Simone pulled a hankie out of her habit, wiped her eyes and looked at Lauren's belly. "I think the hardest part of taking my vows is knowing that I will never bear children. Seeing you gave me a shock. I suppose I am a little jealous."
"What?" said Lauren. "Jealous of what?"
"Why it’s obvious. I am jealous that you are with child."
* * *
The sea sickness and the morning sickness kept Lauren in her cabin the entire voyage to New England. The roll of the waves combined with a queasy stomach had a disastrous outcome. It meant hours of dizziness and retching. Every time she attempted to stand, the floor of her cabin seemed to rise up and hit her in the face.
At first, she thought Simone was mistaken about her condition, but when she undressed in the ship's cabin that first night there was no mistaking it; the reflection in the mirror showed a young woman teaming with child. Lauren had been so busy and fatigued taking care of Madame she had attributed all of her symptoms to worry and exhaustion.
Rene would never know she was carrying his child and to Lauren this was just as well. She had left him a confused and angry young man, and this news would have complicated matters further.
In spite of it all, she had little time to be anxious about anything. She boarded the merchant vessel after seeing her sister, and in a matter of hours; she lay in her cabin, prostrate with illness. Heathstone did not appear to notice Lauren's pregnancy or to care. She kept the door joining their cabins shut, and he entered only one time to find her retching uncontrollably into a bucket.
She gradually lost track of her days on the merchant ship. By the time the vessel entered New York Bay; Lauren had regained some of her strength and was able to stand on deck, the wind reviving her. Tall ships, their white sails snapping in the wind, dotted the harbor and beyond them were two story houses with red tile roofs. There was much confusion on deck when the ship finally dropped anchor in New York. Crates and barrels swung overhead, crew members were shouting and seagulls darted everywhere, screeching and crying for food.
Heathstone gestured to her to accompany him to shore. He seemed unusually tense and when Lauren looked at him, he had pursed his lips so tightly that they were white. Taking her bag, he indicated that she should say nothing while he escorted her down the plank.
Suddenly, when she placed her foot on shore, the vertigo returned, and she exclaimed, “Oh! Mon Dieu!”
The next thing she knew a soldier stepped over and thrust his face into hers asking her questions in English. When she looked at him blankly, he turned and began to argue with Heathstone. She knew something was wrong when the officer gestured for his men to board the vessel and search it. He turned to Lauren and grabbed her wrists roughly binding them together with a leather thong. Lauren's heart began to thud in her chest as she cried, "Qu‘ai-t-je-fait!"
Heathstone lunged at the officer, but one of the soldier's pulled him away roughly. Everything was happening so fast that Lauren barely had time to scream, "Monsieur Heathstone! Help me!" but to no avail. Two of the soldiers restrained him as the other soldiers swept her away into the crowd.
Lauren was hustled down the street into a large government building which was flying the flag of Great Britain. She was ushered into a room crammed with books and military maps where a gray haired major sat at a cluttered desk scratching numbers into a ledger. He looked up and grumbled, "Who's this?"
The soldier stepped forward. "This little French tart was on a merchant vessel that just arrived, sir. Your orders were to detain French--"
"I know what my orders were," he interrupted putting his quill down. His eyes ran over Lauren, and he demanded, "Do you speak English?"
Lauren knew the phase well enough to shake her head.
"That's no surprise," he replied in French. "You people would never lower your standards and speak English."
He sighed and picked up his quill continuing in French, "Now, why are you here in the English Colonies?"
"I come here with my husband, Monsieur Adair Heathstone."
"Where is he now?"
"I do not know, perhaps at the wharf."
"Where were you born?"
"New Orleans."
"Where did you board this ship?"
"New Orleans."
"New Orleans! The ship's manifest says they embarked in Charleston." He looked at the regular standing by Lauren and barked, "Find the ship's captain immediately!"
The major's eyes narrowed and he leaned forward scrutinizing Lauren.
"Why have you married a British subject?"
"Because--" stammered Lauren, "because Mother Marie Margarite wished it."
"Oh," the Major groaned sitting back. "Another damned Catholic. You are lucky to be in the Colony of New York. They are far more tolerant here than in the Colony of Massachusetts. In fact, you would be denied entrance in that place based upon your religion alone."
For what seemed like hours, Lauren endured a battery of questions and by the time the Major finished she felt weak and faint. The arduous journey, the stifling office and standing for that long had sapped her strength. She rubbed her forehead and stepped forward to lean on a chair for support.
The Major stated, "I'm through with you. You may go now."
A British regular escorted Lauren out of the office and to the door. When they stepped outside, he muttered something and gave her a swift kick. She tumbled clumsily down the steps, sprawling onto the cobblestone street below. No one offered her assistance or sympathy. Several people stepped around her taking care not to touch her. She pulled herself to her feet and brushed her gown off. After pushing the hair from her face, Lauren searched the street for Heathstone. Surely, he would be looking for her, but every face was that of a stranger. She had no idea what to do or where to find him. It was obvious, she would get no help from the authorities and even if she were to find someone willing to assist her, the language barrier was too great. In fact, it had become apparent that she was not welcome in this part of the world at all.
