Love’s Betrayal (41 page)

LaTournay stamped his boots on the stoop to remove muck and snow. Once inside the lean-to, he took off the filthy boots and hung up his overcoat. The stench of livestock clung to his clothing and skin. He could not greet Georgette while smelling like manure. Stocking-footed, he ran up the back stairs to his dressing room. A fire burned on the hearth in anticipation of his arrival.

The water in his basin was tepid, but it felt good on his chilled body. He toweled warmth into his skin and dressed quickly. Somewhere in this barn of a house, Georgette awaited his coming. Her eyes would brighten at sight of him, and she would greet him with a kiss.

“Jean-Maurice?”

“I am here.” He ran a comb through his damp hair.

She opened the door between their rooms. “Francine was here today to teach me weaving.” Georgette wore a gown he particularly admired, pink and white like her skin. Wisps escaped her upsweep of hair. Her welcoming smile was as warm and inviting as he had anticipated.

“I was dirty.” He reached to tie off his pigtail with a string.

“You smell nice now.” Just as he had hoped, her hands slid up his chest. “And you feel nice.” Wonder of wonders, she returned his fascination and delight in equal measure. Would he ever tire of her soft form and loving embrace? A man would have to be dead.

The string fell to the floor, unnoticed.

That night after scripture reading, Georgette asked, “Jean-Maurice, why were you so sad when first we met?” She shifted the sock she was knitting and dropped the ball of yarn on the floor. Caramel picked it up and started to trot away. “No, Caramel, drop it!” she cried.

LaTournay caught the dog and retrieved the yarn. After a quick search, he located the dog's basket of playthings and selected a shredded leather ball. “Here, young fellow. Play with this.”

“Thank you.” Georgette tucked the yarn ball beneath her elbow. “Perhaps ‘sad' is not the correct description. Your eyes held such emptiness, such unspeakable sorrow, as if …”

He tossed the ball for Caramel and watched the dog scrabble on the floorboards. “Speak on.” The pit of his stomach felt hollow. He settled back in his chair and crossed one ankle over the other.

“As if you had looked upon hell itself.”

He leaned down to tug the slimy ball from Caramel's mouth and threw it again. “You spoke of me with Francine today.”

She tipped her head quizzically. Firelight danced in the hollows and curves of her face and throat. “I wish to know everything about you, Jean-Maurice. You are the favored subject of my conversation and my dreams. Does this annoy you?”

Her increasing perceptiveness with regard to his thoughts and emotions could become inconvenient. “Anything you wish to know, ask me, not Francine.” He tried to keep his tone light.

“What happened when your father came back for you? Francine says he left her behind and took you with him. It must have been difficult for you to leave this place. Did you even remember your father, or was he a stranger to you?”

He focused on Caramel, letting the little dog wrestle him for the ball. Les Pringle's warnings about women flashed through his mind, followed by proverbs about bothersome wives. Why could she not be content in her ignorance?

“I think I did remember him vaguely. But now I am here, married to the loveliest woman in all America.” He rose and moved behind her chair to rub her neck and shoulders.

She dropped her knitting to clasp his hands and look up with adoring eyes. “Are you content as a farmer, Jean-Maurice? Sometimes I cannot help wondering. You often seem troubled. I enjoy discussing the scriptures with you each night, but I cannot match your depth of understanding. You are so intelligent and gifted; it seems wicked to waste your talents upon dumb animals and a simple wife.”

For a moment he wondered how it would feel to grant her admission to his deepest thoughts and feelings. But sharing his complete history was unthinkable. She must remain content with the portion of his life he was able to share.

Bending, he kissed her neck. “Have I complained about your conversation?” He parried question with question. “I enjoy discussing Samson, Gideon, Moses, and our other historical friends each night. I respect your knowledge of Jesus Christ.”

“I know you read the scriptures on your own. You insist upon reading the Bible straight through when we read together, but you have been peeking ahead into New Testament books. I know because you have moved my markers. I wish you would discuss those passages with me as well as the Old Testament stories.”

Taken by surprise, he muttered, “I am unprepared to discuss them.”

When he tried to pull his hands away, she tightened her hold. “Jean-Maurice, if you are a Christian, God has forgiven whatever sins you committed in the past. And I could better demonstrate love to you if I knew more about you. Share with me these memories that haunt you, please? I believe it would help if you spoke of them.”

He pulled his hands from her grasp as terror darkened his vision. Chest heaving, he swore in French. “You know not what you ask. Leave the past alone. Be content with the man I am; forget the man I used to be. We are happy here together, and I would keep it so. Do you understand?”

Turning away, he retreated to the adjoining room to prepare for bed. He almost decided to sleep in the smaller bed in the alcove of his chamber, but the memory of Georgette's bewildered expression brought him back to her. Shivering, he climbed beneath the covers and waited for her to join him. When she did climb into bed, he pulled her close with her back against his chest. Nuzzling into her neck, he tried to relax and absorb her sweetness. She did not resist him, but he sensed her sorrow like a barrier between them.

A time to love, and a time to hate; a time of war, and a time of peace.

E
CCLESIASTES
3:8

G
eorgette awakened to darkness, her heart racing. Jean-Maurice thrashed and cried out. His fist struck her arm. Still disoriented from sleep, she struggled to sit up. “Jean-Maurice, you are dreaming. Wake up.”

