Saving The Marquise's Granddaughter

by Carrie Fancett Pagels

  “Strudel and roast pork.” Her pale hands flew to her pretty mouth.

  He laughed. “Ja, that’s good. You remember Mama’s cooking.”

  To his relief she laughed, too.

  Her shoulders rose and then fell. “I remember my efforts, too!”

  He stroked his chin and chuckled. “Unforgettable.”

  She slapped at his arm. “I thought you were a kind man. That wasn’t nice.” She affected a charming pout.

  He could kiss those pouting lips, feel her arms wrap around his neck. Carry his wife to the bed. He pulled away and cleared his throat. “No, I’m always getting in trouble with you for teasing.”

  Her brows worked together. “My head aches, Johan, when I try to think. I want to remember, though.”

  “You will, in time.” He hoped.

  She stared hard into his eyes. “Do you have any proof of our wedding? Something?”

  He opened his mouth but had no answer. “I wasn’t thinking of that at the time.”

  “The priest’s name—can we find him here in Philadelphia and speak with him?”

  “Father Francois.” He pulled at a loose thread on his vest.

  She tilted her head. “Father Francois, that’s all?”

  He shrugged.

  “Johan, you told me the ship was mostly Lutheran Germans immigrating together.”

  He nodded.

  “Why would a priest be on board?”

  His breath caught in his throat. “I don’t know. I didn’t ask.” He clenched his hands.

  She pressed her eyes tightly. “Why not?”

  “I had more important concerns at the time!” He shouted. He’d never raised his voice to her before and he felt his cheeks heat in embarrassment.

  Suzanne’s eyes flew open and pulled away from him. “Are you preparing to hit me?”

  “No! Never.” He exhaled in frustration.

  “You punched your brother.”

  Johan dropped his head. “Ja. He insulted you.” Implied she was a harlot.

  Amber eyes pierced his in accusation. “Get me the evidence of this wedding.” She turned away, but not before two glistening teardrops fell.

  He’d failed again. Made her cry and had shouted at her. “Suzie, I’m sorry. Please forgive me.” He left to get the doctor, closing the door behind him. The lock was quickly bolted on the other side. Would she let him back in?

  Soon he returned with Dr. Gill, a Welshman, who spoke in such a thick accent that Johan could barely understand him. But it sounded as if he said that in time Suzanne may recover her memory. And that she should get her strength back.

  But it almost sounded as if he’d asked if she was with child.

  Johan had been tempted to reply that it would only be possible if there had been some miracle. But he thought better of making such a jest. How miraculous that she was alive. And if she never regained her memory and if she wished to be free of him, then he’d need to seek advice.

  He’d sent word to her brother and to his own family of where they were. Perhaps they could help him sort this all out.

  He’d never felt so alone in his life.

  21

  Every noise, even Johan’s slow steps in their room, caused Suzanne’s head to pound. Although three days had passed, since she awoke, her recollection of the time since her mother died was like a mosaic that had shattered. Now she picked up the pieces and tried to force them back into a picture frame. Fragments, perhaps dreams, intruded that didn’t belong in the artwork.

  Johan placed water on the side table and a plate of bread and cheese.

  She pushed her head into the pillow as he bent to kiss her good-bye, his warm lips barely grazing hers, but sending a shiver through her nonetheless.

  He opened his eyes and looked into hers as he pulled away, frowning.

  The memory of standing at the altar with Etienne must have been an illusion. But she remembered him asking her to marry him. Gripping Johan’s arms, she pulled him closer. “I was promised to someone else. I don’t remember marrying you.”

  He leaned in, his weskit brushing against her chemise, the heat from his neck warming hers. Johan whispered softly into her ear, “I promise you’ll remember in time.”

  Suzanne gasped at this intimacy, taking in short quick breaths. When he was this close, she yearned to be well. To accept what he said were truths.

  “You must eat what they bring up today, frau.”

  “Oui,” she heard herself whisper as he drew away from her.

  “Good!” He brushed his warm hand against her cheek.

