The door opened with a burst of wind and James came in holding up his trophies. “I shot some pheasants for our Christmas supper tonight.”
“Good. I’m hungry,” Lauren said standing up. “I’ll help you dress them.”
“I see you have been busy too,” he said looking around the room at the boughs and berries. He smelled of fresh air and good nature.
Lauren was glad it was Christmas. The holiday tasks warmed her. They worked side-by-side preparing the meal well into the evening. They were limited with ingredients, but with Lauren’s skills, the two were able to put a suitable bill of fare together.
James worked on the poultry and dressing while Lauren made biscuits, roast turnips, venison pasty and a pie out of their store of dried apples. James brought in more pine boughs and cones, arranging the branches in the middle of the table where he would set the pheasant.
After he pushed Lauren’s bed to the side of the room and the table up to the hearth, he put a bottle on the table and said, “Here. It’s a bottle of French wine I purchased at Fort Lyman over a month ago. I thought you might enjoy it.”
“Oh, thank you,” she said, picking it up and smiling. “So this bottle was not smuggled in?”
“If it was smuggled in, it was not smuggled by me,” he laughed, taking it from her and uncorking it.
They sat down to eat, and James waited for Lauren as she said grace in French then he poured her a glass of wine. “Taste it,” he said watching her.
She put it to her lips, and for a moment, she was back on Duke Street. The aroma was divine and the flavor delectable. James held up his glass to the fire, looking at the color. He tested the aroma and sipped it as well. “It is good. I do miss these little luxuries when I am here in the interior.”
He didn't realize Lauren was watching him. He was a mystery to her. He had no family, no formal schooling or guidance, yet he had all the manners and breeding of an educated man.
“I have a question,” Lauren said suddenly.
“Ask anything,” he announced, lifting his glass. “I am feeling magnanimous tonight.”
Lauren did not know what that large, English word meant, but she continued, “Isaac told me of your background. How did you learn the ways of the aristocracy?”
He shrugged. “I listened, I watched, and I made the right connections.”
“Was Heloise your teacher?”
“No, I met Heloise many years later. I had been introduced to several teachers by that time.”
Lauren pursed her lips. She knew he was alluding to women. St. Clare was usually reticent in talking about himself, so Lauren took this rare opportunity to press him further. She poured another glass of wine. “How did you learn to read?”
James leaned back into his chair and smiled wistfully. “A young girl taught me to read. She was only thirteen or fourteen years of age. I can still see that freckled face. Oh, the hours she spent with me, and how I struggled. She was the daughter of the gunsmith to which I was apprenticed.”
He chuckled and shook his head. “Pass the wine. You are drinking it all.”
“You are a most unusual man, Captain St. Clare,” Lauren said pouring him a glass. “How does one who has come from so little, have so much?”
His eyebrows shot up. “You have been listening to gossip?”
“A little,” Lauren said.
“I will tell you once and for all if you will let me enjoy my supper afterward.”
He put his fork down and sat back in his chair, looking at the fire. “I don’t remember my parents. I don’t know if I was abandoned or lost or if they died. I don’t even know what my given name is or where I came from. Was I born here or in Europe? I will never know. So I merely survived. I was dirty. I was uncouth, but most of all I was alone. When you are a child, you think of nothing but eating, drinking, and staying safe. This is what I did. I slept wherever I found a dry spot. I ate what I could steal or find; garbage, small animals, even rats. I lived by my fists and my wits.”
Dragging his eyes away from the fire, he looked at Lauren and shrugged, “Whatever we have to do to survive. Isn’t that right?”
Lauren did not like his familiar tone but said nothing.
“I was apprenticed to a gunsmith,” he continued. “Who took great pleasure in beating me and another lad. I knew one day I would find my revenge on that pug-nosed bastard, but it was not for many years. While I was running an errand one afternoon for him, I was snatched by a press gang. As a result, I spent several years at sea, but when I returned I remembered that gunsmith. One night I crawled through his window and took what he owed me in rifles, muskets, and powder. Then I went to the docks and sold the firearms to everyone I knew, making a fancy profit. From then on, I have been involved in illegal endeavors. I moved quickly from petty theft, to crimes against the Crown without remorse or regret.”
He sighed and looked back at Lauren, “Anyway, that is my life in a few words.”
They remained silent for a while then St. Clare said, “It all came from hard work. I was diligent and forged my education--unlike you.”
Lauren straightened up and said, “How dare you. You know nothing of me.”
“Heloise told me of your Ursuline girl’s school, how you were bred to be a great lady. I know much more about your life than you think,” he said, going back to his meal.
Lauren grabbed the bottle of wine, poured another glass and then drained it in several gulps.
James watched her and shook his head. “That wine will go to your head,” he warned. “You have been sick.”
“I don’t care,” she declared and hiccuped. “You infuriate me.”
St. Clare laughed, “You amuse me. In fact you amuse me more than any woman I have ever met.”
“Oh, I see. It is humorous to see how far the privileged child has fallen,” she sneered.
