Between Two Shores

by Jocelyn Green

  His voice grated on. “What surprised me was that you’d spirited away the key to the trading post, and when the porters returned from their trip to Schenectady, whoever had the key helped themselves to payment for their troubles.”

  “And left all the trade goods inside,” Catherine added, thoughts spooling back to the days before they’d left. “That was the arrangement.”

  “No.” The word exploded from him, and Thankful stiffened. “They did not. Aside from one barrel of oysters, no other British goods from that trip were delivered. All those furs must have brought a small fortune, certainly enough to see us through the winter. We have none of it.”

  Catherine untied her cape and draped it over her arm. “Then there has been a mistake. My instructions were to deliver a barrel of oysters to Yvette Trudeau in Montreal, and stock the rest of the goods inside the trading post.” She turned to her sister. “Do you know anything about this?”

  “Your instructions were the same words I passed along.” Bright Star’s lips flicked up on one side. “But if they became confused somehow, the porters may have delivered the one barrel of oysters here, so Monsieur Duval would not go hungry, and taken the rest to Madame Trudeau.”

  Thankful spun away from the fire to listen. Warmth had returned the color to her cheeks.

  Catherine’s eyes rounded. “A mistake, then.”

  “Yes, but not one that bothers me,” Bright Star whispered in Mohawk. “Although if you ask Madame Trudeau, I’m sure she’d return the goods.”

  Sparks showered from crumbling logs turning grey with ash. “What did she say?” Gabriel set his pipe in a bowl on the table and put his hand behind his ear. “What did that savage say?”

  “She is your daughter,” Catherine hissed. “Every bit as much as I am.”

  Thankful’s countenance clouded, and she sank into an armchair and pulled an unfinished piece of knitting from the basket on the floor. The work transformed her fingers from shaking to purposeful and smoothed away the brackets around her mouth.

  In the silence, noises amplified—the clicking of Thankful’s needles, the ticking of the clock, the pop and crack of flame.

  Gabriel stared between all three of them. “I see one daughter here, though she seems to have forgotten her loyalties.” Turning, he drew a book from the walnut tea table. “Look familiar?”

  Recognition darted through Catherine at the sight of Monsieur Trudeau’s ledger book. It seemed that years had passed since she had gone through it with an eye to help Yvette understand the business she’d inherited from her late husband. “You went through my things?”

  “You must have known I might, or you wouldn’t have hidden this as well as you did. But in vain. I read all your notes, tucked so neatly into the pages. How very helpful of you, how kind of you to resurrect our competition by teaching that widow how to trade, and with whom, and when and where.”

  Catherine reached out to take the ledger from him. He pushed past her and, holding the book open under his shortened arm, ripped the pages from the binding and threw them into the fire.

  “No, don’t!” She lunged for it, but Bright Star held her back. The pages blackened and curled. The record of an entire career in trade crumbled into ash. Dazed by Gabriel’s selfishness, she watched the destruction long enough for her face to grow burning hot.

  “You are a traitor,” Gabriel said. “To me.”

  The words were live coals heaped upon Catherine’s chest. After all she had done with Samuel to affect the battle at Quebec, her father’s accusations landed here, on a gesture of goodwill toward a harmless milliner. At least if he’d chastised her for helping the British, he would have shown some patriotism. But her father’s allegiance was to himself alone.

  “I did not betray you.” Catherine kept her voice cool, though fury boiled inside. “I was helping a widow in need, a good woman who has shown me nothing but kindness. I fully intended to keep running your trade for you. She was no threat, trust me.”

  Gabriel’s eyes narrowed into slits of disapproval. “I will never trust you again. You play two sides of the same game. You always have. Speaking of which, where is Samuel now? The man I paid for—twice. Where is he?”

  Breath pushed in and out of Catherine, pulsing against her ribs. It crossed her mind that she could tell her father that Joseph had been killed in a brutal raid, and still Gabriel would care more about the captive he’d paid for than the death of Strong Wind’s son. She would not prove it by speaking her brother’s name here.

