Pride of the King, The (28 page)

“Here, eat more,” he demanded. “I’m tired of taking care of you.”

The following day, Lauren sat up taking solid foods and steadily making progress everyday thereafter until she was able to walk small distances.

One evening St. Clare announced, “The crucible of hot water for your bath is ready. I am going to pour it in the wooden tub here by the fire. I will help you in.”

Lauren blanched. “I think not,” she said.

“I think so,” he stated firmly. “You may leave your shift on but you must wash. It is time to thoroughly wash the stench of disease and death off of you.”

Lauren remembered wearing the clothing of the corpse and nodded her head.

He stood up and ladled buckets of hot water into the tub. After getting a crock of soap and a towel, he rolled up his sleeves. Lauren could not help noticing the muscles in his forearms and his tan skin. She felt unsettled as she watched him stoke the fire.

He looked outside and said, “It is snowing again. You know that it will be Christmas soon. You have slept a long time.”

He bent over the bed looking into her amber eyes and pulled the covers back. Sliding one arm under her back and the other under her knees, he picked her up and held her for a moment. Lauren had never been this close to him before. She felt his warm skin and his breath on her face. It seemed effortless for him to lift her.

James lowered her into the warm water, and Lauren felt herself melt. It felt delicious and relaxing in the bath by the fire. Her thin shift did little to hide her figure, but it was enough to satisfy her modesty. She picked up the soft soap and began to lather her arms while James knelt by the tub, unwinding her braid. She did not see him holding the auburn tresses in his hands, pulling handfuls up in the flickering light. He washed her hair by the fire, running his fingers over her scalp, lathering her tresses, pouring water down her hair and over her body. It had been months since anyone had touched her, and Lauren felt confused. Only a few weeks ago this man had treated her with disdain, now he took care of her.

James lifted her out of the tub, water running down his clothing. Her shift hugged her skin, and he ran his eyes down her figure then up again, stopping at her lips. The firelight danced over them and for a moment Lauren lost herself. Fear, loneliness and desire all clouded her judgment, and she opened her lips to kiss him. James leaned toward her, and then as if embarrassed, he set her down on her feet abruptly. He mumbled something about her catching cold and handed her a towel with a clean shift.

Lauren felt foolish and awkward. She looked at the floor and folded her arms in front of herself. St. Clare put on his coat and went out standing for a long time outside the door, staring straight ahead. Then he walked briskly down to the creek.

Putting on a dry shift, Lauren slid into bed. She was embarrassed. He had made a fool of her, and that would not happen again. It was nothing more than a moment of desperation. The last man for whom she had felt passion was Frederick Brink, and that had ended in disaster. No man would toy with her again. St. Clare was married, and that was the end of it.

   When James returned, his arms were filled with firewood. Without a word, he threw some logs on the fire and snuffed the candles by her bed. Lauren pretended to be asleep, but she saw him walk to the cupboard and pour a drink. He did not sit down. He stood there tipped his head back and poured the drink down his throat and then repeated it again. He went at last to the Windsor chair by the window and sat down to smoke. She did not know how long he sat there, but in the morning he was gone.

*              *              *

On Christmas Eve, Lauren felt strong enough to go outside. James had left early that morning to hunt, so she stepped outside the cottage door and looked around. The air was cold, but she tied her cloak around her shoulders and stepped out. It was a clear afternoon, and she watched a brilliant red cardinal and his mate pick seeds from an evergreen. She could make out James’ footprints crossing the frozen creek and trailing out under the trees. She wished he would not come back. She wanted to get as far away from him as possible, but she needed him. She longed to go back to New York or even to Fort St. Frederic, but now in the middle of winter that was impossible.

The wind picked up reminding Lauren of her task. Gingerly, she took steps to a pine tree near the house cutting several boughs and putting them into a basket. It was difficult for her to raise her arm, but she knew she must work the muscles to loosen the painful, stiff joint.

Returning to the cottage, she arranged the branches on the mantel and placed some over the window. The birds had left a few red berries on a bush outside the door, and she scattered those among the greenery for color. She smiled when she remembered the angry chickadee scolding her as she plucked them from the branch.

Tired but satisfied, she sat back in a chair to observe her work. It pleased her to see a bit of cheer this time of year. She missed life in New France. New Englanders were so austere and serious, she mused. The nuns had always made the season so joyful, and she remembered her days in Kaskaskia; the Christmas Eve Gabriel danced with Anne, the snowball fight with Rene when he kissed her, and playing cards with Madame Aberjon on Christmas day. They had made themselves sick on chocolate and
petite fours,
laughing until they cried. They were all gone from her now, many dead and gone forever, and Lauren suddenly felt cold.

The door opened with a burst of wind and James came in holding up his trophies. “I shot some pheasants for our Christmas supper tonight.”

“Good. I’m hungry,” Lauren said standing up. “I’ll help you dress them.”

“I see you have been busy too,” he said looking around the room at the boughs and berries. He smelled of fresh air and good nature.

Lauren was glad it was Christmas. The holiday tasks warmed her. They worked side-by-side preparing the meal well into the evening. They were limited with ingredients, but with Lauren’s skills, the two were able to put a suitable bill of fare together.

James worked on the poultry and dressing while Lauren made biscuits, roast turnips, venison pasty and a pie out of their store of dried apples. James brought in more pine boughs and cones, arranging the branches in the middle of the table where he would set the pheasant.

After he pushed Lauren’s bed to the side of the room and the table up to the hearth, he put a bottle on the table and said, “Here. It’s a bottle of French wine I purchased at Fort Lyman over a month ago. I thought you might enjoy it.”

“Oh, thank you,” she said, picking it up and smiling. “So this bottle was not smuggled in?”

