by Beth White
Geneviève pulled away, searching the younger girl’s face. “Are you all right?”
Aimée nodded. “I’ve been well cared for, Sister.” She pursed her sweet lips and flicked a glance at the male audience observing the exchange with slack-jawed interest.
“Indeed?” Geneviève tucked her arm around Aimée’s shoulder and faced the crowd like St. Jeanne d’Arc confronting the English at Orleans.
Clearly Geneviève Gaillain was capable of taking care of her little sister, which put his responsibility for them at an end. And at the moment he had more pressing concerns to discuss with his brother.
Tristan slapped Marc-Antoine’s shoulder. “Come, you promised to help me transport supplies to my boat.”
Marc-Antoine blinked. “Ah. Yes.” He bowed to the two young women, a jerky, little-used courtesy. “Mademoiselles.”
Tristan grabbed his reluctant brother by the sleeve and towed him toward the open doorway of the warehouse. “You’ll have all the time in the world to fix your interest, once the ladies settle in at the fort.”
Marc-Antoine looked over his shoulder. “But what if some other fellow takes up with her before I go off-duty again?”
“Yours was the first face she saw, is that not correct?” His brother had taken the drooping Aimée from her sister’s arms and carried her ashore as gently as a mother with a newborn babe. And the girl’s blue eyes had flickered to Marc-Antoine’s face each time he looked away.
Marc-Antoine shrugged. “Women’s affections, I have noticed, are often swayed by proximity.”
Tristan chuckled. “Then let us hope she will return to your proximity at a more convenient time. I have news from the upper river.”
“News?” Marc-Antoine glanced at him sharply. “What is it?”
Tristan lifted a hand. “Not here.”
Stepping outside the warehouse, Marc-Antoine switched to the tongue of the people among whom he had spent a year as a teenager. “The Alabama? Has something happened to them?”
Tristan answered in the same language. “No, why would you assume that?”
Marc-Antoine’s expression cleared. “What then?”
Tristan lowered his voice. “The British have sent agents to the Koroa—maybe the Kaskaskians as well. If Bienville wishes to protect trade on the upper river, he’d better find a way to convince those Indians that their best interests lie in alliance with us.”
“So they still think to take our territory? We were here first!”
“They’ll never be satisfied until they control the rivers and ports.” Matching his brother’s angry pace, Tristan shrugged. “But neither will King Louis and Pontchartrain. It’s going to come down to war.”
“We’ll have to send agents of our own to renew Indian alliances.” Marc-Antoine’s expression shifted to a mischievous, engaging grin. “There’s nobody better at that, brother, than you and I.”
Tristan halted. “Oh no. I’m no longer responsible for keeping Bienville out of trouble.”
“You know your own safety depends on the fortunes of Louisiane. Besides, how can you abandon us to this British thievery?”
“You’ll figure it out. In the meantime, how do you plan to get twenty-five women and all their fripperies transported to the fort in two little barques and a fishing boat?”
“We had to send the pinnace to Veracruz for gunpowder.” Marc-Antoine started walking toward the beach, where the longboat could be seen debarking another load of passengers from the Pélican. “By the time we got word of the Pélican’s arrival, I was the only officer available to meet her.” He waved a hand in irritation. “Well, me and Bienville’s little hound, Dufresne.”
Tristan nodded, grateful that he no longer had to deal with colonial politics. “You should keep an eye on young Dufresne. He’s definitely got something up his sleeve besides his elbow. He was sniffing around La Salle’s office earlier this afternoon—walked off and pretended to be looking for something on the ground when he realized I’d seen him—but there’s something, I don’t know, off about the fellow.”
Marc-Antoine rubbed his forehead. “Bienville hired me as an interpreter, not a babysitter.”
“He sent you down here because you can be trusted to do your job.” Tristan threw an arm around his brother’s shoulder. “So quit whining and do it. And who knows, little brother—you may end up with a wife!”
“It could happen.” Marc-Antoine gave him a sideways look. “Why don’t you visit the settlement? It’s been a long time since you lingered in civilization.”
