Mosquitoes hummed between them. “Bright Star, I think you should go.” There was time enough to catch the bateau and jump in, and surely her sister would benefit from doing the work she loved. A change of pace and scenery, a task to complete—these were good medicine. A fact already proven.
As Catherine beheld her sister, she saw the woman of seven years ago. Bright Star had been twenty-one then and had already lost to illness her first husband and both children, a daughter and a son. Death was no stranger to the People, but this was a staggering blow. Clan mothers had encouraged Bright Star to order a raid on New England so she could adopt captives to replace her children. Grey Wolf would have raided. Any warrior would have. When Catherine had learned of the idea, she had railed against it. “How could you take children from another mother when you know the pain of losing your own?” In grief-drenched fury, Bright Star had pointed to Thankful and hissed back, “How could you possibly tell me not to, when you have taken one yourself?” She had collapsed to the ground and rubbed dirt in her hair. “I don’t want any others,” she had said then. “I want Raven and Gentle Breeze.” But children of her own flesh, she could never hold again.
That was the summer Catherine had finally gathered the courage to bridge the gap between them the only way she knew how. “I need your help,” she had told Bright Star. “Our porters no longer want to make the trip to Albany, but I still want to trade with the merchants there myself. Come with me?” And Bright Star had. Together they had reinforced ties between nations strong enough to weather war. In the process, Bright Star grew stronger, less overshadowed by her loss. Once connected in New York, the sisters had traveled north to collect furs from the Abenaki at Odanak on the Saint-François River and from French traders at Trois-Rivières and Quebec on the St. Lawrence. Eventually, they competed with fur companies every August at Lachine. Samuel kept watch over Thankful while Catherine was away. That arrangement lasted two years.
Then Samuel left, and Catherine had stayed home with Thankful while Bright Star led teams of porters on the voyages without her. Red Fox, her new husband, allowed it. He could tell she was good at the job, and the job was good for her.
All of this flashed through Catherine’s mind as she said to Bright Star, “Purpose suits you.”
“Sister.” Joseph rested his lean hand on the tomahawk at his hip. “She has one.”
Birdsong filled the air as the sky tempered from orange to pink. Catherine cast a glance at the porters as they glided around a bend. “What do you mean?”
“Samuel Crane has come back, has he not?” Bright Star fingered the end of her braid. “Joseph told me. And so, I think I will stay.”
A breeze ruffled the feathers spiking from Joseph’s scalp lock. He jabbed two fingers toward the house where Samuel slept. “You said yourself, his presence does not please you. Did you speak true?”
Catherine watched the willow branches sway for a moment before responding. “I did.”
Joseph drew himself up even taller, his face full of all the wisdom a young warrior could possess.
Bright Star rubbed a thumb over knuckles worn raw with work. “I will tend to my harvest here at home.”
Exasperated, Catherine threw an outstretched palm in the direction of Kahnawake, imagining dozens of women bending themselves to the fields, their children laughing and running among them. It was one field, one harvest for the entire community. “There are others who can tend it.”
“And who will tend to you?” Joseph’s voice was low, his words those of a provider and protector.
Bright Star nodded. “Samuel wants something from you, yes? What will he do to get his way? You may not know him as well as you think.”
“And you do not know him at all.”
Bright Star crossed her arms, the familiar judgment infusing her posture. “Are you defending him now?”
“Of course not.” It was irrelevant now, Catherine supposed, that Bright Star hadn’t spent more time becoming acquainted with Samuel after he proposed. But old insults were easily recalled.
“Then let us defend you,” Joseph added.
“You may not need us at all.” Bright Star’s voice was flat and controlled. “Isn’t that why you left Kahnawake? You never depended on your community. You’ve always been too busy chasing your own interests.”
Catherine could not hold her tongue. “I chose to be the one our father could depend upon, when no one else in the world would, and you make it sound like selfishness.”
