by DiAnn Mills
Concentrating for a moment, Georgette interpreted “God cannot love me” and felt a shock. How could this be? From the depths of her spirit, she prayed for wisdom. “God loves everyone from the greatest saint to the lowest criminal. He loves you, Jean-Maurice. If I can love you, certainly God does.”
He rose and stepped away to face a dark corner of the chamber, arms folded across his chest. “He knows all about me. You do not.”
Fear of the anguish she had seen in his eyes haunted Georgette. Lady Forester’s harsh warning rang in her ears. Had he been seeing other women even after vowing fidelity to her? She spoke calmly despite the pain in her chest. “God knows everyone’s secret sins, and He promises to cleanse and forgive. In all our Bible reading, have we yet learned of a man whose sins were too great for God to forgive? Sometimes men refuse to repent; they scorn God’s sovereignty and mock His gift of salvation. But that is their choice, not God’s. Jesus came to die for all men. He associated with the worst sinners—murderers, thieves, and harlots.”
“Why?”
“Because those people recognized their need of a Savior. They knew their unworthiness to approach God on their own.”
He gave a grunt.
Was it a grunt of assent or of dissent?
Still kneeling before the empty chair, Georgette prayed. Had her words made any sense? She was groggy with sleep, and he was overwrought. She hoped God could use her feeble efforts.
He swung around and faced her. “Come to bed before you fall ill.” She accepted his outstretched hand and let him pull her up. Together they turned the featherbed and climbed into its billowing folds.
Jean-Maurice wrapped his arms around Georgette and gradually relaxed. Soon his deep breathing told her that he slept. An ache deeper than tears settled around her heart.
“Miss Gigi.” Yvonne laid a work-roughened hand on Georgette’s shoulder. “You should get outside and take some fresh air. ’Twould do you good.”
Georgette nodded, dragging her gaze from the coals on the kitchen hearth. “Perhaps I shall visit Francine.” She closed the Bible in her lap and sighed.
Yvonne’s skirts rustled against the wooden settle. “I should keep my place and mind my business, but I hate the sight of you and monsieur both moping about. Old Yvonne is good at listening to the woes of brides.”
Georgette met Yvonne’s sympathetic gaze and tried to smile. Tears sprang to her eyes; she dabbed at them with the corner of her apron. Yvonne sat down next to her. Georgette leaned on the older woman’s sturdy shoulder, inhaling her scent of cinnamon and coffee. “Oh Yvonne, I am such a fool.”
Yvonne pressed her wrinkled cheek against Georgette’s forehead and rocked gently. “Ma fille, tell Yvonne your folly.”
“Mr. LaTournay—” A sob choked her for a moment. “He claimed to be a Christian. Only now, after months of marital happiness, do I learn that he does not accept God’s forgiveness and salvation.” The last words came out as a wail.
Yvonne remained quiet.
“His past troubles him, Yvonne, but he will not speak of it to me. He believes God cannot forgive him. And I have disobeyed God’s command by marrying an unbeliever.”
Yvonne nodded. “Noel and I shall pray twice as hard for the boy. You must know, Miss Gigi, that not all past sin and pain should be spoken of between husband and wife. Let him choose what he will share. And yet I agree with you that he must face his past and release it into God’s hands.”
“I am dreadfully confused. I should not have married Mr. LaTournay, and yet I love him so dearly that I cannot regret my error. I realize now that we had different understandings of the term ‘Christian.’ After being christened, he naturally considered himself a Christian. He did not know that I spoke of salvation through faith in Christ. But, Yvonne, had I known he was not a believer, I might have married him anyway. Is it sinful that I do not regret pledging myself to him for life?”
Yvonne stared into her eyes and gave her a gentle shake. “For shame, to waste time and tears so! God does not condemn us for the sins we might have committed had the situation been otherwise. He has enough to do forgiving us for the sins we actually commit. You erred through ignorance, and the deed is done. Now you must live with what is and obey what you know to be God’s will. Do you think God would have you stop loving your husband?”
“No,” Georgette whispered.
