Saving The Marquise's Granddaughter (20 page)

A firm hand gripped his shoulder. “Monsieur?”

The ship canted and Johan caught hold of the man as he stumbled.

Suzanne muttered something that Johan couldn’t understand. He bent over her and strained to hear her over the sounds of men clambering up the wooden stairs to the deck. Nothing.

Nearby, babies cried and the newly ill groaned.

“Monsieur, with your permission, may I give your wife her Last Rites?” The man’s voice was deep. “I’m a priest.”

Dying, leaving him?
Johan recoiled as though the man had punched him low in his belly.

The man’s clothing smelled foul, as did everyone else’s. Dark, dirty hair and an unwashed, unshaven face—the man didn’t look like a priest, wore no collar. Perhaps he wouldn’t amongst these Protestants.

If a stranger could see the end coming, a man of God…her faith, which she desperately tried to hide from him, was of no consequence now. He nodded. “But we aren’t married.”

“She called you her husband just now.”

Johan shrugged his shoulders. “If it were possible, I would be her husband before…”

“
Je connais
, I understand.” The man was a good head shorter than Johan, with a fringe of black hair and dark eyes that darted about. “I could marry you and this woman, if you wish.”

Johan stared at him. There was only one minister on this ship. Johan took several short breaths.

The Frenchman leaned over and murmured in his ear. “Will you promise to keep my secret?”

“Ja.”

~*~

Music swirled around her, beautiful angelic voices singing a Latin Mass. She was being given the Last Rites. The words enveloped Suzanne, lifted her, and the majesty of it humbled her. Shivers of pleasure and anticipation coursed through her body. Light as a feather, a sheer silver gown shimmered around her. She marveled that the exquisite garment possessed no seams.

A red velvet tapestry runner dropped from the brilliant blue sky and unfurled, extending before her.

“Come!” a distant voice commanded.

Her bare feet reveled in the plush velvet as it set down on a hard surface, a long aisle. Against the red carpet, her feet glowed as finest ivory. Incense wafted around her, drifting under benches that materialized around her and from the mouths of the winged people in the golden balconies above. Friends and relatives appeared on the long pews. Overhead the angel Gabriel’s stained-glass image pulsed with light. Her wedding commenced in the cathedral.

The church buzzed, as though a living being.

The groom turned toward her. Etienne stood tall, a dark blue waistcoat expertly tailored for his athletic body. He unsheathed his
épée
sword and flung it toward a shadow behind him. As soon as the weapon pierced the dark form, a beautiful prayer came forth in song from the image. Transfixed, Suzanne allowed the beatific music to wrap around her. It called her toward the shadow person, but an unseen arm jerked her away.

Etienne shook his head and gestured toward himself. He intended to marry her. But his clothing didn’t match her dress at all.

Winged creatures, such as she had never seen, minuscule but brilliantly colored, buzzed past her, spoke to her soul that her mate’s apparel bore no consequence.

Etienne turned his back to her. Her annoyance was shushed away by the creatures.

She surveyed the pews.

A beautiful white-haired woman clothed in a simple white robe smiled at her.
Oh, Grand-mère, I have missed you so!
She longed to run to her, but Grand-mère
lifted one gloved finger and pointed toward her groom.

The shadow man sang a new song, more thrilling than the last. His voice climbed one octave in an unearthly aria.

Etienne vanished, replaced by another.

Her betrothed, tall with golden hair, opened his arms.

Suzanne froze in her steps, looked back to Grand-mère, who disappeared, replaced by her mother. Maman’s face was serious, not the happy face of the mother of the bride.

Where was Guillame? He would advise her about the new groom. She sought him out, but couldn’t find her brother.

Grand-père smiled at her, joy in his eyes.

Tante Helene waved to her and put an arm around a young girl by her side--Suzanne’s cousin, but she should be Suzanne’s age now, if…if she had lived.

“Suzanne!” the priest called to her. With a young face and a fringe of dark hair on his head, he wasn’t from the cathedral at all. Searching the dais, she saw only this man’s dark eyes hovering in front of her, then over her.

