by DiAnn Mills
Yvonne watched the reunion with an enigmatic smile. “He will be a piece of your past to soothe your heart,” she said.
Georgette’s first impressions of her new home were of large, clean rooms with wooden beams and white walls, immense fire-places, and handsome furnishings. She felt pampered by Yvonne, who bathed her, combed out her hair, and helped her dress for supper as if she were a princess. She found the woman’s stream of accented conversation soothing, laced with tales of Jean-Maurice and Francine as children. She helped Georgette unpack and arrange her clothing and possessions.
“Voyons, but you have lovely things!” Yvonne stepped back to admire her handiwork. The room looked bright and homey with Georgette’s possessions scattered about. Caramel had already claimed the rug on the hearth.
“I hope there is room for Mr. LaTournay’s things,” Georgette said. “My gowns take up so much space.”
“Monsieur uses the adjoining bedchamber as his dressing room. Never you worry,” Yvonne said. “This house has rooms and to spare for you and a brood of children.”
Georgette tried to ignore that last comment. “Does Noel help him dress?”
“The master claims no need of a valet when he is home, so Noel helps me keep the household in order. Come to supper when you are ready.”
Yvonne opened the door to reveal Mr. LaTournay in the hallway. He stepped back, allowing the housekeeper to pass, then entered Georgette’s room. Caramel gave him a cheerful greeting, rolling on his polished shoes to beg a belly rub.
“You look fine,” Georgette said. Her husband had changed into a blue coat, brocaded waistcoat, and buff breeches. His unpowdered hair was brushed into a neat queue.
He scanned the room. “Does this bedchamber meet with your approval? You may choose another if it does not suit.”
“It is most satisfactory. Of a certain, I must adjust to sleeping in a cave.”
He glanced at the alcove bed. “It is warm in winter. You will see.”
“I am sure I shall. I also see that I needn’t have packed my featherbed. You must own many, since my bed frame already holds two.” She crossed to the window and gazed upon rolling, forested hills and green pastureland already wearing a tint of autumn color. Cattle and sheep dotted the fields. “The view is particularly fine.”
His hands slipped around her waist from behind, and she melted against his chest. His breath and lips against her temple brought a relieved sigh. As long as Mr. LaTournay loved her, she could endure.
“You are wonderful, my Georgette. They all love you, as I knew they would. Come, we must go down for our wedding supper. Yvonne has prepared a feast in your honor.”
“She is kind, Jean-Maurice, as are Noel and Francine.”
“Are your fears relieved?”
“Most of them. You will not leave me alone tonight?”
“You need to ask?” He kissed her before escorting her downstairs.
The outside world seldom touched Georgette’s little paradise of Haven Farm that autumn of 1775. She diligently applied herself to ignoring the few concerns marring her happiness. True, the town church’s minister was an unabashed proponent of the rebel cause, but he seldom allowed his political views to color his sermons. Talk of war filtered through town, and Georgette knew of several local families whose sons had joined the traitorous army, yet these things she could disregard.
One afternoon in November, Francine dropped by to give Georgette a weaving lesson. “Before we settle down to work, I would really like a refreshment,” Francine said, linking arms with her new sister. “I hear via family gossip that Yvonne is teaching you to cook and clean house.” She stepped back to allow Georgette to enter the hall first, since their two hoop skirts could not simultaneously fit through the doorway.
“I must have something to fill my days—”
“Non, my dear sister, you misunderstand. I approve of your activity, as does mon frère.” Her bright smile soothed Georgette’s ruffled feelings. “Yvonne abandoned training me years ago, but enough of her skill soaked through my thick skull that Mr. Voorhees finds me a satisfactory cook.”
A stack of letters on the hall table caught Georgette’s eyes. She stopped to examine the addresses. “Mr. LaTournay writes and receives many letters.”
Francine gave her a speculative look. “He is a busy man. Too busy, in the opinion of some. Not busy enough, in the opinion of others.”
