Lyn Cote's Blog, page 108

Book Review-Author Mindy Starns Clark & Secrets of Harmony Grove

Secrets of Harmony Grove by Mindy Starns Clark

My rating: 4 of 5 stars

Secrets of Harmony Grove was the third book of Mindy Starns Clark I've read. I've enjoyed each one and have come to anticipate her signature "a mystery within a mystery." Clark always tells a parallel story where the past and present intersect. Clark sets up shop in Amish Pennsylvania and does so well. I enjoyed her setting, her characters and the unfolding mystery AND romance. If you want a good mystery to cozy up to the fire with, Secrets of Harmony Grove will not leave you cold!

View all my reviews

Have any of you read a book by Mindy? She's a sweetheart in person!–Lyn

Chapter Four Scene 2 La Belle Christiane

La Belle Christiane

By Lyn Cote

All rights reserved.

Chapter Four, Scene 2

"Well, my dear, though we try hard not to become involved, it is nearly impossible not to be aware of the news. Things are not going well for the Continental Army. The British general, I believe his name is Howe, landed his troops from ships in the harbor. The two armies just fought a battle a few days ago. Washington must have lost because I heard that they had to pull out of the Heights." The woman sat down beside Christiane to pat her arm and to try to soften the news.

Christiane's dismay was clearly etched on her face. "Then I must go as soon as I am able. Jakob may need me."

"And thee has come all this way to join him?" The kind woman frowned. "Poor child, to have such a burden. Thee still should be protected in thy own home." She made a clucking noise to show her distress.

"That was what Jakob wanted, but it was not possible."

"My dear, I understand thy desire to be with thy husband. I should feel just the same if I were in thy place, but thee must get thy strength back first. Thee cannot help thy husband if thee faints upon arrival. You would only burden him."

Sarah bit her lip. "Thee knows," she went on, "they have been fighting since the end of August over in the city. The fighting moved there after Boston was retaken by the rebels."

"You mean, you mean Jakob might already be…be beyond help?" Christiane asked weakly. The woman nodded soberly. Christiane stared into space briefly. Death seemed to loom up on both sides of her, behind her at Rumsveld and before her in New York. Tears came to her.

Impulsively Sarah put her arms around Christiane. "Thee does have a home–here. Thee and thy dear son and thy husband will always be welcome here." Christiane hugged her back, unable to answer. How gracious, how generous were these Friends.

#

Nearly a month passed before Christiane knew it and October 1, 1776, Jean Claude's first birthday arrived. That evening after supper Sarah Anne surprised Jean Claude with a birthday cake, shining with one candle. Christiane was even more thrilled than her son who took this with his usual cheerfulness. There were presents. First there was a blue pair of thumbless mittens, joined with a string, and a matching blue hood, both knitted by Sarah. Second was a pull toy, a bright yellow, wooden duck that Josiah had fashioned himself. Of course, Jean Claude, squealing with joy, ignored the knitwear and clutched the duck.

"Oh, Josiah, how clever of you!" exclaimed Christiane. "He has never had a proper toy before! And, Sarah Anne, thank you for the mittens and hood. They will help keep him warm this winter."

A kind of shadow passed over the Richardsons' faces almost simultaneously. The shadow passed instantly and made Christiane wonder what caused it.

The next few minutes were spent in exclaiming over Jean Claude's antics with his little duck. He licked it, chewed its tail, yanked its string, banged it on the floor. In short, without pulling it an inch, he thoroughly enjoyed it. Finally he began to rub his eyes drowsily and Christiane whisked him away to put him in his night shirt and tuck him into their bed. She waited till his eyes finally closed and then started back down to help Sarah clean up.

As she came down the steps, she noticed in the flickering firelight that the husband and wife had their heads together in deep conversation. So she went quietly about the room straightening it.

Shortly the couple finished and turned to her. Josiah spoke, "Christiane, will thee come and talk with us?" Christiane sat down silently and looked into their concerned eyes.

"Christiane," Sarah started softly, "we would like to share with thee." She cleared her throat and began again. "Having thy little son here these past weeks has taken us back to the time when our own two little sons were about his age."

"I didn't know you had sons."

"We did have," Josiah answered. "But both of them were taken from us before their second birthdays."

"Oh, I'm so sorry," Christiane murmured.

Sarah continued a little briskly, "That is why we are so concerned about Jean Claude. Our sons are safe with God, but Jean Claude is alive. We wish him to stay so."

Christiane waited, watching them intently.

"To come right out with it, we are worried about thy taking him to the army encampment."

"But I must find my husband."

"We understand that completely, but must thee take Jean Claude with thee?"

"But I have no choice."  Christiane's fear tautened around her heart.

"Yes, thee does," Josiah put in. "Thee can and should leave him here with us."

"But—" Christiane began. No, I can't.

"Please, please just take a few minutes to think. There will be all manner of diseases and contagions in the encampment. Food is scarce and of poor quality. It so easy for a child Jean Claude's age to succumb. Please, we wish to save thee the heartbreak that we have suffered. Please think." Sarah put her hand over Christiane's and pleaded with her eyes.

Christiane sat still and turned the ideas over in her mind. After several minutes of thought, she ventured an objection, "How could I leave him? We've never been apart."

"Is it not better to part for a few days or weeks than a lifetime?" Josiah asked softly.

Christiane's brows came together. "I suppose you are right. Maybe that is one of the reasons why I have delayed here so long. It took me nearly three weeks to arrive here and I have tarried here another three under the guise of recovering. Maybe I have feared what you suggest. Also…I don't know…at first I was so eager to rejoin Jakob, but now I'm afraid," she broke off.

"What could thee be afraid of–a young girl who has traveled alone through the wilderness so many miles?" Josiah asked as if trying to encourage her.

Christiane pursed her lips and forced herself to say it aloud. "I'm afraid he might already be dead. I had not thought about that till I came here. Now I am fearful, so fearful that I may have to face the fact of his being gone."

Sarah Anne patted her hand sympathetically. Josiah spoke for them both, "Thee is welcome to stay. This is thy home now."

"Thank you. You don't know what that means to me. But I must go. It is my duty to find my husband. He may need me. And I must tell him about his son dying."