The sun was starting to set and Lauren realized that she must find Heathstone immediately. She would try the wharf first. The masts of the tall ships were just over the rooftops, so she started in that direction. Everything was so different from the modest wooden structures of New Orleans and the Illinois Country. The structures were made of brick with the gabled ends facing the street. The gables were stair-stepped and decorated with ornate ironwork and instead of a galerie; the homes had large front steps with benches on either side of the stoop. She noticed that the front doors were hinged separately into upper and lower portions and that many residents kept the upper door open, possibly for a breeze.
She turned onto a street and was surprised to be walking along a canal busy with barges and small crafts and off in the distance she spied a windmill. The streets were busy with carriages and well-to-do shoppers. Not only English was spoken in New York but many other languages such as Dutch, German, and Danish were heard, none of which Lauren could understand.
The clothing of the residents was similar to the French, but the hemlines on the ladies gowns dropped onto the pavement. In her homeland, skirts and gowns stopped at the ankle. Many of the ensembles were gaily colored and quite elaborate.
When she arrived at the wharf, the first thing she did was look for the merchant ship on which she had traveled, but it was gone. There was no trace of any of the crew or of Monsieur Heathstone. She approached one of the dockworkers, but he only shrugged when she gestured to where the ship had been.
At last, Lauren recognized one of the young sailors from the voyage, but when she approached him he turned away pretending that he did not know her. He looked furtively at the British soldiers after Lauren had addressed him then darted down an alley. Suddenly, she recalled Heathstone's lips, white with tension, and she wondered what everyone on board that ship had to hide.
She looked up at the darkening sky, and a bolt of panic shot through her. Where would she spend the night? Where would she get food? Her hear
t started to pound as she looked around desperately. Maybe some kind woman would help, and she turned to search the wharf for a friendly face. She spied a woman of middle years watching several men play draughts on a barrel, and she decided to approach her for help.
"Please Madame," Lauren said in French. "I have just arrived this afternoon. I am without shelter--”
The woman narrowed her eyes and without warning spat into Lauren’s face. Horrified, she stepped back and gasped as the men broke into fits of laughter. She wiped the spit with her sleeve and stumbled into a doorway to hide. Hatred burned inside her for this new land. If this was the reception she received in New York, what must it be like in the other English Colonies? Where could she go? For the first time in her life she was being judged not by her character but by the language she spoke.
Lauren took a deep breath and squared her shoulders. She was not about to be beaten. If she had to sleep under the stars every night from now on she would do it, but she would ask for nothing. Instinctively she knew that she had to get out of the city. She did not know how far she had to walk, but to preserve her own safety, she had to have seclusion. Lauren guessed that just like in the Illinois Country, the farther you walked toward the interior, the sparser the population. Therefore, she set off inland getting as far away from the city as possible.
It was not long before she was on the outskirts of town, and the landscape was becoming rural. The low widespread farmhouses were very different from the upright two story brick houses of the city. They were constructed of wood or field stone yet impeccably kept like the houses of town.
It grew late, and she was weary. Windmills dotted the landscape and making sure no one saw her, she slipped inside one of the structures. The large millstone dominated the room, but there was just enough space for her to sit down in one corner. Fatigue overcame her, and she brushed a spot off on the floor dropping down on her side. Tomorrow she would find a better home but for tonight, she was grateful for the mill and the sheltering arms of the sails above her.
Chapter 19
The next day brought little relief. Hunger nagged at Lauren's stomach. The child in her belly gave her a yearning which she had never known before, and she set out from the windmill to find food. Before long, she approached a farmhouse where she spied a pie rack holding two freshly baked meat pies. The aroma almost knocked her over, and she stepped behind a tree watching the back door closely.
Suddenly, a woman stepped out placing another baked good onto the rack to cool. She returned into the house, and Lauren crept silently toward the food. Without a second thought, she reached out and took a warm pie, ducking into the woods nearby to run as far away as possible. When she could go no farther, she slumped down and leaned against a tree catching her breath. The pie was still warm, and she stuffed the chicken, potatoes and crust greedily into her mouth. Never had anything tasted so good. She devoured it without stopping then dragged her sleeve across her mouth looking around furtively. It was easier than she had thought, and she was surprised at her lack of remorse. For the first time in her life, Lauren understood the plight of the paupers on the streets of New Orleans and their acts of desperation.
She returned to the city to renew her search for Heathstone. She found it ironic that she was now the one in pursuit.
Another day passed yielding nothing. All afternoon long, she walked staring into faces, searching the crowd but with no results. Although the meat pie had sustained her during the day, the baby told her it was again time to eat.
She loitered near a fruit stand on Whitehall and Pearl watching the farmer clean up after a long day at market. When he bent over to put some apples into a crate, she crammed some cherries and a plum into her shift. Turning toward the outskirts of town, Lauren made her way back to the windmill wondering as she walked what was going to happen to her. She wondered if she would spend the rest of her life stealing food and sleeping in barns. She tossed her head refusing to think about the future.
