Lyn Cote's Blog, page 102

Chapter Twelve Scene 4 La Belle Christiane

If you've just discovered this free read, click Archived Free Read and start at the beginning!

La Belle Christiane

by Lyn Cote

2011 copyright Lyn Cote

All rights reserved

Chapter Twelve, Scene 4

Down the hall and stairs as the major and Christiane walked silently, he asked himself why had he acquiesced to her appeal. He wanted nothing to do with any woman ever again. So then why was this beautiful young woman walking beside him? And why had he suddenly noticed how much more beautiful she'd become in the intervening years? Disgruntled, Eastham opened the door of his room and ushered her inside. Still, the situation of seeing her again so long after they'd met intrigued him.          Once inside she went directly to the fireplace and stood, looking down into the flames moodily. Early winter darkness left no sun to cheer the room. She stared at the fire; he stared at her. As a test, he asked tentatively, "Have we met before?" Would she admit that she recognized him too?

She turned to face him, "Yes." There was a tension in her words.

What would she tell him? "No clue, just yes?"

"It is difficult for me, I suppose, because you were so important in my life and yet I was evidently just a brief incident in yours."

"Will you explain please?" He motioned for her to sit.  Important in her life. He realized now that he'd thought of her over the intervening years. And he'd dismissed it as curiosity about what had become of her.

Christiane nodded. She perched on the edge of a new chair by the fire and waited till he sat in the chair opposite hers. As the major sat down, he wondered at the addition of this second chair. He would have to speak to Alfred about removing it. This woman would not be staying long. No doubt one of the officers would soon claim her favors. The thought burned inside him; he crossed his legs and propped an elbow on the chair arm.

"You were a captain when I met you."

"It was in Canada then?" So she would tell him.

"Yes, at the fort on the Ottawa River. Does that help you?"

"There were very few white women who visited while I was there, just a handful in five years." He wanted to hear her recollection of their meeting first.

"Then I'm sure you will remember me." A touch of annoyance spiced her tone.

Evidently no woman wished to be forgotten, slighted. Should he reveal that he'd recognized her? Finally he whispered, "Jean Claude Belmond."

She nodded.

"But how did you ever get from Versailles to the Ottawa?"

"It is a very long tale, but suffice to say, I ran away from my grandmother with my father to Canada. He was killed by foul play and I was lost in the wilderness till an Algonquin found me."

He shook his head. Then he scrutinized her. "You've grown up."

"I was only fifteen that summer. On Christmas Day I will be nineteen."

"What happened? I heard of you and Belmond that first spring and the next spring. But he didn't show up for the Rendevous. So a few of the trappers went up to your place that summer to investigate. All they found was an empty cabin and a grave. You had disappeared."

Christiane pursed her lips. "Jean Claude had been out stringing traps. For some reason he was coming back later than usual. I think he must have surprised the bear or maybe the animal was wounded, I don't know. I heard it and ran out to help. I managed to shoot the bear, but not soon enough," Christiane's voice quavered and she bowed her head.

Unconsciously his respect for her was growing. It was not often that one met a woman who coped so well under such adverse circumstances. He remembered how she had faced her challenge that day with him at the fort. The major rose and went to a cabinet nearby. Pouring two glasses of brandy, he brought one to her and then stood by the hearth near her. Silently they sipped their brandies as he gave her time to re-gain control of herself.

He was sincerely sorry for her loss. She had touched him that day years ago. She had been brought to camp as an Indian captive and he had found her a husband by the luck of the draw. "Evidently my match-making was successful."

Christiane smiled gently. "Jean Claude was very good to me, very good."

"I am glad. I wondered. The circumstances were so unusual." More of what he had felt that day with her filtered into his mind. He'd regretted letting her go. He shut down this line of thought. The room was dark now except for the fire. His shadow was long against the white wall opposite the fire.

He sat down, facing her, and stretched his long legs and their shiny black boots toward the fire. He rotated his wrist, swirling the golden brandy in his round glass. "When your husband died, why didn't you come back to the fort?"

Christiane measured her answer. Speaking of the past had almost loosened her tongue completely. She had to remember that now he was the adversary, not just an acquaintance from the past. "I wanted a different life."

He looked at her silently encouraging her.

"I cared for Jean Claude, but when he died, I decided that I did not want to spend my life as a fur trapper's wife. So I decided to go farther south."

She had almost explained about her son, but decided that should remain a secret. The less this man knew the better.  "I made it to a village near the Mohawk Valley."

"You found a place there?"

"Yes, there was a crude inn. I worked and spent the winter there." She thought of Jakob, but to admit to a husband who had died a Continental soldier would be stepping onto dangerous ground. "I would have stayed there, but during the summer there was an Indian raid. I survived because I was in the hills, picking raspberries. After that, I decided to come farther south to civilization."

He nodded slowly.  The conversation lapsed here.

Christiane was glad he asked her no more questions for she did not want to go into detail as to her whereabouts and incriminating activities after Rumsveld. By the hearth-glow they sat, she and he lost in their own thoughts.

Trying to focus herself on the dilemma she was in, she looked around the large, sparsely furnished room. It was dominated by the curtained bed and fireplace. White puffed sheers, tied back at the windows, shimmered in the moonlight. The firelight showed tiny blue roses on the wallpaper. And the polished oak floor gleamed in front of the hearth. It was definitely a man's room, no feminine touches, knickknacks or small portraits, just books, clothes, his weapons, all tended and precisely put away by his manservant.

Would he help her again? She sighed almost silently and glanced at the darkened windows. The feathery patterns of frost climbed higher and higher on them. The church bell chimed six times. Still they did not break the cozy silence. Voices were heard passing down the hall. Laughter. Footsteps. The two of them remained an island of solitude. Though she must stay alert, she felt exhausted by the emotions expended by this unusual day. She had only one course open that she could see. Would he say yes or no? The dull ache at the cap of her head began to creep lower due to her fatigue. She closed her eyes to rest them.

At last she broached what was on her mind, "My lord, I need a favor." Her voice was somber and it did not shatter their restful peace. "Now that everyone here knows whose daughter I am, they will make certain assumptions about me that will be incorrect."

"Explain." He turned his eyes to hers.

Christiane frowned. "My mother was one of the most beautiful women in Europe and she was the companion of many notable men. She lived the life that my grandmother and her mother lived, the life of the courtesan. Men here will assume that I carry on the Pelletier tradition, that I live that life."

He nodded.

"Major, I have never lived that kind of life–nor have I ever intended to. It was the reason I left France. I never felt that I belonged in the salons of Paris. That I would never be able to feel comfortable in that role. It is difficult to put into words." She paused. "I need your help to get away."

"Get away?"

"Yes, I cannot stay here. I cannot be my mother's daughter, but I need clothes and a mount. Will you help me?"

He did not answer right away and she tensed. "Do you think leaving abruptly would be wise?" he asked at last.

"Why?"