“Yes, and for good reason. I’ve planted corn this year, and I don’t need to be away for more than a few days.”
“If you cleaned up a bit, there might be a woman crazy enough to go back with you.”
Tristan laughed. “I’m not crazy enough to take a Frenchwoman to Lanier Plantation, so get the notion out of your head. You’re all the heir I need.”
“Tristan—”
Tristan stopped him with a cuff on the arm. “Leave be,” he said lightly. “I’m happy with my independence. I come and go as I please, and have to answer to no one but myself. It’s a good life.” As he reminded himself ten times a day.
Marc-Antoine shook his head. “The least you can do is lend your barque to help us transport the young ladies up to the settlement.”
Tristan frowned. “No one takes my boat but me.”
“Then you captain her. Tristan, we can’t leave any of those women to fend for themselves here on the island. We haven’t enough men to protect them from . . . well, from the men.” Marc-Antoine laughed. “You know what I mean.”
Tristan looked away, picturing the Gaillain sisters, one damp and flushed with righteous indignation, the other pale and delicate as a butterfly. Neither should be left to the doubtful care of a handful of bored and randy young soldiers.
Conscience defeating pragmatism, he chanced a look at Marc-Antoine and found him grinning. Reluctantly Tristan laughed. “All right. One trip up the river with as many parakeets as you can fit onboard—and that’s all! Then I’ll be on my way—and don’t ask me to stay.”
2
Geneviève swayed upon the rough wooden bench to which she had been assigned for dinner, her eyes closing of their own volition. Her skirts crackled with dried salt, the nape of her neck itched as if ants had crawled under her collar, and her underarms were chafed raw. In short, she desperately craved a bath.
On the way to dinner, however, Father Mathieu had informed his dazed charges that there would be no time or opportunity for niceties until they reached Fort Louis. And maybe not then. August rains could be “unpredictable,” the priest had admitted, avoiding Geneviève’s gaze.
Squeezing her eyes shut now, she pictured the little mountain creek in which she and Aimée had waded as children, imagined its icy rush wetting her petticoats and turning her bare feet blue with cold. Perhaps she’d never feel cold again. Probably never walk through fresh snow or pick poppies or eat wild chestnut honey . . .
Resolutely she opened her eyes and focused on the sunburnt face of the young soldier seated opposite her at the table. He gave her a shy grin and went back to gobbling his stew.
Neither, she reminded herself as she lifted her own spoon, would she face the horror of watching her home burn to the ground in the aftermath of civil war. All she had to do was keep her personal beliefs private.
One could live without snow.
“Ginette, when are we going to our beds?”
Geneviève glanced at Aimée, who sat to her left, food untouched. “Soon, cherie.” She leaned close to whisper, “They have tried to make us welcome, so we must eat what we can. Besides, you need food for strength.”
“I’m not hungry.” Aimée’s voice wobbled. “I’m tired.”
“Just a little longer, then we can retire.”
“But they keep staring at me.”
Geneviève glanced down the length of the table and found, sure enough, several men with rapturous eyes fixed on Aimée. A young o
fficer notable for a mop of ginger-colored curls, apparently feeling her gaze, nodded without embarrassment and returned to conversation with the man next to him. “They haven’t seen young white women in a long time. They’ll get used to us.”
“I hope so.” Aimée grimaced. “Do you suppose they speak French?”
“I assure you, mademoiselle, we can understand every word you say. We Canadians are Frenchmen, not barbarians.”
Oh dear. Geneviève looked over her shoulder to find a tall, dark-haired man emerging from the shadow of the doorway. With a flood of relief she recognized Tristan Lanier, the man who had carried her ashore this afternoon.
Aimée seemed not to notice the humor in Lanier’s eyes. Her face flushed with hectic color. “I’m very sorry to have offended, monsieur, but one tires of dining like a bird in a cage, with eyes peering at one through the bars.”
Geneviève touched her arm in reproof. “There’s no need to be rude.”
