Calico Captive (23 page)

Miriam stared up at him for a moment. "Pierre, this isn't a joke to you? I'm beginning to believe you are serious."

"But certainly I am serious. Believe me, Miriam, I have never before asked a girl to be my wife. What more can I say?"

Surely there was something more he could say if he chose. Perhaps it was the unromantic hour, or the public place, or the sense of hurry as the city began to wake and stir that prevented the word she waited for.

"If you are serious," she said slowly, "then I thank you. But I can't decide now, not this very minute like this. Will you wait till you come back, and give me time to think about it?"

Pierre laughed confidently. "Think all you like, my love," he agreed. "And here's something to think about." He pulled her abruptly against the knobby uniform and kissed her triumphantly. The muslin cap slid off onto the pavement.

"
Au revoir,
" he said gaily. "We will get this battle over with in a hurry. They had better not keep me long away from my redheaded bride!"

Later, from the window of the Château, Miriam watched the troops on the parade ground below, as they passed in review before the Governor. From that distance she could not distinguish Pierre's face under the tricorne hat, but his arrogant swinging stride was unmistakable. He and his companions made a colorful picture, with their white uniforms faced with scarlet and purple and yellow, their black-gaitered legs stepping in unison. Above them the white banners flaunted the gold lilies of France.

The roll of the drums stirred Miriam's senses. It was impossible to imagine these glittering ranks engaged in actual battle, and the thought of war held little meaning for her. It was only when she saw, following the regular troops, the row on row of Indians in war paint that she felt a twinge of uneasiness. There were so many Indians, three times as many as the French soldiers. What part could they play in defending a French fort?

It was well that the Marquise left her to herself today. Her fingers were clumsy with the needle, and many times her work dropped neglected in her lap while she lost herself in a frenzy of dizzy imaginings. The finest house in Montreal, he had boasted! She gazed around her. What would it be like to walk all day on such soft carpets, to have the right to touch every piece of furniture and silver and china and know that it was her own? And to choose from these lavish bolts of materials the clothes that would make her beautiful? Yet all day long, behind these dazzling thoughts, there was a question she did not want to answer, that, thankfully, she would not be forced to answer just yet. There was still a little time.

After the astonishment of the past hours, she was scarcely able to be surprised when that evening the white-haired Monsieur Laroche called on her. Her first impression of him was instantly confirmed. No one could help liking this vigorous, confident man, with his handsome weather-beaten face that still bore the stamp of nobility. She could feel no resentment when he came directly to the point.

"When my grandson left this morning," he said, "I was quite sure he was going to ask you to marry him."

Miriam's blush was answer enough.

"I am glad to know it. If he had not, I intended to do it for him now."

Miriam stared at him. "You mean—you approve?"

"I had about given up hope that I would ever find a wife suitable for my grandson. Last night I saw that he had found her for himself. I had not given him credit for so much good sense."

"But I am English!"

"French—English—it is all the same to me. It is the woman who matters. You, my dear, have exactly what he needs, beauty, intelligence, and the spirit to hold him. I trust you have accepted him?"

While Miriam searched for the right word to say, he studied her shrewdly.

"Surely you are not holding last night's bad manners against him. The boy is young. I had the same quick temper when I was his age. That is why he needs a girl like you who will not give in to his tantrums. But you are too fine a person to let one mistake keep you from a husband like Pierre."

Miriam still had no answer, yet she felt instinctively that she could speak honestly to this man. No wonder Pierre adored his grandfather. There was no question about the love and pride that lay behind this frank appeal.

"What is it, mademoiselle?" he urged, his black eyes both kind and puzzled. "Perhaps I seem over-proud of Pierre. But I have raised him from a small boy. He is a true
coureur.
No one can outwit him, and he is afraid of nothing. He is lively company and generous. And I have observed that here in Montreal the ladies do not find him undesirable. Why is it that you do not favor my Pierre?"

