The Exiles (19 page)

He looked at Simon and gave his head a shake as if to say,
Help me here. She doesn’t need this horse.

Simon attempted to put in a word. “Miss Chantel, this is a man’s horse. You need—”

It was the worst thing he could have possibly said.

Chantel gave him an indignant look. “I can ride him!” She turned to Fremont and said, “I’ll try him out.”

Fremont started to protest, but when he saw her determination he sighed, “It is your responsibility, mademoiselle.”

“Of course. Now, have him saddled.”

Simon offered a hand to help Chantel up. She took her seat, held the lines, and touched the withers of the gray. “What’s his name?” she asked.

“We call him Bravo.”

“Come on, Bravo,” Chantel said. She was an excellent rider, but the strength of the horse was somewhat intimidating. She held the lines firmly, but she knew that with his strength, he could pull them out of her hands if he chose. Nevertheless, he seemed eager to run. She brought him to a trot, then a gallop, and finally a dead run.

Simon stood watching her and shaking his head. “I can do nothing with her,” he said.

“Well, she’s a fine rider. Maybe she can handle him.”

“She has a great deal of determination. I found that out when she was just a child.”

“You go ahead in the buggy, Simon. I’ll ride Bravo home.”

“But we need to go by the store and pick up a few things.”

“You can do that. I have an errand I want to go on.”

“All right, but be careful of that horse. You don’t know him yet. He may have a trick or two in him.”

“Nonsense. He’s a perfect gentleman.” Chantel leaned over, patted the smooth hide of the horse, and then laughed as he nodded his head up and down. “You see? He agrees with me. Come, Bravo. Let’s go.”

Chantel pulled up at the cemetery and slipped out of the saddle. She had taken her things out of the buggy and put them in the black leather saddlebags. Now she tied the horse firmly to a thick sapling at the edge of the cemetery and patted him. “You wait right here. I won’t be long, Bravo.” She smiled as he lowered his head and studied her, then expelled his breath with a slobbering sound. “I’ll give you an apple when we get home. You’ll like it.”

Moving through the cemetery grounds gave Chantel the same feeling she had sensed when entering the house. It brought back the past in a vivid fashion indeed. She recalled her mother’s funeral and saw herself as a young girl standing beside her father as the two of them watched her mother’s body being put into the vault.

And then her thoughts shifted, advancing until she saw herself again standing beside Collette and Perrin as her father’s body was placed beside that of his wife. She remembered wondering what Collette thought about such an arrangement, for the vault had been made for just two inhabitants.

Now it was almost dusk, and already the swallows that lived in the old church were turning in acrobatic flight above the cemetery. Several bats suddenly seemed to erupt from the steeple and made black marks against the darkening sky. Chantel did not like them; bats always gave her a strange feeling. Tearing her eyes away, she moved over to stand before the vault. She stood for a long time, and finally she knelt and placed her hands on the cold granite. She prayed for the souls of her father and her sister and her mother.

It disturbed her still to think of purgatory. She had stubbornly resisted all efforts to implant such a doctrine in her head. Sister Martha had once remarked, “Well, if she has no heresy worse than this in her life, it will be well.”

Chantel had often come here as an adolescent and knelt at this very place, often staying away until a servant was sent to fetch her. Now there was no one to tell her what to do or when to return, and she felt the loneliness of her life more than she had in a long time.

She knelt there, lost in thought, then suddenly she heard the sound of footsteps. Before she could rise, a hand gripped her arm, and she found herself pulled to her feet. She turned quickly and found herself facing a rough-looking man, large and with a terrible scar across his broad cheek. He had thickset features and wore a cotton cap pulled halfway down over his ears. He wore a shirt with the sleeves torn off, and his arms were thick and muscular.

“Well, what do we have here? What a beauty, Ned.”

A second man, this one smaller and thinner framed with hazel eyes, said, “What do you got, Jackie? Well, now, ain’t she a pretty one!”

The burly man glanced around. “Let’s take a walk over in them woods, pretty. I’ll show you what a real man’s like.”

Terror flooded through Chantel. She opened her mouth to scream, but her voice was cut off by a rough hand over her face. She smelled the stench of the man, unwashed and feral. He pulled her toward the woods, and when she tried to fight, he simply picked her up off the ground as he would a child. She kicked at him, but he merely laughed. “I like a woman with spunk. You see what’s in them bags on that horse, Ned, while me and my sweetheart have a little fun.”

