Love’s Betrayal

by DiAnn Mills

  “I understand.”

  Marianne and Georgette held hands and prayed while they waited for time to pass. Georgette heard running horses outside. Would Jean-Maurice be prepared for this unfriendly welcome? Surely he did not depend solely on the Grenville servants to protect him. Why bother coming at all? What ulterior motive directed his movements?

  Several shots rang out. Men shouted. Horses neighed.

  The women exchanged startled stares. Running to an upstairs bedroom window, Marianne and Georgette looked toward the Jamaica road, seeing torches and milling figures. Georgette’s mother and Mrs. Grenville joined them.

  “What has happened?” Mr. Grenville spoke from the bedroom doorway. Receiving no answer, he pushed his way to the window. “Something has gone awry. This disturbance would alert the enemy.”

  Calling for a servant, he stormed from the room and thundered downstairs. Out in the road, the torches moved slowly into the distance and disappeared from sight.

  The women followed him, conjecturing among themselves. Georgette checked the grandfather clock in the front hall. Soon it would be her appointed time to meet the Frog in the orchard. Would the meeting ever take place?

  A liveried man rushed through the front door, bent to gasp for breath with his hands on his knees, then ran into the parlor. The women followed him, hoping to overhear his news.

  “What is it, Toby? Stop puffing and tell me what you have discovered,” Mr. Grenville ordered.

  The man struggled for breath. “I run clear from the crossroads, suh. Mr. Pringle’s men, they was captured by a band of associators. They be taken back to New York City tonight. Mr. Pringle, he went crazy and shot the leader spy, the one he calls the Frog. Then somebody shot Mr. Pringle, but he ain’t hurt bad. Somebody carried that Frogman off somewheres, but nobody knows what become of ’im or who he was.”

  Chapter 14

  Neither is there salvation in any other: for there is none other name under heaven given among men, whereby we must be saved.

  ACTS 4:12

  Georgette lowered herself into a chair and laid her head back.

  Dear Lord God, I beseech You to protect my husband and bring him home to me. Jean-Maurice believes he is doing right in Your eyes, I am certain. Forgive his unbelief and make Yourself known to him in an unmistakable way. Please make me worthy.

  The Grenvilles and Georgette’s parents discussed the subverted plan in hushed tones. Marianne brought Georgette a cup of chocolate and knelt at her feet, looking up with worried eyes. Georgette held her cup with one hand and reached to squeeze Marianne’s hand with the other. “I am certain Mr. Pringle will recover. Toby’s report indicated that he was not seriously injured.”

  “Yes, but the Frog.” Tears turned Marianne’s eyes into sparkling blue pools. “He was so brave and daring. No wonder you loved him. I wish such a man would take interest in me.”

  “You speak as though he were dead.” Georgette snatched her hand back and sipped at her chocolate. “I do not believe it.” The enormous lump in her throat could not be swallowed or ignored.

  “I pray you are right.” Marianne inspected her fidgeting fingers. “You say you never saw his face, yet you loved him. Did he ever kiss you, Georgette?”

  Georgette lifted a brow. “How romantic you have become, Marianne. At first he only touched my hands, but his voice held a passion that set my soul aflame. He called me ‘ma belle grenooj’ or something like that.”

  Marianne’s forehead wrinkled. “‘My beautiful frog’? But he was the Frog, not you. Are you certain he said ‘grenouille’?”

  Georgette wanted to laugh and cry at once. The rogue! How dared he call her a frog! Setting down her chocolate, she rose with a rustle of petticoats to walk across the room. She covered her lips with one hand and propped her elbow with the other, her old habit. Did Jean-Maurice think her mouth too large? Or did he call her his frog because he had always intended her to be his mate—one frog admiring another?

  Her thoughts flitted from one concern to another. Small wonder he had been secretive all these months of their marriage. Georgette recalled several instances when she had reviled Whig leaders and condemned the revolutionary forces. How could Jean-Maurice know that his wife loved him far more than she cared about politics? Whatever course he decided upon was the right choice as far as Georgette was concerned, knowing as she did that her husband would dedicate himself to no cause without careful deliberation.

