The Pelican Bride (38 page)

“How could you possibly believe I would p-poison you?” Shivering, soaked to the skin from the rain, Geneviève followed Tristan across the drill green. He held her by the hand, but he was so silent that she may as well have been chained and boxed in a prison wagon. It had started. Everything she had dreaded since her father’s arrest had come to pass, compounded by her love for this man.

“I can’t believe it,” he said without looking at her. “But you are so-called Reformist, are you not?”

She’d thought her broken heart could feel no more pain. “Do you know what that means?” She jerked her hand from his. “It means I am of a people persecuted for centuries for obeying Scripture and for refusing ritual worship. It means I am under the rule of God rather than any man, be he king or archbishop or dragoon. It means I must forgive you because Christ first forgave me. Tristan, I love you!”

When he turned, she saw the clashing emotions in his eyes. “Do I know what it means? I don’t care about theological debates or parsing Bible verses to shore up political loyalties. I know you’ve suffered for those things. But I also know that your Jean Cavalier is in bed with those British dogs—enslaving the Indian nations to gain control of French and Spanish territories. The woman I loved was a victim of that abomination.” He closed his eyes. “
You
forgive
me
?”

They stood in the beating rain on the deserted green, together but oceans apart.

At last Geneviève summoned the strength to move. Nothing worse could befall her, now that the truth was revealed. “Come, let me tell you how it happened.” She turned and dragged herself up the guardhouse steps, Tristan’s slow footfalls behind her.

She went into the open cell next to Ysabeau, who lay fast asleep on the floor, curled like a kitten on a blanket Geneviève had brought her several days ago. Water dripped from Geneviève’s dress, forming a puddle as she sat on the cell’s military cot and waited for Tristan to follow.

He sat beside her and stared at a broad crack between the boards of the flooring.

“You are Canadian,” she began, “so you don’t know the traditions of the Cévennes, the mountains where I grew up.”

“I am Canadian,” he said evenly, “but that doesn’t make me ignorant. I know the King tolerated the Huguenots for some time, allowing them to settle in a place where they would cause little damage.” He shot her a glance. “Which worked until the rise of Black Camisards like Cavalier.”

“I know Jean. He didn’t do half what he’s accused of. He was in our home the day the Abbé of Chaila was assassinated.”

“Your family hid him?”

“Yes.” Geneviève swallowed tears. “Someone told. By the time the dragoons came, Jean was no longer there, so they took my papa instead. I followed them with Papa’s—the gun was so heavy without Jean there to help me—but I was angry and frightened. I knew what they were going to do, and it wasn’t right! So when the soldier said he would—I knew he meant it, and the gun went off. I can’t remember the rest of the day, except they said I killed him and they cut off Papa’s head and burned the village. They would have executed me too, but for Jean. He got me out of the prison in Fraissinet-de-Lozère and took me to Father Mathieu.”

“Father Mathieu was no Reformist! He was a Jesuit!”

“Yes.” She nodded. “But he is—was, I mean, sympathetic to the doctrinal questions of Reformed believers. He didn’t approve of the persecution, and he was even friends with Cavalier. They knew of the
Pélican
and persuaded me to take Aimée and go. I didn’t want to run, but Jean said he could help other Reformists get out of France if I saw that there would be tolerance in the new colony. You saw the letter. I was to keep quiet about my beliefs and get a message through to the Huguenots in Carolina, reporting on the political and religious climate of Louisiane.”

“Then you did come as a spy.” His voice was heavy, his expression pained.

She sat up, straightening her spine. “I came first of all to protect my little sister from execution as a traitor. She had nothing to do with my crime. That I could also repay the man who risked his life for mine—it is an honor.”

