Page 3 of The Autumn Wife
Nonsense?Saving a life was certainlynotnonsense—she would have thrown herself under that stone. She gave the stranger a side look to see if his expression matched his humble tone, but now he was squinting toward the wooded horizon.
“The boy is safe,” he said with another shrug of those intimidating shoulders. “No need for thanks.”
“You’ve earned my gratitude whether you think it’s necessary or not.” She glared at Etienne, who was nowgrinning, oblivious to the fact that she’d nearly died herself, watching his bloody demise unfoldbefore her eyes. “Allow me to introduce myself. I am Madame Tremblay.”
The man’s head swiveled toward her—clearly surprised at the wordMadame, she suspected, because it marked her as married. Not that this man had shown even a glimmer of crude interest. So far, he’d been gentlemanly, polite. But in a settlement where there were hundreds of frontiersmen for every one Frenchwoman, she opted to be forever wary.
“Theo,” the stranger said with a slight bow of his head. “Theo Martin.”
“Monsieur Martin, it’s our great fortune to have met you.” Since the proprieties had been seen to, she switched to a safer, motherly tone of voice. “The sisters live in this building, so no men are allowed inside, but I must fetch linens and water. I’ll return in a moment to tend to your wounds. Don’t you dare move, Etienne, not an inch.”
Passing by the seated Theo Martin, she breathed in the scent of stone dust and pine sap rising from him before darting through the door into the safety of the convent. Inside the dim vestibule—alone at last—she collapsed against the door and slid down to a crouch.
Squeezing her arms around her midriff, gripped by nausea, she succumbed to all the banked feelings. Reliving the sight of Etienne almost dying made sweat burst upon her brow and her body tremble. She flung her arms around her knees and drew them in so she wouldn’t shatter into a thousand pieces. Up came allthe old fears, too, the nightmare terrors, the seared-in memory of belt-snaps that made her flinch even now.
Sister Anne suddenly swept into the vestibule. “Ah, Madame Tremblay, you’re back. By the saints! Are you sick?”
“No, no.” Cecile released her grip on her knees, forced her back straight, and shoved herself upright on numb, shaking legs. “I…I just stepped outside for a moment. I…I witnessed an accident at the building site.”
“Another?” The sister clattered the rosary beads in her hand. “That would be six times this week. What happened?”
“A stone fell from on high.” She shouldn’t mention Etienne—lest he be blamed—and also because that might affect her plans. “A man swept in to save the…the boy beneath.”
“Heaven’s gates. Thank God for that brave man. How bad are the injuries?”
“Just scratches, I think.” Breathing deeply, she willed herself to focus on what needed to be done. “Would you have some clean linens, Sister Anne? Fresh water? Perhaps some ointment?”
“Yes, yes, we’ve stocked up on such things since the building began.” With a flurry, the sister slipped back into the main schoolroom, saying over her shoulder, “Much obliged, Madame Tremblay, for seeing to the wounded. I dare not send one of our young novices to those wolves.”
By the time the nun returned with a bowl, salve, and linens, Cecile had deep-breathed herself to a hard-earned, somewhat steady calm. She stepped outside to the sight of Etienne shooting question after question at Theo Martin.
“I apologize, sir.” She passed by the laborer and sank onto the bench on the far side of Etienne. “Etienne has many good qualities, but he can be impertinent in his curiosity.”
Etienne’s jaw took on a defiant cast. “Mr. Martin was telling me about the different kinds of stone. He’s a mason.”
Inwardly, she started. That had to be a lie. Masonry was a rare skill in these settlements—anyone who had even an hour of experience would find himself much in demand. If this Theo Martin was a mason, he’d be working as one in Montreal or Quebec and wearing better clothes. Like breeches that weren’t strained to bursting around those massive thighs.
“Iusedto be a mason,” the man corrected in a low, reluctant tone. “But that was a long time ago.”
None of this was her business, so she wet a linen and said, “Lift your arm, Etienne.”
“But once you’re a mason,” Etienne ventured, exposing the scratches that she set to swabbing, “aren’t you a stonemason for life?”
The man paused. Cecile didn’t have to look his way to sense his discomfort.
Etienne, oblivious of the thickening atmosphere, forged ahead, turning to speak to her. “Monsieur Martin was apprenticed at my age. Maybe I can be apprenticed as a mason, too? Then I could work here, at the chapel building site. What do you think?”
She ducked her head, seeking bloody rips in the back of Etienne’s dust-smeared shirt as her heart squeezed. Since she and Etienne had been evicted from their home in Trois-Rivières, Etienne had come up with a dozen ways he could hire himself out. He stated that he was old enough to work and could support them both with his wages. She hated the truth in his words, as well as the idea of Etienne doing hard labor. Despite the thin mustache growing over that mole above his mouth, he would always be a boy in her eyes. A brilliant boy who deserved the education that had formerly—unfairly—been denied to him.
“Don’t fuss with the bindings.” She ignored Etienne’s question as she finished wrapping his forearm. “I’ll check it later.”
Etienne sat up straight. “When we get back to Captain Girard’s house?”
She frowned at his hopeful gleefulness. Etienne didn’t like her plan to come here and ask favors of Mother Superior. He had begged to stay at the Girards’seigneuriewith its endless woods and the captain he worshipped. But that place had been a temporary refuge—they wouldn’t be safe there indefinitely.
Sighing, she stood up and set the bowl of water against her hip. “I still have to talk to Mother Superior, Etienne. You know this is for the best.”
Stepping around him, she approached the so-called mason, sprawled with his eyes closed against the wall of the schoolhouse. Swallowing down nerves, she told herself this stranger couldn’t hurt her, not out in the open like this. But, truly, when would her bones stop rattling at the very hint of a threat? This man was a fearsome sight, with blood caked on his temple and jaw, dampened by beads of sweat. The folds of his shirt molded against his rippling abdomen, and his strong legs went on forever.