"First you are still under some suspicion. If you leave abruptly, it may be misinterpreted and you could be pursued. Also people like Howe would wonder why a Pelletier would wish to leave the company of the only aristocracy in the New World. It would look very peculiar."

He was right. She felt a cold lump forming in her middle. If she were questioned again and asked for the names of her friends in Pennsylvania, what answer could she give? She swallowed and went on then, "Then will you give me your protection?"

"Protection?"

"Yes, you protected me once before and my need is just as great now."

"How so?"

"They have already assumed that I have chosen you as my amour. Can't we let them go on thinking that till I am able to leave?" She trembled at her own request.

Glancing at the frosted window panes, she visibly shivered at the thought of walking the twelve or more miles to Valley Forge, alone and unarmed, dressed in buckskins. She had started this flight in panic, but now the only needs she felt were for warmth, security and time to recover. Travelling alone last winter had nearly cost her her life. This time it might cost her, at the very least, her unblemished reputation.

She watched him then while he contemplated her request. That it was a fierce battle showed on his face.

He glanced at her and then away. The situation irritated him. He did not want a woman here in his quarters, in his life. She could stir memories he feared to open? Alone. He wished to be alone, single the rest of his days. But something about her stopped him from saying no. Hadn't he also left home, determined to break with the past? He felt a grudging admiration for her fight to survive whatever came.

He saw her shiver as she looked at the windows and he read it for what it was–her grappling with the possibility of having to set off in winter on foot in her worn deerskins. He had been responsible for her once before. Surely this association would not last long. She would leave under some pretext soon. How could he deny a woman of such bravery? He looked into her eyes and nodded.

"Oh, thank you, my lord," she whispered.

"You may stay with me till we find your possessions and concoct a believable reason for your departure," he spoke in a businesslike voice.

She felt a deep gratitude. She knew she had no hold on him.

A brisk knock on the door shattered their peace. Alfred appeared and answered it. A small woman stood at the door.

"I'm the seamstress, Mrs. Loring's seamstress. I have a dress here to alter for a lady, named Belmond."

Alfred turned a questioning eye toward Christiane.

She rose and went to the door. "I am Madam Belmond."

"How do you do, madam. Mrs. Loring has offered you one of her dresses. I am sent to fit it to you, so that it can be ready by morning."

"But–"

"It is a gift from Mrs. Loring."

Christiane stood, wondering what she should do.

The major's voice spoke up, "Come in. How kind of Mrs. Loring to think of Madam Belmond." There was a tinge of the ironic in his voice. He knew enough about the notorious woman to know that she was usually only generous with herself. He stood up and walked over to Christiane. Bending down, he planted a light kiss on her forehead. "I will go play a few hands while you are fitted." He was pleased to see that his performance was so good, it had obviously astonished Alfred.

Christiane forced a smile and bid him good luck. Alfred disappeared, looking confused. Christiane and the seamstress lit more candles and busied themselves with the altering of the lovely brown woolen dress with touches of a highland plaid.

In the hallway Eastham took a deep breath and straightened himself to his full height. What was a woman doing in his life again? Dear God, it would be torture.

I wonder why he says that last line? Any guesses?

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Chapter Twelve Scene 3 La Belle Christiane

If you've just discovered this free read, click Archived Free Read above and start at the beginning!

La Belle Christiane

by Lyn Cote

2011 copyright Lyn Cote

All rights reserved

Chapter Twelve, Scene 3

Instantly there was a buzz of voices in the room among the older officers. The name Pelletier was a notorious one in the salons of Paris.

Howe looked surprised. "Are you certain, Colonel? What would a Pelletier be doing in Philadelphia?" By his inflection his low opinion of the provincial capital was made plain.

"Oh, I am positive, my lord. My association with Renee lasted many years and Christiane and I saw each other very often." He patted her hand.

"I hate to intrude on this tender reunion," Colonel Mensing cut in acidly, "but why is Miss Pelletier or Mrs. Belmond in Philadelphia? French sympathies for the Revolution are well known."

Colonel Hazelton gave the man a murderous look. "A lady of the Pelletier family does not need to explain herself to you."

"But I'm afraid she does have to explain herself to me," Howe said softly. There was a pause throughout the room.

Christiane faced the general squarely. "I have already explained how I came to be in Philadelphia. Who I am does not alter anything I have said."

"How do you come to be in Pennsylvania and not Canada? How long since you were in Paris?" Howe asked.

"I came to Canada around six years ago with my father, as I said before. I did not care for Canada in the winter, so I have been slowly moving south."

"Why did you give us the name, Belmond?" he pursued.

"It is my married name. I am a widow."

The general silently examined her face. His pause lengthened. Christiane began to worry what his verdict would be.

"Then I have only one thing to say," he said as he waved his hand dramatically. "Welcome to Philadelphia, Madam Belmond." There was a round of applause and laughter.

Keeping Christiane on his arm, Hazelton introduced her to many of the surrounding officers. Most of them ogled her frankly, dropping genteel hints of their interest in her.

At these suggestive phrase, Christiane felt some panic. Her recognition of her old friend had been completely spontaneous, but had it been wise? She had left Paris to avoid following in her mother's footsteps. Now that her true identity as the daughter of a royal courtesan had been revealed, they evidently expected her to be an object of amorous adventures. She had wanted to be believed and then dismissed, not noticed and detained further.

Her eye lighted on Major Eastham. This morning he had been brusque, but he had treated her with decency and courtesy–even if he had failed to recognize her. And at that fort over three years ago she had learned he was capable of unexpected kindness.

She whispered an apology to Hazelton. Then putting her hand to her brow, she went over to the major's side. Her hand shielded her face so that only the major could read the appeal it wore. "Major, I am not feeling well again. Would it be possible for you to escort me back to your quarters?"

Major Eastham still reeled from the stunning blow that had come when this woman had entered the room. Last night it had been too dark for him to see her face as more than a shadow. Then this morning, he hadn't studied her, hadn't wanted to do more than get her out of his room, out of his life. But when she'd entered in the candlelit room, he'd known who she was. Why hadn't she told him they'd met in Canada? Did she have something to hide?

Yet now he looked up at her and read only the clear appeal. He wanted to beg off, to turn her over to someone else, but he found he could not. He hadn't left her unprotected in Canada; he couldn't here either. "General?" he asked as he arose to take her arm in his.

"Of course," Howe replied, looking surprised  at her choice. Christiane left the room on Major Eastham's arm. As the door closed after them, there was a collective, disgruntled murmur .

"Who is this Pelletier or Belmond woman anyway?" Mrs. Loring asked peevishly, not liking how everyone was buzzing about this new woman, this new rival.

"She comes from quite an extraordinary family," her lover answered mildly. "Colonel Hazelton, would you come over and play a hand with us?" The colonel came over and sat in Major Eastham's chair. A thoroughly disgusted and silent Colonel Mensing dealt the cards and they began another game of hearts. Howe played his card and then asked, "Colonel, Mrs. Loring would like to know about the Pelletier family history. You would know it best."