The voices sang, urged her toward the altar. She shook, her skin chilled to the bone, as one end of the cathedral opened, revealing a turbulent ocean. Brisk salty air blew her memories, her family, her loved ones away, to the heavens, even as whispers of their love, their encouragement pushed her on.

“Choose!” the unseen voice commanded her. Everything within her wanted to draw closer to her Master, to join Him. She raised her arms to Him. “I accept you.”

“No, stay with me!” a man’s voice cried at the same time that her own soul radiated a rainbow of colors, ready to join the one she chose as her Lord. The voice belonged to the earthly being she most loved.

With her next choice, the invisible string broke. She turned to join the half of her she hadn’t yet acknowledged.

A thick silver cloak, a happy match for her gown, dropped onto her future husband.

“I am Father François.” The man of God took her hands in his and directed her to the altar, his words alien, yet familiar. And she couldn’t for the life of her grasp their meaning—only knew they were words of utter truth, deep things, meant for her good.

She and the priest moved forward, closer to her awaiting groom. Suzanne looked back at open space and water, an ocean of empty waves that didn’t hold her—their grave no longer waiting to claim her. “Yes,” she responded. When the choir echoed her, prompted her, she again called out “Yes, I will. Yes, oh yes!”

Flying, they joined arms around one another’s waists. Cool, gusty breezes lifted them over the ocean. She and her groom laughed and kissed. They landed on a high mountaintop, blue haze all around them. Hands grasped tight, they gazed down into a deep valley and saw houses everywhere, curls of smoke rising from chimneys, sheep grazing on hillsides, crops growing in fields.

Johan identified all the people who lived in those houses, a dozen in all. Strange that he called them only by their first names and acted as though she knew who they were.

Then Suzanne slipped and fell off the mountain, far into the abyss of blackness, into the unknown space that waited. The sea would no longer claim her and she slept for the first time in many days, with a clear, sweet, peaceful sleep. And despair vanished.

~*~

Where was she? Suzanne lay atop something hard and the air smelled worse than her grandmother’s stables. And the building swayed as though in a gale.

A man’s deep voice rumbled nearby. “She may never be the same. You need to prepare yourself for the worst. Alive, yes, but who can say what kind of life she might have after this?”

Her head throbbed as though the top might come off. Had someone knocked her unconscious when she’d tried to escape the DeMints’ stables? Maman, was she still with her? Was she yet alive? She had to get up and check on her.

Someone rocked her in a slow steady rhythm—no, it was a boat.

Amsterdam, yes, perhaps they’d made it there after all. How? It hurt to try to think about anything. Perhaps her brother had taken them there.

German voices chattered around her. What in the world? She strained to understand them. Someone was praying next to her bed, in French. Sliding her hand down, she grasped the man’s hands, so small compared to the other man’s. He continued his prayers, her palm pressed between his.

Where is Maman?

~*~

The dark-eyed man was so serious, so sincere in addressing Johan. “Monsieur, what you did, it was right. Someone will need to care for her when we arrive.”

Johan had never told him that he wasn’t Catholic. Did it matter? He wasn’t sure. But he did need to care for Suzanne. And he’d have to get someone, a woman, to help him with her.

“Where’s Maman?” Suzanne’s golden eyes opened and she stared up at the priest.

What was wrong with her? She kept asking for her mother, yet Suzanne had told him she was dead. Did she no longer remember what had happened?

Johan’s heart seemed stuck in his throat.

“Don’t worry about that, madame. You just rest. Get well.”

But her eyes had already shut again.

“What will they do about her contract?”

“Surely someone who paid for transportation will accept her instead.”

Johan wondered. He’d been told that some, like he and Suzanne, would have people bidding on them—like animals at a fair.

What would she do when she awoke and found some strange man bidding on her contract, which must be paid? And what kind of man would redeem the passage of a half-dead woman? Who in their right mind would pay for a servant who might never fully recover? How could her contract even be redeemed? Some wicked men enjoyed having mastery over weaker people. How could he prevent his beloved from ending up with such a man?

19

Port of Philadelphia

Above board, the ship at anchor, Johan settled Suzanne in his arms. “It’ll be all right. You’ll see.”
If you’ll just wake up again.

The boat rocked and then jerked as it strained against the anchor.