For a long moment, Tristan sat looking at the wet floor, elbows on his knees, fingers plowed into his hair. Finally he heaved a sigh. “Geneviève, you are a good woman, but what you’ve done is a serious thing. It won’t be easy to make Bienville understand the provocation.” He looked at her then. “For now, I must go. The death of Little Frog makes the situation even more complicated, and I have to know what happened to Marc-Antoine.” He rose, drawing the key from his pocket, and looked at her soberly for a moment, then bent to kiss her cheek. “You will be safe here until I return. God be with us both.”

21

A
imée sat in her corner chair in Commander Bienville’s dirty, cluttered office, half listening to the men argue over their next course of action. Probably they had forgotten her.
Why
could men not talk about their problems, as women did, until they worked them out peacefully? They must always be producing a gun or a knife, or setting fire to something, as if the violence would not inevitably cause some man on the other side to react with bigger guns and longer swords and hotter fires.

A spasm of worry for her sister disturbed the carefully constructed unconcern that was her only protection from the sort of insanity that had swamped Ysabeau. She had tried to tell Ginette to leave behind her Bible and all else that stank of their old life in Pont-de-Montvert. But Geneviève was always the hardheaded one. Just like Papa, she must always stick to principles, no matter the consequences to everyone around them. And look where that had gotten Papa. Now they had hauled her off to the guardhouse.

Ginette should have been more careful. If she’d already burned the letter from Cavalier, Aimée could have gone back to Julien and truthfully said there was nothing to worry about. But he had made her swear to bring it to him. So while Ginette was in the Burelle
kitchen baking, she had slipped upstairs and unlocked the identical trunk with her own little key and extracted Cavalier’s note from the Bible. It was too bad Julien had been obliged to produce it as proof of the poison.

It was a little odd that Ginette had done that, but perhaps there had been some mistake. Ginette always landed on her feet. She would be fine.

All Aimée wanted was a little house with a garden, clean floors, and a picture or two on the walls, and maybe a baby to rock. The husband that would come with such a scenario was truly a necessary evil—but if one must have a husband, preferable that he be easily manipulated like Monsieur Dufresne . . . Julien, as he liked to be called.

She considered him, over there arguing with the commander about what should happen to her sister. Julien was so heroic, insisting that Geneviève be given a chance to recant, when Aimée could have told him that Ginette would recant when the Pope gave up the palace in Rome and moved to an Indian camp in Quebec.

Drying her eyes, she rose and tucked her handkerchief into her sleeve. She glided over to address Bienville. “Please, Monsieur le Commandant, will you excuse me now? I should like to go home and compose myself before our afternoon ladies’ soiree. Madame L’Anglois will expect me to entertain with a song or two, and I must practice.”

Bienville scowled at her. “There will be no soirees this afternoon or anytime in the near future. You may go home and say the rosary in memory of the soldiers who will be leaving the fort to protect you.”

Aimée blinked. “There’s no need to be rude—”

“I’ll escort her home, Commander, with your permission,” Julien said, taking her hand and drawing it through his arm. “You can see that my betrothed is too innocent to fully comprehend the seriousness of our circumstances.”

Betrothed? That had a lovely sound. She bestowed a smile upon Julien.

Bienville grunted. “By all means, take her out of my sight. But make sure she understands that no further Huguenotish leanings will be tolerated in the colony. Good day, mademoiselle.”

Aimée clung to Julien’s arm and allowed him to lead her from the office. She could hear Bienville’s gruff voice in sharp altercation with Commissioner La Salle, a most disagreeable man if ever she had met one. She didn’t know how Françoise tolerated dwelling in the same house with him, with only her cousin Jeanne there to provide civil discourse over breakfast. Presumably Bienville would cave in at some point and request Françoise’s hand in marriage. In Aimée’s opinion, they were the only two people in the entire colony strong enough to deal together, without devouring one another whole.

Outside the office she came upon Françoise and Father Henri.

Aimée dropped Julien’s arm. “Oh, Françoise, that beastly commander accused my sister of treason! I can never hold my head up again!” She allowed Françoise to fold her in comforting arms.

