Love’s Betrayal (40 page)

Yvonne bobbed a curtsy.

“Yvonne grew up in Tobago; she dislikes our northern winters. She is an excellent cook and housekeeper, so every autumn I must convince her to stay.”

Yvonne grinned. “Liar that you are, monsieur. The Lord Jesus keeps me and Noel here with you. We will never go where He does not lead.” Without pausing for breath, she added, “Bath water heats in the kitchen, and the tub awaits madam in her chamber. You speak the word, and I'll send the boys up with the hot water. The beds are turned, the linens fresh. I shall unpack for madam while she rests. I have something of hers in the kitchen. I'll bring it with me when I come upstairs.”

“Merci, Yvonne.”

All this French talk startled Georgette. Of course she had known that Mr. LaTournay spoke French, but now it seemed to flow from his tongue and accent even his English.

The housekeeper's dark eyes twinkled. “If you do not realize it already, madam, this husband of yours speaks only half his thoughts and even fewer of his feelings. You must make the man talk.” With a nod and a wink, she whirled about and left.

Bemused by the advice, Georgette stared up at her husband's face.

Stepping back, Mr. LaTournay smiled. “Yvonne has wisdom to equal her remarkable intellect and a loving heart like none other. Now, be at home and do whatever you wish. This house is yours, Georgette. You have first bath. I shall join you upstairs later.”

“You will read your letter?”

He seemed startled by the question. “Oui. The letter. I shall read it, of a certain.”

Yvonne delivered Georgette's possession to her bedchamber. “For you, madam. He was asleep on the hearth when you arrived.”

“Caramel!” Georgette held out her arms.

The pug's floppy ears lifted at the sound of her voice, and he struggled to get down. As soon as Yvonne placed him on the floor, he yipped and spun in circles near Georgette's feet. “I do believe he is crying,” Georgette said, attempting to hold the frantic dog. Tears of relief burned her eyes. The pug looked hearty and plump; Noel had truly been good to him. Georgette had trained Caramel not to lick her face; but when she picked him up, his tongue darted in and out near her cheek as if to taste the air.

Yvonne watched the reunion with an enigmatic smile. “He will be a piece of your past to soothe your heart,” she said.

Georgette's first impressions of her new home were of large, clean rooms with wooden beams and white walls, immense fire-places, and handsome furnishings. She felt pampered by Yvonne, who bathed her, combed out her hair, and helped her dress for supper as if she were a princess. She found the woman's stream of accented conversation soothing, laced with tales of Jean-Maurice and Francine as children. She helped Georgette unpack and arrange her clothing and possessions.

“
Voyons,
but you have lovely things!” Yvonne stepped back to admire her handiwork. The room looked bright and homey with Georgette's possessions scattered about. Caramel had already claimed the rug on the hearth.

“I hope there is room for Mr. LaTournay's things,” Georgette said. “My gowns take up so much space.”

“Monsieur uses the adjoining bedchamber as his dressing room. Never you worry,” Yvonne said. “This house has rooms and to spare for you and a brood of children.”

Georgette tried to ignore that last comment. “Does Noel help him dress?”

“The master claims no need of a valet when he is home, so Noel helps me keep the household in order. Come to supper when you are ready.”

Yvonne opened the door to reveal Mr. LaTournay in the hallway. He stepped back, allowing the housekeeper to pass, then entered Georgette's room. Caramel gave him a cheerful greeting, rolling on his polished shoes to beg a belly rub.

“You look fine,” Georgette said. Her husband had changed into a blue coat, brocaded waistcoat, and buff breeches. His unpowdered hair was brushed into a neat queue.

He scanned the room. “Does this bedchamber meet with your approval? You may choose another if it does not suit.”

“It is most satisfactory. Of a certain, I must adjust to sleeping in a cave.”

He glanced at the alcove bed. “It is warm in winter. You will see.”

“I am sure I shall. I also see that I needn't have packed my featherbed. You must own many, since my bed frame already holds two.” She crossed to the window and gazed upon rolling, forested hills and green pastureland already wearing a tint of autumn color. Cattle and sheep dotted the fields. “The view is particularly fine.”

His hands slipped around her waist from behind, and she melted against his chest. His breath and lips against her temple brought a relieved sigh. As long as Mr. LaTournay loved her, she could endure.

“You are wonderful, my Georgette. They all love you, as I knew they would. Come, we must go down for our wedding supper. Yvonne has prepared a feast in your honor.”

“She is kind, Jean-Maurice, as are Noel and Francine.”

“Are your fears relieved?”

“Most of them. You will not leave me alone tonight?”

“You need to ask?” He kissed her before escorting her downstairs.

The outside world seldom touched Georgette's little paradise of Haven Farm that autumn of 1775. She diligently applied herself to ignoring the few concerns marring her happiness. True, the town church's minister was an unabashed proponent of the rebel cause, but he seldom allowed his political views to color his sermons. Talk of war filtered through town, and Georgette knew of several local families whose sons had joined the traitorous army, yet these things she could disregard.

