Lyn Cote's Blog, page 109
January 13, 2011
Chapter Two, Scene Three, La Belle Christiane
La Belle Christiane
By Lyn Cote
All rights reserved.
Chapter Two, Scene Three
The April day had started with a cool, gray dawn. But now Christiane felt a tiny thread of perspiration trickle down her back. Just as the weather had changed unexpectedly so had the day in the little village. The pastor from Oriskany had arrived to marry a young couple and the whole village of Rumsveld had turned out for the afternoon ceremony, performed on the village green.
Christiane shifted Jean Claude from her right hip to her left. Sarah leaned over and took him. Christiane smiled her thanks. Across from her stood Jakob. Ever since the afternoon Jakob had told her his story, they'd tried to behave normally in each other's presence. But they had not fooled Sarah who was even now glancing back and forth between the two of them. And Christiane herself was having trouble keeping her eyes from straying to Jakob.
He would have drawn looks anywhere with his dark blond hair tightly pulled back into a club at the base of his neck, his broad shoulders, the smooth line of back. His tanned face and neck stood out in contrast to his white dress shirt and he exuded strength and vitality. But most of all, he'd opened his life like a book and shared it with her. She couldn't prevent him from leaving soon. But how could she just let him go?
The wedding ceremony ended with the bashful groom kissing his bride. Then several men came up, pulled the groom away. Before long, he was being tossed up in a blanket to the sound of hurrahs. The bride was also taken prisoner, surrounded by the women who sang a silly song about love and courting that Christiane had never heard. Then the men let down the breathless and rumpled groom from the blanket. Twin brothers brought out fiddles and couples formed the circles and squares for dancing.
The impromptu wedding party amazed Christiane. She had never been to a frontier gathering and she could not seem to take it all in. Years before in Paris she had been allowed to make appearances at the beginning of her grandmother's balls, partly to show off the next Pelletier and partly to accustom her from childhood to perform at such festivities. So a party to her meant the sedate music of the minuet and the cultured behavior of noble guests. This was nothing like those affairs. The unabashed gaiety of the dancers here was in complete contrast to the highborn pose of boredom.
She took a seat in the shade of a group of elms, the gathering spot for the grandmother's and the babies. Smiles and nods greeted her and Sarah. When she sat down, Jean Claude whimpered and began falling asleep.
As she watched the dancing, Jakob slipped away and went to the far side of a nearby barn. Why he was going there? As though to answer her unspoken question, Sarah murmured, "The men are passing the jug over there. They will want to congratulate the groom and toast him, do ya see?" Christiane nodded and listened to the flow of women's chatter. Then Jakob was in front of her.
Smiling with mischief, Sarah lifted the sleeping Jean Claude from Christiane's arms and shooed her away. "Go have fun. Dance while you can." Christiane took Jakob's outstretched hand hesitantly. Could she dance with Jakob as if he weren't leaving on the morrow?
Jakob led her through the steps of the rollicking dance. As the gaiety around them mounted, he looked more and more pensive. His story had connected them in this indefinable way and continued to heighten, sharpen her awareness, her attraction to him. Through all the reels, the rasp of his rough hands on her palm, arm, and waist intensified the same sensation as though her flesh were reaching for him. Just the same as the last time he'd touched her.
Tom and others claimed her for dances too. But always she could feel Jakob's gaze on her, marking her, keeping her blood running warm and liquid through her veins. Finally the coolness of dusk crept upon the celebrants. At the end of a dance, Jakob whispered, "Be ready to follow my lead."
He drew her away into the shadows. When they reached the cover of a thicket, Jakob turned and gathered her into his arms. As if she'd waited for this for days, she buried her face against his throat. "Jakob," she whispered, her voice quavering.
"Marry me," he murmured, fanning her with his warm breath. "Marry me, Christiane."
"But, Jakob–"
He smothered her caution with a reckless kiss. Then he lifted his lips the barest fraction. "Marry me."
"But you'll be leaving–"
"I come back in winter. Maybe the war be over by fall–"
"But–"
"Marry me, Christiane." He prevented her reply with his lips.
Crushed against his unrelenting strength, she was tempted with a promise of fullness she'd never experienced. Her heart had never pounded like this when her late husband had embraced her, coaxed her. It was as though she were held together with tight wire springs, and Jakob's touch, kisses, loosened the spirals that held her together. She felt if he did not stop, she might come apart.
His kiss drew all that remained of her denial. "Yes," she gasped, "yes."
Then she became a channel for warm, lush currents and she clung to him, her only solid anchor. The lush night sounds, the distant music, the scent of the pine, the filmy light from the moon over them became a part of them as Jakob held her close and whispered his love. She sighed. He kissed her deftly, leisurely, fully.
"Now we find the parson," he said at last.
She answered with a tender smile. He pulled her with him through the dusky shadows. He'd lulled her doubts but with each step, they flew up like sparks. Jakob was leaving for war tomorrow. She'd accepted that. What she couldn't accept, what froze her to her marrow, was a fresh spurt petrifying dread. Soldiers could die. Would she end up being Jakob's widow too?
January 12, 2011
Author Laurie Kingery & Different Kinds of Strength
Well, after three scenes of La Belle Christiane, I thought we needed a break and my friend Author Laurie Kingery has a new Love Inspired Historical out this month, The Doctor Takes a Wife. AND SHE'S GIVING AWAY A COPY TO SOMEONE WHO LEAVES A COMMENT! (Include your email using dot and at) Here's Laurie:
DIFFERENT KINDS OF STRENGTH
I write about strong women too, just as Lyn Cote does. The caliber of readers I write for will no longer put up with a wimpy heroine who clutches her handkerchief and cries and waits for a strong man to rescue her out of whatever circumstances she has landed in, either out of her own foolishness, the foolishness of others, or circumstances beyond her control.
