The Pelican Bride (6 page)

It was said that Françoise remained intimate friends with the King’s ex-mistress, Madame de Montespan. Perhaps in Paris one could dress like a courtesan and maintain an image of decorum, but what about the contract all the women had signed before leaving France? More to the point, how had Françoise contrived to transport such finery all the way from Rochefort in the small quarters allotted aboard the
Pélican
? Geneviève herself owned only one other dress besides the one she wore.

“You have declared your consent before the Church,” Father Henri intoned, drawing Geneviève’s attention back to the ceremony. “May the Lord in his goodness strengthen your consent and fill you both with his blessings. What God has joined, men must not
divide. Amen.” The priest took bride and groom by the hand and turned them to face the congregation. “I present to you Madame and Monsieur Loisel. Go in peace, children.”

As Geneviève rose with the other witnesses, emotion tightened her throat. She had traveled a long way in search of peace. Could it be found in this land of exile?

“If one more cabbage head refers to me as a ‘
Pélican
girl,’” Aimée said loudly as the congregation burst from the chapel and spilled onto the muddy drill ground, “I’m going to sprout feathers and peck his eyes out!” She paused to tweak the ivory lace fichu crisscrossed at her neckline, artfully exposing a more generous hint of cleavage.

“Shh! A little discretion!” Geneviève pulled her aside, frowning at the fichu.

Aimée sniffed as she restored herself to reluctant modesty. “Françoise says there are only three or four men of any substantial means in the entire settlement—and two of those aren’t even here. They’ve gone off hunting or exploring or some such nonsense. She thinks we should wait until we’ve had a chance to meet them all before choosing a husband.”

Geneviève chose to ignore her sister’s budding hauteur, as anything that would prevent her from a hasty marriage must be a good thing. “How does Françoise know which men are of substantial means?” She linked arms with Aimée and moved with the flow of celebrants toward the fort’s main entrance. All had been invited to enjoy refreshments in the L’Anglois home.

“She knows who to ask questions of, and what questions to ask.” Aimée glanced at the governess, who strolled along, a few feet ahead, in animated conversation with pudgy little Madame L’Anglois. “She says Commander Bienville is the finest catch of them all, and that he has not yet married because he wants a wife of noble blood.”

Geneviève laughed. “Which lets you and me out of the running!
Had you aspired to becoming the mistress of the entire settlement?” she added teasingly.

“I don’t know why I should not!” Aimée flicked one of her golden ringlets behind her shoulder. “The commander is of a fine Canadian family and already owns what will become a sizable estate here—plus he has the ear of Monsieur Pontchartrain, who has the ear of the King himself. Françoise says his income is twelve hundred
livres
per year.” She glanced at Geneviève, a defiant tilt to her small dimpled chin. “And he is quite handsome, in spite of those horrible tattoos.”

“Not so loud!” Geneviève glanced around, then whispered, “How do you know he has tattoos? Did Françoise tell you that too?”

“I saw it myself,” Aimée said with relish. “I went out early this morning for . . . well, you know why. Anyway, I chanced to see the commander and some of his men coming from the direction of the river. I was back in the bushes, of course, so they didn’t see me. They were quite loud, and I had . . . you know, finished, so I peeked out.”

“What if they had seen you? You must never go without me again!”

“I was perfectly safe, so there!” Aimée snapped her fingers and grinned. “Commander Bienville has very broad shoulders. He had removed his tunic because they had been bathing—they were all dripping like fish—and I couldn’t help staring at the pictures all over his back. Crazy jagged lines and a bird in flight under a crescent moon—I think. It might have been a monkey.”

Geneviève didn’t know whether to laugh or to strangle her hopelessly naïve little sister.

Before she had time to do either, Madame L’Anglois looked over her shoulder and caroled, “Ladies! Young ladies! I wish you to come this way! I have refreshments for everyone at my home.”

