Love’s Betrayal (27 page)

Agnes gave her a glance. “Gone to join the celebrations, miss. Biddy and me, we hold little store by such goings-on, and the missus promised us extra pay to stay the evening. Too bad you have no young man to show you a good time tonight. 'Twould be unsafe for a lady alone. Every man in town will be out and about.” Her gap-toothed smile was meant to be kind.

Until that moment Georgette had not considered sneaking out, but Agnes's comment stirred her imagination. Who would know? She considered asking Agnes to sneak out with her but decided against it. The practical servant would go straight to Georgette's parents with her plans.

Other women managed to traverse the streets of New York unescorted. She was a strong, healthy girl. Why not? Surely the Lord would protect her from harm.

In her father's wardrobe, she found a woolen cloak. The guests' coachmen would see her if she used the front door, so she slipped into the garden and through the gate.

Eager and breathless, Georgette hurried her steps along Broad Street. Hearing footsteps behind, she turned but saw only a carriage passing on a crossroad. A shiver trickled down her spine, and she increased her pace.

There would be safety in numbers. Noise and glowing light from the direction of the common drew her on.

Sure enough, bonfires and fireworks illuminated a boisterous gathering on the green. A man stood on a podium delivering an address about the bright future of New York, frequently interrupted by cheers and whistles. The crowd surrounding Georgette consisted mainly of the lower classes, judging by attire and vocabulary. Yet she saw some well-dressed men and a few women in gowns finer than hers. Liquor flowed freely, and more than one interruption of the speech came from an overly enthusiastic drunk. The crowd laughed at such interludes and continued carousing. Some of the women exhibited themselves in ways no lady would approve, yet their gentlemen associates appeared to relish the display.

Are there no men left in the world who appreciate a woman of virtue? Or must a woman be vulgar to excite a man's genuine interest?
Among the other young women, she had heard talk of men who lived double lives. Such men would wed none but ladies of quality, yet they took pleasure in the company of actresses and dancers, even fathering illegitimate children. Men like Mr. LaTournay, who preferred other men's wives.

If I marry, I want my husband to be satisfied with me alone. Most of these women are no more beautiful than I am. I could be as exciting to a man as they if I tried.
She imagined embracing any of the rough men standing near the fire and grimaced. Many of them had not bathed in months, judging by the grime around their necks. Some appeared young and strong; a few wore fringed buckskin breeches and jackets; some were bearded and hulking. Perhaps she was too choosy.

One brawny fellow noticed Georgette. “What have we here? Are you alone, sugarcakes? This is my lucky day.” He lurched forward and gripped her arm.

Georgette's yearning for romance took a plunge. She turned to escape, but the man twisted her arm and pulled her back. “Why so modest?” His filthy hand gripped her chin, and rancid breath filled her nostrils. “Give us a kiss.”

Suddenly the fellow gave a yelp and fell away from her, his hands grasping at a black cord around his throat. As his back struck the ground, a hand gripped Georgette's shoulder, turned her about, and propelled her forward. “The lady, she is with me, monsieur,” a heavily accented voice said in clear warning. Turning back, Georgette saw in profile a black-cloaked figure standing with feet braced, brandishing a driving whip.

The big man staggered to his feet, bellowed once, and charged like a bull. His challenger stepped aside and rapped him on the skull with the butt of the whip. He sprawled on the grass and lay there, moaning. His drunken companions laughed.

The victor replaced the whip in a waiting carriage. A voluminous hood concealed his entire head, giving him the appearance of the Grim Reaper.

Georgette turned to run, but the man's arm slipped around her waist. He pulled her away from the bonfire toward the dark streets. Squealing, she beat both fists against his forearm. “Let me go. You are no better than he to accost a lady so!”

“You need not fear; I intend you no harm,” the Frenchman said, setting her on her feet in the shelter of a large tree. “Do you not know what manner of business is conducted on the ‘holy grounds' just beyond the common? Crazed, I think the lady must be, to wander alone in the wicked city, and more so on this night when men's blood runs hot.”

Georgette shook her head in confusion. “Business? Do you mean the church?”

