BLUE BAYOU ~ Book I (historical): Fleur de Lis

by Bonds, Parris Afton

  “Yes—yes, of course.”

  He didn’t believe her. He wasn’t sure what to believe yet. He wasn’t even sure why he carried through with the farce of occupying the great hide bed with her a half hour later. He preferred the ground to the bed. Then why the need to taunt her with his nearness? Because she interested him as no other woman had done, except perhaps for Mother Marie. Hands clasped behind his head, he thought of his father’s lover. The two women were entirely different. Mother Marie had been warm and loving; this woman was cool and distant. He smiled to himself, thinking of how she lay stiffly at the far side of the frame bed. François would have his hands full with this woman.

  The journey resumed the next day. The air was sultry with a slowly gathering storm, and sweat poured from his frame. Whining mosquitoes circled him and the young woman, getting into their ears and noses. She sat in the prow and suffered silently.

  Fatigued by the taxing labor of paddling against the powerful current, he made camp early that day high above the Mississippi, picking a site with a spring well back from the river, which would provide clear, fresh water. With the dusk, the mosquitoes became relentless. The woman barely touched the roasted clams, so busy was she swatting at the voracious black cloud.

  Taking pity on her, he delved into his “possibles” bag, which held, among other things, an awl for stitching leather, a .50- caliber-bullet mold for lead balls, and a surgeon’s folding lancet.

  Despite her misery and preoccupation in combating the winged insects, she eyed him askance with a great deal of interest. When he hunkered before her with a gourd in one hand, she wrinkled her nose and asked cautiously, “What is it?”

  “Bear grease, your ladyship.” He smiled. “It will ward off the mosquitoes and block out the sun’s rays.”

  “Uuhh!” she protested as he dabbed his fingers into the unguent and smeared a strip across her upturned nose. She shrank from his touch, but he caught her clefted chin in one hand and set about the task of covering her delicate features. Beneath his steady gaze, her lashes lowered, hiding whatever thoughts went on in that unusual mind.

  He had known intimately several wives of officers stationed at Montréal, women with a modicum of education. They were bored women who had found him different and, therefore, intriguing. He understood this and understood them, perhaps better than they did themselves.

  This woman, however, was more difficult to understand than a Huron war belt.

  The following day, he made better progress against the current. He could tell the woman chafed under the application of the rank bear grease, for several times her fingers came up to touch her face, only to drop abruptly. At least she never complained at being cramped in the canoe for such long periods of time. For this he was grateful. He had enough of a problem scanning the shoreline for signs of unfriendly visitors: a dislodged stone, a piece of moss scuffed off a log, a mark left by a canoe in the mud. The Natchez nation, in whose territory they were now traveling, had lately been unreceptive to the French settlers around Fort Rosalie, named for the wife of Comte de Pontchartrain.

  At midmorning, rain clouds scurried across the sky, and he was forced to stop in order to erect a shelter for the woman. He stood his musket upright in the canoe and instructed her to hold the stock in place while he draped blankets over it. The storm blew down the river, pelting his face with rain and making vision difficult for him. Yet he was determined to make Point Coupee and the Riviere Rouge that day and have done with the Mississippi.

  From beneath her shelter, the woman flashed him a humorous glance that left him stunned. What manner of woman was this child-woman—educated, possessed of an aristocratic bearing, yet unchaste? A courtesan? Not likely, for she lacked the blatant seductive manner generally associated with such women.

  The bushes along the shore were dripping wet. As there was no profit in landing, they ate their supper aboard, after which he resumed paddling through the night while she slept blissfully.

  By the next day, they were far enough up the Riviere Rouge, and, exhausted, he broke camp well before dark. François’s bride still sat like royalty, her back straight as a musket barrel, while he gathered firewood and erected a lean-to for her near a stream. However, when he went off to hunt, she deigned to assume the task of fire tender, going about it as if she were offering him a great boon. He grinned to himself. He suspected that, having had an opportunity to observe him at the task, she wouldn’t make the mistake of burning all the wood at once this time.

