Distant Fires (18 page)

The air was punctuated with his silent response. It was an easy nerve to hit, but surprising, given her vow that his culpability never be resurrected or used against him. He suffered to contain his resentment.
 

Housed in their temporary accommodation prior to the construction of a new abode, she arose from the newly-acquired oak four poster from which she had been resting, fully clothed, muttering in irritation, and sat by her dressing table, where she could observe his reflection, as seated in the adjoining common room.  
 

“Tell me,” she pouted, like a pampered child, “where do you plan on stealing off to tonight...a rendezvous with your officers...a  drunken debauch? Or perhaps you simply find greater pleasure in the company of my brother?  
 

He was in no humour for a confrontation. The mere mention of her unbridled extravagances had caused this diversion, and he was clearly determined to stifle the war of words; and with it, an escalation of ill feeling. Ignoring the questions and needling comments, he calmly and methodically continued the polishing of his musket.  
 

The intention had the opposite effect.  
 

“So!”  She snapped, jerking round to face him, loose wisps of fiery red hair, fell like cobwebs about her flushed and indignant face. “Do you choose to answer your regard for me, with this insufferable silence”!  
 

His tacit response to this request not forthcoming, she slammed her silver brush on the vanity table, with a violence, that shook the vials of perfume, pots of rouge, powders and wig pomades set before her, and jumping up, rose to face him.          
 

“Does it not beg an answer?”  She snarled, in sarcasm, “I would venture you regard it as your own affair, and, so it must be. After all, I am merely your wedded wife, the vessel for your unborn child... You deny me the advantages of rank and title, by harnessing me, like a dray horse, to my meagre expenditures.  And when I ask your intentions of the evening, you scorn me with your silence! Am I no more than a servant in your eyes? A base, neglected animal, without dignity or regard?  Shall I tell papa how it is?”  Seeing the cloud across his face with the last remark, she realised she had gone too far, and held back.
 

“Never mind,” she sneered, “choose to be out of my sight...it is of little importance to me!”
 

Hastening her maid, Elise, with a loud yell, from quarters down the hallway, she returned to her dressing table, venting impatience at the overworked girl, as she set to reassemble the
tangled mess upon her head. An imperious wave of her hand, sent the bewildered girl away, and before the door had closed, stood before the full length mirror, admiring the gown that, quite by chance, disguised the thickening waistline; a striking design in loose, pale green damask, elaborately embroidered in roses, and trimmed in lawn, with a matching Monteau, one of several purchased at great cost to her husband, newly arrived on the merchant ship from France.        
 

Silently placing the musket back in its holder on the wall, he moved to the window—a man, accustomed to a position of command, stricken by a sense of personal failure and loss of control, beckoning to be relieved of this female spectre without further injury to either party.  
 

Having exhausted every other effort she raised herself up, and stepped to a place behind him. He felt his back muscles instantly stiffen in discomfort.  Leaning over him, she began to stroke his neck, trailing her fingers over the loose shoulders of his muslin shirt and along the front of his tight fitting vest, exhibiting as much sensual charm as she was capable.
 

“Please, let us not quarrel,” she murmured, pleadingly. “Must you visit Alexandre again, lest I remind you darling” she purred, “he has his own family, and they too, have need of their own...privacy.”                        
 

She pressed her bosom and belly against his back, and he fully understood her purpose, without any stir to action on his part. He had often marvelled at ever having been in possession of
an attraction, the influence of alcohol notwithstanding, so little had she aroused in him. Perhaps, the birth of their child would mellow her, change her spendthrift ways, and out of it would come an awakening of desire. This was his earnest hope.
 

Her hands followed up his arms, plunging into the open neck of his shirt and across the hairs of his chest.  
 

Pressing her lips along the side of his neck, he felt her heavy breath in his ear, and sensed the sickly sweet odour of her perfume, as vagrant fingers inched lower, lower... He closed his eyes, wishing to pretend, wanting to enjoy the sensation without conflict…but, just as surely, something in his unconscious pre-empted his ability, and unable to mask his disinclination, he took hold of her wrists, and gently, but firmly, removed them from his person, drawing himself forward, in a non-threatening but firm resolve.
 

 “Madame, if you must know, Alexandre wishes to confer with me on a subject of business. Would you have me ignore his request, on the basis of our...indulgences? Must I again remind you Sophie, the child...?”
 

This time, the obvious manner of his rejection was not lost on her, and she saw through his feeble attempt at an excuse.
 

 “The child, the child!”  She half-shrieked. “Is it all I am ever to hear. As for Alexandre, you forget that I spoke to Elise this morning and she said he has gone to the capital... So, I see my dear, how it is to be!” She sneered, glowering at him with unabashed resentment. “You dare to ridicule me?  You...you whom are no more than a coward, a violator of women!  You are not a man!  Get you from of my sight!  It is clear to me now, that you would seek any diversion to be rid of me...”
 

He tried to remain calm, but the truth in her venom, the anger at himself, enraged him, so thoroughly, he was tempted to lash out, retaliate, by any means at hand.  
 

Somehow, he was able to subdue his instincts, to call to mind the knowledge she would make good her threat, smear his good name.  
 

Thereto, he had an innocent life to consider. He bit his tongue, staring longingly out the window at his surroundings, wishing to be swept out into the darkness.  
 

 “My dear,” he murmured evenly, choking on the need to placate through terms of endearment. “Don’t lets argue ... Who knows?  Some harm may come of our love making...I beg you... Consider the child...”
 

But this time, she was not to be outdone. “Nonsense”, she hissed quite truthfully, adding in a vengeful tone,
 

 “I would venture that another thought had crossed my mind, could it be that the reason for your many visits to the home of my brother, has less to do with his friendship, than ... For an affair you are having with his snivelling simp of a wife!”  
 