"Yes, dear, yes," Sarah agreed. "Go to thy husband, but then return to us to stay until thy husband's enlistment is up. And while thee is gone, we will care for thy son."

"I will take thee to the city myself," Josiah added.

"No, please," Christiane stopped him. "I can go by myself. I came this far and I can go the rest by myself." She could not take him to the site of the war he was so against. It seemed somehow an indecent thing to do.

"If that is what thee wishes," Sarah agreed. "Go to thy husband and while thee is gone, we will care for thy son."

Christiane nodded in agreement, her eyes downcast.

"Oh, Christiane, thee will not regret it. I promise I will care for him as my very own." Sarah folded her arms as if cradling the child.

"I know that you will. I wouldn't leave him otherwise." At this, first Sarah and then Josiah embraced her. "I am so glad I stumbled into your meetinghouse that Sunday."

"God is good," Josiah agreed and Sarah Anne nodded.

#

Two days later they were all standing beside Nancy, trying not to say farewell. Still early morning, the air was chill and the dew was heavy. "Well, Christiane, thee has all thee needs," Josiah said after clearing his throat.

"Yes," Christiane replied, not taking her gaze from her son's face. She felt as though her heart were being drawn out of her breast and her eyes were dry as though she had stopped blinking.

"Now, Christiane, thee must not worry–" Sarah began.

Christiane held up her hand. "I know," she stopped. "If…if…I'm delayed coming back—"

"We will keep him as long as need be," Sarah stated firmly.

"I'll be back to get him as soon—"

"Yes," Josiah said.

Christiane mounted the mare. She could not stand to prolong the leaving. "Goodbye, I'll send word or see you within two weeks as we agreed."

"Farewell, Christiane. God go with thee," Josiah answered.

Sarah told Jean Claude to wave to his mother and then helped him move his little hand. Christiane quickly turned, forcing down tears and rode away without looking back.

This scene reminds us I think how different life used to be. Many more children were born then but many, many fewer survived to the age of five. A harsh reality that mothers used to face. Leaving children behind in the care of others also happened often in this time period. Christiane was not the only wife who left her children in the care of others to support her husband as he put his life on the line for his new nation, new democracy.  It's a humbling thought, isn't it?

Do you know what RSS means?

RSS Feed Means Really Simple Syndication or Rich Site Summary. If you are following certain blogs, you can save yourself time by finding the little orange box with what looks like sound waves. You see if you click it or the text near it, you can have the latest blog sent to you on your blog or RSS reader.  It works like mail.

But what's a RSS reader? Here's a quote from a brief explanation at http://www.whatisrss.com/

"A variety of RSS Readers are available for different platforms. Some popular feed readers include Amphetadesk (Windows, Linux, Mac), FeedReader (Windows), and NewsGator (Windows – integrates with Outlook). There are also a number of web-based feed readers available. My Yahoo, Bloglines, and Google Reader are popular web-based feed readers."

I use Google Reader because that was easiest for me. Once set up, blogs that you follow will come automatically to your RSS reader.  And it works both ways!

If I want to visit the recent topic delivered to my RSS reader, I just click that post and RSS takes me back to the blog itself so I can leave a comment.

The beauty of this system is that you don't have to remind yourself of the blogs you want to visit. RSS brings them to you. You scroll through and the ones that catch your eye, you read and or visit the blog. Easy, right?

So how many of you knew this?

I confess that I didn't know it till it was explained to me in an online workshop.

Now to have a chance to win one of my books in a random drawing, leave a comment (with your email using at and dot), letting me know if this is old or new news to you!–Lyn

BTW-if you look to the right column near the top, you'll find that pesky little orange box. Feel like clicking it?:-)

Chapter Four Scene 1 La Belle Christiane

Remember if you've missed past chapters, click Archived Read above.

La Belle Christiane

Copyright 2011 by Lyn Cote

All rights reserved.

Chapter Four, Scene 1

"No, I don't want anything. No, my throat hurts. Why it is so hot? Open the windows. I need air," Christiane complained weakly. A woman was helping her up to vomit again. The convulsions started, almost squeezing the life out of her. Exhausted, she laid back on the wet sheet. "Water," she begged in a dry whisper. Then she was floating again.

There was maman, sitting in her room, dressed for bed. "Maman, sil vous plait." No, leave her alone!  L'aide!, au secours!! Maman! The crimson flow poured out on her mother's white lace negligee. Christiane opened her mouth to scream, but no sound came out. Then she could hear herself moaning, "I don't want to remember. Take it away."

Broth was warming her throat. She could feel it coursing all the way down into her chest. More, please, more.

Rumsveld. Only this time she was not safely hidden away. The Mohawk war cries, the screams, and the smell of gunpowder overpowered her. She felt herself losing consciousness. The English captain, appearing from nowhere, caught her as she fell. His face looked down on her sadly and then the face changed to Jakob's. "Jakob," Christiane moaned.

Someone was wiping her flaming face with a cool cloth. Christiane reached for and grasped the hand. "Don't leave me! I'm afraid," Christiane begged. Soft words flowed over her, comforting her without being understood.

#

Christiane woke almost without knowing it. The world came back to her gradually. Finally she could see that she was lying on a small bed in a tidy, white room that had two simply curtained windows, a dresser, and a chair. Christiane felt clammy in the damp gown and sheets, but was too weak to do anything about it. So she lay, waiting for someone to come through the door directly at the foot of her bed.

From somewhere in the house she heard a baby's cry. At first she did not take notice of it. Then she knew it was her baby's cry. Jean Claude. With difficulty she pulled the damp covers off herself and worked her legs over to the edge of the bed. She sat up slowly, realizing as she did that she did not have the strength to stand. She tried to call her son's name. The words came out as a pathetic croaking.

The child's cries ended and then she heard footsteps mounting a flight of stairs. Quietly the door opened. She raised her eyes and saw a small, trim woman with silver-streaked, brown hair. "Thee has come back to us then," said the unknown woman in a gentle voice that seemed familiar. But the used of "thee" confused Christiane enough to make her silent.

The woman touched Christiane's forehead with the back of her hand and continued, "Thy fever has broken. Thanks be to God. But that gown and those sheets must be changed. Thee is likely to take a chill if we are not careful."

