Saving The Marquise's Granddaughter (25 page)

Johan held the child closer.

Sarah sniffed and accepted the treat with a shy smile. “Does he have any children?”

Scott forcefully exhaled a puff of air. “Yes, a young son.”

“Is he there?”

“No. But I expect Colonel Christy to return shortly. Having another child in the house might cheer William up.” Scott was eye to eye with the girl, placed one finger under her chin, and then wiped a spot of dirt from her cheek. Scott surprised Johan by picking the girl up as though she weighed no more than a feather, and set her atop his right shoulder, bringing a peal of laughter from her. “Have you a good view up there, Mistress Sarah?”

An iron grip clutched Johan’s shoulder, and he turned to face Vann.

“They’re good people—Scott and Christy. None better. You can trust them.” Vann nodded.

I hear your prayers.

A chill went through Johan and he rubbed his arms. Suzanne’s contract to pay off. And now Sarah’s support. How would he earn enough money to care for them all?

Trust me.

Had he just taken on a daughter? This tall-for-her-age blonde cousin wasn’t at all like the little version of Suzie whom he’d imagined as daughter. Was this the first of the houseful of children he’d wished for? He bowed his head in disappointment that he couldn’t suppress. Suzanne might not be the mother of his children. And his future—when he owned land and had a home and a trade to support his family, was unsure.

Vann waved away smoke that drifted from the forge. “I’ll give you extra work. Just make sure you rest and get your meals regular. Don’t be running around with men prone to drinking and carousing.” His eyes twinkled.

Johan grinned back at him. “Ja, I’ll stop all that running around the town I do. No more nights swilling ale at the Barnacle. Or running naked after carriages down the street.”

Wyatt winked at Sarah. “You won’t catch me making that promise.”

~*~

Suzanne perched on the end of the seat in front of the table, her hand itching to open Johan’s Bible and read another of his journal notes. She wanted to know what he really thought of her. How could he act so loving if he really thought her incompetent? And now with this illness and this long recovery.

She bit her lip and blinked back tears of frustration. With God’s help, she would get well. She inhaled slowly and reached inside the Bible. With effort, she read his misspelled German words.

Strange to admire someone who knows so little. Suzanne tries so hard. Sad she grew up a poor Huguenot but cannot perform most basic chores. She’s very pretty, but what good−if her husband can’t eat her cooking? She’s knocked the milk bucket over, caught her dress on fire, and the clothes are still dirty after she washes them. She doesn’t seem prideful or as though she refuses to learn. Maybe she is like Magda in the village.

She cringed. Magda was a mentally disabled woman whose family had to care for her. Suzanne slammed the Bible shut on the letter. Well
this Magda
was going elsewhere, to her new master’s house. Why would she know menial tasks? Obviously, Johan placed great value in them or he wouldn’t have written about it. Johan wasn’t the accepting, kind man she’d thought. Instead, he’d judged her harshly by his own standards. The differences in their social classes were too wide a gap to bridge. She went to the armoire and began to pack her clothing.

24

Suzanne looked up from her stitching as Johan leaned his head against the door to their room.

His mouth worked into a frown. He grabbed the doorframe as though to steady himself.

“What’s wrong?”

He kissed her cheek and then entered, closing the door behind him. “Do you recall my cousin, Noel, and his family?”

Snipping off some loose threads, Suzanne met his gaze. “I remember.”

He squeezed her hand. “The baptism?”

“Oui. The baby? Do you have some word?” The hair on the back of her neck prickled.

He swallowed. Releasing her hand, he removed his soft work hat and squashed it into a ball. “They died.”

She gasped as a weight seemed to settle on her chest. “Died? How?”

“They came with the group we were supposed to leave with.”

“Oh, my! We could have died, also.”

“You almost died, my liebchen.” He caressed her shoulder. “Like our ship, many became ill with fever.”

Tears pooled in her eyes. “All of them? Did the family perish?”

“Sarah lived. We can take some comfort from that.”

Oh, Lord, not another.
Not another life she’d ruined. Suzanne squeezed her eyes shut. More people dead because of her. Had they come because of the burning by the army? Noel’s farm was outside of the walled village. No, Johan said they’d already intended this journey.

