The Pelican Bride (22 page)

Geneviève’s request that he accompany her to the Mobile village in search of cooking instruction had struck him as fortuitous as well as strange. Any one of the layabouts infesting Burelle’s tavern would have served, but during his last visit to the L’Anglois’s home to court her so-lovely younger sister, Geneviève had steered the conversation to Indian corn bread. Before he could blink, he had been conscripted to escort her to the Mobile village on the first clear day.

He surreptitiously studied her. She was dressed in a simple but neat ensemble he had not seen before, and he recognized the blue Rouen cloth imported on the
Profond
. He had checked the inventory himself and handed it to La Salle with only a few minor adjustments. Details being his bread and butter, Julien noted her modest décolletage and loose-fitting sleeves. Not so modest was the gored skirt, which cleared the ground by at least three inches and gave one a generous view of slender ankles above a pair of deerskin moccasins. Lanier was going to find his wife in need of a stern beating when he returned.

But as Lanier wasn’t likely to return, perhaps some other man would have to assume that chore. Hiding a smile, Julien shifted his
gaze to his companion’s uncovered dark curls. She had adopted the role of married woman, going about without a cap, though she would have been wiser to keep the sun off that fair skin.

She seemed unaware of his regard, keeping her attention on the uneven ground. “I’m grateful you were willing to give up your valuable free time to come with me. I feared that without introduction the Indians might not allow me to enter the village.”

His eyebrows rose. “Mademoiselle, you should never leave the settlement without escort. The Indians aren’t the only danger you would face.”

“I wish you to address me as ‘madame,’ if you please. I am a married woman.” For all their bluntness, the words were spoken with composure.

“Pardon, madem—madame.” He smiled. “It is difficult to think of one so youthful as yourself as a matron.”

“Yet you court my sister, who is two years my junior.” The clear, green-gray eyes flicked his way. “Perhaps you should withdraw your suit until she grows up.”

“Touché.” He smirked at her. “We shall agree that you are quite on the edge of the grave and must be addressed as such.”

“Indeed.” Her lips quivered on a suppressed smile. “And as one whose advanced age and marital state informs her responsibility for protecting a younger sibling, sir, I claim the right to propose a few questions regarding your background.”

“Ask away, my dear, though I claim no equal responsibility for answers.”

She laughed. “Well, that’s honest at least! The problem is, information is difficult to come by. No one seems to know much about where you came from.”

“Straight from the head of Zeus, I swear.” He lifted a hand. “Though society is reluctant to believe in my supernatural parentage. Careful—that branch is rotten.”

She leaped lightly over the fallen limb, and he suddenly appreciated
the wisdom in her decision to resort to native footwear. Many of the women had taken to going about barefoot when their fragile Paris-made shoes disintegrated in the damp, sandy coastal terrain. They had passed from the cleared settlement area to enter the forest, through which a hard-packed and crooked Indian trail led to the Mobile village some eight miles distant. The dense trees blocked the sunlight, so that they walked in a dappled half-light, accompanied by the rustling and twitter of birds and small animals. Geneviève betrayed no discomfiture; rather, the tension in her hand upon his arm relaxed.

It occurred to him that he was every bit as curious about her as she seemed to be about him, and that he had made little headway in discovering what the ex-Protestant shipbuilder suspected. That must be corrected.

They chatted of inconsequential things as they walked on at a brisk pace, until Dufresne deemed that she had relaxed sufficiently to have let down her guard. “It seems you have much in common with my friend Ardouin. He speaks highly of you.”

Her expression closed at the abrupt change in subject. “Catherine’s husband?”

“Yes. He says you remind him of his sister.”

“I don’t know what you mean. I barely know the man.”

“Frankly, I’m not sure what he meant either. Ardouin is a very sober fellow, raised by Protestant parents. He converted to the true religion so that he would be allowed to marry your friend Catherine. Most commendable.”

