Saving The Marquise's Granddaughter (23 page)

“I need to send a letter.” She smiled up at the young woman. “Can you help me?” Suzanne frowned as she recalled Greta’s face when she’d made the same request. She’d posted to Jeanne. She rubbed at the ache on the side of her head. Guy and Jeanne—were they together?

Jemmy nodded. “Aye, miss. Let me just fix up the bed, and then I’ll take care of that for ye.”

“Merci.” Suzanne wished to lay her pounding head down.

“Miss? Are ye a’right?”

No, she wasn’t. Might never be again.

~*~

Suzanne awoke the following day to Johan’s heavy steps tramping up the stairs, jarring her from a dream of him and Nicholas on the farm. Heavens, he sounded as loud, solo, as the two did together pounding down those stairs beside the bedroom where she’d stayed.

She remembered more each day. Purposefully, she closed her eyes. Let him think she still slept. He’d told her the night before she must try to get up as soon as he departed for work. Today she’d go to the market and buy a few things for the innkeeper.

Johan strode to the bed. His lips tickled as he whispered in her ear. “Come back to me, my doeling.” She heard his intake of breath, waited for him to add something, but he only kissed her cheek, the action bringing heat to her face.

Extending one hand out from beneath the covers, she stroked his cheek, almost unaware that she was doing so. “I want to remember.”

Was this to be her life for now—waiting for him in this room? Until Guy made arrangements to pay off their redemption contracts.

Somehow, she’d make sure Johan had enough to start his farm when he was ready.

He leaned in toward her again, his shoulders straining the white linen fabric of his shirt.

She marveled at the change in his appearance. “Get me more fabric and I’ll make new shirts for you.”
That’s what a good wife would do.
“I can’t let the seams out further.”

Pleasure and relief washed over his features and his eyes shone. “Ja, that would please me.” He pressed a kiss into her palm.

She shivered and pulled her hand free, wishing his warm lips didn't have such a strong effect on her. She felt his kiss all the way down to her toes.

He placed two cold coins in her hand, dampening her pleasure. “For your shopping.”

She groaned. “I don’t want to go.”

“You need to get up. Stretch your legs. Get some sunshine.”

She glared up at him.

Johan stroked her cheek. “You might meet some interesting people.”

~*~

As she approached the market, the crowds thickened. Suzanne approached the first stand in the square. The scent of fresh tomatoes wafted up from the bushel basket as Suzanne squeezed two of the fruits. With a little basil and fresh butter, these tomatoes could make a savory sauce.

“Madam Christy?” A tall, heavy-set man with reddish hair stood ten paces from her near a stall equipped with all manner of fresh herbs. He stared at her, his light eyes wide, eyebrows raised as if in disbelief. The thin line of his mouth spread to a relieved grin as he trudged determinedly in her direction.

Suzanne glanced around her to see who the man sought. Dizziness caused her to sink. A firm hand clutched her elbow, steadying her.

Stale tobacco emanated from the man, and a hint of licorice. “You’re not…” The deep voice held a Scottish burr. A frown furrowed its way between his straight eyebrows. His patrician nose sagged, joining his mouth in sadness. “I’m sorry if I frightened you. I simply mistook you for someone dear to me. A lady I’ve nay seen in some time.”

Suzanne settled her skirts around her. “No, monsieur, I don’t know you.”

He tipped his hat and left her.

Who do I know?
Struggling, she recalled Maria and Adam. Greta and Nicholas. She missed them, which confused her. Every recollection of Johan was of concern and friendliness on his part. Yet glimpses of her own feelings ran much deeper—more akin to the loving way he treated her now. Suzanne chewed her lower lip and moved on to another stand. Onions, potatoes, and an odd-looking bumpy vegetable.

“What is this called?”

The pockmarked youth laughed, revealing several missing teeth. “It’s corn. What some call maize.”

Good! This I know I have never seen before.

22

Birdsong drifted through the open window as Suzanne settled at the desk. Johan’s Bible glared at her. Dared her to read it. She touched the leather cover, took a breath, and opened it. Inside, nestled letters written in a magnificent flowing script. Powerful, but lovely. Who had written these?

She looked out the window to the street, trying to tamp the temptation down, like Johan’s father did with the tobacco in his clay pipe. Another memory. Odd, but for a second she considered Adam her father. Had Johan received missives from home?