But Lanier smiled and executed a rusty bow. “Touché, little canary. You must forgive our collective admiration. I am Tristan Lanier.”
Aimée’s small pointed chin remained elevated, but she graciously extended her hand. “I accept your apology, monsieur. I am Aimée Giselle Gaillain of—” She scowled at Geneviève, who had pinched her. “And this is my sister, Geneviève.”
Geneviève managed to rise against the edge of the table and dip a mortified curtsey. “We met earlier today.”
Lanier bent over Aimée’s fingers as gallantly as if she were seated in a grand Parisian dining hall instead of a thrown-together adjunct to a warehouse on a windswept island. “Mademoiselle.” A twinkle lingered in his eyes as he released her fingers and straightened, but the continued silence in the long, narrow room brought his gaze to the ginger-haired officer. “Dufresne, are you going to allow these men to sit here all night gawking at our guests? Surely Bienville has made provision for their lodging.”
The redhead’s expression darkened. “Of course he has, though it is no concern of yours, Lanier.” He rose and snapped his fingers. “Come, men. We are to clear out of the barracks and turn it over to the ladies.” Picking up his trencher and spoon, he led the way out of the room, catching Aimée’s eye as he passed. “Mademoiselle Canary,” he murmured with a silky undertone that made Geneviève uneasy. Bowing to her, he quitted the room, followed by a straggling rank of reluctant soldiers.
Geneviève indicated the empty seat across the table. “Would you join us, Monsieur Lanier?”
Lanier folded himself onto the bench, his amusement dissolving into lines of weariness. “Mademoiselle Gaillain, if you are going to ignore this fine meal, please pass it across the table so that I may deal with it.”
Aimée blinked but complied, staring at the Canadian.
In the confines of this dark, squalid little room, Lanier seemed to Geneviève even bigger and wilder than he had appeared on the beach. His worn, reddish shirt had dried against the contours of his shoulders, his dark hair falling in thick waves against its open collar. Both sun-browned hands bore heavy white scars across the knuckles, and she couldn’t help wondering how he had injured them.
Transferring her gaze to his face, she found him watching her. She probably appeared to be sizing up his potential as a mate, despite his claim of disinterest. Hurriedly she glanced away, but not before his lips curved.
“You two have made quite an impression on the men from Fort Louis—including my little brother.” Lanier turned to confiscate a tankard left on the table behind him. “He could not stop talking about the blue-eyed angel he carried into the warehouse this afternoon.”
“Captain Lanier was most kind,” Aimée said stiffly.
Her sister was clearly annoyed with his tone of amusement, so Geneviève attempted to steer the conversation into less personal waters. “We are anxious to complete our journey, m’sieur. Will you and your brother travel with us to the settlement?”
Mild irritation darkened his expression. “I’m afraid so.”
Geneviève waited for him to explain, but he continued to eat in silence. She tried again. “How early will we need to be ready to leave in the morning? I understand we’ve half a day’s travel ahead of us.”
He sighed and glanced at her. “That’s right. My brother has instructed your priest to be ready by daylight. The journey will be much more pleasant if accomplished before the heat of the day presses in.” His lips tightened. “Besides, you’ll have much to do once you land at Fort Louis, and I must get home before sunset.”
She wanted to ask him where “home” was. Presumably not Fort Louis. “Where shall we reside? No one was able to prepare us for the details of life here.” She touched the itchy upstanding collar of her dress. “I suspect we all brought wildly inappropriate clothing for the climate.”
Lanier’s dark eyes skimmed over her. “Certainly less . . . confining attire will be more comfortable.” He scooped up the last of his stew and said offhandedly, “I imagine you will be housed with families in the settlement who have made room for you.”
“But we were promised homes of our own!” Aimée had apparently overcome her determination to maintain a dignified silence.
Lanier eyed Aimée, his expression unreadable. “Bienville won’t be concerned about promises made by those without the power to fulfill them.” He shrugged. “When you marry, your husband will provide as well as he is able—and you must learn to make do with that.” He stood and bowed with more than a hint of mockery. “But don’t rely upon my word alone. After all, I will not be staying to find out.”
