Between Two Shores

by Jocelyn Green

  A spit of lightning flashed in the middle distance. In a matter of minutes, the afternoon had faded from vibrant greens and blues to a grey reflection of her turbulent spirit. She and Thankful scrambled down the steps that led to the kitchen, the wet hem of her skirts dragging behind her. Samuel followed.

  He knelt at the hearth and set down his burden. The knobs of his spine pushed against his skin as he arched over the firewood, stacking it in the rack, then building a fire beneath the kettle. But what stalled Catherine’s breath was the scar tissue mapping his back. His skin pulled against the ridges every time he moved, and she wondered how much it hurt him still. Cringing, she stepped back.

  Thankful reached out to steady her. “It’s not your fault,” she whispered, inclining her head toward Samuel. “It was not your hand that held the whip.”

  Nodding, Catherine hung her hat on a peg in the wall and twisted a spotted onion from the braid hanging near it. While she chopped it at the work table, Thankful added a sprig of dried thyme to a kettle of beans.

  The fire hissed and snapped as the flames sucked moisture from the air. The heat and the rain outside both served to sharpen the smells in the kitchen. Wet stone, onion, woodsmoke.

  Samuel pushed his arms through his sleeves and pulled his shirt back over his head. Steam lifted from the rain-soaked linen. “Are you going to tell me now? Why the soldiers are here?”

  Thankful responded when Catherine didn’t. “They’re here to supervise the harvest on the Montreal Plain. They’ve gathered all the women, children, and elderly men to cut the wheat and bind it into sheaves to be shipped to Quebec.”

  “Including you?”

  “Yes. We began yesterday. Captain Moreau said something about working longer hours from now on than we did today and yesterday, though. Nine hours felt like plenty to me, I must say.”

  After dropping the onion into the kettle, Catherine went to a burlap sack hanging from the wall and pulled out several old potatoes. Their skin was withered, and they surrendered to her squeeze like a sponge. Once boiled, however, no one would know. Making quick work of the peels, she cut them into cubes and added them to the soup.

  Samuel drummed his fingers on the table. “They must be hungry in Quebec, eh?”

  “Oh yes,” Thankful agreed. “Hungrier than we are, to be sure. I’ll set some soup by for you, Sam.”

  “Thank you.”

  Thankful’s fair complexion bloomed a fetching pink.

  But it was Catherine Samuel sought. “I would speak to you later, if you’ll have time.”

  His voice, his very presence, raked her nerves. “You have work elsewhere, yes? Best tend to that. Dinner won’t be ready for some time.” She stood over the kettle, stirring it unnecessarily.

  Her cold reply emptied the room of comfort, and Samuel quietly left.

  Thankful solemnly regarded Catherine. “I know this is very hard for you. But just think how difficult it must be for him.”

  Catherine’s lips pulled back in something between a smile and a grimace. “Yes. Quite.” Steam rose from the kettle and misted her face. She hung the spoon on its hook on the hearth.

  “Do you—do you hate him? Truly hate him?”

  Drawing back from the heat, Catherine took a small hammer to the table and began cracking hazelnuts from their shells. “I hate what happened. I hate what he did.” And she hated that he’d come back and begged a favor right away, without even the decency to ask how she had fared these last five years.

  “That’s not the same.” Thankful’s shoulders relaxed as she spoke above the pounding. “I hate how things happened, too. But after all this time, I can’t help being glad to see him again. You understand, don’t you? I just wanted to ask you—that is, to tell you—I don’t hate him. I hope you don’t mind. I just can’t hate him.”

  Suspending the hammer over the hazelnuts, Catherine turned to her. “Are you asking my permission? To not hate Samuel?” Soup dripped from the spoon above the hearth, hissing into the fire.

  Thankful sat across from her, working the split shells off the nutmeats. “More like your blessing, I suppose. He could use a friend here. Think of what he’s been through, and now, to be a British soldier living in enemy territory with unfriendly hosts . . . He could use a friend,” she said again.

  Well, so could I. Silence dropped between them, punctuated by the cracking and splintering of shells until they had enough nuts to serve with dinner, and more to set aside for later. Rain pattered outside. A mosquito buzzed in languid loops, and Catherine waved it away. She could not blame Thankful for choosing to remain neutral between two warring parties. She knew what it was to dwell between.