One afternoon in November, Francine dropped by to give Georgette a weaving lesson. “Before we settle down to work, I would really like a refreshment,” Francine said, linking arms with her new sister. “I hear via family gossip that Yvonne is teaching you to cook and clean house.” She stepped back to allow Georgette to enter the hall first, since their two hoop skirts could not simultaneously fit through the doorway.

“I must have something to fill my days—”

“
Non,
my dear sister, you misunderstand. I approve of your activity, as does mon frère.” Her bright smile soothed Georgette's ruffled feelings. “Yvonne abandoned training me years ago, but enough of her skill soaked through my thick skull that Mr. Voorhees finds me a satisfactory cook.”

A stack of letters on the hall table caught Georgette's eyes. She stopped to examine the addresses. “Mr. LaTournay writes and receives many letters.”

Francine gave her a speculative look. “He is a busy man. Too busy, in the opinion of some. Not busy enough, in the opinion of others.”

“So many letters addressed to my husband; none for me. Does mail no longer travel to England?” Georgette dropped the letters back on the table. “My parents must have received at least one of my letters by this time. Why do they not reply? And why does Marianne never write to me?”

Francine shook her head and looked sympathetic as she towed Georgette into the kitchen. At the worktable, Yvonne chopped vegetables with a huge cleaver. Bundles of onions, garlic, and herbs hung from the ceiling, and a great kettle steamed over a crackling fire.

“Would either of you like some cider?” Francine made herself at home in the great house.

Yvonne smiled and refused without breaking rhythm.

“Gigi?”

“Please.” Georgette brooded over troubling thoughts. “Farming must be stressful work. Often Mr. LaTournay looks tired and troubled. Sometimes …”

“Sometimes?” Francine poured two pewter mugs full of cider.

“When we read the scriptures together, certain passages seem important to him, yet he cannot explain why. We read a story about a man named Gideon the other day, and Mr. LaTournay asked me to read it aloud twice. He has spoken of it several times since. Is your husband mysterious like that?”

“Jean-Maurice is more mysterious than most. Has he told you about his childhood?” Careful to keep out of Yvonne's way, the ladies sat upon a settle near the open hearth.

“Very little. He seldom speaks of the past. I know he was born in Canada and spoke French as his first language. I know that your father was French and your mother part Dutch. You both lived here for many years, so I assume your father died young.”

“Papa was a French soldier—Claude-Albert François LaTournay, handsome, romantic, and silver-tongued. Grandfather disapproved of him, but Maman ran away to marry him and regretted it ever after. Papa took her to Canada with him until he tired of being husband and father. He brought Maman here when we were children and left us in Grandfather's care.”

“How sad she must have been!” Georgette mourned the disillusioned young mother.

“Our mother tried to shield us from knowledge of our father's perfidy, but he made his own character known to us later. During the Indian wars, he returned to claim Jean-Maurice. Mercifully, he left me here with Grandfather.”

“Your mother died?”

“The year before our father's return. Jean-Maurice was thirteen when she died, and he missed her terribly. He still mourns her loss, I believe. Before Maman's death, he was a mischievous boy, always in trouble yet smart enough to talk his way out of punishment. Her death took all the fun out of his life.”

“He seldom smiles.” Georgette sipped her cider, trying to imagine Mr. LaTournay as a lanky young boy.

“I have never seen him happier than he has been these last few months.”

Georgette smiled. “That is good to hear. Sometimes I wonder how he can be pleased with me. You know how hopeless I am at any profitable chore. He might have married any one of a dozen other accomplished young ladies in Saratoga alone, not to mention the hordes of females yearning after him in New York.”

“I shall let Jean-Maurice assure you of his undying love. Enough for me to say that he paid heed to no woman but his mother until you came along.”

Georgette winced inwardly. Mr. LaTournay's dissolute reputation remained unknown at Haven Farm, and she had no wish to disillusion his family.

“His sun rises and sets on you, Gigi
fille
,” Francine continued. “I would not wish to be wife to such a man, but you are the ideal woman for mon frére. You possess courage and tenacity. Loving Jean-Maurice for a lifetime will require both.”

Confused, Georgette shook her head. Perhaps Francine knew of her brother's moral failings after all. “I am sure it must be as difficult for him to love me as it is for me to love him.”

“
J'en doute.
Behind every great man stands an even greater woman, if you want my opinion,” Francine said. “You be Deborah to his Barak, support him fully, and you will reap rich rewards. It is not my place to tell you things he chooses to keep secret, but I shall let you know that Jean-Maurice undergoes a struggle.”

“Involving me?”

“
Certainement.
When principle strives against passion …” Francine paused and smiled. “It is time for me to hold my tongue. You cannot know how tempted I am to divulge certain facts. I say it is high time he told you many things about himself, but does he listen to me? Ha!”