Christiane could only stare. Her gown was lifted over her head and a dry one replaced it swiftly. Then she was helped, almost carried to the nearby chair and the bed sheets were deftly changed. "Now back to bed with thee."

Without thinking, Christiane put up her hands to ward off the woman.

The woman paused. "I see, thee is tired of bed."

Christiane nodded. "My son?" she whispered.

"Thee wishes to see thy babe?"

Christiane nodded.

The woman stood, musing with a finger pressed to her chin. "Mayhap it would be best." With that she left the room.

In a short while Christiane heard heavier footsteps mounting the stairs. The door opened and a tall, silver-haired man entered the room.

"Friend," he addressed her politely, "I am here to fetch thee downstairs." Christiane stared at him wide-eyed. With no further ado, he gently put a shawl he was carrying around her shoulders and lifted her effortlessly. Soon she was downstairs, ensconced in a wooden rocker near the fire. To the shawl, an old wool blanket was added around her knees.

She was surprised by the size of the kitchen she was in. Sarah's two rooms at the tavern could have fit inside it with space to spare. She had not been in a two-story house since leaving Paris. The room was plain, but cheerfully decorated in blue and white.

Nearby her son was eagerly eating a bowl of porridge with the woman's cheerful assistance. He finished and then squirmed to be let down to crawl. At first he did not see his mother. When he did, however, he let out a squeal of happiness and scrambled to her swiftly. He dragged himself up to stand at his mother's knee.

Christiane bent down and encircled him with her arms. She was too weak to lift him, but the joy of touching him again brought tears to her eyes. The woman was quickly beside Christiane, lifting Jean Claude onto Christiane's lap. As soon as he was settled, he began searching for her breast. A few moments at the familiar breast, however, caused outraged protests from the infant. He glared up at his mother.

"Here, dear, try to give him this." The woman was handing her a small metal cup from the table. "He has taken to goat's milk."

In a daze, Christiane took the cup and held it up to Jean Claude's lips. With unusual fury he knocked the cup from his mother's hand, splashing the floor and her with milk. Without pause the woman bent to wipe up the milk and the man lifted the screaming child up and carried him out the door, all the while reciting a silly rhyme to him. The baby's angry screaming changed to giggles.

Christiane sobbed without any attempt at hiding the fact.

"Now, now, my dear, I know 'tis upsetting, but he is well and has taken to goat's milk as I said," the woman tried to calm her.

"But I don't have a goat! How will I feed him? I barely keep myself fed!"

"Please, please, child. Don't take on so. Thee is breaking my heart! Do not fear. We will not let the child hunger. Please, please. I cannot bear thy sorrow. I tell thee, it is breaking my heart."

The sincerity of the woman's words did slow Christiane's distress. She breathed deeply in and out, letting go of her fear.

After a brief pause, Christiane looked up at the woman. "Who are you please?"

"Thy friend," the woman said softly, taking Christiane's hand in her two. "My name is Sarah Anne, wife of Josiah Richardson. Thee came to our meeting house on First Day. We were fortunate to be the ones selected to take you home."

Christiane again felt soothing comfort flow from this woman. Another Sarah was in her life. She sighed. "How do you do, Mrs. Richardson. I am Christiane, wife of Jakob Kruger."

"Call me Sarah Anne please, Christiane."

Christiane nodded, smiling, and using her fingertips, she wiped her tear-stained cheeks. "I'm sorry I became upset, but I feel…so flat."

"I know what thee means. About two years ago I was down with a fever and I did feel 'flat' a day or two after it left me. Yes, I did."

Josiah strode back into the room, carrying a beaming Jean Claude.

In spite of her good fortune in finding help, a moment of sadness sliced through Christiane. No longer would she be able to nurse her son. She knew now that it was not just the bare fact that she would have a harder time providing for him. But also it signified a weakening of the tie that bound her to her precious child.

Josiah set Jean Claude on the floor beside a pile of small wooden blocks. Jean Claude immediately began clacking them against the wooden floor.

But when Christiane spoke, both Richardsons turned their eyes on her. "Why do you call me 'thee'? Is that how people talk in New Jersey?"

The couple smiled at her. "Has thee never known a Friend before?" Sarah replied.

Christiane shook her head.

"Perhaps thee knows us by our other names–Quakes or Quakers?" Josiah offered.

Shaking her head no again, Christiane was afraid of appearing rude, but she had no idea what they were talking about.

"Where is thee from, Christiane?" Sarah asked.

"Well, most recently north of the Mohawk River near Lake Ontario."

"Thee was born there?"

"No, Paris." Christiane watched the woman's kind face. What was she talking about?

"Ah, thee is French."

Christiane nodded.

"That explains it," Sarah said with a smile. "There are no Friends in France and few in Canada."

"Oh," Christiane said, gazing at each of them in turn.

"We are members of the Society of Friends," Josiah joined in the conversation." Our movement began in England in 1652. A man named George Fox was the first to begin. Our desire is to strip away religious conventions and to know the Spirit of God intimately. We believe that each man possesses his own inner light." He paused and looked at Christiane.

"That's why you call me 'thee'?" she asked weakly.

"No, child, calling people 'you' is a form of vain flattery which we wish to avoid."

"Why is it flattery?"

"Because it is like the royal 'we'. When one calls a singular person, 'you' the plural form, it is supposed to flatter them. But it is not correct. We believe in the equality of all men and woman and to emphasize that we still use the singular form, 'thee'. Does thee understand?" Josiah asked.

Christiane thought a moment and then nodded. "You don't mind my calling you–you?" she asked hesitantly.

"No, my dear, thee does not offend us," Sarah replied.

Christiane smiled in relief. "Are there many Friends in America?"

"Oh, yes, Pennsylvania, the colony directly south of us, is named for a Quaker, William Penn. It is odd that thee has never met one of us before."

"I've lived a rather isolated life." Not by choice.

"I see." The two contemplated her silently. Then Josiah excused himself and left to attend to his outside work.

Christiane sipped her tea silently as she mulled over this information. Discovering a whole new religion would take some digesting. As a child in Paris, she had barely been conscious of the fact that some people in the world were not Roman Catholic, but that fact had been meaningless. Now she was reminded that as a Catholic, she was still in the minority in this part of the world.