“I’ve got your belongings, Johan,” Phillip, a fellow Palatinater, called out as he pushed past them with the stream of passengers being lowered from the ship. “This could take a while. Do you want me to hold her for a bit?”

Johan shook his head. Phillip was a good fellow, but… “I’m strong as an ox, maybe two, and she’s light.” Those were braggart’s words, not his own. Sweat broke out on his forehead. What had this trip done to him?

Phillip flexed his arm muscles. “The work up on deck has strengthened us.”

“And made us browner.” Both were dark as well-tanned leather.

Phillip, who, like Johan, was half French, smiled, his white teeth a crescent against his sun-darkened skin. “You should see yourself—you have yellow in your hair now.”

“I’m glad we could help the crew, Phillip.”

“Too many dead.” His friend looked at Johan before placing a fingertip on Suzanne’s cheek. “Not this one, though. God spared her.”

“Ja.” Johan swallowed and pinched his lips together, afraid his voice would tremble. But would she ever be the same again? The port doctor would examine her after they arrived. Sailors warned him she might be placed in a public hospital. His gut clenched.
Never—I’ll never let anyone take her from me.

Preparations surged into action for their imminent arrival, sending energy through the new arrivals. His fellow passengers toted their meager belongings above board. The calm Delaware River glimmered as the long queue of passengers began to disembark.

Johan shifted Suzanne’s head, her sable hair cascading in a waterfall over his arm as he took tentative steps onto the wharf. His legs wobbled and almost gave out, but he righted himself.

A paunchy man wagged a finger in the captain’s face. “How will I make any profit if you can’t keep them alive?”

Beneath almost transparent eyelids, Suzanne’s eyes moved as though she were trying to rouse herself. The sun’s merciless rays beat down on them. With no hat to protect her face, the midday sun threatened to burn her ivory skin. Although her periods of consciousness had increased, she still mostly slept.

Was the captain right—no one would bid on a servant so ill? Or was his first mate correct, saying, “there’ll always be a gambler amongst those who redeem the contracts”?

Seagulls taunted them, diving so close he feared one might peck Suzanne. Along the riverbanks, this city appeared so new, different, and busy−with carters and merchants bustling around.

A crowd of men gathered, some checking their timepieces.

From the group, a young man emerged and strode in their direction. Although a little bowlegged, he rapidly progressed toward them, square buckles gleaming on his black shoes—both needing a little polish. A few years older than Nick, he possessed a face the ladies would like and stood a few inches shorter than Johan. Hair the color of wet sand queued sharply into a thick tail beneath his tri-cornered hat.

When almost to the captain and the ship’s owner, the man halted by Johan. Hazel eyes widened as he appraised Suzanne. “Where’s her son?”

Grateful that he’d listened intently to the English lessons aboard ship, Johan shook his head. “No son.” When he pressed a hand against her cheek, Johan swiveled away. No matter how gentle the stranger’s touch, this was Johan’s wife.

The captain hurried over. “What are you doing, Scott?”

Other men approached their group, some even squeezing the men and women’s arms.

Johan lifted Suzanne’s head and rested it on his shoulder. No one was going to touch her. He’d hit them first. But what then of him? The stocks? A lashing? What good would that do her?

Scott’s frown deepened. “I think this man has Christy’s wife.”

The captain shoved his hat back on his balding pate. “Don’t you think I’d have recognized the colonel’s woman if she was aboard my own ship?”

“Given that you’ve dragged other women to the Indies and back, I wouldn’t doubt it at all, sir.” Scott raised an ebony walking stick skyward, his irritation growing.

The captain’s eyes blazed.

Would Scott pummel the captain? He certainly looked as if he had a good fight in him.

Johan pinned his gaze on the agitated young man. “Her name is Suzanne Richelieu.” No, it was Rousch. She shared his name now. Guilt gnawed at him—what if she didn’t remember? What if she refused to be his
frau?

Other men strode in their direction. Johan must find someone who would let him work off both contracts. “Mister Scott, do you need a strong man to work? I’ll do extra if you’d let me pay for…” He hesitated. The words, my wife, stuck in his throat. “Suzanne’s transport as well.”

The young man’s face fell. “Christy might have scalped the captain, but he’d have been relieved to find his wife.”