“My sisters!” Joseph sliced his hand between them, cutting off the age-old argument. “Enough talk of years gone by. There is nothing new to say. We have troubles enough for today. Catherine, Bright Star and I both stay home. If you do need us, much better that we are in Kahnawake rather than somewhere we cannot be reached.”
Catherine stood on the soft earth of the bank, composing herself until she could speak without further provoking Bright Star. “Joseph, will you not go fighting with the French?”
His lip curled in a crooked frown, a boyhood expression he’d never outgrown. “There is dissension among the People. Our French Father does not abide by his agreements, so there are some who do not feel bound by treaties already broken. You know they are giving away our hunting grounds without a fight. This fall and winter we will be shot at or captured for hunting on our own land.” He pushed his shoulders back, lifted his chin. “I do not wish to fight with the French right now. When I fight again, it will be with and against whomever I please. This is what suits me.”
Catherine nodded her understanding and escorted Joseph and Bright Star to the lane that would take them back to Kahnawake. “I’m grateful for your thoughtfulness,” she said. “But don’t let your concern about Samuel Crane keep either of you from whatever you’d rather be doing.”
Joseph paused at the edge of the lane and looked down at her. “You do not understand. Gabriel’s way of looking out only for himself—that is not our way, Catherine Stands-Apart. Tell us if you have a need, and we will meet it.”
“Which would be far easier if you’d never left.” Eyes flashing, Bright Star turned and walked away.
When Joseph and Bright Star departed, their words remained with Catherine. Their protective sentiments surprised her. Bright Star’s bristling manner did not. Even so, Catherine couldn’t imagine how her siblings might help her deal with Samuel’s reentry into her life. This was a struggle for her alone. Unable to sort her feelings just yet, she resolved to restore order where she could.
Propping open both the front and rear doors of the post, she invited fresh air and light to sweep through the space. The whitewashed stone walls smelled damp after last night’s rain. Combined with the heat, the sharpened odors of deerskins, rum, and tobacco made for an overpowering experience.
Fists on her hips, she tallied the disarray from Gabriel’s shift yesterday and set to work repairing it. Before doing anything else, she swept dust, grass, and leaves out the door. Mud spotted a few places near the wall where rain had seeped in and mixed with dirt tracked onto the floor. Stroud cloth, the most prized British linen, had been unfolded and then shoved back between the shelves in wrinkled heaps. Catherine shook out and refolded them, the stripes facing out for easy perusal. Two red stripes, a triple band of blue. Alternating red and blue. She was lucky they hadn’t been knocked to the floor and soiled.
Two new jars of honey told her someone must have traded with her father in Catherine’s absence. The ledger held no record of it, but a survey of the shelves showed fewer candles. She made a note.
A gust of wind knocked hanging pots and kettles together, filling her ears with the rustic chime. Casks of rum squatted near the cold hearth opposite a case devoted to bags of tobacco. After making sure the containers were all sealed tightly, she turned her attention to the bowls of trade beads on the counter, sorting out those that had been misplaced. There was satisfaction in the straightening. If only she could organize her thoughts as easily.
A shadow stretched to meet her.
Catherine looked up to find Gaspard Fontaine, toque in his hands, standing in the door. He appeared to be sober, and repentant at that. Retying the apron strings behind her waist, she moved to a felt-covered tray and rearranged the knives it held. “Bonjour. May I help you?”
Clearly, he was not here to trade, for he’d brought nothing save a guilty expression. “I’ve been a rogue, mademoiselle.”
Her hands stilled. Lacing her fingers, she gave him her full attention. A hint of coffee carried on his words, but nothing else.
“I’d like to blame the rum. I’d like to blame what compels me to drink so freely. But my mother raised her sons better than that. She’d be appalled at my behavior as your guest, and so would my brother. I must apologize.” He sank down onto a cask and bowed his head.
Catherine remained behind the counter, guarded. “Your brother,” she repeated, an invitation for him to tell her more.
When Fontaine looked up, the pain in his grey eyes was unfeigned. The corners of his mouth pulled down. “Did Moreau tell you? I thought he might have.”