"Thee said thy husband was with the army?" Sarah asked.

"Yes?" Christiane could tell from the way she asked that she did not approve of this. "You aren't loyalists, are you?"

"We are loyal, but not in the way thee means," the kind woman said. "Friends do not participate in this Revolution or any other war. Friends seek only peace."

This answer also confounded Christiane. She chewed her bottom lip, contemplating all this new information.

Sarah Anne left her to ponder undisturbed while she puttered around the kitchen cleaning up after tea. Jean Claude crawled and rolled on the wooden floor contentedly, jabbering to himself.

After a long while Christiane broke her silence, "Do you know where Washington's army is located?"

"Close to Harlem Heights, I believe." Sarah said, wiping down the wooden table.

"Have there been battles in New York City?"

"Yes, unfortunately. Sometimes even we can hear the cannon in the distance." Sarah sighed and shook her head.

"Has Washington been winning?"

A very important question. All of us know how the American Revolution turned out, but at that time, the outcome was still very much in doubt. Have you ever read any other stories which used the Revolution as the time period?

Chapter Three Scene 3 La Belle Christiane

La Belle Christiane

By Lyn Cote

All rights reserved.

Chapter Three, Scene 3

September, over three weeks since the massacre. It did not seem possible. Part of Christiane still felt that if she turned around and went back, everyone and everything at Rumsveld would be there as before. But it was a lie. This illusion depressed her and today's overcast sky did not help her mood. The summer had been unusually warm and dry, punctuated by thunderstorms. This day, however, wanted to be one of those rainy autumn days.

Within an hour after dawn, a dismal drizzle slowly and steadily dampened her, layer by layer, till she was sodden through to the skin. Nancy did not care for walking on the slippery, muddy track beside the river, so Christiane let her take to the grassy border. Jean Claude wailed on and off, rocking in rebellion. His carrier protected him from much of the dampness, but he objected to being confined. Then her spirits soared. She came to the first road sign: New York Ferry 15 Miles. One or two more days and she'd be on the outskirts of her destination.

The bone-chilling drizzle continued and at dusk, she desperately searched for a place to get out of the rain. Finally at dusk, she found a derelict cabin and rested there. She finished the loaf that Tobias had bought them from a farmer's wife and comforted herself that surely tomorrow she would be with Jakob. After a day of continuous rain and mist, the clouds vanished. And the starry night was truly an autumn one, crisp and clear. Unfortunately the quilt that she'd ridden on all day was sodden. Christiane awakened several times with bouts of shivering.

Late in the morning she awoke. Jean Claude fussed in his carrier. Her face was flushed and warm, her fingers trembled, her limbs were weak, and her hollow stomach was queasy. She knew she needed help, but who would take in an ailing stranger? In growing panic, she packed up and mounted Nancy. Maybe she could reach Jakob before she became any worse.

Back on the road, she passed a sign that should have made her shout with joy. New York Ferry 7 Miles. She was so weak now she merely noted it. Through a blur she saw a white building in the distance. Several times just as she felt herself slipping from the horse's back, she pulled herself upright. As she finally neared the building, she saw that it did not look like a farmhouse. She could hear voices from inside. She slid off Nancy.

Mounting the few steps with difficulty, she opened one of the large double doors and stepped in. Dozens of eyes turned toward her. "I…I…," Christiane stammered. She loosened the carrier from her back and set it against the wall. She felt her knees buckling and heard their collective gasp, then nothing.

Author Linda Ford & The Cure for Shame

My guest today is Author Linda Ford who has an interesting story for us. Here's Linda:

Shame was a word that ruled many lives in pioneer times. One was shamed by so many things and bringing shame to your family name or your parents was unthinkable. One of the worst shames was a child conceived before marriage. I know of a woman who found herself in such a position. She was not a Christian at the time of her 'misfortune.'  She had no choice but to marry the man who was 25 years her senior. They falsified the dates on their marriage certificate and hid the truth as best they could even to the husband delivering the baby at home. Can you imagine how frightening this would have been to a young woman not even out of her teens? She carried a continual burden of shame

When her second child was born mentally handicapped, she believed it was punishment for her sin. But God in His great mercy gave her a Christian nurse who provided the burdened woman with a tiny Gospel of John and told her God loved her and died to cleanse her of her sin. I can't imagine the relief when she accepted forgiveness and her burden was relieved.

Or was it? I hate to say I don't think she ever really felt free of her shame. Such was the power of the expectations of that era. And yet she faced her marriage with dignity and raised her family with love and a sense of humor. She clung to the comfort of God's forgiveness and depended on Him for strength for her days.  She loved God's Word and taught her children to do so as well. She truly showed strength and dignity in the face of societal expectations she'd fallen short of and a less-than-ideal marriage where I expect she often felt trapped.

In my story-Dakota Father-I have a heroine who is as strongly controlled by her sense of duty. Jenny knows she must obey her parents. They only want what's best for her and they love her. But her heart proves to have a mind of its own. How can she obey her parents and she wants to because of her love for them when her heart calls her to the rugged beauty of the frontier, a little orphan girl and a handsome cowboy?  It's a real quandary for a woman who knows following wise counsel is in her best interests."–Linda

This is an interesting point. Is there anything that is still considered shameful today? I don't really like the idea of shame since I live under grace. But shame is important as a step toward making a change for the better. Or is it? What do you think?–Lyn

For more info about Author Linda Ford and her lovely books:

My website is www.lindaford.org

My blog is attached to my website. http://lindaford.org/blog/

Chapter Three-Scene 2 La Belle Christiane

La Belle Christiane

By Lyn Cote

All rights reserved.

Chapter Three, Scene 2

The eastward day spun by. Late in the afternoon she realized she was nearing a settlement. The memory of Captain Rupert's insulting touches and whispered offensive propositions made her cautious. Unwilling to face further insult, she skirted the small village. Finally she came upon a grove of spreading oaks near a spring-fed pond. It was dusk and time to settle down for the night. She tethered Nancy near the opposite end of the pond so the mare could eat and drink her fill.

Facing the lonely night ahead made her wonder if she should have sought out shelter among other humans. But the thought of meeting another leering stranger was more disheartening than facing the darkness alone. Jean Claude was cranky and hungry, so she lay down to nurse him and fell sound asleep with her child at her side.

