Calico Captive

by Elizabeth George Speare

  Carrying her purchases carefully, she went in search of a place to work. At last, hidden behind the half-rotted wall of an abandoned warehouse, she found a spot where she could spread the paper and balance the ink pot on a smooth weather-beaten plank.

  In the early afternoon, the precious paper carefully folded in the pocket of her skirt, she set out again. Her fingers were numb with cold and she had had nothing to eat since dawn, but cold and hunger were weaknesses she could not bother with now. This time she left the Rue de St. Paul, climbed the hill past the stone houses, and lifted the great brass knocker of the Du Quesne mansion.

  "Once I would have said I'd rather starve!" she muttered, but when the door opened she did not hesitate.

  "I should like to speak to Madame Du Quesne," she announced, so firmly that after only a moment's indecision the footman let her in.

  Miriam waited, not daring to sit on one of the gilt chairs, whose knobby curlicues her back remembered so well. If Madame refused to see her, the plan failed. But Madame rustled in, white head erect, pale blue eyes as disdainful as on the night she first confronted the hungry prisoner reeking of bear grease in her kitchen.

  "I thought it was understood you would not come again to this house."

  Miriam's eyes did not waver. If she allowed Madame to ruffle her, even so slightly, her plan was doomed.

  "I did not expect to come," she answered pleasantly. "But I have reason to think I can be of service to you."

  "You are mistaken. Our charity has already exceeded all reason."

  "I am not talking of charity," Miriam answered. Under the folds of her homespun skirt her fingers ached, so tightly were they clenched down on her struggling Willard pride.

  "What, then?"

  "I have heard there is to be a ball when the Governor visits Montreal next fortnight. They say it is to be a very grand affair."

  "It can hardly concern you."

  "I should like to make gowns for you and Felicité to wear."

  Madame's eyebrows raised. "We have a dressmaker," she replied. "She came to New France expressly to sew for my mother, and she has made all our gowns since I was younger than Felicité."

  "She is a very fine dressmaker," Miriam acknowledged. "But she has no imagination. Your clothes and Felicité's she makes just alike, and no different from those of all the other ladies who will be there. You should have a dress that shows your height and your fine straight back to advantage. But Felicité is much shorter. Her throat and shoulders are too pretty to spoil with bunchy frills. Let me show you."

  Before Madame could interrupt, Miriam drew from her pocket the folded paper with the two sketches she had made. "This is the way I would make a dress for you, with long lines here, and the panniers set just here. This one is for Felicité. There is a fresh bolt of fine muslin, just come from France, with tiny blue flowers."

  Madame knit her brows over the drawings. "How do you know you could do this?" she demanded finally. "Where could you possibly have learned such skill in your English colonies?"

  "I don't know how I learned," Miriam answered honestly. "But I know I can do it. I promise you that."

  Madame's eyes followed the penned lines shrewdly. Miriam could see that her interest was caught. Madame must know as well as Miriam that her mother's dressmaker had long since lost the Paris touch. She needed no reminder that the uncivilized English girl, with a few deft alterations, had made her appear frumpy and unfashionable. Much as she despised Miriam, she wanted these dresses. Behind that coldly expressionless mask, Miriam sensed the conflict. Spitefulness and vanity. Had she been right to gamble on the latter?

  Finally Madame spoke. "This might please Felicité," she said. "Yes, I shall allow you to attempt this one dress. Only on trial, you understand. We shall see how it looks."

  Miriam took a deep breath. "The dress will cost two louis," she said slowly. "And I must have half of that in advance."

  Madame froze. "Two louis! Outrageous! You expect that I am to pay you for making this? After all we have done for you?"

  Miriam forced her voice to remain pleasant. "Indeed, Madame, I am grateful for all you did for my sister and me. But now we must work for our food. You pay your dressmaker much more than that, I am certain."

  "Impossible! Gamble two louis on a girl who never laid eyes on a fashionable gown before she came into my house? Why, you learned here all the fashion you know. Such impertinence!"

