Freedom to Love

by Susanna Fraser

  “I know. But I’ve decided that’s a risk I’m willing to take, with you.”

  “Truly? What changed your mind?”

  “This place, and you. I see now that reading and working sums aren’t everything. I hope my children find it easier than I did, but if they don’t, at least I won’t be shocked by it, and I reckon I could teach them how to manage better than anyone else could.”

  “If you’re certain...”

  “I am.” His voice turned pleading. “I want to make you happy. If you want children, I want to give them to you.”

  That wasn’t the same as wanting them for his own sake, but she didn’t doubt he’d make a good father. He’d taken to Jeannette, and he was always kind and helpful with the children of Cutler’s Creek. Yet was he truly prepared for what their offspring might be? “But have you thought—what if we had a child who looked, er, obviously African? More so than I do.”

  He waved his free hand by his blue-eyed, blond-haired head. “I shouldn’t think that likely.”

  She studied her own hand, with its ivory skin. “I cannot imagine any child of ours would be very dark, no. But surely you’ve seen children who look more like a grandparent or great-grandparent than their mother or father.”

  “I suppose...”

  “Our child could have dark gold hair like yours—but woolly like Jeannette’s. Or a flatter nose and fuller lips than any purely white child. Are you ready for that?”

  He studied her for a moment, his head cocked to one side. “Until the past few weeks I never imagined myself a father at all. So I’m not sure I’m ready for a child of any description. But I know that nothing you said has changed my mind about you. I know who you are, and you’re the only woman I’ve ever wanted to marry. And you know who I am, and you’re still willing to accept me—that is, you are, aren’t you, now that I’ve met your conditions?”

  “I am—though I’ve thought of one more.”

  He sighed. “Three conditions. I suppose that’s reasonable.”

  “I don’t want to live like this the rest of my life, always traveling from one place to another. I want a home. It wouldn’t have to be anything grand—a cabin like the Cutlers’ would be more than enough.”

  He blinked in bafflement. “Where else would we live, but in our home?”

  “I thought—you want to live on the frontier, and you’re used to traveling from place to place in the army. But I can’t do it. If you mean to go out trapping beaver or exploring, I’m sorry, but that’s more than I can do.”

  “Oh, no. Don’t worry. I never thought of going that far. We’ll live in Upper Canada, I think. I know they’re looking for settlers, and my military experience would be all to the good. I could breed horses and perhaps be an officer in the militia, and we can settle near enough to a town that you could get work as a dressmaker if you’d like. It wouldn’t be the same as being a London modiste, of course.”

  “I don’t need that,” she assured him. She might have inherited her mother’s skills, but she didn’t have the same ambition. She was glad she could make her living with her needle if necessary, but she didn’t feel compelled to prove herself the best in New Orleans or London or anywhere else. “I love to sew and make beautiful things, and to help other women look beautiful, but I can do that anywhere.”

  “In that case...” His lips curved into a mischievous smile, and he dropped to one knee, there on the ground. “You made three conditions,” he said.

  “I did.”

  “And I’ve promised to meet them all.”

  “You did.” She couldn’t help but laugh, a delighted giggle that seemed to come from some lighthearted, happy Thérèse that she’d forgotten how to be these past several months.

  “Well, then.” He took her hand, and in a voice grown suddenly serious and earnest asked, “Will you marry me?”

  She took a deep breath. This wasn’t the man she’d expected, nor the life she had planned. But the life she now wanted was the one she could build at his side. “Yes.” Her voice came out little more than a whisper. “I will,” she added more firmly.

  He grinned that heart-stopping smile of his, then kissed her hand, slowly and deliberately. Still on his knees, he grasped her hips—she gasped at the grip of his fingers, firm and commanding even through the layers of skirt, petticoat and chemise—and leaned into her, his face pressed against her belly.

  She buried her fingers in his hair, the thick curls soft and springy under her hands. “I suppose we should go in and tell them,” she said, “and make sure Reverend Ford is willing to marry a pair of Catholics like us.”

