Lyn Cote's Blog, page 104

Author Ann Gabhart & Book Giveaway

My guest today is Author Ann H. Gabhart who has written a series of Shaker novels. You know of course that I wrote a series of Quaker novels so Ann and I have something akin in common. Here's Ann:

"My Mom – What a Character!

One of the best things about working on a new book idea is coming up with new characters. And the very first character I generally think about is the female lead. I've been writing practically all my life, so that makes for a lot of books. And a lot of different characters. But one characteristic I like my heroines to have is strength of spirit. They make mistakes. They're apt to take off down wrong roads. They get knocked down by life sometimes. But they always get back up. They always fight through to the end. They search for ways through their troubles and don't just stumble across solutions.

That's the kind of characters I wanted for Angel Sister. But this time, thinking up my people was different. This time I had my mother's family in mind since the background for Angel Sister is based on my mom's stories about growing up during the Great Depression. While the characters in the story are only loosely based on my mom's family, I did think of my mother while coming up with one of my viewpoint characters, fourteen-year-old Kate. Kate has a take-care-of-people, can-do attitude and that's my mom. The same as Kate in the story, Mom grew up without money. Her family had a milk cow, honeybees, a garden, and a tab at the local grocery. So they never went hungry, but there were few extras. That didn't bother Mom. She just dealt with it. She tells a story about when she was in a school play once and they only had one pair of stockings without a run. Her sister was crying, wanting to wear the good stockings on a date. Mom was fine with that. She told her mother not to worry, that she'd keep her legs crossed to hide the run in the second pair of hose. That's my mom. Fix things. Keep everybody happy.

After they married, she and Dad moved into an old farmhouse where the teakettle right beside the hearth would sometimes have ice in it on a winter morning. Thank goodness before I came along, they had a warmer woodstove. She and Dad worked side by side on the farm and then she came in from the fields to do all the household chores too. When people in the family fell ill, she gave up whatever she was doing to take care of them. She rarely complained and she stayed beautiful – inside and out. When I was a child, the greatest compliment I could get was someone saying I looked like Mom. I didn't, but I wanted to.

Now Mom is ninety-one and has dementia. Her memory is fading. Pains are harder to bear and life is harder to live. But she's still beautiful and strong. I'm so glad I could bring her childhood years to life in some small way in Angel Sister. The story is fiction, but Kate is strong like my mom."–Ann

Ann has been kind enough to offer a copy of Angel Sister to giveaway. Please leave a comment to be entered into the drawing (include your email with (at) and (dot) substitutions.)

If you'd like to learn more about Ann Gabhart, here are some links:

www.annhgabhart.com

"One Writer's Journal" www.annhgabhart.blogspot.com

Facebook Author Page, https://www.facebook.com/pages/Ann-H-Gabhart/132862247566

"This book (Angel Sister) will leave you changed as it uncovers family secrets and draws you into the days following the first World War and the Great Depression. It will astound you how the characters persevere while making difficult decisions amidst heartache, and their determination to make it through the toughest of hard times." — RT Book Reviews, 4½ Stars Top Pick

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Chapter Ten Scene 1 La Belle Christiane

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

La Belle Christiane

2011 copyright by Lyn Cote

All rights reserved

Chapter Ten, Scene 1

At the beginning of the familiar lane, Christiane stood with her mare patiently at her side. Just hours before she had left Tildy and her family at a fork in the road. Though she had urged them to come with her to spend the night at the Richardsons, they had declined. It was early November and they wanted to get to Massachusetts as soon as they could. Because of the slower pace necessary for the boys and Tildy, it might take them another two weeks or more on foot.

Christiane had offered them Nancy for good, but she knew their pride had prevented them from accepting this gift. Also since Quakers did not support the Revolution, Christiane had gotten the feeling that Sergeant Main did not want to be beholding to any of them. Christiane led Nancy up the lane. The autumn sun's rays were shafts of light nearly level with the horizon. It had been a warm day and her mouth was dry, but not only from the dusty roads. Anticipation and nerves caused her heart to thump erratically.

Then she was at the Richardson's kitchen door, knocking. In a few seconds the door was opened by Josiah, still straight and tall. He seemed stunned at first and then his voice boomed, "Sarah Anne! Our prayers are answered! Christiane is home!" His large arms clasped Christiane to him till his small, plump wife pushed between them.

"Christiane! The Lord be praised!" Sarah Anne exclaimed and drew her in excitedly. Josiah went out to stable Nancy and Christiane sat down while the old woman hurried about preparing tea.

"Sarah," Christiane said, glancing around, "where is Jean Claude?"

"Napping. In fact, we all nap a bit in the afternoons. He will be down the steps soon." She smiled and set a steaming cup in front of Christiane.

"You said in your August letter that he was talking now?" The kitchen was as large as she had remembered and even in the low light was bright with its white walls and blue curtains.

"Oh, yes, two and three words at a time now. He is quite a talkative little fellow. And so big! He has grown so fast I have had a time keeping him in clothes these months!" Christiane drank in the information, trying to imagine her infant son talking and grown large.

"Oh, Christiane, I praise the Lord for thy safe return. Thee does not know how many times Josiah and I have sat outside on the porch and looked down the road, hoping for the sight of thee." Sarah reached for and took Christiane's hand, but Christiane only smiled distractedly, her eyes going to the stairs. Sarah looked at her sympathetically. "He will be along soon, my dear."

Then Christiane glanced at Sarah. "It has been so long."

"It will be all right, Christiane. He will soon forget that thee were ever gone." Josiah came in and sat beside his wife, beaming at Christiane. While they talked, Christiane's eyes continued straying to the stairs.

At last she heard the sound she had been awaiting. Jean Claude was bouncing down each wooden step as he held the railing tightly with both hands. Christiane caught her breath at the sight of him.

"Toast, Gramma, toast," he ordered.

"Very well. Give thy old Gramma a chance," the woman chuckled.