Hazelton took his turn and then smiled at Mrs. Loring. "It was my privilege to be a close friend of Christiane's mother, Renee, for almost fifteen years. She was a jewel of a woman, lovely, intelligent, witty, a credit to her family." He paused to emphasize his next words. "Her family has included some of the most famous courtesans in Paris, special favorites at the French court for the last three generations."

Mrs. Loring's eyes widened. "You mean this girl has been presented at the French Court?" To her, as to the rest of the civilized world, being presented at the French Court was the pinnacle of social acceptance.

"No," Hazelton answered as he studied his cards, "she left Paris at too early an age, but her family has always been received at court and she would have been also, of course. In fact all of her preceding kin have had private apartments at Versailles at one time or another."

"No!" the blond exclaimed. Everyone knew that a private apartment at Versailles meant an affair with the reigning monarch. She almost swooned just imagining it, the flattery, the gifts, to be the mistress of a French king.

"Yes, hers is quite an interesting family history. It all began with her great-grandmother.  She managed to appear at court and charmed her way into old Louis's bed and stayed till she acquired a start of a family fortune."

"The family is wealthy?" Mrs. Loring asked with a slightly dry mouth.

"Incredibly. Generations of royal and noble generosity and appreciation, need I say more? And they have unique distinction. They control their fortune themselves. They remain single. Usually, as I am sure you know, to play at court a woman must be married. Pelletiers never marry and no one ever questions it. I don't know why, but that is the way of it. I was surprised to hear Christiane announce that she was a widow. She is the first Pelletier in my memory to marry."

"You mean she is a bastard?" Mrs. Loring asked, prickling with excitement at this exotic story.

"Of course," Howe put in, "but with some of the bluest blood in France. Am I right, Colonel?"

"Definitely. Christiane's grandfather was Louis XIII himself."

The Sultana was speechless. She had met royalty, finally. And royalty she could approach.

The colonel went on, "Christiane's grandmother, Madeleine, was always a bit upset that her daughter had a child by an Irish emigre. The fellow always represented himself as of noble blood, but the grandmother disliked him. He was rather 'hot' politically and not around much. Still she tolerated him because he had fathered a girl to carry on the line."

Mensing asked, "Why did this girl leave then? Sounds to me she would have been much better off in Paris than here."

Hazelton frowned. "It is a sad tale. I was in England at the time. If I had been there, maybe I could have helped Christiane."

"Yes?" Mrs. Loring urged.

"I am ashamed to say, an Englishman was the culprit. A lord from the north of England formed an unhealthy attachment to Christiane's mother. He couldn't stand the thought of Renee Marie being with anyone, but himself. Quite unbalanced."

"Go on," the Sultana coaxed.

"Well, I understand from what her grandmother told me later that he had become intolerable and Renee had broken with him. One night not long after, he stabbed Renee to death. Then he took his own life."

"That must have been a shock for the girl," Howe remarked kindly. "When I heard her name, I remembered that there had been some kind of scandal, but I could not recall the details."

Mrs. Loring's mind was spinning. The story was so romantic like something out of a play. And the girl was royalty, really and truly. The ambitious woman made up her mind right then. That girl needed a friend and no one was going to beat Elizabeth Loring to her. Her keen mind began a plan. Without announcement she rose and left the room. Her lover watched her exit quizzically.

So running into an old friend has merely complicated an already complicated situation. And what about this Mrs. Loring? BTW, there really was a Mrs. Loring and she was the mistress of General Howe. She is what we call  now "a piece of work." Watch out, Christiane!–Lyn

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Author Allie Pleiter & Daily Doses of Strength

My guest today is Author Allie Pleiter. She has had a rough year with her son's illness. Here's Allie:

"I used to think of strength as something that came in big, crushing waves, sort of like Moses coming down off the mountain.  An epic surge that carried our heroes through their trials.  I do think strength comes like that, but rarely.

More often than not, strength comes in daily doses.  The sheer will to get up and do it all again.  Life has taught me that even this kind of strength comes in varieties as well.

When my son was undergoing chemotherapy, I had to draw on the keep-pushing-you-can-endure kind of strength.  People ask me how I got though the five months of my son's aggressive chemo, and the answer is simpler than you might think.  I didn't get through five months of my son's aggressive chemo.  I got through today's chemo.  And then I got through tomorrow's chemo.  And some days, I just got through this hour's challenges, and then next hour's challenges.  It was the a living lesson in the scripture telling us not to worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow has worries of its own from Matthew 6.  My son is doing spectacularly, by the way–full remission and with a long and wonderful future ahead of him.  Still, the take-it-day-by-day lesson hasn't left me. I hope it never will.

My heroine in Yukon Wedding, Lana Tanner, has a different daily dose.  Lana has that dig-your-heels-in-never-give-up kind of strength that enables her pay any price to stay in Alaska.  She simply will not give in to the massive challenges of the Alaskan landscape.  She agrees to marry the last man she'd choose because it is her only chance to achieve her dreams for her son. Some might call it stubbornness, but when you focus stubbornness on a worthy goal, it becomes strength.  Tenacity.  She may be lace and frills on the outside, but there's an iron will under that ruffle.  The hero, Mack Tanner, may think he's done his duty to protect this damsel in distress, but in reality God has handed him a life partner that will teach him how to trust.  And that's a lesson Mack needs badly to learn.

Mack and Lana think they are strong in spite of each other, but the true treasure in this treasure-hunt story is that they are stronger because of each other.  That's the power of love."

Thank, Allie. Your words are heartening. May God bless you and your family in the days to come.

Bio:

An avid knitter, coffee junkie, and devoted chocoholic, Allie Pleiter writes both fiction and non-fiction.  The enthusiastic but slightly untidy mother of two, Allie spends her days writing books, buying yarn, and finding new ways to avoid housework.  Allie hails from Connecticut, moved to the Midwest to attend Northwestern University, and currently lives outside Chicago, Illinois.  The "dare from a friend" to begin writing has produced two parenting books, fourteen novels, and various national speaking engagements on faith, women's issues, and writing.  Visit her website at www.alliepleiter.com or her knitting blog at www.DestiKNITions.blogspot.com

Many of you have found strength through suffering. Please leave a comment for Allie to bless her and her son. Or maybe a prayer.–Lyn

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Chapter Twelve Scene 2 La Belle Christiane

If you've just discovered this free read, click Archived Free Read and start at the beginning.

La Belle Christiane

by Lyn Cote

2011 copyright Lyn Cote

All rights reserved

Chapter Twelve, Scene 2

Christiane struggled against his grip, but she had all she could do to stay on her feet as he hurried down the landing and stairs with her in his wake. Soon they stood before a door. She heard loud voices from inside and then a tipsy trill of a woman's laugh. This did not seem a proper room for an interrogation. "I will not go in."

With a deep growl, the soldier opened the door and, miscalculating the amount of force needed to bring her through the doorway, he catapulted Christiane into the room. She bumped against the nearest table, almost upsetting it. The clatter of the scattered playing chips, caught the attention of the surrounding players.  All eyes turned to her.