"I do like him, very much," Miriam answered, wanting to return his frankness. "But I am not sure. I am afraid that to Pierre I am just something he has taken a fancy to, like another ornament to put in this fine house he is going to build. To sit there alone, just waiting for when he chooses to come home—should there not be more to a marriage than that?"

He nodded wisely. "Ah yes, you are very young, and romantic. But you must also be sensible. Let us be quite honest, you and I. No
coureur
ever made a devoted husband. His true heart is always in the forest. But in the long run there are more practical things to consider. Pierre has a fortune of his own, and he will someday inherit all that I possess as well. Do not demand too much, my dear. Pierre's wife will be a very fortunate woman."

U
NDER THE BURNING
July sun the city waited. Miriam could not escape the growing tension. In the tailor shop men talked constantly of war. In the streets there was a heaviness in the air, like the charged stillness in the path of a distant storm. At the Château the servants scurried to avoid the impatient step of the Governor, and even the Marquise was often preoccupied and anxious.

One morning, looking up from her work, Miriam was awed by the sight of a great ship, white sails filled, moving along the river like a queen, flying the gold lilies of France. Later in the day, in the parade ground beneath her window, there was a review of troops. They had come from France under General Dieskau, she learned, and they intended to make short work of the fracas. Very different they appeared from the swaggering local militia, these rigidly disciplined ranks, wheeling and advancing in perfect unison. Yet even this evidence could not make the war a reality for Miriam. The conflict was too remote, the issues at stake too vast. All the uneasiness of the great city seemed to be only a reflection of the tumult in her own mind.

Every passing day brought nearer the moment when her decision must be made. Or had the decision already been made? Both Pierre and his grandfather had taken her hesitation to be nothing more than coy acceptance. She had only to keep silent and every costly thing she had learned to value would be hers. Then why did the thought of Pierre's return set her heart thudding with dread? Since May Day, no, since the first moment she had seen him on the street of Montreal, he had possessed her thoughts, even her dreams. The other image, of Phineas Whitney, was dim and indistinct, a man whom a different girl had loved in a time almost forgotten. Surely Phineas could not be the cause of this uncertainty. What was it she instinctively distrusted? Why, when the future promised to fulfill every dream, did she still feel a sense of loss, as though she had reached for some priceless thing and found her hands still empty?

She came one morning into the sitting room to find the Marquise smiling eagerly. The Governor stood nearby, tapping with slender nervous fingers on a polished tabletop.

"Come in, my dear," the Marquise greeted her. "The Governor has something to tell you."

The Governor coldly acknowledged her curtsy. "The Marquise has been begging me for some weeks," he began, "to look into the matter of your sister and her family. It is a time when I can scarcely afford to be concerned with trivial affairs, but I can seldom refuse my wife. I have ascertained that some money has arrived by messenger from Albany. Nowhere near enough, you understand, to discharge the debts Captain Johnson has incurred here in Montreal. But because of my good wife, I have decided to be exceedingly lenient. The Captain and his family will be released tomorrow morning."

He raised a hand to prevent her interrupting thanks.

"I have no intention of releasing the Captain to fight against us. At any rate, it is out of the question for him to return overland to the English colonies. I could not guarantee him safe conduct for a single day. There is one course open. There has been much fighting in Europe, and many French prisoners are now held in England. A ship leaves here tomorrow for Quebec, and from there for France. By special agreement it will stop at the port of Plymouth in England for the exchange of prisoners of war. The Captain and his wife and children, and you yourself, will be included in this exchange. I have given orders for him to be conducted straight to the ship at six o'clock tomorrow morning and you will meet him there. From England you will no doubt be able to secure passage back to your colonies."

Since he disdainfully rebuffed her gratitude, Miriam steadied her voice and tried to express her thanks with dignity. After her husband had left the room, the Marquise spoke gently.

"It was a pleasure to do it, my dear. I know how troubled you have been about your sister."