In the first book of my Brides of Simpson Creek series, MAIL ORDER COWBOY (Nov.'10, Love Inspired Historicals) Milly Matthews is a strong plucky woman who won't resign herself to being an old maid simply because the town has no eligible men following the Civil War. She forms a club of likeminded single women to send for marriage-minded bachelors to come and court them, the Spinsters' Club, and succeeds in making the very first match. Her sister Sarah eyes the project with uneasiness at first, partially because her heart is still mourning for her fiancé Jesse, a Confederate soldier who never returned from the war.
There are many kinds of strength, I believe. Milly possesses the more obvious kind, the kind that thinks of big ideas and sees them through. Milly keeps the ranch going after their father dies, when many women would have sold out and moved to town.
But her sister Sarah, heroine of my mid-January book, THE DOCTOR TAKES A WIFE (Love Inspired Historicals), is a strong woman too. Her strength is more the quiet kind, the kind that loves deeply and believes strongly, and when she is convinced, there is no stopping her. When she first meets Dr. Nolan Walker, the man who has courted her through his letters, she is immediately put off because she finds out he is a Yankee. Yankees were generally hated in Texas and the rest of the defeated South for a long time after the Civil War, and since Sarah has lost her first love in that war, how could she forgive a man who withheld the fact in his letters that he is one of that hated breed?
Strong women are also fair women. Nolan realizes the doctor-less town needs him and stays. Slowly and surely, Sarah's sense of fairness shows her Nolan's true worth, and friendship turns to love between the two—though Sarah still has reservations about Nolan because he doesn't share her strong faith. She shows Nolan there is a better way than his doubt and cynicism.
It will take a deadly epidemic to bring out Sarah's real, underlying strength, and she battles right alongside Nolan. A life-threatening crisis threatens to put a premature end to their love, but Sarah's strong, godly influence helps Nolan win the battle.
But Sarah and Nolan still can't enjoy the peace they've earned. A figure from Sarah's past returns. Sarah and Nolan must be strong in ways they never imagined to live happily ever after.
I hope you will enjoy THE DOCTOR TAKES A WIFE as much as I enjoyed writing it.
Blessings, Laurie Kingery
To learn more about Laurie and her books:
Web address: http://www.lauriekingery.com
Blog address: http://www.lauriekingery.com/blog
January 11, 2011
Chapter Two, Scene Two, La Belle Christiane
La Belle Christiane
By Lyn Cote
All rights reserved.
Chapter Two, Scene 2
Two weeks later
Standing in the doorway of Sarah's barn, Christiane, pulled up her single braid so that she could feel the spring breeze on her neck. Though small patches of snow still lingered in shaded spots, the warm wind swept billowy white clouds northward across a perfect, blue sky. The wild grass was green again from recent showers and the trees had unfurled tight little buds. On this spring day, now seventeen years old, she felt delightfully alive, but somehow unsettled.
She'd just finished milking the cow. During the harsh gray winter, sitting on the milking stool and leaning her cheek against the warm cow's furry hide, had been comforting. Physical evidence that she and her son had a home again and that had been enough. Now the restlessness that had begun that evening a few weeks ago unfurled inside her. And somehow it was all tied up with Jakob Kruger. Deep in her thoughts, she did not notice Jakob until cleared his throat in front of her.
"Kleines Frau, I think you would like these. I find them this morning just inside my clearing." He pushed a small, uneven bouquet of wild flowers into her hands.
Christiane inhaled their pungent, wild fragrance. Her hesitant smile answered him. "They smell like spring." Though no man had ever given her flowers before, she knew what this attention meant. Avoiding Jakob's eyes, she bent her face above the blooms once again. "Thank you, Mr. Kruger," she said in a prim tone.
"You are welcome, kleines Frau." His voice caressed her.
She knew a she should get away from him, but she could not think of a way to excuse herself without appearing rude.
He rested one moccasined foot on the door sill in front of her. "It is a beautiful day, ja?"
She slid a bit to the right, preparing to leave. "Yes, it's hard to believe winter has finally ended, Mr. Kruger."
He continued to smile and in spite of herself, she liked the way the skin around his eyes crinkled. Approaching the point of leaving, she asked, "Did you want to see Sarah about something?"
"No, I come only to bring you flowers."
His bold response startled her. She couldn't stop her cheeks from coloring. "I have thanked you for them, so I will bid you good day," she said with precise courtesy. Lifting the full milk pail, she tried to step past him.
His outstretched arm arrested her.
Her chin lifted. "Was there something else?" Her words stiff.
"Yes." His rough hand reached over to support her arm, which held the pail of milk. She opened her mouth to ask why and found she couldn't speak. His eyes held hers and she watched, mesmerized, as his face drew nearer, nearer. Then he pressed his warm, dry lips to hers.
"Pull away," her mind instructed. But pure amazement filled her, her eyes still wide open. Her late husband's kisses were a distant memory. Had they ever held sway over her like this?
"Mr. Kruger," she whispered his name against his lips, giddy with a sudden rush of sensations.
"Kleines Frau," he whispered back and began a second kiss. She closed her eyes and drifted against him. Finally he spoke, "Kleines Frau, I ask you a favor."
His voice rumbled through her. "What?"
"I wish you call me Jakob."
Through half-closed eyes, she studied him and how she'd relaxed against him. What had he asked? The words came back to her. This request was a step toward intimacy. I should say no. He's almost twice my age and I haven't known him long. Instead of denial, she felt her lips form the word "yes".
