Journey to Victory, page 13
***
The next day Christiane found herself sitting at the kitchen table for breakfast. Then she helped with the bread baking for the day and peeled potatoes for a hearty soup. By noon her hands were trembling and her back ached. Noticing her fatigue, Mrs. Hardy told her to lie down after the midday meal. After the nap, Christiane was roused again to help with the preparation of supper. As soon as she was dismissed after the final meal of the day, Christiane fell into a deep sleep.
Several hours after the kitchen had become silent Christiane began to toss in her sleep. Soon her soft moans crested into screams, “Jakob! Jakob!”
Strong hands clutched her upper arms and a violent shaking awoke her. Christiane looked up, still half in her dream. A vision of ugliness—a face with only a misshapen space for a nose and a twisted upper lip, loomed above her. Christiane screamed again.
The shaking started again. “I came out because I thought you needed help. Don’t look at me like that!”
“Emma,” Christiane gasped, “I didn’t know it was you.”
“Aunt told you I am a harelip.”
“Yes, but….I was having a nightmare….” Christiane writhed inside. She hadn’t meant to hurt Emma.
“Shut up. I know what you are thinking. I’m too ugly to live.”
“Emma! You shouldn’t even say such a thing.”
“Why not? People have said it about me. I hate you, Christiane Kruger. I hate you and your pretty face. I’ll get even someday. Someday.” The words were bitter and resentful.
“Emma,” Christiane whispered, but the young woman had already stomped back to her tiny room. The emotional confrontation completely unsettled Christiane. She lay for a long while staring into the waning flames. The dream had been of her Jakob, but the bitterness of Emma’s words distressed her more. Jakob was dead, past help or hurt, but Emma was alive, so young and bitterly angry. Christiane felt old and sad.
***
In the days and nights that followed there were three constants: Mrs. Hardy, the jovial, strict taskmaster; Emma, the surreptitious tormentor; and the nightmares. Mrs. Hardy was not harsh, but she was a tireless worker herself and expected others to keep up with her. Christiane understood well that most all the patients in the nearby makeshift hospitals died. She owed Mrs. Hardy her life and she knew it.
Emma troubled Christiane. Christiane pitied and resented her at the same time. Having to live with such a deformity as Emma’s was a cross to bear. But it was hard to feel compassion for a person when she pinched you in the same spot three days in a row.
The nightmares were the final blow to her peace of mind. Though exhausted, she dreaded going to bed each night because she never knew which scene would waken her with her own screams—her mother’s murder, her father’s death, the Indian raid, or the vision of Jakob, lying dead. Her eyes were smudged beneath with dark circles and she rarely smiled.
Tom remained her faithful visitor. Whenever he had a few minutes, he would stop at the kitchen door to pass a word or two with her. Afterwards Mrs. Hardy would wink or chuckle knowingly. Christiane knew what the woman meant and resented it, but she had other, more pressing concerns.
A few times she had thought of asking Tom to travel to the Richardsons’ farm with her to get her son. But the idea of submitting herself to the relentless cold was unthinkable. And she still ached over the Mains’ leaving. Over and over, she rationalized that Tildy was very ill and much better off away. But it still hurt that they had left when she had needed them most. If only Tildy were here to talk to, to cry with.
***
On another afternoon, the three women in the kitchen were making muffins and churning cream into butter. Mrs. Hardy was in a loquacious mood. “Yes,” she said reminiscently, “Emma come to me as just a babe. The mister and me had been married for almost eight years and still no children. Then I got word that a cousin of mine, not far from here, had had a child with a harelip.” She sighed. “And her husband was terrible upset about it. Not knowing what had caused this terrible judgment to come on their house.”
This comment made Christiane squirmed uncomfortably, but she continued carefully spooning batter into muffin tins.
“Anyway,” the woman continued, “we, me and my mister, decided to go and see them. Comfort them you know. They already had five children—all good-looking and bright. But the youngest before Emma was only sixteen months old. My cousin was having a time, doing her work, caring for the children, helping her husband, and here was this baby. The child couldn’t suck and she was having a terrible time feeding her.” Another pause.