The sun was no more than a strip of pink chiffon along the eastern horizon as Geneviève followed Father Mathieu’s black-robed figure across the damp sand toward what looked like a glorified fishing boat bobbing in the dark surf. She looked around to make sure her sister followed. Aimée had had the nightmare again last night, her scream jolting Geneviève from a sound sleep. She’d managed to wake Aimée and soothe her gasping tears without creating a scene, but she’d gone back to bed with a bite mark in the side of her hand and a renewed rage toward the dragoons who had invaded their home.
To her relief, Aimée rounded a sand dune just then, enfolded in a gaggle of the four youngest girls. They were giggling at the galumphing gait of rotund nursing sister Marie Grissot, who marched ahead of them with more determination than grace. Sister Gris, as they called her—to distinguish her from her companion, Sister Marie Linant—held her billowing habit off the sand with one hand, and with the other struggled to keep her wimple from blowing off.
Geneviève congratulated herself that her own cap was tied snugly beneath her chin and her skirts too short to tangle around her ankles. She’d thought about keeping her Bible with her, to while away the long trip up to the fort, but had decided not to risk unnecessary questions. It lay at the bottom of her trunk—which, along with the rest of the baggage from the Pélican, had already been trundled to the beach on a cart pulled by a spavined ox. The poor animal’s indignation at this task expressed itself as a series of grunts only exceeded in their ferocity by Sister Gris’s snoring last night.
“What gives you a smile, little one?” Father Mathieu had dropped back to match her steps, one arm extended for balance like the wing of a glossy blackbird, the other clutching a painting of the Madonna and Child he had brought all the way from Rochefort. His button-brown eyes crinkled with teasing affection.
“The joy of walking on solid ground, even for a few more minutes.” Geneviève offered her elbow for support, and he took it with a grateful look. The priest rarely showed his age, which, judging by the sparse fringe of gray hair which brushed his shoulders, must be over sixty. She studied the shadows beneath his eyes, the yellow tinge of the leathery skin. The fever had hit them all hard, and Father Mathieu had helped with nursing duties during the most difficult hours of the nights at sea.
He sighed. “Do you suppose we could simply walk the rest of the way to the fort?”
She chuckled. “Not unless you have a m
ind to emulate Saint Peter and walk on water.”
“And we know how well that ended,” he said drolly. “Massacre Island, they call it. I can’t help wondering how it got that terrible name.”
“I’d rather not think about it.” Geneviève made out three vessels bobbing in the water. They looked alarmingly small. “Are we all going to fit on those little boats?”
“We made it this far, my dear. The good God will surely see us to our final destination.”
Geneviève nodded, reflecting not for the first time that God’s will could be a capricious thing. Several of their original party had perished at sea, and there was no guarantee the rest of them would reach the settlement without further incident.
Perhaps she was being unduly cynical. Perhaps her faith was weak. But she couldn’t seem to control the questions that assailed her in unguarded moments.
She squared her shoulders and smiled at the priest. “And thus far the journey has been . . . interesting, has it not? What do you think of Monsieur Lanier?”
Following last night’s uncomfortable dinner conversation, Tristan Lanier had abruptly left the dining hall just as his handsome younger brother entered. Acquainting himself with each of the young women and the chaperones, Marc-Antoine bowed deeply, his engaging laughter ringing out loudly and often. He had remained talking to Father Mathieu when the women excused themselves to their quarters for the night.
“He seems a man of strong appetites,” Father Mathieu replied dryly. “You would be wise to keep your little sister out of his sights.”
“Why? Do you think he would . . .” Geneviève couldn’t finish the sentence. Had they escaped France only to thrust themselves into a worse predicament?
Father Mathieu shook his head. “It is not the young captain’s behavior which bears watching, my dear, so much as that of our little Aimée.”
So, he’d meant Marc-Antoine, not Tristan. Geneviève bit her lip, absurdly relieved. “I agree Aimée is too forward, but only because she is so innocent.”