At the sight of the stranger at the table, he halted.

"Jean Claude," Sarah coaxed gently, "we have someone special for thee to meet."

From the steps, Jean Claude stared at the stranger in his kitchen, his face serious at her attention. Carefully he edged over to sit by Josiah, keeping wary eyes on the intruder. Sarah began preparing the child's toast. All the while Christiane and her son studied each other.

He had his father's eyes, large and liquid brown with thick curling lashes. His skin was brown from the sun and silky with baby down on his round cheeks. A long narrow nose contrasted with the roundness of his face. Surrounding his face was curly, uncombed hair the color of bitter chocolate. Many feelings coursed through Christiane. Primarily though she felt pride and gratitude. The father had been taken early, but the son was handsome and well-made. "You've taken beautiful care of him."

"He is a dear, isn't he?" Sarah replied while Josiah smiled broadly.

Christiane ached to hold him, but the child continued to keep space between them though the old couple gently encouraged him not to. The evening passed. Christiane tried to relax in the circle of warmth by the fire. She felt happy to have reached her destination, but still discontented at her son's reaction.

Finally just before bed Jean Claude approached her cautiously as she sat on the settle by the fire. He climbed up beside her and touched her hair tentatively. Christiane held her breath. "Chris," he said, "Chris."

"Now, Jean Claude, thee must not call–" Josiah spoke up quickly.

"Jean Claude," Christiane asked softly, "would you like to call me maman?"

He shook his head. "Chris," he repeated. Josiah began again to correct him.

"It is all right, Josiah," Christiane cut in. "You can call me 'Chris' for now, Jean Claude." She fingered his hair. Her touch made him scramble down. Sarah and Josiah exchanged glances which said they did not approve and Christiane was suddenly weepy and tired, ready to go up to bed.

Some of you predicted this reunion will be difficult. How will Christiane handle this? She's very fragile now after all she's gone through. I worry about her & I'm the author!

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GoodReads Giveaway–Lyn's Upcoming Love Inspired

Goodreads Book Giveaway

Daddy in the Making (Steeple Hill Love Inspired
by Lyn Cote

Giveaway ends May 01, 2011.

See the giveaway details

at Goodreads.

Enter to win

Just wanted to let you know that you can follow this link and enter to win a copy of my April Love Inspired. If you haven't checked into GoodReads, you might want to. Another Love Inspired Author Janet Tronstad hosts a very active discussion group under the Love Inspired Author page. I drop by there at least once a day to chat. This is a free gathering place for readers to interact with writers. So if you like to read, you'd like GoodReads. Click here to go to my author profile there.

So are you a member already? Do you have another place you gather to chat with authors?

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Chapter Nine Scene 5 La Belle Christiane

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

La Belle Christiane

2011 copyright by Lyn Cote

All rights reserved

BOOK TWO

Chapter Nine, Scene 5

The next two weeks rushed by. Christiane spent time  shrinking the load of French/English translation that she helped with, and generally tying up loose ends. At first, she did not tell anyone that she was planning to leave, but finally even the busy men noticed her preparations. General Washington was concerned about her safety. He wanted to be sure that she knew that she should come back only with proper escort. After her promise to this, he was satisfied, but he urged that she return soon. Martha would be wanting her when she came.     The night before she left, Christiane walked outside the big house. A mixture of anticipation and apprehension had made it impossible for her to settled down inside her quarters, so she took a walk in a nearby grove of red-leaved oak trees. The sun had just finished setting and a huge, golden harvest moon was rising. She clutched her shawl close around her in the crisp night air. At a distance she saw another figure coming toward her. From afar she recognized the man's broad shoulders and long strides.

"Henry," Christiane greeted him with a low gracious curtsey. Caution churned in her stomach. Her decision to leave still caused her worry.

"May I speak with you?" He asked as he bowed over her hand.

"Of course."

There was a moment of hesitation. "I wish I were able to escort you to New Jersey, but my duties–"

Christiane cut in, "I understand. You are needed here." In any event though it made her feel petty, Christiane still wanted to keep her two classes of friends separate. The gulf between the Mains and the Lees was vast.  She pushed this problem aside. I can't help that. The world is as it is. I can't change that.

"Christiane, I wish to take this opportunity to discuss a personal matter with you, if I may," he said formally.

She nodded, suddenly apprehensive. What do you want, Henry?

"The brevity of our acquaintance and your recent widowhood have prevented me from speaking–" His words sounded as though he had practiced them carefully before coming.

Suddenly Christiane guessed his intention. And it terrified her. "Henry, please I–"

"Christiane," he interrupted "you leave in the morning. Please, I implore you, let me speak."

Christiane agreed reluctantly. She did not wish to hear his declaration of love now, but it sounded as though he had prepared one. And she did not wish to hurt his feelings.

"Christiane, I do not think my feeling for you has been completely concealed." He took her hand in his. "Your loveliness attracted me from that very first day I saw you at Morristown. But you are more, so much more than just a lovely face and form. I admire your honesty, your ability to deal with life without complaint, and to bear up under incredible responsibilities."

Christiane writhed inside. She knew she wasn't as noble as he perceived her. "Henry, I–"

"Please don't stop me. Christiane, I love you. If these were normal times, I would never declare my love for you after such a short friendship. But I love you. If it were not for the conflict that we are presently a part of, I would not hesitate to propose an immediate marriage. But I know you will understand that my present duties and devotion to the cause of liberty preclude this. However, this war will not last forever. And when our cause triumphs and peace returns, I would like to look forward to spending that peace with you. Will you, Christiane? Will you consider my proposal?"

His proposal was elegant and sincere. But Christiane's mind raced in a panic at the word "marriage." However, his flowery proposal included a clause of postponement. Then the thought came to her. She could have exactly what she wanted her son and a secure future now, not later. "My son–" she started.

"I have already considered him, the orphan of a fallen patriot," Henry said readily. "When we are married, he would be an equal heir with our children."