“He mentioned you had a brother in service at Quebec, but that he passed away. Quite recently.”
He slid a glance to the fireplace. “Did he tell you he starved to death? Oh, the doctor called it something else, but the truth is, he didn’t have enough food to live on, let alone recover from an illness.” His tone took on a hatchet’s edge. “This wheat you’re harvesting, it would have saved him. Instead, his body was in the ground before I was even allowed to pay my respects. News was sent to my parents, mere words on a page. I’d have told them myself, but I can’t get leave.”
Gone was his arrogant façade. His face was wiped clean of mischief. For the first time, Catherine felt she was seeing a glimpse of who he really was.
“I’m sorry for your loss. Truly.” She thought of his parents receiving the letter and could only imagine how much they longed for the comfort their son might offer in person.
“My parents are old. I was the ‘miracle’ child of their advanced years, like Isaac for Sarah and Abraham. Augustin was much older than me. He used to take care of them, with his wages and more. Now it’s my turn, but I can’t until the war is over. And do you know what’s really troubling? Sometimes I can’t even remember what we’re fighting for.”
Catherine skirted the counter and lowered herself to a cask opposite him. She could see Fontaine floundering without belief in his service to New France. “I hear this war is different from the last one,” she tried. “They say when it ends, the victorious empire will reign over the defeated nation’s colonies. All of New England and all of New France ruled by just one king. The combined resources of this continent—”
“Pardon me, mademoiselle, but I do not give a fig for empires and conquests and trade routes. I only want to live in peace with my family once more, with food enough to eat without also having to supply the armies of France from our meager yields. And as both King George and King Louis live an ocean away, I don’t suppose it very much matters which one of them says this land is theirs. Besides, no matter who wins or loses, Augustin is still dead.” Licking his lips, he thumped the cask beneath him with two fingers. “Rum is the only thing that dulls the pain.”
Sympathy argued that the grieving young man was no threat. But experience persuaded Catherine that no man filled with rum could be trusted.
“Do you understand?” he asked. “Will you forgive me?”
“I do understand. And I do forgive you. But you would honor me best by refraining from all but a moderate drink with your supper. If you cannot stop there, I’d request you stop before you even begin.”
He blinked. “Stop drinking—altogether?”
“If necessary. I won’t abide drunkenness.”
Fontaine stood, shoving his hat into place over his coppery hair. “Does your father know?”
His smile brought the blood to Catherine’s cheeks. He’d called her bluff before she even realized her mistake, but her father’s habits were not a subject she wished to discuss. Escorting Fontaine to the door, she stood in its frame and watched him walk away.
Chapter Ten
Catherine lingered in the doorway of the post, gaze drifting from the hemlocks that swallowed Fontaine from view to the clouds feathering a sky almost low enough to touch.
“Catherine.” Samuel called to her as he crossed from the house, his voice still low and thick from sleep.
She ducked back inside the trading post.
He followed. “Catherine, wait.” He closed the door, casting shadows where there had been light.
“Open the door, Samuel.”
He lost no time in striding over to her. “Listen to me. I need to get out of here. I can’t stay, do you understand?” He stood so close, she saw the stubble on his jaw, felt the heat radiating from his body. “I must leave, and I need you to help me escape. You know I can’t do it alone.”
Her teeth clenched. “It’s not something I’m likely to forget, though I’ve tried.” She stepped away from him and stood behind the counter, a kind of barricade against his entreaties. But there was far more than space between them.
Samuel rested his hands on the counter. “If you hadn’t brought me back to health after my failed attempt to escape, I’d have died. But you wouldn’t let me, and for that I’m grateful.” Sun seeped through the shutters, slanting across his face. “I don’t wish to escape for my own sake this time. I must deliver information to the British that would drastically alter the course of the war. It would speed its end. Isn’t that what we all want?” He moved his hand toward hers, and she dropped her fists to her sides. “I need you again, Catherine.”
