The Silk Weaver's Daughter (6 page)

That evening, in the safety of his mansion, Jacques’ discussed the events of the day with Pierre. Over their glasses of cognac, he nodded as his cousin praised the Colberts for their assistance.

“I’m amazed Catholics would do such a thing for us. Risk their lives like that,” Pierre stated.

“Yes,” he replied. “The Colberts are special people. I’ve represented their cognacs in every large city, in Europe. Even though, they believed me to be a Huguenot, they trusted me with all their financial affairs in these transactions. I’m glad you have discovered there are decent people in the Catholic Church, Pierre.”

“To be honest, it surprised me.”

“I’ve discovered there are upright and honest people in every faith— Protestant, Catholic, or Jew. Even amongst the heathen, I’ve met, for that matter. Sadly, the problems are most often with the leaders. Sometimes, they aren’t seeking truth at all, just looking for power. That’s what corrupts—power and greed—even in religion. Well, it’s nothing you and I will see resolved in our time.”

He poured them each another glass of cognac. The fact his cousin, who believed wholeheartedly in moderation, took a second glass of distilled spirits gave Jacques some idea of his state of mind. Pierre, too, had viewed the old oak tree with its grotesque burden.

“My main concern now is to move your silks to London and get your gold account established with Paul Thibault,” he continued. “Once we load everything on our merchant vessel, that’s where Marc and I will go. I estimate another week. While we’re over there, we’ll arrange with various people we know along your route. No ship’s captain would dare to take you all the way to London right now, Pierre, and that’s God’s truth.”

“No? How will we get there then?”

“You’ll slip in via a closer port—likely Plymouth. It will take a little planning, so Marc and I’ll be gone about two weeks. Keep a low profile here in the city but, please, treat this as your own home. And, Pierre, keep praying that, with God’s help, we can get you safely to England.”

Chapter 9

La Rochelle

August 1685 (Gregorian Calendar)

T
he medieval port of La Rochelle was lovely with its cobbled streets, high stone-wall, and ancient buildings. In the more than half century since the siege, it had recovered much of its grandeur, although both the wall and the large, round towers, built in the last century, showed signs of the battles they had seen. However, no matter how hard Louise tried, she wasn’t happy there. Compared to her peaceful village, it was noisy and hectic, with people bustling along the streets; peddlers shouting out their wares; and coaches dashing here and there.

Her mother cried every day; and her father, usually so placid and content, had little to keep himself occupied, so he was often in a surly mood. Louise had spent her entire life at the lovely, old, family farm, and now she yearned to be there—riding free through the forest on her favourite horse, or sitting dreaming on her rock by the slow-moving river.

To add to her discontent, Marc kept so busy he had no time to spend with her. She saw him only during the family dinner. Finally, he and Uncle Jacques sailed off to England taking the bundles of silk they would market there. They also took the looms, still hidden in wine barrels, which they would leave in Jacques’ London warehouse until Pierre could claim them.

It was only her fascination with the ocean that made life tolerable. Each afternoon, when she finished her lessons and the few chores Aunt Marie assigned her, she donned a modest, unadorned dress and wound her way to the city gate. There, she slipped out to the harbour, walking through the entrance and beyond the massive towers. The guards were now familiar with her as a maid belonging to the
Maison du Garneau,
and since Jacques was a well-known and honourable merchant of the city, they dared not bother her.

Venturing further west, past the old lantern tower marking the edge of the city, she reached a point where the marshes converged with a beautiful sand beach. There she stripped off her boots and let the cool softness ooze beneath her feet. A little of her homesickness ebbed away, and she accepted the fact she should be obliged to her aunt and uncle. They had done so much for her family, who were, consequently, in a far better position than most of the Huguenots fleeing France.

It was late Wednesday afternoon in the third week of August when Louise once again headed through the city gate. She was almost at the harbour when someone put a hand on her shoulder. It startled her out of her reverie and frightened her for a moment. Shocked, she turned and confronted the man. It was her cousin.