“So my mister, he had such a good heart, says to me, why don’t we take the babe home with us and give this woman a chance to get on her feet? My cousin was that glad when we put it to her—so grateful she was. So we brought Emma home and they was to come and get her when things had settled down. But they never came to get her,” she finished spritely.
“And we were glad, too. She, my cousin, had five more children before she was through and here I was happy to have Emma—no matter how she looked. Why, some people told us we were foolish to care for her. They said she would have died if I hadn’t taken such special care of her. And they said it would have been a mercy. But I say no! Not everyone is meant to be beautiful like you, Christiane.”
Christiane was shocked and showed it. Emma, sitting beside her with the churn, made her own statement by kicking Christiane sharply under the table. Christiane jumped and bit her tongue.
“No, not everyone is meant to be a beauty, but we all have our place. Emma has hers here in the kitchen.” Mrs. Hardy smiled at her ward fondly. “My mister has been gone for almost six years now and how lonely I would be without her.” The widow shook her head as she took out another two tins of hot apple muffins from the hearth oven. Their rich cinnamon fragrance filled the kitchen.
There was a knock at the door. Christiane quickly rose to answer it, though her slight limp slowed her. All of them expected to see Tom, so Christiane was surprised when it was a strange soldier in the doorway between the inn and kitchen.
He was tall, unkempt, and was clothed in well-worn buckskins. He stood, leering at her. The open door caused a draft of cold wind which blew through her skirts and chilled her. “Yes?” she asked, her tone tart.
He smiled slyly and continued leering at her. The hair on the back of her neck prickled; she straightened herself almost haughtily under his stare. “Yes?” she repeated stiffly.
At last he spoke, “Girlie, the general’s lady is come and the general, he wants his tea early.”
“Anything further?” she asked, wanting to shut out his unpleasant presence.
“Not this time, darlin’.” He turned and disappeared, probably heading back to his duties.
He was completely and immediately forgotten as the kitchen went into a dither. The three women had known that Mrs. Washington was expected, but had not known exactly when. Mrs. Hardy rose to the occasion and began directing her two minions.
Very soon a large silver tray was complete with the best china tea set and Mrs. Hardy’s delectable apple muffins and fresh creamy butter. The cook inspected the tray one last time and then turned a speculative eye on Christiane. She stood a long moment, cradling her elbow in one hand and her chin in the other. “Christiane, you will serve tea.”
“Me?” Always before Mrs. Hardy or a maid from the house had done the serving. “Me?”
“Why not?” Mrs. Hardy responded. “Let’s just show Lady Washington what kind of house this is. I want Morristown to show off its best.”
Serve the general’s lady and his officers? Christiane had been raised waited upon by servants. Somehow working at a tavern in Rumsveld hadn’t humiliated her, but serving a lady as a maid would be mortification. Christiane began to protest.
Mrs. Hardy cut her off. “Quickly, Christiane, put on a fresh apron and cap. Let me see your hands.” Within a few minutes Christiane was groomed to Mrs. Hardy’s satisfaction and holding the tray.
“But I can’t curtsey,” Christiane blurted out. Her leg muscles were still quite stiff and sore from her wounds.
“They will understand. After all, it was the general himself that put you in my care.”
Christiane could see that there was no way out. She would have to do this. Mentally she braced herself. It had not bothered her to serve ale in Sarah’s tavern, but these people were of quality. To appear before gentle folk as a serving maid caught in her throat. But Mrs. Hardy and Emma would never understand her reluctance, so Christiane straightened her back as Mrs. Hardy placed a shawl around her shoulders. Out she went through the cold breezeway to the back door and into the inn. She shrugged off her shawl into the hands of the waiting innkeeper whom she’d met on a few occasions.
“Where’s Mrs. Hardy?” the innkeeper asked.
“She wants me to serve tea.”