A muscle in Johan’s jaw jumped. “Suzanne, I have to tell you something else.”

His countenance suggested he had something awful to share.

She sank down onto the chair.

“We cannot stay here together anymore.”

She nodded, waiting.

“Vann has his workers stay in the servants’ quarters.”

“Moi?”

Johan ran a big hand through his hair, and then knelt by her, bringing one of her hands up to his lips. “No.”

She pulled away.

“Your contract was purchased. They expect you to come there. To help with Sarah.”

Her pulsed raced.

“Colonel Christy will keep Sarah in his household until you and I can take care of her.”

Was he the husband of the woman she resembled? Would it cause the man distress to have her there? She brought grief with her as real as the dread that used to accompany her days. “You blame me, don’t you?” She shouted at him. She brought a fist to her mouth.

“No.” He clutched her hands in his. “Why do you think such a thing?”

“Now you have Sarah to care for?” He was right, she was responsible for Noel’s family dying. “Oh, Johan, the baby.” Sobs shook Suzanne’s body. She resisted as he pulled her close, but then clung to him.

Johan kissed the top of her hair, piled atop her head in swirls. He trembled as though he was holding himself back from her.

Quick steps stopped in front of Suzanne’s door, and Jemma stepped inside. “I sent for him like ye asked, and he’s to come for you hisself, straightaway.” The servant beamed at her.

Suzanne’s hands flew to her neck, groping for a topaz necklace that was no longer there. She crossed her hands over her heart. Jemma couldn’t mean Etienne. And why did the idea of Etienne coming for her now frighten her so?

“Colonel Christy? He’s here?”

“Not him, but Wyatt Scott. He’ll take you to the colonel’s home. It’s the biggest house in all of Philadelphia.”

Suzanne’s shoulders relaxed in relief. And she realized—she was more concerned about the idea of Etienne’s arrival than of becoming, for all purposes, a slave to someone for the next few years. And how would she get to New York? To await Guillame?

“Mister Scott came hisself, he did.”

Suzanne stood, trying to imagine one of Johan’s iron rods making her backbone straight. This wouldn’t be easy. She glanced back at his Bible, tempted to take it with her.

“Merci
.
Can you carry that one?” She pointed to the smaller bag, but Jemma grabbed the larger valise, fixing her with a wide grin as she carried it off down the stairs.

“Mister Scott! Can you take this one?” The young woman’s laughter floated up the stairs, accompanied by a man’s.

Suzanne stiffened at the air of familiarity the servant assumed with Scott. Then heat from humiliation stole up her neck. She’d need to assume the role of obsequious servant herself.
God, help me. I can’t do this alone.
As she closed the door behind her, moisture pricked her eyes. For the first time in months, she’d be without her Johan. Hers. She blinked her eyes. She wasn’t a suitable wife for him.

A young man bounded up the stairs toward her.

Her breath caught in her throat.

Wyatt Scott was undeniably handsome. And his broad smile suggested a cheerful disposition like Johan’s. “Let me take that, dear lady. Your husband would be furious with me if you strained yourself on my account.”

Her husband. Furious? A hazy image of being clutched in his arms, sun beating down, this man, Scott’s voice demanding that she, Suzanne, was someone else’s wife. Someone’s mother.

“Are you all right?” He clutched her elbow to steady her.

“Oui, I just…we have met before, have we not?”

Dark, well-formed eyebrows collided over alert hazel eyes. “I mistook you for someone when you arrived in port.”

“You argued.”

“I did. With the captain.” Scott’s lips twisted in disgust. “But not about you.” He smiled, one of those charming courtly attempts to cover some truth and divert attention.

“Another man mistook me for Madame Christy.” She remembered being unable to keep her eyes open that day although she’d heard people talking.

“Christy won’t be confused, you can count on that.” Wyatt Scott snorted as he assisted her down the narrow stairway. “He notices everything. I swear the man can identify something wrong or different from a mile away. That’s what has brought him success as a military officer.”

Like Rochambeau? And Guy? Was her brother making his way to her even now?

“Monsieur Scott, why did the colonel purchase my contract?”

Wyatt Scott’s forehead turned pink beneath the brown waves that bounced with each of his springy steps. “He didn’t.”