"I wondered what was holding back the milk being brought in," Old Sarah's wry voice boomed across the yard between the tavern and its barn.
Christiane jerked back. If Jakob's hand had not steadied her grip on the milk pail, she would have spilled it. As it was, a few drops spilled and trickled down her bare ankle into her moccasin, pitching her back to reality.
She wrested her arm from Jakob's grip. "I'm sorry, Sarah," she said, taking a step past him.
"Sorry, Sarah," Jakob echoed, sounding not a bit sorry. He leaned back against the door jam and folded his arms across his chest.
From the corner of her eye, Christiane observed his nonchalant pose and self-satisfied expression. She would have liked to slap it from his face. And she should have. How could she have let him slip under her intentions and kiss her?
Several minutes later still inwardly fuming, Christiane sat on the stoop of the inn, concentrating on stitching a small shirt for Jean Claude, who was crawling on the wild grass nearby. Coming outside, Sarah sat on a ladder-back chair beside her. Had she seen Christiane letting Jakob kiss her? Christiane wondered if Sarah would have more to say. Or she corrected herself, what more would Old Sarah have to say?
A few moments in the golden sunshine passed. Sarah broke the silence. "So you have a man courting you?"
Christiane sat still, contemplating the word, "courting." She'd have been an idiot not to recognize Jakob's interest in her. But somehow the word, "courting" turned Christiane stomach inside out. "Do you really think he is courting me?"
"Course." Sarah snorted. "That kiss should have told you that. And I see the way he looks at you. Like a farmer looks at the grain he's about to harvest."
To give herself time to think, Christiane picked up her chubby son and nuzzled him. He squealed with delight. The truth, a straight arrow, came to her. I don't want anyone courting me.
Then she voiced her reason aloud to herself as well as Sarah. "My first marriage was arranged. This time I want to choose. What if I make the wrong choice?"
"Picking a man ain't easy. Though most don't think about it much. They just do it as a matter of course, do ya see? And some poor women just don't have many chances. But you, yes, you will have choices."
Christiane pondered this.
Then Sarah said, "Jakob has a good head on his shoulders. I have to admit that if I were in the market for a man, I would be looking Jakob over as a good choice." The old woman chuckled at herself.
"Sarah!" Christiane slapped her friend's knee as though scolding a child. Then her tone abruptly became serious as she voiced one of her concerns, "He is too old for me, don't you think?"
"He's only in his thirties. And age don't mean much. Jakob is a strong, a hearty man. I'm certain he would be around many a year more."
"But I would want more of a family," Christiane said cautiously. Didn't age affect that?
Sarah snorted again. "Don't worry about Jakob. He's man enough to take care of any woman. His wife was a sweet woman, but she was barren after Jon and that's all there was to it."
"I suppose age is not the best reason to marry someone or not," Christiane conceded with honesty. "My first husband was younger than Jakob and he has passed already."
"Aye, there are no guarantees in life. That's a fact."
"But Sarah, Jakob doesn't have time to court me if he goes ahead and joins Washington's army." This brought a confusing mix of relief and tension. Christiane's lungs tightened and her heart jigged.
Sarah let the subject go. Companionable silence ensued. Overlaying Christiane thoughts, the unbidden face of the English captain momentarily floated before her and the memory of her cheek against the wool of his red coat. She'd known Captain Eastham only a day, less than a day, much less than a day. Why did she continue to think of him? She waited, but no answer came to her. Where are you, Captain Eastham? Do you ever think of me?
Sarah broke into her reverie. "Just remember you don't have to be in a hurry. Jakob isn't the only bachelor in New York Colony. Word is getting 'round about you. Now that the weather is better, others will come looking. You know what they say, 'Marry in haste and repent in leisure'."
Good advice surely. I'm not ready yet. "I think I should wait another year. I'm in no hurry."
Sarah grinned. "But your callers may be."
"Then they will have to learn patience, won't they?" Christiane answered with a saucy grin. They shared a chuckle over this. Then Christiane scooped up her drowsy son to take him in for his nap, leaving Old Sarah outside absently fanning away stray mosquitoes.
January 10, 2011
Chapter Two Begins, La Belle Christiane
La Belle Christiane
By Lyn Cote
All rights reserved.
Chapter Two, Scene 1
March 1776
Rumsveld Village, Western New York Colony
At dusk, biting wind picked up and gray leaden clouds veiled the sky. This evening at the only inn in Rumsveld, Jakob Kruger watched Christiane, his only reason for coming out on this forbidding night. As she helped Old Sarah Rumsveld clear away what remained of the dried apple corn-bread pudding they'd served in wooden bowls of thick cream for supper, he tried not to stare at the young woman and failed.
The main room of the inn was small and dark, dominated by a large hearth, an oak trestle table, and a settle on one side of the fire. Dried fruit, Indian corn, and spices hung from the rafters under the roof. The heavy scent of apples and cinnamon hung in the air. But the essence of Christiane overpowered everything. Watching her had become his secret temptation.
At his first sight of Christiane, he'd been snared like a trout on a hook. She'd had arrived here at Rumsveld with her newborn son before the first snow last November, telling all that her husband had been killed by a bear farther north. She'd come south, trying to get closer to larger, safer settlements. She'd gotten as far as Rumsveld.
And all winter, Jakob had watched the pretty young widow–in spite of himself. Now, she stood in front of the hearth and lit the wick of a betty lamp, a dried gourd filled with oil. As her neat rounded figure was backlit by the fire, a restlessness rustled through him. He glanced away, feeling guilty, as if peeping in at the window. He had no business being interested in any woman, especially such a young woman. And especially not now.
