The Pelican Bride (11 page)

Of course the slave women would be resentful. But there had been a more active rage in the face of the one who had leaned over Geneviève’s shoulder, as if the girl would like to have cut her throat. As she studied her graceful form, the shiny ebony plait swaying against the narrow back, the dainty ears and pink lips, it dawned on her how beautiful the servant was.

Her gaze moved to the commander at the end of the long table. Bienville was watching the servant girl as well, his expression possessive, masculine.

Suddenly Geneviève understood the girl’s resentment. One of these Frenchwomen had come across the ocean to take her place, demoting her to a possession no more important than a milk cow or
a broodmare. No surprise that a man with Bienville’s power would take his pleasure from among the dusky beauties who surrounded him—especially with no white women available. After all, wasn’t that the reason the King had summoned the
Pélican
girls in the first place? To keep the bloodlines of the new French colony pure?

Until now the implications had not dawned on her.

A flurry of motion in the doorway to the kitchen drew her attention, and a dark-skinned toddler darted around the legs of a male slave bringing in a tray of drinks. The little boy was dressed in a sleeveless tunic and breeches, his feet bare and the dark-brown hair chopped as if someone had set a bowl upon his head and cut around it. He ran to fling his arms around the legs of the woman who had just served Geneviève, giggling up at her. The woman laid a maternal hand atop his head, then peeled him off her leg, turned him back toward the kitchen, and swatted his bottom with a firm “Go play!” in French.

The child ducked away from her and ran toward Bienville, who scooped him up with one arm and planted a noisy kiss upon his round cheek. “Ho, Father Mathieu!” the commander called. “This little imp clearly needs a baptism. I would that you conduct it at the first opportunity.” He made a production of sniffing the little boy’s neck. “And some soap would not go amiss.”

The child squirmed to get down. “No!” he shrieked. “No soap!”

Chuckling, Bienville let him go, and he darted back to the kitchen.

As if scales had dropped from her eyes, Geneviève watched the commander return to his flirtation with Aimée. His charisma like a powerful magnet drew the attention of every woman in the room. Forcing her gaze away, she finished her dessert, hardly tasting the delicious custard, grateful for Father Mathieu’s willingness to engage Alexandre in conversation, which relieved her of the necessity of making small talk.

If Bienville took a wife from among the
Pélican
girls, what would
happen to the women he called slaves and their children? How could a man keep a child whom he had fathered in the bonds of slavery?

More to the point, what if the man Geneviève chose as husband should elect to keep an Indian mistress? Would she have anything to say about it? A wife was in many ways little more than a servant. All her worldly goods transferred to her husband upon her marriage, and she would be pledged to obey him. Would she truly be any better off than she would be on her own?

By the time Bienville had moved his guests into the salon for drinks, Geneviève was considerably sobered. To her alarm, the commander sent Father Mathieu off to argue plans for the settlement’s new chapel with the two seminary pastors, rotund Father Henri and ascetic Father Albert, who dwelt in a rather Spartan cabin on the outskirts of town. He then drew Geneviève into a conversational circle comprising himself, Surgeon-Major Barraud, and the La Salle family.

Commissioner La Salle was a thin, dour gentleman of some forty years, fond of large, expensive wigs; with his new bride, Jeanne de Berenhardt, of course, she was well acquainted, as they had made the journey together aboard the
Pélican
.

“And I told the duchess—she and I were great friends, you know—that she mustn’t keep giving me all her dresses, or she would end up quite naked!” Jeanne lifted her fan to titter behind it. “Oh, dear, I keep forgetting there are gentlemen in the company!” She glanced around to make sure everyone had heard and chosen to overlook her risqué comment. Satisfied, she snapped the fan shut. “But, there, my trunk was so full that it took
three
soldiers to carry it up from the boat!”

Poor La Salle, failing to find anything constructive to add to his wife’s remark, cleared his throat and tugged at his cravat. Bienville winked at Geneviève and motioned for one of the male servants to refill his tankard.

“Speaking of heavy weights, Commander,” she said, hoping
to head off the new Madame La Salle’s unfortunate proclivity for uncensored discourse, “I noticed what look like millstones piled near the river. I hope that means construction of a mill is soon to begin.”

Bienville’s expression blackened. He allowed his drink to be topped off, then dismissed the servant with a curt nod. “His Majesty has sent neither the rest of the materials nor an artisan with the skills to build it.” He drank deeply and wiped his mouth. “Perhaps Mademoiselle would like to try her hand at convincing him to either loosen the royal purse strings or give me authority to raise the money myself.”

Jeanne, oblivious to her husband’s scowl, batted her lashes at the commander. “But surely, sir, as governor you must be the final authority on this side of the Atlantic!”

“Bienville has not been appointed governor,” La Salle growled. “That position belongs to his brother Iberville, and they are both subject to the King’s will through Minister Pontchartrain.”

“I
am
governor in my brother’s absence.” Bienville’s voice had softened to a dangerous rumble. “And you had best cease testing my authority, Monsieur La Salle, lest you find out just how far it goes.” Without giving the commissary a chance to reply, he leveled a stare at the man’s wife. “I am tired of all this bellyaching about fine Parisian flour, madame, when our native corn meal—which all but falls upon one’s head when one walks down the street—makes perfectly good bread.”

Jeanne squeaked, “But I wasn’t the one who—”

“Indeed you weren’t.” Bienville rounded on Geneviève, folding his arms across his broad chest. “And I had all but forgotten the reason for this charming gathering. It has come to my attention, mademoiselle, that you have turned down not one, not two, but
three
legitimate offers of marriage since you arrived.”

Geneviève could only stare at him.

“Is this true?” Bienville prompted.

