Heloise nodded. “I advised James repeatedly to explain everything to you, but he chose to remain mute on the subject. He is a most unusual man, my dear.”
It seemed to Lauren as if James St. Clare had orchestrated her entire life. Through his people, he had watched her every move and had heard her every word. It seemed as if he had manipulated every facet of her existence. She rubbed her eyes and dragged her hands down her face. She felt utterly weary and overwhelmed. She asked breathlessly, “And what about the ship Heathstone and I sailed on to New England? That too was part of The Pride of the King?”
Heloise nodded again. “That vessel was smuggling lead from the Kaskaskia lead mines, bound for the Hudson to be made into shot and firearms. That is why the crew disappeared when the customs officers boarded the vessel.”
Lauren nodded. “Leaving a French girl in New York all alone.”
“Captain St. Clare was furious,” said Cornelius. “Twice Heathstone let you slip away.”
“The first time was during the hurricane,” said Heloise. “We thought you were dead, washed away in the fury but several years later you were found again.”
“How did you find me on the Mississippi?”
“That was an accident. The Kaskaskia lead mines are known for doing business with everyone, not only the French, but also the Dutch and even the English. The Captain sent Heathstone there to purchase lead for shot.”
“Oh, Mon Dieu!” Lauren gasped her heart pounding. “Are the mine owners part of the organization too?”
“Goodness no, my dear. The Pride of the King is far reaching, but it does not go beyond New England. That is why we obtained you as a contact; to infiltrate New France.”
Lauren sighed, and slumped back in her chair. The thought of Jean-Baptist and Claude being a part of The Pride of the King was indeed terrifying.
Heloise sat down by Lauren. “Damn St. Clare,” she grumbled. “Leaving me with this unsavory business.” She sighed and continued, “He wanted to infiltrate New France. There was simply no one in New England of French background who would be suitable for the position. As you know dear, seldom do our two worlds mix. I happened to think of the Ursulines in New Orleans. They are, of course, known the world over for turning out girls of exceptional breeding, and since James was unmarried, it seemed the perfect solution. We wrote to the Sisters asking them if they had any young women of age without prospects and they recommended you. Unfortunately, James went to prison a few months later, but as you know his power is far reaching and he managed to direct, The Pride of the King from his confinement. He sent Adair Heathstone to marry you in his place. The plan was to bring you to New York, teach you English, explain everything to you and set you to work as a connection with New France but--” and she paused, “the hurricane changed everything.”
“I ended up in Kaskaskia,” whispered Lauren.
“Yes, we found you only to lose you again on the streets of New York where Madame Vanoss had been watching for you.”
“I cannot believe that creature knew everything,” groaned Lauren. “It seems everyone knew I was married to St. Clare, but me.”
“No, darling, none of the crew knew,” explained Corny. “No one else in ‘The Pride of the King’ knows your circumstances.”
Lauren’s tear stained eyes suddenly grew wide again. It occurred to her that the land in the Hudson River Valley had been hers all along because of this marriage. She had gone to Fort Frederic and sold herself to a French aristocrat to buy land that was rightfully hers. “This is indeed the final insult. St. Clare paid me with my own property!” she gasped.
The dogs started to bark as horses thundered up the driveway to the front door. Lauren was too engrossed in her own thoughts to notice Heloise and Cornelius gather their bags, and start down the stairs. She looked up only when Ben Groot burst through the front door as thunder cracked.
“We have no time,” he bellowed in his deep bass voice. “Everyone must go!”
James pushed past the giant and took the stairs two at a time up to Lauren. “Get your things. We have locked customs officers in the hold of the fluyt. They found our contraband.”
“My God, James!” Heloise called up the stairs. “You have kidnapped customs officers! I fear you have gone too far this time.”
James laughed. “I believe I have this time, old girl, isn’t it wonderful? We shall drop our new friends in Pennsylvania free of charge.”
The Benchs scurried out the front door, and the moment they climbed into the carriage, Ben Groot jumped into the driver’s seat and cracked his whip, sending the horses bolting down the driveway.