  Miriam moved toward the door. Her whole body felt stiff. She had one more card to play, and she put her hand on the latch to steady herself.

  "I am sorry that you. feel I am ungrateful," she said. "It was only in fairness that I came to you first. But I must make my living with my needle. Madame the Mayor's wife was full of praises for the dresses I made over. I believe she will be glad to have me make one for her."

  It was a desperate bluff. If it failed, she would never in the world have the courage to call on the Mayor's wife or anyone else. But somehow she must get away from the house before Madame guessed that. She was almost out the door when the ruse succeeded.

  "Tiens!" said Madame. "I will do it. To please Felicité only. But you are to give me your word. Not a soul shall know that you made the dress. I would be the laughingstock of the town."

  The sudden victory left Miriam's knees weak. But she must win one more point.

  "I shall need one louis in advance," she said, "to buy the goods and the thread, and to pay rent on a small room."

  For a moment Madame Du Quesne's indignation flared again. Then she drew a mesh bag from her skirts, took out a coin, and, with deliberate contempt, tossed it on the floor at Miriam's feet. Miriam's face went white. The Willard pride almost escaped her taut grip. Then she stooped and picked up the coin.

  Outside, on the street, she could scarcely make her way for the smarting tears that blinded her. The two louis that Madame begrudged were nothing to what this victory had cost her English prisoner!

  She had one more stop to make. That morning she had noticed a sign at the door of a dingy tailor's shop, CHAMBRE A LOUER. She located the shop now and knocked boldly on the door. Reluctantly the tailor showed her the room. It was small and dismal, furnished with a wooden bedstead, a rickety chair, and a crude bench. There was a window high in the wall, letting in enough light so that she would not need to burn a candle by day. The place was dirty, but a good scrubbing would remedy that. Miriam's businesslike manner and the good hard coin in her hand overcame the tailor's suspicions.

  "We shall be here tomorrow morning," she assured him.

  She was thankful for the long walk home in spite of her empty stomach. By the time she reached the cottage her heart had stopped pounding, her breath was coming evenly, and she was able to announce to Susanna, quite nonchalantly, "You need not worry about the jail for a while at least. You and I are going to be dressmakers. The most fashionable dressmakers in Montreal."

  Chapter 16

  TIS ALL very well for you," said Susanna, ducking her head to bite the thread. "But if I sew seams for the rest of my life I shall never be a dressmaker. I can't take a stitch without this plaguey thread knotting up."

  Imperceptibly, in the fortnight they had spent in this little room, their relationship had changed. It was Miriam, the "little sister," who crossed the room now to inspect the length of goods in Susanna's lap and to speak with unconscious authority.

  "If you would only try to like it you wouldn't always have to do the dullest parts. These rosettes are just play, really. Try one, Susanna."

  "Not I. I'll stick to the plain seams and the mending the tailor parcels out to us, and leave the fancy trimmings to you."

  Miriam expertly twisted the blue satin into another of the tiny flowers that dotted the ruffled skirt. "I hope it will be fair tomorrow," she said. "'Twill be a pity to cover this lovely thing with a woolen cloak. What is May Day about, anyway, Susanna?"

  "'Tis a heathen custom," said Susanna. "Though I've heard tell they celebrate it in England too. Scandalous, some of the
things that go on. Though I must say, I can't see much harm in a little dancing around a Maypole. If I had my girls now, I'd be minded to let them do that much."

  "I'm going with Hortense tomorrow," said Miriam hurriedly, to forestall the tears that always sprang so quickly to Susanna's eyes at every thought of her children. "Why don't you come too, Susanna? 'Twould do you good to have a holiday and to get Captive out in the fresh air. We could work a little later tonight, maybe."

  Susanna did not answer. It was getting harder every day to think of ways to rouse Susanna from the despair that held her like a net, drawing ever tighter. At first the springtime had brought her a brief hope. The ice cracked and drifted on the great river, and the breezes that found their way through the high window of the room were sweet with promise. But now they knew that Indian canoes crossed the river freely every day. There was no longer any excuse for the long silence.