“Until Jean-Maurice met you, he rejected God altogether and his life was an empty shell. You are exactly what the boy needed—you have adored him, played with him, prayed with him, studied scripture with him, and shared with him the depths of your heart. Your love is an essential piece to the puzzle of his questing soul. You have given him a taste of God’s perfect love. Now we must trust that God will prevail in the end. Only He can complete your marriage. Only He can form Jean-Maurice into the godly man He intended him to be.”
Georgette looked into Yvonne’s eyes and felt hope for the first time in days. She hugged the elderly housekeeper and silently thanked God for providing her with wise counsel.
Three days later, Jean-Maurice looked up from his evening scripture reading to announce: “I am leaving for New York City tomorrow.”
Georgette’s mouth fell open. Unwelcome thoughts flashed through her mind—Lady Forester, the Whig rebellion and its accompanying dangers, the Frog. Has my husband tired of me so quickly?
He laid the Bible on a side table and took a deep breath. “Information of an urgent nature impels this sudden journey. I would not leave you for a lesser cause.”
“I shall go with you.” She scarcely recognized her own voice.
He shook his head, though she recognized a hint of indecision. “The journey downriver in summer is difficult; in winter it is more arduous still. And you know of the unrest in the city.” His eyes and jaw hardened. “Atrocities have been committed in the name of patriotism, and the innocent suffer. I cannot subject you to such danger, Georgette.”
“What are you keeping from me?”
The slightest dilation of his pupils verified her suspicion. A dreadful certainty struck her. “It is my parents.”
His shoulders stiffened. “How do you know?”
“Jean-Maurice, you must tell me!” She flung herself at his feet and clutched his knees. “What has happened? Are they alive?”
“They are alive.” He cupped her face between his hands. “Georgette, do you hear? They are alive. Calm yourself, épouse chérie.”
Looking into his solemn eyes, she attempted to control her panic. “Did they not sail for England? Did the ship sink?” Her mind began to spin wild schemes. She must go with him to New York, no matter what the cost.
“The Lily Fair never sailed.” He lifted her to sit upon his lap. The skirts of her bedgown engulfed him.
“The ship never sailed? But why?” Georgette twined her arms around his neck.
He remained unyielding in her embrace, and his voice stayed formal in tone. “I do not know why. Their passage was never refunded. A radical element in the city seized your father, then tarred and feathered him.”
Georgette gasped as though she had received a blow to the stomach. “But why? And Mummy? Where have they lived? How have they survived these months?”
“I know not how they survived at first, but they currently reside at the Grenville estate on Long Island.”
“So Marianne helped them. Now, of course, I must come with you,” Georgette said. “Caramel will remain here with Yvonne and Noel. What? Why do you gaze at me with such trepidation and censure?” She smoothed the lines on his forehead with one finger and gave him a lingering kiss. His lips clung to hers as if he were helpless to resist. “Do you not wish to have me along?”
He closed his eyes and buried his head against her shoulder. “Do not make sport of me, Georgette. Your safety is my concern. If my desires alone were consulted, you and I would never part. This war escalates in scale and intensity. British troops are expected to invade New York soon, though no one knows when.”
; “I hope it is soon; then we shall all be safe.” She felt tension in his neck muscles as her fingers stroked the smooth skin above his collar.
“Yet we cannot wait for that day, and should the invasion occur while we are there, our lives would certainly be endangered. Best to snatch your parents out of harm’s way, a tactic easiest accomplished by one man alone. Before long the Hudson will close off with ice. If it happens too soon, we shall be obliged to travel overland.”
She felt his hands roaming over her back, yet his mind seemed occupied with travel and tactics. Time to plant a suggestion. She spoke into his ear. “Jean-Maurice, you will make arrangements for our quick passage home while I care for my parents’ immediate needs. Together we can accomplish more.”
He kissed her neck. Maybe he was not completely preoccupied after all. Georgette lifted her chin and sighed her pleasure. “So I may come with you?”
His grasp tightened, and he kissed a trail up the side of her throat.
“Jean-Maurice?”
He lifted bemused eyes and a crooked smile. “I can deny you nothing, ma petite.”