“Marc!
Zut!
I thought it was a dragoon. I’m so glad you are back.”

“Are you,
Cherie?
I’m so happy to hear you say that. I’ve longed to talk to you again. The parents, though, they have made it difficult,
non?”

“Yes, especially Papa. He’s still unhappy with your father’s choice to revoke his faith, and now he’s not certain about you.”

They reached the harbour and found a stone stairwell close to one of the large towers where they could sit without being seen. It was nearing the dinner hour and, with the exception of some officials, most everyone had left the area for their evening meal.

Marc put his arms around her and drew her close. Then his lips found hers and, for a few moments, they were lost in their longing for each other. Finally, he drew away and took both her hands in his. “Louise, I have told how much I love you. I’d hoped we would at least be betrothed by now. Things are changing so fast, and with you going to England, I’m afraid we might lose each other. You do love me, don‘t you? You still want to marry me,
non?”

“Yes, Marc,” she said, with a tremor in her voice. “I love you with all my heart. Must we wait for your return from this trip? You will be gone so long. Can’t we arrange something before you leave? Then at least I could stay here with your mother.”

“We go too soon, I’m afraid. The ship leaves in mid-September. Already we load the cognac to take to the colony in India. And to marry here in France, it must be by a priest. You’d have to become a Catholic. We both know your father would never permit such a thing, and I don’t think you want it either, do you?”

“No, you’re right. I can never be a Catholic. But what about you? Have you made a decision? I mean about religion,” she persisted.

“With regard to faith, I am like my father.” Marc looked up at the sky where Arcturus, one of the brightest stars, had already begun to show itself. “I really don’t care what religion claims me. I have read the Bible from cover to cover, and for a certainty, I believe in God. Strangely, though, it is in the middle of the ocean I feel the closest to Him. It’s easy to find faith on the high seas.”

“In what way?”

“Sometimes I sit alone on the deck at night and look up into the sky. You would not believe the stars when it is all dark on the sea. It makes me feel so small I know there must be a creator. It’s only that I haven’t found the right way to worship Him yet.”

Suddenly he smiled down at her, dimples playing at the corners of his mouth, his dark blue eyes, twinkling. “And also, I‘m afraid I’m much more sinner than saint.”

“Well, I don’t think so,” she said, smiling back at him. “Of course, what Papa believes is another matter.”

He laughed, and then quickly turned serious. “About us—your father and I discussed it on the way to the chateau. He didn’t exactly say ‘never;’ however, he definitely won’t let you marry until you’re settled in London.”

“Did you ask him if we could at least be betrothed?”

“I didn’t press the subject. We both got rather heated, I’m afraid.” He sighed audibly. “I’ll have another talk with him in the morning. I don’t see why we can’t announce our engagement to the family. Anyhow, I’ll come to London as soon as I’m back from the orient. I’m sure I can get work there. We certainly can’t live in France as Huguenots.”

“Well, I think I could put up with England if you were there.” She again smiled into his eyes.

“Then London is where I shall have to be. Now, I think you should go back to the house, Louise. You shouldn’t be wandering about alone down here. The sailors frequent the taverns and they can get dangerous when they’ve been drinking. I’ll walk with you as far as the city gate, but I have to come back as I have business at our warehouse.”

When they reached the large arch that opened to the city, he suddenly stopped walking and looked down at her, eyes bright as if an idea occurred to him. “Could you get away tomorrow early do you think?” he asked. “I’ll get the little gig and take you to the ocean proper. There’s a beautiful beach where we can look across to Ile de Re, and I’ll tell you all about the siege of La Rochelle. It’s an interesting story that involves our great grandfather. I’ll have the cook pack some food for a picnic. It will be just like when we were children. We always had such good times together.”

“Oh, Marc, yes. I’d love to do that. Shall I meet you here then? What time?”