"How do, ma'am," a deep, rough voice spoke nearby. Christiane started up, pulling Jean Claude close to her. "How do," the man repeated. Shocked from sleep, she didn't answer, but began inching away from him crablike. She cast glances around, searching for other faces and trying to locate the mare and her belongings.

"What's ailing ye? I be just an old man, all by myself. Ye don't need to be afeared, ma'am. Just stopped to see if ye be needin' any help. Be ye?" The old man squatted in front of her. They now faced each other on the same eye level. He stared at her thoughtfully while she perused him. He was a small, thin man, shrunk with age. The top of his head was shining bald, but a long fringe of frizzled, gray-white hair wreathed his head, ear to ear and a long beard and mustache, both iron gray, hid the lower half of his face. He was dressed in the common buckskin style and armed with a knife and a well used musket. A bed roll was on his back along with an empty water skin and two recently killed rabbits.

"Well, do I suit ye?" He chuckled.

His gentle laughter calmed her fear. She tried to smile.

"Lassie, ye needn't be afeared of old Tobias Ander–unless ye be a juicy rabbit." He smiled as he pulled down the rabbits from his back.

"I'm Mrs. Kruger," she murmured, feeling as if she hadn't spoken for a long time. She stared at him.

As if she were a wild animal he might spook, he rose slowly. Standing over her, he contemplated her briefly. "Well, ma'am, here's what I've got to say. I'll not leave a woman alone through the night. So I'll be close by till morning. And there'll be rabbit for supper tonight."

"I thank you," she said.

She watched him prepare the rabbit over an open fire. When she felt she could walk, she stood and took both their water skins to the gurgling spring and filled them with the pure finger-chilling water. Jean Claude crawled after her through the tall grass. When she returned with the water, Tobias gave her half the roasted meat and she and Jean Claude ate the hot, tasty morsels.

When the meal was done, Tobias unrolled his blanket and lay down. "Don't worry, ma'am. I sleep with my ears open."

She waited a moment and then she whispered, "Good night." Wrapped in her own blanket and comforted by the old man's kindness, she fell asleep with her son warm beside her.

In the morning light, Christiane stretched luxuriously. She had no remembrance of the night having passed at all. Jean Claude was stirring beside her. Propping herself up on one elbow, she leisurely admired her son. With her index finger, she traced the creases in his chubby, little thighs. At her touch, he awoke with a giggle. He rolled to her and began rooting for her breast.

"Wants his breakfast, does he?"

She sat up and faced the old scout. "Good morning," she said shyly.

"Morning! How does ye like fish for breakfast?"

"I'll clean them," she offered with a smile.

"Done. Already done. Just going to cook them on this rock. Biscuits sure would be tasty, but my flour sack is flat." He hummed to himself at the fire. Soon the fish were sizzling briskly on the rock in the center of the coals. Jean Claude nursed contentedly while she combed the night's tangles from her hair.

"Found yer tongue this morn?"

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to be rude."

"That be all right. Somebody scared ye, didn't they?"

"Yes," Christiane whispered. The man's words were true, and not just the rude captain but also her nightmares. Suddenly tears threatened her.

"I'm no danger to ye. Do ye believe me?"

Swallowing her tears, she nodded. "Yes, I believe you Mr. Ander."

"Just Tobias."

"I'm Christiane and this is my son, Jean Claude."

Tobias bowed his head and shook her son's hand in mock courtesy. The baby enjoyed the game and scrambled up, ready to play. The old man accommodated him quickly and swinging the child up high, joined in the laughter.

Christiane moved over to tend the fish while she watched the two amusing each other. This man had brought her food and protection when she need them both, but more importantly he had brought her a reassurance. Today she would be able to press on toward her goal.

As they munched the warm fish, she voiced her appreciation. "I want to thank you Tobias for stopping. I've not traveled this way before."

"On a long journey, are ye?"

"Yes, I am on my way to join my husband. He's with Washington's Army."

"Ye've got a goodly distance to go. I hear they be fighting near New York City now."

"So I'd heard." The news hadn't been welcome.

"I hear the British got shut of Boston, sailed to New York Island. Washington chased after them."

"That's farther south of Boston, isn't it? Someone told me I just need to follow the Hudson River south. How many days farther do I have to go to reach the Hudson?"

"Almost seven. Would ye be in mind of having some company?"

"You mean you will go with me to the Hudson?"

"Glad to have ye. I be on my way to Kingston, so we can keep company till then." He chuckled at his small joke. She smiled in return. Suddenly she felt blessed as if Tobias had been a special gift. She took another bite of rabbit and her heart whispered her thanks.

#

A week later when Tobias and Christiane were about to part ways, he looked up at her on Nancy's back. "I got somethin' to ask ye."

"Yes?"

"Are ye certain that ye want to go all the way to the city?"

Just hearing this question made her heart beat faster. "I must."

"Now don't get excited. Listen to what I have to say. I can get a place for you near her with folk I know till your man's enlistment is up."

She frowned. "I must go–"

"Now. Hear me out. Ye don't know what an army is all about, Christiane. When men get all together like that, they fergit their manners. And some of them never had any to start. There will be cheap strumpets there and diseases. And ye're going to a war, girl. It's bad enough for ye, but what of yer child?"

"Tobias, I don't want to go, but I must." She tried to infuse her words with all the power she could. The possibility of not having to seek out an army tempted her mightily. "Our village is gone. How can I let my husband walk all that way home this winter only to find everything, everyone gone?"

"He would hear long before he got there. People he stopped with would warn him."

"But what would they tell him about his son, about me? Wouldn't he think me dead also? I must go to him while I know where he is because I am not where he thinks he'll find me." Her throat had thickened with emotion. She could say no more.

"I see. Ye two might miss, lose each other."

As he said it, she felt a shiver go through her. His words stirred fears she didn't want to face. "You mustn't worry about me, Tobias, Jakob will take good care of me."

The old scout nodded. "I would be advising ye a bit then. First ye be a more than pretty girl. 'Tis fact, so don't deny it. 'Tis a gift from yer Maker, but still it would be better if ye be cautious of men who seem eager to help ye. Also don't stop at inns and ask for work like ye told me you did at Rumsveld. They will be givin' ye the wrong kind of work. Do ye get my meaning?" He halted and stared up at her.

