“Edouard, mon ami, you are undone. No more eating what you will, no more sleeping and working when you want. Quel dommage!” Josef’s grin took the bite out of his words.
“Oui, it’s a pity.” Edouard shook his head.
“So where do you go with the long face?”
“To get water for us.”
“Ah, the hen is already pecking at the rooster!” Josef let out a whoop and slapped his knee. His gaze darted over to Jeanne. “Dance, ma’amselle?” With that, Edouard’s sister gave a toss of her black hair and entered the crowd with Josef.
Edouard reached the family wagon, found the cask, and fumbled for a tin cup. Papa waved at him from where he sat with Mama. They should have chosen a better husband for Josée. He did agree that Jacques was unsuitable—the boy would probably have broken her heart—but marry him? In truth, Edouard had not thought much beyond the actual idea of being married—past the ceremony—and on to life with a woman underfoot.
A pecking hen. Someone to tell him not to track dirt in the cabin, to work, to not sleep when he wanted. He had not shared a bed since he was a child and piled in with Jacques. Marriage was a different matter altogether. The hangman’s noose settled around Edouard’s neck once again. Mon Dieu, why are You doing this to me?
The contents of the cup nearly sloshed over the sides. Edouard looked down to steady his hand and nearly collided with a figure in his path. Celine, with her husband looming beside her.
“Bon temps ce soir, non?” Jean-Luc Dupuis shook hands with Edouard.
Edouard shrugged. “Je ne sais pas.” He did not know if tonight was a good time, nor if the days to follow would be either. Celine looked like a startled grosbek about to flap its long wings and soar away over the bayou, instead of ending up as someone’s supper. Edouard hoped his expression read that she had nothing to fear from him.
“A’bien, Edouard, I wish you and your bride long life, happy years, and many children together.” With a nod, Jean-Luc whisked his wife away from Edouard and toward their wagon.
Many of La Manque stopped to speak with Edouard on his way back to Josée. He did not regret so much his decision to keep to himself and stay at the bayou.
He wondered if any of them whispered, “That’s the one who left our village to join with Lafitte. He should have left well enough alone.” Did they laugh at the hermit saddled with a lively wife? Or was she the object of their pity?
No matter how many well-wishers greeted him, cheered him, punched him good-naturedly in the arm, Edouard knew that their sincere efforts could not ensure him and Josée much of anything.
Josée let her feet tap to the sound of the merry dance. She longed to have someone whisk her out into the happy group of villagers. But she remained seated on the blanket and clapped along with a few of the others. Where was Edouard?
“He’s left you alone, has he?” Jacques’s lanky form blocked her view of the firelight.
“Edouard is getting us a drink.” Josée would not rise to her feet. Jacques, she knew, wanted to pull her to the dance. The band now played a mournful ballad of a lost love.
Jacques reached down for her hand.
“Non. I’m waiting for Edouard.”
“One dance?” Jacques’s voice took on a wheedling tone.
Josée shook her head. “I promised….” She did not think it would be difficult to refuse Jacques’s request.
“Find someone else to dance with.” Edouard stood next to Jacques. Josée had never seen such a look on her husband’s face. Like a gator prepared to attack, Edouard’s expression should have been enough to make Jacques leave them alone.
“Josée looked like she was not havin’ fun.”
“She is my responsibility, not yours.” Edouard used his free hand to point a finger at himself, then at Jacques’s chest.
Josée stood and took the cup from Edouard. She had to tug a little to get him to release it. Perhaps a distraction would soothe his irritation.
“I was resting, Jacques. Good night!” She sipped from the cup and returned it to Edouard. “Merci.”
“Yes, good night,” Edouard echoed. He slung the cup to the ground. It scudded across the grass. He grabbed Josée’s hand so hard that tears pricked her eyes. “Josée, we’ll go home.”
“But—”
He swung away from the party. Josée’s shoulder jolted, and she gasped.
“Edouard—” She flung a glance back at Jacques, who stood staring after them.