"We shall be so grateful to you, my lady, as long as we live," Miriam told her. "Oh, I can scarcely believe it, that Susanna is free to go home, after all she has suffered."

"Yes. She is free. I should like to meet your sister, I think, but there will be no chance for that."

Miriam hesitated. "We have never been on a ship," she confessed. "I am a little frightened when I think of that great distance."

"It is not so far nowadays," the Marquise assured her. "The new ships make the voyage in a month or less. But I have been wondering about you. You have learned to speak French so fluently. Are you determined to go with your sister? I should be so happy to take you with me to Quebec when we return."

Miriam stared at her in surprise.

"I confess it is selfish of me to suggest it. You are by far the best dressmaker I have ever had. But I think you would not be unhappy in Quebec, and, who knows, perhaps you might find a young man who could persuade you to make it your home."

Miriam, looking down at the rug, felt her color rising under the keen eyes that studied her face.

"I have suspected lately," said the Marquise softly, "that there might already be such a young man. Is that true?"

"Yes, my lady."

"A young habitant, perhaps? And he has asked you to marry him? What do you really want to do, my dear?"

Miriam still could not meet the older woman's gaze. Suppose she were to tell the truth? Would the Marquise be outraged at the thought of an English prisoner presuming to marry a French nobleman? Yet it would be so wonderful a relief to find someone who would listen and advise.

"I am not sure," she began, searching for words.

"When I was your age, I was sure," the Marquise answered, speaking almost to herself. "I would have gone anywhere in the world without a moment's hesitation. I know that people do not understand my husband. I know the things they say. But for me, all I ask still is to be able to stay beside him, or to go, wherever he needs me."

Miriam felt shut out again, baffled by that sureness she could not share. She could not confide in this woman, after all. Nor could she explain to Susanna, remembering her sister's eyes shining in the prison cell, and the steady voice saying, "I can stand anything, anything, so long as James is with me." Nor even to Hortense, who had given her whole heart into Jules's keeping. For all of them marriage seemed so simple a thing, so unquestioned. Why must it be, for her, so complicated by doubt and compromise?

"You must do what your own heart tells you," the Marquise said finally, taking the girl's hand in her own. "If you do not come tomorrow morning, I shall understand. God bless you, whatever you decide."

By evening Miriam determined that she must talk to someone. She could count on Hortense for a warm and affectionate listener, and when she left the Château at suppertime she walked along the river road to visit her friend.

Hortense, a neighbor informed her, was at her mother's house, so Miriam continued her walk to the familiar cottage, sure of a welcome. There she found everything unchanged, the same warm greeting, the happy clamor of the children, the taking for granted that she would share the evening meal of fish and vegetables. She was so far from being company now that the family bickering about the table was unchecked, and Alphonse did not escape a scolding when he slid into place after grace had been said.

"I was down on the wharf," he explained. "The ship from France is sailing in the morning. The sailors were climbing all over the rigging. How do they dare to go so high, Maman? What do they hold on to?"

Hortense's eyes flashed briefly toward Miriam. Did she suspect? Miriam wondered. So often those black eyes, childlike and dancing as they appeared, had the penetration to read her mind. But there was no chance for confidences here. After supper, on the road along the river, they could talk.

Is this the last time? Miriam wondered, looking from face to face. If she should sail in the morning, she would never see them again, never sit in this bright room that had been home to her. Yet if she stayed, in the fine house Pierre had promised her, would she still be welcome here, or would a strangeness come between them?

Suddenly, bursting in upon their meal, came the sound of churchbells. No stately Sabbath tolling it was, but a mad clamor, as though the hands that jerked the ropes could not wait for the bells to swing back. As they stared at each other with startled eyes, the floor beneath them rocked with a thunderous blast.

"The cannon!" gasped Hortense. She pushed back her chair and leaped to her feet. "Come with me, Miriam—quick!"

In the road Hortense set a pace that Miriam could scarcely match. Alphonse dashed past them, his brown legs kicking up spurts of dust.