  "Look," Miriam coaxed now, holding the dress up against her. "Isn't it pretty, Susanna? Even prettier than I imagined."

  Susanna's eyes held a flicker of surprise, not at the dress but at her sisters eager face.

  "You sound as though you enjoy it," she accused. "When I look at it, all I can think of is the six times you ripped out those gathers, and the extra candles we had to burn because you had to have it just so."

  "I won't have to another time," said Miriam. "I've learned how it's done now. 'Tis a queer thing, but I do enjoy it, almost. When I started this dress I hated every inch of it because it was for Felicité and I could never wear it myself. But now 'tis done I'm rather fond of it."

  "You see," she went on, wanting to share with her sister a thought that was only beginning to be clear in her own mind, "I feel as though I own it, even though I can't ever see it again. I made it up out of nothing. In a way it is mine more than it is Felicité's. I suppose you'll say that's pride."

  "Yes," said Susanna, "'tis pride, I suppose. But I don't know but some kinds of pride are good and natural. I used to feel that way when we planted the garden. And when we built the cabin, where there'd been only trees and underbrush before. The best cabin at Number Four, everyone said."

  And down went Susanna's head into her hands. Miriam felt at once impatient and ashamed. How could she expect Susanna to take any pleasure in a dress that only meant food enough to eke out this miserable waiting? Nearly six months, and no word from James. Though the fear could never be put into words, Miriam knew that her sister believed her husband dead. Susanna had shared the long hours of work, the bitter cold that stiffened their fingers at daybreak, the smoky candlelight that tortured their eyes at night, but she could never share the unreasonable pride of creation that was Miriam's recompense.

  "I'll deliver the dress now," said Miriam, folding it carefully inside a worn length of bedding. "I might as well get it over with. This is the part I hate most. If Madame pays me at all she will manage to make me feel like a worm. Try to sleep a little while I'm gone, Susanna."

  Her brief mood of satisfaction evaporated as she climbed the hill. Could she coax another order from Madame today? The gay winter season of parties was over. Ships from France were soon due, and the shops would be replenished with the latest finery. Luck was with her, however. Though Madame refused to see her, she sent a message by way of the footman.

  "Madame says you may come on Friday to begin the fittings for her gown," he reported.

  Praise be, Madame had remembered to leave the louis d'or.

  As she turned away from the door into the street, a chance encounter swept away the last particle of satisfaction. A smart little carriage was drawing up to the doorway. It passed so close that as she flattened herself against the wall the muddy wheels just grazed her skirt, and the three occupants could scarcely help but see her. Madame Du Quesne stared straight ahead with no sign of recognition. Felicité, the ribbon bows of the first straw hat of the season tied under her pretty chin, parted her red lips in an involuntary greeting that suddenly froze in remembrance. She turned deliberately to the man beside her. It was Pierre Laroche, his dark, lively gaze intent on Félicités lifted face. Miriam bent her head. The moment the wheel cleared her path she turned and sped down the hill. Had he recognized her? From the day she had returned to Montreal she had dreaded such a meeting. But with just a moment's warning she could surely have managed better. Bight now he and Felicité must be laughing with merriment at the way she had scuttled down the street. The thought slowed her to a decent gait.

  With an effort she forced her mind back to the arithmetic that occupied so much of her thoughts of late. Rent to the tailor, brown bread at twenty sols a loaf, milk for Captive, vegetables that would be scarce and costly till the new crop was grown. How far would one coin stretch? Would there be enough for the shoes Susanna must have, or for calico to make a thin dress for each of them for the hot months ahead? She would stop and look at the bolts of goods, at least, though she dared not purchase any.

  Lingering in the shops was her one indulgence, and she had wasted more than an hour when finally she returned to the room. She felt a twinge of remorse at finding Susanna still hard at work. Unwrapping the bread, she stooped to put a hard bun into the baby's hand, and Captive displayed her two new teeth in an enchanting smile. She would put the meeting with Felicité entirely out of her mind, Miriam decided; it was not even worth mentioning to her sister.