“Quit being so combative. I meant it as a compliment. You do the damnedest things. I will never forget the first day I saw you, leaning against that tree in Heloise’s courtyard, trying to seduce that old man. Or that night when you were trying to escape and you tangled your skirts in the oak tree.” He chuckled again and said, “But what I loved the most was when you were hanging on that rope off the side of the fluyt last summer.”
“So,” said Lauren cocking her head. “Have you had a good laugh with your wife about me?”
The smile dropped from St. Clare’s face. “That is not a subject I wish to discuss.”
“Well I do,” she demanded. “I have a few more questions for you, Captain St. Clare. Where is this wife of yours? Why don’t you live with her?”
“My work does not allow us to be together.”
“Why? Is she of high birth?” Lauren sneered.
“She is,” he replied with a cross look.
Lauren had not expected that answer and was stunned. It had not occurred to her that his wife might actually be well bred. She could feel the blood pulsing in her cheeks. Even if the wine was loosening her lips, she was glad. She was tired of the secrecy and ready to clear the air.
“I see,” Lauren said pursing her lips. “Your wife is too precious to be discussed with a broken-down courtesan from New France?”
James threw his napkin on the table and stood up. “Alright. What do you what to know?” He walked to the window and looked out, his fists clenched.
“Do you love her?”
There was a moment’s hesitation and he said quietly, “That is none of your business. Nevertheless, I will tell you. It is a marriage of convenience.”
“You didn’t answer my question,” she said.
In two steps, he was upon her lifting her to her feet, holding her by the arms and looking down at her.
Lauren was stunned.
“Why?” he demanded, giving her a shake. “Why do you care if I love her? Would you like to have me? To make another conquest? Another scalp for your belt? Is that it?”
Lauren was breathless. His hands felt hot upon her arms, and she struggled t
o free herself, but his grip was too tight. He continued, “If I had wanted you, I would have taken you a long time ago."
Their eyes locked in an angry stand off.
"But you don’t interest me,” he growled and pushed her away.
Her heart pounding, Lauren straightened her gown and pushed the hair from her face. The minute she heard the door slam, hot tears filled her eyes. She took her Christmas dinner and pitched it in the fire.
* * *
Later that night when Lauren was asleep, James returned to the cottage. She had cleaned up everything from the meal, banked the fire and gone to bed. He lit a candle and leaned over some maps, stealing a look at Lauren. He shuffled some more papers around, scribbling some calculations and looked up once more at her.
Sighing, he started toward the bed and then changed his mind walking to the window. After watching the snow, he approached the bed and leaned over her. Lauren had forgotten to braid her hair, and her tresses tumbled over the pillow in copper waves. He reached out tentatively and touched it. Something disturbed her slumber and she turned onto her back, her lips parted. James bent over Lauren so closely he almost brushed her lips and whispered, “I didn’t know how to say this,” he said studying her face. “But yes, I do love my wife.”
Chapter 32
The winter seemed endless for Lauren. Most of January she spent gaining back her strength. Her shoulder continued to be stiff and painful, but she was diligent about completing her household tasks to increase her flexibility and endurance. On many occasions, she thanked Anne Lupone for teaching her skills necessary to survive and make life more comfortable on the frontier. She mended clothing, cooked, scrubbed the cabin, did laundry, and on occasion did the work of the stillroom. James spent most days hunting for game or chopping wood and in the evenings poured over maps and plans, inventories and records. He discussed little with Lauren about his business ventures, and for that, she was grateful. If it did not involve her directly she was not interested, and she knew from her days on Duke Street that remaining ignorant was a safeguard against danger.
When Lauren did have some free time, she took the opportunity to do some needlework or slept. She tired easily, but as the days passed and her strength grew, she became restless and bored. Sometimes she had nightmares of the mangled face of the man she killed at the outpost, and she would awaken with a start. Rest would not come easily after that, but it was comforting to know St. Clare was nearby. James conversed little with Lauren, and she did not encourage it. Their encounters had always ended badly, so she kept silent longing to put distance between them. She hated herself for stealing looks at him when he was leaning over his maps or watching the muscles in his back when he was chopping wood. She attributed it to isolation and loneliness, but when he was gone she found herself watching for him out the window. What she did not know was that he was watching her as well, watching her take her hair down at night or studying her face while she slept in front of the fire.
A thaw came in late February, and James told Lauren he would be gone all day visiting the family of George Blasco.
Lauren’s eyebrows shot up. “There are people up here?”
“Yes, the snow has melted enough for me to get through. I will be back tonight,” he said as he put on his coat and took his rifle. “I have business to discuss.”
She followed him to the door and asked, “These people are related to that carpenter from the fluyt?”
“Yes, they are gypsies. They are called Melungeons.”
“Sounds like mélange,” she repeated. “In my language that means mixed.”
“It’s close. They are a mix of many peoples. They have a hatred of the Crown as we do on The Pride of the King. They are outcasts and lead a gypsy existence traveling the Hudson in the warmer months, but in the winter they stay here in the back country.
He opened the door and said, “Keep your rifle close. I’ll be back late tonight.”