  “Well?” Gabriel shouted, shoulders hunching up with mounting tension. “Where is Samuel Crane?”

  Catherine looked at her father and saw twenty-five years of striving to please him, of trying to be enough. Over and over again, she’d tried to save the loup-garou from himself and failed. “He is gone. Free of you.” Those last words broke loose a bond inside her.

  She could be free of him, too.

  Cursing, Gabriel picked up the porcelain teapot from the table and hurled it against the wall. It shattered with a crash a foot from Thankful’s head. She screamed, and Bright Star stepped in front of her to shield her, exuding strength and protection like an atmosphere.

  “We’re leaving. For good.” Catherine swung her cape back over her shoulders and tied a quick knot at her neck.

  Gabriel blanched. “You can’t be serious. I need you here. This is your home!” An odd mixture of anger and fear crawled across his face. Veins throbbed across his temple and neck.

  “No. It was my home. I thought my love would be enough to bring back the papa I once knew. I was wrong.”

  “For pity’s sake, girl—”

  “Pity?” she repeated. “It was for pity’s sake I left my siblings and came to live with you. It was for pity’s sake I stayed. You’ve had my pity all these years, and in truth, you have it still. But you shall not have me nor Thankful beneath your roof anymore. You’ve proven you can live without us.”

  “You can’t just leave the house, the post. You have nothing without me. Where will you possibly go?” But as soon as he asked, understanding filtered into his eyes. He knew.

  So did she.

  With his protests in her ears, and Bright Star and Thankful at her side, she put Gabriel, and that pain, behind her.

  Outside, Bright Star squeezed Catherine’s shoulder. “You did the right hard thing. I’m proud of you.” She kissed Catherine’s forehead, a comfort that was both sisterly and maternal, a pouring of water into places of her heart that had been dust-dry for years.

  “Thank you.” Thankful exhaled deeply, an act that seemed to push the last several minutes, or longer, far away. “I couldn’t bear another moment in that house. I know you loved your father, though, and I’m sorry your relationship came to this.”

  A small smile tugged Catherine’s mouth. “Someone very wise once reminded me that some stories don’t end the way we want them to. But only when one story ends can another begin.”

  Bright Star’s eyes misted as she took Catherine’s hand and Thankful’s. “Then I will take my new beginning with you.”

  Epilogue

  Montreal, Quebec

  October 1761

  Two Years Later

  “You’re in luck, sir.” Catherine smiled at her customer as she handed him the three large beaver pelts he’d asked for. “These are the last of our current stock.”

  The British officer ran his hand over the dense, soft fur with a murmur of approval. “Out of furs already? Either you didn’t have many to begin with, or business has been good for you.”

  Lacing her hands before her sprigged coral gown, she told him it was the latter. “Since the hostilities ended last year, trade has been very good indeed.” With Montreal’s capitulation in September of 1760, the war—at least on this continent—was over. The trappers moved freely once more, and Catherine collected furs at Lachine as she had for years. Only now she sold them from inside this establishment within Montreal, just as the late Monsieur Trudeau had. Yvette had turned the
trading post entirely over to Catherine’s control and legally made her a partner. She had also updated her will so that upon her passing, the business would be solely Catherine’s.

  Sergeant Huntington scanned the shop. Several women browsed the opposite half of the store, which held all the bonnets and hats a woman could wish for, in styles both French and English. While Yvette hosted a wealthy patron at the tea table with her usual charm and grace, Thankful displayed her latest millinery creations to interested shoppers.

  Thankful was made for this work. Not only was she talented enough to create the fashions, but her upswept blond hair—thick and shining now that she had enough to eat—made her a stunning model. Because she could also speak English, British soldiers came to her when shopping for the women in their lives.

  One young Englishman came shopping for hats more than anyone else. They were for his sister, he said, but the flush in his cheeks and the stammer in his voice when he was near Thankful suggested he actually came for another reason. Eventually Catherine expected him to outright court Thankful, or try. At eighteen years of age, she was certainly old enough for a suitor. Some day she might choose to marry and begin her own family, but for now, Catherine and Yvette both cherished the time they still had with her.