Christiane looked up at the sky, pondering. His proposal was more than generous. Deep emotion stirred but she couldn't face any more images from the past. To stem the tide, she took action. "Then I accept your proposal," she said coolly.

Not noticing her tone, he responded happily, "Oh, Christiane, I thank you. I will spend my life trying to make you glad of this decision." He paused. "May I kiss you?"

"Certainly." Christiane moved closer. He embraced her and several minutes passed before she withdrew from him.

"Christiane, I have a token of my love for you." He pulled a small box from his pocket. "I purchased this in Philadelphia in hopes that you would sometime accept it."

Christiane took the small box and opened it. The moon and stars revealed a gold ring with a pearl, surrounded by garnets, delicate and lovely. Jakob's face in her memory scolded her. She turned away from it. "Henry, it's beautiful. Thank you."

"The garnets reminded me of the warmth of your hair," he murmured, cupping her cheek. "You accept this ring and my suit?"

"Yes, Henry, I will," she answered precisely. I will not think of the past. I will live now and do what I must for Jean Claude, for me. I cannot lose my place in this world again.

Christiane may be making a mistake here. Are heroines allowed to make mistakes or should they always see clearly and do only what is good for themselves and others? And what do you think could help her see more clearly?



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Chapter Nine Scene 4 La Belle Christiane

La Belle Christiane

2011 copyright by Lyn Cote

All rights reserved

BOOK TWO

Chapter Nine, Scene 4

The following days were the some of the most confused Christiane had ever known. While trying to go on with her duties as usual, the emotions she'd been able to keep below the surface until now bubbled up without warning or cause. She was careful not to speak often because she never knew if she would suddenly forget her line of thought or begin weeping.

One afternoon stopping in the midst of dictating a letter to her which she was to translate into French, General Washington had fixed her with a distracted frown.

"Is there something wrong, sir?"

"I wish, Christiane, I wish Martha were here."

Christiane didn't move. From the way he was looking at her, she knew better than to ask why. Any word of sympathy could send her into tears. At last, they finished the letter and he had let her go.

She went upstairs and sat on her bed in her small tidy room and tried unsuccessfully to make sense of the churning thoughts and feelings inside her. Who could untangle this mess?  The image of a tall, thin woman with a baby in her arms came. Tildy, of  course.

Christiane quickly went through her mental list of things to do for the day. Most could be done immediately or postponed till tomorrow. She would not be needed again till evening. Quickly she went down to the kitchen to go over the menu for the evening meal.

Finally Christiane donned her bonnet and gloves. Just as she was about to leave, she turned back to the kitchen. She wrapped up a dozen sugar cookies in a cloth. As she made her way to the family camp, she thought over what to say and what to ask Tildy. A war raged inside her–the past versus the future.

Soon she was making her way through the family campground near the stream. Many women were slapping the rocks along the bank trying to get their laundry done. There Tildy was–sitting under a deep red maple–nursing her baby.

"Tildy!" Christiane called. Soon she was sitting beside Tildy on a sturdy camp stool. "I brought the boys some sugar cookies," Christiane said, opening the cloth in her lap.

"Oh, they will be delighted. Is there one for mother, too?" They both chuckled.

"Of course. I didn't forget you or me." Christiane handed Tildy one and selected one for herself. They sat munching happily together. The boys appeared almost magically to claim their cookies and scampered off to share pieces with favored friends. Christiane's buoyant mood evaporated suddenly and she was somber again. What did I come to say? What should I do?

"Christiane," Tildy asked quietly, "what is the matter?"

At this, Christiane dissolved into tears. "I don't know. I feel so strange."

Tildy put her arm around her and waited. The autumn wind blew briskly, making ruffle of their caps flap around their faces and the clouds overhead flew easily across the sky, but the warmth of the sun still held them comfortably. The small infant slept now peacefully on a doubled blanket at their feet. Only a thin flour sack draped over her. Finally Christiane's tears ended. She wiped her cheeks with her handkerchief and sighed deeply. "Oh, Tildy, what am I going to do?"

With her hands folded in her lap, Tildy faced her thoughtfully. "Christiane, I have been thinking of you for months. Ever since we came back, I wanted to see you and talk to you, but there didn't seem to be any way. You were at the General's quarters and we were here."

Christiane tried to speak.

"No, let me go on," Tildy insisted. "Tom told us how things had happened for you and I was glad, really glad. You deserved it. But I still missed you. Then I saw you that day after Brandywine with the General and everyone and I almost spoke to–"

Christiane broke in, "Tildy, I'm so sorry about that day. I saw you. I acted terribly and I know it."

"Christiane, I understand." The woman's tone was firm.

But Christiane was convinced that her friend really did not comprehend what had caused Christiane to act the way she had. But how could she explain the fear that drove her?

"Now," Tildy paused to breathe deeply, "what else is bothering you?"

"I don't know. I seemed to have gotten over losing Jakob, at least, I wasn't crying anymore, but when Tom died, I don't know…,"

Tildy waited patiently.

Finally Christiane began again, "I keep seeing images from the past, unpleasant ones." My mother's murder, she said silently. Losing my first husband, Rumsveld, Jakob. It's like having nightmares during the daytime." Christiane shivered. "And ever since Tom died, everything has gotten more muddled in my head."

"Do you think it was because he was the last person to die from Rumsveld?" her friend asked quietly.

"I don't know. It could be." Yes, I think that's it, some of it. "Why is life so sad, Tildy? Tears filled her eyes for the second time and she let them fall freely.

"It does seem to me that life sometimes has 'runs', do you know what I mean?" Tildy asked. "A person for no logical reason will have a long run of bad luck or of sadness."

Christiane nodded. Certainly her run of sorrow and poverty should be just about over. One of these two, poverty, she could control. The other one she could not. A glance around at the squalor of family camp reminded her of her own resolve never to be destitute again. And she wanted more than just a reasonable margin against poverty. In this life one needed it. And she would get what she needed. I can't go back. I can't.