“I get my turn then, right?”

“Right you are.”

The two men laughed and made crude jokes, and Chantel knew fear as she had never known it before in her life. She suddenly managed to wrench her head away from his hand and screamed out, “Help! Somebody help me!”

“That won’t do, sweetheart. There ain’t nobody to hear except maybe a priest, and he’d better not stick his head out of that church.”

Chantel fought with all of her strength, but to no avail. She wished that she could die rather than be attacked by such a brute.

“All right, you, let that woman go!”

Chantel heard the words and felt her captor’s grip loosen. The smaller man, named Ned, was running toward them, and now she turned frantically to see who had spoken.

A tall man wearing brown trousers, half boots, and a dark blue coat stood before her. His voice was strong as he said, “Turn the woman loose and be on your way!”

“Well, Ned, we’ve got us a hero here. Wot do yer think of that?”

“I think we’ll just see what he’s got in his purse,” Ned said. He moved to one side, and as he did, pulled a wicked looking knife from his belt. He grinned and said, “Come now, bucko. Hand over your purse, and maybe I won’t cut your bloomin’ throat.”

Chantel saw the tall man spread his hands out, holding them to one side in a strange manner. When Ned made a slash at him, his hand shot out, and he struck him a blow that sent him reeling backward. Stooping over, the newcomer picked up a small branch that formed a sort of club. He did not speak again, but when Ned came at him, he parried the thrust in an expert fashion, then brought the improvised weapon down on his wrist. Ned let out a squeal, and the knife dropped.

Chantel staggered backward. The big man surged forward, releasing her arm. He also had a knife and began slashing her rescuer. She heard him cry out, “Gotcha that time!” and saw that Ned had recovered his knife and that they had surrounded their opponent from each side. Armed with only a club, he would have no chance.

A sudden thought came to her. She whirled and saw Bravo tied only a few yards away. Quick as a flash she ran to him. He sidled away, but she said, “Be still, Bravo.” She lifted the flap of the saddlebag, pulled out her reticule, and reached into it for her pistol. She grasped it and ran back. She could plainly see blood running down her rescuer’s arm. “Stop!” she cried.

The man named Jackie turned and said, “Wot’s that?”

“Both of you get away from him, or I’ll shoot you!”

Jackie laughed brutally. “With that little pop gun?” He came toward her, and Chantel lifted the pistol. She aimed at him and pulled the trigger.

He reached and grabbed his shoulder. Chantel could see the scarlet blood gushing out, and she said, “You get away! And you, too!” She aimed the weapon at the smaller man, and when he stared at her, she said, “I’ll shoot you if you don’t.”

“Come on, Ned,” the big man said. “I’m bleedin’ to death! You got to do something.”

“All right. Come on, Jackie.”

The two left at a half run, and Chantel turned to see her rescuer suddenly drop to one knee. She ran forward and said, “Are you hurt?”

He turned his face to her. “They cut me pretty bad.”

His arm, she saw, was bleeding freely. She said, “Here, sit down.” When he was sitting, she pulled his shirt out, tore a strip off, wound it around the cut, and tied it. “We’ll have to get you to a doctor.”

“I don’t think I can walk too far.”

“Get on the horse. I’ll get up behind you. It isn’t far to my house.”

It took both of them to get him into the saddle. Thankfully Bravo did not budge, but stood like a rock.

She pulled herself on behind him and spoke. “Come on, Bravo. Home, boy!”

“I think he’s going to be all right,” Marie said. She straightened up and looked at her handiwork.

“He looks pale to me,” Simon said.

“He’s lost a lot of blood. You’d better go for the doctor, Simon.”

“Right. I’ll get him here as soon as I can.”

Chantel had watched as Marie had bound up the wounds of the man. He had a long, deep cut on his left arm, another not so deep on his chest, and one along his ribs on his right side. The arm had been the bloodiest, and Marie had insisted on sewing it up. She had been the doctor of sorts at Fontaine Maison for years and had grown adept at such things.