After several days, she gave up looking for Adair Heathstone and wandered the streets of New York lost and lonely. She sat down on a barrel by the canal filled with despair and began to cry. No one paid any attention and continued to hurry on their way. She was just another indigent on the streets of New York. At last, a gentleman in a fine carriage noticed her, calling to his driver to stop. "Madame, may I be of some assistance?"
Lauren looked up. "Pardon?"
"You're French?" he continued in her language. "Please allow me," he said as he swung the door to his carriage open. "Don't be afraid. I want to help."
She approached the carriage and noticed that there were packages and boxes piled high on the seat as if the gentleman had just returned from shopping. The only spot open was next to him. She crawled in and sat down. He reached over her swinging the door shut and rapped on the wall. The carriage lurched forward as Lauren looked at the man. He was a rotund red-faced gentleman of middle years sporting a powdered wig and diamond-shaped patch on his face.
"You look very unhappy, Mademoiselle," he said. "Here have some port. Its warmth will revive you." He opened an elegant leather case taking out two small crystal glasses and a flask. Lauren noticed his pudgy fingers as he poured them each a drink. He handed her a glass then held his own up saying, "To the King's health," draining the contents in one gulp.
Lauren took a sip, noticing that the man's leg was resting against her own.
"How long has it been since you've eaten," he said pulling a wad of notes from his pocket."
"A while."
"Well here," he said pushing the notes down her bodice. "This ought to help."
He leaned his huge body over and started to run his tongue along her neck. Lauren pushed him back, but he pressed himself harder against her, slipping his hand down the front of her gown.
"Stop!” she cried.
He mumbled something and Lauren began to squirm. Yanking out of his grasp, she lunged for the door.
The man caught her by the hair yanking her head back. "Not so fast!" he snarled.
With all her strength, Lauren threw herself against the door of the coach and tumbled out onto the pavement below. The carriage stopped, but Lauren dashed down an alley. She bolted up one street and down the other until she had lost her breath and realized that the man was not pursuing her at all.
Panting and holding her side, Lauren sat down in a doorway. Suddenly she realized that the notes were still tucked inside her bodice. Her eyes grew large as she pulled out the wad. She counted the bills then smiled. She threw her head back and laughed. The incident had been to her benefit. It had all turned out well. The risk was a small price to pay for survival. There was enough money here to buy food for a week, she thought.
Even though Lauren was frugal the money was gone in no time, and she was back to stealing food again. She was growing drawn and pale, her clothes were filthy and her hair was matted. She noted other paupers on the street viewing them not as companions but as competitors for food.
After several weeks of struggling to survive, Lauren forgot Heathstone, New Orleans and all of her dreams. Her focus was entirely on food and safety. One day it was too difficult to make the journey out to the countryside, so she slept in a doorway, cold and miserable all night.
The next day Lauren watched a house all morning until the resident stepped out to go to market. Armed with an excuse if someone answered the door, Lauren stepped up to the door and knocked. There was no response. To be sure, she knocked again and still no reply. Looking one way, then the other she opened the door and stepped inside the keeping room. Someone had banked the fire, and the smell of fresh baked bread filled the room. It was a modest home decorated in the Dutch style with colorful tiles inlaid in the stonework of the fireplace and Delft china in the cupboard. Lauren knew these things could bring a good price, but she had no time and wished only for food and bedding.
Quickly she darted about looking for linens and bedding to steal, but she could find no beds. She ran from one end of the
house to the other, finally opening a large cupboard. There hiding inside was a bed with a fluffy down mattress and patchwork quilt. She was astounded to see a bed in a cupboard. She yanked the quilt off the bed and went back to the kitchen loading it with breads and meats. Rolling it up, she shoved the bundle under her arm and opened the front door. Looking around cautiously, she stepped into the street and stole away.
That night as Lauren slept in a doorway bundled warmly in her quilt; a soldier found her and told her to move on. She moved several blocks away, and again the same soldier roused her gesturing to move again. Desperate for sleep she wandered to the outskirts of town and found a graveyard. Candlelight flickered in the parsonage, so she went to the far end of the churchyard near the woods to bed for the night. She spread her quilt on the ground between two crooked headstones and lay down staring at the parsonage. It was comforting to watch the light in the home. The warmth of the quilt enveloped her and Lauren dropped off to sleep, sharing the ground with those who would sleep forever.
* * *
For weeks, Lauren slept in the churchyard. She had grown attached to her spot between the two crooked headstones. She had even come to know the souls she slept between, Abigail Von Dorset, called to her maker at the age of eight, and Ephraim James brought home at eighty-two. The phantoms appeared to her often, but particularly on the nights when she was most tired and hungry. Abigail, a wispy sprite, would perch herself upon her headstone, hug her knees and listen to Lauren reminisce about her carefree days at the convent. When she needed to unburden worries and cares, Grandpa Ephraim would lean on his cane nodding sympathetically. The specters never criticized or laughed at her. They were always patient and understanding, offering her love and kindness when she returned from a day of humiliation and despair.
The Pride of the King Page 11