  The sergeant turned back to Catherine. “I suppose it didn’t hurt that so many Montreal merchants moved back to France when your country surrendered.”

  She straightened the cameo pendant at her neck. “I understand why they didn’t want to stay, and I wish them all the best, especially since the war still rages in Europe. But you’re correct, we did inherit some of their customers and have gained new ones like you.”

  “It’s a good thing you speak our language, for so many of us are hopeless with French. But tell me, mademoiselle, do you find yourself conflicted, doing business with your conquerors?”

  The word surprised her. “I don’t feel conquered, sergeant. We suffered through a war that I never would have asked for. But we’re on the other side of it now. We have food, we are safe—no longer under threat of raid, or siege, or battle. Most of the refugees who filled this city have found their way back to their own homes or those of relatives. I’m doing work I enjoy, and I’m surrounded by the people I love. You won the fight for this country, and yet, in these simple ways, I feel victorious.”

  Huntington smiled, though he didn’t look entirely convinced. “An interesting view of victory, to be sure, especially coming from you. As a businesswoman and one who conducts good trades, I would have thought you’d have a more logical definition.” He straightened the tricorne on his white powdered wig. “I’m grateful to do business with you, in any case. Shall we?” He paid her for the furs, and she wrapped them in paper and tied the package with string.

  “Until next time,” she said with an amused smile.

  With a touch to the brim of his hat, he bade her good day. The bell above the door jingled as he left.

  Catherine recorded Sergeant Huntington’s sale in the ledger book she had started when she and Thankful moved in with Yvette. Then, indulging in a rare idle moment, she watched the people passing by on the street outside the window. After the solitude of her former home on the opposite bank of the river, she sometimes tired of the city. But for the most part she thrived on the robust business the people brought through her doors. It was so different from her first time living in Montreal that the two experiences defied comparison. As a child at Madame Bonneville’s school, Catherine was an outcast. Now she was at the center of activity.

  Bright Star passed the window, stooped beneath a bundle on her back, tumpline across her brow. Catherine hastened to meet her at the door.

  “This is the last of them.” Bright Star patted the bale on her back. “They got wet in last night’s rain.”

  Catherine escorted her to the back room of the shop and held the fifty-pound bundle while Bright Star eased out from under the strap. “These are all from Kahnawake families?” Catherine guessed.

  “Yes.” Bright Star rubbed at the mark left on her forehead by the tumpline, then pushed a fist against the small of her back. “Here, let’s spread them out to dry. I’m sure Yvette and Thankful wouldn’t appreciate the animal smell mixing with their patrons’ perfumes.”

  Chuckling, Catherine cut the rope and unwrapped the furs. “This is good timing, Bright Star. Did you notice my shelves are bare? I sold the last of the beaver pelts just before you arrived.” Her fingers sank into the top pelt as she moved it to dry on a rack.

  Nodding her approval, Bright Star did the same. “Here is fox, wolf, and some beaver. They took a while treating the skins, or I would have had them to you sooner.”

  Together they spread out each fur until the back room was covered with a lush carpet of grey, orange, and brown. “Still coming for dinner on Sunday?” Catherine asked.

  “I wouldn’t miss it. And believe it or not, neither would Gabriel.” Bright Star’s lips slanted into a smile. “Do you know what Yvette’s cook will make for us yet?”

  “Roasted goose and apples, salad greens, fresh white bread.”

  Bright Star raised an eyebrow. “He’ll love that. Last week he talked about that clove-and-cinnamon-spiced pork pie all the way home.”

  “The tourtière?” Catherine opened two windows to permit a breeze. “That’s a favorite of Yvette’s, too.”

  Dinner had become a weekly tradition, and a hard-earned one at that. Unwilling to completely abandon Gabriel, Catherine had brought him food regularly, and after each visit had gone to Kahnawake to see her sister. But once the trading post and millinery shop were doing well enough that Yvette could hire a cook, she insisted that Catherine invite Gabriel to dine with them there. Several months later, he finally agreed. No less astounding, Bright Star volunteered to bring him. For the past year, Gabriel and Bright Star had shared every Sunday dinner with Yvette, Catherine, and Thankful. Bright Star still didn’t call Gabriel her father and most likely never would. The small kindnesses she showed him were for Catherine’s sake.