His laugh lacked humor.
“Innocente.”

Understanding dawned. Georgette's entire body burned with shame. “Are you saying those women are …? That man thought I was …? That you—no, never!” Horrified, she struggled to escape.

Her captor restrained her. “No, never!” he mocked in falsetto. But then his voice deepened. “And yet perhaps mademoiselle craves romance.”

Gooseflesh prickled Georgette's arms. She sought a glimpse of the man's face but caught only an occasional glitter in his eyes, the reflection of a street lamp. “If—if I yearned for romance, it would be with a gentleman, not a ruffian. You Frenchmen are infamous for perfidy and … and passion.”

When he chuckled, she regretted her suggestive choice of words. His grip on her upper arms seemed effortless, yet she was powerless to escape it.

Lifting her chin, she tried to sound confident. “Do you know who I am? My father will have you flogged if harm comes to me.”

“Should harm come to you tonight, I would deserve such penalty,
ma fille.
” With one fluid motion, he again wrapped his arm about her waist and hauled her close. Her hooped skirts ballooned behind her. Although she held herself rigid and put up both hands to prevent her body from contacting his, Georgette made no vocal protest beyond a gasp.

“Regardez-moi, s'il vous plaît, ma belle fille.”

She recognized enough French to know he had called her beautiful. “Let me go.” She pushed at his chest. Her elbow bumped what proved to be a large pistol shoved into his belt. Whip. Gun. What other weapons did he wield? Might he be a soldier? Not with that accent. A French-Canadian trapper perhaps, come to the city for excitement and liquor.

His waistcoat felt soft beneath her hands, pleasant to touch. Or was it a shirt? Puzzled, she slid her hands over the thin fabric. Fringe. He wore buckskin. She heard the man suck in a breath, and a flurry of French followed, none of which she understood. He trapped her hands in an iron grip.

“So free with the touching you are. And you would return the favor?” His thumb traced her jawline.

She flinched in pain as he touched her cheek. “What are you doing?”

With a soft exclamation, he turned her toward the streetlamp. Georgette blinked, cringing when he hovered too near.

“Eh, what has happened to your face?” His caress circled the welt on her cheek. “Did that dog strike you? I should have killed him.”

“No—he did not do it.” She recalled her father's cruel blow, and her breath caught, sounding much like a sob.

“Then who?”

Georgette felt her lips move, but no sound emerged. Feeling lost, she reached both hands to his chest as if to push him away. His thudding heart against her palms seemed familiar. His breath brushed her face—no hint of alcohol or tobacco there. What manner of man was this?

He released her and backed away.
“Mille pardons.”
The hooded head bowed. “Such liberties are not mine to take.”

Trembling, she searched for something intelligent to say. “Who are you?”

He caught her by the hand, turned, and began to walk along the street toward her parents' rented town house. “Promise you will never again venture into the city alone at night.”

Regret pricked her conscience. “I was foolish to behave thus. I
am
a lady. You must believe me!”

Once more he exclaimed something indecipherable in French, and he slowed his pace. “I doubt not your purity of heart.”

“What may I call you? I am Georgette Talbot.”

“I know.” His voice was quiet. “Did you like the dog?”

“The dog? Caramel! You gave him to me? But why? Who are you? Where have we met?” All too soon she recognized the brick town houses and storefronts of Broad Street. Had her parents noticed her absence?

“I first saw you dip your feet in the river and swing on a tree branch until I feared you would drop into the water.”

“You saw me?” Georgette whispered. Like a child she had played that summer day, for once free of adult supervision. Or so she had thought. “The day my hat blew away.”

“Your hair, it catches the sun and captures my heart. Your dog, he will remind, each time you look at him, that your devoted slave worships the earth beneath your feet.
Nuit et jour,
I dream of you.”

“Oh–h–h–h!” Georgette's feet seemed to float well above the paving stones.

He stopped at the garden-gate and released her hand. “Carriages still wait out front. You might yet slip inside unnoted.”

“You are leaving? Will you not come inside? I wish to see your face.”

He backed away. She caught the edge of his cloak. “Will I meet you again?”