“I have had enough of people for one night, perhaps for a good many nights.” Even in the moonlight, Josée could see the pulsation of Edouard’s jaw. She trotted to keep up with him. Words seldom failed her except for now. Crickets clamored in the summer evening.
Edouard slowed his pace and grimaced. “I’m sorry I pulled your arm like that. I wasn’t tryin’ to hurt you. I did not think. Mon Dieu reminds me of my bad leg.”
“I do not think your pain was God’s doing. I think if you had remembered and walked more slowly—” Josée stopped and bit her lip. “Anyway, my arm is fine, no worse than a cow pulling on its rope, trying to get away. Jacques—”
“Jacques is an idiote. He does not listen, and it was not your fault.”
“Thank you. I did not speak to him first.” Josée squeezed his hand, but he did not return the gesture, and she blinked back tears. “Do you mean for us to walk all the way home?”
“Oui. Last I knew, I had no grosbek wings.”
Humor on the heels of his outburst spun in Josée’s head. “True.” The trees shadowed them along the road, and Josée shivered. She let go of Edouard’s hand and rubbed her gooseflesh-covered arms.
They approached Breaux’s Bridge, a recent boon to La Manque and the surrounding farms. A half-moon showed them the way to cross. One of Josée’s slippers skidded on the new planks.
Edouard took her hand. “Careful. I don’t want you to slip.” Josée wondered what had happened to his earlier tones, when they had danced. The only depth of feeling his touch held was protection. Bayou Teche drifted below them.
Once back on hard ground, Josée’s feet began to throb. She never should have accepted Jeanne’s loan of slippers a size too small. “You’ll wear them only for a few hours,” Jeanne had assured her.
Edouard stopped and looked at her slippers. “You can take those silly shoes off.” He shook his head. “Women!”
Josée straightened her shoulders after she found she could not wiggle her toes inside the slippers. “I’ll be fine.”
He fell silent the rest of the walk home. Josée never wanted to walk that far again. Between her feet and the thick silence, Josée was ready to explode. The bayou cabin waited in sight. Josée wished she had listened to Edouard and taken off the slippers, but she did not want to bend.
They moved around the side of the cabin and saw the bayou. A lump the size of an apple lodged in Josée’s throat. Her new home. A breeze tugged on the moss draped on the cypress trees, and their branches moved as if to wave her inside.
Edouard climbed the steps and flung open the door. “Er … I will rebuild the fire.”
Josée followed him. “No, I can.” At least she hoped she could. Around the LeBlanc family, most of them took turns. And most of the other females would end up helping Josée coax the smoldering embers to life.
Feeling Edouard’s gaze on her, Josée kicked off the slippers by the door and crossed the room. She fell to her knees and glanced at Edouard, who lit the lantern.
“Do you have moss?”
“There’s a box by the hearth.” Edouard sat on one of two stools at the table and took up a knife and a piece of wood.
Josée found the moss and placed it on the glowing embers. She wanted to beg the moss to catch fire but did not dare ask aloud.
“Burning a hole in the moss with your eyes won’t start the fire.”
Her face flamed. “I always had help with the fire. I thought I could do it.”
Edouard swung around and set his whittling down. “I’ll
take care of it. You, you, just …”
Josée realized he did not know what to do with her. She was not a new cow or a chicken that could be fenced in or cooped up.
Her throat hurt. “Are you hungry?”
“No, no.” While she watched, Edouard soon had the moss aglow and piled some kindling on top of the flames. “I am fine.”
She stood back, feeling useless as a leaky cup. They were not the first couple wed because of a family’s wishes. No one was guaranteed love.
I want to be happy again.
“There.” Edouard stood and brushed dirt from his trousers. “A fire. In case it rains, we will not be cold tonight.”
The distance between them might have been miles, but Edouard made no move to get closer. He tossed his hat onto the table and gestured to the doorway leading to the back room.
“If you are tired, you can …”
A’bien, so that was it. Josée’s gaze glimpsed her quilt, spread over the bed tucked in the corner of the back room. The bed, handcrafted for them. New, never used. The remembrance of the Landrys’ pride when they toted the bed to the cabin as a gift flickered in her mind.