  In the wee hours of the morning, Georgette retired to her chamber and drew the curtains around the cold bed. Tonight she would receive no visit from an audacious frog. Still praying for her husband’s safety and salvation, she drifted into sleep.

  Just past noon the following day, while Georgette sat knitting in the parlor in the company of her parents and the Grenvilles, the servant Toby burst into the room. “Mr. Grenville, suh!”

  “What is it, Toby?” Mr. Grenville growled, looking up from his newspaper.

  “Mr. LaTournay—he rides up the lane.”

  Georgette’s father sat up, knocking his wig askew. “Ah! Hope returns with him.” Casting a burning glare upon Georgette, he ordered, “You will do and say nothing to further alienate the man.”

  “Yes, Father.” Georgette could scarcely conceal her elation. Her Frog was alive and well! Clasping her hands amid the folds of her gown, she strove to control her breathing. The lace ruffles upon her breast rose and fell much too violently. Staring at her lap, she reminded herself of the role she must play: the penitent wife.

  The front door opened, voices sounded, and footsteps crossed the hall. Mr. LaTournay paused in the parlor doorway. Georgette took in a quick breath. Flawless attire and polished boots proclaimed him the fine gentleman, although a stray lock of hair dangled beside one of his high cheekbones. She resumed breathing with conscious effort.

  “Welcome, LaTournay.” Mr. Grenville bowed and offered a chair. “Your return signifies the return of hope to this household. You are no doubt aware of the attack upon our loyal citizens? Pringle has been taken captive. A dram of whiskey to dispel the chill?”

  Mr. LaTournay bowed to the ladies, accepted the chair, and declined the drink. “Take heart. City leaders are already protesting the detainment of your townspeople. I doubt their incarceration will be of long duration. A more significant loss was the cache of gunpowder hidden in Mr. Johannes Smythe’s barn. Had you heard of that calamity? The Whigs confiscated all.”

  “And Pringle’s plot to capture that infamous Frog spy has been foiled,” Mrs. Grenville added. “Do you think Mr. Pringle is badly injured?”

  “I had not heard that his injury was severe. Some say he killed the Frog; others say the spy escaped unscathed.” Mr. LaTournay held his hands to the fire, leaning his elbows upon his widespread knees. Georgette thought his face looked pale.

  “A ship sails for England next week,” her father said.

  Mr. LaTournay studied his father-in-law dispassionately. “Whether or not you sail on that ship depends upon your daughter. I hear she took part in Pringle’s plot to apprehend the spy. Was her participation voluntary? That is the pertinent question.”

  His enigmatic gaze turned upon Georgette. Despite her certainty, doubts assailed her. Jean-Maurice was the Frog … wasn’t he? Could it be possible that he possessed a double, a twin? Who was this hostile stranger, after all?

  “I—I wrote a note to bring the Frog here. It is not my fault that the plot failed.”

  His fixed stare brought heat to her face. “I shall never betray you, Mr. LaTournay,” she added. Somewhere behind that forbidding mask must lurk her Jean-Maurice.

  A sneer curled his lip. “Never—as long as I never turn my back upon you. We shall discuss this matter further in private.” His voice held an ominous note. Georgette heard Marianne inhale sharply.

  LaTournay rose. “Talbot, almost I am tempted to send your daughter back to England with you until this military conflict ends, but that would not serve my purposes. She will do penance at my pleasure
. I shall purchase passage for you and Mrs. Talbot before my return north.” He turned to Mrs. Grenville and Georgette’s white-faced mother. “Pardon my blunt speech, ladies. Disillusionment brings out the worst in a man. I promise that my wife will suffer no physical harm, Mrs. Talbot; you need not fear.”

  Mrs. Grenville sputtered into speech. “You are always welcome to lodge here, Mr. LaTournay. The third-floor chamber still awaits your pleasure.”

  “I am grateful for your hospitality.” His burning gaze once more focused upon Georgette. “Hence I shall retire until dinner. Mrs. LaTournay, you will accompany me.”

  Wilted beneath his stare, Georgette rose, excused herself, and led the way upstairs. As they passed into the front hall, her father’s comment followed: “What that girl needs is a flogging. Her mother always pampered her. Deceitful, she is. No respect for authority.”

