Pride of the King, The (32 page)

The kitchen had every modern convenience, and Gautier’s bedchamber reflected the taste of a man used to fine things including a large maple wardrobe, curtained bedstead with an indigo blue duvet and an inlaid washstand from Paris.

Lauren loved coming here to cook and keep house and was pleased about the progress she was making with Gautier. Initially he was very reserved, speaking mostly about daily affairs at the fort, but lately he was complimenting her on her personal appearance. His manner was always respectful, but as each day passed Lauren could see he was becoming increasingly infatuated with her. She found him to be a refreshing change from St. Clare who was surly and argumentative, eternally poised for a fight.  

Julien explained to Lauren that he came to the fort from Montreal every spring after the first thaw to meet with the voyageurs and buy furs. Coming inland allowed him first choice of furs before they reached the larger centers like Montreal and Quebec. Then when the voyageurs returned to the interior in the fall, he returned to Montreal. His company shipped these furs to France where they were made into hats and garments. He returned to Montreal in the fall to conduct his affairs from there.

Julien expected an orderly home and supper waiting for him every evening when he returned from his appointments at the fort, and he paid Lauren handsomely to complete these tasks for him daily. The routine had been the same for several weeks until one day she had been instructed to set another place for supper. She heard the front door open and looked out from the kitchen noticing the door to Monsieur Gautier’s bedchamber was closed. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary. His habit was to return from a day of work, wash before supper, change his clothing and then read until supper.

Lauren put the finishing touches on his meal and peeked out in the sitting room to see if the guest had arrived yet. He was still sitting alone reading.

Julien looked up at her and said quietly, “Madame, I hope you do not mind. You are the guest this evening.” He put his book down and stood up. With a playful bow he said, “Would you do me the honor of joining me this evening?”

Lauren smiled and nodded. Her heart skipping, she returned to the kitchen, unpinned her apron and removed her cap letting her auburn tresses trail down the front of her burgundy dress. She picked up the tray of food and went out to the table. Gautier stood up and took the tray from her and said, “It is apparent you have been on both sides of the serving tray, Madame. Tonight you shall be served.”

“Each has its privileges and drawbacks,” she replied taking a chair.

He smiled at her. The atmosphere seemed charged with excitement. Gautier brought Lauren her plate of food, took his own and sat down. She thought he looked handsome tonight. He was dressed casually in a brown waistcoat, white shirt and dark britches, but even in this simple attire Gautier looked elegant and well bred. His dark eyes distracted her, and on several occasions she had to look away from his intense gaze.

They talked of many things, Julien leaning forward listening to Lauren, eager to learn about her. Lauren asked questions too, wanting to know more about this mysterious aristocrat from Montreal and why he was here in the backwoods of New France.

“I must apologize if I am intrusive,” he said, taking a sip of red wine. “But where is your husband? The man would have to be mad to let you go.”

Lauren looked down at her plate and sighed, “Monsieur, it is most tragic. He disappeared on the streets of New York City shortly after we were married.”

Julien looked at Lauren sympathetically and said, “I am sorry. You think he is perhaps--dead?”

“Or imprisoned,” she added. “Although I searched everywhere in that city, he was nowhere to be found. It has been difficult,” she lied, touching a napkin to the corner of her eye. “But one must go on.”

Finishing his meal, Gautier wiped his mouth and rose from the table. He walked over to Lauren and held out his hand. “Come let us walk by the lake and enjoy this beautiful evening.”

Lauren stood up and brushed closely to him but instead of stepping back, he pulled her close. Lauren met his gaze for a moment then looked down. He raised his hand, stroked her cheek then let go of her. They walked along the shores of the lake in the moonlight. Loons were calling in the darkness, and they could hear the lake splashing gently against the shore.

Under the shadow of the windmill, Julien lifted Lauren’s face and kissed her lightly just one time. Lauren was swept away by the restraint he showed and the respectful distance he kept. His slow approach and light touch teased her intensely and left her filled with passion, wanting more. Rene had been her only experience with men from New France, but he had been young and clumsy. This time a grown man wanted her in his bed, a Frenchman experienced in love and the art of seduction.

Julien pulled Lauren into his arms and kissed her again but this time with more urgency. Suddenly, she remembered it was Sunday, and there was a sentry stationed in the woods from The Pride of the King. It could be St. Clare himself watching her kissing Julien, and she pushed the Frenchman back abruptly.

“What is it?’ he said breathlessly.

“I am afraid someone will see us,” murmured Lauren.

Gautier began to laugh. “Oh, my little one,” he whispered scooping her into his arms. “If it’s privacy you want, then we shall go inside.”

Chapter 35

The month of June Lauren spent in the arms of Julien Gautier. Gone were the stiff and formal suppers in the evening; now the dining was intimate, in the cottage bedchamber where Lauren and Julien would feast on fresh summer berries, cheeses and wine. Julien treated her like his princess, lavishing her with gifts and surprises at every turn. It was always something new, trinkets and ribbons, fabrics and perfumes to pamper and please her.

“Oh, Julien, this scent is divine,” Lauren cooed one evening putting her wrist under his nose. “It must have cost a fortune.”

Pulling her onto his lap, he said, “Luxuries are indeed expensive here on the frontier, but you are worth it, my little one.”

Lauren blossomed under his care. She felt like a woman again and took long baths, smoothing oils on her skin and combing different scents through her hair. Every day she would attend morning Mass, spend the day with the Moreau children, then late in the afternoon walk to Julien’s cottage, prepare an evening of culinary delights then fuss with her appearance until he arrived.