Christiane felt her spine stiffen. Did they expect to treat her with such disrespect with impunity? Her chin lifted regally, her hands clasped in front of her, she defiantly surveyed the room. She'd been brought to a gaming room. Officers in pairs and groups were playing cards and chess. Some women were present, elegantly dressed and coifed. The room was white with powdered wigs. Then she saw her major rise from the table by the fire and stride over to her.

"Major, here is the prisoner," the sergeant announced.

"Take your hands off her. You were told to bring her, not abuse her." The major stepped close to Christiane, his voice low. "Madam, are you all right?"

"Why have I been brought here?"  She vibrated with outrage.

"I was over-ruled," he murmured into her ear. "Mensing is a fool and Howe thought it a joke." His volume rose. "Please follow me, madam. General Howe would like to speak with you." He offered his arm.

Christiane's insides congealed. She did not want to meet the commanding officer of the British Army in America. Imprisonment, death or freedom–Howe had complete power over her. Then as defiance surged in her, her fear evaporated. How dare he treat her in such a common manner? Whether he condemned her to prison or not, she was a lady and General Howe would know it.

She took a deep breath and tossed her head, making her hair that still flowed freely to her waist, ripple. Accepting the major's arm, she arranged her long emerald skirt and, holding its hem with one hand, gracefully accompanied him over to the table. When they arrived at the general's gaming table, the major cleared his throat.

As if just remembering their manners, the two men stood up, causing their chairs to scrape the polished floor. The major murmured, "Gentlemen, and Mrs. Loring, Madam Christiane Belmond." On her right the general, a tall man in his middle years, took the hand she had extended to him and bent over it.

He did not look as though he had intended to, but her manner must have decreed it. Inwardly she smiled. Her grandmother's lessons on panache would most definitely be of use in this situation.

"General Howe at your service, madam," Howe said wryly.

"An honor, general." Christiane answered correctly and turned to the colonel on her left.

"Colonel Mensing," the man said curtly, but he also kissed her hand.

"Colonel," she acknowledged. Then in accordance with etiquette she turned her attention to the blonde who sat beyond the general to Christiane's right.

"Mrs. Loring, Mrs. Belmond." Christiane curtseyed.

Mrs. Loring nodded cautiously.

So this was the notorious Mrs. Loring herself. Christiane stood stiffly. There was a strained pause. The major quickly dragged an unoccupied chair from a nearby table. Christiane sat down, modestly arranging the dressing gown around her.

The general cleared his throat. "Major Eastham, let me understand this. Is this the woman that, you say, was disguised as a boy?" His voice sounded as though this were possibly a joke of the major's.

"Yes, general, this is she," he replied stiffly.

The general turned to Christiane. "Would you explain this to me please, madam? The major gave me his version, but I would like to hear it from you."

"Of course, General Howe–though I do believe that this interview has been made unnecessarily awkward–it is all very simple. I was travelling from New Jersey to western Pennsylvania to visit friends. Since I was alone, I disguised myself as a young boy to avoid trouble." Silence greeted her explanation.

Mensing looked disgruntled. "That sounds peculiar to me," he muttered. He put a great deal of emphasis onto the word "peculiar".

Major Eastham put in mildly, "Oh, I don't know. The more I think about it, the more sense it makes." The colonel scowled at him in return.

General Howe looked at Christiane thoughtfully. Smiling conspiratorially to Mrs. Loring, he asked as innocently as possible, "What type of trouble could you possibly be referring to, Mrs. Belmond?"

"I beg your pardon?" Christiane answered, her face stony.

"The sentries thought her suspicious. She must have given them some cause," Colonel Mensing spat out.

General Howe could not hold back his mirth. "Colonel, though I have severe doubts about the intelligence of General Washington, I do not think he has started dressing woman as boys to act as couriers. Why not just use boys? And it is no wonder that the sentries thought her suspicious. Mrs. Loring would look suspicious in men's breeches, too." Howe laughed at his own jest and the rest of the room joined him.

Christiane scanned the room. This had gone on long enough. In a moment she would rise and excuse herself. All those around her were laughing, enjoying the intriguing situation, and the joke at the expense of the disgruntled, obviously unpopular colonel.

Then unexpectedly a face at the table directly to her right startled her, arresting her attention. She studied it carefully. Seven years or more had passed since she had seen him. Yes, it was him. Suddenly her heart beat faster. Without thinking, Christiane stood up and slowly went to stand in front of the English officer.

As she scrutinized him carefully, she almost ceased to notice the actions and voices around her. At her unexpected attention, the distinguished-looking man stopped laughing, stood up, and gave her a detailed examination in return. Little by little, the gaiety around them subsided. Complete silence came and Christiane was now almost oblivious to everyone, but the gentleman before her. Finally she spoke wonderingly, "Lord Hazelton?"

At this appellation he took her face in his hands and turned it toward himself. "Madam, you do remind me of someone. Could you really be–"

"You knew my mother Renee Marie," she said softly, "I have not seen you since I was thirteen years old." Tears sprang to her eyes. She would not have predicted that seeing someone who had been close to her mother would affect her so.

"It is little Chrissy, isn't it?" he asked in French.

"Oh, Lord Hazelton, it is so good to see someone from home," she said also in French. She swallowed tears.

"How is it that you are here in Philadelphia, Christiane?"

"Oh, it is a long story, but I came with my father to Canada first."  She shuddered at the mention of that awful trip and fatal end.

"After your mother's death?"

"Oui," she said in a small voice. She still found it difficult to speak of her mother's death, even to this old friend.

"I was so sorry, Christiane, so very sorry when I heard about it. I was so sad to have been away just when you needed a friend. It must have been dreadful–dreadful," he consoled her.

"General, what are they saying?" Mrs. Loring asked, breaking into the exchange. "Why don't they speak in English?"

"Evidently, my dear, they are old friends," he answered; his eyes still on Christiane. "Colonel Hazelton, do you know this young woman?" he asked loudly.

Colonel Hazelton took Christiane's hand and led her to the general. He did it in such a fashion that it announced to all: This is a lady. Act accordingly. "General Howe," the colonel announced formally, "I would like to present to you, Christiane Marie Renee Pelletier, the daughter of a very dear friend of mine, the late Renee Marie Pelletier of Paris."

Even in 1777, the world could be a small place. Will Christiane's finding an old friend prove good or ill?

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Getting Ready for Third Annual MEGA May!

This is the Mother's Day Postcard which will be part of my THIRD ANNUAL MEGA MAY "A Celebration of Strong Women" on this blog.

I will send one of these postcards to any special woman in your life IF you send me her name and address before April 29th. Click "Contact" above and send me the person's name and her mailing address.

Of course, I would never give or "sell" anyone's address. I don't like it when that's done to me so feel confident, your information is safe with me. (Unless they put a gun to my head. Then you're on your own!)