  He located a clearing deep in the forest and, for twenty minutes, sat absolutely motionless. Eventually, the squirrels mistook him for a stump and scampered about his feet. The tip of the knife blade between his fingers was released with an economy of movement. Foreseeing problems with his charge’s delicate sensibilities, he skinned and gutted the squirrel on the spot. It dawned on him that his proprietorship was about to end and that the days of arranging for her comfort would soon be over.

  When he returned to camp, she wasn’t there. Instantly, his eyes searched the ground for signs. Her small footprints indicated that she had left the clearing alone. He followed the trail, which headed toward the stream. Too late, he realized her intent. After that layer of rancid bear grease, she had naturally wanted a bath.

  For a long moment, he stood concealed in the mesh of grapevines and other undergrowth, watching the flash of white as she redressed, her back to him. He should have returned to camp; he should have had no interest in her. She was François’s wife. But he had been surprised by the perfect symmetry of her body. Her soft, delicate shoulders tapered to the rib cage; below, the waist narrowed around the spine, then gradually flared into the rounded curves of the buttocks. Her hair had been freshly washed and, wet, shimmered like old gold. Her porcelain skin reflected the last leaf-filtered shafts of soft twilight before she drew the gown up over her shoulders.

  Her cataclysmic beauty was irrefutable.

  In the act of lacing up her bodice, she turned unexpectedly. In that paralyzing moment, she saw him—and he saw the shriveled, red brand of the fleur-de-lis burned between her soft breasts. The brand of the felon, the mark of the unredeemable criminal.

  A deep flush washed over her. Seeing the shock in his eyes, she said, “Monsieur, let me explain.”

  “No explanation is necessary, your ladyship,” he said abruptly, and turned from her.

  § CHAPTER ELEVEN

  The flat land gave way to gradually heightening bluffs. Sharp, irregular hills twisted incessantly, giving the land the likeness of a great sheet of parchment that had been crumpled and then spread out loosely. The vast, highland forests of moss-covered oak peppered with pine and hickory had been cleared along the edges of the Bayou Amulee at its confluence with the red-silted river.

  Here, on the Riviere Rouge, a paltry dozen log houses clustered within musket shot of the palisaded fort, named for the local Natchitoches Indians.

  Natalie’s glance took in the sparseness of the settlement that had been a bustling outpost even before Nouvelle Orleans was founded, and she despaired. How would she manage to endure even a year in such an isolated spot? The very air on the Red River was contaminated by the horrid effluvia of alligator urine and excrement.

  She had never known such blasts of heat or such heavy rains that left the air only more steaming and hostile. Perspiration oozed from her pores morning and night. The mosquitoes left her flesh raw. With all the trees, there was no sunlight.

  Then the dismal thought was chased away by the intrepid Nicolas Brissac, who helped her from the canoe with his exaggerated chivalry and a mocking “Your ladyship.” His voice was a softly modulated baritone. She had expected—well, less cultivation.

  Her chest in hand, she followed his broad back as he set out across the immense meadow bearing his rifle and blankets. His air of detached self-command had garnered her reluctant respect. Behind that formidable face, she instinctively sensed something fine and dignified. She liked his slow, attractive smile. During the journey, s
he had come to hope that he would become her ally, a friend she badly needed.

  When he surprised her at her bath, she had thought to tell him the truth—to explain why the brand of a felon was burned between her breasts and why she was masquerading as a casket girl. But just how well did she really know the coureur des bois? Did she dare to take that chance when after a few words from him, she could find herself returned to Paris and Fabreville’s hands?

  Now the coureur des bois could only think of her as both a strumpet and a female felon. Would he tell his partner the truth about her? His partner—bon Dieu, the man was her husband! Could Philippe ever forgive her for his deception? Yes, she wanted to believe he would, that he would understand that need to survive, when one will do anything.

  Every so often, she saw from the corner of her eye a woman come to stand in an open doorway, watching. Before one rustic cabin, two boys ceased rolling a cane hoop to run inside with the news of the female newcomer. Surely by the morrow the arrival of François’s bride would be on the tongue tip of every inhabitant within fifty leagues.