If anything, Mr. LaTournay had understated the misery of winter travel. Great chunks of ice floated alongside the boats traversing the river, and a contrary breeze impeded progress while freezing the passengers’ faces. Georgette huddled in the stern beneath layers of oilcloth, blankets, and cloaks. It must be late afternoon, but the sleety weather and gray gloom had changed little since early-morning hours.
A corner of her shelter lifted. Her husband squatted before her. “Georgette, we shall arrive on Manhattan Island in approximately two hours. There we must hire horses to carry us to the ferry landing. I know not what political climate we shall find in the city, but ’twould profit us to say nothing to anyone about our business.”
She nodded. Though she would have liked to complain about her frozen extremities and the complete lack of privacy, coming along on this trip had, after all, been her idea. Mr. LaTournay seemed to read her mind. His eyes crinkled above the muffler wrapped over his mouth and nose. His cheeks were cherry red from the whipping wind and blowing snow. Dancing wisps of dark hair caught in his brows and draped over his nose. He lifted his three-cornered hat, brushed back his hair with one hand, and replaced the hat. “Solid ground will come as a treat, eh?”
Georgette nodded. “And a hotel.” With a hot bath, if at all possible.
“I shall try to find us lodging at the boardinghouse.”
She looked at his chapped hands clad in fingerless gloves. He must be as uncomfortable as she, yet he seemed accustomed to a harsh environment. Georgette felt weak and useless. No wonder he had not wished to bring her along. She was nothing but trouble for him.
“Might there be difficulty in renting a room for the night?”
He shifted position, setting one knee down. “The proprietor might have fled the city by now. Word is that many citizens have emigrated to other cities or colonies.”
Georgette nodded mutely.
He reached beneath the oilcloth to touch her face with his icy fingers. “I shall find lodging for you, ma belle épouse, never fear. You have been most courageous.” He winked one red-rimmed eye and dropped her cover back into place.
A moment later, she heard him speaking to one of the boatmen in rapid-fire French. These men seemed to know him well. Everyone seemed to know Mr. LaTournay, she realized with irritation. Often she sensed, with a surge of jealousy, that other people knew him better than she did. She had given herself to him completely; why must he be so tight-lipped and reserved? Even during their most private moments, she sensed times when he checked himself, as if he feared revealing too much of his soul.
Jean-Maurice desired her; Georgette held no doubts in that regard. He expressed sincere admiration and gratitude, and his eyes communicated ardor more eloquently than his tongue. She felt more beautiful than ever before in her life, and perhaps she should have been content. Yet she wanted more.
Whenever her husband spoke to her tenderly in French, her heart responded with an intensity that astonished her. Only one other man had ever affected her so—a man she endeavored to forget. It could not be the French accent alone, for none of the many Frenchmen she had met while living in Paris had caused such havoc to her emotions.
Occasionally she pondered the similarities between Jean-Maurice and her mysterious hero. Both men were French, both tall and vigorous, both kind and considerate. She knew the Frog to be a man of honor, despite his absurd appellation and traitorous activities. Notwithstanding his cynical, teasing behavior at their first meeting, he had treated her with respect. Even while declaring his devotion at their subsequent meetings, not once had he disgusted her with a suggestion of immorality.
Was the Frog still alive? Would he see her enter the city and find a way to contact her? Guilt swept over Georgette even as she allowed the treacherous thoughts.
They took lodgings that night at Hull’s Tavern. After making sure she would have the bath she craved, her husband donned his coat and cloak. “I must make arrangements for tomorrow and inquiries about your parents, Georgette. You will be safe here in the room. I shall return in time to bathe before supper.”
“Take care,” she warned.
His weather-burned face creased into a smile. “Always.”
True to his word, he reappeared while Georgette combed out her hair beside the fire. “The water is tepid,” she said. “We can request a kettle of hot water.”
“I have already done so.” He opened the door in response to a knock, and a boy carrying a steaming kettle entered. Without a word, the boy emptied the pot into the tub. Mr. LaTournay pressed a coin into his hand and closed the door behind him.