  She must look a fright. But why should she care if he saw her like this? As she drifted off to sleep, she had another recollection. He’d seen her worse—in pig slop. They’d lived on a farm together. And heavens! He’d come into her room at night. Why would she have allowed such a thing? And if she had…no, surely not. But had they been intimate? Was she with child? How could she ask him such a thing?

  He seemed to be such a good man. From experience she knew things weren’t always as they seemed. Not recalling why, Etienne was the man she associated with that understanding. Not Johan.

  Where was her betrothed now? As she drifted off to sleep, she pictured his plantation in the Caribbean—where they’d hoped to live. But in her dreams, he stood at a dock, with his arm around an island woman. When she awoke, the light filtering through the wooden shutters suggested that Johan should be home soon. Home? This place? She laughed. Still, she admitted, this room was better than that foul ship. That horror.

  Suzanne gingerly rose from the bed. Forcing herself to avoid looking in the small mirror, she stepped to the basin and wet a cloth, lathered it with the new ball of fragrant soap, and began to wash. She inhaled its scent, recalling a warning onboard ship—“You’ll be housed in rough quarters.” Stiffening at the thought, she shook it away. What a blessing that she hadn’t been sent off to work in servitude. Staccato raps at the door startled her and she jumped.

  “Who is it?” she called out.

  “It’s Jemmy, miss, I mean missus, come to change your sheets, if you please.” The maid sounded on the verge of tears, her voice tremulous.

  “One moment, please!” Suzanne slipped her feet into the delicate leather slippers that Johan had secured for her since they had arrived. They were soft and had molded perfectly to fit her feet. Still a little dizzy, Suzanne crossed the floor and pulled open the door.

  Indeed, there were tears in the chambermaid’s eyes. She sniffed behind the pile of sheets she clutched in her arms.

  “You’ll not complain because I’m late, are ye, miss? I mean missus? Or because I forgot to wake yer husband?”

  “He isn’t…no, I…” She clamped her mouth shut.

  The young woman looked her up and down and smiled in approval. “That did fit ye well, after all. T’was a struggle for Mother and me to get it on ye! And those undergarments yer man bought ye.”

  Relief ebbed through her as she took a deep breath and then exhaled. Johan hadn’t dressed her. “Thank you for your kindness.”

  Jemmy pursed her lips as though considering. “Yer master, miss, he’s in town for a bit…”

  Master? Her knees sagged, but Jemmy dropped the sheets and caught Suzanne before she sank to the floor. Oh, Lord, no. That memory was real—they had redeemed their passage. And God hadn’t removed this cup from her.

  “Oh, miss! The colonel is a good man. And generous, oh my, yes.” Jemmy released her. “Well, at least that handsome ward of his is—Wyatt Scott.” The young woman assisted Suzanne up and led her to the padded settee before the hearth.

  “Merci. I had…” Suzanne couldn’t tell this young woman that she had no intention of serving as a slave to this man, no matter how good. Guy would redeem her shortly. And where was Etienne now? She should send word to him.

  “I need to send a letter.” She smiled up at the young woman. “Can you help me?” Suzanne frowned as she recalled Greta’s face when she’d made the same request. She’d po
sted to Jeanne. She rubbed at the ache on the side of her head. Guy and Jeanne—were they together?

  Jemmy nodded. “Aye, miss. Let me just fix up the bed, and then I’ll take care of that for ye.”

  “Merci.” Suzanne wished to lay her pounding head down.

  “Miss? Are ye a’right?”

  No, she wasn’t. Might never be again.

  ~*~

  Suzanne awoke the following day to Johan’s heavy steps tramping up the stairs, jarring her from a dream of him and Nicholas on the farm. Heavens, he sounded as loud, solo, as the two did together pounding down those stairs beside the bedroom where she’d stayed.

  She remembered more each day. Purposefully, she closed her eyes. Let him think she still slept. He’d told her the night before she must try to get up as soon as he departed for work. Today she’d go to the market and buy a few things for the innkeeper.

  Johan strode to the bed. His lips tickled as he whispered in her ear. “Come back to me, my doeling.” She heard his intake of breath, waited for him to add something, but he only kissed her cheek, the action bringing heat to her face.