The next day, he left again and the day after that and everyday for a week until the snows returned. By that time, Lauren was happy to see the blizzard. It meant an end to her loneliness even if James was her only company. He came back late just as the blizzard was starting. She was bending over the fire, removing a kettle for tea. She looked up and smiled.
“Oh, the fire looks good,” James said shaking his coat off and stepping over to the hearth rubbing his hands together. “I thought I was going to lose my way. The snow is blinding.”
Lauren poured some tea into a pewter mug, added rum and molasses, and handed it to James. He stood by the fire and took a long drink. “Grog,” he said with a sigh. “This always gets the chill out. I haven’t had it since I was a boy at sea. Where did you learn to make it?”
“Isaac taught me,” Lauren replied as she fussed with the trammel, getting St. Clare’s supper ready.
He looked down at his cup then said, “You know that boy’s in love with you.”
“Oh really? Contrary to what you may think, men and women can be friends.”
“You are blind, Lauren,” he said shaking his head. “He is in great pain.”
“Oh I see,” she said straightening up and putting her hands on her hips. “Here is where you make some base reference to scalps on a belt.”
“The men on the fluyt are starved for the love of a woman, and you sharpen your fangs on them.”
Lauren gasped, “Do you really believe that I am so calculating?”
James shrugged and looked away, dismissing her.
* * *
Spring was on its way, and James traveled to see the Blasco family several times a week. One foggy morning, he announced to Lauren that she would be accompanying him. Lauren jumped at the possibility of going on an outing.
“It's time you meet them. These are the people who will be taking you to Fort St. Frederic.”
“Are they familiar with the French?” she asked putting on her cloak.
“Yes, a bit. They move freely between cultures. They are of Portuguese, Indian, and African blood,” James said, shutting the door behind them.
They started down a path on the creek. The snow had melted leaving the trail greasy with mud, and ice chunks floated swiftly along Popple Creek.
“Shouldn’t these Melungeons be the contacts instead of me?” Lauren asked.
“No one trusts them,” he explained. “They are not welcome anywhere because of their mixed blood, so they remain aloof to all. They have been successful though, trading guns with the Huron and Abenaki, and this is one of the things that brought them into The Pride of the King.
“So, they are part of the crew on the fluyt too?”
James stopped and looked at her curiously. “What are you talking about? Has no one told you?”
“Told me what?” said Lauren.
“The Pride of the King is not just a vessel. It is a network, an entire organization reaching far beyond the crew of the fluyt. It encompasses scores of outcasts throughout all of New England working together in many commercial ventures.”
Lauren was flabbergasted. “And all of this was started by you?”
He shrugged and said, “Well yes,” and turned back onto the path.
Lauren followed St. Clare, observing him much differently. Here was a man dressed in a tattered shirt, leather vest, and topcoat. Aside from his leather boots and fine features, he appeared to be of no particular status or wealth, nothing more than an ordinary gunsmith or merchant captain, yet he was probably one of the most powerful men in all of the English colonies.
Lauren followed him for what seemed like a long time until the tree line ended, and they stepped into a clearing. Several men were standing outside a small outbuilding which Lauren recognized as a sugar house for cooking maple syrup. A large crucible was bubbling on an open fire by a cabin. Several pony carts covered with animal skins were off by the woodpile as well as a large enclosed wooden wagon.
“Ola` again, Capitao!” boomed a tall dark haired man who reminded Lauren of George Blasco. Two other m
en stepped forward as well. One had a long black mustache with dark skin and curly hair, and the other had high cheekbones and a straight ponytail resembling that of an Indian. “So this is the day we meet her,” the first man said looking at Lauren. “My name is Vincent Blasco, and these are my brothers, Gaspar and Davi. My mother is inside with my sister Fatima. Welcome. We will be taking you to Fort St. Frederic.”
Before he could go on an older woman came down the steps of the cabin, wiping her hands on her apron and smiling. She was a tiny woman and had dark features like her sons. She took Lauren by the hand and escorted her inside talking in another language Lauren was stunned when she stepped into the small cabin. She had expected a table and some chairs in front of a hearth, maybe a braided rug and a bed, but instead the room was crammed with racks of clothing, wigs, bolts of material, feathers and musical instruments. There was a fiddle, a horn, and some large drums in a corner and a small dressing table with an open box of makeup. Lauren had never seen anything like it. Every way she turned there were splashes of color, glittering beads and the smell of heavy spices and perfume.
Mrs. Blasco encouraged her to look at everything. The woman proudly showed her a gown for a wizard with a long white beard and a costume for a pixie and a highland kilt. Lauren sighed and ran her hands along a red velvet cape made for a gentleman in a medieval play. Just as she was about to pick up a cap studded with glass beads, a girl emerged from a rack of costumes holding a swath of silk, needle and thread.
“Welcome to our home. I am Fatima,” she said with a brilliant smile. Lauren was stunned at the exotic beauty of the young woman. Her skin was the color of cinnamon and thick lashes framed her deep blue eyes. Her wavy black hair was short and curling just above her ears, and her full lips were as red as her cheeks.
“Thank you. I am glad you speak English,” Lauren said. “Do you speak French as well?”
“A little,” the girl said. “But my oldest brother is much better.”
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