  The soup simmered as she spoke. “I’d never ask you to hate someone on my account, Thankful.” Understanding softened her tone.

  “No, of course not.” Thankful laughed, but her relief was obvious. “Will you give him a chance to explain himself?” It was a valid question and gently asked, full of sympathy for both Catherine and Samuel alike.

  Catherine considered her answer before responding. “My wounds were so deep, I would rather not open them again. I have enough scars. So does he. It would be best to leave them alone.”

  Chapter Seven

  If Catherine hadn’t been so hungry, dinner would not have been worth the company. Captain Moreau displayed decent enough manners, but Private Fontaine slurped his soup shamelessly. Catherine and Thankful sat across from the soldiers, pretending not to notice.

  Outside, rain rushed in silver streams from the eaves, making a steady purr as it met the ground. A fire in the dining room hearth toasted air that would otherwise be damp and chill. Lace swayed at Catherine’s elbow as she brought her spoon to her mouth with her left hand. Her right hand rested in the pleats fanning from the waist of her painted silk gown, the grey-yellow bruise inside her forearm discreetly hidden from view.

  Thunder rattled the lead windows in their casings. Hurricane lamps cast a warm glow on the table, the flames leaning when a draft forced its way through a chink in the wall that had yet to be filled.

  Too polite to note the disrepair, Moreau swallowed another spoonful and sighed through his hawklike nose. “Fine soup, mademoiselles, and I thank you for it.”

  Without asking for the bowl of blueberries to be passed, Fontaine reached for it, his sleeve cutting a wide swath across the table. He tipped the bowl sideways, using the serving spoon to roll ripe fruit onto his plate, then snatched the last of the hazelnuts for himself.

  “Brandy?” Gabriel presided from his place at the head of the table. He sat closest to the fire, and his countenance had colored from the heat.

  “Papa,” Catherine murmured with a subtle shake of her head. They had already had a round of rum.

  He turned to Thankful and bade her pour, an order she could not or would not refuse. Her brow crimped as she did so, no doubt as wary as Catherine.

  Gabriel didn’t often entertain, but when he did, he styled himself as a man of means and influence. The means, he still retained from the inheritance left him by his parents. As for influence, he might honestly possess it by now had he stayed the course he’d begun as a young man, finished his schooling, and become a barrister in Montreal. Heaven knew he was shrewd enough. Now all he could do to impress guests was draw attention to his hospitality. Drinking was part of it.

  Moreau, at least, declined the offer, and Thankful returned to her seat in a rustle of coral damask.

  “Soldiers, we aim to please.” Gabriel threw his arm wide to the side. “Consider this your home. I’ve brought a British prisoner down from Montreal. You’ll see him about the property, and should you need anything—wood chopped, water carried, uniforms laundered, that sort of thing—do not hesitate to avail yourself of his service.”

  “A prisonnier de guerre?” Moreau looked more interested than he had for the last hour. “I should like to meet him. That is, if it is convenient for you.”

  “Now? Certainly.” Gabriel motioned to Thankful, and she left t
he dining room to fetch Samuel from the kitchen.

  Wind lashed and moaned about the house. Willow branches rapped on the window. Fontaine sat a little straighter and threw his shoulders back. “What can you tell us about your captive, Duval?”

  Catherine set her jaw as her father explained that Samuel’s scouting party was captured by Mohawks, and that his particular value was as a skilled carpenter and unpaid servant in general. Was it only two days ago that she thought she had burned all memory of him from her mind?

  Samuel appeared in the doorway, a phoenix from those ashes. Freshly shaved and perfectly groomed, he ushered Thankful in before him. They looked like a matched pair, these two fair-skinned, blond-haired English. With ten years between them, they could have been siblings from the same family.

  Samuel seated Thankful at the table. A true servant would have remained standing, awaiting further instruction, but Samuel sat opposite Gabriel, the length of the table between them.

  “Does he speak French?” Moreau asked.

  “Mais oui,” Samuel replied with a cold smile. “But of course.”