They sat silently then, Christiane thinking her own thoughts. One of the precious facets of Tildy's heart was that she never rushed one into further confusion. The baby at their feet began to stir in her sleep. They watched her, as mothers do, enjoying the cherub cheeks and the movement of the tiny hands and feet.

Finally the child awakened and stretched drowsily, blinking up at her mother. Tildy bent to pick her up. "My little catnapper," she murmured as she nuzzled the child's cheek.

"I'm so happy you have your little girl." And that she has remained healthy in this awful place.

"Yes, I am grateful to God for my two strong sons, but my heart did long for a girl to share womanly arts with." Tildy looked at Christiane. "Would you like to hold her?"

Christiane held out her arms.

Tildy held up a hand. "First let me introduce you. Christiane Kruger, may I present to you, Christiane Matilda Main?"

Christiane's mouth formed an "O" as she took the babe in her arms. "Tildy, you named her for me!"

"Of course, who else? I only hope she will grow to be as lovely as you are."

Christiane held the dear little baby close to her. How honored she felt. Then unbidden it came, just a whisper from deep inside her , "I want Jean Claude." Christiane looked down. "I want my son."

"How old is he now?" Tildy questioned softly.

"Two. Two years old the first day of this month. I have not seen him for a year." She waited fearfully for a word of condemnation.

"I remember how you wanted to go to him when you first came to New York," her friend said sympathetically. "If only we hadn't taken your horse, you could have gone to him this spring."

Christiane wanted to deny this, but she could not put her motives into words though. Almost bitterly she said, "when we fled New York City, I should have gone for him."

"You couldn't. Jakob needed you. If you hadn't stayed, maybe young Michael would never have been returned to me." Tildy paused. "I can never thank you enough for finding him that night."

Christiane shied away from recalling to mind that appalling night of marrow-freezing terror.

Tildy picked up the thread of the conversation. "Now you can have your mare Nancy back anytime you want. We are grateful of the loan, but she is yours."

Christiane pursed her lips. How can I go to Jean Claude. With a horse of no, I will not travel to New Jersey or anywhere else alone.

"Would you want to go north with us? Michael's six months is over later this month. Then we'll go back to Massachusetts for the winter. Michael's located an aged cousin of his who lives alone on her farm northwest of Boston. She is a zealous patriot and has consented to take us in with her for the duration of the war. I hate the thought of not being with Michael for a year or more at a time. But he has insisted that this is our last summer in family camp."

"You mean you are leaving for good?" The thought hit Christiane hard. Knowing Tildy was near had been a comfort.

"Yes, Michael is going to spend this winter repairing the barn and stockpiling wood and other things. Then he will come back next spring for good. New Jersey is right on our way," she offered hopefully.

A silent battle crashed and raged within Christiane. Her well-made, logical plans were shaken under the onslaught of her maternal feelings. Her well ordered plans for her future meant nothing right then. "When would we leave?"

"Two weeks from tomorrow."

"I'll be ready," Christiane heard herself say. She stood up resolutely. "I have to go now." Their interlude ended abruptly, but what needed deciding had been settled. Christiane could visit Jean Claude and still return before Mrs. Washington arrived when the armies closed down for winter. The thought of Henry Lee was dismissed. I can't think of that now.

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Author Louise M Gouge & A Daughter's Courage

My guest today is Author Louise M Gouge who has an inspiring story to share and a new book! Here's Louise:

"I'm so glad to be your guest, Lyn. I love your theme of Strong Women, Brave Stories. I have a story to tell about my daughter Jane, a remarkably strong woman.

Even in grade school, Jane stood up for her Christian faith when others went along with the crowd. In college she led a campus ministry, and after graduation, she went to Africa as a journeyman missionary. When a deadly rebellion broke out, westerners had to flee, and Jane faced the situation with her usual spunk, trusting that God would take care of her.

But Jane's courage and faith were displayed most remarkably when her beloved husband was dying of cancer. Bill was her knight in shining armor, a godly man she met in seminary. Together they served the Lord at the church where he was an assistant pastor. Six weeks after the birth of their second child, Bill was diagnosed with liver cancer. Jane could have crumbled emotionally or asked "why me?" Instead, she became a warrior, fighting to find a cure for Bill through online research and by calling cancer specialists, trying to find that one doctor who might have the answer. And Jane spent every day at the hospital, pouring her love into the man who was the answer to all her girlhood dreams.

When cancer took its dreaded toll and Bill went home to Jesus, Jane grieved as any loving widow would. But in time she straightened her shoulders and refused to despair. Now she is raising her two precious children in a Christian home, reinforcing all the ideals she and Bill shared, and making certain they know what a wonderful father they had. I believe that, when they grow up, it will be obvious to them what a wonderful mother they have, as well.

So what are the qualities that make a woman continue on when life has dealt her a devastating blow? What makes her continue to trust God when doubting voices claim He has failed to take care of her? In any fiction story, it is essential to create real life situations so that readers will find their own faith undergirded or find a path back to God if they have lost their way. When I am looking for that real life example, I need go no further than my daughter. How easy it would have been for her to go in any direction to reclaim happiness. But Jane chose God's path and held strong to her faith.

In that same way, I try to create heroines who, in spite of struggles and tragedies, cling to God. Dinah Templeton, the heroine in my new release, At the Captain's Command, has grown up feeling abandoned by everyone she loves. Even God seems far away, as He often does when we are suffering. Yet Dinah chooses to believe that her Heavenly Father will not abandon her. This gives her the strength that she needs to take the right action in the midst of adversity. My prayer and my hope is that my readers will relate to Dinah and find comfort and strength in God.

Book tease: At the Captain's Command (Harlequin's Love Inspired Historical). A heroic British naval captain, son of an influential earl, dares to fall in love with a provincial American girl. Then he discovers her family's devastating secret.