  François de Gautier. What was the man like? Nicolas Brissac had told her very little. What would his partner think of her? It was a little late to worry now. She was glad that she had bathed and neatly rebraided her hair. The sun had put a little color back into her cheeks. She wished she had donned the other dress in her trousseau. The one she wore was already stained with dirt and sweat, and its hem was tattered by the trail’s undergrowth.

  Still, with a little dignity and a great deal of effort, she would carry off this farce. Mentally, she vowed to make the best of a bad situation. She owed this unknown bridegroom at least that much.

  As she followed Nicolas Brissac through fields spangled with pansies and pink buttercups and phlox, leaving the sparse settlement behind, her bravado slunk away. What if this man François . . . She had known only Philippe . . . How could she give herself to another . . . Adultery . . . But what else could she have done?

  She had sold herself.

  She berated herself, rationalized to herself, then berated herself again.

  Her footsteps flagged, and Nicolas looked over his shoulder. His glance took in her panicky expression. His own was inscrutable. “You have made your bed . . .’’He left his condemnation at that.

  He started off again, cresting another wooded hill, and she had to hurry to keep up. Now the coureur des bois followed an old trail made by the buffalo on their winter migration from the plains of Spanish Texas to the river bottoms of Louisiana.

  With resolution, her legs strode quickly and accurately, like shears, snipping off the distance between her and her purpose, that of seeking a place of temporary refuge.

  At the bank of a trickling stream, perfumed with the fragrances of irises, orchids, and water lilies, he halted and pointed out that place of refuge, her new home. In a field of tangled copses squatted a solitary cabin framed with heavy cypress slabs. The high-pitched roof was thatched with palmetto. Drawing closer, one could see that the lime-washed house was chinked with a sort of adobe mixture of mud that was reinforced with what must be deer hair and Spanish moss.

  With a thudding heart, she followed the coureur des bois to the heavy batten door. He pushed it open and called out, “François?”

  “Enfin!" called an undoubtedly masculine voice.

  Nicolas held the door open saying, “Your ladyship.”

  She preceded him inside and looked around. She was impressed despite the rusticity. The pleasant smell of freshly chopped wood still clung to the place. The walls were wainscoted, and beams and rafters of cypress logs, marked by hatchet and adze, looked sturdy enough to withstand the fiercest of storms. But sunlight spilled through a window, sheathed by linen in lieu of glass panes, to reveal what could have passed for a pigsty.

  The room contained only a heavy trestle table flanked by two benches and a simple cupboard. The tabletop was piled with bones and scraps and earthen plates, begrimed with old food spots. Clothing and animal skins littered the puncheon floor, and a large fireplace overflowed with cold ashes. The fireplace backed the other room. With trepidation, she stared in that direction.

  “Go on,” Nicolas prodded quietly, “greet your husband.”

  With faltering steps, she walked through the adjoining doorway. His knee propped up, a man lay stretched out on one of two narrow beds. He raised himself on both elbows to stare at her, as she did at him, both assessing one another.

  What he thought of her, she could only guess. She had not the artifice of maquillage; still, she knew that she had once been attractive to men. Now smudges of fatigue darkened the skin beneath her eyes. Her face was blistered, her flesh a mass of mosquito bites. She had lost so much weight, she was little more than bones. No, she certainly didn’t look her best.

  As for him, she was pleasantly surprised at the inventory: a rakish moustache above a mouth that she decided she definitely liked; lustrous, curly brown hair that was receding slightly at the temples; and brown eyes that looked like they could sparkle when not beset by uncertain curiosity. In addition, the man was fashionably dressed in nankeen britches and a soft, buff chambray shirt.

  Nicolas’s mockery was more pronounced than ever, along with his curt bow. “François, allow me to present your bride, her ladyship Angelique de Gautier.”

  The silence stretched out, and, waiting, she felt like a spring flower shriveling in an unseasonable cold spell. Then François broke the silence with a burst of hearty laughter. “You did it! Par Dieu, you did it, Nicolas!”