“Oh, good,” the man said, looking relieved. “They all be in there.” Without further conversation, he led Christiane to the door of the parlor. As he opened the door for Christiane, he whispered, “The tea table is by the hearth.”
Christiane took a deep breath. Grandmere had always pronounced that a true lady was never discommoded by any circumstance. Christiane repeated this to herself and then stepped through the door. One by one, the faces turned to look at her, frozen just inside the door.
“Mrs. Kruger.” John Laurens stood up and came to her. “How are you?”
“Much better. Thank you, sir,” she murmured. His friendliness was just what she needed to calm her. “I have brought your tea.”
“Of course. Of course.” He motioned toward the nearby tea table. Christiane moved forward as gracefully as possible and set the heavy tray on the tea table.
Glancing up, she met the clear eyes of Mrs. Washington. The general’s lady was no beauty—small, plump and with gray hair peeking out around the ruffle of her cap. Christiane smiled shyly and began to arrange the tea things.
“My dear girl, I will be happy to pour,” the general’s lady said.
“As you wish, my lady,” Christiane replied softly. She turned to leave and met the general looking down at her. “Do you need anything before I leave, sir?”
“No, Mrs. Kruger, I am just happy to see you up and around.”
A feeling of anger sliced through her, startling her. This was the man who had persuaded her husband to re-enlist for six more weeks. If Jakob had left when his original term was up, he would still be alive. But when she looked up again into that lined face, all the outrage left her. This was the man who could take time to speak politely to a poor woman, who could send a courier to take a letter for her and later see that her wounds were cared for. Then a real sympathy for him poured through her. How could a caring man bear the burden of all the men who fought and died under him?
“Except for a slight stiffness I am very well. Thank you, sir,” Christiane murmured quickly. She wished to thank him for his aid, but she would wait for a more private moment. She nodded, smiled, and let herself out of the room.
Standing just outside the closed door, she overheard Mrs. Washington’s voice, “Mr. Laurens, how did that young woman come to be injured?”
“It is quite a story,” Mr. Laurens began and in brief terms told of Christiane’s injury. “Then she was brought to headquarters and the general arranged for her to be cared for.”
“Oh, I’m so glad, George. What a brave and resourceful, young woman! And so lovely, too.”
Feeling lighter, Christiane limped down the hall and sat on a chair by a window. The transition from the dark, solid kitchen to this sunny hallway brought back memories.
Her phantom grandmere chided, A lady does not eavesdrop.
At least on nothing boring, her mother teased.
Christiane smiled. It was good to remember them as they had been together. Her mother had been dead now for four years. With a twinge of guilt, she wondered how grandmere was or if she were even still living.
Christiane looked up and down the hall, admiring the gray and pink-blossomed wall paper, the gleaming, ornamented tables, and the two portraits that stared down on her. Now she was glad she had been asked to serve the tea. She had learned something that grandmere had never discovered. She now knew that she could serve tea to a lady and still feel like a lady herself.
***
The delightful minutes passed too quickly. Christiane left the sunny window and went back to the parlor door. She caught herself just before she knocked. A competent servant would know instinctively when to enter without knocking. Undecided, she stood there a few more minutes. Then she chose to be adventurous and enter. They were done with tea. As unobtrusively as possible, she crossed to the tea table and quietly began to prepare it to return to the kitchen.
Mrs. Washington interrupted the flow of conversation, “A very fine tea, my dear. Please tell the cook that her muffins are delicious.”
“Thank you, Lady Washington,” Christiane answered softly. She picked up the heavy tray carefully, so that there would be no clatter. There was none. Her confidence was high. Stiffly, she turned toward the door then paused to consider how to go through the closed door without putting down the tray a second time. That pause was her downfall.
Three of the officers leaped up to assist her. Laurens and Hamilton rose so abruptly that they bumped into each other, and in turn into the third, Henry Knox. Knox was pushed off balance and his out-flung arm knocked the tray out of Christiane’s hands. The perfect, translucent china shattered around her feet on the polished oak floor. Christiane cried out in dismay and without thinking knelt to pick up the china. The pain from her stiffened muscles shot through her and she slumped forward in a faint.