Book blurb: Loyal to the British Crown, orphaned Dinah Templeton has vowed never to marry a seafaring man, for her father died at sea and her merchant captain brother is always away. But when Captain Thomas Moberly sails into St. Augustine to defend the East Florida shores from American pirates, Dinah finds that her heart may overrule her head regarding this seafarer. Captain Thomas Moberly, captain of HMS Dauntless, has been assigned to capture the notorious American pirate Nighthawk, who plagues the Atlantic coast of East Florida. War-weary and hoping for a refreshing visit with his brother and sister, who live near St. Augustine, Thomas never expects to find love. But how can he resist the lovely Miss Templeton, even though she is what his father, Lord Bennington, would call a common American?

I have a combined website and blog: http://www.Louisemgouge.com "–Louise

Thanks, Louise, for sharing your daughter's story and your latest historical sounds wonderful. One of my favorite childhood memories is from touring the fort at St. Augustine, FL. If any of you haven't seen it, mark it down as a must-see. –Lyn

P S. To read an excerpt, click here.

Chapter Nine Scene 3 La Belle Christiane

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

La Belle Christiane

2011 copyright by Lyn Cote

All rights reserved

BOOK TWO

Chapter Nine, Scene 3

Two weeks later at midnight after yet another disastrous defeat this time at Germantown, Christiane stood just outside the General's tent, clutching a shawl. She knew that they would change position again as soon as the officers who were meeting inside decided what their next move should be. Shivering, she waited to supervise the midnight supper she had ordered for them.

A tall soldier came out of the darkness into the dim firelight. "Christiane?"

Recognition of the voice shocked her. Glancing around to see if he were alone, she replied, "Yes, Michael, it is I. What do you want?"

He stopped right in front of her and turned his hat nervously in his hands. "Christiane, it's Tom."

"Tom?" Fear clamped around her throat.

"He's bad–real bad."

"He's wounded?" she asked, her voice shaking, revealing the impact of these words.

"He…the doctor says–"

"What?" She pressed a hand over her heart, to feel it racing. Tom, the only other survivor of Rumsveld. She quailed at what might be coming.

"The doctor says Tom probably won't last the night. He lost most of his left leg and he was wounded in the stomach. He's asking for you."

Christiane felt sick. Tom belonged on his farm in the wilderness, not in a war. She wanted to shut her eyes, make this all go away.

Two soldiers arrived with covered trays.

Christiane drew up her reserves. "Take it in right away, Sergeant, please tell the General I am going to one of the hospitals." Then inexplicabely ready, she turned to Michael, "Let's go."

They hurried over the uneven ground in the almost complete blackness. The moon was only a thin fingernail, surrounded by a wispy veil. Where were the stars hiding? Michael helped Christiane over rough farm fences and caught her as she stumbled over the half-harvested fields. Finally they reached the "hospital," a large cattle barn. They could hear the moans, cries and smell the stale sweat of the dying men and their blood. She quailed inwardly. No, no. But she didn't withdraw her hand from Michael's.

Entering, Michael led her up a rough ladder to the loft. The barn was almost as dark as the night outside. Tom lay quietly there on a scattered pile of hay. When Christiane knelt beside him and groped for his hand, he opened his eyes drowsily.

"The surgeon gave him some laudanum to ease the pain. He is still a little sleepy," Michael explained.

"Christiane," Tom whispered. "Are you real?"

"Yes, Tom, I'm here with you," Christiane squeezed his hand and leaned forward. She could barely see his face.

"I knew you'd come, Christiane. I knew you'd come," he repeated weakly.

She pressed her palm on his hot forehead. "I'm here now. It will be right, Tom," she said soothingly.

"It won't be, Christiane. The doc thought I didn't know, but I know I won't make it through the night."

She knew he spoke the truth, but she had to deny it, must. "Don't say that please."

"It ain't no good, Christiane. I know. My leg is too broke up to be any good to me anymore and the doc wouldn't even amputate. He just give me laudanum. That means it ain't even worth the trouble to cut. I seen enough. I know."

His logic was irrefutable. There was a long silence. Then with sinking dread, Christiane asked, "Is there anything I can do?"

"Just stay with me, Christiane. You're the only one from home, from Rumsveld…."

Unable to speak, she replied by squeezing his dry, fever-hot hand. How could they speak of the ones they'd lost? Of Sarah? Of Jakob?

The remainder of that hellish night Michael hovered in the background, intruding only when bringing Christiane fresh water for Tom's thirst. His laudanum wore off and there was no more to be had. As Tom's suffering worsened, Christiane tried to distract him with memories in spite of the pain they caused her, but finally he asked her to stop. He was too weak to concentrate on her voice. Finally blood frothed on his lips.

"Christiane," he gasped, clinging to her hands. "It's Jakob! He's…." His eyes opened very wide and then he loosened his grasp and was still. Christiane felt for a pulse and found none. She reached up and gently closed his eyes.

"Oh, Tom," she breathed.

The tears started then, a flood of them that flowed down her face and wet her dress. Gently Michael put his arm around her. She looked up and saw his tears, too. It was impossible to talk as she let herself be led down the ladder and out of the barn. She was surprised to see that the endless night was over, but the dawn wrapped gray and lifeless around her. Michael led her to a stand of trees nearby. A woman stood up.

"Tildy!" Christiane cried and ran to her. Tildy opened her arms and they clung to each other. Several minutes before passed before they could bear to break their embrace.

Too soon Christiane was standing by the trench Michael and a few others had dug for Tom. A chaplain appeared and from his little black book he read the appropriate service swiftly and moved onto the next grave. Christiane did not spare herself and though Tildy gently tugged at her arm, she stayed and watched till the last shovelful was thrown and Michael knelt to pound the hand-fashioned cross at the grave's head.  I'm the only one left who remembers now. A cool wind of loss whistled through her. I'm the only one. When all was complete, she let herself be led away.