The front of the postcard will read

"Happy Mother's Day from Author Lyn Cote, Someone who loves you asked me to send you these loving wishes."

On the back, the message reads "This wish comes to you from _________________."

I will fill your name into the blank and sign the postcard. I have almost 50 of these for this purpose and would love to send out all of them.

Also during MEGA MAY on this blog, I am

going to feature humorous family stories sent to me by readers. Do you have one of those stories that families tell year after year? The ones that start, "Do you remember when…" and then ends with everyone laughing? I will be posting more about this early in May. So start thinking of a story and wait for the day I say to post them. Okay?

Finally I will be giving away a MEGA basket of goodies and autographed books in a drawing of all of those readers who have participated during May on my blog by either requesting a postcard or  sending me a story or by leaving a comment or by doing all three!

Don't miss this! Mega May is always fun!

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Chapter Twelve Scene 1 La Belle Christiane

If you've just discovered this free read, click Archived Free Read and start at the beginning.

La Belle Christiane

by Lyn Cote

2011 copyright Lyn Cote

All rights reserved

Chapter Twelve, Scene 1

Many replies to this flitted through Major John Eastham's mind, such as how personal could a man be to a woman who was in his bed, but he resisted them manfully. "My apologies, madam. Well, everything you have told me is plausible, but it could be a tissue of lies," he said, still matter-of-fact.

"I have told the truth."

"That remains to be seen." He went on before she could reply, "How is your head?"

"It aches, but if I lie still, it is better." What was it about her that niggled at his memory?

"Then lie still. Pardon me while I dress. Alfred!" he called and pulled the curtains shut.

"My lord, pardon me?" she called gingerly from her nest of blankets and pillows.

"Yes, madam?"

"When you are finished dressing, may I have my saddle bags?  I would like to dress, too. I don't enjoy dressing as a boy."

"Pardon me, madam, but you came to me sans saddlebags."

"What?" Christiane gasped.

He heard the silence that followed. Most likely with her exclamation the agony of her head had returned full force.

"Where are my things then?"  she asked, sounding fretful and in pain.

"Please remain calm, Mrs. Belmond. What items were with you when you were apprehended?"

"My saddlebags and my horse, an old dapple mare, named Nancy."

"I will institute a search for them."

"Until then what am I to wear?" Her tone was plaintive .

He didn't blame her but what did she expect? "You may not believe this, but I do not usually keep female accoutrements in my quarters. I suggest that you stay in bed until something can be found or procured. Anything else, madam?"

"Yes." The woman paused. "What am I doing here?"

"I thought we had already discussed that."

"Shock prevented me from asking this earlier, but is it normal, sir, for an officer to question a prisoner in bed?" she asked.

"No, it isn't, but I thought you would prefer it to freezing to death in an unheated room in the stables overnight." He opened the curtains and looked down at her.

Christiane folded back the top of the comforter an inch or two and peered out. "I don't understand."

The major, now neatly dressed felt more himself. "It is simple. You were being held in the stables. The normal jail is full of patriots and general miscreants, so you were left there for me. When I discovered you, you were unconscious and beginning to suffer from exposure. Dr. Justin, whom I summoned to examine you, suggested a warm fire would revive you. So we brought you up here and we put you to bed."

"Thank you, major." She sounded subdued, not grateful.

"You are welcome, madam. I must leave you for a time. Even in winter quarters there are some duties to be done. If you require anything, just call on Alfred." He turned to his man. "Take care of her." The valet bowed slightly and escorted the major to the door.

When the major closed the door behind himself, he mentally sighed in relief. For almost six years he had avoided being alone with any woman. He was proud that she had not made him overly uncomfortable. Now all he wanted to do was give a report about her and send her on her way. Frankly he did not care whether she was a spy, which he really doubted, or not. Something niggled at the back of his mind. She must remind him of someone he had known. He shook his head.

#

Quietly Alfred, the valet, went about straightening the room. Occasionally he would glance at the form buried in the feather pillows. Since he had re-joined his master here in these colonies, he had been hoping that something or someone would intervene. His lord had grown even quieter and almost reclusive during his years in the wilderness. Maybe this young woman could spark a change for the better. A man would have to be made of stone to be unaffected by her beauty and vulnerability, he thought, and smiled to himself.

#

Several hours later Christiane stirred from her sleep. Gingerly she sat up, waiting for the headache to resume.

"Are you feeling better, madam?" Alfred asked softly. He was standing by the fire.

"I am–a bit," Christiane responded timidly. The headache had shrunk now to merely a tenderness on the cap of her skull.

"You have slept the day away. I brought up your tea just now. The major is still away. I know it will be much too large, but I have placed his lordship's dressing gown on the bed for your use. And over on the dressing table I have brought warm water and toiletries so that you may freshen yourself."

"It is Alfred?"

"Yes, madam."

"What time is it?" She moved slowly, not wanting to ignite the pain again.

"Nearly five, madam."

"Thank you for everything, Alfred. This is very kind of you."

"My pleasure, madam. I will be in the next room if you need me." He bowed slightly and left.

When she was alone, she rose carefully and went to the dressing table. The pitcher of warm water splashed slowly into the wash bowl. Though the pain was gone now, she feared that some movement might bring it crashing back. She made a lather with the lavender-scented soft soap and smoothed it over her face lightly. Then she rinsed and then dried it with a spotless linen cloth. She undid her tangled braids and tried to brush her thick chestnut hair. But her hair could not be tamed and remained full and free around her face. Though the wood crackled and sizzled on the hearth, she shivered. She pulled on the heavy, emerald green, velvet dressing gown. It made a train around her feet. She wrapped its thin cord belt several times around her waist and then tied it in front.

Christiane swished over the shining floor to sit by the fire. Her knee-high moccasins waited for her beside the fireplace. Quickly she pulled them on. Beside her was a tray on a small mahogany table. First she fingered the gleaming white linen dinner napkin and placed it on her lap. Next she carefully lifted the silver lid from the dish. She beheld a feast: half a roast chicken; a deep yellow squash puree, sprinkled with dark brown sugar; a hill of mashed potatoes with a well of light brown gravy; two generous slices of buttered, brown bread; finally a rich fruit compote for dessert.

Her stomach though was not up to the challenge. Barely half of the meal was eaten when Alfred was at her side, gathering up the plates and crumbs. He finished and started to leave.

She stopped him. "Do you know when the major will return?"

"The major? No, madam, he seems to be in conference with some of the command here."

"Oh," Christiane said, fearing that she was the topic of their conference.

Alfred bowed slightly and left for the kitchen. Christiane noticed the morning's newspaper folded on the carpet by her chair. To pass the time she picked it up, but reading it was vexing. Evidently all editors who supported the Revolution had left town with the Continental Congress. The local populace was agog over General Howe and his mistress, an American woman, a Mrs. Loring.