Blushing, she lowered her eyes.

"Well, that be all the advice I have for ye. See that you follow it," he admonished her.

With tight lips, she nodded. "How many days will it take me to get to New York City after I leave you at Kingston?"

"Three maybe four. I wish I might see ye to yer man, but my business is important. I got some scouting to do."

"I know, Tobias. I will be all right. I've come a long way already. And I'll follow your advice. I will."

Their last hour together sped by. Then they stood together beside Nancy. Tobias held Jean Claude once more. Then he lifted him back into the carrier and onto Christiane's back. She mounted and nudged Nancy to hurry. She made haste to be out of his sight before she gave into tears.

Sometimes it's good to look back and examine how hard life once was. I wonder how different all the various "Real Housewives" would be if they had to face life like this. Of course, I haven't faced a life without the protective hedge around me  of living in a free and abundant society either so maybe I shouldn't talk. When I look at the women on TV who are in these so-called reality shows, I remind myself that no one knows what goes on behind closed doors. What do you think?

Author Rachelle McCalla & Danger at Her Doorstep

My guest today is Author Rachelle McCalla, one of the newer Love Inspired Suspense authors. Her latest book is Danger on Her Doorstep. Rachelle reminds us of Jael from the book of Judges. Here's Rachelle:

"In chapter four of the book of Judges, an event takes place that most of us probably didn't learn about as kids in Sunday school.  Sisera, the leader of the enemy army, flees from battle and hides in the tent of an Israelite woman named Jael.

Sisera asks Jael to hide him, and instructs her to lie to anyone who comes looking for him.  But instead of aiding the enemy, Jael tells Sisera to rest. When he's asleep, she approaches him quietly and drives a tent peg through his temple, killing him.  When the Israelites come searching for their enemy, she shows them his body, and they write a song about her bravery.

Jael was a strong woman with a brave story.  In some ways, she reminds me of Maggie Arnold, the heroine in my January Love Inspired Suspense book, Danger on her Doorstep.  Maggie didn't ask for trouble—it came to her.  But instead of running away and letting a murderer go free, Maggie made courageous choices that led to the capture of her father's murderer.  It wasn't easy, but it was the right thing to do.

Like Jael and like Maggie, I doubt very many of us go looking for trouble.  It's what we do when trouble finds us that can make all the difference."–Rachelle

I must agree, Rachelle. Through our heroines, we and our readers face many challenges that we might never have to face. But personally, I believe that reading stories about strong women who face life bravery actually strengthens us IMHO.–Lyn

For more about Rachelle and her books or to purchase this title, drop by http://www.eharlequin.com/storeitem.html?iid=22896&cid=359

www.rachellemccalla.com

Chapter Three Scene 1-La Belle Christiane

If you would like to start reading from the beginning, follow this link to Chapter One, Scene 1.

La Belle Christiane

By Lyn Cote

All rights reserved.

Chapter Three, Scene 1

August 1776, Rumsveld

Sitting astride and clothed in her stepson's spare buckskins, Christiane urged Jakob's mare Nancy to enter the forest just north of Rumsveld. Christiane had taught herself to mount and dismount without aid and ride astride, all very unladylike behavior. Her grandmere, who'd insisted Christiane take elegant sidesaddle lessons, would have been appalled. Christiane drew what satisfaction she could from this bit of rebellion.

Sliding off, she looped the reins around a nearby sapling, and hung Jean Claude's Indian baby carrier on a low branch where her son could finish his after-supper nap. She must hurry before the lowering sun unleashed swarms of mosquitoes, thirsting for her blood. She'd come to harvest wild raspberries, ripe and thick on the prickly vines. A small oak basket over one arm, she began quickly gathering the soft, red berries. The thorns of the raspberry bushes snatched at her leather and would have ruined her only dress.

But what Jakob would say if he saw his bride wearing Jon's deerskins? His bride. As always thoughts of Jakob leaving her for Washington's Army chafed, dragged her down. She'd been so certain she could change his mind. But he'd reminded her of his deep personal reason for fighting for freedom. So he, and surprisingly Tom also, had left in early-June for a six-month enlistment. Just her few days as Jakob's wife had convinced her she'd married the right man. But had he reached the army? Had he been in battle? Was he well, alive? "Jakob," she whispered to the leaves fluttering on the wind, sounding like callous laughter, "I miss you."

Suddenly distant sounds interrupted the peaceful twilight. Swatting away a fly, she eased up from the bushes and scanned the horizon through the trees that hemmed her in. Smoke. Smoke was billowing from the direction of the settlement. Fire? Snatching Jean Claude from the tree, she hurried closer to the edge of the forest, ready to mount Nancy and ride to help put out the flames.

But then she recognized the sounds. She'd heard those cries in Canada. Mohawks. Mohawk war cries. Musket shots echoed on the wind. But so few men were left. More war cries. The muskets fell silent. "No," she tried to deny it.

Her heart raced, pounded and she turned, crashing through the brush, fleeing. A low branch slapped her cheek and Jean Claude cried out. Terror jolted her. Less than quarter of a mile separated them from the village. Would his cry be heard? Would the Mohawk find them? She pressed her hand over her son's mouth. He squirmed and twisted. Her heart throbbing in her ears, she murmured hushing noises to him. She dropped to her knees. "God, please don't let them find us." I don't want us to die.

She squeezed her eyes shut, willing away her memory of the one scalping she'd witnessed. Her hand over her son's mouth enraged him, he struggled against her. On shaky legs, she rose, moving silently to Nancy. She managed to lead the mare deeper into the forest.

Minutes, then hours crawled by. The commotion at the start of the raid ended, spawning an eerie silence. She had a time keeping Jean Claude quiet. Nearly ten months old, he wanted to get out and crawl. Finally she let him down but watched him closely, so he didn't get snarled in nettles or thorns and perhaps cry out again. She fed him raspberries and nursed him—anything that would keep him quiet. Her mind brought up Jakob's fear that the British would bribe the Iroquois tribes to war against them. Had this happened already?