As she passed through the field, now a cemetery, she tried not to count the graves being dug. The smells and sights of death suffocated her and were grotesquely familiar. Then it snapped into focus. She was at Rumsveld again the morning after the massacre. The scalped, half-burned bodies were all around her.

Here near one of these battle graves a woman moaned, "He can't be dead. He can't. No. No." This seemed to echo in Christiane's head. Only in her mind it was transformed to "I can't be alive. No. No." Her knees buckled and she fell forward, unconscious."

How will this affect Christiane, do you think?

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Author Jill Eileen Smith & Bathsheba

Chapter Nine Scene 2 La Belle Christiane

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

La Belle Christiane

2011 copyright by Lyn Cote

All rights reserved

BOOK TWO

Chapter Nine, Scene 2

A week passed and thanks to Christiane and his own natural vitality, the Frenchman improved daily. Late in the morning, Christiane stood anxiously by her window. Captain Lee had sent a note which requested a meeting with her on this glorious autumn day. She had agreed to go for another walk. They did this as often as their duties allowed them some free time. Each time however she had to overcome her hesitation. Jakob still filled her mind and she felt the constraint of honoring the memory of such a fine man. But Jakob was lost to her now–forever.

And a natural friendship had been growing between her and the young captain. The thought had tiptoed silently through Christiane's mind that Lee might be the man she would marry some time in the future. His unfailing kindness and gallantry impressed her and she knew that he came from an extremely prominent Virginian family. But whenever she thought this, panic seized her.

She closed her eyes willing away the emotions that wanted to come, roiling to the surface. She glanced down at her dress. Her wardrobe had grown to three dresses now, due to Mrs. Washington's and other ladies' generosity. Today she was wearing her black satin. It would have been quite severe except for the emerald green satin fichu, cuffs and belt. The maid entered unobtrusively, "Mrs. Kruger, a gentleman is downstairs for you."

"Thank you. I will be down directly." Methodically Christiane donned her small black bonnet and gloves and picked up her parasol. Her sun-tanned skin had finally faded to creamy white and she was always careful now about exposing it to the elements. She paused by the mirror and examined her reflection. Maman and even grandmere would be pleased. She did not want to remember how recently she had lived in rags and vermin.

Gracefully she joined Captain Lee at the bottom of the curved staircase. They smiled at each other. Wordlessly he took her right hand and pressed it into the crook of his left arm. Out they went into the golden sun. They strolled aimlessly around the still green lawns and pleasant garden of the large home. The marigolds were yellow and in full flower. Christiane fought the sensation that someone else was living her life, that she was not this woman in this pretty dress, clean and well fed.

"Mrs. Kruger, I regret not being able to see you till now," Lee said.

Christiane looked down. "We have both been busy with our duties."

"How is the Major General LaFayette?"

"Better." They returned to peaceful silence. Finally Christiane found she was having trouble matching her partner's lengthening strides. She cleared her throat. "You are worried?"

He stopped. "What?"

"We seemed to be having a race," she said with a small smile.

"I am sorry. I came to see you and I am ignoring you." He sounded suddenly exasperated, as if exhausted, pushed past his limit.

She looked up at him. "Tell me what is bothering you." Her concern was sincere.

He tilted his head slightly as if asking a question. "I should not trouble you."

"What is it? Please tell me." Her hand touched his sleeve again and his hand pressed it there.

"The battle plagues me. I can't get the mistakes out of my mind," he admitted in a lowered voice.

"I've heard some talk already and I can be discreet."

He pressed her hand again. "The carelessness of some officers made the engagement a disastrous defeat. Especially militia officers." His voice was suddenly thick with feeling. "People want to be important so they say things without being sure. In the end, they look like fools and men die because of their folly. And we needed a victory now. It has been so long that we have endured without another…." His tone quieted. "I should not burden you with this. It's just that I keep seeing glimpses of the battle."

Christiane touched his shoulder, near his collar. "You do not burden me with your confidence. I understand. You know, I do." Yes, I do. I wish I didn't, but I do.

Taking her hand in his, he kissed it softly. He looked at her full in the face. "You do more than most women. You see day by day what happens. I'm glad you are here."

Christiane looked down. "I am glad also." Her tone changed to a more business-like one. "What misinformation was given exactly?" Information always came in handy for her, made her more useful. They began to walk again back in the direction of the house.

"Some of the Pennsylvania militia officers told the General that there were no river fords for twelve miles north of the village of Buffington. I cannot fathom why they would say this. Only inexperience or boasting could explain it. On the strength of their assurances Washington put us behind Brandywine Creek. The creek should have acted as a natural defense. We did not know the truth till a local farmer rushed into headquarters, claiming that he had seen the British crossing the Brandywine near his farm. Without his report we would have faced total disaster. Good Lord. As it was, we suffered a costly defeat and for no good reason or gain."

She squeezed his arm to signify understanding and they continued walking in silence. How she wished to comfort him, but no phrases came to her. How could they hold on, experiencing defeat after defeat?  She was not only concerned about independence for herself for her own purposes. People were giving everything to the cause–suffering, dying. Tildy Main's pinched, starved face came up hauntingly. Tildy, where are you? Again the heart pounding panic from the past intruded. She breathed in deeply, forcing the reaction down.

"I am sorry I am such bad company," he said. "I thought seeing you would lighten my spirits."

"I am sorry to be such little comfort."

"Oh, please you should not be blamed. I apologize for even intimating such an idea."

A thought came to Christiane. Perhaps she could cheer him and strengthen their connection as well. A glimpse of her past flashed within her. Jakob bringing her flowers, asking if he could call her by her name. She swallowed the panic pulsing through her. I can't think about that now. I can't let the past endanger my future.

Still, she could use Jakob's way.He had courted her so well… Quickly she rushed all thoughts of Jakob from her mind. She would not marry again for a long, long time. Now she only wished to make a start.