Of course, it did not come right out and say she was his mistress, but Christiane could read between the lines. It called Mrs. Loring, the "Sultana" of Philadelphia. How the allure of nobility could change the way people viewed matters. Any other time the worthy matrons of Philadelphia would shun such a woman; now they were giving parties in her honor! Were these the same people that had welcomed General Washington in the past? Christiane tossed the paper into the fire and watched it turn into ashes.

Christiane was painfully aware that she could still end up in prison. This officer who'd not remembered her had not sounded overly convinced of her story. If anyone delved deeper, they might uncover her political and personal connections with the Revolution and the Washington's. Her relationship with the general and his lady would open many doors for her, but here they would only be cell doors. The idea of escape entered her mind, but how could she get away, clad only in a man's dressing gown? Besides she must maintain the facade of innocence, it was her only defense.

There was a knock at the door. Alfred came out of the inner room. Christiane had not realized that he had returned. When he opened the door, a burly sergeant stood, waiting. "Yes?" Alfred asked politely.

"I am here to fetch Madam Belmond." The voice was rough and loud.

Alfred turned to her. "Madam?"

She stood up. "Pardon me?"

"I am to take you to the rear parlor. General Howe's orders."

"I am not dressed, as you can see," she said. She walked closer to the door and held out the skirt of the dressing gown.

"My orders is to bring Madam Belmond to General Howe," the man insisted.

The significance of this demand suddenly sparked Christiane's temper. She did not care if she was a prisoner. This was not proper behavior toward a lady. "I am sorry, but I must refuse. I am not properly dressed to appear in public." She motioned Alfred to close the door, which he did.

Before either of them could speak or move, the closed door opened again with force. "The general says I am to bring you down," the large man boomed, "and bring you I will!" He reached over and took Christiane's arm, whipping her out of the room like the crack of a whip.

Well, nothing seems to be going the way she wants it to, but we've all had days that like–just not exactly as bad as this!–Lyn

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One More Reason You Should Click Join

Have you ever looked in the upper right hand corner of this page?

If you look there, you'll see

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I have over five hundred members of my egroup but I'd like to double that with your help.

First of all, what's an egroup? It's a private loop for people who are interested in the same things.
Joining my egroup means that you will receive a monthly note from me. In that note, I communicate about


what I'm writing now


what I'm reading


what I'm doing


contests available either here or on other sites

If you aren't a member already, I hope you'll join and invite a friend. MEGA May is about to begin. On Tuesday, I'll be posting about my annual celebration of strong women which lasts the whole Mother's Day month. There will be special giveaways and fun that month as usual!

This week I sent a message to my egroup letting them know about many free Christian novels available on ereaders like the Kindle and asked members to reply. Twenty-four responded. Since I hadn't ever asked my egroup members to respond to a message, I wasn't too surprised that so few did.

Especially since I hadn't let them know I that I was going to choose one of the responders to receive a copy of my latest book, Daddy in the Making.

The winner is Pat Sanchez!

During the remainder of April and throughout May, if you join my egroup or if you're already a member, you can persuade another reader of my books or blog to join (Make sure they email me and give your name. Click Contact above.), I'll enter both names into another drawing to win my latest book and one from the past. How's that?

Finally, here's a link to a drawing to win a Kindle, which is one of those new electronic readers, which a few of us have. (I don't yet. Maybe I'll get one for Mother's Day!) http://wildfireapp.com/website/6/contests/108175

This drawing is by Joanna Weaver to publicize her book Lazarus Awakening. I don't know Joanna and haven't read the book but I think she came up with a good way to call attention to it, don't you?

Anyway, I hope you'll join my egroup or invite someone to join. And swell my membership. I've been kind of stuck around 500 for several years now. Thanks for reading my books, reading my blog, leaving occasional comments.

Do you remember the old days when you had to write a letter to an author, wait months to hear or never hear–because the letter fell behind something at the publisher's office? Sounds ancient, doesn't it? Aren't you glad someone invented blogs, Facebook, etc.? –Lyn

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Chapter Eleven Scene 3 La Belle Christiane

If you've just discovered this free read, click Archived Free Read and start at the beginning.

La Belle Christiane

2011 copyright by Lyn Cote

All rights reserved

Chapter Eleven, Scene 3

The light of the morning filtered through Christiane's closed eyes. Sighing deeply in her half-sleep, she rolled onto her back and opened her eyes sleepily. Above her was a high white coved ceiling, an unfamiliar one. Where am I?

Memories of the road block popped into her mind. Her eyes flew wide. In one quick motion Christiane stood up. Just as suddenly the top of her skull throbbed with a surged. Like an ocean wave the pain flooded her, making her nauseated and weak. Moaning, she staggered back and clutched a bed post.

"Your head hurts?" a quiet male voice asked.

Christiane looked up slightly, but the agony above her brow made her mute.

"Lay back down," the voice instructed her.

"Where?" she gasped. A stranger came over, lifted her effortlessly onto the high feather bed and swept up a quilt from the floor covered her. "Now lie still. Maybe the pain will subside," he continued matter-of-factly.

With closed eyes, she lay still, feeling the pain ever so slightly begin to ebb. She heard logs tumbling onto the fire; then the curtain rings scraped as they were opened wide to the side of the bed that was nearest the hearth.

"Is your pain easing any?" he asked.

"Yes," Christiane managed to whisper. Through tiny slits between her eyelashes, she saw him, standing across from her by the bed, wearing a British officer's uniform. The sight jolted her head and the increased pain nauseated her. "Who are you?" And even as she whispered it, she knew who he was–the young captain at the little fort on the Ottawa River, Captain Eastham. She closed her eyes again, unable to believe what they told her.

"The question is, ma'am, who are you?"

"Where am I?"

He looked at her intently. "On my bed," he said wryly.

"Where?" Her nausea was becoming worse and she was having trouble drawing up enough energy even to speak.

"Philadelphia. And this particular part of Philadelphia is one of the senior officers' quarters," the major spoke as a teacher to a rather slow pupil. "Yesterday afternoon you were apprehended at a roadblock as a suspicious person. You were brought here for questioning. I am the officer in charge of that questioning. From now on I will ask the questions and you will answer them."

Christiane barely nodded, hardly able to see, the morning light stabbing her eyes. Her headache was overpowering her, but she was certain of what she'd seen. This was the captain. His brown hair was pulled back into a tight club, as she remembered, but now it was touched with gray at the temples. But his piercing blue eyes were the same.

He doesn't remember me.

This truth cut her like razors. He had played such a big part in her life. For the past three years, he had appeared in her dreams. How could he not remember her? She pressed her fist against her heart, to stop the ache there. Unable to stop herself, she moaned.

"Are you feeling sick to your stomach?" he asked, sounding concern.

She shook her head slightly. She hadn't known this kind of heart-pain since Jacob had turned away from her that day she found him in New York City. She squeezed her eyelids tight and forced down the tears that were a hair's breadth away.