She grasped his forearm. “I don’t understand.”

Scott nodded at the innkeeper and headed out the door with her trailing behind. “I paid.”

Wyatt Scott drove like a madman. They lurched around every corner in the open carriage until finally halting at a turn into a lane that entered property occupying an entire square city block.

Her heart hadn’t beat this fast since the night she and Maman escaped Versailles.

“Runs like the wind, doesn’t he?” Scott grinned at her. He’d jostled into her so many times that she wondered if he hadn’t broken one of her ribs with his elbow. “I race him on Saturday nights. Not far from here. We close off the street and place bets. Drayton almost always wins.”

“Drayton?” She tried to catch her breath. She chewed her lower lip. So different from Johan. So careless and rash.

“My gelding is named Drayton.”

Scott pulled to the end of the path to a carriage house, got out, and assisted her down.

Taking her luggage, Scott motioned his head toward the back of an imposing three-story brick structure.

Mullioned windows reflected the midday sun. A herringboned brick path ran alongside the property and led from the large carriage house and stable to the house. Substantial grounds contained gardens, a terrace, and a private pavilion despite being within the city. The perfume of roses drifted to them on the light breeze.

She raised a gloved hand to her chest. “
C’est très belle
. So beautiful.”

“Your new home, madame.” Scott gifted her with another of his sunny smiles.

While his smiles warmed her heart, they didn’t have the same effect upon her that Johan’s did. Scott’s mouth, his eyes, held a harsh knowing that troubled her. She’d seen that look before. Of having experienced trials beyond one’s forbearance.

Scott’s features relaxed. “Sarah’s already been set up in a room next to yours. Seems anxious to see you.”

One of the double paneled doors at the back entrance flew open, and the child ran to them. Sarah threw herself into Suzanne’s arms, almost knocking her over. “Gone.
Alle
! Gone.” The child sobbed.

Tears threatened Suzanne’s eyes. She knew that refrain well.

“Not all gone, Sarah. Johan and I are here. We’ll take care of you.” Could they?

A short time later, waiting in the parlor of Christy’s opulent home, she could well believe that the colonel was the son of a nobleman as Wyatt Scott told her. Everything was so new, though, from the Chinese porcelain figures on the mantel, to the fine woven rugs on the floor. Nothing there to link him to a family across the ocean. Adrift, like her.

Suzanne reached out to touch the portrait of a little boy, set atop the mantel, framed in dark mahogany. The child’s almost-black eyes were haunting. How she missed the opportunity to paint, would love to do a portrait of the child herself.

The elderly servant cleared his throat before entering the room. He unlatched and lowered a tilt-top table with one hand before shakily lowering a tray of treats onto its dull surface.
Something in the room not so new.

“The shop delivered young Mister William’s painting today.”

Wyatt Scott, dressed in a silk brocade coat, eased into the room. “Colonel Christy should return any day with his son. I’ve missed them mightily.”

Her heart squeezed in her chest. How Adam and Maria must grieve Johan’s absence as well. And it was all her fault. And Sarah—would Johan’s little cousin blame Suzanne, too? “We must pray for safe travel home.”

“Indeed. We’ve prayed for him constantly these many months.” Wyatt touched the portrait. “Too intelligent a child to keep occupied in the backwoods forts.”

~*~

Night was falling by the time Johan paused before Christy’s imposing brick home. A mansion really. And more surrounding structures than he’d seen on one property since he arrived in Philadelphia. The long walk from Vann’s to this lovely street lined with trees, parks, and gardens had given him time to consider his choices. As soon as he was able, he must try to assume the responsibility for Sarah’s care.

No wonder many immigrants sent a few strong family members to the America colonies first, and then the women and children. Never had he thought he would turn a family member over to a stranger for help. Thank God, Suzanne could watch over her.

Approaching Christy’s front door, he wondered if he should go around the wide three-story house to the back, where the servants would enter. He raised the brass knocker and rapped it three times.

An aging black man opened the door, his shoulders stooped and his eyes bleary.

“I’m here…for…to see…my Suzanne and little Sarah.” The stammer that had left him years earlier reappeared.

Tinkling laughter echoed in the marble-tiled foyer as Johan followed the thin servant inside.