The silence was prolonged as the younger gentlemen waited for Sir George to voice his thoughts. Finally, he said, “I don’t suppose there is any hope that we can keep Devereux out of it?”
“Keep him out of it?” asked William incredulously. “I hardly see how, sir. My shot roused the whole inn. Major Benson and I did not think to keep silent about the name of Mrs. Royston’s attacker.”
“Quite.” Sir George let out a long sigh. He was thinking of the fine figure he had hoped to cut at court when he made himself known to Rivard. “I don’t think I shall ever understand great men,” he said as though to himself.
“Beg pardon?”
“Rivard. How could he permit his niece to marry such a man? You are quite sure, Addison, that he knows what Devereux once was?”
“I don’t think there is any doubt about that. For some inconceivable reason, Rivard trusts him implicitly. As I told you, it was Rivard’s action in removing the file that first roused my suspicions. You may believe, however, that I would never have betrayed Devereux’s secret if he had not murdered Barbara Royston.”
Another sigh fell from Sir George’s lips. At length, he said, “Our first concern must be to see to the safety of Rivard’s nieces. I won’t have a moment’s peace until they are once more under the protection of their uncle.”
“And Devereux?” asked Peter softly. “Do we track him, sir, and bring him in for questioning?”
“Good God, no! That is…for appearances’ sake, naturally we must put on a good show, but the last thing we want is a scandal on the magnitude that a trial would produce. Just think of all the dirty linen that must be aired in public! Besides, if Devereux knows what is good for him, he will be long gone by now.”
“And if he is not?” persisted William. “If he comes back to fetch his wife?”
Sir George blinked slowly, his thoughts racing ahead to trials and executions and worse: some fatal mishap to either Lady Emily or Lady Sara. Swallowing, he said, “The man is as dangerous as a wild animal. We would be fools to try to capture him alive.” He looked at his companions and saw that there was no necessity for him to elaborate.
Chapter Twenty
It was decided that the sooner Emily and Sara left York the better it would be for all. The gossip, the speculation and finger pointing was so unpleasant that even Hester was persuaded to go with them. Since the ladies could not travel without a male escort, William Addison had very kindly offered them his protection until he had turned them over to their uncle’s care. Peter accepted this offer with alacrity. As he explained it, there was no question of his obtaining leave to accompany them. He was a soldier and must remain at his post.
To avoid the curious stares of their neighbors, for the most part, the ladies kept to the house. This was a great trial to Emily, for Hester lost no opportunity in blackening Leon’s character. After the first few attempts, she gave up trying to defend her husband, not because she believed him to be guilty, but because she saw that to defend him was futile.
With Sara, she was forced to take a different approach and one which was equally distasteful to her. The thought that she might be a target for murder preyed on Sara’s mind. She was on edge and jumped at every stray sound.
“All the time,” she said to Emily, her eyes huge in her white face, “I truly believed Leon was fond of me. I don’t think I shall ever be sure of anything again.”
Emily hardly knew how to answer her. Clasping Sara’s hands to stop their trembling, she said, “Nothing will ever convince me that Leon is a murderer. However, Peter is right in warning you to be on your guard. It is only a precaution, Sara, until we can get at the truth. We must protect you—that is our first duty.”
“I can’t believe Leon wishes to harm me.”
“That is not the point. As I said, our first duty is to protect you.”
“Then…you are warning me against Leon, too?”
She had to force the words out, and they erupted from her lips in a broken sob. “I must, oh, God, I must.”
James Fraser was a frequent visitor to the house. If Emily hoped to find a show of support for Leon from this quarter, she was to be disappointed. When the subject of Leon came up, as it frequently did, James had very little to say. She formed the impression that he was absorbing everything, calculating odds, forming judgments. It made her very uncomfortable in his presence and wary of saying anything.
Before the week was out, they had embarked on the journey which would take them home to England. The lakes and rivers were the main arteries of transportation. They were to be conveyed by schooner as far as Lachine, eight miles upstream from the port of Montreal, whence they were to take sail for Quebec. Their escort was small since Sir George was persuaded that Devereux was no longer a threat. In the foregoing week, Indian scouts had picked up his trail. It was exactly as Sir George surmised. Devereux had fled south to Oswego on the American side of the border.
Apart from a small detachment of enlisted men, their party comprised only seven people, the three ladies and their maid, Major Benson, William Addison, and James Fraser, who had delayed his departure from York for the express purpose of forming one of their group. The escort of another gentleman was always welcome, and James had generously invited them all to stay at his house in Montreal until such time as they had made their arrangements. It was necessary for Peter to return to York with his men as soon as he had delivered the ladies to their destination.
“The rapids at Lachine are spectacular,” James informed them at one point, “though the bane of a fur trader’s existence. One of these days, we shall build a canal to make the St. Lawrence navigable all the way to Montreal. As it is, everything must be hauled overland the last few miles or so. I fear we may have difficulty in hiring as much as a dogcart at this time of year. As I may have mentioned, the fur brigades will be there in force.”
James was not exaggerating. The little town was bursting at the seams with raucous French voyageurs, those adventurers of les pays d’en haut, the interior, who manned the canoes for the agents of the North West Company.