The incident at the roadblock popped into her mind. Why hadn't she stayed safely at the Richardsons? She was in real peril here. The British officers quarters, dear heaven. The torment of her head threatened to overcome her.  Yet she must gather her wits. This time the captain was her enemy, not her ally. She would have to fight this feeling of drowning in the pain and disappointment and try to think of a plausible story to explain her masquerade. If not, she might very well spend the duration of the war imprisoned. Seconds passed, but she found she could not think of a single false, but believable explanation.

As if reading her thoughts, he said, "Have you come up with a good story yet?"

"No," she said helplessly.

Unexpectedly he laughed and the sound struck her head like a blow. "Then, ma'am, tell me the truth."

"I'll have to," she said softly, still looking away. She wanted to cry out, "It is I, Captain! Don't you remember me? You helped choose my first husband. I have never forgotten you. Why have you forgotten me?" She sucked in a deep breath to choke back the weeping that was in her throat.

"Very well. Begin please."

Since she was in too much pain to lie effectively, she decided to tell the truth, but as little as she could. "What do you want to know?"

"Your name?"

"Mrs. Christiane Belmond." Thinking about Canada had prompted her to use her former name. She almost corrected herself, but stopped. It might be better to use her former name. Christiane Belmond had no connections to the Washingtons. But would her married name jog his memory?

"Where is your husband?"

"I am a widow." Carefully she relaxed her body and her voice to give no evidence of her fear. Nonetheless, her head felt ready to split into two.

"Mrs. Belmond, why were you travelling disguised as a boy?"

"It is safer."

He paused to think. "I see. A woman would cause a stir travelling alone. But the question is: why were you alone?"

"I had no one to travel with." Miserable, she eased back further into the feather pillows and pulled the quilt higher.

"Then why not stay where you were?"

She thought a moment. "I could tell you why, but it is quite personal and I would prefer not to. It has nothing to do with politics," she said honestly.

He thought about this some more. "Personal, you say?"

"Yes, very."

"Where were you going?'

"To visit friends," she answered faintly. Where was her own clothing?  She would need it to flee this house as soon as she could dress and–stand.

"Where is your home?"

"I don't really have a permanent residence right now," Christiane admitted.

"You're a vagrant then?"

"Not really." She knew that vagrancy was against the law. "I have worked as a lady's companion. I am merely between positions."

"A lady's companion?" the major sounded doubtful.

Christiane said, "Yes," as firmly as she could.

"Somehow I don't see you as a lady's companion–a gentleman's companion, yes. A lady's, no."

"You are too personal, sir," Christiane said as hotly as she was able. Only the fear of more pain stopped her from sitting upright.

What will the major say to that?

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Author Missy Tippens & When a Mom Feels Like a Failure

My guest today is Missy Tippens who has an interesting new heroine. Here's Missy:

"I'd love to share a little about A Family for Faith, my new release from Love Inspired, with you today! And I'll be giving away a copy in a drawing from among those who comment. Just let me know you'd like to enter and leave contact info.

Faith, the heroine of my story, is a single mom in a strained relationship with her son, who lives with his father. When the boy was in middle school, he started hanging with a bad crowd and getting into trouble. When he asked to go live with his dad, she had no choice but to try it. And the boy flourished there. In the book, he's in high school and doing well. But she still feels like a failure. She's dealing with guilt about how she handled the past. Trying her best to be supportive and be there for him whenever she can. Hoping to heal their relationship when he comes to visit for the summer.

Sometimes it's difficult being a parent. We make decisions and then doubt ourselves. We blame ourselves. We wish we had a do-over. I based this character on a friend of mine who was devastated after her children chose to live with her ex-husband. She's a good mom but didn't feel that way at the time. Yet she remained firmly in their lives and has kept a good relationship with them even to this day. I consider her a strong woman who persevered through the pain.

A Family for Faith By Missy Tippens

When Faith Hagin sees widower cop Gabe Reynolds every day in her coffee shop, she can't help but feel for the struggling single dad. She's raised a teenager of her own—and sadly, knows what not to do. But thanks to his matchmaking preteen daughter, Chelsea, the whole town's praying for Gabe to find a wife!

Even though Faith thinks she's content being just friends, spending time with him and Chelsea starts to feel like a fresh start at having a family. And their love may be the answer to everyone's prayers.

Bio: Missy Tippens is a pastor's wife and mom of three who lives near Atlanta. After ten years of pursuing her dream, she made her first sale of a full-length novel to Love Inspired in 2007. She still pinches herself to see if it really happened! Her novels have been finalists in the American Christian Fiction Writers Book of the Year Contest, the Gayle Wilson Award of Excellence and the Bookseller's Best Award. Her current novel from Love Inspired is on shelves now. The next, A House Full of Hope, will be out in February 2012.

For more info, drop by http://www.MissyTippens.com and http://lifewithmissy.blogspot.com/ To read an except, click here.

When Missy said "Sometimes it's difficult being a parent," I nearly choked on my coffee. Sometimes parenting seems beyond our powers. When I held my newborn in my arms, the fact that I'd be a mother for the rest of my life never occurred to me. But perhaps that's for the best.  What has been the most challenging age or aspect of parenting for you? And what has helped you as a parent?–Lyn

Chapter Eleven Scene 2 La Belle Christiane

If you've just discovered this free read, click Archived Free Read and start at the start.

La Belle Christiane

2011 copyright by Lyn Cote

All rights reserved

Chapter Eleven Scene 2

"The town jail is full up and we don't have no proper military jail, my lord," the young private said anxiously. "I'm sorry to have to bother you this late in the evenin', sir."

"Quite all right, private," the major answered perfunctorily. "You say the prisoner was brought in this afternoon?"

"Yes, sir, seems he acted suspicious-like at a roadblock east of here."

The major nodded absently. They were approaching the stables near the major's quarters. He was wondering how he had gotten this duty tonight. Normally a captain or lieutenant would handle interrogating such an unimportant prisoner. Usually these prisoners were just young boys, full of the rebellion, no threat, just young and cocky. He would scare the hell out of this one and send him home to his mother.

At least, it was something different. How he hated going into winter quarters. It reminded him too much of Canada. The major entered the stable, followed closely by the private, who was carrying a lantern. The horses snorted and pranced a bit at their intrusion.

"There, there, good fellows," the major said soothingly. He stroked a head here and there as he went down the center aisle between the stalls. They reached a small door at the end of the aisle. The private fumbled and jangled the keys in the dim light and then the old lock grated open. The private unlocked the door and the officer stepped in. A slight form lay still on the scattered hay.

"Here, boy, wake up," the major said as he gently nudged the form with the toe of his boot. Only a soft moan answered him. "Private, was he hurt, do you know?"

"Sorry, sir, I don't know. I didn't see him brought in."

The major motioned for the lantern as he bent one knee into the straw. Carefully he turned the body toward him and looked at the closed face. "There are bruises on his chin and forehead."

"Yes, sir."

"If he has been unconscious since this afternoon, it might be serious."

"Yes, sir."

The officer took the limp wrist to check for a heartbeat. "His pulse is very slow. And his skin is cool, very cool."