She told him how brilliant he was in business and feigned fascination while listening to him explain the fur trade. Gautier was arrogant, and Lauren knew exactly how to play to his vanity although the praise and flattery were not entirely insincere. Lauren was truly attracted to the aristocratic Frenchman. His long, dark hair, intense black eyes and haughty attitude appealed to Lauren, and she felt lucky to be sexually attracted to her mark. It was a pleasing change after the elderly gentlemen, fops and dandies of Duke Street.

During the long days of midsummer, Julien and Lauren would picnic by the lake or sit on the
galerie
dining and watching the sun go down. Lauren was constantly near him, sitting on his lap or in a passionate embrace. She had never known a lover so skillful yet so demanding.

Sometimes James St. Clare would come into her mind, and Lauren would push his memory aside, choosing the familiarity of this man from her own world. Lauren was satisfied with herself. She felt confident that Gautier was infatuated with her, and it was time to set the hook and convince him there were good easy profits to be made selling smuggled goods to the residents of Fort Frederic. She was pleased with herself thus far even though it had not been much a challenge.

At last it was time to introduce him to the financial advantages of smuggling. Lauren decided to make all of his favorite foods one evening, clean the cottage thoroughly and polish his best boots. She dressed in his favorite gown, put fresh flowers on the table and had his favorite dish bubbling in a pot. She even made a fancy apple dainty, placing it on a footed cake plate. When she put the feast before him she expected delight, instead he raised his eyebrows and chuckled.

“What is it?” asked Lauren her eyes wide. “What’s wrong with it?”

“Well,” he said.

“Did I do something wrong?” she questioned.

Julien pushed away from the table, picked up the dish and took her hand leading her into the kitchen.

“My Darling.” he sighed. “I know you try, but you have forgotten again. I prefer beef in this dish, not mutton. No harm has been done, dearest but--” he bent over and scooped the food into the swine jar. “Please make it over.”

Lauren stammered, “I--I am sorry, Julien. I thought--”

He placed two fingers on her lips and shook his head. “No need to apologize, little one. Simply make it over correctly. I understand these things can be difficult for you.”

Lauren blinked in disbelief but said nothing.

“I’ll just finish up some paperwork while you correct it,” he said and left the kitchen.

Lauren put her apron back on, rolled up her sleeves and remade the dish with beef, cursing Gautier under her breath the entire time. They did not dine together that night, and Lauren returned to the Moreau house early.

Everything about the evening shook her confidence. She tossed and turned all night wondering if she had been too smug, too self-assured and too careless. She had not even begun to groom him as a contact for The Pride of the King
,
and he was finding fault with her. Lauren vowed to get back into his good graces immediately, and the next time he spoke of the war escalating with England she would suggest the need to make a liaison with a smuggling operation.

The opportunity arose several nights later when Julien explained that business was always bolstered by war. Lauren asked him if Fort St. Frederic could ever be cut off from the supplies of Montreal. He said that it was a possibility. “We will see serious bloodshed here before the year is out. The French and the British are posturing for formal declarations of war.” They were lying on his bed, arms and legs entwined and he reached out, tracing the lines in her brow. “Don’t worry about it. These things should not concern a female.”

“I hope we never have to the live austere, plain lives of the British subjects.”

“What?” Gautier said while he kissed her neck.

“The King restricts and taxes everything in New England. It is so different from New France. Those self-righteous Protestants, they frown on all luxuries, forbidding what we take for granted. So the average person is forced to buy from smugglers. It is a way of life down there. In fact, the family who helped me get here has ties to smugglers.”

“Yes,” Julien chuckled. “Those gypsies, it wouldn’t surprise me.”

He pulled her close and said, “If it becomes necessary, I too would deal in the black market especially if we were cut off from Montreal. There is no disputing English powder is superior. I have heard there is money to be made in such traffic, especially weapons. It is good to know if there is a blockade we can still maintain our way of life here at the fort.”

“Oh yes,” she murmured, snuggling next to him. “It is comforting to know we can find the right people if the time comes.”

*             *         *

The following night, Lauren lay awake, waiting until all sounds of movement died down at the Moreau household, and then she laced her stays, pulled on her gown and crept down the stairs of the loft. With a lantern in her hand, she searched the road, but all was quiet. She started toward the windmill looking up at the dark giant keeping vigil for the French at Fort St. Frederic. Shortly after she had joined the community, Lauren learned the windmill housed six swivel canons which served as the first line of defense for those at the Fort. The mill had two purposes as it stood over the lake; to grind flour and grain for the residents and to guard one of the greatest forts in New France.

Lauren shivered as she stepped inside the door of the mill. Her lantern cast long, swinging shadows into the room, and she fully expected someone to jump at her from the darkness. Instead, memories assaulted her. The last time she had been in a windmill, she had been wandering the countryside in the colony of New York alone and with child. She had been homeless, starving and near death.

Taking a deep breath, Lauren squared her shoulders and climbed the stairs, holding the lantern before her. When she reached the top floor, she stood by the window, held the lantern up and waited. Straining her eyes in the darkness, she saw nothing but the vast emptiness of the lake and the woods around it. She continued to hold the light to the window for a few more moments, then dropped her arm and went down the steps and out the door to wait.

It was not long before a figure darted out from the trees and dashed toward Lauren. She felt her heart pounding as the man approached and yanked her roughly into the windmill. She held up her lantern to see the messenger. Davi Blasco pulled his cap off and asked breathlessly, “What information do you have?”

“Davi!” she exclaimed. Lauren had not expected to see a familiar face. Memories of that violent night by the campfire flashed before her eyes. He looked drawn and fatigued. She had no doubts that he grieved for his brothers.

“There have been many taking turns watching for your light,” he explained.

“I have a contact,” she whispered.