The Pelican Bride (15 page)

Tristan sipped his drink as his brother loosened the collar button of his uniform coat and sat back against the wall with a weary sigh. Marc-Antoine had arisen at dawn to attend Bienville’s conclave with an envoy from the Spanish governor in Pensacola. It seemed the Spanish, who had over the past ten years developed into allies against the British, were once again in rather a financial pickle and in need of basic foodstuffs such as flour, corn, and salt. Marc-Antoine’s task had been to negotiate a fair price.

Marc-Antoine took a deep drink from his own tankard, then set it down with a bang. “We might have been able to come to terms
two hours ago, except La Salle sent his cockroach to make sure nobody made any profit.”

Tristan raised his brows. “Cockroach?”

“Dufresne.” Marc-Antoine made a face. “I swear the man is everywhere he’s unwanted, which is . . . everywhere.”

Tristan grinned. “You’ve a way with words, my brother. No wonder the Indians call you Bright Tongue.”

“It’s true.” Marc-Antoine laughed. “I told you I’m tired. I’m looking forward to leaving the settlement. Six weeks without Bienville’s contradictory orders! You should have heard him lighting into Father Henri yesterday afternoon.”

“What about?”

“Mainly his diatribe about our men sleeping with their Indian servant women.”

“Well . . . at one time Bienville was concerned about that too. Isn’t that why he sent for the
Pélican
girls?”

“Yes, but there still aren’t enough white women to go around. Father Henri’s solution is for the men to marry their concubines, to make them wives in the sight of the Holy Church.”

“And what’s wrong with that?” Tristan had married Sholani before taking her virginity, though she probably hadn’t cared a
sou
whether the black robe said words over them or not. It had mattered to
him
.

Marc-Antoine’s expression softened. “Nothing, as far as I’m concerned. But you and I both understood when we joined this expedition that the King is after establishing a French Catholic state here. Most Indian women won’t truly convert, even to gain a white husband. Besides, Bienville is a pragmatist. These Canadians that we’re talking about aren’t like you, Tristan. If they’re forced to marry one Indian woman or leave, they’ll hightail it for the woods. Father Henri is all about morality, but Bienville wants to keep his men happy so they’ll stay.”

There was something inside him that rebelled at both view
points, though Tristan couldn’t explain it to his brother. He and Marc-Antoine had been raised in a God-fearing home by parents who loved and respected one another, who demonstrated a partnership rare for the times in which they lived. He understood that marriage was a holy bond with a higher purpose than release for a man’s lust. But it hadn’t been just morality either, not for him and Sholani. They had been a family, despite the cultural differences that sometimes made them shout with laughter, sometimes reduced them to inarticulate frustration. He had wanted to hold his child with a fierceness that still on occasion caught him off guard.

He suspected his brother would either laugh and call him crazy—or, worse, look at him with pity. Marc-Antoine hadn’t known their father like he had; after all, the boy had been only fourteen when they’d left home. He’d missed the quiet discussions about God and women and courage and patriotism Tristan shared with Antoine Lanier as they copied and colored maps commissioned by the wealthy peers of the province.

Marc-Antoine was the one to be pitied after all.

Tristan nodded. “There’s no arguing with Bienville once he sets his mind, and the priest isn’t going to change it by preaching at him.” He paused. “Still, can Bienville make Father Henri stop encouraging the men to marry their mistresses?”

“I suppose not. But the commander will have more influence than any priest. He controls their wages and privileges, after all.”

“And the priest controls eternal destiny.”

Marc-Antoine shrugged. “Only for the superstitious ones.”

“You think our faith is a superstition?” Maybe Tristan didn’t know his brother after all.

Marc-Antoine chuckled. “I mainly don’t see how making love to a woman who’s perfectly willing is grounds to go to hell.”

Tristan knew many men who shared Marc-Antoine’s skepticism, but few were so bold as to express it out loud. “Damnation aside,
Marc, there’s the issue of procreation. You do agree that a man’s children are his responsibility?”

“I suppose.” Marc-Antoine looked away. “As far as I know, I have no children.” Then he squinted at Tristan. “Have you not had a woman since . . .”

Tristan felt his face grow warm. “I dream of Sholani still. I can’t—I don’t want to—I’m too busy for it anyway.” That sounded utterly stupid. He regretted opening the argument with his brother, who could always twist his words.

To his relief, Marc-Antoine overlooked the opportunity to twit him further. “Well, whatever has been keeping you so busy is going to have to wait. Bienville is ready to pull the trigger on this mission to the Koroa and Alabama, and I need you with me.”

“Why? Your language skills are better than mine, and you’re the one who lived with the Alabama.”

“True, and true.” Marc-Antoine smiled. “But the Koroa traditionally hate the Alabama. Getting them to agree to an alliance will take both of us. We can use the fact that your wife was native . . . and you know how the Indians love to have their portraits drawn.” He paused, leaned over the table. “Tristan, you know how critical this mission is. We’ve almost waited too late. I hear rumblings that the British have gotten bolder. They’ve even sent Huguenot missionaries into a village or two, thinking nobody would catch on because they’re French-speaking.”

“Marc—”

“No, listen. I’ve seen your maps of the northern end of the river. You know the territory where we want to go, better than any other man in Bienville’s company. With hurricane season closing in, we can’t afford to lose time wandering around. We’ve lost so many good men this year . . . Tonti, Levasseur, Le Sueur . . . and the boys Pontchartrain sent to replace them are barely old enough to shave!” Marc-Antoine’s expression was grim. “The Spanish are foundering too. If we don’t turn this thing around, Fat Louis is
going to abandon us altogether, and we’ll be speaking English instead of French!”