  “A pair of Catholics? Oh, of course. I’m French.” He stood with a sigh, brushing at the dirt on his trousers.

  “Do you mind that I’m Catholic?” It had never occurred to her, with everything else that separated them, to worry about religion.

  “No...though our children’s lives will be easier in Canada if we baptize them in the Church of England. Do you mind that I’m Protestant?”

  “No, as long as you don’t mean to take up theorizing over the identity of the Antichrist over dinner.”

  “We’re not like that in the Church of England,” he said with a certain huffy dignity. “Now let’s go and make Mrs. Cutler happy with us again.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Their announcement made their hostess happy indeed. She instantly forgave them their deception in claiming to be married and apologized for how she’d berated Thérèse. After all, hadn’t common-law marriages been a frequent thing in the early days, before there were preachers on the frontier? What they’d done wasn’t so different from that, and she begged that they’d forgive her and let her have the honor of hosting their wedding feast. She was even sufficiently mollified that she didn’t demand they sleep apart until after the wedding.

  Reverend Ford proved agreeable, too. If two Catholics were willing to recognize his authority to marry them, he’d be happy to do so in the interests of encouraging matrimony and moral behavior. He asked that they wait till the day after tomorrow, since it wasn’t seemly to have a wedding and a funeral on the same day, and neither protested. Marrying a few hours after a less fortunate bride’s funeral certainly struck Thérèse as a bad omen. Also, it gave her more time to reflect on the change that was so suddenly coming into her life.

  But all thoughts of her own happiness were forgotten the next morning when they stood with all the community at the little burying ground on the hillside at the western end of the settlement. It was the first funeral Thérèse had attended since her mother’s. On that day, and at her father’s a few weeks before, the sky had been gray, as mournful as she had felt. This morning was almost obscenely bright and so warm it felt more like May than March. A young woman like Sophia Wilson should’ve greeted many fine spring days like this one, should’ve been there to squint at the brightness of the sun and hear the birdsong from the forest.

  Thérèse hung back at the very edge of the group, leaning on Henry’s arm, with Jeannette uncharacteristically demure at her other elbow. She would rather have stood somewhere behind Obadiah Wilson so she could’ve avoided seeing his face, but whenever she looked up she saw him at the head of the new grave, his eyes dark hollows of pain, as the pastor spoke of the hope of resurrection and a brighter and better sun dawning upon them all.

  When the burial service ended, Mrs. Cutler collected Thérèse and Jeannette, leaving Henry behind with the other strong young men to fill in the new grave. A pair of young women Thérèse had sewed with upon occasion fell in beside them.

  “So tomorrow is your wedding day,” one said, squeezing Thérèse’s arm. “You didn’t tell us you weren’t married all this time, you naughty creature. But I’m glad. It’s been too long since we had a wedding.”

  “Hush, not now,” Thérèse murmured, seeing Wilson’s baleful eyes fixed
on them from five yards away, where he stood by the graveside as clods of earth thudded against his wife’s plain pine coffin.

  “You’re right. I’m sorry.” But when they’d gone a little farther, she leaned closer and, in a thankfully lower voice, said, “I’m sorry Sophia died, of course I am, but she didn’t belong here and wouldn’t try. Now, I wish you were staying. You may be a fine lady, but you know how to work.”

  “You could stay,” Mrs. Cutler said. “There’s that good farm at the top of the valley that’s gone empty ever since Rob Morrison died.”

  “Thank you,” Thérèse said. “I’m honored that you ask, but Henri wants to see his family again, and I’d love to go to France, since a quarter of my ancestors came from there.” None of that was a lie, at least.

  “Only a quarter? What’s the rest?” the young woman asked.

  “Spanish and Choctaw Indian.” That was true, too, if incomplete.

  “You do have an Indian look,” Mrs. Cutler said judiciously. “It’s where you get that thick dark hair.”

  By then they’d reached the Cutler cabin, and Thérèse fell to work alongside the other women, clearing the main room and preparing it to serve as the church. And before midday a church it was. Thérèse sat in the back with Henry, watching, listening and occasionally joining the hymns, since she hadn’t been able to help learning a few, with Mrs. Cutler singing them as she went about her daily chores.