He emitted a snarl like an animal's. Georgette yelped in fright. Braving the cold, she climbed out of bed and held a taper to the banked coals of last night's fire. Wax dripped on the hearth before the wick caught. Her husband still moaned and gasped for breath. Cupping the flame, Georgette set the candle in a holder and placed it on the bedside table. “Jean-Maurice!” She threw off the coverlet to reveal her husband's quaking frame. His long arms spread wide, fingers grasping at the mattress, he lay on his back shaking his head back and forth, moaning. His hair straggled across his face. Sweat glistened on his brow; his damp nightshirt clung to his chest and gaped at the neck, revealing sinews knotted as if he strained against bindings. The scar on his jawline showed white beneath his beard.

The rush of cold air made his breath catch. His eyelids fluttered. Tears streaked his temples.

“You are suffering a night terror, Jean-Maurice. Relax. You are safe at home.” She touched his clammy forearm, ready to evade another wild swing.

He blinked. “Georgette. You are safe?”

Her jaw quivered with cold. “I am safe, as are you. That was a dreadful dream. You yelled and thrashed and howled. Are you better now?”

“Oui.” His voice was quiet.

“Come and change into a fresh nightshirt, dearest. You are drenched in sweat.” Teeth chattering, she stepped into his dressing room to find a clean garment. When she returned, he sat beside the hearth, stirring up the fire. The slump of his angular shoulders touched her heart. “Jean-Maurice?”

He glanced toward her, running his fingers through his tangled hair. “Thank you, but I shall change in my room. Come and warm yourself beside the fire until I return.” She picked up a woolen shawl, wrapped it around her shoulders, and obeyed. Caramel sat up in his basket, blinking and yawning. After a quick survey of his humans, he tramped circles into his blankets and curled up to sleep once more.

When her husband returned and took the chair opposite hers, Georgette noticed his neatly brushed hair. “Did you wash? The water must have been icy.”

“It was, but I could not subject you to a malodorous husband.” A wry smile touched his lips before his gaze returned to the fire. He wore a fine silk banyan robe over his nightshirt, but his legs and feet were bare like hers. After three months, Georgette still found the informality of marriage intriguing.

Rising, she approached and knelt before him, looking up into his face. “Is it well with you, Jean-Maurice?”

He tugged off her nightcap and rested his cheek atop her head, placing his hands upon her shoulders. “Georgette, I love you so. Forgive me!”

“For loving me?”

“For being unworthy. If anything ever happened to you …” His voice trembled into silence. The grip on her shoulders tightened.

She reached between the lapels of his robe and laid her hand over his pounding heart. “You must learn to trust our Lord with the future. He is the only one with power to save. Remember all we have read together about His redeeming love?”

He gripped her hand with his own and pressed it closer. His chilly skin warmed to her touch. After a long silence, he said quietly,
“Dieu ne peut pas m'aimer.”

Concentrating for a moment, Georgette interpreted “God cannot love me” and felt a shock. How could this be? From the depths of her spirit, she prayed for wisdom. “God loves everyone from the greatest saint to the lowest criminal. He loves you, Jean-Maurice. If I can love you, certainly God does.”

He rose and stepped away to face a dark corner of the chamber, arms folded across his chest. “He knows all about me. You do not.”

Fear of the anguish she had seen in his eyes haunted Georgette. Lady Forester's harsh warning rang in her ears. Had he been seeing other women even after vowing fidelity to her? She spoke calmly despite the pain in her chest. “God knows everyone's secret sins, and He promises to cleanse and forgive. In all our Bible reading, have we yet learned of a man whose sins were too great for God to forgive? Sometimes men refuse to repent; they scorn God's sovereignty and mock His gift of salvation. But that is their choice, not God's. Jesus came to die for all men. He associated with the worst sinners—murderers, thieves, and harlots.”

“Why?”

“Because those people recognized their need of a Savior. They knew their unworthiness to approach God on their own.”

He gave a grunt.

Was it a grunt of assent or of dissent?

Still kneeling before the empty chair, Georgette prayed. Had her words made any sense? She was groggy with sleep, and he was overwrought. She hoped God could use her feeble efforts.

He swung around and faced her. “Come to bed before you fall ill.” She accepted his outstretched hand and let him pull her up. Together they turned the featherbed and climbed into its billowing folds.

Jean-Maurice wrapped his arms around Georgette and gradually relaxed. Soon his deep breathing told her that he slept. An ache deeper than tears settled around her heart.

“Miss Gigi.” Yvonne laid a work-roughened hand on Georgette's shoulder. “You should get outside and take some fresh air. 'Twould do you good.”

Georgette nodded, dragging her gaze from the coals on the kitchen hearth. “Perhaps I shall visit Francine.” She closed the Bible in her lap and sighed.

Yvonne's skirts rustled against the wooden settle. “I should keep my place and mind my business, but I hate the sight of you and monsieur both moping about. Old Yvonne is good at listening to the woes of brides.”

Georgette met Yvonne's sympathetic gaze and tried to smile. Tears sprang to her eyes; she dabbed at them with the corner of her apron. Yvonne sat down next to her. Georgette leaned on the older woman's sturdy shoulder, inhaling her scent of cinnamon and coffee. “Oh Yvonne, I am such a fool.”

Yvonne pressed her wrinkled cheek against Georgette's forehead and rocked gently. “Ma fille, tell Yvonne your folly.”