They stared at one another for a long moment. Tristan knew that his brother spoke only the truth. He himself might be comfortably coexisting with both the Indians and the French settlement, but if Louis’s colonial experiment failed and the English took control of the territory, his own plantation would be absorbed as well. And if there was one nation Tristan despised more than his own motherland, it was the British pigs who had bought his wife like an animal, raped her, and killed both her and his unborn baby.

He thought of his land—the soft earth turned up in spring, the smell of pine in his cabin, the abundance of fish in the icy creeks that spilled along the edges of the dense forest. His ox, his milk cow, and the chickens that provided food year round.

Then, before he could stop it, his all-too-vivid imagination conjured an image of the
Pélican
’s arrival, of that first young woman suspended in midair on a canvas sling, clinging to the rope in innocent assurance that all would be well in this new world. Her courage, her core of faith and strength had spoken to him in a language he hadn’t known existed. And then to find those qualities housed in a package of physical beauty, intelligence, and humor . . . he might deny it to his brother, but he had been lost from the beginning.

Yesterday, when he’d arrived at the fort and asked after her, Marc-Antoine sealed his fate. Mademoiselle Gaillain was, miraculously, still unattached.

Castigating himself for a coward and a fool, he had gone out of his way to avoid her. What did he know about courting a gently bred young Frenchwoman? He hadn’t even seen his own mother for seven years. It would take time to convince her that he was not a complete savage, that she might throw in her lot with him and expect a life at least as good as with any of the other Canadians in the settlement.

Now . . . now, Marc-Antoine asked him to embark on a journey
that might take months, with no guarantee of returning alive. But if he didn’t go, the colony would be in jeopardy of falling anyway . . . and around in circles he went again.

He laid his hands flat upon the table and stared at the scars across the knuckles.

“So.” Marc-Antoine leaned forward, expression coaxing. “Are you coming with us?”

Despite her best intentions, during the past twenty-four hours, Geneviève had had little opportunity to ignore Tristan Lanier, as he seemed determined to avoid her first. She saw him disappear into the tavern in company with his brother, just as she was coming out of the dry goods store with Ysabeau.

“Geneviève! You are not attending!”

“I’m sorry, Ysabeau. What did you say?” Geneviève dragged her gaze from the open tavern door, from which issued a distinct roar of masculine frivolity, and fixed it belatedly upon Ysabeau’s pouting face.

“I asked you,” Ysabeau sighed, “if you think I should wear the yellow dress at my wedding, or would the rose go better with my complexion?”

“Wedding?” Geneviève, whose thoughts had been rather more occupied with the dark brown eyes of a certain lonely young planter, reminded herself not to be so selfish. “Are you really going through with this hasty match with Denis Lafleur? Father Mathieu said—”

“Father Mathieu is an unromantic old raven! Just because Denis enjoys a game of cards every now and then, there was no cause to spoil my happiness by preaching me a private sermon.”

“Ysabeau.” Geneviève tried not to look as raven-like as the priest, though she couldn’t help feeling troubled. “Only yesterday you were crying over Monsieur Levasseur all during Barbe’s wedding. I just think you should be more careful—”

“Oh!” Ysabeau stamped her foot. “You are just jealous!” She whirled and dashed back into the store.

“Ysabeau, wait!” Geneviève started to follow, then shook her head. Papa used to say that the most effective school for fools was experience. Ysabeau was beyond listening anyway.

She glanced at the tavern. She had meant to ask Monsieur Burelle if he still had an interest in selling her bread.

But perhaps she should wait until the morning, when the tavern would be quieter, less busy with customers. She picked up her skirts and resolutely turned toward the L’Anglois home. If Monsieur Lanier wanted to see her, he could easily find her.

Tristan had secured one of the small second-floor rooms above the tavern, but he was beginning to wish he had opted instead for guest quarters in the guardhouse. Marc-Antoine had returned to duty, leaving him to mull over the decision whether to join the impending expedition. By eight o’clock that evening, Burelle’s establishment was rollicking with off-duty soldiers in need of a drink, unmarried artisans with a few
sous
to gamble away, and officers who wanted to trade a few bawdy jokes and songs before either turning for home and spouse or retiring to quarters for the night. It was, for a man who had grown accustomed to absolute stillness and silence, a form of exquisite torture.

Resigning himself to a sleepless night, he accepted a tankard from Burelle’s wife, left a coin on the bar, and made his way toward a rowdy group of men gathered around a faro table in a back corner, most of whom he knew. He had served with Boutin and Fautisse early in the beginnings of the settlement, as they built the fort and stockade. Another he recognized as Lafleur, a junior officer on Marc-Antoine’s staff, and a fourth as brickmaker Jean Alexandre. Tristan picked up the names of the other two men as he leaned against the wall watching the game. Valentin Barraud,
still dressed in his uniform and insignia of surgeon-major, received several risqué—and undoubtedly jealous—comments regarding his recent marriage, from a clearly inebriated young soldier named Connard.

The game proceeded, the bets getting wilder and losses deeper, until both Lafleur and Connard were out of chips and resorted to writing IOUs against future wages. Connard’s narrow, clean-shaven face had become steadily pinker with heat and embarrassment, his brown hair wet and spiked from running his hand through it, until he looked like a baby possum that had fallen into a barrel of ale.