“I—yes, sir, I suppose, but at least one of those—”

Bienville cut her off with a slash of his hand. “This coyness is ill becoming in one dependent upon the Crown for her very subsistence. I cannot afford to support a boatload of unmarried women indefinitely. Indeed you are taking food from the mouths of my soldiers.”

Geneviève stood there in strangled humiliation. Surely it had not been necessary to call her out in such a public fashion. Where was the man who, not an hour ago, had so playfully and affectionately teased the Indian child?

To his credit, the commander looked away as if he knew he’d gone too far. He grimaced and rubbed a hand across his stomach. “Ah, I am plagued to death,” he muttered, slanting Geneviève a sheepish grin. “I should have told the bishop to send only ugly girls—then I would not have my men fighting over you!”

“Please, Monsieur Commandant,” Geneviève said, trying to still the tremor of her voice, “I mean no insult or disrespect. I have my little sister to care for, and . . . the offers I have so far received have been unacceptable.”

Bienville glanced across the room, where Alexandre stood in conversation with a couple of carpenters and the steadily drinking surgeon, Barraud. “I fail to see the negative qualities of a brickmaker with an independent living and the only medical man in the settlement. Besides, your sister seems to be capable of settling her own affairs.”

At that moment, Aimée danced past on the arm of Aide-Major Dufresne, Bienville’s red-haired warehouse adjutant. Geneviève had thought her sister well on the way to capturing the heart of Marc-Antoine Lanier, but the handsome young lieutenant was nowhere in sight, and Aimée gave no indication that she missed him.

Geneviève bit her lip. “She is too young—”

“She is of marriageable age,” Bienville said firmly. “It is my responsibility to grow this colony. I shall be generous and give you
two more months to settle upon a husband.” He gave her a curt bow and turned to signal a servant for another drink.

Geneviève could only stand there, her thoughts chasing one another like squirrels. She was not a coward, she reminded herself. She had survived much worse than marriage to a man she didn’t love. She was safe and well fed and could even worship as she chose—as long as she kept her beliefs quiet.

But if all those things were true, the other half of her brain inquired, then why did she feel so abandoned?

Father Mathieu, glancing over his shoulder as he followed Marc-Antoine Lanier out onto Bienville’s gallery, could tell that Geneviève was in trouble, but he could not for the moment come to her aid. Having finally managed this private interview, he must take the opportunity to investigate the man for whom he had sacrificed his life’s work and reputation.

He fingered the rosary upon his chest.
God, preserve her. Help her. Help me. We
only want your will, your glory, on earth as it
is in heaven.
Crossing himself, he stepped out into the dark, moist evening.

Young Lanier waited, a broad shoulder propped against one of the yellow pine posts supporting the roof. He looked a bit raffish, long hair curling onto the frayed epaulets of his faded blue coat, a month’s growth of beard shadowing lean cheeks, nose peeling from a recent sunburn. But at least he was clean, his cravat white as snow and fingernails neatly trimmed. The white lace of his shirtsleeves fell over strong, sun-browned hands that looked capable as well as clever.

Beyond the young man’s personal habits of dress and hygiene, Mathieu liked the humor lurking around the firm mouth and a certain expression of self-irony around the dark eyes. Most telling, he had seen genuine affection between the Lanier brothers, as well as a rare mutual confidence.

He needed to be able to trust Marc-Antoine Lanier.

“Out with it, Father,” the boy said on a deep chuckle. “Either you need money or I am derelict on confession. Whichever it is, please get it over with quickly so I can get on with enjoying the evening.”

Mathieu laughed, tucking his hands inside opposite sleeves of his surplice. “I’m not privy to your confessional schedule, and I have no need of funds at present.”

Lanier scratched his head. “Then I can’t imagine what the Church wants with me. A less devout man than me you’d have trouble finding.”

Mathieu hesitated. If someone else told him the tale he was about to relate, he would not have believed it. He began obliquely. “I was not specifically sent here by the Church. In fact I should be very surprised if the bishop were aware of my presence.”

Lanier’s dramatic eyebrows rose. “Ho. Then why
are
you here?”

“It is something of a personal quest, let us say, which involves your brother.”

Lanier slowly straightened away from the post. “Is it so?”

Mathieu nodded, straining to see into the far shadowy corners of the gallery. Empty. Good. He stepped closer and lowered his voice to a murmur. “How much do you know about your parents, Marc-Antoine?”

Lanier shrugged. “As much as one can know about the two people who gave one birth. They are Canadians of Ville Marie, friends of the Le Moynes, which is how we were introduced to Bienville. My father is a cartographer, and he trained Tristan. Me, I’ve always been more interested in languages.” His expression darkened somewhat with anxiety. “They are good people, Father, faithful Catholics.”

“I’m sure they are.” Mathieu weighed his words, not sure how much truth such a young man could withstand. “I bear a commission from one who takes an interest in your brother. An interest which will make a very rich man of him.” When Lanier
straightened, Mathieu put out a hand of caution. “It will also give him powerful enemies.”

“My brother is afraid of no man.”

Mathieu did not doubt the truth of those brash words. Still, he shook his head. “This . . . fortune comes with grave responsibility, my son. Should he accept, many lives besides his own will be altered forever, and he would have to return with me to France.”

“I don’t understand,” said the boy. “Why did you not tell Tristan all this when he was here? Why did you not tell him
before
that, when he met the
Pélican
at Massacre Island?”

“I had been informed that Tristan was Bienville’s lieutenant. Then upon our arrival, I saw that he is now clearly at odds with the commander—that he has exiled himself, far from his countrymen, unprotected against those who oppose the French Crown. So I decided to wait, watching to see what manner of man he has become.” Mathieu spread his hands. “I confess to you, I can make no sense of his behavior. And so I ask you, his brother, to help me understand.”