“Thank you.” Josée rubbed her arms. The gooseflesh would not go away, and she dared not draw closer to the fire … and Edouard.
“I … I …” Edouard shifted from one foot to the other, and he looked at the door as he spoke. “I’m going to check the pirogue. I must go fishin’ soon.” With that, he clomped to the door and left the cabin.
Josée burst into tears. Her feet felt like she had walked on glass for three miles, her head pounded, and she realized she was hungry because she failed to eat any of the lavish dishes brought by the villagers to celebrate the weddings. She satisfied her hunger pangs with generous gulps from the water bucket.
She found the trunk Mama LeBlanc had sent down to the cabin earlier that day and took out a soft chemise for sleeping in. She washed her dusty feet before climbing onto the soft mattress.
Josée said her prayers, missing the whispers of Jeanne, Marie, and the other girls alongside her as they prayed. Notre Père—
Our Father. She had never felt so alone in her life. Josée finished praying and tasted more tears before sleep overcame her.
Chapter 5
Edouard jerked awake on the hammock and nearly rolled over and hit the ground. Shouts rang in the air, and his gun remained inside the cabin. Was a group of bandits descending on them? No, it was Papa, Mama, and the rest of the clan racing toward the cabin. Edouard squinted at the morning light shining through the trees.
“Bonjour, my son! And where is our daughter-in-law?” Papa reached him first, clasping Edouard to his chest and then planting a kiss on both cheeks.
“Ah, she still sleeps.” Edouard could not bring himself to say he had slept on the steps the night before. He could face a gator on the bayou but not a woman alone in a cabin.
“No matter. We are here for breakfast!” Papa’s voice thundered across the water.
“Edouard, we are hungry. Ask your bride to feed us!” one of the family shouted.
“Oui!” They called to him like a flock of gulls. Did he ever act so when he was a child?
Edouard retreated to the cabin and headed for the bedroom. Josée lay sleeping, her breaths even. A blistered foot peeked out from under the blanket. Hair dark as midnight streamed across the pillow and begged for him to touch it.
“Josée, wake up.”
She stirred, a flush blooming on her cheeks. “Edouard?” She propped herself up on an elbow and snatched the blanket to her chin with her free hand.
“Don’t worry, nothing’s wrong. The family is here for breakfast.”
“Breakfast?” A furrow appeared between her brows.
Edouard licked his lips. “Oui, you know the tradition. The new, uh, bride always makes breakfast the morning after the weddin’.” It was his turn to feel color blazing into his neck. Worse, he realized if he remained in the cabin too long …
“I’ll be up and dressed.” Josée reached for a simple dressing gown on her small trunk. She held the garment in her hand and stared at him.
“Oh, yes. Pardon.” Edouard turned and faced the fireplace and the table. “You will find cornmeal on the shelf. I have salted fish. Mama left dried herbs for you to use as well. She knew I did not have much to make a suitable meal.”
“Ed–dee! Why take you so long waking your wife?”
“I had to tell her where the food was!” he shouted toward the door.
“Then tell her faster!”
Mon Dieu, I prayed to be left alone. I prayed for peace, and this is how You answer me? Edouard didn’t dare turn around until he knew Josée was finished dressing. He couldn’t let himself see her, although he knew he had the right by marriage.
“I’m ready.” Josée had also made the bed and stored her clothes in the trunk. Edouard reminded himself to take his shirts down from the rope he had stretched across the cabin.
“Bien, ’cause I’m hungry, too.” He tried to smile, but at his words her eyes grew round as a fish’s. “I’ll draw us more fresh water from the cistern.” He grabbed the bucket on his way out the door before the family really started to tease them.
Josée’s head ached as if someone had danced a jig on her forehead all night. Cook? Breakfast? She wanted to climb through a window and run up the familiar path, back to Mama’s table and the warm, snug, happy kitchen. This place? It held nothing to comfort her.
She ducked under two hanging shirts she’d missed the night before in her struggle to light a fire. They had plates, cups, and bowls, thanks to Mama and Papa LeBlanc. But food? For everyone?