Ashamed of his lack of control, he motioned to his friend, young Tom Mitchell, to come outside with him. Logs needed to be cut to fit the hearth. They'd paid for supper and ale by promising an armload each of cut wood. Outside, Jakob hefted the ax, which had been sunk into a large old stump, and began chopping wood. Each time the blade bit wood, Jakob puffed out air, whitened by the lingering wintry chill. When he paused to wipe his brow with the back of his hand, he caught Christiane's voice from inside.
"What a pretty girl she is," Tom said wistfully.
"Ja, very pretty. Sweet, too. Make you a good wife." With each stroke of the ax, each word stabbed Jakob.
Tom colored. "I'm not looking for a wife yet."
"At your age I was already married to my wife and we come to America." The words tasted sour on his tongue. Jakob didn't want to feel jealousy. He finished with a log, lifted another into place, handed Tom the ax, and stepped aside. Tom was of the right age to marry the pretty widow.
"Times are too uncertain." The young man voiced the main reason Jakob should put away any thoughts of courting.
Jakob watched the younger man chopping, feeling older by the minute. But I'm in my prime, only in my thirties. And he had a mission this year. One that would take him far away. "Come," he said finally. "That is enough wood to pay."
Tom made one last swing and sank the blade deep into the chopping stump. Jakob piled logs high into his arms as did Tom. Together they headed through the rough-hewn door. They deposited their loads on the earthen floor inside the door. Immediately, his traitorous gaze sought Christiane out. Would the flickering wicks and the fire, giving only enough light to create shadows, hide this telltale sign of his interest in her?
And evidently Tom had the same motive in coming here tonight–to watch Christiane. Jakob repressed the sting of irritation. This wasn't a competition he should try to win. And how would his decision to leave be greeted here? Would he win her scorn or approval? He stiffened his resolve. He shouldn't care what she thought. He'd made his decision and it would stand. Pretty widow or no.
As she hurried away from the settle, Jakob caught Christiane blushing. She knows I cannot stop looking at her. I make myself a fool. Jakob stalked to the bench by the long table and sat down by his fifteen-year-old son Jon who had just come in. Tom followed.
In a moment Christiane approached the men with an earthenware jug. She hoped they hadn't seen her blushing but how was she supposed to react when they kept staring at her? "I'll pour your ale." As she poured their pewter mugs full, she was suddenly very conscious of his physical closeness. Heat from Jakob's exertion radiated from him and he smelled of fresh clean sweat. This new sensitivity startled her.
"Should I leave the jug?" she tried to sound as she always had before this new heightened awareness of Jakob. Both men nodded. She turned and walked away, but she sensed their gazes again following her. But only Jakob's attention made her skin warm. Why? Why was she acting or reacting this way tonight? Was she finally healing from the loss of Jean Claude?
Her memories of her first husband had faded. They'd only had a little over a year together. He'd been good to her, but if she hadn't borne him a son, nothing of their time together would remain. She squeezed her eyes shut, forcing away the memory of his last few blood-soaked moments of life.
She opened her eyes to the present. Something had changed in her tonight. Was this awakening due to the end of mourning? Or could she dismiss it as merely the touch of spring that had come on the breeze this morning? Hearing Jean Claude waken, she went to the other room to get him.
Christiane then sat down on the settle by the fire, shielded from view by Old Sarah, an angular woman, tall but stooped. Only the three bachelors, Jakob, his son and Tom, sipped ale and lounged around the table.
"Jakob, what did you hear over at Oriskany?" Sarah asked, starting in on the "Revolution" again.
Christiane wondered why these frontiersmen, especially Jakob, bothered about the distant unrest. What did Washington and his ragtag army in Boston have to do with them?
"Washington still waits outside Boston," he answered. Jakob lived outside the village with his lanky son Jon, who sat beside him. Jakob's blonde hair and honest blue eyes were eye-catching. But, more importantly, Christiane had to admit that the discussions he initiated were livelier and more interesting. She settled back, maybe tonight she'd actually listen to the details of this Revolution, try to understand it. Maybe it would override Jakob's new sway over her.
"I think Washington'll be waiting there a long time," Tom put in. Tom was about twenty years old, slender and tall, a local farmer who lived alone. "At least he will if he wants to stay alive."
Inwardly Christiane agreed with him. These farmers underestimated His Majesty's Army. What the English took they kept. Her Irish father's wasted life had proved that to her. But what would Jakob think if she told him that?
"Maybe so," Jakob said. His English was careful, but held a flavor of Allemand, German. "I read a broadside posted in Oriskany. It says the English bring Hessians to fight for them in Boston."
"Can't be true," Sarah snapped. Deftly she filled the end of her long, clay pipe with Indian tobacco and tapped it down.
Jakob drew himself up. "I–myself–speak to the man who brought the broadside and posted it. He saw Hessians with his own eyes." He folded his arms.
Christiane wondered why Hessians surprised anyone. Did this Jakob believe what he thought mattered to the world beyond?
"I still can't believe it," Tom muttered. "Don't sound right."
"Believe it. The English–they can't even fight their own war," Jakob said.
Then Christiane realized more than what Jakob was saying. Each phrase from his deep decisive voice was softening her toward him. She stiffened her defenses.
"Take a lot of–" Sarah spoke between pulls at her pipe. "–English gall to hire foreigners . . .to fight their own people."
"Maybe it will make it easier for General Washington," Jon offered.
"No," Jakob insisted. "Men from Hesse are good fighters."
"They don't belong here," Sarah repeated, stretching her large moccasined feet closer to the fire.