Chantel stood looking down at the pale face of the man. His eyes were closed, and she thought,
He’s got to be all right.
He had dark brown hair and a handsome, tapered face. His body was trim and fit. “Are you sure he’ll be all right, Marie?”

“Yes, but he’s lost much blood and will be weak for a time.”

“I’ll take care of him. You and I, we’ll see to it, won’t we, Marie?”

Marie Bientot looked at the young mistress and lifted one eyebrow. “Of course,
chéri
. We will take care of him. He saved your life, didn’t he?”

“Yes, he did.” Chantel laid her hand on the man’s forehead and moved a lock of hair back. She stared at him in a dazed fashion.

“And then I guess I saved his.”

Chapter sixteen

Doctor Leo Compare resembled an actor more than he did a physician. Of Creole blood, he had glossy black hair with a pronounced curl, eyes so dark they seemed like ebony, and a smooth, olive complexion. He was happily married with four children, though he was only twenty-five years old, and half of the young women of the parish had feigned illness just to get a call from the good doctor.

Now as Doctor Compare straightened up, he turned his head to one side and looked at Chantel, who stood on the other side of the bed. “This is a tough one, Mademoiselle Fontaine. If he had lost another pint of blood, I think he would be in his tomb.”

Chantel had watched as the doctor removed the stitches from the arm of Yves Gaspard. She had spent considerable time with her patient during the three days since he had rescued her, and now she smiled. “He’s going to have a scar on that arm.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Gaspard said quickly. “At first I was afraid it would affect my hand. It’s my painting hand, you see. I could do without the left but not the right.”

Gaspard was a handsome man, well over six feet tall and lithely built. He had dark brown hair that lay neatly along the back of his head, long enough to touch his shoulders. His eyes, a light brown, were well-shaped. His face was wedge-shaped and his mouth wide. He had a thin, dark mustache that he had kept trimmed rather awkwardly with his left hand for the past few days, but otherwise he was smooth shaven.

He turned to the doctor and smiled. “My hostess saved my life, Doctor Compare.” He shook his head in wonder. “I heard a legend once of some tribe in South America. They had a custom. If someone saved the life of another, that person belonged to his savior.”

“Oh, I’m not a savior! Don’t be foolish. And it was you who saved my life first.”

Doctor Compare turned and packed his supplies in his bag. He studied the two for a moment, then nodded. “You are well enough to do whatever you please. Just be sure you don’t put extra strain on that arm.”

“But a little painting will not hurt, no?”

“No, not a little. Be sure you feed him well, mademoiselle. When one loses that much blood, it takes a while to build the strength up again.”

“I’ll certainly do that. Thank you for coming, Doctor Compare.”

When Compare left the room, Chantel said, “Why don’t you come into the dining room, and we’ll have breakfast together.”

“That would be good. This is a lovely room, but I need to get around.” Gaspard stood up, and for a moment seemed to sway. At once Chantel stepped forward and took his arm. “Are you all right, Mr. Gaspard?”

“Just a little dizzy. I think the good physician is right. I do not believe I will try any strenuous exercise.” He smiled down at her, and she realized, not for the first time, how much he resembled her father.

Gaspard was a much taller man, but the eyes were the same shape, as were the lips. And when Yves Gaspard smiled, it was the smile of her father all over again. Something about the curvature of the mouth, the set of the lips, was exactly the same.

“Come along,” she said. “Lean on me.”

“I hate to be dependent.”

“This is different. I’ve been very worried about you.”

Gaspard had his arm over her shoulder and held it there lightly. He was wearing the clothes he was wearing when he came to Chantel’s rescue—a pair of light gray trousers and a maroon-colored shirt open at the throat, with long, full sleeves. The right sleeve concealed the wound that the doctor had bandaged. He wore shoes of glossy black leather.

When the two entered the dining room, Marie Bientot met them. “Sit down,” she said. “Breakfast is ready.”

Chantel moved to her place, and the tall man sat down across from her. As he did, he said, “I appreciate your sending your servant out to get my painting things. I was most worried about them.”

Indeed, upon regaining consciousness that had been Gaspard’s first request. He had been painting in the cemetery when he heard Chantel’s cry for help. “I would not have liked to have lost them.”

“I’ve got them in a spare room any time you’re ready,” Chantel said. “I love the painting you were working on.”