“We must leave now,” James urged, taking Lauren’s arm. “We have much to discuss but there is no time. We are in great peril.”
“No, you are in great peril,” Lauren replied. “I am no longer a part of The Pride of the King.”
Picking up a candle, she turned mechanically and walked to her bedchamber. Without a word, she began to stuff personal items into a bag.
James followed her to the door. “What the hell are you doing? You are surrounded by wilderness and there is a war going on in the north with the French.”
“You forget that I survived on the streets of New York all alone. I can do it on the frontier as well.” She pushed past him down the stairs and out into the pouring rain.
He followed her into the deluge, and grabbed her wrist. Shouting over the downpour he said, “If you don’t come with me now, you will most certainly die.”
Something in his voice made Lauren stop and listen. The rain poured down upon them. “No,” he said. “That’s not true. If you do not come with me, I will most certainly die.”
Lauren was stunned. Never had his words held more emotion. Never had his face shown more distress. She wanted to run into his arms, but she jumped back and pulled a pistol from the pocket of her gown.
Startled, he looked at the weapon and then up at her face. She saw the hurt in his eyes and he murmured, “Why?”
“I warned you some day I would leave you. You are a liar and a cheat,” she said holding her arm over the weapon to keep the powder dry. “You have deceived me on every count from matrimony to my own property. I should kill you, but I would be pursued for it. From now on, I will find my own way and try to erase the shame of being married to a man that never deserved a name.”
There was a long silence as they stared at each other, the rain drenching them. Lauren watched the struggle on St. Clare’s face, then without a word, he mounted his horse and rode away into the storm.
Chapter 42
All night Lauren sat with the pistol on her lap in her bedchamber. She shook with emotion for the first few hours then dozed fitfully the rest of the night in front of the fire, too anxious to sleep soundly. At the first light of day she took her bag and crept down the stairs to the dining room of the Van den Berg manor. She could hear the servants in the kitchen as she filled her bag with bread, cheese and sausages.
Lauren chose not to wait for a vessel to stop at the Van den Berg estate. There was no time to lose. She knew before the day was over the authorities would be questioning everyone at the home about The Pride of the King. The post road was a safer alternative.
The cold morning air swept the cobwebs from her head as she walked briskly down the path heading south. It was quiet this time of year when the Hudson was still open and free of ice. During the milder months, the road was not used because the river was a more efficient form of transportation but very soon, when the ice made passage impossible on the Hudson, the post road would become a very busy thoroughfare.
Lauren pulled her cloak closely around her shoulders and touched the pistol in her waistband. It had been months since James had given her shooting lessons, but she knew what she lacked in skill she made up for in resolve. Without realizing it, Lauren had returned to her survival instincts and a cold calm enveloped her. She remembered St. Clare speaking of a woman by the name of Quill who needed help at a tavern near Hampsted. She knew
it could only be a temporary position because it would be the first place St. Clare would search for her, but for now he was gone and the frozen days of winter were arriving inhibiting transportation. Hampsted would be unreachable.
It took her two days to walk to the settlement. She spent the first bitter night in a barn and the second night in the burned out remains of an old cabin. She met few people along the post road and when she did encounter someone she remained aloof, hugging her pistol closely. By the afternoon of the second day she reached the outskirts of Hampsted. Lauren wondered if she was in fact passing near her own property. At first the thought elated her, but it was quickly replaced by bitter disappointment when she remembered that it was indeed and always had been St. Clare’s land.
The road took her down a hill and into a clearing where a field stone structure sat with smoke curling out a chimney. It was a large, square building with green shutters and sign swinging over the front door saying, “The Boar’s Head”.
A tall, boney woman with a horse face was in the yard strewing feed to chickens. She stopped abruptly and put a hand on her hip when she spied Lauren. “I don’t give hand outs here,” the woman warned, pursing her lips.
Lauren slowed her pace realizing her appearance must seem shabby. Her clothing was soiled and her hair tousled. She smoothed her skirt and ran her fingers through her hair. “I beg your pardon, Madame. My name is Lauren De Beauville.”