The room contained no privacy screen. Georgette watched her husband remove his cravat and waistcoat. Embarrassed, she averted her gaze until he submerged himself in the tub. Blowing and sputtering, he surfaced, hair and beard dripping. “Not quite hot enough but far warmer than the Hudson,” he said. “Please hand me the scrub brush and soap.”
Georgette obliged. Dark hair lay plastered on his exposed knees, forearms, and chest. His wet shoulders reflected the firelight as he applied the scrub brush to his sinewy back. He grinned up at her. “The last woman who watched me bathe was my mother.”
Heat suffused her face. Turning to the mirror, she began to pin up her still-damp hair but could not avoid hearing his chuckle.
“I fear my gown is out of style.”
“The trade ships from England did not arrive here in October, so everyone in the city is wearing last year’s fashions.” Splashes and thumps told her when he climbed out of the tub. She could not resist sneaking a peek in the mirror while he dressed. His twinkling dark eyes met her gaze as he tightened the drawstring of his drawers.
Although she wanted to be offended or shocked, Georgette found herself smiling. Judging by his reaction, it was not a bad thing that she found him good to look upon. “Woman, you are a distraction,” he growled. Instead of pulling on his shirt, he approached her to claim a kiss.
Nestled in his arms, Georgette inhaled the fragrance of his clean skin. “I am glad I came with you.”
“At the moment, I, too, am thankful. I hope I may remain so.” He stepped back. “We must make haste if we are to dine tonight.”
Georgette reluctantly let him finish dressing.
Moonlight streamed through a window, unimpeded by the wisp of curtain. Although the bed was clean and vermin-free, Georgette could not sleep. Voices from the taproom below were just loud enough to annoy without allowing her to distinguish one word from another. Her supper of fried ham and beans was not setting well.
Her husband’s deep breathing told Georgette that he slept. Shivering despite layers of blankets, she snuggled up against his broad back and thought wistfully of the luxurious featherbeds back home. He rolled over to embrace her, encroaching on much of her bed space. The price of warmth. Georgette rested her cheek against his chest and let the strong beat of his heart soothe her.
Just as her mind drifted into sleep, a sharper beat awakened her. Mr. LaTournay sat up and placed a restraining hand on Georgette when she opened her mouth to inquire. The rapping sounded again.
With astonishing suddenness and silence, Mr. LaTournay positioned himself beside the chamber door. “Who is there?”
“Pringle. I need to talk to you.”
“One moment.” He hauled on his breeches as he spoke. His nightshirt gleamed white as it floated to the floor. Georgette lost sight of him in the shadows but heard evidence of his preparation. He suddenly loomed over her. “Never fear. I’ll not be long.”
She clung to him for an instant, returned his kiss, and released him. The door opened, admitting a louder volume of taproom clamor, then closed. Its latch clicked into place.
As soon as he was gone, Georgette thought of a dozen questions to ask.
Chapter 12
But if ye will not do so, behold, ye have sinned against the LORD: and be sure your sin will find you out.
NUMBERS 32:23
You were in bed?” Pringle inquired as he led the way downstairs. “At this hour? My, how marriage has countrified you, LaTournay.”
LaTournay glanced into the small taproom in passing. “Does not the Provincial Congress regulate the closing hour of taverns as it polices everything else in town?”
Pringle gave an appreciative snort as he hauled on his overcoat. “I imagine the taproom currently contains an associator or two. Rules are made to be broken only by those who enforce them.”
LaTournay observed while his friend hunched in the tavern doorway and scanned the street. “Eyes are always watching,” Pringle said. “You can have no idea what these past months have been. Daily we hope and pray that Governor Tryon will succeed in convincing General Howe to make New York his center of operations.”
Thinking of his warm bed, LaTournay reluctantly followed Pringle. For all his efforts, Pringle moved with the finesse of a rolling boulder. The heels of his shoes tapped on the cobblestones, and he could not seem to restrain a stream of conversation. “The associators have detained me more than once, insisting that I take an oath of allegiance. I tell them I already signed and swore it once and do not intend to do so again.”