“If it was smuggled in, it was not smuggled by me,” he laughed, taking it from her and uncorking it.

They sat down to eat, and James waited for Lauren as she said grace in French then he poured her a glass of wine. “Taste it,” he said watching her.

She put it to her lips, and for a moment, she was back on Duke Street. The aroma was divine and the flavor delectable. James held up his glass to the fire, looking at the color. He tested the aroma and sipped it as well. “It is good. I do miss these little luxuries when I am here in the interior.”

He didn't realize Lauren was watching him. He was a mystery to her. He had no family, no formal schooling or guidance, yet he had all the manners and breeding of an educated man.

“I have a question,” Lauren said suddenly.

“Ask anything,” he announced, lifting his glass. “I am feeling magnanimous tonight.”

Lauren did not know what that large, English word meant, but she continued, “Isaac told me of your background. How did you learn the ways of the aristocracy?”

He shrugged. “I listened, I watched, and I made the right connections.”

“Was Heloise your teacher?”

“No, I met Heloise many years later. I had been introduced to several teachers by that time.”

Lauren pursed her lips. She knew he was alluding to women. St. Clare was usually reticent in talking about himself, so Lauren took this rare opportunity to press him further. She poured another glass of wine. “How did you learn to read?”

James leaned back into his chair and smiled wistfully. “A young girl taught me to read. She was only thirteen or fourteen years of age. I can still see that freckled face. Oh, the hours she spent with me, and how I struggled. She was the daughter of the gunsmith to which I was apprenticed.”

He chuckled and shook his head. “Pass the wine. You are drinking it all.”

“You are a most unusual man, Captain St. Clare,” Lauren said pouring him a glass. “How does one who has come from so little, have so much?”

His eyebrows shot up. “You have been listening to gossip?”

“A little,” Lauren said.

“I will tell you once and for all if you will let me enjoy my supper afterward.”

He put his fork down and sat back in his chair, looking at the fire. “I don’t remember my parents. I don’t know if I was abandoned or lost or if they died. I don’t even know what my given name is or where I came from. Was I born here or in Europe? I will never know. So I merely survived. I was dirty. I was uncouth, but most of all I was alone. When you are a child, you think of nothing but eating, drinking, and staying safe. This is what I did. I slept wherever I found a dry spot. I ate what I could steal or find; garbage, small animals, even rats. I lived by my fists and my wits.”

Dragging his eyes away from the fire, he looked at Lauren and shrugged, “Whatever we have to do to survive. Isn’t that right?”

Lauren did not like his familiar tone but said nothing.

“I was apprenticed to a gunsmith,” he continued. “Who took great pleasure in beating me and another lad. I knew one day I would find my revenge on that pug-nosed bastard, but it was not for many years. While I was running an errand one afternoon for him, I was snatched by a press gang. As a result, I spent several years at sea, but when I returned I remembered that gunsmith. One night I crawled through his window and took what he owed me in rifles, muskets, and powder. Then I went to the docks and sold the firearms to everyone I knew, making a fancy profit. From then on, I have been involved in illegal endeavors. I moved quickly from petty theft, to crimes against the Crown without remorse or regret.”

He sighed and looked back at Lauren, “Anyway, that is my life in a few words.”

They remained silent for a while then St. Clare said, “It all came from hard work. I was diligent and forged my education--unlike you.”

Lauren straightened up and said, “How dare you. You know nothing of me.”

“Heloise told me of your Ursuline girl’s school, how you were bred to be a great lady. I know much more about your life than you think,” he said, going back to his meal.

Lauren grabbed the bottle of wine, poured another glass and then drained it in several gulps.

James watched her and shook his head. “That wine will go to your head,” he warned. “You have been sick.”

“I don’t care,” she declared and hiccupped. “You infuriate me.”

St. Clare laughed, “You
amuse
me. In fact you amuse me more than any woman I have ever met.”

“Oh, I see. It is humorous to see how far the privileged child has fallen,” she sneered.

“Quit being so combative. I meant it as a compliment. You do the damnedest things. I will never forget the first day I saw you, leaning against that tree in Heloise’s courtyard, trying to seduce that old man. Or that night when you were trying to escape and you tangled your skirts in the oak tree.” He chuckled again and said, “But what I loved the most was when you were hanging on that rope off the side of the fluyt last summer.”

“So,” said Lauren cocking her head. “Have you had a good laugh with your wife about me?”

The smile dropped from St. Clare’s face. “That is not a subject I wish to discuss.”

“Well I do,” she demanded. “I have a few more questions for you, Captain St. Clare. Where is this wife of yours? Why don’t you live with her?”

“My work does not allow us to be together.”

“Why? Is she of high birth?” Lauren sneered.

“She is,” he replied with a cross look.

Lauren had not expected that answer and was stunned. It had not occurred to her that his wife might actually be well bred. She could feel the blood pulsing in her cheeks. Even if the wine was loosening her lips, she was glad. She was tired of the secrecy and ready to clear the air.

“I see,” Lauren said pursing her lips. “Your wife is too precious to be discussed with a broken-down courtesan from New France?”

James threw his napkin on the table and stood up. “Alright. What do you what to know?” He walked to the window and looked out, his fists clenched.

“Do you love her?”

There was a moment’s hesitation and he said quietly, “That is none of your business. Nevertheless, I will tell you. It is a marriage of convenience.”

“You didn’t answer my question,” she said.

In two steps, he was upon her lifting her to her feet, holding her by the arms and looking down at her.

Lauren was stunned.

“Why?” he demanded, giving her a shake. “Why do you care if I love her? Would you like to have me? To make another conquest? Another scalp for your belt? Is that it?”