“The voyageurs may be a little on the boisterous side,” said James, addressing the ladies, “but don’t let that prejudice you. To a man, they revere womankind and would make short shrift of any gentleman who offered insult to a lady.”
And boisterous the voyageurs certainly were, thought Emily as she watched those undersize swarthy young men in their feather caps and deerskin leggings load their long birch-bark canoes.
“What are in those parcels?” asked Sara, indicating formidable canvas packs bound with leather straps.
“Trade goods,” answered James. “And supplies for the voyage.”
“Where are they off to?” Sara had to shout above the clamor, for as they watched, three of the great birch-bark canoes, each with a crew of a dozen or more men, shot into the current. At the same time, the oarsmen, as one man, broke into song, and their fellows on the wharves cheered them on.
“They are making for the summer rendezvous at Fort William.” James’s voice rose above the din. “That’s a journey of almost a thousand miles.”
Everyone was suitably impressed and looked more closely at the frail birch-bark canoes and the men who manned them. “A thousand miles,” murmured Emily, shaking her head in wonderment.
James read her mind. “The canoes are safer than they appear to be,” he assured her, and smiled broadly.
“I’m sure,” she replied, but thought inwardly that she would as soon swim the thousand miles as set foot in one of those contraptions.
They had no difficulty in finding accommodation for the night. James was one of the partners in the North West Company and seemed to be known to everyone. When in Lachine, he was used to putting up at the house of a certain Mrs. Deare, a widow whose husband had at one time served as one of the company’s agents.
“I’m impressed,” Addison murmured to Emily as their landlady cheerfully vacated her own parlor for the convenience of Mr. Fraser and his gu
ests. They had just sat down to dinner.
“I hope we are not turning some poor voyageur out of his bed,” responded Emily in an aside.
James caught the remark, “Voyageurs are men of the wilderness, Lady Emily. They wouldn’t thank you for a soft bed, nor would they waste their hard-earned money on the luxuries we consider necessities. Tonight and for the next five months or so, they will camp out under the stars. It’s the life they know, the life they love.”
There was something in James’s voice, something in his expression, which brought to mind an incident at her birthday ball when Leon had described the life of a fur trader. She sensed now what she had sensed then, not only the admiration, but also the shade of envy.
Leon. She could not stop thinking about him, wondering where he was and what he was doing. Most of the time, she was in a daze, not knowing what to make of it all. That he had managed to give his pursuers the slip gave her hope. Above all, she wanted him to be safe. All the same, she had half expected to receive some message from him. There was no message. Leon either had not the inclination or the means of communicating with her. She knew it was unreasonable, but she could not shake herself of the feeling that he had abandoned her as a man discards a wrinkled neckcloth.
Leon had followed the only course open to him, she remonstrated with herself. In America, he was safe. She did not wish him within a hundred miles of herself or Sara. Especially Sara. In that event, if she came face-to-face with him now, she did not know what she would think, how she should act. It was better this way.
“Tell me you are hoaxing me, James,” exclaimed Sara, interrupting Emily’s train of thought.
“I assure you, I am not.”
“A massacre? Here? In Lachine?”
In his calm way, Peter interposed, “It happened over a hundred years ago, Sara. There is not the least possibility of such a thing happening today. Besides, the Iroquois were ever friends to the British.”
“Then who was massacred?”
“French colonists,” answered James. “In those days, the French and British were enemies.”
“But two hundred!” responded Sara. “And a hundred taken prisoner. What happened to them?”
“No one knows,” answered James. “No trace of them was ever found. I daresay they made slaves or wives of the women. As for the men…” He shrugged eloquently and picked up his wineglass.
Hester’s look was stricken, and William stretched out a hand to pat her comfortingly. When he turned back to James, his expression was thunderous, not that James noticed. His attention was on the bread pudding Mrs. Deare had set down at his place.
“That was before there was much in the way of law and order,” said William, addressing Hester. “There were few settlers. Today, if one white woman were to be carried off into the wilderness, His Majesty’s government would not rest till her abductors were captured and punished. You may take my word for it.”
“Even so—”
“Gentlemen,” cut in Peter brusquely, “you are forgetting that there are ladies present.”
“I beg your pardon,” said James without a pretense of regret. “My aim was merely to give you a little background on the area. I see now that it was thoughtlessness on my part. As Major Benson said, the massacre happened more than a hundred years ago.”
The silence was awkward and eddied with unspoken undercurrents. Emily puzzled over it and soon came to the conclusion that James had not told the story from mere thoughtlessness. It was deliberate. She sensed his contempt for everyone present, herself included. He thought all of them too complacent and wished to throw them into confusion. Why?
Late at night, in the privacy of her own chamber, she remembered that conversation and shivered. On just such a night as this, the inhabitants of Lachine were surprised in their beds and brutally massacred. The less fortunate ones were captured and carried off as prisoners. On the American frontier, such things were still commonplace.
James came to her in her dreams. His hatred was palpable and it was no wonder. One moment he was a French colonist, the next, he was an American settler, and finally, he was an Indian brave with painted face and bloodied tomahawk. There was no mercy in his black eyes as he began to stalk her.