  Suddenly there were rushing footsteps and agitated voices in the shop, and without a knock their door was flung open. For a moment neither of them could recognize the distracted woman who confronted them. It was the Mayor's wife, her coiffure awry, a cloak clutched at her throat.

  "Give me back my child!" she demanded.

  The heavy coat Susanna was mending slid to the floor with a thud.

  "I know she is here!" the woman cried. "It is no good for you to hide her."

  Miriam found her voice. "Polly? Are you talking about Polly?"

  "Alphonsine! My coachman saw you going down the street. She must have followed you."

  "But I did not see her at all. Are you sure she is gone?"

  Susanna had not spoken a word. The woman stared from one to the other. Even in her frantic state she was forced to believe their bewilderment. Suddenly, with a frightened gasp, she sank against the wall.

  "Then where can she be? I was sure that if we tracked you down—and now all this time wasted!"

  "Polly ran away?" Susanna managed to speak at last.

  "She has run away twice before, but we have soon found her. She is so little, and she has never been about in the town. She dashes so fast, I am afraid of the horses. She could be crushed under their feet."

  Susanna was pulling on her shoes. "We will find her," she said. "Get a blanket for the baby, Miriam. I daren't leave her alone."

  Out on the street a carriage was waiting. "My coachman has gone to every house on the hill," the Mayor's wife explained. "I have sent a servant out along the road to the west. I will take the carriage and drive out the east road." The whip cracked over the horse's head.

  For a moment Miriam and Susanna faced each other helplessly. They were more familiar with the streets now. They knew that Montreal was not the vast city it had seemed. But there were a thousand corners where a small child could be hidden.

  "I'll go this way," Susanna decided. "Ask everyone you meet."

  Miriam hurried along the Rue de St. Paul, stopping to question citizens she would never have dreamed of addressing. Back along the devious route she had come, into the dress shops where she had visited, down the alleyways that led away from the main thoroughfare she searched. The business of the day was drawing to a close. Shopkeepers were pulling the curtains and locking their doors. No, no one had seen a child. Gradually the streets began to clear of people hurrying home to their suppers. Miriam and Susanna met again, and separated once more. She would try the warehouse section this time.

  The sun was quite low behind the warehouses when Miriam had the first encouraging sign. "Yes, we saw a child this afternoon," a
cluster of children admitted, pointing vaguely in the direction of the river. "She went that way. She had on a white dress."

  Hope flaring, Miriam followed the path that led to the landing beach, peering with a shudder into the dark doorways of the storehouses, till she came out on the strip of beach and the shimmering river. The beach was deserted. Some distance away four fishermen were dragging in their boat. Their quick shouts and the rasp of the keel against the pebbles was loud in the evening air. In the opposite direction stretched a line of crude sheds, and toward them Miriam turned, her heart sinking.

  Then her glance went back to the beach and held. Drawn up close to the water were two Indian canoes, and in one of them she caught a flash of white. She broke into a run across the hard sand, and stumbled with a cry of thanksgiving against the canoe. Curled up on a soft pile of skins Polly lay sound asleep, her red curls shining against the black fur.

  Polly felt very light as Miriam lifted her in her arms, almost as light as the baby Captive. After one startled stiffening of her small body, her arms wrapped suffocatingly about Miriam's neck. It was impossible to persuade her to walk, so the way from the beach was slow. It was growing dark when they neared the tailor shop, and Miriam saw that the carriage had returned. Madame and Susanna stood close together on the pavement, their enmity forgotten. At sight of Miriam both women sprang forward. But Miriam, without the slightest hesitation, unwrapped Polly's clinging arms and gave her into Susanna's yearning grasp. Susanna sank down on the doorstep, unable to make a single sound, rocking back and forth, her dark head bent over the shining curls.