“I’ll be here at ten. Don’t worry if it’s difficult to get away. I’ll wait for you. Good night,
Cherie.
Tomorrow we will make many plans for our future together.” He dropped a kiss on her forehead and headed back towards the harbour.

Louise found Marc waiting at the gate with the gig the following morning at precisely ten o’clock. He was frowning. Her heart dropped at the look on his face. “What is wrong, Marc? Did you speak to Papa?”

“My father and I both have been with him all morning. However, it’s of no use. He won’t give his permission—not even to be betrothed. He’s worried I will succumb and become a Catholic while I’m with the French East India Company. He won’t make a decision until I come back from this trip.”

“Oh, Marc. That’s terrible. How can he be so cruel?”

“Sweetheart, don’t be upset. Let’s not spoil our day together. Come; we’ll go for our drive and our
piquenique.”

“Do you think it is it safe?” She asked as she climbed aboard the gig. She was almost crying from disappointment. “What about the dragoons?”

“Unless they suspect something, they wouldn’t go that far from the harbour. The beach we’re going to is about a league away from the city, so it will take a while to get there. I hope you are not too uncomfortable,” he enquired as they bounced along.

“No, I’m fine. I’d love to hear about the journey you took with your father. Can you tell me what it was like?”

“I thought it was great. There were two ships, neither of them large. We slept in a small cabin along with the ship’s officers—behind the Captain’s quarters. Alas, there’s no place for a lady on board most of these merchant vessels. Otherwise, I would take you with me when we’re married.” He smiled down at her.

“I’d love to go. I think it would be so exciting. Why two ships, Marc?”

“Because of the Corsairs—the Barbary pirates. They’re all around the entrance to the Mediterranean Sea as well as down in the Spanish Main. For safety, we go in pairs. We followed the trade winds south to the Canary Islands and across the Atlantic to the Caribbean where we visited the Island of Martinique. How I would love you to see that sea. It is a most magnificent blue—azure I think they call it. It’s so warm; we swam every day. And on the islands, they grow these amazing trees—with large fronds—they sway in the wind like gigantic fans.”

“It does sound wonderful.”

“The trade winds blow all the time, so you’re never too hot. The breeze keeps it comfortable. And the flowers, Louise, you cannot believe the colours—so vivid. Strange, though, the white ones have the most magnificent scent. Jasmine, I think they call them. There’s no winter, so there are blooms all year long.”

“It must be like paradise. I long to see such places.”

“Someday, I’ll find a way to take you. From there we sailed north through the Caribbean Sea, again with the trades, and stopped at a Spanish settlement called St. Augustine, which used to belong to France. It’s pretty but hot and humid in the summer. I don’t think you would survive long there,
Cherie.
Once summer arrived, we sailed north again. A long, rough voyage along the American coast, until we reached a river called the St. Lawrence. You cannot believe how wide that river is—more like a channel until it gets to Upper Canada.”

“What is Canada like then? Papa had thought to go there. It was Uncle Jacques who discouraged him.”

“It is rough, my petite. There are many fur traders there. They call them the
Coureur des bois.
They are explorers who travel the rivers of North America, and trap the animals for their beautiful pelts. We met with one who is a distant relative of ours—yours also. Did you ever hear of him? His name is Henri Garneau.”

“Not that I can remember. Who was he, then?”

“He’s sort of a cousin, I guess. His great-grandfather was our greatgrandfather’s brother. The two of them were so distressed with life in La Rochelle after the siege, that they left for the new world. Their silk business here was ruined, and they wanted to get away from the reminder of all the death and horror. Great-grandfather left his three sons with his father on the farm. So he eventually came back, but the brother stayed. This Henri Garneau was born in New France. He’s part native and quite uncivilized. But most interesting.”

He stopped speaking for a moment to urge forward the little horse, which had stopped to eat some grass.

“In Ville Marie, we traded cognac for fur, some of which we took to Versailles. As you heard, King Louis was pleased with our gift. I still have a few left. When I get back, I’ll have a cloak made for you to survive the London winters.”