“So many letters addressed to my husband; none for me. Does mail no longer travel to England?” Georgette dropped the letters back on the table. “My parents must have received at least one of my letters by this time. Why do they not reply? And why does Marianne never write to me?”
Francine shook her head and looked sympathetic as she towed Georgette into the kitchen. At the worktable, Yvonne chopped vegetables with a huge cleaver. Bundles of onions, garlic, and herbs hung from the ceiling, and a great kettle steamed over a crackling fire.
“Would either of you like some cider?” Francine made herself at home in the great house.
Yvonne smiled and refused without breaking rhythm.
“Gigi?”
“Please.” Georgette brooded over troubling thoughts. “Farming must be stressful work. Often Mr. LaTournay looks tired and troubled. Sometimes …”
“Sometimes?” Francine poured two pewter mugs full of cider.
“When we read the scriptures together, certain passages seem important to him, yet he cannot explain why. We read a story about a man named Gideon the other day, and Mr. LaTournay asked me to read it aloud twice. He has spoken of it several times since. Is your husband mysterious like that?”
“Jean-Maurice is more mysterious than most. Has he told you about his childhood?” Careful to keep out of Yvonne’s way, the ladies sat upon a settle near the open hearth.
“Very little. He seldom speaks of the past. I know he was born in Canada and spoke French as his first language. I know that your father was French and your mother part Dutch. You both lived here for many years, so I assume your father died young.”
“Papa was a French soldier—Claude-Albert François LaTournay, handsome, romantic, and silver-tongued. Grandfather disapproved of him, but Maman ran away to marry him and regretted it ever after. Papa took her to Canada with him until he tired of being husband and father. He brought Maman here when we were children and left us in Grandfather’s care.”
“How sad she must have been!” Georgette mourned the disillusioned young mother.
“Our mother tried to shield us from knowledge of our father’s perfidy, but he made his own character known to us later. During the Indian wars, he returned to claim Jean-Maurice. Mercifully, he left me here with Grandfather.”
“Your mother died?”
“The year before our father’s return. Jean-Maurice was thirteen when she died, and he missed her terribly. He still mourns her loss, I believe. Before Maman’s death, he was a mischievous boy, always in trouble yet smart enough to talk his way out of punishment. Her death took all the fun out of his life.”
“He seldom smiles.” Georgette sipped her cider, trying to imagine Mr. LaTournay as a lanky young boy.
“I have never seen him happier than he has been these last few months.”
Georgette smiled. “That is good to hear. Sometimes I wonder how he can be pleased with me. You know how hopeless I am at any profitable chore. He might have married any one of a dozen other accomplished young ladies in Saratoga alone, not to mention the hordes of females yearning after him in New York.”
“I shall let Jean-Maurice assure you of his undying love. Enough for me to say that he paid heed to no woman but his mother until you came along.”
Georgette winced inwardly. Mr. LaTournay’s dissolute reputation remained unknown at Haven Farm, and she had no wish to disillusion his family.
“His sun rises and sets on you, Gigi fille,” Francine continued. “I would not wish to be wife to such a man, but you are the ideal woman for mon frére. You possess courage and tenacity. Loving
Jean-Maurice for a lifetime will require both.”
Confused, Georgette shook her head. Perhaps Francine knew of her brother’s moral failings after all. “I am sure it must be as difficult for him to love me as it is for me to love him.”
“J’en doute. Behind every great man stands an even greater woman, if you want my opinion,” Francine said. “You be Deborah to his Barak, support him fully, and you will reap rich rewards. It is not my place to tell you things he chooses to keep secret, but I shall let you know that Jean-Maurice undergoes a struggle.”
“Involving me?”
“Certainement. When principle strives against passion …” Francine paused and smiled. “It is time for me to hold my tongue. You cannot know how tempted I am to divulge certain facts. I say it is high time he told you many things about himself, but does he listen to me? Ha!”
LaTournay stamped his boots on the stoop to remove muck and snow. Once inside the lean-to, he took off the filthy boots and hung up his overcoat. The stench of livestock clung to his clothing and skin. He could not greet Georgette while smelling like manure. Stocking-footed, he ran up the back stairs to his dressing room. A fire burned on the hearth in anticipation of his arrival.
