense!” She gave Alex a grin that said she knew very well what had kept them. “Have a seat.” She waved toward two chairs. “I’ll have the rest of supper on the table in a moment.”

  Alex settled in one of the wobbly chairs, careful to compensate for the uneven legs by keeping her weight to the front left side. When cannon fire boomed in the distance, she forgot her balancing act and grabbed the table to keep from toppling.

  Sadie came in carrying a platter of venison. “It started up just a few minutes ago,” she said, to Alex’s inquiring look. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard them this close.”

  She sounded as spirited as ever, but her eyes lacked their characteristic impishness, and her weathered skin had a pale cast to it.

  Another cannon echoed in the distance, and Mont Trignon turned toward the sound. “Still quite a distance off from the sound of it.”

  The room around them took on the aura of a painting as he cocked his head to listen. Sadie stood motionless, ladle in hand. Even Rufus, who had come out from the kitchen to sit at Mont Trignon’s feet, stopped scratching behind his ear to watch his adopted master’s face.

  Several minutes passed with no more cannon fire. Alex couldn’t be sure exactly how much time passed as even the clock on the wall had ceased to tick, but perhaps, it hadn’t worked in years.

  “It does not sound like a full-scale battle. I think we are safe for now,” Mont Trignon said.

  Alex turned toward him. What did he mean for now?

  He squeezed her hand under the table and leaned in. “You are safe with me. I will not leave you.”

  Sadie, who had no compunction against listening in on their whispered words added, “When they start taunting each other like this, I find a battle isn’t usually far behind. You are welcome to stay here ‘til it’s over.”

  Cannon fire continued to punctuate their conversation throughout dinner, robbing them of what little appetite they had.

  After dinner ended, Mont Trignon helped clear the dishes, but Sadie refused to allow either of them to help her wash. Instead, they sat in Sadie’s parlor, staring into a dying fire, listening to the distant rumble of cannons and the clacking of dishes as Sadie washed them at the well. After an hour of tense silence, Mont Trignon rose, clasped Alex’s hand and led her up the stairs to their room.

  That night, as the cannons continued to sound, Alex tossed and turned until the sheets lay tangled about her legs.

  With a heavy sigh and after an effort to straighten out the errant bedding, Mont Trignon tucked her into his arms and snuggled her back up against him. He whispered soft words in her ear in his native tongue and held her until she fell asleep.

  The battle that wasn’t far behind came less than two weeks later at Germantown, a small village just North of Philadelphia and only half a day’s ride from Sadie’s farm. According to the informants who had managed to track down their best customer, the chevalier, the British had commandeered Philadelphia. Washington’s hoped-for revenge at Germantown had turned into a series of tactical errors, costing many Patriot lives.

  Later, as Alex lay nestled in Mont Trignon’s arms, she learned his informants had found him through Sadie. The old crone passed along information as one of a long line of messengers loyal to the rebels. Sadie had invented an ingenious system of signals based on the way she hung her laundry.

  Alex shouldn’t have been surprised. Age had not dimmed Sadie’s intelligence. But more than that, Sadie let her help with any chore around the farm except hanging laundry. And Sadie was forever doing laundry: washing clean curtains, unworn clothing, and much to Alex’s chagrin, the well-used bedding from the room she and Mont Trignon shared.

  Mont Trignon also told her one of the generals in charge of the campaign had been dismissed for being drunk on duty, and Washington had personally chosen Lafayette to replace him. Alex smiled at the pride in her lover’s voice when he spoke of his friend’s promotion.

  With the British occupation of Philadelphia, the Continental Congress had removed their headquarters to York, Pennsylvania. They would continue to make decisions on behalf of the fledgling country from there.

  From York, Mont Trignon received several dispatches, and despite of all he shared with her at night, Alex wondered if he told her everything. He never offered to let her read the dispatches, and he always burned them after he read them.

  ****

  Mont Trignon swung his axe high overhead and brought it down on the log, splitting it in two.

  Despite being late autumn, the sun shone, warming the land and his back. It had been almost an hour since he had shed his jacket and shirt, tossing them over a branch of a tree. Sadie and Alex wandered by, carrying baskets of apples from the orchard. They both gave him appreciative glances and scurried back to the farmhouse, giggling like a couple of schoolgirls.

  A trickle of sweat traced its way between his shoulder blades, impelling him to put another log on the block.

  He loved the feel of working up a sweat with good honest labor. The only thing better than tiring himself with a pile of wood, would be exhausting himself later with his wife.

  Or rather his mistress, he reminded himself with a grimace.

  The log shattered when he brought the axe down on it, and Mont Trignon stopped to gather up the pieces and toss them on the kindling pile a few feet away. Then he picked up the largest of the logs and set it on the stump.

  He did not consider Alex his mistress any more than he considered her a whore, but through his actions, the world would see her that way. Or, rather his inaction had caused the problem, since everything they shared at night would have been considered respectable if he had married her.

  Well perhaps not everything. He grinned as he recalled the way they explored each other with abandon, tasting and touching, before loving each other breathless.