The woman’s eyes grew large in her long, drawn face, and she gasped.
Lauren said, “Please do not be alarmed.”
The woman’s back stiffened and she replied, “I most certainly am not alarmed. I have not been alarmed by anyone since the year of our Lord, seventeen thirty nine. What is your business here, you-you French woman!”
She swallowed hard, cleared her throat and said, “I have been sent by Captain James St. Clare. Are you Mrs. Quill? He told me you have work.”
“Not for you. You bold faced thing!” she said.
The elderly proprietress turned on her heel and went into the tavern, slamming the door behind her. Lauren growled and clenched her fists, approaching the door. She licked her lips, took a deep breath and knocked. Almost immediately the door flew open, and Mrs. Quill stood in front of her with a musket.
“Well?” the woman barked.
Lauren looked inside the tavern. “You have not yet cleaned up from last night, Madame?” Lauren asked.
“That is no concern of yours.”
“It is almost supper time again. Why are you not ready?”
Mrs. Quill did not reply. She studied Lauren for a moment then said, “You’re a Papist, aren’t you? I don’t serve Papists.”
“I am not asking to be a guest,” Lauren replied.
She hesitated a moment, gathered her courage then stepped around Mrs. Quill into the common room. The hearth was cold, the room damp and dark. Four or five tables were placed near the fireplace and a long, empty room yawned off to the left with a bar, several more tables and another stone fireplace. Dishes had not been cleared from the night before, the straw on the floor was dirty and the room smelled of stale beer.
“I can have this cleaned and a meal ready by tonight,” Lauren announced.
The woman’s eyes narrowed and she said, “You are very sure of yourself.”
Lauren raised one eyebrow and stated, “I am accustomed to entertaining.”
“That,” Mrs. Quill said sarcastically, “is obvious. You’re nothing more than a tart.”
Lauren ignored the insult and walked around the room, examining the cooking implements and blowing dust off the mantel. Mrs. Quill watched her then growled, “I admit, my health has prevented me from keeping the tavern in tip-top shape lately, but I am not ready for the bone yard yet. I have no money to pay you.”
“You will eventually, if you hire me,” said Lauren. “For now I am only interested in a roof over my head for the winter.”
“There will be no Papist practices here,” the woman warned, shaking her finger.
Lauren chuckled as she pulled off her gloves. “Do not worry, Madame.” she said sarcastically. “I lost my rosary years ago.”
* * *
Lauren threw herself into resurrecting The Boar’s Head Tavern to a thriving establishment. She told herself it was to gain the trust of Mrs. Quill, but in truth it was to keep her thoughts from James and the betrayal she felt toward The Pride of the King.
The first afternoon she arrived at the tavern, she shed her filthy traveling clothes, put on a fresh mob cap, gown and pinner and began to scrub the floors. Mrs. Quill worked alongside her grumbling all the time. Lauren dusted and cleaned, hauled wood, mended fences and tended the animals. Afflicted by a bad back Mrs. Quill, prepared ale and took care of the sewing and bedding. She was slow to trust Lauren watching her suspiciously and mumbling, “Papist” regularly under her breath, yet she allowed her to stay.
The first part of December the temperature dropped, and the snows began. For the first time in her life, Lauren was grateful for winter. She knew The Pride of the King could no longer sail up the Hudson, and her privacy was now secure. Late every night after cleaning up from supper and the tavern crowd, Lauren would climb the creaky stairs to her room at the back of the tavern and drop onto her feather bed falling asleep instantly, never allowing herself to think of James.
The betrayal and loneliness began to erode her well being, and a nagging pain developed in her stomach. It plagued her from the moment she woke up in the morning until the time she fell into bed at night. It prevented her from eating properly and she grew thin and drawn. Mrs. Quill could not help but notice Lauren's decline.
“How come you are not with your French people?” she asked one day as Lauren stoked a fire outside. She did not reply at first, stuffing laundry into a crucible with a stick. Wiping her hands on her apron she said, “I was taken away many years ago as a bride and brought to this land. I had little choice in the matter.”