Taking a breath, she pulled her gaze back to the first missive to read. Perhaps Adam sent good news. She scanned the note, noting many errors in the German words, making it difficult to decipher it.

We’re home now. Thank you, God. The French girl, Suzanne, is safe. She’s not so smart and I worry for her. I don’t find all the French words to say, but I know what she speaks of. Yet she tries to teach me! I’m glad she’s learning more German words because I have no more patience. She knows so little about basics. Nicholas is very angry. He thinks I mean to marry her. How silly. She knows nothing useful. But I pray for her now.

Johan wrote this weeks or months ago. And he was writing about her! Her cheeks burned. Was this how he really felt? She closed her eyes, the sensation of riding through the woods with him flowing through her, the memory of his smile as she said a German word correctly. The furrow in his brow when she spoke to him in French or took too long responding. He’d thought her an idiot! And the worst revelation was that she was ignorant. Not at all mindful that using fancy phrases or reading esoteric books didn’t make a person intelligent.

Johan was right. He did understand better than she did.

A tear dripped onto the page. He’d sacrificed his future with a “useful” bride for her. But no document proved they were wed. She’d relieve Johan’s burden. Perhaps the “priest” who’d supposedly married them was a pretender who hoped to ease Johan’s pain when she died. But if she was such a burden, why did he care so much? Because he’d failed. And God hadn’t answered his prayers. A guilty conscience nagged him.

She would set his conscience free.

~*~

Suzanne’s cheeks still burned as she pulled her gloves up and approached the innkeeper, the pleasant scent of lemon oil teasing her senses.

“Good day, mistress.” The balding man nodded at her, his shiny head fringed with a ring of silver hair. Ruffled shirtsleeves were pushed up as he rubbed beeswax into the wide oak counter top. “Good to see you up and about.” He ceased dragging the rag in circles. “Going to the carriage shop?”

“Yes, I’d like to see…” What should she call him? “Johan.” She’d get this over with.

“Can you bring him some of these little cakes? He enjoys them as much as I do.” He handed her a small, but heavy, canvas bag.

Suzanne frowned as yet another recollection came—Johan savoring his mother’s pastries. “He has a good appetite.”

Mr. Tarpley’s round stomach spoke of his wife’s good meals. “Do you know the way to Vann’s shop?”

When she shook her head, he walked her to the door and pointed straight down the street at a sign with a carriage painted on it. “Best carriage maker in Philadelphia.”

“Philadelphia?” A bout of dizziness attacked her and the innkeeper grasped her arm to steady her.

“Yes, mistress, good old Philadelphia.”

“How far am I from New York?”

“New York? That’s a far spell from here. Why do you ask?”

“I…I hope to go there one day.” Soon. Her head began to ache again. “Merci, monsieur,
for the directions. Suzanne stepped out into the sunlight, bright against her eyes, with no hat to cover her head. At Versailles, she possessed a great many hats, jewels, and other finery.

Guy would replace those items once he made it to New York. But she must get there, too. For now, she had trouble enough simply walking.

Unaccustomed to so much exertion, her heart hammered as she strode down the hard-packed dirt pathways adjacent to the cobblestone streets. This colonial city seemed so
nouveau
, so new. Horse carts passed in the roads, the drivers holding their whips lightly in their hands. A frontiersman dressed in tan buckskins rode a fine black horse down a narrow side street.

The smell of horse flesh, molten metal, fire, and sweat carried across the street as she reached the intersection near Vann’s popular business. Suzanne lifted her skirts and crossed the street, dodging manure piles and avoiding two small drays that rumbled by. With each step, the pins in her hair loosened and her curls tumbled down her back. Suzanne almost collided with a tall gentleman dressed in a gray waistcoat.

Elaborate silver buttons lined the front, reminding her of some on Etienne’s clothing. His breeches were also in the French fashion. “Mademoiselle?” He lifted his hat and bowed, his eyes dancing.

Casting her eyes down, she stepped around him and into the building where Johan stood beside the forge. Johan’s muscles bulged beneath his tight shirt as he hammered a metal rod, glowing orange from the fire, until it flattened. He lifted his bronze-and-gold head and turned toward them. His broad white smile contrasted with the tight smirk of the gentleman. “It’s madame, not mademoiselle.” He seemed happy to make that announcement.