  With a loud thwack, he took out his ire on the log in front of him, driving so hard with the axe he buried its head in the stump beneath it. Both halves of the log fell away and rolled to the ground.

  He considered Alex his wife in every way. He picked up one half of the log he had just split and repositioned it on the stump. However, the world would not see them as married since they had not yet received the sacrament and the blessings of the church. Mont Trignon chuckled as he brought his axe down on the remnant of the log. What would Père Joseph, his parish priest, think of him now if he knew he considered the church’s dictates secondary to his love for Alexandra? How many Hail Mary’s could one say in a lifetime?

  No matter. He tossed the split logs onto the ever-growing pile. He would remedy his oversight as soon as he had the chance.

  A fresh breeze ruffled the crimson and gold leaves of the tree overhead, and Mont Trignon lifted his head to let it caress his face and to inhale the earthy scent of autumn. Then he pulled his handkerchief from the waistband of his breeches and mopped the sweat from his brow.

  He readied the other half of the log as he designed his strategy. He had to do two things to seal their union in the eyes of man. First, he had to find a priest or at least the closest thing to one. Alex didn’t belong to the Catholic faith, but at least until he got back to France, any man of God would do. Second, he had to gain her consent.

  He laughed at himself as he split the log. Maybe he should gain her consent before he did anything else this time.

  Mont Trignon set the head of his axe on the ground with a thump and leaned against it. He did not doubt her love. He did not doubt she would agree to marry him, but marriage in the real world could never be as easy as in t
he storybooks. Theirs would not be the end of the story, the moment from which they would live happily ever after. The world around them, in both America and France, changed at an ever-increasing pace, and whether for good or for ill, they would not be able to escape the effects.

  After the defeat at Georgetown, he knew his and Alex’s much needed respite at Sadie’s farm would soon end. Moreover, he needed to return to France. He owed his father answers that could not be expressed in a letter. And as heir to his family’s estates, he had an obligation to return to see how things fared in his homeland. For Alex, that meant leaving behind everything she knew, at least for a while.

  He turned toward the farmhouse, squinting as a trickle of sweat, chilled by the breeze, stung his eye. He could see Alex and Sadie through the kitchen window, their heads bent together in earnest over some project.

  Sadie had taken up the unenviable task of teaching Alex how to cook. As he had discovered, Alex could only cook one thing: vegetable stew. Although Sadie agreed she excelled at it, she insisted she couldn’t keep a man on that alone.

  He smiled as he watched them argue through the yellowed lace curtains. He did not care if she could boil water, since he could cook well enough for both of them if it came down to it. Still, it warmed his soul when she tried so hard to please him. He loved the way she emerged from the kitchen, flour dotting her pert little nose and stains all over her apron. She would present her latest creation for sampling. He would take a small taste and exclaim it to be the best he ever had, even though more than once it had been almost inedible.

  For inexplicable reasons, her lack of cooking skills made him love her all the more. And his appreciation for her attempts made her love him all the more—quite literally. Every time she attempted something new, and he expressed his delight, they ended up retiring early only to make love into the wee hours of the morning. His hunger well sated in that area, he could care less if he starved.

  He had to tell her, he decided with a sigh. With another loud thwack, he buried his axe head in the stump and strode toward the kitchen. Alex must have sensed him because she looked up as he neared the back door and waited for him as he entered.

  Her smile fell as soon as her gaze met his. “What is it?”

  “I have to go back,” he said.

  “To France,” she added, completing his thought.

  “Oui, to France,” he said, taking her hands. She had dough stuck in her fingernails and pasted to her skin, but she did not draw her hands back as she normally would have done. “I need to relate the progress of the war to King Louis and ask for his aid.”

  “Is it going well?” She sounded so hopeful he hated to disappoint her.

  He shook his head. “I do not think so. The British have Philadelphia, and the loss at Georgetown means they will have it for some time. I hear from the marquis supplies are low. The contracts of many of Washington’s troops are set to expire in December,” he shrugged, “and he has little with which to entice them to remain.”

  “Oh.” Her shoulders slumped.

  “Still, all is not lost,” he hastened to add, squeezing her hands. “The American cause is on the precipice, but with French aid, we can tip the balance in our favor.”

  “By all means, you must go then,” Alex said, releasing his hands. She turned from him, and a small shudder shook her shoulders. When she turned back, however, her features showed neither sadness nor fear. “Do you think you’ll be able to convince him?”

  “I do not know,” he admitted. “There have been so many recent losses. Alex,” he said, grasping her hands again and pulling her to him. He looked into her eyes. “I want you to come with me.”

  “I—”

  “Chevalier! Chevalier!” a youthful voice called from the lane.

  Mont Trignon pulled Alex behind him as he strode through the dining room and out the front door in time to meet the a young lad on the front steps.

  The freckled-face boy of no more than fourteen bent over, hands braced on his knees as he huffed. With effort, Mont Trignon waited for the messenger to regain his breath. The news must be important for him to have carried it himself instead of relying on the relay.