A blast of wind rushed in through every crack between the logs. Christiane pulled her shawl closer around herself. Once more she was grateful for these log walls, thankful Old Sarah had taken her in. To keep her unruly gaze from straying to Jakob, she busied herself, laying her sleeping son in a borrowed cradle near the fire.
"Hessians," Tom complained. "But this Revolution…it ain't right. King George is our rightful sovereign. Who would be king when they are done with him?"
"No king!" Shouting in competition with another gust of wind, Jakob struck the table with his fist. "And no baron deciding what will and will not be done. When I come to this country, I am free for the first time. No more my hat in my hand. Now the English Parliament–they want to take away our freedom. I say no. No king."
"They don't want our freedom as much as they want our taxes," Sarah slipped in slyly.
Christiane ignored Sarah. "No king? Who would rule then?" Hearing her own voice surprised her. She didn't want Jakob's attention, but she couldn't let him go on unchallenged. No king indeed.
"The people would rule," Jakob said, spreading his palms. "Our Continental Congress sits in Philadelphia. After the war, we will go on having our own lawmakers in each colony and elect more for the Congress of the whole. All will be written out and no king, no baron can change it to please himself."
"But how can a country not have a king and lords?" Christiane questioned in exasperation. Everyone knew God had ordained kings to rule common men. What was this Jakob, this farmer suggesting?
"It would be not different from now–except that we would have our own Parliament or Congress here–not one in England telling us what to do."
She wanted to toss back, "And you think a few farmers with muskets can take on His Majesty's Army and win?" But she did not wish to engage this man in an argument. To distract him from focusing on her, she asked something else she'd wondered about during these constant discussions. "How did this Revolution start anyway?"
"You don't know?" Now Jakob looked surprised.
"I've been in Canada for the past year." Everyone glanced at her. Christiane was disgusted with herself. To remind them that she had come from Canada was to remind them that she was not English. Momentarily she had forgotten the colonists, whether English or German, distrust of the French, of what they called, Papists.
When she had arrived here, she had revealed as little as possible about herself. She had told Sarah only the bare truth; she was a widow of a fur trapper. She'd lost forever the world, the life she'd lived before Canada. And if she did speak of it here, would anyone believe her? She pursed her lips. This man had caused her to be indiscreet, unwisely so.
"But you speak so good English, kleines Frau," Jakob remarked.
"My father was English-speaking. My mother was French." She fussed with her son's blanket, hiding her face.
"I will explain the Revolution to you," Jakob said. "The Parliament makes the laws for England. But the king rules the colonies through governors. And always the colonies elect their own legislatures and tax themselves. Now, Parliament makes taxes and we are not asked."
This did not sound simple to Christiane, but she nodded. Jean Claude fussed in his sleep and she bent again, again avoiding Jakob's eye.
Tom spoke up, "Jakob, if you're so set on this Revolution, why ain't you wintering with Washington's troops outside Boston?"
"Tom Mitchell," Jakob replied. "I have made my decision. I will join the army this spring. First I plow with Jon. Then I enlist."
His news startled everyone to silence. Christiane sat up straighter. Her jaw hung loose. He was going to war? To Revolution? Was he mad?
Recovering herself, she closed her mouth and modestly arranged her blouse to nurse her son back to sleep. Glancing up, she caught Jakob's attention on her. She couldn't trust herself to speak. Talking revolution was one thing. Enlisting another.
"Pa, I want to go with you," Jon spoke up. "I'm old enough to fight."
"No. You must stay to tend and harvest. You must hold our land."
"But, Pa–"
"No. If the war lasts till you turn seventeen, I will let you enlist. Until then, no."
Jon colored obviously embarrassed at having his youth pointed out.
Christiane worried her lower lip. Evidently Jakob was serious, dead serious.
Sarah cleared her throat. "Enough of this war talk. It's time for bed. War or no–sun will rise early as always. Come along, Christiane."
As the women left for their bed in the next room, good nights were exchanged all around as the men let themselves out. Christiane felt Jakob's eyes following her and fought the unwelcome urge to look at him in return. She fought it because now he'd shown he wasn't eligible or sensible. No common man could win against the crown. Just like her father, Jakob Kruger was heading straight for disaster.
A New Year, A New Website and Blog
Today I've posted the ending of Chapter One of La Belle Christiane. Hope you'll drop by and find out which man takes her as his bride.
I've made this change because of some technical issues but the theme of this blog, Strong Women, Brave Stories will continue the same.
Please drop by and subscribe to my new location!--Lyn
January 9, 2011
The Story Continues-La Belle Christiane
La Belle Christiane
By Lyn Cote
All rights reserved
Chapter One, Scene 3 (If you haven't read them, scroll down to read Chapter One Scenes 1 and 2, posted previously)
In the morning, she leaned back against the cramped wooden tub, luxuriating in the warm water. She sniffed again the bar of lavender-scented soap she caressed in her hand. The captain had sent breakfast, a bath, and clothing. On her bed were her new clothes, the common dress for a peasant girl–a white blouse, gathered at the neckline, a white apron over a dark brown skirt and matching bodice that laced up the front.
Her grandmother would have been appalled at the outfit. However, after losing everything but the tattered clothes on her back, Christiane was thrilled with it. But the most wonderful part of all were the undergarments. Two full cotton petticoats, edged with white eyelet, a shift and a camisole. Where had the English captain gotten them?
Rising at last from the tepid water, she slowly blotted her body dry. Laying the damp towel around her shoulders, she rummaged through her small leather pouch. Then she began absently stroking her thick hair with a bone comb. Her earlier fears had been dulled by a nourishing breakfast and all the gifts that had come to her. But now her mind turned to the fact that this night she would have…a husband.