Sara was on the point of dousing the candle when Peter entered her bedchamber.
“What are you doing here?” she demanded, pointedly fastening her robe.
“Don’t get your hackles up,” he returned calmly, and proceeded to remove the feather coverlet from her bed. “I’m only keeping up appearances. The others expect us to share a room. I shall bed down here on the floor.”
Though she tried, she failed to keep the venom from her voice. “Don’t pretend you care about appearances!”
Peter removed his boots and placed them beside the empty grate. “I don’t,” he agreed, “but I thought you might.”
“It’s a bit late in the day for that.”
“What?”
Suddenly aware of the hostility that flamed from every tense line of his wife’s body, Peter slowly straightened. “I think you had better explain that remark,” he said, instinct making him cautious.
“Molly St. Laurent,” she said, not without a certain satisfaction. “Need I elaborate?”
“Ah.”
“‘Ah?’ Is that all you have to say?”
He shrugged. “What more should I say? It was inevitable that you would discover who my mistress is sooner or later.”
Tight-lipped, she glared at him. Unperturbed, he proceeded to remove first his coat, then his neckcloth. His reasonableness in the face of her outrage incensed her all the more. There was something ugly in the laugh she forced.
“Good God, Peter, I never thought to see you take up with the town whore!”
The words were hardly out of her mouth before he had crossed to her, his usually bland expression a mask of fury. “Call me any vile name you like,” he said, “but blacken Molly’s name with your poisonous tongue, and I shall make you regret it. Do you understand?”
She was too angry to be afraid. “Molly!” she scoffed. “You dare to defend that…that woman…to me, your wife?”
“Now who is pretending? You don’t want me. Molly does. She is a good-hearted, sweet-natured girl, and more than that I refuse to say.”
Her lip curled. “Don’t say you are in love with the woman!”
“What if I am?” he asked moodily. “Don’t say you care,” and as though losing interest in the conversation, he turned away to arrange a makeshift bed from the coverlet and one of the spare bolsters.
His words stunned her. Peter had loved her almost at first sight. There was nothing she could do, it had seemed, no cruelty she could inflict that could make the slightest impression on the deep well of his love for her. His devotion would have amused her if it were not so pathetic.
For no good reason, she felt bereft, just as she had when she had first caught sight of Peter with his inamorata. Though she was supposed to stay close to the house because of the threat Leon posed, James had persuaded her to take a turn in his carriage, saying that it would do her the world of good.
And it had done her the world of good. Her spirits had lifted and she felt more like her old self.
“Why so happy?” he had wanted to know.
There was no particular reason, and she said the first thing that came into her head.
“I am going home to England. Who wouldn’t be happy to leave this godforsaken wilderness?”
“In the face of such joy,” he had returned ironically, “would it be poor taste on my part to remind you that a woman lies murdered in her grave and an innocent man may hang for it?”
His words had brought a rush of guilty color to her cheeks. “Do you say that Leon is innocent?” she asked, deliberately ignoring his taunt.
His brow furrowed. “What do you think? Or more to the point, what does Lady Emily think?”
“Emily…why…”
“She has not confided in you?” he prompted. Then a
fter an interval, “Now why does that not surprise me?”
Stung, Sara had made haste to correct him. Though she knew herself to be on shaky ground, she said convincingly, “Emily is not sure what to think.”
“But you think he is guilty?”
“He ran away.”
“Very true. What else could you think? And you, of all people, should know. As I understand, you have been acquainted with Leon since you were an infant in leading strings?”
“Leon was always secretive,” she answered defensively.
“There is no question of that.”
“And you? Do you say that Leon is innocent?”
“Oh, no, I don’t say anything of the sort.”
As they passed the Jolly Roger, her eyes had been drawn to one of the upstairs windows. Her husband’s fair hair was unmistakable. A woman was in his arms. The embrace was not passionate, but rather comforting, and somehow all the more treacherous, all the more wounding because of it.
If Molly St. Laurent had been in the mold of a bold hussy, Sara would have dismissed her from her mind without a qualm. But Molly wasn’t particularly beautiful or voluptuous or vulgar in the way that a gentleman’s mistress was supposed to be. She was young and vulnerable and terribly in love with Peter. Sara knew all this because she had made it her business to find out.
Molly St. Laurent, according to Sara’s dressmaker, was a decent woman who had fallen on hard times. She was a widow, and earned her bread by hiring herself out as a maid at the Jolly Roger. Mrs. Pendergast, the dressmaker, had winked and had hinted coyly at Molly’s rich benefactor. And she, Sara, had nodded her head, and had smiled till she thought her face would crack, drawing the woman out until she had the whole sordid story. Not that Mrs. Pendergast knew the whole story. It was inconceivable to her that Molly’s benefactor could be the husband of a member of the British aristocracy.
It was inconceivable to Sara, too. Burning with indignation, she slipped out of her robe and made a great show of getting into bed. For beauty, Molly didn’t hold a candle to her. She paused, giving Peter a moment to drink in the sight of her in her filmy nightrail.
Cherished Page 28