***
Christiane moaned in French, “Ma tête,” as she came to herself.
“There, there, my dear,” a soothing voice said. “Your head will be better soon.”
“Grandmere?” Christiane whispered, the quality of the voice taking her back to Versailles. Then she came completely to herself, pushed a damp cloth from her eyes, and tried to sit.
“Don’t try to sit up just yet.”
“Lady Washington?” The lady’s presence came as a shock.
“Yes, I am with you.”
“Where am I?” Christiane surveyed the massive four-poster on which she lay.
“In the general’s quarters. How does your head feel?”
“It feels a bit tender, my lady,” Christiane answered as she tentatively touched the large knot on her elbow. “Please, how did I get here?”
“Lt. Colonel Laurens carried you, upon my instructions. The gentlemen were very sorry about what happened.”
Then the scene in the parlor returned. “It’s quite all right,” Christiane murmured automatically, wondering what Mrs. Hardy would say about the broken china.
“Well, it was an unfortunate occurrence, but really, a lovely young woman such as yourself must be accustomed to such displays of ‘courtesy,’ shall we say?” Before Christiane could respond to this unexpected drollness, Mrs. Washington continued, “You were speaking French?”
Christiane looked up at Mrs. Washington, who was smiling benignly down at her. “Yes, I am from Paris originally.”
“Oh? You don’t speak English with an accent.”
“No, my father was Irish.”
Christiane watched the lady’s expression absorb this. A lady such as Mrs. Washington would recognize that Christiane did not speak with any touch of the Irish and, in fact, spoke the English of an aristocrat. But the lady did not comment any further about Christiane’s speech. She merely took the cloth away from Christiane’s forehead. “It doesn’t seem as though any permanent damage has been done, but you will have a nasty bruise for awhile. You may sit up now, but slowly. I don’t want you to faint again.”
Christiane obeyed carefully. She was still rather stunned to find herself on the general’s bed, being nursed by the general’s lady. Mrs. Washington walked across the room and rummaged through one of her small trunks. She soon returned to Christiane’s side with a small jar. “I have something here that may make you feel better. Every night I want you to put hot, wet cloths on your thigh, then rub this ointment in your wounds deeply and wrap your leg in flannel. Do you have any flannel?”
“No, Lady Washington.”
“Very well. I’ll see that you have some. It takes muscles quite a long time to heal, but this treatment should help them feel better in the meantime. Why don’t we see if you can stand now?” She reached out and helped Christiane descend the two steps beside the high bed and then stand next to the white ruffled bedspread. “How is that?” she asked, still supporting Christiane’s arm.
“Much better, thank you, Lady Washington.”
The two set off for the kitchen. Mrs. Washington swept into the kitchen with Christiane in the rear. “Mrs. Hardy?”
Mrs. Hardy and Emma stood up. “Lady Washington,” the older woman answered. Both she and Emma curtseyed by a table of half-prepared food.
“I am certain that you have heard about Christiane’s mishap in the parlor?”
“Yes, milady, we heard that she fell and hit her head.”
“That is true. But I wanted you to know that her fall and the breaking of the tea set were due to the clumsiness of a few of our officers. Christiane did a lovely job serving tea. I hope she will serve my tea everyday.”
“I am happy to hear that, milady,” the cook answered primly.
“I’ve heard how well you cared for Christiane after her wounding at Princeton and that she owes her life to your careful and expert nursing.”
At this Mrs. Hardy smiled and murmured a polite denial.
“I hope you won’t be offended if I offer a further remedy.”
“Oh, not at all, milady,” Mrs. Hardy replied eagerly.
“I have an ointment of mine here that I think will help reduce the stiffness in her muscles. Her leg will need hot packs first; then the ointment well-rubbed in; finally the thigh will need to be wrapped in flannel.”