"He's only a prisoner, sir."

"I know, but he's just a boy. Look his cheek is as smooth as a girl's." Some mother is waiting up for this cub. "Private, go to the rear parlor. Dr. Justin is playing chess there. Bring him here. Tell him it's urgent."

The major stood, waiting in the darkness. He hoped the lad was not hurt badly. It would be pleasant to think that someone would be able to go home tonight. The minutes ticked by. He stomped his cold feet in the chill room. Another soft moan answered him. The nearby church bell rang ten times plus three-quarters. A few horses shuffled and neighed. Then the quiet closed in around him again and he longed to be back in his room, sleeping or reading by the fire. At last he heard the stable door opening and the footsteps he had waited for.

"Major, you called me away from a warm fire and a hot chess game for this cold barn." the doctor's brusque voice exploded in the confined area.

"Duty calls us all," the major answered wryly.

"Which means if the conscientious major must freeze, so must I?"

"Something like that."

"Well, what is it?" The doctor motioned for the lantern to come closer.

"You tell me." The officer moved the lantern over the silent form atop the straw.

The doctor knelt by his patient. "How long has he been unconscious?"

"Possibly since this afternoon."

"Don't you know for certain?"

"No," the major said, suddenly shivering.

"Wonderful." The doctor tried the pulse. "Weak. Very weak."

"He seems extremely cool to the touch."

"Thinking of taking up medicine?" the doctor asked idly, then more seriously, "It isn't good. Unconscious for this long in an unheated room. I don't know whether it's the initial impact or the cold that is the culprit."

"What should we do?"

"We need to raise his body temperature. If the cold is the culprit, he should regain consciousness." The doctor rubbed his own hands together.

"If not?" the major asked.

"If not, then it's the serious blow to the head. Either way if we leave him out here all night, he might die or, at least, suffer severe frostbite."

"Then let's take him inside. What would be the quickest way to raise his body heat?"

" I suggest he be wrapped in blankets and set him by the fire."

The major frowned, trying to think of where to take the lad, where his kindness would cause the least notice. "Let's get him up to my room." Having said this, he stooped and scooped up the boy's limp form and then slung him on his broad left shoulder. "Private, give the good doctor the lantern. We won't need you anymore tonight. Return to your quarters."

The private saluted happily and was gone.

"All I can say is this boy is lucky to have drawn you. I can't see another officer inviting a colonial lad to their room," the doctor said, hurrying along.

The major gave no answer. They used the kitchen entrance and went up the back stairs and met no one till they entered the major's large room on the second landing. The major's man was waiting by the fire. "Alfred, we need to get this young lad warmed up. He's been unconscious too long."

"I see, my lord," was all the seasoned valet said.

"Well, let's get this over with," the doctor urged, "my chess partner may have made his move and be waiting."

"Not your partner. I saw whom you were playing. It takes him an hour for each move."

The major deftly pulled off the lad's fox tail cap, releasing two long braids.  A few hairpins pinged on the hardwood floor.

The valet, standing beside them, gave a muted gasp. Several minutes of silence passed while the men absorbed the shock. The unknown woman gave another small moan and visibly shivered.

"Let's get her wrapped in those blankets and beside the fire right away," the doctor directly in a low voice. The two men carefully lifted her and carried her to the fire, the only light in the room. Gently they lowered her beside the warmth.

"Well, we'll see now if it was the cold that kept her from coming to," the doctor continued to speak quietly.

As if to answer him, the woman moved slightly and moaned repeatedly. Then her eyelids began to flutter. Her eyes stared at them unfocused, and then they seemed to light on the major's face. The stranger moaned again, seemingly unable to talk.

"Is she regaining consciousness?" the major asked.

"The warmth is helping. It's good you acted so quickly. She might have died out there if left till morning. Wonder what she's doing dressed like a boy?"

The men did not speak again as they chafed her hands and then her feet, bringing the blood back to them. Alfred waited a few steps from them. One hand resting against a solid maple post, the doctor stood at the foot of the bed, draped with thick bed curtains. The major was opposite him, holding the red fox cap, its tail touching the floor. Against the wall of the fire-lit room, their long shadows flickered. For a long while no one spoke.

At last the doctor broke the mesmerized silence. "Well, this is interesting, isn't it?"

"Quite," the major replied succinctly.

"Who do you think she is? More importantly why was she masquerading as a young boy?"

"I have no idea." The major set the hat on back of a nearby upholstered armchair. The firelight illumined the gold thread in the fabric.

"What do you intend to do?"

"Wait until morning and question her," the major said.

"That should be interesting." The doctor sounded amused.

"Perhaps." The major leaned against the carved mantel.

"Well, I'll be getting back to my chess game. This story should liven it up."

The major held up one hand. "Don't."

"What?"

"This may be very complicated and delicate. No one else should know about it till my interrogation is complete and I've reported to Colonel Mensing."

"Mensing? Intelligence, you mean? A woman spy? That's unheard of."

"Not unheard of. Merely unusual." The major took another step closer to the occupant of the  bed.

"Oh, well, I'll still get to embellish the story tomorrow afternoon as one of the three eyewitnesses. Good night."

Alfred escorted the doctor the short way to the door and closed it behind him. For a few moments the major and his man stood, surveying the situation.

"My lord, will you be wanting your night shirt?" Alfred inquired deferentially.

"No," his lord answered, still distracted.

"Extra blankets?"

"Yes," he answered a bit gruffly. "Then go to bed. It's late."

"Yes, my lord." Alfred disappeared through a door to his bed in the dressing room, returned with blankets and then left with a quiet good night.

The major stood many more minutes, just staring down at the sleeping woman. The church bell chimed twelve o'clock. Suddenly his fatigue was crushing. He quickly undressed by the fire. He laid his uniform on the bed. Frost glistened on the windows in the firelight. He tossed a few logs from the wood box onto the low flames. Alfred must have been upset not to have attended to it before leaving for the night.

Again he stood at the hearth, gazing at the woman wrapped in quilts. In the darkened room, he couldn't see her features. But she was young and her hair long and thick. He knew why the doctor had thought the situation–a woman in his room–humorous. He was well aware that the other officers thought him strange because he was not sampling every available strumpet in Philadelphia and its surrounding counties as they were. He had his reasons for behaving differently and they were his own business.

But still he knew if he left his quarters just because this woman was in his bed, he would be a laughingstock. And he was not willing to put himself in that extreme position. He glanced over at the solitary armchair by the hearth, fine for reading, but not for sleeping. However, he couldn't bring himself to sleep in his bed with a stranger, a woman in his room on the floor by the fire. Disgruntled, he wrapped himself in the extra blankets and settled himself in the chair. Just as he began to relax, he was disturbed by a new thought. Scrambling up and over the icy floor, he locked the door from the inside.

Back by the fire, he put the key in his pocket. There. She would not be leaving without giving him a thorough explanation. He took the chair again. He fell asleep with a scowl on his face.

Well, what do you think about this?

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