Nestled in a nook in the fireplace, Josée found her new pots and pans. She did not have the heart to tell Edouard all she could make without burning it was pie.
“Mama, if only I could have written the recipes down.” Josée shook her head. She couldn’t remember how much lard to add to the cornmeal to start biscuits. Worse, no biscuit cutter. She fingered the edge of a cup. A’bien, that would have to do.
Where to make the dough? Josée took one of the two bowls and placed it on the table. She guessed at how much cornmeal and lard to use, and started mushing them together. Biscuits weren’t much different than piecrust. Ah, wait. She needed leaven for the biscuits to rise like Mama’s.
Josée slapped her forehead before she remembered her hands were covered with cornmeal. Oh, she was failing miserably in the kitchen. Or cabin, rather. She did not know if she wanted to be outside, hearing the family tease them both.
Tease them? Josée shook her head. For all she knew, Edouard had slept outside on his trusty hammock. Poor man. He had gained a wife but lost his bed and privacy.
A soft rap on the door made Josée look up. “Who is it?”
“Bonjour, may I come in?”
“Oui, Mama.” The door opened, and Mama entered. She placed a round covered pan on the table. The sight of her brown rotund figure made Josée wipe her hands on her skirt and embrace her.
“So, how goes it?” Mama asked.
Josée shrugged. “I have no breakfast cooking. I have no coffee to offer my guests.” She gestured to the table.
Mama made a soft hissing noise. “ ‘Tis my fault. I did not pay attention enough when you helped in the kitchen.”
“Truthfully I was wanting to read, so it’s partly my fault as well.” Josée wanted to toss the lump of meal and lard into a refuse bucket.
Mama gave her a pointed look. “Yet when I asked, ‘how goes it,’ I was not asking about your cooking this morning.”
“I …” She could not tell Mama she did not want to be there.
Mama smiled. “Ah, l’amour. There is more to love than an embrace, a touch. Much more. Just as there is more to joy than feelin’ happy.”
Josée found a rolling pin and tumbled the dough onto the wooden table. “I don’t know what to do.”
“Do?” Mama patted the hand that rolled out the dough. “Make corn bread. Learn to make
gumbo. Know Edouard. And speak to notre Père. He will show you the way and bring you the joie de vivre you seek.”
Josée nodded. For now, making biscuits was enough for her.
“I’ll leave you be, unless—”
“Breakfast?”
Mama patted the pot she had placed on the table when she came in. “See to the biscuits, and place this pot to warm until the biscuits are done.”
“Oh, Mama, merci—”
“D’rien. You can tell Edouard about my help with the meal after we have gone.” After a kiss on the cheek, Mama left the cabin.
Josée placed the pan of dough in the oven. They would bake and not rise but would be better than nothing. While crouched down, Josée saw a thin spine of a book nestled between the fireplace bricks and the wood box.
A book? As best Josée knew, Edouard could not read.
Josée pulled out the volume, parchment bound in leather. A book handmade with much care, left in a hiding place. The pages crackled when she opened the cover and read the first page.
In the year of our Lord, 1769
I, Capucine LeBlanc, write this with my own hand. These are my thoughts in this new land. After much sorrow, much joy. My dear Michel has built me a home. My long-lost mère is nearby. Comforte sleeps on my shoulder as I hold the pen. Life is full.
She closed the book and ran her hands over the cover. Capucine, the mère of Edouard’s papa. This treasure was different than the usual stories passed down through the family. Why had this been placed in the nook? The books in the LeBlanc home had been Josée’s, secured away in the trunk that rested next to the bed, and were only taken out by her.
“You will no longer be hidden, little book.” Josée’s face grew warm. What if one of the others heard her? She stood, crossed the cabin, and placed the book in her trunk. As she went to check on the biscuits, she cast a glance over her shoulder.
Did Capucine burn her food, or was she a fine cook? Did she have songs springing forth, unbidden, from her heart? Perhaps instead of songs, she wrote from her heart. Josée would have to find out. It warmed her to think that another woman cooked at this hearth and bounced bébés on her knee in this very room.
Bartered Bride Romance Collection Page 3