Curious as to the nature of refreshments in such a distant outpost, Geneviève allowed Aimée to pull her along willy-nilly in the
wake of the hostess and found herself just behind the newly married couple. Élisabeth, tall and willowy in her gray kersey gown, a fistful of yellow wildflowers pinned at the waist, kept up a giddy spate of conversation with her red-faced bridegroom, trundling beside her like a wagon with a broken axle. Geneviève had been present at the betrothal agreement, when five eager couples had signed a series of documents joining their lives and estates. The legalities had been overseen by the three priests, Father Albert, Father Henri, and Father Mathieu, with Françoise keeping an eagle eye out for the women’s protection and provision. Three of the prospective brides were illiterate; each document must be read aloud in its entirety before the young lady fixed a large
X
on the signature blank. Geneviève, who had learned her letters from Jean Cavalier, couldn’t help being grateful that there was no danger of her or Aimée being taken advantage of.

“My mother would like to immigrate next spring. She will help with the children.”

Geneviève blinked, jerked out of her thoughts. At first she had the crazy notion Paul Loisel’s deep, shy voice had been directed to her, then realized that he was looking up at his open-mouthed bride.

“What children?” Élisabeth finally managed to stammer.

“The—the fruit of our union!” Loisel’s square face was nearly as painfully red as his waistcoat. “I want an heir or two, and you will need girls to help in the house. I can’t afford slaves, you know.”

“Slaves?” Élisabeth’s voice was a squeak of confusion. “I don’t understand. What does this have to do with your mother?”

Geneviève quelled Aimée’s giggle with a frown, but couldn’t help listening.

Loisel gave his young wife a strained smile. “I came from Quebec with several other men, on the promise of rich estates with tobacco fields, fine houses, and a clutch of Indian slaves. The reality has been . . . less than promised.” He sighed. “But Bienville convinced us that it was but a matter of time before women would flock to the
New World from France. We would shortly be married, producing sons and daughters to people our estates. So we stayed, making the best of a difficult situation.” He smiled, squeezing Élisabeth’s hand. “And here you are. My lady, my
Pélican
girl.”

Élisabeth gave him a blank look, swallowed, and kept walking.

“Cabbage head,” Aimée muttered.

Tristan picked up one of Madame L’Anglois’s sadly flat pastries and with a grimace put the whole thing into his mouth. It was the first Christian wedding he had attended since emigrating from Canada, and the jostling crowd made him long for the quiet solitude of his estate on the lower bluff.

The bland pastry made him miss Sholani. Her corn bread had been famous throughout the Indian villages from the northern Little Tomeh to the nearby Pascagoula, from whence he had plucked her as a sixteen-year-old virgin beauty. She had been gone for two years now, and he could get through most days without thinking of her. Sometimes, though, he felt her absence with a visceral ache.

“I’m surprised to see you still here, Lanier. You usually scuttle back to your little sand castle the moment business is concluded.”

Tristan turned to find Nicolas de La Salle perusing the victual offerings at the other end of Madame L’Anglois’s imported buffet. He could not understand why everyone was so surprised to find him lingering at the settlement. True, he had not stayed for more than a day since Sholani’s death, but before that he had been Bienville’s right-hand man. And would be still, had he not decided to trade his plot of swampy Louisiane ground and move closer to his wife’s family.

Ignoring the master supply officer’s sour comment, he allowed his gaze to sweep the bevy of young women fluttering amongst the men like parakeets. He would dearly love to have had a pencil and sheet of parchment in his hand and make a sketch. “Perhaps
one of these ladies will be lucky enough to capture the hand of the settlement’s most eligible bachelor—excepting Bienville himself, of course. Does the commissary see anything he likes?”

“My choice has long been made.” La Salle’s face settled into the habitual frown that had plowed a permanent line between his graying eyebrows. “Bienville agreed that, my comfort being critical to the smooth flow of commodities in and out of the settlement, the appropriate female should be set aside for me before the
Pélican
left France.”

