Calico Captive

by Elizabeth George Speare

  And this time she went.

  With the letter on its way to Albany, Miriam's heart was somewhat lightened. She finished the dress for Madame Du Quesne, and the tailor, flooded with orders from the French soldiers that swarmed the streets, gave her odd jobs that filled her hours. Except for the thought of Susanna she was not unhappy. Often, remembering her sister, she was ashamed at how all her senses responded to the warm pulse of summertime. Perhaps it was the cups of chocolate and the odd dainties that were urged on her by Pierre. Once he even arrived with a whole roast chicken wrapped in a napkin! Perhaps his very coming had answered a deeper hunger, for in spite of herself she found that she was constantly waiting for his unpredictable visits. His stride on the pavement outside her window, his mocking boastful voice made her breath come faster.

  He did not mention again meeting his friends. In fact she could not help noticing that he was careful to avoid any place where they might be. They drove together along the river road in the dusk, or lingered at the table under the friendly eye of the tavern owners wife. Miriam's role was very easy: she had only to listen. Pierre never tired of boasting of his exploits in the forest, of his beloved canoe, of the long journeys through winding river courses to the wealth of furs that waited in the mending country to the west. He loved to tell of his grandfather, seventy years old, but still the greatest coureur of them all, who could paddle the most dangerous rapids, endure the longest portage, and outsing and outdrink every trader in the West.

  Listening, Miriam's imagination was stirred, her pioneer blood beat faster at the thought of the wild unexplored country. She would watch Pierre, totally unaware of her own shining eyes and parted lips. But sometimes he would fall silent, and then she would look away, unable to meet the half-taunting, half-caressing stare that rested on her as perceptibly as a touch. She was never really at ease with him. Always, behind his laughter, she glimpsed the lurking shadow of Mehkoa.

  "What a silly goose I am," she would scold herself afterwards, when Pierre had gone, "to let a little flattery go to my head like this." Then in the silence of the room she would get out Phineas Whitney's letter, unfold it carefully, and read the scholarly lines again.

  "Phineas Whitney is worth a dozen of him," she would remind herself. "And besides, Pierre may never come again." But even as she said it, something within her was listening and waiting, and the words on the sheet of paper were dim as an echo from a long long distance.

  Chapter 20

  THE WEATHER was unseasonably hot. Miriam worked steadily through the bright days, for the tailor turned over to her capable fingers more and more of the time-consuming details he disliked. The poorly ventilated room became stifling; the woolen homespun dress was intolerable and no longer respectable. Miriam was compelled to spend a portion of her wages on a length of cheap calico for a dress for herself. There was little pleasure either in the sewing or the wearing. The coarse, flimsy material was scarcely suited to high fashion, so she decided on a copy of the simple sacque she had made for the party at Number Four. She hoped that the color might please Pierre.

  With a corner of her mind ever alert for his coming, she was working a buttonhole with painstaking care when the tailor called to her that a gentleman was waiting. To her surprise, it was not Pierre, but an erect, heavily braided footman who stood just inside the door of the shop. He carried a summons, he announced, for Miriam Willard to appear at once at the Governors residence.

  Hurrying beside him along the street, Miriam's thoughts zigzagged from hope to fear. Was her appeal to the Governor on behalf of Susanna and James to be granted at last? Or was it her turn now to be thrown into that fearsome jail?

  She was familiar with the handsome stone Château De Vaudreuil overlooking the Quai, where the Governor of New France, who officially resided in Quebec, spent a portion of his time each year. The footman led her along a paved garden walk, through a rear doorway, and up a flight of stairs into a sun-filled sitting room.

  "It is the English prisoner you sent for, my lady."

  It was not the Governor she had come to see, but the Governor's lady. The Marquise De Vaudreuil reclined against a satin pillow on a chaise longue. She was a diminutive woman, with ivory pallor, small finely chiseled features, delicate wrists, and slender, white, blue-veined hands. Her voice was light and cool.

  "Come in, my dear. I had not expected to find you so young."