  For the first time since they’d arrived at the settlement, Wilson joined the services. At the appointed time, after the singing but before the sermon, he cradled his daughter somewhat awkwardly in his arms and brought her to the makeshift altar to be baptized Sophia after her mother. Even from the far end of the room, Thérèse could see the baby was wearing the dress she’d made for her.

  After the sermon, a lengthy and surprisingly scholarly discourse on the Epistle to the Romans, Thérèse made her way to where Wilson stood with his baby and her caretakers. “I never got a chance to tell you how very sorry I am for your loss,” she said. She met his dark, haunted eyes for only a moment, then turned her attention to the sleeping baby, who for now was ignorant of all the grief that had already visited her world.

  “I promised Sophia I’d have her christened in that dress,” he said roughly.

  Thérèse lifted her gaze to him in surprise.

  “Yes, she knew what was happening almost to the last. Knew she was dying. I promised her, too, that the baby would never want for anything.”

  “I’m sure you’ll do all you can to honor that promise,” Thérèse said, knowing how empty her words must sound.

  “I don’t want to take her to her grandparents. What if they treat her like she’s a bastard, born of low blood?”

  “I suppose you could write to them,” she said hesitantly. “You’ll know by their answer whether they’ll accept her or not.”

  He shook his head, a single decisive negation. “No. I’ll raise her somehow. I’ll make some money, marry a good woman. Speaking of which, I hear you and your Henri are getting married tomorrow.”

  There was more than a hint of sarcasm in the way he stressed Henry’s false name. Instinctively Thérèse sought to defuse his anger. “Yes. I’m sorry it’s so soon. I wouldn’t have chosen to have such a happy event just after your loss, but Mrs. Cutler insisted when she learned we weren’t married already.”

  “She’s a holy one, all right.” His mouth twisted. “Well. I hope you have better luck than I did.”

  He stalked off, to Thérèse’s relief.

  * * *

  That night she went to bed with Henry as usual, but he gave her a crooked grin when she stepped into the room. “I was thinking,” he said, “that tonight I’d like to just sleep together.”

  She smiled. “I was thinking the same, only I was afraid you’d think me foolish.” She couldn’t quite explain it. They hadn’t consummated their fictitious marriage—not quite—yet their bodies held few secrets from each other. And the timing of their wedding wasn’t something either had chosen. It was forced on them by circumstances—and her unruly, too-truthful tongue. But still it felt right to step back from passion for a night in honor of the solemnity of the occasion.

  “Not at all. I’m glad we are agreed.” He kissed her and helped her with the hooks at the back of her dress. After a kiss that was more longing than passionate, they blew out their candle and settled down under the quilts, Thérèse on her side with Henry curled at her back, his hand around her waist.

  Despite the warm familiarity of both the bed and her partner, Thérèse couldn’t sleep. She lay still and breathed steadily, hoping Henry wouldn’t notice, but he pressed his lips to the back of her head. “What’s wrong?” he murmured. “Don’t tell me you’re having bridal jitters. It’s just me, after all.”

  “I can’t stop thinking about Obadiah and Sophia,” she admitted.

  “I don’t like it, either. If I had my choice, I’d wait a few days more for our wedding, but Reverend Ford has to ride out the day after tomorrow.”

  “I know. That’s not it, though it does make it awkward and painful for him.”

  “He won’t be there. He already came to me and apologized.”

  “Good. That is, I’m sure it’s for the best.”

  “Hmm.” His grip at her belly tightened. “I didn’t meet Sophia, but it’s always dreadful when someone dies so young or a child is left motherless. I know it grieved Jeannette sorely to have to witness it, and she’s not easily shaken.”

  “No...” She threaded her fingers with his, took a deep breath and confessed her true fear. “We’re not like them, are we?”

  “What?” His voice rose in offended incredulity. “In what possible way could we resemble them in the slightest?”

  “We’re from different worlds. If anyone here knew the whole truth, they’d think us just as ill-suited.”