She'd fled Paris hoping to become a married woman. But never could she have envisioned such circumstances as the ones which were now hers. She looked down at her naked self. She hoped wryly that her husband, in contrast to Parisian tastes, preferred thin women, with arms and hands darkened by the sun.
To prolong the enjoyment of her new clothing, she began slowly to draw on each piece, feeling it glide over her skin, enjoying the sensation of being washed clean and fragrant with lavender. Her mind kept returning to the Englishman. What had brought him to this outpost? Did he long to return to civilization, too? Did he feel as trapped as she did? But then men were rarely trapped. They made the decisions, not women.
#
Near the appointed hour of noon, Captain Eastham called at the door, "Mademoiselle, may I enter?"
"Oui." She stood up, dressed in her new finery with her hair neatly pulled back into a chaste braid.
He strode into the room and then stopped. "Very nice," he commented.
She blushed at his approval. For some reason, she had become breathless again. "Who should I thank for these lovely clothes, sir?"
"Your husband."
Her eyes flew open wide. "I have one already?"
"No, no, forgive my attempt at humor. What I meant was that your new clothes are part of your bride price. You will pardon me, but this idea of paying the bride's father for his daughter is quite strange, don't you agree?"
"No doubt a dowry would seem absurd to Shaw-nee-awk-kee," she countered lightly, though her stomach quivered in a dangerous way. "Your French is very good," she said, trying momentarily to turn his focus from herself.
"Merci, I had an excellent French tutor as a child," he said with a small grin.
She wondered what he would say if she responded in English that she had had an excellent English tutor as well as an English-speaking father.
"To the matter at hand," he said, looking defensive, "I did manage to sober the Indian up sufficiently to set a price for you." He became more serious. "Would you like to hear how your husband will be selected?"
She clasped her hands together, her palms moist. Unable to meet his eyes, she stared down at the well-packed dirt floor. "Oui," she whispered.
"I encouraged your guardian to set your price high enough to narrow the competition, but not high enough to end it. The price is your new clothing, two wool blankets, a musket, ten rounds of powder and ball, a jug of corn liquor and one pound silver."
"That much?" she breathed in genuine surprise.
"You are an extremely valuable young maiden. Most traders make do with squaws. The man who gets you is getting a treasure, a white woman who can survive on the frontier."
Was it true? Would she survive in this wilderness? When she'd left Paris, she'd had no idea of the hedge of protection, of privileged comfort she'd surrendered. She shook her head, willing away these doubts.
He went on more briskly, "Shortly I will announce the price. Then any unmarried man who proves he can pay it will be allowed to take part in the drawing."
She looked up then, asking "Why a drawing?" with her eyes.
"I thought it would be the most equitable and quickest way to choose from among the qualifiers. If this does not suit, we may choose another way."
She considered this before answering. "It is more than I hoped for. You have been so kind. Merci." She curtseyed low in the noble style she'd been taught. But recalling who she was now and where she was, she lowered her eyes again.
Unexpectedly, he stepped closer and lifted her chin, looking into her eyes. "Your way has been difficult, hasn't it?"
His deep tones brushed against her taut nerves. His touch launched a frisson of awareness through her. She returned his attention, suddenly not afraid of his eyes. She yearned for some part of whom she truly was to come through to him. I couldn't even give you my right name.
An inner voice urged her, "Tell him who you are. Tell him and your life, your career, your everything can be the way it was meant to be. Tell him." Christiane held her breath, searching his face. Should she? What difference would it make? Then she recognized the urgent voice, it was grandmere's.
No. Who she had been wasn't important. Maybe this wasn't the way matters were supposed to be, but they were the ways things were. His hand moved against her cheek. A gentle, respectful touch.
This officer had applauded her bravery, so she must give him a courageous reply. She pressed her hand over his. "This new world demands much, but I survive."
He grimaced, his face solemn. "I am still learning that lesson myself." There was another pause. Again, grandmere's voice urged her to reveal herself to this man. Christiane ignored it. I can't tell him. I don't want him to know I'm not some peasant's daughter, that I've been reared to appear before royalty. It would crush me.
Then he slipped his hand from her face and his mouth twisted into a wry smile. "I still say that any woman who would welcome this arrangement is unique. Are you certain?"
She still felt his phantom touch upon her cheek. "Capitaine, this is not a situation I would have sought. But you look at it as a man would. If I were still in France, any marriage would have been arranged, wouldn't it?"
"I suppose you are right." He pinned her with his gaze. "Sometimes life, even for a man, leaves no way out." He looked as though he wanted to say more that was personal, but this breach of decorum passed. He looked away. "Pere Paul Albert will perform the wedding immediately after the drawing. Shall we go?"
Offering her his arm, he escorted her formally to the green in the midst of the small fort. Shaw-nee-awk-kee and his son waited for her by a camp table in the center. Shaw-nee-awk-kee looked gratified at the air of suppressed excitement around the common. He gave Christiane a courteous nod.
She nodded in return.
All around men lounged, trying to appear nonchalant. From under her eyelashes, she noticed, however, all appeared freshly groomed. Again, she found herself the object of intense scrutiny. Today, though she felt it to be complimentary and her confidence rose. She was offered the only chair beside the camp table and she sat primly on display, her heart fluttering like a wounded moth.
The captain cleared his throat. "Gentlemen, I will begin the proceeding by naming the bride price. In order to qualify for a chance to marry this fair young lady." He paused to motion toward Christiane. "You must pay today. No haggling permitted." The Englishman sounded most official. "So here is the price." The audience became alert. He recited it and paused as if giving them time to make mental computations and decisions. Then he spoke again, "All those men who feel they qualify, please come forward."