The water in his basin was tepid, but it felt good on his chilled body. He toweled warmth into his skin and dressed quickly. Somewhere in this barn of a house, Georgette awaited his coming. Her eyes would brighten at sight of him, and she would greet him with a kiss.
“Jean-Maurice?”
“I am here.” He ran a comb through his damp hair.
She opened the door between their rooms. “Francine was here today to teach me weaving.” Georgette wore a gown he particularly admired, pink and white like her skin. Wisps escaped her upsweep of hair. Her welcoming smile was as warm and inviting as he had anticipated.
“I was dirty.” He reached to tie off his pigtail with a string.
“You smell nice now.” Just as he had hoped, her hands slid up his chest. “And you feel nice.” Wonder of wonders, she returned his fascination and delight in equal measure. Would he ever tire of her soft form and loving embrace? A man would have to be dead.
The string fell to the floor, unnoticed.
That night after scripture reading, Georgette asked, “Jean-Maurice, why were you so sad when first we met?” She shifted the sock she was knitting and dropped the ball of yarn on the floor. Caramel picked it up and started to trot away. “No, Caramel, drop it!” she cried.
LaTournay caught the dog and retrieved the yarn. After a quick search, he located the dog’s basket of playthings and selected a shredded leather ball. “Here, young fellow. Play with this.”
“Thank you.” Georgette tucked the yarn ball beneath her elbow. “Perhaps ‘sad’ is not the correct description. Your eyes held such emptiness, such unspeakable sorrow, as if …”
He tossed the ball for Caramel and watched the dog scrabble on the floorboards. “Speak on.” The pit of his stomach felt hollow. He settled back in his chair and crossed one ankle over the other.
“As if you had looked upon hell itself.”
He leaned down to tug the slimy ball from Caramel’s mouth and threw it again. “You spoke of me with Francine today.”
She tipped her head quizzically. Firelight danced in the hollows and curves of her face and throat. “I wish to know everything about you, Jean-Maurice. You are the favored subject of my conversation and my dreams. Does this annoy you?”
Her increasing perceptiveness with regard to his thoughts and emotions could become inconvenient. “Anything you wish to know, ask me, not Francine.” He tried to keep his tone light.
“What happened when your father came back for you? Francine says he left her behind and took you with him. It must have been difficult for you to leave this place. Did you even remember your father, or was he a stranger to you?”
He focused on Caramel, letting the little dog wrestle him for the ball. Les Pringle’s warnings about women flashed through his mind, followed by proverbs about bothersome wives. Why could she not be content in her ignorance?
“I think I did remember him vaguely. But now I am here, married to the loveliest woman in all America.” He rose and moved behind her chair to rub her neck and shoulders.
She dropped her knitting to clasp his hands and look up with adoring eyes. “Are you content as a farmer, Jean-Maurice? Sometimes I cannot help wondering. You often seem troubled. I enjoy discussing the scriptures with you each night, but I cannot match your depth of understanding. You are so intelligent and gifted; it seems wicked to waste your talents upon dumb animals and a simple wife.”
For a moment he wondered how it would feel to grant her admission to his deepest thoughts and feelings. But sharing his complete history was unthinkable. She must remain content with the portion of his life he was able to share.
Bending, he kissed her neck. “Have I complained about your conversation?” He parried question with question. “I enjoy discussing Samson, Gideon, Moses, and our other historical friends each night. I respect your knowledge of Jesus Christ.”
“I know you read the scriptures on your own. You insist upon reading the Bible straight through when we read together, but you have been peeking ahead into New Testament books. I know because you have moved my markers. I wish you would discuss those passages with me as well as the Old Testament stories.”
Taken by surprise, he muttered, “I am unprepared to discuss them.”
When he tried to pull his hands away, she tightened her hold. “Jean-Maurice, if you are a Christian, God has forgiven whatever sins you committed in the past. And I could better demonstrate love to you if I knew more about you. Share with me these memories that haunt you, please? I believe it would help if you spoke of them.”