Holding a basket of clothes Mrs. Quill sat down stiffly on a stump. She looked around at the landscape of thick pines and maples. “It was the same for me. Mr. Quill brought me to this back country thirty years ago. I came from a good family in England, a family of means, the Adams of Portsmouth. The Hudson seemed like the other end of the earth. He dragged me here, and then had the audacity to die three years later.”
“Why didn’t you go back to your homeland?” asked Lauren,
“Why didn’t you go back?” the old woman echoed.
Lauren looked down. “Just like you. There was no reason to return. It is the way of it. I have no regrets.”
The two were quiet for a moment, lost in their thoughts.
“I have been thinking,” said the matron. “The winters are brutal here in the valley, and I can use another hand on a regular basis. I must be in my dotage, but you may stay if you wish.”
Lauren smiled mischievously, looked up and made the sign of the cross.
Mrs. Quill barked, “But there will be none of that!"
Chapter 43
Initially the customers at the Boar’s Head Tavern were suspicious of Lauren. In spite of their diverse backgrounds, her French upbringing was difficult for the residents of Hampsted to tolerate. The conflict between the countries consumed the Colonies and every evening the conversation inevitably turned to politics. On several occasions, disparaging remarks were directed at Lauren, but immediately Mrs. Quill squashed them, demanding respect for her employee. Eventually the townspeople relaxed their attitudes and learned to like Lauren. They found her culinary skills above reproach, and when they teased her they found her saucy French attitude engaging. They even defended her when the occasional out of town guest maligned her.
Lauren learned to enjoy the banter as well. It sharpened her wits and her mastery of the English language. The repartee amused the men especially, and the flirtation gave them a welcome diversion during the cold winter months in the valley. The conversation also brought more business to the Boar’s Head and for thi
s Mrs. Quill was grateful.
Yet Lauren found as her new life grew more predictable, she felt more unsettled. The diversion of a new home and position distracted her initially, but over time the restlessness returned. She struggled to keep thoughts of James from her mind, but he found his way into everything she did. Now as she looked back on her past she could see his hand in everything. For the first time in her life she was without him, and she felt quite alone.
At night she would think back to her days in Kaskaskia as a young woman and her infatuation with Rene Lupone. She blushed at her silly schoolgirl attitudes and was ashamed that she had ever been so shallow. Gabriel had called her foolish, head strong and impulsive, and he had indeed been right. She knew nothing then of deep emotion and was ignorant of the kind of yearning that nags at one’s belly like a cancer. Now she realized Gabriel understood these things profoundly and pondered them deeply before he took his own life.
She missed her friendship with Eugenie as well and chastised herself for never appreciating the suffering the young girl had endured. She struggled to remember her conversations with Isaac and the heartfelt laughter of Henry Bologne. She even revisited her ethereal companions Abigail and Ephraim from the churchyard in the city, still unsure whether they were fancy or heavenly companions.
But the individual who robbed her peace of mind most completely was James St. Clare. He stirred something within her that was almost primal, as elemental to her existence as lifeblood and from this sensation sprang supreme loneliness and yearning.
Mrs. Quill did not know exactly what plagued Lauren but had the wisdom to know it was a lost love and that she was impotent to help. She remembered her own pain when her husband died, and she knew that it would never subside, only dull over the years. She developed a genuine affection for Lauren, and their companionship helped quell the dark loneliness they endured together.
Fear now also accompanied their loneliness. There had been reports from travelers that tribes had been swooping down from Canada launching assaults on settlers to the north, and it put Lauren and Mrs. Quill on edge. Lauren tried not to be afraid, but it was unnerving to complete her chores outside. She tried not to turn her back to the woods and kept a wary eye out whenever her employer ventured to feed the chickens or milk the cows. On several occasions Lauren spent the day mending fences returning to the tavern at sunset more exhausted from tension than actual labor. For the first time she actually feared for her life. She had almost been killed in a hurricane, almost died in childbirth and hanged in New France but now the thought of dying terrified her.
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