  Miriam curtsied and moved a few steps nearer.

  "I have sent for you to do some work for me. An acquaintance here in Montreal, Madame Du Quesne, has confided to me, very unwillingly, where she and her daughter obtained their beautiful gowns. I should like to have you make one for me."

  Miriam's knees went weak with surprise and relief. "I should be very happy to do so, my lady," she stammered.

  "I am curious," the Marquise went on. "How did you come to learn dressmaking? I have never heard that the English colonies were famous for their fashion. You studied in Boston, perhaps?"

  "I have never seen the Boston fashions," Miriam admitted. "Nor have I ever studied at all. I like to look at dresses, and I love the feel of the cloth. I think all I really have is patience."

  "Imagination too, I should judge," said the Marquise, smiling. "You will need it to make me look presentable. I have grown so thin. Everything suitable that comes from France is far too large for me. Can you begin at once?"

  "Oh yes, my lady."

  The woman studied the girl's eager face. "How pretty you are," she said lightly. "But so thin, as thin as I am, n'est-ce pas? I shall have to try to fatten you, as they are always trying to do to me. Where do you live, my dear?"

  "I have a room behind the shop of Monsieur Jacques, the tailor."

  "You had best work here during the day. There is a small room at the end of the hall where the light is good. Come, I shall show you. I have had some bolts of cloth sent in for us to choose from."

  So began another change in that year of bewildering changes. Every morning Miriam left the tailor shop, hastened to the Château, and settled herself for a day's work in the airy room where the sunshine poured in upon gleaming folds of satin. Never before had she had such beautiful goods to work with. The heavy, glossy weight sliding through her fingers was delicious. When she raised her eyes, she could watch the sails of the little boats on the St. Lawrence.

  In the middle of the morning the Marquise would send for her. Beside the chaise longue would be set a silver tray with a little pot of fragrant chocolate, a china cup thin as an eggshell, and a plate of soft white rolls. "Drink a little more," the Marquise would urge. "Then they will tell my husband that the tray went back empty. It pleases him to think I am eating."

  With her thoughtfulness the gentle Marquise met a much deeper need than the girl's ravenous young appetite. Her light, petal-like touch brushed away the hard shell that protected Miriam's bruised spirit. Gradually Miriam began to sense that the defiant pride, which had shielded her through so many battles this past year, was not needed in this place. Wary at first, too ready for the biting word that never came, she slowly began to feel for this woman an admiration close to reverence. To win the Marquise's quiet smile of approval, Miriam worked as she had never known she could, grateful now even for the sharp eye of Madame Du Quesne which had trained her fingers to exactness.

  In spite of the work, her strained nerves relaxed in the serenity and order of the Château. Her eager mind, which had led her to acquire in the Du Quesne household a smattering of fashion and fine living, began to absorb from this place a different kind of knowledge. Watching the exquisite Marquise, she became aware of the sharp corners of her own inexperience. For the first time her blunt New England speech seemed less a matter for pride. To speak with both sincerity and grace was not, she saw now, impossible. Also, she was learning to curb her impatience.

  From the first day here Miriam had hoped that this unexpected entry into the Governor's household would provide an opportunity to speak for Susanna and James. Yet so far the opening had no
t come. Charming as the Marquise was to her, the distance between them was great. Moreover, it seemed unthinkable to intrude upon that flowerlike sweetness any hint of ugliness or suffering. She had yet to discover the strength beneath that delicate surface.

  She was in the sitting room, fitting the nearly finished dress, when the door opened and a gentleman entered. Miriam scrambled to her feet for a curtsy. The fine stiff brocaded coat, the deep lace ruffles, and the impressive white wig could grace only the Governor himself. He turned toward her briefly, a face with clean-cut, rather too sharp features, a long thin nose, and finely modeled mouth and chin.

  "I thought you would be resting, my dear Charlotte," he addressed his wife reproachfully.

  "I have been resting all the morning," she assured him. "But my dress must be fitted. Do you like it, François? I meant it to surprise you."