“Assuredly, yes.”

“When?”

“Ma petite Georgette.”
His features remained shrouded in darkness. “So desperate you seem.
Pourquoi?
”

“My father gave me the welt on my cheek because I refuse to marry an evil man.”

“Your father seeks an evil man to marry his daughter? Pray, tell why.” Satire laced his voice.

“He has already chosen one, although I am uncertain the evil man is yet aware of my father's plan. Papa has extensive gaming debts, you see. He did not gamble when we lived in England; it is the influence of this wicked city. I suspect Papa might—” She fell silent rather than reveal suppositions that put her father in an even worse light.

“And who is this evil man?”

“You must know of him, a Mr. LaTournay.”

“I know the name. In what way is this man evil?”

Angered by his mocking tone, she snapped, “He pursues the wives of other men.”

“You know this as fact?” His tone was equally sharp.

“His reputation is foul. My mother advises me to overlook such behavior in a man, but I cannot.”

“Nor should you,” he said. “A philandering man makes a poor husband.”

The adamant statement warmed her heart, obliterating his former irony from her memory. “Are you married?”

“Not as yet, but when I wed, my heart will belong to my wife alone for as long as I live.”

Releasing her hold on his cloak, Georgette covered her mouth with one hand.

He stepped forward and gently pulled her concealing hand away. She felt his breath upon her face, then the quick pressure of his fingers upon hers. “
Bonsoir
and adieu, Georgette,” he whispered and strode away into the night.

But the L
ORD
said unto Samuel, Look not on his countenance, or on the height of his stature; because I have refused him: for the L
ORD
seeth not as man seeth; for man looketh on the outward appearance, but the L
ORD
looketh on the heart.

1 S
AMUEL 1
6:7

T
he hired carriage stopped before a mansion on the outskirts of town. Lifting her skirts, Georgette followed her parents up the broad front steps. A fine mist fell, and the entire world seemed gray.

“Everyone of importance in the province will be here tonight,” her mother predicted. “Remember to smile and be genteel, Georgette.”

“Yes, Mum.” Georgette's interest in social events had waned.

After handing their wraps to waiting servants, Georgette and her mother hurried to the ladies' chambers to repair damages to gown or coiffure. When they returned, they joined her father in the queue of guests and shook hands with their hosts, retired Colonel Weatherby and his wife.

“Is it true this Whig pretense of a congress threatens to outlaw dancing and parties?”

“How dare they attempt to force such bans upon the law-abiding public?”

Snatches of disturbing conversation reached Georgette's ears as she picked her way through the crowds and joined a fluttering bouquet of young ladies near the refreshment tables.

Marianne waved her fan. “Gigi! Over here.”

“Marianne, how are you?” Georgette slid into an open place against the wall.

“Well enough. You look lovely!”

“This is a remake of one of my mother's old gowns, and it is too small for me. Mother had Agnes tighten my stays until I feel ill.” Georgette covered her mouth with her fan. “Alas, I am complaining again. I shall never learn to be content, Marianne. How do you do it?”

Marianne smiled. “Give yourself time to grow in God's grace, Gigi. You are a newborn babe in Christ; you cannot expect perfection from yourself.”

Georgette sighed and pursed her lips. “My parents wish to hear nothing about my faith in Jesus Christ. They tell me I have been a Christian since I was baptized as an infant.”

“That is what they were raised to believe. Just keep speaking the truth in a loving, respectful way, Gigi. Your interest in the Bible might inspire them to search for answers, too.”

“People must acknowledge questions before they see a need for answers,” Georgette said. “And it is difficult to point out fallacies in my parents' beliefs without sounding disrespectful. Had I not always been such a difficult child, they might be more willing to listen to me now.”

Marianne patted her friend's arm. “You cannot change the past, Gigi, but the changes God has made in you since Christmastide, no one can ignore.”

Guilt swamped Georgette. “You would not think so if you knew what I did last Sunday night.” The secret of her escapade seared her conscience. “I can scarcely believe it myself.” She longed to tell Marianne, yet a crowded ballroom hardly seemed the proper setting for a confession.