Indignation built inside her. It reared up with the force of a breaker until she was helpless to hold it back. “How dare you,” she seethed quietly, and watched his eyes widen. “What? Do you pretend to be surprised that I’m angry with you? I’m livid.” She gave vent to it, voice growing stronger with every syllable. “You waltz back into my life—”
“I’d hardly call being captured by the enemy and purchased as a slave waltzing—”
“After five years without a word, you just appear and expect me to act like you didn’t dice my heart to pieces. Not only that, you’re asking for my help, manipulating me, preying on old sympathies.” Pulse pounding at her temples, she spilled every ounce of emotion she’d bottled and corked and sealed. “You offer no hint as to what kept you away, not even the faintest glimmer of what happened to you after you parted ways with Bright Star in New York. Did you even get home? Did you find Joel?” She hated that she cared enough to even ask the questions.
Samuel blanched. “Joel?” His hands splayed wide atop the counter as he leaned forward. “You’re asking about Joel?”
“He’s the reason you left me, isn’t he? Of course I want to know about him!” Catherine whisked to the front window, slamming the shutters open. Light streamed into the post, gilding everything it touched. “Which you would know if you had read a single letter I sent!”
“You assume I received all your letters!”
They were yelling at each other and over each other in a way they had never done before. Their voices ricocheted against the walls, and when they paused, the kettles rang and reverberated with their anger.
Catherine crossed her arms. “How can you ask me for help when you haven’t the decency to explain why you never came back?”
He turned from her, staring at the muskets on the rack until he calmed. “I thought you’d be married by now and away from your father, you and Thankful both. I didn’t think this would still matter so much to you.” His tone dulled. “I didn’t imagine I would still matter to you.”
Whirling from him, she stared through the lead panes of the window toward the St. Lawrence River and wished she were there instead. The idea that Samuel pitied her was a fire that burned her pride to ash. “I moved on,” she said to the glass. “But since you came back, bitterness beats a drum against my chest until I fear my skin may wear away.
I don’t ask for your love or affection, Samuel, but I deserve to know what happened.” Her words turned to fog on the window, and she rubbed it away with her thumb.
“That you do.” With a labored sigh, Samuel made his way between barrels to sit at the puncheon table in the back. “I found Joel.” His face grim, he gestured to the empty seat across from him.
Pressing a hand to her stomach, she summoned her composure and joined him.
Samuel studied a knot in the board, tracing its lines with a callused finger. “He was married when I finally reached home five years ago. He said he’d tried sending more letters through the merchant in Albany and your porters, but . . . I don’t know what happened. Any number of things. It doesn’t matter. But when I got home, I was overjoyed to find him, my family. You know how long I’d waited for that moment.” He looked up.
“I do.” She nearly held her breath, anxious to hear the rest. A breeze swept in from the open back door, blowing strands of hair from the thick knot at the nape of her neck.
“I required too much of that joy.” He inhaled deeply, hesitating for a moment. “I expected it to cancel out the sorrow that surged for my parents. When I was home and they were not, I felt their absence more sharply than I ever did in Montreal. Visiting their graves brought back scenes I didn’t even know I still carried. Fond recollections, yes, but also horrific ones of the night they were massacred. I did not handle those memories well.” He turned his face away from the sun, and shadows masked his features.
Catherine’s palms grew damp on her apron-covered lap. Her mother’s people had done this. Their blood ran hot through her veins. “What did you do?”
“Anger filled me. I was so consumed with rage, it scared me. I was afraid it would affect how I saw you.” He glanced at her, suffering reflecting in his eyes. “I didn’t blame you for what happened to my parents. I didn’t blame Bright Star or Joseph. But in the back of my mind, I felt it would be a relief to hate the Mohawk people, the Abenaki people, all the nations who raided New England settlements. I wanted to give in to hate, because it was the only emotion stronger than sorrow.” His tone took on an unfamiliar edge.
Between Two Shores Page 11