“Indeed.” She glanced at him, then up at the canopy of branches overhead. The leaves had begun to turn colors and drop off, creating a pleasant crunch underfoot as they walked. “How much farther to the village?”

“Another hour’s walk. Are you tired? We could rest for a few minutes.”

“No, it is merely that I’m anxious to arrive.” She picked up her
pace, all but tugging on his arm to drag him along. “One never knows what the weather will do in this climate.”

“True.” He kept his tone neutral. “I can understand, I suppose, why Ardouin recanted his so-called religion, in favor of that of our King. But I should have admired him even more had he stood fast in his beliefs. So many are like the trees, swayed this way and that by every wind.” His expansive gesture encompassed their surroundings.

She was silent so long he thought she wasn’t going to answer. He looked at her and found her lips buttoned tightly together. After a moment, she said stiffly, “I’m sure Monsieur Ardouin had his reasons for recanting. One must give grace where it is due.”

“Well, in the end, one religion is much like another, in my opinion. The Indians worship a god who is in the trees and the wind itself. Who is to say that they are wrong?”

“Monsieur l’Aide-Major, you’d best have a care who hears you propose such blasphemous questions.” There was an intensity beneath her light tone that told him he had hit a nerve.

“Madame, am I to understand that you sympathize with our dark-skinned brethren?”

“You can understand whatever you wish, it is neither here nor there to me.” She gave him a penetrating look. “Surely you don’t believe the Creator of the trees and the wind could be held captive in his creation.”

“It’s an interesting supposition.” He shrugged. “When we first began clearing the land for the settlement, the Indians spoke of the idols of five gods who dwelt on Bottle Creek Island just north of here. The natives considered these idols a form of holy protection. Bienville convinced some lesser Mobilian headsmen to take him there, to see for himself. While Bienville approached the idols, the Indians cowered on the beach, begging him not to touch them lest he be struck dead. What he found were five plaster figures—a man, a woman, a child, a bear, and an owl—apparently left by the Spanish
in an earlier exploration. Our intrepid commander, of course, swept them right up and had them transported to Massacre Island.”

Geneviève’s eyes sparkled. “Indeed! And yet he was not struck dead!”

Julien shook his head. “Miraculously not—and so our Indian friends were even more impressed with French courage and superior authority. Iberville later took the idols back to France, where he demonstrated at court that our simple Indians would be easy to sway to our support.”

“This seems to me further proof that Almighty God doesn’t dwell in man-made icons, as the Church would have us believe.”

Julien studied Geneviève and found her expression thoughtful, her mouth wry. She seemed unaware that she had just uttered a much more sacrilegious remark than any which he had proffered. He did not call attention to the slip but filed it away for further speculation.

“Of course you are right, madame.” He couldn’t quite put his finger on why he found the inner workings of this insignificant woman’s mind so fascinating. That she had married his half brother, whom he knew to be rough-mannered and ill-dressed, irreligious and often antisocial, strengthened Julien’s conviction that some ulterior motive drove her actions.

Could it be that the priest had taken Geneviève into his confidence? Maybe she was even the priest’s handpicked choice as Tristan Lanier’s bride.

“Monsieur?” Geneviève’s clear voice broke into Julien’s ruminations. “I see light ahead. Are we coming to the end of the forest?”

He blinked. “I believe it is so. Forgive my inattention.” He smiled at her. “We’ve arrived much sooner than I’d anticipated. Perhaps we’ll find food at the end of our journey. Come, let us walk a little faster.”

No sooner were the words out of his mouth than a peculiar buzzing sound ripped past his head. He reached up to touch his
stinging ear, then stared at his hand, incredulous. His trembling fingers were smeared with blood.

Aimée, hauling a heavy wooden bucket, trudged along the muddy trail which bore the rather grandiose name “rue de Sérigny.” She shifted the bucket to the other hand and thought resentfully of the bruises that would no doubt mar the fair skin of her legs later today.
Why
must she be the one sent to fetch water, when Raindrop could just as well have gone after she finished her own chores? And heaven forefend that Madame actually carry anything heavier than a thimble herself!