  "It is very becoming. But then, you always look charming to me. Do not keep her standing too long, girl," he added, glancing at Miriam.

  His wife reached up to touch his cheek lightly. "I am not tired at all," she said fondly. "You must not coddle me so!"

  All at once there came before Miriam a memory of her brother James, stooping in the forest to hoist the wicker basket that held Susanna. Why should this elegant pair call to mind those ragged figures? There had been something, a wordless sharing, a fleeting thing of the spirit, that flashed between them. It lingered in the air after the Marquis had gone, as palpable as a fragrance.

  "We can stop now and try the dress again later, if you like," Miriam suggested.

  "Yes, the standing tires me, though I did not wish my husband to know. He is overanxious about me. You see, I caught the fever while we were in New Orleans."

  "New Orleans!" exclaimed Miriam. "Isn't that a very great distance from here?"

  "An unthinkable distance," sighed the Marquise. "And so hot in the summer. And the snakes! I could never learn to hide my fear of them. But the flowers were beautiful. My husband was governor of Louisiana for three years."

  The words were spoken so lightly, almost indifferently, yet Susanna was close to Miriam again. "You speak like my sister," she said impulsively.

  "You have a sister?"

  "She went with her husband too. I know she loved Massachusetts, where they lived before. But she went with him to the farthest settlement in New Hampshire, where she knew well enough what might happen."

  "Did something happen?"

  It was the opening she had not dared to hope would come so soon. Under that compassionate gaze, Miriam plunged in, forgetting the careful speech she had prepared for when her chance might come. She had only intended to speak about the jail. But the thought of Susanna possessed her. She wanted this woman to understand her sister, who had endured that dreadful morning at Charlestown, who had given birth in the wilderness, and stayed behind alone in the village of St. Francis. The Marquise sat listening, her eyes dwelling gently on the girl's ardent face.

  "You are very fond of your sister, aren't you?" she commented. "It is a pity that you should be separated."

  "The jail is such a dreadful place," Miriam went on. "There are rats and dirt, and the dampness and smell are horrible. Oh my lady, would you be willing? Could you speak for my sister? I would do anything, anything I could in return."

  The Marquise was thoughtful. "I do not understand the matter of prisoners," she said at last. "My husband does not wish me to concern myself with public affairs at all. But I shall see what I can do."

  Miriam could not answer, yet the tears that flooded her eyes spoke her thanks eloquently. The Marquise leaned forward and touched the girl's hand.

  "Let us look at the bolts of cloth again," she suggested. "I have not decided what we shall make next."

  Miriam understood that the distressing subject was closed. The Marquise fingered the goods thoughtfully.

  "This flowered pattern is cool and pretty," she said, picking up a fine sprigged muslin. "But too young for me, I think. It was surely meant for a girl. Take it and make something for yourself."

  "That lovely piece! It is far too grand for me," Miriam gasped.

  "It is quite a simple thing," smiled the Marquise. "Take it, please. It is just suited to you."

  For the rest of the day, while her fingers worked on one dress, Miriam's mind was fashioning another. The joy of having a new piece of goods, all of her own, to plan and cut just as she chose! At last, hugging the material close to her, she hastened home along the street at such a pace that she almost bumped into Hortense before she recognized her.

  "I'm so thankful," beamed Hortense, when she had learned of the new work. "I have tried at the tailor shop twice, and I was worried about you. Yes, everyone speaks well of the Governor's wife. They say she is better than he deserves, in fact. What a lucky thing to have happened! But I was coming to remind you of the wedding. You promised, you know. It is only three days away."

  "Please, Miriam," she begged as Miriam hesitated. "I want my friends to be there. You see, we must have a specially happy wedding. Jules has been called into the regiment. Any day now he will have to march out with them, and who knows how long he will be gone?"

  Miriam promised. She would work every spare moment of daylight and have the new dress to wear. And when Pierre came again, how astonished he would be!