Deep in the sheltering trees, she faced night alone without fire. She paced back and forth, holding Jean Claude and fanning away mosquitoes. The hellish glow from the fires in Rumsveld died down but did not go out. All was still. Only insects clicked, buzzed and whined. Finally with a sleeping child in her arms, she crept to the forest's edge. Was there any movement at the smoldering settlement? Should she chance it? Past images of war-painted Mohawks sprinted through her mind, nearly freezing her in place.

Torn between a need to see what had taken place and a horror of finding what she feared, she hesitated a long time at the edge of the sheltering trees. Then the bright full moon rose high. She strapped Jean Claude to her back once more, took up her courage and mounted the mare.

Her stepson Jon had been alone, cultivating his rows of corn. Had he escaped into the forest, too? As she approached Jakob's familiar acres, she saw the charred ruins of her husband's cabin. Pressing her hand to her mouth, she held back a sob that threatened to sweep away her reason. I've lost another home.

She scanned the nearby moon-silvered field of high tasseled corn, the locusts and cicadas buzzing and shrieking, insistent in her ears. The back of her hand still pressed over her quivering mouth, she rode down the end of the rows, hoping, praying that she would not find Jon. Then by the bright moonlight, she glimpsed his mocassined feet protruding at the end of a row. I can't go . . . can't.

She forced herself to approach and face the stark carnage. Jon's scalped body lay in its own blood. A scavenging animal scurried away from the lifeless form. She slid from her horse and was sick. On her back, Jean Claude jarred, bawled loud against the night sounds, but she could not think what to do. The child squalled on. She held herself with her arms and shook with nausea and horror. At last, she forced herself to mount again. She shivered in the muggy August night, but pressed on. Someone might yet live. Please let someone, be alive.

In front of the smoldering ruins of the tavern, she could find no sign of Sarah. "Oh, Sarah, why?" Her friend's ruddy face glimmered in her memory. Christiane dismounted, forcing her mind to shut down. If she allowed herself to open up to this, she'd be lost. And be no use at all. The Mohawk had been thorough in their killing, stealing, burning. A night owl screeched overhead, spurring her to action. She couldn't let the dead suffer further desecration.

With brands from various fires, she fed the embers, blowing on them to make the flames high, but not too high. Who knew how far away the Mohawk had gone? On this clear night, a bonfire could be seen for miles. She dragged the remaining bodies to one large fire. Most were unrecognizable and shadows hid faces. She choked back a persistent need to gag. Her shoulders ached and her empty stomach heaved.

As she pulled one of the last forms to the communal pyre, a young voice shrieked, "Stop! Don't touch my ma!" Two small fists pounded the base Christiane's bent spine. She turned to grasp them and discovered Anson, a boy of ten. She yanked him to her and gagged him with her hand. "Quiet. They might hear you." The quivering child quieted in an instant. She groaned softly with relief. I'm not alone. Realizing the boy mistook her in buckskin, she made her voice cool and decisive. "I'm not an Indian, Anson." She lifted her hand from his mouth. "I'm Mrs. Kruger, Jakob's wife. You know me."

The hysterical child collapsed against her, sobbing. To muffle this, she knelt and held him against her. Then his little brother, Phillip, came running from the trees to join them. She offered him a place in her embrace and he shyly clung to her. She did not urge Anson to be still, but kept him against her. His raw, unrestrained sobs shuddered through her, nearly unleashing her own. But now she had two more depending on her. At length, his sobs became small gasps. Anson stepped back and using his sleeves, rubbed his eyes and nose and stared at her, his shattered heart in his eyes.

"Where were you two hiding?" she asked in a calm tone, turning them away from the flames.

"We were…we were playing in the woods," Anson answered, between intermittent gasps. "We hid."

"That was very clever of you," she said, keeping her voice matter-of-fact. "I was picking raspberries. Why don't you boys lead the mare down to the creek and let her get a drink of water?" Christiane's dry throat also begged for water. But she must finish here and she wanted the boys away, so they would not have to witness their mother consumed by flame.

Though Anson's eyes glanced one last time at his mother's still form, he took his brother's hand and led the mare away. Christiane turned back to her gruesome task in order to escape this haunted place. Yet danger would dog them. The Mohawk had taken no captives; that meant they could still be on the prowl–not heading home with plunder. She would have to be clever to elude them. Her mind scrambled to bring up everything about Indian raids she'd learned when with the Algonquin and from her first and second husbands. Pitiful bits of facts.

"I'm hungry," Phillip's little voice complained. She stood still for a moment planning. Then she led the horse, carrying the boys, to Jakob's well where she filled the empty water skin she'd brought with her earlier. With brands from the ashes of the cabin, she started a fire over and around her stepson. Then she hurried the boys back to the berry patch. After the boys devoured fistfuls of the berries, she settled one of them in front and one behind her on Nancy's back and with Jean Claude secure in the carrier on her back. They turned away from what had been their home. Exhausted, weeping inside, she tried to think of the direction to the nearest fort.

She reeked of sweat, smoke, and the odor of burning flesh. The combination was repulsive and launched an overwhelming desire to flee the frontier. She'd left Canada to escape the wilderness, but Rumsveld hadn't been far enough for protection's sake. She straightened her spine. I don't want to be here or anywhere like here ever again. And the sooner the better.

#

A ragged sigh of relief, a bubble of hope escaped Christiane. After two frightening, hungry days passed, she saw, at last, the outline of a fort ahead. Behind her the sunset hung in long trails of magenta, purple, and blazing gold. She halted at the gates of the small rugged fort. From above, a grizzled man aimed a musket down at her. "Who are you? Where you from?"

"Mrs. Jakob Kruger. Rumsveld," she croaked, her throat parched.

"A woman?"

"Yes, and I have children with me. Please let me in. We've had no food . . . ." Relief had weakened her. She lowered the two boys and slid from Nancy before she fell.

The gate swung open. Men rushed out. Her knees buckled and one of them caught her. "What happened at Rumsveld?"

"Water please," she muttered, gagging on her swollen tongue.

Gourds of fresh water were offered them. The warm but fresh water dripped down her chin as she gulped it. The boys drank and then hovered around Christiane's legs, preventing her from moving. From the gate, a crowd muttered and murmured around them.