Her palms became moist and her heart beat faster. She spoke to stop the thoughts that raced through her mind. "Captain Lee, we have been acquaintances–friends, I hope–for some time now. I was wondering if you would grant me a favor." She was pleased that her voice did not betray her unseen trembling.

"Anything in my power, ma'am."

"I was wondering if you would mind very much if I called you by your given name?"

He stopped, obviously startled.

"I hope," she rushed on, "you do not think me forward for asking."

He bent over her hand, and kissed it lightly. "You do me a great honor, madame."

"Please, call me Christiane."

"Christiane," he repeated solemnly. She held onto his hand and they stood some moments, looking into each other's eyes.He had kind eyes, just like Jakob's. She wanted to look away, panic surging inside her like cold surf, but she couldn't give in to fear. Finally, she turned, grasping his arm again. They walked toward the house.

"At least, the weather has not turned against us," she said, trying to lighten the mood. Her heart still beat faster over her forwardness, her movement away from Jakob. "It is difficult to contemplate going into winter quarters again in just a few months." They came upon a wooden bench and sat down. "I hope we will move farther south this year. Winter at Morristown was so severe."

"That will depend on Howe," he said.

"I suppose you are correct."

"Christiane," he began. "I wish you could be well away from all this. A woman, a lady, of your quality should not have to be so closely involved–"

"Henry, you know my feelings in regard to the Revolution." Panic rushed through her, nearly pushing her to run. I can't go back.

"Christiane, your patriotism is admirable, more than admirable. You have given so much. But I feel that this time if Lady Washington invites you to return to Mt. Vernon next spring, you should go."

Christiane was shocked at the turmoil that this suggestion evoked. She looked at her lap, trying to cover it. His attention she desired. But hidden away at Mt. Vernon, her plans would not flourish.  How can I be thinking these things?

A voice intruded, "Captain Lee!" A corporal loped into view. "Sir, I am glad I finally found you. The General wants you right away. There is some argument–I mean, dispute–between two officers. And he needs you to clear up something."

Lee visibly fought down his irritation; he turned to Christiane. "I am sorry, Christiane. I must cut our visit short."

"Why don't I join you instead, Henry? I would like to report to the General on Major General Lafayette's recovery myself."

Lee smiled and offered his arm. They hurried, trailed by the tired and rumpled corporal.

Soon they were at the General's side. Christiane briefly reported to Washington and then stood idly at the edge of the group of officers, taking little notice of the dispute.

In time, however, she became aware that someone was staring at her. She turned to see a tall, spare woman, shabbily dressed, holding an infant. Christiane was about to turn away again when recognition shot through her. Tildy? Carefully Christiane examined the woman. Yes, it was Tildy Main and her new baby.

Christiane nonchalantly turned her back as though she had not noticed. Even as she did so, guilt rose and almost choked her. All summer she had made excuses to avoid finding out if the Mains had been forced to return to family camp. She had wanted to see Tildy, but she could not force herself to go back there, back to family camp where she'd suffered and lost Jakob. So now she stood stiffly, willing herself to forget. She would find Tildy sometime and make everything right. Sometime. Soon.

Life used to be so simple–just survival, but now…………

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Chapter Nine Scene 1 La Belle Christiane

La Belle Christiane

2011 copyright by Lyn Cote

All rights reserved

BOOK TWO

Chapter Nine, Scene 1

Germantown, Pennsylvania

Autumn 1777

Christiane paced before  the window, watching the first evidences of sunrise flicker with the movement of branches on the walls The night spent nursing Marie Joseph Paul Yves Roch Gilbert du Motier, Marquis de Lafayette had been a crucible for her. Another dreadful night of remembering and trying in vain to forget… She turned from the window and stood over her charge as he slept. He was breathing easily and the unhealthy flush was already ebbing slightly from his cheeks. What a twist of fate that the two of them would meet here like this. She pressed a damp cloth to his face. The cloth still turned pink from the last of the blood from the deep cut to his forehead.

The sight of blood dragged her backward. The morning at Rumsveld and bodies of friends lying in their own blood, mutilated—Stop. Stop thinking. She hit her clenched forehead with her fist.

She turned her focus to Major General Lafayette of the Continental Army, only eighteen. He seemed as unlikely a participant in this Revolution as she, Madame Christiane Renee Marie Pelletier, Belmond, Kruger, also eighteen. They had met formally months before. And surprisingly since his arrival in July, they had not seen each other often. He'd drawn her attention; he was so like the men she'd known as a child, so like her mother's admirers.

Both of them had come to the New World, but for very different reasons. She fleeing her grandmere's plans for her and he to fight for liberty . But the Marquis de Lafayette had not left behind his money or position as she had. She had only wanted to live her own life, not her mother's or grandmother's lives. But at what cost? How could she have known how events would spin out of control?

Her first husband's screams ripped through her mind; her heart pounded with panic. She fought against the image that burst into her mind. He'd surprised a bear and had been mauled. The blood, all the blood and nothing she could do to save him from a painful death. She pressed her fists against her temples, wishing she could reach inside and rip out these memories. But everyone on the frontier had memories like this. Living far from civilization could snatch life away in a minute.

She sank into the bedside chair, her pulse still racing. Jean Claude, he'd been such a happy, kind man and now all she had of him was their son. And he was miles away from her.  Her leaving her son with the Richardson's had not been deemed out of the ordinary. Other wives followed their husbands and left their children safe at home with family. The last letter from the Richardson's she kept in her pocket. She pressed it now through her cotton skirt. But events had carried her, the revolution on.

After the awful winter just past, Admiral "Black Dick" Howe had sailed from New York City on July 23, 1777.  When at last Howe had made his move by sailing south into Chesapeake Bay, the Americans had marched south to protect Philadelphia, the seat of Congress. They had camped at Brandywine Creek, a branch of the Delaware River.