“How very obliging of him.” Tristan hid his amusement by focusing on the dark crown of Geneviève Gaillain’s head, which towered above the other women. She had unsuccessfully tamed her hair for the occasion into a loose knot from which dark curls escaped in every direction. It occurred to him that she bore an uncanny resemblance to the mermaid he had carved at the bowsprit of his barque. He glanced at La Salle. “Which one is yours?” Poor woman, traveling for months across the ocean blue, only to find herself strapped for life to Sourpuss La Salle.

“Her name is Jeanne de Berenhardt,” La Salle replied. “She was chosen for me from the convent at Notre Dame, by the Grand Duchess d’Orleans of Tuscany herself.”

Tristan followed La Salle’s oddly pained gaze to the far corner of the crowded salon, where a statuesque young woman held court, dressed in a black silk skirt under a burnt orange coat-looking garment, belted with a black sash. Her boned corset was so stiff that when she dropped a dried plum on the floor, all she could do was stare at it in chagrin. Bending at the waist was clearly an impossible feat.

When no less than three men lunged to retrieve the escaped fruit, Tristan smiled. If La Salle remained less than impressed, there would appear to be a long line waiting to take his place. “Have your sons met their proposed step-mama?” Less than a month after their arrival in Louisiane, La Salle’s first wife had died of a fever,
leaving him with three young boys to rear alone. Tristan could only imagine the state of wildness poor Mademoiselle de Berenhardt would face when she took them in hand.

“I did not think it wise to introduce them to the lady so soon.” A flash of fear—or perhaps guilt—humanized La Salle’s hawkish visage. “Time enough for that after the betrothal contract is signed.”

“Your reputation for clear thinking is well-founded.” Grinning at La Salle’s humorless grunt, Tristan turned to watch his brother dancing a rather clumsy jig with Aimée Gaillain.

If she had been lovely on the day of her arrival, pale-faced and limp with fever, today she was aglow, cheeks flushed from exertion and golden curls bouncing against her shoulders. She danced, hands fisted at her narrow waist to lift her skirts away from dainty flying feet.

The violinist, master of the house Robert L’Anglois, fiddled with more enthusiasm than skill, while a circle of guests clapped time. Though a noticeable air of inebriation pervaded the company, Tristan suspected his brother’s giddy state could be attributed as much to his partner’s blue eyes and bouncing bosom as the liberal lacing of liquor in the punch.

He stood against the wall and observed for a minute or so, reluctant to call attention to himself. Then he happened to catch the eye of Geneviève Gaillain, who had been watching her sister dance, her expression a mixture of pride and alarm. When he unthinkingly smiled, something he would almost call relief flooded her cheeks with color.

Do not approach her, he told himself sternly, even as his feet took him in a circuitous route to the other side of the crowded room. The L’Anglois family’s house had been designed in typical box-shaped fashion, with one big front room and two small bedrooms behind, one of which doubled as the kitchen. It was one of the largest homes in the settlement, but the wedding crowd seemed about to burst the crooked knotty pine walls. Tristan compared it to
his own cottage, constructed Canadian-style from shingled cedar. His furniture, simple and homemade, was designed for comfort and durability rather than beauty, but he wouldn’t have traded it for Madame’s fragile French furniture.

He hung back for a moment, just outside Geneviève’s line of vision, watching her watch her sister. Her patent anxiety stirred something odd within him, something he could not name, but which drew him all the same. He had not seen her since handing her off his boat two days ago. She looked considerably more rested, the greenish eyes bright, her smile mischievous as he approached. He bowed, resisting the urge to kiss her hand.

“One would think that a wedding would be the last place to find the most confirmed bachelor in the territory,” she said, laughing.

“Mademoiselle, I brave the gravest of dangers on the mere promise of food.” He glanced at the refreshment table and gave an exaggerated grimace. “Though I confess, the reality doesn’t quite measure up to expectation.”