  “But we’re not.”

  She sighed and pointed out the obvious. “You’re an English aristocrat. I’m a baseborn woman of color from Louisiana.”

  “I know. But you’re not some child-bride barely out of the schoolroom whom I seduced and impregnated. How can you compare me to him?”

  “I’m not,” she assured him.

  “Then why are you asking if we’re like them?”

  “Because I’m sure they thought they’d be happy, too. I’m sure they thought they could beat the odds. And look where it ended—death and heartbreak. Of course you’re the better man. I wouldn’t be here if you weren’t. But I’m still afraid. What if your family turns their back on you because of me? What if you come to hate me?”

  He hauled her yet closer against him and planted a fierce, possessive kiss against the back of her neck. “None of that will happen. They only thing I fear is getting branded a deserter. As long as I can avoid that, my family will be glad to see me alive. You may not be the bride they would’ve chosen for me, but I’m a younger son. You’re pretty and clever and elegant—and there’s the small matter of how you and your sister saved my life. They’ll welcome you for that alone. And even if they don’t, that’s their loss. I’d never hate you for it.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Of course. We’re not Obadiah and Sophia, I swear it. I can’t guarantee you a life free from death and heartbreak, but we won’t bring them upon ourselves. You’re not going to wilt if you find yourself in a new situation. You’ve proven that already. And once we can sell the emeralds and pearls and I can get to my regimental agent, we’ll have money—not a fortune, but enough to begin upon.”

  Thérèse took a deep breath. He was right, and she felt better. “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t apologize. I’m afraid, too. But I’d rather be afraid with you than alone.”

  * * *

  Thérèse’s wedding day dawned as brightly sunny as the day precedi
ng it, but the wind stirred restlessly and the air felt heavy. Mrs. Cutler stood on the porch just after dawn, scenting the air with a frown on her broad face. “We’ll have storms by nightfall, I’ll warrant.”

  Thérèse grinned. She and Henry would make their own storm that night.

  “Ha! One would almost think you were a virgin bride to see you smile like that. There, aren’t you glad you’re having your wedding now, and not waiting for a priest?”

  Impulsively Thérèse hugged the older woman. “I am.” If Mrs. Cutler hadn’t spoken up, so bluntly and abruptly, then Henry would’ve waited to speak to her until they were in Canada, and she would’ve had to wait that much longer for the happiness that filled her heart now.

  “Don’t worry, we’ll get you married right and tight before the storm strikes. The air feels like change, but the clouds aren’t building in yet. We should have hours and hours.”

  Thérèse bowed to Mrs. Cutler’s local wisdom, though the threat of a storm didn’t perturb her. She would be married to Henry, safe and dry in this snug, sturdy cabin. “Thank you for all you and your husband have done for us,” she said. “I wish we had some way to repay you.” If only she hadn’t already pawned all the smaller pieces of jewelry from her father’s hoard. Her pearls and emeralds would be useless for a woman in Mrs. Cutler’s position, but the garnets left behind in Natchez would have made a fine gift.

  “Nonsense, child. You’ve helped me do three months of sewing in as many weeks. I’ve never seen anyone who could sew as fast and clever as you. And Henri and Jeannette have planted crops they won’t be there to reap. You’ve all three done your share and earned your keep. Now, leave everything to me. You’ll want plenty of time to dress and have Jeannette braid up your pretty hair.”

  The Cutlers insisted that tradition barred her from seeing Henry before the ceremony, so Ben Cutler took him to a friend’s house until the time came, leaving Thérèse alone with her thoughts, since Jeannette was helping Mrs. Cutler prepare the wedding feast.

  This wasn’t the wedding she’d expected. If she’d married Gratien, she would’ve stood before a crowd in the St. Louis Cathedral, with his family and all the grandest of the gens de couleur libres there to share their joy. She didn’t regret him, but she did miss her mother. What advice would Mama give her if she’d lived to see this day? Thérèse wished she’d listened better when she was younger, but she’d had no idea too late would come so soon.