Christiane frowned. The battle that had taken place there just one day before had been a bloody defeat for the Revolution. It had been a long time since Washington's last victory, nine months ago at Trenton and Princeton.

Princeton–the name jarred Christiane. Jakob, my Jakob. That battle had robbed her of him. She passed a tired, trembling hand over her forehead. The British had killed her Jakob. That was why she'd stayed with the army. Or it was the reason she'd given. The other reason she'd stayed with Washington's party had another less noble cause. She rose and to pace again. I can't go back. I can't go back, lose my place here.

She tried to take a step and staggered with fatigue. With a glance at her sleeping patient, she stumbled to the corner of the room to a narrow cot that had been placed there for her. She kicked off her shoes and slid under the woolen blanket, still dressed. Her body sighed with relief, but her mind was not ready to surrender to rest.

In a little over two weeks, her son would be two years old. She had fought this realization successfully, but now exhausted in the predawn she could not fend it off. Her son was at this moment sleeping peacefully, safely at the Richardson's farm in New Jersey. According to Sarah Anne's letter of August third, he was already talking and following Josiah around as he did the farm chores. Christiane had excused herself  to Sarah Anne, from coming to Jean Claude, citing her attachment to the cause of liberty. But now her heart felt as though a laundress were wringing it out and she was forced to face the truth. She loved her son, but she could not go to him–not till her new position was secure.

An inner voice chided her: "Is your social position more important than being with your own son?"

Soberly she reviewed the stations of her life: pampered child, Indian captive, fur trader's wife, tavern wench, farmer's wife, Lady Washington's companion and now what? Her present position had been given no real title since Mrs. Washington had left. At that time Christiane had agreed to stay and supervise the staff that took care of the General. She had not been certain why.

As the months had passed, her motivation had become more evident to herself. The years, starting with her fleeing Paris until her association with Mrs. Washington, had so separated her from her original life that she had simply suppressed her true identity. She had been raised to live the life of the well-born. She could understand now why the other camp women had called her "milady." She could not be other than what birth and childhood training had ordained her to be. Now her position in society had brought her back to herself, to her world. Yet she still stood on shaky ground. Memories of begging for food the year before tormented her. She shivered suddenly as if dragged back to the tent she and Tildy had shared last December, less than a year ago.

To fend off these thoughts, she allowed her mind to drift back instead to the spring, to the farewell ball in honor of Mrs. Washington. Lady Stirling had been the hostess. And she had not been pleased that Christiane had been a guest necessary to gain Mrs. Washington's favor. Lady Stirling had also been unhappy with her niece Dolly for loaning Christiane a party dress. A lovely dress of deep blue, it had been the most stylish dress Christiane had worn since leaving Paris. Christiane had ignored the noble lady's dismay and–her own guilt over shedding her widow's black–and had been the belle of the evening. Officer had vied with officer to gain her hand for each dance. She had grasped the opportunity, reveling in the attention, the laughter, the music, the elegance–as if starved for these things. So often her face, called beautiful, had brought her unwelcome attention.Her memory tried to bring up the night she'd been attacked. She shut it out with remembered laughter from the ball. Why shouldn't she enjoy the heady moments when it brought joy?

And Captain Henry Lee, the most popular young man with the other ladies, had been so attentive. She saw the scene before her again–the candlelight, the pale, shimmering gowns, the officers in their blue-and-white uniforms, the moonlight on the balcony, the stringed music. She had shown Lady Stirling that Christiane knew how to behave as a gentlewoman that evening. Still,her devotion to freedom was sincere.  She'd lost Jakob to it. Sleep was numbing her now.

In this private moment, she admitted that throwing in her lot with this revolution  also served her personal motives. She must continue to form associations with those who would be leaders of the new order. In the back of her mind lay the possibility of an advantageous marriage in the future, much in the future.

This idea she kept vague even to herself. The sorrow of being widowed twice haunted her solitary moments and the specter of being widowed three times before achieving twenty years was a very real prospect in a time of war.

Sleep nearly had her in its grasp. Was she tired enough not to dream, not to wake with her heart pounding and her palms wet with feat?

Marriage could wait. Now she would continue to stay close to the seat of power and influence, the Washington's, and do whatever service she could for them. And when the Revolution was won and she married some promising, young officer, then she would be able to bring Jean Claude to be part of her new life. With these comforting thoughts, sleep conquered her.

#

A soft moan filtered into Christiane's half-conscious mind. Another. Then lightning charge shot through her body. Her patient. She leapt out of bed and hurried to his side. "Major?" she said softly.

"Water," he croaked. Christiane deftly poured a glass of water from the bedside pitcher and carefully lifted his head from the damp pillow cover.

"Here, sir," she murmured. He drank thirstily till the glass was empty. Christiane lowered his head back to the pillow. Thinking that he would sink back into sleep, she turned to the window. The sun by now was streaming in. She pulled the cord by the window to summon the maid to order breakfast.

"Madame?" his voice summoned her. "Where am I?"

"A wealthy patriot here has taken in the doctors and the wounded officers." Coming to his side, she laid a soft, white hand, a hand much different than that of the girl who'd worked in the tavern at Rumsveld, across his forehead.

"And you?"

"General Washington sent me to look after you."

"I am most grateful."

"Mrs. Washington often visits the camp hospitals to assist in nursing the wounded. She taught me a great deal," she informed him primly. She forbore telling him that on occasion the General had pressed the camp prostitutes into service as nurses as well.

"Then when I recover I will thank her as well as you, Madame."

"Really you must thank the General and Dr. Craik," Christiane replied briskly. "He is an excellent doctor. I know well. He was–" she broke off. She did not want to mention her own wounding. The young officer looked up at her questioningly. Just then the breakfast tray arrived. Christiane gladly turned to the mundane task of feeding her patient. Then the doctor came to check him and Christiane escaped to her own room to freshen herself and begin her daily routine.

So Christiane is trying to find her way, her place in the new society. What pitfalls can you foresee?–Lyn

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