But why? She was his burden. She lifted the bag. “I’ve brought you some
gateau
.”

Johan grasped her hand and brought it to his lips, lingering there.

For a moment, Suzanne almost felt the Palatinate sun shining on them in the wheat fields. Smoke from the fire reminded her of something…she tugged her hand free.

French soldiers marching across the fields, setting fire.
It was a fleeting thought, not a painting in her mind. “Johan?” She swallowed hard. Had they come to the colonies together because of something she’d done?
Dear God, had anyone died? Would the villagers starve this winter?

Vann appeared in the opening behind them. He wiped his large hands on his apron. “Do we finally get to meet Johan’s beloved?”

His beloved?
Did he mean Johan’s ignorant Frenchwoman?

Johan clasped Suzanne’s hand. He pulled her closer to him and tucked her arm in his.

Her heart seemed to have moved up into her throat, and she couldn’t speak to tell him to stop. His handsome face begged for a kiss. Yes, she was foolish, she’d fallen in love with a man who didn’t respect her. Who considered her beneath him. No proof of their marriage. Now that she was well and they were still sharing the same chamber—how terribly improper. And how uncomfortable for him to sleep on that pallet on the floor. Not that it stopped him from getting into the bed once he started sleepwalking.

“What brings you here, my doeling?”

“A goat? Again you call me a goat?” At least she now knew why.

“Suzanne, I mean it as sweetness, an endearment.”

Nothing endearing about being thought stupid.
Now that she was recovering, she’d have to do something to bring this charade to an end. And get to New York.

~*~

Johan pulled Suzanne in closer and she squirmed. He needed to move into Vann’s quarters to end the temptation he nightly faced. His mouth grew dry. “I need a drink.” Releasing her and retrieving a mug, he strode to the well and pulled up a fresh bucket of water. He dipped in and then poured the water over his head. Needed to cool down.

He refilled the tankard and drank his fill, turning to see Suzanne staring at him with a mixture of longing and fear on her face. Why must she struggle so, always, with her feelings toward him? Somehow, it made him feel less of a man. But he’d prove himself worthy.

Suzanne suddenly bent over, her head low and her arms gripping her knees to steady herself.

He set the mug down and strode over to her, lifting her up as she sank into his arms. “This was too much effort for you. I’m going to carry you home.”

“You cannot!”

“I can and I will.”
I’m your husband, woman, don’t you understand?

“Mr. Vann! Please tell him he cannot do this.”

Vann peered up from beneath his magnifying spectacles, his expression sour. “Madam, seeing as I cannot carry you, I suggest you allow Johan to do so. Or you may lie here on this cot.”

Suzanne raised her head from Johan’s shoulder, her dark hair brushing his cheek. The silky curls smelled of lilac water, eliciting a strong reaction within him. He wanted to kiss her and demand that she accept him as husband. He closed his eyes and prayed for release from his impulses.

“Madam, should you stay, you could thus gaze upon our customers and they upon you as you recline. Johan, I believe it might well increase our business.” Vann’s booming laugh apparently didn’t agree with Suzanne, for she gasped and slapped Johan lightly on the back.

“Let me down, Johan. I can walk home by myself. You cannot humiliate me by carrying me down the street.” She was right.

People passing on the sidewalk frowned, the women clucking their tongues.

“I’ll watch you walk, then.”

Setting her down, he tried to rearrange her curls, but his big fingers poked holes in the strands, causing a bigger mess.

“Stop.”

Her frown looked just like Mama’s. He chuckled.

“Am I funny?”

He shook his head. “No.”

She opened her mouth as if to protest then closed her eyes and shook her head. Shaking her tresses, she turned and walked away.

“No good-bye for me, Suzie?”

She made a noise of disapproval. Watching her wander onto the pebbled walk, he noticed the gentle sway of her dress. She wasn’t wobbling anymore, but her feminine curves and the way she moved caused his heartbeat to become erratic, his legs almost as unsteady as when they’d first boarded the ship. He wiped his wet forehead, already hot again. “Suzanne?”

She froze and then turned, her mouth set in a line. “What?”

“Vann has housing for only me here. Can you ask at the inn about their charges, please?” Johan felt his shoulders slump. “For only your room and board.”