“Never mind, I’m sure it’s all a terrible mistake. We will insist that Geneviève be treated well.” Françoise held her away, hands on her shoulders. “Isn’t that so, Father?”

“Oh.” The priest harrumphed. “Of course. Yes, of course.”

Françoise’s gaze lit on the open office door. “Commander! I wish to speak to you, if you please!”

“I’m afraid he’s very busy with state business, mademoiselle,” Julien said.

“Which is why I must have his attention right now.” Françoise marched to the office door.

Aimée held her breath. To her surprise, Bienville appeared, La Salle on his heels like a cur following an alpha wolf.

“What is it now, Mademoiselle Dubonnier?” Bienville rubbed his belly, eyebrows hooked together. “I don’t have time for visiting the Indian school this afternoon. I have repeatedly told you—”

“Yes, yes, I know.” Françoise waved away his objections. “I only wanted to ask if anyone has located this Nika woman, to ask about her part in this farce. I’m sure Aide-Major Dufresne has good intentions—” she looked at Julien as though she doubted any such thing—“but appearances can be so deceiving.”

“I was just asking the same thing,” put in La Salle, adjusting his ill-fitting wig. “We have jumped to so many illogical conclusions in the last four years that it’s a wonder we aren’t drowning in them. We must question this woman Nika. Where is she?”

Looking harassed, Bienville gave Julien a pointed stare.

Julien cleared his throat. “She—ah, she has not been located, sir. She seems to have escaped from the village along with her two children.” He tugged at his immaculate neckcloth. “I will apprise you first thing when she returns.”

Bienville folded his arms across his broad chest. “There’s your answer, mademoiselle. Now will you please allow me—”

“One more thing,” Françoise interrupted smoothly. “I’m sure you are aware that Monsieur l’Aide-Major has every reason to wish Geneviève Lanier discredited. She has noted his tendency to, shall we say, get creative with the warehouse books and has, at Monsieur La Salle’s request, observed and noted certain illicit transactions occurring about the warehouse. I know for a fact that she can prove that Monsieur Burelle has bought and resold stolen goods with Monsieur Dufresne’s full knowledge and assistance.”

Aimée had no notion what Françoise’s words meant, but they sounded awful, and she could tell by his heightened color that Julien was getting angrier and angrier by the minute.

Bienville had listened, mouth clamped shut, but he put up a hand to forestall Julien’s response. “I’ve had enough unsolicited interference for one afternoon, Mademoiselle Dubonnier,” he said evenly. “Dufresne’s father is of a higher rank than your own, and a significant investor in our colonial enterprise. It will take more
than the word of a British spy—and a whining accountant—to convince me to distrust him.” He sighed. “Now you will oblige me by occupying your fertile imagination with something less critical to our survival. Good day, mademoiselle.” He backed into his office, shoved La Salle out, and slammed the door.

Aimée, wide-eyed, met Françoise’s shocked gaze. “Oh dear,” she said.

Bienville, Julien was convinced, sat fully in his pocket. His jubilation only slightly doused by the driving rain, he assisted Aimée Gaillain’s descent of the headquarters gallery steps, resigned to the fact that her mincing steps would turn the short walk from headquarters to the chapel into a thirty-minute funeral procession.

The commander had no idea that Vital Hayot, the Comte de Leméry, had gone to his eternal reward, leaving the feckless Gilbert holding the reins of the estate in his incompetent grasp. All Julien had to do was wait for the Brits to land at Massacre Island, and he would be forever shut of this miserable, waterlogged colony and its illiterate bourgeois inhabitants. Of course, should he be able to bring about his original plan to do away with the seemingly un-killable Tristan Lanier, he might change his mind and make use of the title after all.

One must keep one’s options open, after all.

He began to listen to Aimée’s artless prattle. The girl occasionally had something interesting to say, and she might be useful in his pursuit of fame and fortune. Besides, as his future wife and mother of his heirs, one could argue that she held a minor stake in the game.