  Then he turned his attention to her and said with a charming grin, “Mademoiselle, what a great pleasure.”

  He attempted to rise, and she held up a palm. “No, monsieur, it is not necessary.” Lifting her frayed skirts, more from habit than to keep them off the mud-caked floor, she crossed to the bedstead and dropped a curtsy worthy of Versailles to her husband—her second husband, that was.

  When she lifted her head, he was watching her with a startled expression. “Monsieur, please allow me to thank you for offering me your name and your home.” She delivered her best recitation. “I shall do my best to honor you and your home as long as . . .

  He stared at her, his finely delineated brows lifted, waiting. “Yes?”

  “. . . as long as—as I’m permitted,” she finished with a pretty little shrug.

  “Par Dieu!” He slapped his knee, winced at the unexpected pain, then grinned again. “You’ll be permitted to grace my home forever. Has the good abbe at New Orleans not said as much?” He paused, as if at a sudden loss for words, and ended by saying, “Please, be seated, mademoiselle.”

  Feeling ridiculously shy, she sat on the bed opposite him. Her back was regally straight, as the nuns of Poissy had always insisted, and her hands were clasped lightly, belying the tension that churned inside her. Her stomach actually felt ill.

  Nicolas made to depart, but François forestalled him. “It’s been hell these three weeks, mon ami, trying to get around with this wretched leg. Several times the commandant’s wife sent a stew or some other dish over with her Moorish wench.” His face colored, and he added quickly, “And our smoked meat kept me for a while. But the larder is empty now. We’re out of food, candles— Tiens, but I’m glad you returned when you did!”

  Silently, she blessed François for adroitly easing the strain of their first moments together by including Nicolas. Nicolas she was acquainted with, certainly, while François was still an unknown element. She and François needed time to adjust to the unusual situation. The presence of a third person smoothed the way while the two of them took stock of one another.

  Obviously, Nicolas didn’t agree. He set down her trunk and planted his hands high on his flanks. His slashing brows clashed in a line over his high-bridged nose. “It won’t work, François.”

  Her heart knocked against her rib cage. She looked sharply at the coureur des bois. Was he going to tell François what he knew about her? If François rejected her, where would she g
o?

  “What won’t work?” Françoise asked, a frown beginning to furrow his high forehead.

  “The three of us living together. I’m going.”

  “No!” She and Françoise echoed each other.

  Knowing that it was she who was the uncertain element of the three, she deferred to Françoise.

  He pushed himself upright, grimacing at the pain incurred, and said, “Winter is coming on, and there’s no other place for you to stay. Besides, we’re business partners, aren’t we?” He indicated his leg. “I can’t run a business on my own in this condition.”

  Nicolas drew a deep breath and let it out all at once in an exasperated grunt. “Françoise, our business relationship does not extend to include our private lives. This—this situation can only—”

  “Just stay through the winter. Come spring you can start your own place. I’ll be well enough to help by then.”

  The half-breed flicked a glance at her, but she schooled her face to impassiveness. “All right.” He sighed. “For the winter only.”

  With that, he excused himself, saying he meant to hunt before the light became too poor to get off a good shot. As there was no food in the house, Françoise could no longer reasonably detain his partner.

  After Nicolas’s departure, Françoise flashed a roguish grin that she found utterly appealing. “There is no point in skirting the issue, is there, mademoiselle? This is a highly uncomfortable situation, n’est-ce pas?"

  “We know so little about one another,” Natalie murmured, which was the wrong thing to say.

  He maneuvered himself onto one side and, resting on his forearm, said, “We shall just have to approach this in as civilized manner as possible. Please, tell me about yourself. What prompted you to become a fille a la cassette?”

  Bon Dieu, but she was so tired already. Now months of having to watch her every word, of having to carry through with this charade, stretched before her.

  What had prompted her, he asked? Pain, fear, death, an unborn child. What would he think of the last part of her confession? Hysteria bubbled in her throat. Irrepressible tears welled in her eyes.