  The material spread across her bed like a field of flowers, Miriam set to work. But the rapture she had anticipated suddenly deserted her. Instead, a nagging memory tormented her. Such a small thing. If she had not run into Hortense she would never in the world have thought of it again. But now, wherever she looked, there was Hortense, touching a yellow satin gown with a timid finger, and in her ears was a wistful voice, "I wish that just once in my life, for my wedding, I could have a beautiful dress to wear."

  Oh, why did I have to think of it! She struggled inwardly with herself. Why did I have to meet her today, before I had it cut out and started?

  The girl of last winter would not have hesitated. But in these last months the old defenses had worn thin. They were not proof against the memories that plagued her. She could see a pair of merry black eyes twinkling over a red blanket held up to shield her. She could see an anxious figure hurrying along the snowy street to find two banished women and take them home. Always Hortense had given. Now, unexpectedly, here in her hands was something to give, a perfect wedding present.

  "She is just about my height, but much stockier," she told herself, firmly stamping down her own anguished protests. "I had better do it fast, before I change my mind."

  Every persistent doubt was silenced three days later when she stood in the parish church and watched Hortense take her marriage vows. The memory of Hortense's astonishment and joy was like a precious jewel held concealed in her hand. Holding such wealth, it did not matter how she looked to the others. Even more, in a way she had not foreseen, the gift had brought her inside the circle. Never, when she had lived in their house, had she felt one with the family as she did today. A warm current of affection linked her with her friend's mother, radiant with pride in her eldest daughter, with the little girls, whose adoration shone in their scrubbed faces, even with Jules, whose eyes dwelt on his bride with unconcealed worship.

  Hortense's round face was touched with beauty as she spoke the solemn words. It was the first wedding Miriam had ever attended. She had come into this alien church reluctantly, almost fearfully. But with the happy new warmth melting her strangeness, she was moved beyond any expectation by the chanting voices. Though she could not understand it, the ritual of the mass held her enthralled. Never again would she shudder with distrust as she passed the churches of Montreal, knowing now that they contained only this reverence and beauty.

  Chapter 21

  TWO DAYS after Hortense's wedding the militia was alerted. Word spread that English troops were marching on Fort Duquesne, a western outpost which the French had no intention of abandoning. Hearing the news, walking through streets astir with soldiers, Miriam's first thought was of Hortense
, who must see her bridegroom march away so soon.

  It was suppertime when she returned to the tailor's shop and saw to her astonishment die familiar Du Quesne carriage almost filling the narrow street in front of her door. The footman climbed down as he saw her coming and judging by his ill-humor, he must have been waiting for some time.

  "I was told by Madame Du Quesne to bring you at once. Get in quickly. There will be trouble enough for this delay."

  At the Du Quesne residence a state of emergency was apparent. The muslin dress that had fitted Felicité so perfectly on May Day could not be persuaded to fasten tonight. Within the next two hours a troublesome alteration must be completed. No one inquired whether or not Miriam had had supper. She was set to work at once in the well-remembered white and blue room.

  Felicité hurried back from her own dinner too impatient to stay far from Miriam's side. She was much too excited to remember the old grudge that lay between them. She had to talk to someone, and her silvery chatter was as breathless as ever.

  "The most divine man, truly, Miriam, the most handsome man you ever saw! Think of it, so young, and captain of that great ship! Can't you pull the waist just a tiny bit tighter? Oh dear, if only I hadn't eaten that whole box of meringues! But all the men keep bringing me these boxes, straight from France, and I just can't leave them alone!"

  The moment Madame Du Quesne entered, all illusion of the old days vanished. Felicité knew enough to keep silent. Miriam might have been invisible for all the notice they took of her. Madame was out of sorts.

  "I'm not sure you are being wise, Felicité," she said once, without even as much caution as she would have observed before the kitchen maid. "We know nothing at all about this young captain."

  "Oh, Maman!" Felicité protested. "I'm not going to marry him! His ship sails back in a week or so and I'll never see him again. Besides, I'll be settled and dull soon enough."