  Fontaine returned the smile. “And what do you think of Canadian hospitality? Enjoying your stay, I presume?”

  Moreau leaned toward Fontaine and growled something in his ear. A lump bobbed in the younger man’s throat.

  “Let us begin again,” Moreau said. “Bonjour. My name is Captain Pierre Moreau, and this is Private Gaspard Fontaine.” His thin lips curled around the introduction. “And you are?”

  “Samuel Crane.” Though he didn’t offer rank or regiment, his military posture, even while seated, suggested continued service. “I understand you’re here to collect food for the troops. Quebec is on its last rations. Isn’t that right?” His French was passable but inelegant. He had lost some of his ease with the language.

  Moreau shifted in his chair, eyelids thick.

  “Desperate measure, putting women and children to work in the fields,” Samuel prodded. He was so different from the boy Gabriel had ransomed so long ago. But Catherine didn’t want to think of those days, or of Samuel Crane’s coming of age, or of the man sitting not four feet from her right now.

  Light and shadow slipped lower on the wall. If Catherine could move, she’d stoke the fire. Instead, she trained her attention straight ahead. Gaspard Fontaine lifted his chin at Samuel’s words but said nothing. In the candlelight, his hair shone bright as sugar maples in autumn. For a moment, the veil of haughtiness dropped from his eyes, and Catherine saw the pain he worked to hide. If his brother had truly died of starvation in Quebec, this incessant talk of hunger and harvest must be vinegar to fresh wounds.

  Samuel wasn’t finished. “I hear your French soldiers have already stripped your countryside of anything edible. They carried off oxen, pigs, cattle, poultry, peas, vegetables. . . . In fact, the word is that for two leagues around Quebec, your French soldiers are causing more damage than the British. Do you deny it?”

  Moreau seemed unperturbed but did not respond. He tented his fingers before his chest. “Monsieur Duval, if you can spare your prisoner, we could surely put him to use in the field tomorrow. Your women can help keep an eye on him.”

  Catherine broke from her reverie over Fontaine’s loss. Samuel, work the harvest? Alongside her and Thankful? He would drive her to distraction. “No one will go to the field tomorrow.” She folded her napkin and laid it on top of her plate. “If you cut and bind the wheat while it’s wet, it will rot before you can get it loaded onto the boats.”

  Moreau ran a hand over his face, pulling at the lines already carved between his nose and chin. “A delay,” he mumbled. “We can’t afford it. Frequent heavy rains around Quebec have prevented the wheat crops there from maturing and made road transport nearly impossible. The army there has completely exhausted local supplies of food.”

  Gabriel brought his goblet to his mouth, then licked his lips. “Then it is well you are here in Montreal instead. Give it a day of sunshine, and you’ll be back out with the scythe. You’re welcome to take him then. I can’t see the point of him running. Where would he go without getting caught? Every able-bodied man aside from you supervisors is already up at Quebec. He’d stick out wherever he went.”

  Fontaine wagged a finger at Samuel. “Try anything, and you’ll be shot first, questioned later. I wouldn’t mind doing the honors myself. Been itching to squeeze a trigger for some time now.” His words slurred.

  Gabriel pointed with his spoon. “You’d owe me two hundred livres if you did that, private. Crane is my property. I’ll let him work for you on loan, but I must insist his ability to serve me remain intact.” He let the utensil clatter into his empty bowl. “I don’t mean to spoil your fun. It’s simply business, you understand.”

  “Shall we retire?” Catherine asked, heedless of how abrupt it sounded. Fontaine was drunk. Gabriel was not quite, but on his way. She was exhausted from harvesting, cooking, and putting up with these men. The droop of Thankful’s shoulders suggested she was, too.

  “Shall we? Yes, let’s.” Fontaine leered at Thankful, obviously enthralled by the golden hair beneath her lace cap and by the curves just beneath her fichu.

  “Pretty girl for an Englishwoman, isn’t she?” Gabriel laughed.

  “Indeed. I’d never guess she came from Puritan stock.”

  Catherine could practically feel the heat radiating from Thankful’s mortified face. A muscle flexed in Samuel’s jaw. He’d been protective of Thankful, or had tried to be, when she was a little girl. Now she had a woman’s body, a childlike innocence, and a wisdom beyond her years. She was beautiful by any standard.