She consoled herself by singing a little song her mother had taught her as a child, wishing for the hundredth time that she could have Mama here to advise her as to which of her two blue ribbons most closely mimicked the color of her eyes. But Mama had pined herself into the grave over Papa, and Aimée had been forced to leave their home and get on the boat in La Rochelle, just because Ginette and that beastly Jean Cavalier said she must.

She had thought things would be better once they reached dry land. New France, they called it—Louisiane, in honor of the Sun King. But there was nothing “new” about this moldy, dingy, waterlogged swamp. Bugs and snakes and pestilence everywhere, and she had not felt completely clean since the day she got off the
Pélican
fifty-four endless days ago.

Worse still, she had assumed that the handsomest of the purportedly brave and resourceful young Canadians, desperate for women to grace their homes, would kneel at her feet and offer her the life of luxury that was her due. But not one suitable gentleman had offered her marriage, and she was one of two
Pélican
brides who remained unwed. Well, three, if one counted the unfortunate Ysabeau Bonnet. Nearly a week ago, Edmé Oüanet had married Denis Lafleur, and even homely Noël Dumesnil had accepted a
sudden and inexplicable offer from Claude Fautisse. They were to say their vows later this afternoon, when Father Henri returned from baptizing a couple of Indian babies.

Everyone knew that Françoise Dubonnier was holding out for Commander Bienville, though Aimée could have told her that Bienville was as likely to get married as he was to fly to the moon. After all, why should he buy a cow when he could get free milk whenever he liked? But that was neither here nor there. Françoise would listen to no one.

She looked up at the sky, trying to gauge the likelihood of rain. Blue morning skies could turn to howling storms by afternoon, and one had best be prepared to duck into the closest building at a moment’s notice. The weak September sun flirted from behind a bank of innocent, puffy white clouds, giving no indication of their intent.

Which put her in mind of her deceitful sister, who had disappeared that very morning with Aimée’s only hope of advantageous matrimony, leaving her hostage to Madame’s endless nagging to be “useful.” She kicked at a chicken that had wandered into the road and watched it run away squawking and flapping. Wouldn’t it be just like Ginette to dissuade Julien from his determined courtship? She couldn’t understand why he’d agreed to escort Ginette to the Indian village on his day of leave, instead of squiring Aimée about on a fashionable promenade.

In fact, Geneviève herself had turned into quite a queer sort of person, ever since she had married that backwoods Canadian, Tristan Lanier. The day after the wedding, she had actually delivered the Lemay baby all by herself—Sister Gris had been there as well, but one could hardly count
her
as any useful help—and then later defied the commander’s attempt to annul her marriage, despite the fact that Monsieur Lanier was for all intents and purposes a traitor to the French Crown. Julien said it was so, and he must be believed.

As she entered the marketplace, Aimée could see the community
well located in the center of the square. Two women stood there waiting their turns to draw water, while a third leaned into the well almost to the waist. Aimée recognized Noël Dumesnil by the wilted brown hair trailing from the back of her cap and Jeanne de Berenhardt’s Amazonian height, but it was impossible to identify the woman hanging over into the well.

What on earth was she doing? Had she dropped something down the well and decided to fish for it? Who would be so foolish as to—

Then in an instant she knew who it was. She had seen that petticoat many times on board the
Pélican
.

Ysabeau had had little to do with Aimée of late. There had been a couple of skirmishes early on, genteel catfights over the handsomest, richest, and most courtly of the unattached men. However, Ysabeau’s engagement to the highly respected Levasseur, a coup of the first order, soon set her in a completely different social circle. By the time Levasseur succumbed to the fever, leaving Ysabeau abruptly free, Aimée was satisfied with the flattering attentions of Aide-Major Dufresne. Her friend’s desperate and pathetic engagement to the handsome and raffish Denis Lafleur, who promptly traded her off in a card game, left Aimée with no choice but to treat Ysabeau with smug pity.