  Extending one hand out from beneath the covers, she stroked his cheek, almost unaware that she was doing so. “I want to remember.”

  Was this to be her life for now—waiting for him in this room? Until Guy made arrangements to pay off their redemption contracts.

  Somehow, she’d make sure Johan had enough to start his farm when he was ready.

  He leaned in toward her again, his shoulders straining the white linen fabric of his shirt.

  She marveled at the change in his appearance. “Get me more fabric and I’ll make new shirts for you.” That’s what a good wife would do. “I can’t let the seams out further.”

  Pleasure and relief washed over his features and his eyes shone. “Ja, that would please me.” He pressed a kiss into her palm.

  She shivered and pulled her hand free, wishing his warm lips didn't have such a strong effect on her. She felt his kiss all the way down to her toes.

  He placed two cold coins in her hand, dampening her pleasure. “For your shopping.”

  She groaned. “I don’t want to go.”

  “You need to get up. Stretch your legs. Get some sunshine.”

  She glared up at him.

  Johan stroked her cheek. “You might meet some interesting people.”

  ~*~

  As she approached the market, the crowds thickened. Suzanne approached the first stand in the square. The scent of fresh tomatoes wafted up from the bushel basket as Suzanne squeezed two of the fruits. With a little basil and fresh butter, these tomatoes could make a savory sauce.

  “Madam Christy?” A tall, heavy-set man with reddish hair stood ten paces from her near a stall equipped with all manner of fresh herbs. He stared at her, his light eyes wide, eyebrows raised as if in disbelief. The thin line of his mouth spread to a relieved grin as he trudged determinedly in her direction.

  Suzanne glanced around her to see who the man sought. Dizziness caused her to sink. A firm hand clutched her elbow, steadying her.

  Stale tobacco emanated from the man, and a hint of licorice. “You’re not…” The deep voice held a Scottish burr. A frown furrowed its way between his straight eyebrows. His patrician nose sagged, joining his mouth in sadness. “I’m sorry if I frightened you. I simply mistook you for someone dear to me. A lady I’ve nay seen in some time.”

  Suzanne settled her skirts around her. “No, monsieur, I don’t know you.”

  He tipped his hat and left her.

  Who do I know? Struggling, she recalled Maria and Adam. Greta and Nicholas. She missed them, which confused her. Every recollection of Johan was of concern and friendliness on his part. Yet glimpses of her own feelings ran much deeper—more akin to the loving way he treated her now. Suzanne chewed her lower lip and moved on to another stand. Onions, potatoes, and an odd-looking bumpy vegetable.

  “What is this called?”

  The pockmarked youth laughed, revealing several missing teeth. “It’s corn. What some call maize.”

  Good! This I know I have never seen before.

  22

  Birdsong drifted through the open window as Suzanne settled at the desk. Johan’s Bible glared at her. Dared her to read it. She touched the leather cover, took a breath, and opened it. Inside, nestled letters written in a magnificent flowing script. Powerful, but lovely. Who had written these?

  She looked out the window to the street, trying to tamp the temptation down, like Johan’s father did with the tobacco in his clay pipe. Another memory. Odd, but for a second she considered Adam her father. Had Johan received missives from home?

  Taking a breath, she pulled her gaze back to the first missive to read. Perhaps Adam sent good news. She scanned the note, noting many errors in the German words, making it difficult to decipher it.

  We’re home now. Thank you, God. The French girl, Suzanne, is safe. She’s not so smart and I worry for her. I don’t find all the French words to say, but I know what she speaks of. Yet she tries to teach me! I’m glad she’s learning more German words because I have no more patience. She knows so little about basics. Nicholas is very angry. He thinks I mean to marry her. How silly. She knows nothing useful. But I pray for her now.

  Johan wrote this weeks or months ago. And he was writing about her! Her cheeks burned. Was this how he really felt? She closed her eyes, the sensation of riding through the woods with him flowing through her, the memory of his smile as she said a German word correctly. The furrow in his brow when she spoke to him in French or took too long responding. He’d thought her an idiot! And the worst revelation was that she was ignorant. Not at all mindful that using fancy phrases or reading esoteric books didn’t make a person intelligent.