  “Can I offer you a glass of water?” he asked, when the boy stood and gulped a few quick breaths.

  “No thank you, sir,” he said, wheezing.

  “Then what is your news?” Mont Trignon asked.

  “Saratoga. Burgoyne. Surrendered,” the boy said, between huffs.

  Mont Trignon clasped a post for support, finding himself as breathless as the youth in front of him.

  “Someone has surrendered at Saratoga?” he asked.

  “Yes, sir,” the boy might have said more had it not been for the hacking cough making him double over.

  “Well, was it General Burgoyne to Gates or the other way around? Hurry and catch your breath, so I do not die of suspense!”

  At his rare show of impatience, shame dashed a course through Mont Trignon. He should not have heaped it on the shoulders of the poor lad, but his future and Alex’s hung on the boy’s next words. In truth, the entire country’s future hung on his reply.

  As though the boy also understood the import of his next sentence, he straightened and forced out the words, “General Burgoyne has surrendered his entire army to Horatio Gates at Saratoga.”

  Mont Trignon gripped the porch post as the world about him reeled.

  Behind him, one of Sadie’s spindle back rocking chairs creaked as Alex sunk into it, but he dared not turn to face her. He did not wish her to witness his disappointment if the boy’s initial report turned out to be exaggerated.

  “You are certain?” he asked.

  “Absolutely, sir,” the boy said, with an emphatic shake of his head.

  Mont Trignon paid the youth with a coin, and the boy ran off the way he had come. Then he turned to Alex. She broke the silence, putting voice to his thoughts.

  “It is more important than ever you go now. The war is far from won, but surely, this bit of good news will seal King Louis’ decision to come to our aid.”

  Mont Trignon smiled. He had not needed to explain the significance of the surrender. Nor had she assumed surrender of the Northern troops meant the war had ended.

  He knew she listened to everything he told her at night, yet he could never be certain how much she grasped. Obviously, she understood more than he gave her credit for. His chest swelled with pride. The road ahead might be difficult for both of them, but he could not imagine being without her as his lover and his confidant.

  “Yes, I must go, Alex. However, I will not go without you.”

  She remained silent, and he wondered if she had heard him. “You want me to come with you?” she asked at last, in a small voice.

  “No,” he said, pulling her back inside the house and into Sadie’s front room. “I need you to come with me. You are as essential to me as the air I breathe, ma bichette.”

  “But what will your family think?” she asked, her dark brows furrowed with worry.

  “They will love you,” he assured her, wrapping his arms around her.

  “But why should they?” she asked, her voice muffled against his chest.

  “Because I do.” He paused before adding, “Although, I think we should get married for real. I know they would welcome you into the family with open arms no matter what, but I am not as certain my mother and my sisters would be so warm toward me should I come back with a woman I never married carrying my child.”

  “Pregnant? But I am not pregnant!” Alex exclaimed, placing her small hands against his chest and giving him an ineffective shove.

  He picked up a hand and kissed her fingertips. “Perhaps not yet, but by the way we have been spending our nights, it is only a matter of time.”

  He smiled when she blushed and looked away. He loved her innocence during the day and her lack of inhibition at night.

  “Would you like to have children?” she asked, her gaze falling everywhere in Sadie’s front room except on
him.

  He tucked a finger beneath her chin and turned her face toward him. “Only if they are yours,” he said. “Will you marry me and come to France with me?”

  “Yes and yes,” she replied, throwing her arms around him and kissing him.

  “I do have one condition though,” he added, with a grin. “You must learn to pronounce my name. You cannot go around France calling your husband ‘the chevalier’. There are many of those in France, and it might cause some confusion.”

  She laughed. “Very well…Mont Trignon,” she said, making such a mess out of the pronunciation he suspected she did it on purpose.

  “Hmmm, perhaps we will have to work on that.”

  “Trig?” she asked, an impish grin lighting her face.

  “Mon Dieu!” he said, pulling a pained face and making Alex laugh. “My Christian name is Honoré. Try that.”

  “Honoré,” she repeated, in such a sultry tone his groin tightened.

  “Oui, I think that will do,” he said, kissing her hands and working his way up her arm to her neck.

  She giggled. He loved the way he could make her laugh.

  “Je t’aime. I love you,” he whispered in her ear, before nibbling on her tender earlobe. She rewarded him with a sigh.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Alex leaned back against velvet cushions the color of ochre in her husband’s carriage and laid a hand on her stomach, hoping to quiet the ominous rumbling. Through glass windows, she watched the bare branches of the trees stretch like so many arms praying toward the steely sky.

  When they arrived at the port of Le Havre two days ago, a carriage with the Mont Trignon family crest emblazoned in gold had been waiting for them at the docks, ready to transport them on the long overland journey to Paris and then to the Mont Trignon family estates. Since travel across the Atlantic could be unpredictable, Alex wondered how they could have known exactly when the chevalier would be arriving. She surmised either they had been waiting for days, or Honoré’s network of informants extended even to the albatross that had dogged their ship for weeks and then disappeared the day before they docked.