  “How is Papa, really?” Catherine asked Bright Star, for even though Gabriel came for Sunday dinners, he still gave cagey answers meant to spark guilt. “You’d know how I am if you were around more,” was a favorite line of his. But she felt no hint of regret for her decision to move away. Living and working with Yvette had been the absolute right thing to do for all of them. Thankful’s hands, which shook so much after the raid at Odanak, were calm and steady when she worked millinery. In time, the trembling had subsided even when her hands were at rest. For Catherine, this new beginning allowed her to fulfill her potential while nurturing relationships with her family in healthier ways. She kept in touch with her father, but his happiness was his own responsibility. The freedom in that realization gave her wings.

  A gust of cool wind stirred the room, ruffling the furs about them. “Gabriel is fine,” Bright Star said. “He hired a couple British soldiers stationed at Fort St. Louis who were looking to make extra money during their off-duty hours. They chop firewood and fill in chinks in the mortar between the stones. It’s day labor, a very simple arrangement, but it’s good for everyone. Despite what he would have you think, his needs are well met. Between his hired help, the Sunday dinners, and you coming to check on him once a week with a basket of food, you need not worry that he’s neglected.”

  “Thank you.” Catherine grasped her sister’s hand and squeezed.

  In the front room, the bell chimed over the door as more patrons left, hopefully with hatboxes in hand.

  “It’s almost closing time,” Catherine told Bright Star. “Stay a moment, if you can, while I get your payment. I know Thankful will want to see you.”

  “And I want to see both my sisters. And the woman who loves to mother them.” Brushing loose tufts of fur from her deerskin dress, Bright Star flashed a smile.

  When Catherine and Thankful had first moved in with Yvette, their stories about Bright Star stirred the older woman until she offered her home to Bright Star
, too. Catherine had extended the invitation, but Bright Star had turned it down. “Remember how hard it was for you to live in Montreal when you were only a child?” she’d said gently. “I am a woman grown. I cannot fit there, and I have no wish to try. My place is with the People, but I promise you this: We will continue to work together, and I will see more of you from now on than I ever did when you lived less than two miles away.” It was a promise she had kept.

  When Catherine and Bright Star returned to the front of the store, the last customer was just leaving. Yvette locked the door and turned to greet Bright Star, arms outstretched. “Ma chère! What a delight to see you!”

  Thankful placed a Closed sign in the window display and whisked over to buss Bright Star’s cheek. With all the animation of youth, she regaled her with stories from the day’s work, tugging laughter from Bright Star’s lips. Quietly, Catherine watched the three of them together.

  Because of their string of victories in 1759—the fall of Quebec chief among them—the British called it their Annus Mirabilis, or Year of Miracles. But right here in this store, Catherine stood looking at hers. Thankful had risen above her terrors. Yvette had found new life and joy after nearly losing everything. And Bright Star had surfaced from the sorrows that had drowned her, emerging a loving sister again. Two years after Joseph was killed at Odanak, she and Catherine were closer than they’d ever been, his death the bridge he had tried to build between them during his life. Miracles, indeed.

  Yvette swept out of the room, likely to call for fresh tea. As Thankful and Bright Star conversed, Catherine withdrew payment for the Kahnawake furs but didn’t want to interrupt them just yet. Pulling a pin from the coil about her head, she let her braid fall against the lace trim at her shoulder and gazed through the many-paned window.

  Outside, scarlet maple leaves fluttered to the ground. Nibbling pastries, cherub-cheeked children held fast to mothers hurrying home. A dog ran by, chasing a squirrel. Even horses had returned to the city, stamping their horseshoe seals upon the roads. And there were men in Montreal once more, those who had survived, returned from the militia and reunited with their families. Life still wasn’t easy under the new regime, but hunger no longer haunted their eyes.