  Johan was right. He did understand better than she did.

  A tear dripped onto the page. He’d sacrificed his future with a “useful” bride for her. But no document proved they were wed. She’d relieve Johan’s burden. Perhaps the “priest” who’d supposedly married them was a pretender who hoped to ease Johan’s pain when she died. But if she was such a burden, why did he care so much? Because he’d failed. And God hadn’t answered his prayers. A guilty conscience nagged him.

  She would set his conscience free.

  ~*~

  Suzanne’s cheeks still burned as she pulled her gloves up and approached the innkeeper, the pleasant scent of lemon oil teasing her senses.

  “Good day, mistress.” The balding man nodded at her, his shiny head fringed with a ring of silver hair. Ruffled shirtsleeves were pushed up as he rubbed beeswax into the wide oak counter top. “Good to see you up and about.” He ceased dragging the rag in circles. “Going to the carriage shop?”

  “Yes, I’d like to see…” What should she call him? “Johan.” She’d get this over with.

  “Can you bring him some of these little cakes? He enjoys them as much as I do.” He handed her a small, but heavy, canvas bag.

  Suzanne frowned as yet another recollection came—Johan savoring his mother’s pastries. “He has a good appetite.”

  Mr. Tarpley’s round stomach spoke of his wife’s good meals. “Do you know the way to Vann’s shop?”

  When she shook her head, he walked her to the door and pointed straight down the street at a sign with a carriage painted on it. “Best carriage maker in Philadelphia.”

  “Philadelphia?” A bout of dizziness attacked her and the innkeeper grasped her arm to steady her.

  “Yes, mistress, good old Philadelphia.”

  “How far am I from New York?”

  “New York? That’s a far spell from here. Why do you ask?”

  “I…I hope to go there one day.” Soon. Her head began to ache again. “Merci, monsieur, for the directions. Suzanne stepped out into the sunlight, bright against her eyes, with no hat to cover her head. At Versailles, she possessed a great many hats, jewels, and other finery.

  Guy would replace those items once he made it to New Yor
k. But she must get there, too. For now, she had trouble enough simply walking.

  Unaccustomed to so much exertion, her heart hammered as she strode down the hard-packed dirt pathways adjacent to the cobblestone streets. This colonial city seemed so nouveau, so new. Horse carts passed in the roads, the drivers holding their whips lightly in their hands. A frontiersman dressed in tan buckskins rode a fine black horse down a narrow side street.

  The smell of horse flesh, molten metal, fire, and sweat carried across the street as she reached the intersection near Vann’s popular business. Suzanne lifted her skirts and crossed the street, dodging manure piles and avoiding two small drays that rumbled by. With each step, the pins in her hair loosened and her curls tumbled down her back. Suzanne almost collided with a tall gentleman dressed in a gray waistcoat.

  Elaborate silver buttons lined the front, reminding her of some on Etienne’s clothing. His breeches were also in the French fashion. “Mademoiselle?” He lifted his hat and bowed, his eyes dancing.

  Casting her eyes down, she stepped around him and into the building where Johan stood beside the forge. Johan’s muscles bulged beneath his tight shirt as he hammered a metal rod, glowing orange from the fire, until it flattened. He lifted his bronze-and-gold head and turned toward them. His broad white smile contrasted with the tight smirk of the gentleman. “It’s madame, not mademoiselle.” He seemed happy to make that announcement.

  But why? She was his burden. She lifted the bag. “I’ve brought you some gateau.”

  Johan grasped her hand and brought it to his lips, lingering there.

  For a moment, Suzanne almost felt the Palatinate sun shining on them in the wheat fields. Smoke from the fire reminded her of something…she tugged her hand free.

  French soldiers marching across the fields, setting fire. It was a fleeting thought, not a painting in her mind. “Johan?” She swallowed hard. Had they come to the colonies together because of something she’d done? Dear God, had anyone died? Would the villagers starve this winter?

  Vann appeared in the opening behind them. He wiped his large hands on his apron. “Do we finally get to meet Johan’s beloved?”