  Jean-Maurice said not a word as he followed Georgette up two flights and into her chamber. “Yours is the adjoining room,” she said, but he closed her chamber door and leaned his back against it, eyes closed, chest heaving.

  “Maybe tar and feathers were not too harsh after all,” he mused aloud. “Almost I wish I had not already purchased his passage to England. Yet, for your mother’s sake and to remove him from your vicinity, the fee was well spent.”

  Georgette regarded her husband from a distance, still uncertain. “You look pale, Jean-Maurice. Are you ill?”

  “No, I am shot,” he said softly.

  “What? Where? Are you dying?” Georgette watched as he staggered over to collapse upon her bed. “Has a doctor seen your wound?”

  “Pull off my boots, woman, and cease that incessant weeping!”

  Georgette leaped to obey, trembling in surprise and hurt. Footsteps sounded in the room below, and a door closed.

  After his boots hit the floor, Jean-Maurice smiled up at her. “Hush, ma chérie—speak softly. My injury must not be known. Pierre bound it and applied a poultice. The damage is not serious, I think. The ball entered my shoulder from the side and exited through the back. Pierre thinks it bounced off my shoulder blade. I have suffered worse injury in the past.” He closed his eyes and sighed. “Pierre shot Pringle through the arm.”

  “You should have stayed in bed instead of riding over here today to play the angry husband,” Georgette scolded, wiping tears from her face with the backs of her hands. She dipped a handkerchief in her basin, wrung it out, and placed it upon his forehead. “Do you have a fever? Do you need your bandage changed?” She bent to lay her cheek against his.

  “At present I need only rest and you.” His eyes opened. “I could not leave you to wonder if I were dead or alive. Now we are together, all will be well.” He lifted his right arm in invitation. “Come and ‘do penance at my pleasure.’ Rest with me. You look peaked.”

  “Where is Pierre?” Georgette covered him with a blanket and slid in beside him. Her hoop skirt rose behind her, admitting a draft. She tried to push it down, to no avail.

  Jean-Maurice smiled. “You will seldom see Pierre, but he is near. Like a guardian angel.”

  The question must be asked. “Will you ever tell me how you received that scar on your throat and why you have nightmares?”

  A pause. “Some tales are best left untold.”

  “When I heard that you had been shot, I prayed for your safety, but mainly I wondered … Please tell me, Jean-Maurice: Had you died last night, what would have become of your soul?”

  He squeezed her gently. “The angels would have carried me to the Holy City. Never fear.”

  “So you know that God has forgiven you?” Georgette lifted her head to get a clear look at his face.

  His dark eyes glimmered at her from beneath their thick lashes, and a double chin formed as he tipped his face down. “I am forgiven for Christ’s sake, not for any worth in myself. Like the apostle Peter, I at last came to realize that, short of inventing my own god and religion, I had no choice but to abandon my pride and accept God’s gift.”

  “When did this happen? Why did you not tell me?” She crossed her hands over the solid muscles of his chest and rested her chin upon her fingers, trying to pretend her voice did not wobble with emotion. “What do you mean about Peter?”

  “I would have told you sometime.” He looked uncomfortable. “It happened gradually since our talk that night. I refer to the Gospel of John, chapter six. ‘Then Simon Peter answered him, Lord, to whom shall we go? thou hast the words of eternal life. And we believe and are sure that thou art that Christ, the Son of the living God.’ And also in the book of Acts chapter four: ‘There is none other name given among men, whereby we must be saved.’ Jesus Christ is my Lord and my God, and I shall serve Him all my days. That is all.”

  Georgette hid her face against his broad chest and wept. “Oh, thank God, thank God! Jean-Maurice, I love you so.”

  If the Talbots and Grenvilles wondered about the amount of time Georgette and Jean-Maurice spent upstairs, they made no comment. Pierre’s prompt attention to the injury and Jean-Maurice’s iron constitution collaborated toward quick healing. Georgette winced at the holes and bruises marring her husband’s skin, but she rejoiced at his uneventful recovery. She hid away the soiled bandages until Pierre could collect and wash them for her. Each night the nimble servant availed himself of Jean-Maurice’s entry—the gable window.