A tall militia officer stepped forward; everyone else fell back. "Mrs. Kruger, I'm Captain James Rupert," the young officer addressed her with a bow, "I would like to hear your account of the events at Rumsveld." He offered her his arm.

Weak, Christiane clung to him, nudging the boys forward. In the captain's office, venison stew was brought to them and Christiane recounted the bare facts of the raid at Rumsveld. As soon as the boys emptied their wooden bowls, they dozed off before the fire, lying against one another. Jean Claude nibbled from Christiane's bowl, then nursed soundlessly and fell asleep. The light from a low fire on the hearth sent shadows, streaking and flickering against the rough log walls. Christiane felt sleep sneaking through her body bit by bit, stealing away sensation, focus.

"What are your plans, Madam?" the captain asked at length, his eyes on her, almost caressing her.

His unwelcome forwardness brought her back. "First I will have to find a home for the boys. Then I will join my husband with the Continental Army."

"But, Madam," he said, sounding startled, "that is hundreds of miles from here. And with the Mohawk and two armies abroad, you will hardly be safe."

Christiane closed her eyes. "Safe?" she whispered. Where was safety? She'd felt secure in Rumsveld, but hadn't been. A memory flowed through her senses, Jakob clasping her in his strong arms, pressing her close to his uncompromising chest. That was safety. The officer leaned closer, his warm breath fanned her face. Jolted, she staggered to her feet.

The captain rose also. "I'll escort you to your quarters."

Scrabbling to pull herself together, Christiane shook the boys awake and lifted Jean Claude onto one arm. The captain scowled at the children, ranged around her as a shield. "You'll sleep in my quarters."

"Your quarters?" she balked.

"I'll sleep in my office." He bowed, again the gallant.

She murmured her thanks and forced herself to let him guide her. She'd keep the boys with her in bed and make sure the door was barricaded. When Captain Rupert bid her goodnight, his hot gaze singed her. Fool.

#

A few days later, at the gate of the fort, Captain Rupert caught up with her—she astride Nancy with the children around her and him looking up. "Madam, where do you think you're going?"

The proprietary tone in his voice nearly made her snap back at him. But instead, the smile she gave him was a false coin. "I'm spending the night with the Hastings." Mrs. Hastings had treated Christiane with kindness, unlike the other women crowded into the fort. She'd given Christiane the neat homespun dress she wore today.

"The Hastings left the safety of this fort prematurely." He had the gall to touch her leg. "I don't like to see you exposed to danger."

She moved Nancy forward, disengaging the man's hand. And you keep thinking that you will wear me down and I'll agree to stay here as your mistress. Overweening fool. She smiled again, another false coin. "You're gracious to concern yourself about me, but it is unnecessary. Good evening, Captain." And good riddance. With the eyes of the whole fort on them, what could he do, say to stop her?

Nancy carried them through the open gates and Christiane suppressed a shout of victory. The few miles to the Hastings cabin passed quickly. The boys sitting before her were silent. She'd already told them they would be staying with the Hastings and even though both the husband and wife had been kind, the boys were still fearful. That couldn't be helped.

She had her own fears to contend with and her nightmares. She'd go to sleep exhausted and they would begin. A war-painted Mohawk brave would reach out and pull up her hair. Just as she watched him begin to slice the top of her scalp away from her skull, she would wake to her own screaming. Jean Claude would also be crying frantically, so she knew she had been screaming loud enough and long enough to be heard. She would be drenched in her own cold sweat and shivering.

Other times she would merely awaken, expecting to be in Old Sarah's bed at the tavern. She would reach over to touch her friend to stir her and the bed beside her would be empty except for her son. Then the loneliness, grief and loss pierced her like the sharpest needle. Perhaps these would end when she was far from the wilderness.

The sun was low, casting the corn fields in an amber glow. She rode up to the Hastings' cabin and slid from Nancy's back.

As if on cue, Mr. Hastings bustled out of the small thatched barn and relieved her of the reins. "Why don't you boys come help me with the milking?"

His chin down, Anson nodded. Mr. Hastings led them away.

Christiane turned and found Mrs. Hastings, plump and about ten years older than Christiane, in the doorway of their cabin, welcoming her inside. "Supper's ready and waiting for Kyle to finish the milking," the woman said. Inside, Jean Claude yelled at his being restrained and Christiane took off the carrier and let him down to crawl.

Mrs. Hastings grinned at him and then motioned to Christiane. "Come here I have some things that you may be able to make use of."

"You've already been so kind—"

Mrs. Hastings tutted her to silence. Atop a large trunk, the woman had laid out some baby dresses, diapers, knitted sweaters, caps and booties. Also a worn quilt and knife. "I hope you will be able to use these. It's hard to think of winter already, but you'll be needing these things for your little one and this quilt is so old, it's nearly ready to go to the barn to cover the cow in winter. My John said you'd need a knife. He sharpened it fresh for you."

The couple's generosity clogged Christiane's throat. Until she reunited with Jakob, she was again a penniless wanderer. "Thank you," she whispered, shame at needing charity burning her cheeks.

The woman put an arm around her. "You've given us so much more. Two sons."

"You and your good husband were the only ones who looked at Anson and Phillip as sons, not just two more pairs of hands to work."

Mrs. Hastings rubbed her neck and looked away. "We buried three sons, all gone before they reached a year old. And then I fell barren. You know we'll treat them like our own blood. It's good to have sons to pass the land on to."

Unable to imagine the toll of losing three sons, Christiane embraced the woman. After a plain tasty supper, she spent the night on a pallet by their fire.

The next morning at dawn before the boys awoke, Christiane and Jean Claude waved farewell to the Hastings and headed away before Captain Rupert would know of their flight.

From Rupert's scout, Christiane knew that she only needed to head due east till she reached the Hudson River and then to follow it south to New York City. Even the thought of the journey that lay ahead of her did not daunt her high spirits. Jakob was waiting for her. All would be well when she was in his arms again.

Do you think she's right? Don't miss the rest of Chapter Three, posted on Wednesday and Friday this week!–Lyn

The winner is

Paula Osborne. Paula, you have won the autographed copy of Laurie Kingery's Love Inspired Historical, The Doctor Takes a Wife. Laurie picked the winner. Please click the Contact button above and email me your mailing address so Laurie can send you the book!

Congratulations!–Lyn