After a momentary pause, one-by-one eight men separated from the crowd and came forward. Instinctively, Christiane looked up, but then she forced her eyes down. It would be better not to make any preferment since she knew God, not she would decide. At length, the captain and the storekeeper were satisfied that all eight men met the financial requirement.
"Now each of the qualifiers will have his name written on a piece of paper. The papers will be placed in a hat and the lady will draw out the name of her husband," the captain continued.
Suddenly, Christiane wished to participate, not merely observe this important event in her life. Also though she had refused to let the Englishman know just how far she'd fallen, she wanted to offer the captain just a glimpse of her true station. She broke her silence, "If you wish, sir, I will write the names."
There was a rustle of surprise among the observers. Captain Eastham smiled and bowed in her direction. "Mademoiselle, if we had known that you could read and write we would have set the price far higher." He motioned the sergeant to give her the paper and quill.
Each man then stepped forward in turn and loudly gave his full name. Each tried to catch her eye, but in vain. Christiane kept her eyes on the quill and paper alone. She heard the excitement in the voices of each man. Her own tension grew with each name she wrote. The die that would predict the course of the rest of her life would be cast today, this hour. She whispered a prayer the nuns had taught her.
Finally all the names were written, the paper torn and the pieces placed into the captain's tri-corn hat which he held above her head. Trembling, she stood up. There was absolute silence as she reached up, stirred the names once and selected one. Without looking at it, she handed it to the captain.
He opened the slip and announced formally, "The lucky bridegroom is Jean Claude Belmond." Only then did Christiane allow herself to look up.
A broad-shouldered man, wearing a fringed buckskin jacket, stepped up and faced her. A huge smile creased his face. "C'est moi, Mademoiselle." He was a head taller than she and had dark curly hair and warm brown eyes. She smiled timidly. Shaw-nee-awk-kee nodded to the Frenchman and then walked from the fort.
Pere Paul Albert came forward immediately. "Daughter," he asked in a grave tone, "do you consent to this match arranged in such an unusual way?"
"I do," she answered firmly though her stomach jigged in an uneven rhythm.
"My children," the priest said augustly, "join hands." When the priest lifted his crucifix above the couple, the surrounding men doffed their caps and folded their hands. The ceremony proceeded quickly. She answered and repeated as the priest directed, all the while listening to and observing this stranger who was becoming hers till death. Then the priest was instructing Belmond to kiss his bride.
She turned shyly toward him, lifting her face. He smiled down and slipped strong arms around her. Rising slightly on her toes, she answered his warm kiss, her very first. The sudden sound of the whole fort cheering its approval made her shudder sharply in her bridegroom's arms.
Over her husband's shoulder, she glimpsed the English captain. His mournful expression snared her. Was he staring at her or was he looking inside himself? Had she made the right decision by choosing to keep her secrets?
So Christiane has found a husband, but did she make the right choice? Tomorrow I'll post Chapter Two, Scene One. If you're enjoying this, please tell your friends. I've always thought that Christiane, my very first heroine, deserved to have her story told.–Lyn
January 6, 2011
Once More with Feeling
Can the beautiful daughter of a French courtesan find a love that will last forever?
Once more I'm suggesting chapter one, scene two of La Belle Christiane. Starting Monday, I'll be posting a scene or scenes of my first manuscript Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays. Hope you'll stop by and invite a friend!
Just click this link.
http://strongwomenbravestories.blogspot.com/2010/12/preview-of-labelle-christiane-part-two.html
January 5, 2011
Author Michelle Stimpson & the Strength of Surrender
My guest today is author and speaker Michelle Stimpson. She shares about "The Strength to Surrender." Here's Michelle:
"I'm the oldest child and the oldest grandchild of a strong woman who was the oldest among her siblings. Given my genealogy, I was quite prone to making quick decisions and taking action. I called it "taking charge." My husband called it "taking over."
Generally, once I'd made up my mind about something that seemed pretty obvious to me, I'd jump in with both feet and get to swimmin'. I'd talk to God about my progression in a "Look, God, no hands!" kind of way. Needless to say, when I'd come to the end of myself and made a complete mess of things, I would go crying to God and He would rescue me for His namesake.
The main character in Last Temptation, Patricia "Peaches" Miller, happens to be on one of those self-appointed super-woman missions. (Wonder where I got that idea from?) Driven by guilt piled on top of guilt and regret, she quickly finds her life spiraling downhill in a series of compounding bad decisions.
God is certainly a present help in the time of trouble (Psalm 46:1). No matter what the circumstances, He has promised us that if we return to Him, He will return to us (James 4:8). I've found Him to be not only faithful to rescue us, but gracious about the rescue as well.
Perhaps even better, the Spirit of God can lead us and guide us around unnecessary drama, pain, and flat out foolishness if we'd simply consult Him before we go off on these wild goose chases. Can I get an amen?
Like Peaches, I've come to experience God's strength in practical daily issues. A few weeks ago, I was peacefully writing in a corner of Panera restaurant when a man came into "my" area cursing and talking loudly on his cell phone. My first thought was to ask the man to lower his voice. But his conversation was so offensive, I wasn't quite sure this guy was reasonable. My second thought was to move, but I already had my stuff strewn across the table. Now that I was out of Michelle-based options, I said a quick prayer and asked God to "do something." Within just a few minutes, the man's cell phone lost its signal. And within twenty minutes, he left without even unpacking his laptop.
No extra drama, no need for repentance, no ungodly display of Ruth's oldest granddaughter. That's the power of the Holy Spirit activated!