  Although her husband slept much of the time, he dressed carefully for meals. No one could possibly have guessed at his injury. He conversed with the men about current affairs, rejoiced at rumors of the captive farmers’ imminent release, and chuckled at her father’s jokes concerning the pitiful Continental Army. To Georgette, he maintained in public a polite, guarded behavior.

  After four days of rest, Jean-Maurice decided he was strong enough to travel home, overruling Georgette’s protests. “All reports indicate that the Hudson is still open. I am well enough to ride in a boat. I weary of this house and these people, and we should depart before Pringle’s return.”

  The morning of their departure, Pierre loaded their trunks upon a cart and brought a new pair of hired horses. Georgette kept a worried eye on her husband during their travel preparations, but Jean-Maurice showed no sign of weakness.

  Marianne drew her aside in the hallway. Georgette returned her friend’s hug, feeling guilty for the lack of attention she had given her. Marianne’s blue eyes brimmed. “I shall miss you, Gigi. I see the wary glances you give your husband, but truly I believe you need not fear. When he thinks no one is looking, Mr. LaTournay still gazes upon you with affection. Your marriage can be saved if you set your mind to forget about the Frog and strive to become a submissive wife. I shall pray for your complete reconciliation with Mr. LaTournay.”

  Humbled and slightly amused, Georgette bowed her head and squeezed Marianne’s hands. “Thank you, my dear. I shall pray that God will bring a great love into your life—a man worthy of you.” She kissed Marianne’s soft cheek.

  Her mother waylaid her next. “Dearest girl, I am so thankful your husband purchased our passage instead of simply giving Mr. Talbot the money. He is so generous and kind.” She leaned close and lowered her voice. “He gave me extra money in case of another emergency; your father does not know. Do try to value Mr. LaTournay and forget that dreadful Frog. He is handsome from some angles, and I believe he cares for you. How distinguished he is! Do you not think his eyes are fine?”

  Georgette restrained a smile. “Very fine, indeed. He has been kind and patient with me this week, Mummy, despite his harsh words. I believe I do care for him, after all. Our home in the north is lovely; I wish you could see it. I anticipate our home-coming with pleasure.” She found it difficult to restrict her speech to such glaring understatements.

  “I am gratified to hear it. Although your marriage was arranged, it does not necessarily follow that it cannot be felicitous.”

  They linked arms and entered the front hallway where the others waited. “This time I shall make certain they sail with the ship,”
Mr. Grenville was saying in a hearty tone. “You can count on me.”

  “I do, sir,” Mr. LaTournay returned with a respectful bow. He shook her father’s hand and accepted her mother’s embrace. Georgette wondered if he was remembering the last “final” farewell. Despite her cynical thoughts, she wept once again while hugging her mother.

  As they rode side by side along the ferry road, Jean-Maurice reached across the intervening space and grasped Georgette’s hand. “Are you sorry to take leave of your parents?”

  Georgette pondered the question and sighed. “Somewhat. I long to be home again with you. And Caramel.”

  “Ah, yes, that love offering from my rival, le Grenouille.”

  His harsh tone startled Georgette until she caught the twinkle in his eye. “A little uncertainty would do you good,” she returned. “And I am reminded to inquire why you call me your frog. Marianne translated for me.” Her irritation increased when he laughed aloud. “Do I resemble a frog? Does my large mouth amuse you?”

  He caught her mount’s reins and stopped both horses. “Ma épouse chérie, can you believe that I find anything about you objectionable? In my eyes, you are altogether lovely. I behold your lips to think of only one thing.”

  Putting his weight in his left stirrup, he leaned over to kiss her. Smiling, he returned to his seat and released her horse. “Now that we have scandalized the populace of Queens, shall we proceed?”

  Swallowing hard, Georgette nodded. The joy in her heart must have glowed on her face, for every time Jean-Maurice looked her way that entire day, he smiled.

  Chapter 15

  And the angel of the LORD appeared unto him, and said unto him, The LORD is with thee, thou mighty man of valour.

  JUDGES 6:12

  Firelight flickered on the oak beams and plaster walls of Georgette’s bedchamber. A log fell in a shower of sparks. Jean-Maurice rose to brush the hot ashes away from Caramel’s basket and rebuild the fire. Straightening, he flexed his shoulders and glanced up to meet Georgette’s gaze.