He pulled his hands from her grasp as terror darkened his vision. Chest heaving, he swore in French. “You know not what you ask. Leave the past alone. Be content with the man I am; forget the man I used to be. We are happy here together, and I would keep it so. Do you understand?”
Turning away, he retreated to the adjoining room to prepare for bed. He almost decided to sleep in the smaller bed in the alcove of his chamber, but the memory of Georgette’s bewildered expression brought him back to her. Shivering, he climbed beneath the covers and waited for her to join him. When she did climb into bed, he pulled her close with her back against his chest. Nuzzling into her neck, he tried to relax and absorb her sweetness. She did not resist him, but he sensed her sorrow like a barrier between them.
Chapter 11
A time to love, and a time to hate; a time of war, and a time of peace.
ECCLESIASTES 3:8
Georgette awakened to darkness, her heart racing. Jean-Maurice thrashed and cried out. His fist struck her arm. Still disoriented from sleep, she struggled to sit up. “Jean-Maurice, you are dreaming. Wake up.”
He emitted a snarl like an animal’s. Georgette yelped in fright. Braving the cold, she climbed out of bed and held a taper to the banked coals of last night’s fire. Wax dripped on the hearth before the wick caught. Her husband still moaned and gasped for breath. Cupping the flame, Georgette set the candle in a holder and placed it on the bedside table. “Jean-Maurice!” She threw off the coverlet to reveal her husband’s quaking frame. His long arms spread wide, fingers grasping at the mattress, he lay on his back shaking his head back and forth, moaning. His hair straggled across his face. Sweat glistened on his brow; his damp nightshirt clung to his chest and gaped at the neck, revealing sinews knotted as if he strained against bindings. The scar on his jawline showed white beneath his beard.
The rush of cold air made his breath catch. His eyelids fluttered. Tears streaked his temples.
“You are suffering a night terror, Jean-Maurice. Relax. You are safe at home.” She touched his clammy forearm, ready to evade another wild swing.
He blinked. “Georgette. You are safe?”
Her jaw quivered with cold. “I am safe, as are you. That was a dreadful dream. You yelled
and thrashed and howled. Are you better now?”
“Oui.” His voice was quiet.
“Come and change into a fresh nightshirt, dearest. You are drenched in sweat.” Teeth chattering, she stepped into his dressing room to find a clean garment. When she returned, he sat beside the hearth, stirring up the fire. The slump of his angular shoulders touched her heart. “Jean-Maurice?”
He glanced toward her, running his fingers through his tangled hair. “Thank you, but I shall change in my room. Come and warm yourself beside the fire until I return.” She picked up a woolen shawl, wrapped it around her shoulders, and obeyed. Caramel sat up in his basket, blinking and yawning. After a quick survey of his humans, he tramped circles into his blankets and curled up to sleep once more.
When her husband returned and took the chair opposite hers, Georgette noticed his neatly brushed hair. “Did you wash? The water must have been icy.”
“It was, but I could not subject you to a malodorous husband.” A wry smile touched his lips before his gaze returned to the fire. He wore a fine silk banyan robe over his nightshirt, but his legs and feet were bare like hers. After three months, Georgette still found the informality of marriage intriguing.
Rising, she approached and knelt before him, looking up into his face. “Is it well with you, Jean-Maurice?”
He tugged off her nightcap and rested his cheek atop her head, placing his hands upon her shoulders. “Georgette, I love you so. Forgive me!”
“For loving me?”
“For being unworthy. If anything ever happened to you …” His voice trembled into silence. The grip on her shoulders tightened.
She reached between the lapels of his robe and laid her hand over his pounding heart. “You must learn to trust our Lord with the future. He is the only one with power to save. Remember all we have read together about His redeeming love?”
He gripped her hand with his own and pressed it closer. His chilly skin warmed to her touch. After a long silence, he said quietly, “Dieu ne peut pas m’aimer.”