The truth is: no matter how smart or capable we think we are, the most perfect thing we'll ever be able to do is surrender to God. It takes a strong, yet simple faith to realize that the sooner we come to the end of ourselves (assuming we have any power whatsoever), the more we'll know His strength in every area of our lives. "--Michelle
Her latest book:
Will a dream come true push one woman to her limits?
Sensible single mother Patricia "Peaches" Miller isn't about to follow in her mama's footsteps and become dependent on a man--no, that would be too easy. But when she doesn't see eye to eye with the man she wants to marry, she knows that returning to a life of girls' nights out, retail therapy, and chocolate peanut clusters just won't do for her. Then Raphael, her son's father, steps back into the picture--and makes it clear that his attraction to Peaches is stronger than ever. There's just one problem. Raphael has already pledged his heart to another woman.
Peaches has been praying for a perfect family for a long time. Deep down she knows this can't be God's idea of an answer--but can you blame a girl for hoping? Now, as she battles with temptation, and with her faith, she's not sure which will win. . .
"Michelle Stimpson does a wonderful job of creating characters that are believable and loveable. The Divas of Damascus Road will make you laugh, cry and laugh some more." --Good Girl Book Club
Michelle Stimpson Bio
Bestselling author Michelle Stimpson has penned several works, including Boaz Brown, Divas of Damascus Road, Breaking Bondage to Biscuits, The Good Stuff, Trouble In My Way, and her latest release, Last Temptation. She also publishes short stories through her educational publishing company. Michelle is a part-time language arts consultant and serves in the Creative Tyme Ministry at her home church, Oak Cliff Bible Fellowship. Michelle lives near Dallas with her husband, their two teenage children, and one crazy dog.
Thanks, Michelle, for sharing. I think you and I have a lot in common. I've had to learn to let matters go and depend on God. When I don't--bad.--Lyn
For more info:
Links:
Website - www.MichelleStimpson.com
Blog - www.Womengic.blogspot.com
January 4, 2011
Book Tuesday-Author Leann Harris & Second Chance Ranch
My guest today is Author Leann Harris, whose book Second Chance Ranch, debuts this month! Here's Leann:
I want to thank Lyn for this opportunity to share. But I'd like to give the readers just a little different twist on a brave story. I'm going to let the heroine in my latest book, Second Chance Ranch, do the talking. Sometimes our characters are more articulate than we are.
Thanks, Leann, I appreciate it. My name is Sophie Powell and I grew up in New Mexico. After college, I joined the Army and became a medic and was sent to Iraq. When I went for training at Walter Reed midway through my deployment, I visited one of my ex-patients in the hospital. Jack lost his legs in a road-side explosion, but when I caught up with him, he was going riding at a stable outside D.C. in the Maryland countryside. Equine therapy is what it is called.
You should've seen Jack's face as he settled into the saddle and rode around the ring on his mount. I saw hope and victory in his eyes. I remembered the despair in his eyes as I worked to stabilize him in the field and knew then what God wanted me to do with my life after the Army. Of course, I am a horsewoman. I love to ride and had a horse when I was a girl. God knew that I needed the healing that horses and helping others could bring to my heart. It brought my family back to me and it brought me the love of my life, Zachary McClure.
I want to say that God took the ashes of Zach's and my lives and turned them into beauty. When both Zach and I thought our lives were useless and were in a fog, He showed us the path to take. And that path brought healing, joy, and love. I hope you'll read our story.
I am humbled to serve the great men and women of our military. The courage it takes for a soldier to put his/her life together after being wounded is amazing. Our prayers should be with them and their families. . . Sophie Powell
Now, Sophie might be a character in my book, but her words are the truth, and our soldiers and their families need our prayers and thanks."--Leann
When Barbara was first introduced to her husband in college she knew she would never date the man. He was a graduate student getting a PhD in physics, and Barbara had purposely taken a second year of biology in high school to avoid taking physics. So much for first impressions. They have been married thirty-nine years and still approach life from very different angles.
After graduating from the University of Texas at Austin, Barbara taught math and science to deaf high school students for a couple of years until the birth of her first child. When her youngest child started school, Barbara decided to fulfill a life-long dream and began writing. After both her children left home, she went back to teaching.
She is a former president of the Dallas Area Romance Writers and founding member. Barbara presently lives in Plano, Texas with her husband. Her thirteenth novel Second Chance Ranch. is a Jan '1 release
Another book for my TBR pile!--Lyn
January 3, 2011
Remember this?
I've been planning to share something with you for the past few months and have been preparing for it.
In 1980's, I began writing my first manuscript. I literally ran after my two toddlers with a clipboard in my hand and wrote whenever they paused. GRIN.
Anyway I wrote that story without knowing anything about the market. In fact, I told myself just to write the book and then I'd think about marketing it. The thought of that was overwhelming at that time.
It took me three years of writing to finish my first manuscript-1,000 handwritten pages. Whew!
I found out that while it garnered interest from agents and editors, it never found a publisher.
I think that's because there are "unwritten" rules for inspirational fiction and I didn't know them or follow them. I still think it's a good story and I've revised it and am revising and improving it once more. Also I don't want it to sit ignored on my shelf forever.
So I decided to post it here as a serially each week, starting in January. That's right.
I'll be posting my first manuscript here, a three scenes each week starting now.
This week, I plan to post the December previews for you. then beginning next week, I'll post 2-3 scenes a week, usually on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays.
So be sure to drop by! And tell your friends!
The title is LaBelle Christiane. The tag line is: Can the beautiful daughter of a French courtesan find a love that will last forever in early America?
Don't miss this gift to my readers. Here's the link to Chapter One Part 1
Tell your friends! The more the merrier!--Lyn