He turned to face her, staring in disbelief, so stark, that it was immediately construed as an admission. This was lower than he could imagine her capable.          
 

 “Ah, now I see why you have not been good to me as a husband ... First you abuse and defiled me, then, once you have convinced me of your love and devotion, I find that, only weeks into the marriage, you have betrayed me. Here, you sink to the depths of depravity with your injurious ways,” she shrieked, “While you dare to reproach and deny me?”  She stopped short, adding cryptically, “How foolish it was of me to suppose any differently... Knowing as we do, about your mother.”  She sneered, sardonically. “Betrayal, they say, is often in the blood...”          
 

The words cut him like a knife. To what did she allude?  Were these merely the ramblings of a crazed and jealous woman, bent on undermining the emotion he felt for those deepest to his heart. His mother was an unimpeachable, angelic human being. To suggest such an allegation was akin to blasphemy. This time, she had gone too far. His face contorted in outrage.        
 

She saw that she had him, and she would not keep him guessing.
 

 “The truth is, my dear husband, mother and I found her in tears one day, reading aloud a love poem, murmuring the name of her ... beloved, while hugging his portrait to her breast.”
 

He didn’t want to hear the rest. It was preposterous.  She was lying.  
 

“Whose portrait?” came the involuntary response?
 

The tears had been replaced by a smirk of self - satisfaction, which crept over her face like a malevolent mask.  She had him shaken.  
 

“Monsieur Leger, Comte Leger,” she answered, very slowly, savouring the moment, “our deceased Intendant...”
 

Ridiculous. He wanted to laugh out loud. Another of her vindictive lies. Why, it was absurd!  Would his mother involve herself in an amoral affair, jeopardize her name and the affections of his father, for a man she had barely known?
 

True, he noticed that during the course of her delirium, she had uttered Monsieur’s’ given name, but he put that down to chance, and the fact his sacrifice had been the greater, in risking all to save his father.
 

If anything, he had found it strange that she had barely spoke of the Intendant in the aftermath of her recovery... But an affair? Preposterous. Unless...  
 

“You are uttering nonsense,” he snapped, mustering as much outward composure as he could.
 

 “Am I,” she countered confidently, rising to her wardrobe, “remember darling,” she began, in an injurious tone, gesturing to her stomach. “I have told no one of the violence with which my virginity was claimed, just as I have kept my tongue on the subject of your mother’s... indiscretion. Even now, such matters would cause a great deal of scandal in...certain circles.”  
 

She played her trump card. Whether true or not, she was not above using any means to gain control. In that moment, he hated her, and pitied their unborn child.  
 

Her voice softened perceptibly, “All I ask is that you provide the...attention I require...and allow me my little...indulgences, these matters will all remain quiet. Is that agreeable to you?”
 

He was powerless. She held the cards. He was forced to fold.
 

…….
 

Days later, the opportunity to undertake this mission had arisen, and he had eagerly sought the temporary escape. Now, deep in Iroquois territory, with three captives in their trust, they were returning once more to the seat of his discontent.
 

He looked around. He had seen and known a number of these men for many years; his title and wealth did not impress them. In action, they treated him with the respect shown any commanding officer, but as they sat about the fire, roasting game, joking, swearing, sharing a flagon of spirits, he was regarded as one of them, and he revelled in the acceptance.  
 

Only one man, that Henri Benoit, held some reserve.  He was a well-built young fellow, with a crooked nose, and a heavy brow, whom Nicholas had taken little notice of until this time. Now, it seemed, whether resting, eating or dealing with the prisoners, the lad, appeared to have his dark, penetrating gaze fixed upon him, an annoying action, which was rapidly becoming disconcerting.
 

Several days elapsed, in which the weather became unseasonably warm and rain took the last traces of ice within the deepest reaches of forest. They made camp near a wooded peninsula, elevated in the form of a crescent, which advanced into the bay to sit out the storms, still, many more days from Montreal. Following their campfire feast of food and drink, most had nodded off with the cessation of rain, but much as he tried to give himself over to sleep, a maelstrom of personal woes, wishes, and indecision assailed Nicholas’ consciousness, and it was some time before he, at last, released himself to oblivion.
 

It seemed like the lapse of seconds, when a sound freed him from a miasma of convoluted thought; a disturbance outside his lean-to, one of several they had erected.
 

“Lautrec, Lautrec...” he shouted, reacting with a flinging off of his coarse blanket, grabbing for his musket, as the first officer loomed into sight.
 

“The prisoner, sir, he...” Nicholas broke from him to the confusion at fireside. A group of groggy-eyed men still feeling the effects of their carousal, muskets held limply by their sides, stood next to the tree, muttering disbelief to one another, while at their feet lay two dead men.
 

His first impression was that the prisoners had been killed, but it quickly became clear that they were his own men.
 

The men moved aside, as Nicholas drew toward them. Before he had a chance to utter a word, Lautrec broke in, trying to compose himself in the face of his discomfiture.
 

“Sir!” He began, breathlessly. “It is my understanding, that though they were under constant surveillance, the prisoners devised a scheme to free themselves. One maintained his silence, while the other did wilfully break with his guards in the act of relieving himself, wrest a knife from his victims, whom he slew, then made off, leaving his unwitting accomplice, behind. The duped mate alerted us to his getaway”.      
 

          Incompetence! He should never have allowed the bastards to drink. Now he had lost two men to an act of carelessness. Precious moments were ticking away …  
 

“Other than the prisoner, did anyone see the direction taken?”  
 

The guil-stricken officer could barely meet the gaze of his superior. “No one sir.”
 

Nicholas could barely contain his anger over this ineptitude, but decisive and immediate measures were called upon if the fugitive were to be captured before dawn; otherwise, the chance was likely he would make good his escape.