  Gabriel chuckled. “A soldier gets lonesome, does he not? I know too well.”

  “How?” Samuel stood. “How would you know, Gabriel?”

  “Lost his arm in King George’s War, didn’t he?” Fontaine gestured toward the empty sleeve. “A veteran like that would know a thing or two about camp life, and he’s earned the right to say it.” He lifted his goblet in a toast to Gabriel. “To veterans, soldiers, and to the women who make war easier to bear.”

  “Is that what you told him?” It was a whisper, but Catherine’s accusing tone seemed to bounce off the stone walls. “You told him you fought in a war?”

  “What he told us, mademoiselle, was that his quick actions saved the lives of a dozen men, though none could save his limb.” Moreau spoke evenly. The look in his eyes invited comment.

  The look in Gabriel’s forbade it.

  Samuel crossed his arms over his chest. “Gabriel Duval never fought for anything other than his own gain, not for a single day of his life.”

  The air left the room. The fire sputtered, sending up a spray of spark and ash behind her father’s chair. The smoke from the flames might have been coming from the man himself, though his composure barely altered.

  “Good night, soldiers,” Catherine said into the void. As if of one mind, she and Thankful began stacking plates to clear them away. “I’m sure you’re very tired. You must think of tomorrow as a day of rest, a gift.”

  Willing the party to break apart, she carried her dishes toward her father and kissed him on both cheeks. “Rest, Papa. Thankful and I will put the house to rights and retire shortly, as well. Please rest.”

  He ignored her, staring straight ahead. Catherine glanced over her shoulder to find Samuel returning his gaze. The tension was choking-thick.

  “If you want the truth, soldiers, your gracious host lives to serve one person, and one person only: himself,” Samuel said. “He is his own first love, and no human being—and certainly no war—could ever be uppermost in his affections. Gabriel Duval fell into his own bear trap, and that is how he lost his arm.”

  The silence that followed pulsed unbearably, made more pronounced by the whine of wind through the trees. Her own breathing was too loud, too fast, too deep. Bracing herself for an outburst from her father, she slowly turned to take his measure and wished he were drunk after all, so that he wouldn’t remember this
moment.

  But his face was granite behind his whiskers. “I never told you that. I wonder where you could have gotten such a ridiculous notion.”

  He turned to Catherine, and she felt the heat of his ire on her skin. At length he smiled, then laughed. But no one else in the room joined in. He’d been humiliated, and he knew it. Never would he forget, at least not until he exacted revenge.

  This wasn’t the first time Samuel had defied him.

  Chapter Eight

  July 1750

  Nine Years Ago

  Catherine was going to be sick.

  Flying Arrow, the Abenaki warrior towering over her, still wore a mask of red paint from the bridge of his nose to his scalp lock. A necklace of bear claws rested against his chest. The silver armband and the rings in his nose and in his distended earlobes caught the dim light in the trading post, but it was not his jewelry that held her fast. Dangling from his fist was a clutch of scalps. Brown hair, auburn, and long wavy blond that shone three shades of yellow in a shaft of sunlight. A tiny wilted wildflower still clung to the strands.

  “Your father is here?” he asked.

  If only he were. “No. He has left me to trade in his place.” It had been this way for some time now, since she had been expelled from the Montreal finishing school two autumns prior. Gabriel still hadn’t recovered from the blow to his pride. At least now, with sixteen summers behind her, Catherine was old enough to run the trading post while her father disappeared to do only-he-knew-what. She hadn’t seen him all day.

  Flying Arrow grunted. “You are the sister of Bright Star, yes? Of the Wolf Clan?”

  She said she was.

  “I hear your father is a useless man who does not provide for his own. You should have stayed with your clan. You could be married by now. But I will still trade with you. You with your eyes the blue of trade beads.” He flashed a smile, his teeth startlingly white. “You give me those muskets.” He pointed to the weapons behind her. “Powder and balls, too. You take these to Montreal, and the governor will repay you, thirty-three livres for each one. These are the scalps of those who were too weak to survive the march.”