“No, sir. I assumed you would, but—” He stopped, thinking better before relaying the comment she had made to him while still in her village.
Lewis eyed him curiously. “If you have something to say, Mr. Lafayette, then do so.”
He might as well prepare the man for the argument. “The lady won’t work for trinkets, sir. She expressed as much to me earlier.”
“I have no intention of giving her baubles. Perhaps a small ax or other tool to make her household tasks easier, or the corn her relation brought with her previously.”
Captain Lewis turned for his quarters, but before doing so he instructed Pierre, “Wait for the mother’s arrival. Then escort her to her daughter.”
“Yes, sir,” he said with much more enthusiasm than he actually felt.
Taking up post at the open gate, Pierre stared across the vast landscape. The Indian villages on the far side of the riverbank were not visible today due to the snow that fell like tufts of cotton from a swirling sky. During the night, the Missouri had iced completely over. For one irrational moment, he thought, What if it never melts? What if I become trapped here? What if I never venture beyond this spot?
If that were the case, he’d accomplish none of his goals. He would never see the great brown bear of the mountains. There would be no claim to fame for helping discover an all-water route to the Pacific Ocean. No land grant of his own on which to stake his claim.
He laughed then at his own absurdity. Spring would come. The Scriptures promised so. “As long as the earth endureth...seed time and harvest...” He then fortified his thoughts with the idea that his time spent with Miss Manette would be just as fleeting.
Sometime later an Indian rider emerged from the haze of white. Crossing the ice with ease, Running Wolf rode to the entrance of the fort. With one deft motion, he deposited his sister gently to the ground, then urged his horse back in the direction from which he had come.
Pierre bowed to her. The older woman did not curtsy but did, however, offer him a generous smile. “Bonjour,” she said proudly.
“And a good day to you, madame. Thank you for coming.” Uncertain of how much French she could actually understand, Pierre cut the pleasantries short. He escorted her to her daughter. Miss Manette was watching his approach from the doorway, eyeing him again with a look of suspicion.
“Your mother, mademoiselle,” he said. “I shall gather the supplies necessary for your task, then return shortly.”
She said nothing to that, but clearly she did not like the idea of working with him any more than he did her. Ushering the older woman inside, she quickly closed the door.
* * *
So he was coming back. He would be the one with whom she must work. Claire sighed. Once again she must endure his staring, his quips about proper society. I would rather be assigned to the captain, she thought, but then again, she trusted him no more than she did Lafayette. After all, he was the one who insisted she stay here at the fort.
She sighed once more, her thoughts at war with one another. Yes, Captain Lewis had been kind in treating Spotted Eagle’s injury, and yes, Mr. Lafayette had spoken on her behalf to bring her mother as a chaperone. Still, a person could be lulled into trust by a kind action or two, only to discover the kindness was just a cover for cruelty and greed.
Was it peace these men actually sought? Is that why they compiled their lists and studied her tribe’s customs? Or did they have something else entirely in mind? Something far more sinister? Were they studying them to learn their weaknesses, to learn how to defeat them?
Lord, protect my people. Protect my mother. Protect me.
Evening Sky scooted closer to the small fire Claire had kindled in the stone ring in the center of the room, but it did little to provide warmth or cheer. The ground was cold and hard, and not nearly as level as that of her own lodge. Carefully she piled buffalo skins and woolen blankets left by the previous occupants of the room, over the older woman.
“Thank you, child, but do not fret,” her mother said.
“I cannot help but fret over you,” Claire replied. “I love you.”
Evening Sky offered her a smile. “And I you...but trust.”
The last word seemed to carry more meaning than just an assurance of her mother’s health, and Claire’s conscience was pricked. When Mr. Lafayette knocked upon the door a few moments later, a crate of supplies in hand, Claire did her best to walk the fine line between cordiality and guardedness, to be shrewd as a serpent but harmless as a dove.
While her mother watched silently from the corner of the room, beadwork in hand, Claire took her place at a rough-hewn desk and began poring over the lists the Frenchmen presented her.
“These are the words Charbonneau and Sacagawea compiled with Mr. Jessaume,” he said. “They say you call yourselves the ‘people of the pheasants.’” He tried to pronounce what had been written. “See-pohs-ka-na—”
“See-pohs-ka-nu-mah-kah-kee,” Claire corrected him.
He struggled to repeat the phrase. “And is Sacagawea ‘of the pheasant people’?”
“No,” Claire explained. “She is of the west. Across the great mountains. She and Otter Woman were captives of war.”
“War seems to be a way of life in this land,” he said.
A land of less than proper society, you mean. “Is it not a way of life in all lands?” she replied. “Those who do not fight for territory or hunting rights fight for gold or covet their neighbor’s possessions.”
She could hear the terseness in her voice and a touch of self-righteousness, too. Again her conscience was pricked. What am I doing? Why do I seek to provoke him? Will it not undermine the purpose for which I have come? Am I not here to foster peace?
She was just about to apologize, but Mr. Lafayette had already moved on. “Captain Lewis also wishes to compile a history of your people,” he said. “Charbonneau has already told us of the early history, how the tribe migrated to this land. He’s told us as well of your relations with neighboring peoples, the wars and the sicknesses that have greatly reduced your numbers.”
“Yes,” Claire acknowledged quietly, her heart squeezing. Her people had been dying for centuries. Dying without the truth. What am I doing to change that?
“What about family life?” he then asked. “Marriage. Children.”
His question touched upon another set of emotions, ones she was determined to keep hidden. She gave Mr. Lafayette only a minimal explanation of marital arrangements. “Marriages are most often arranged by the members of a young woman’s family.” In my case, my uncle. If I do not find a proper husband before the end of spring, Running Wolf will choose one for me. “If a man wishes to accept the prospective bride, he brings her family a gift.”
“Is that part of the formal marriage ceremony?”
“There really isn’t a formal ceremony. At least not in any way to which you would be accustomed. On a certain day, a bride is simply presented to a warrior, and t-they b-begin their life together.” She stammered slightly over that last phrase, unable to keep from wondering just when that certain day would come for her.
“I see,” he said. “And if a man is not pleased with his wife?”
She swallowed back the lump growing in her throat. “A divorce can be easily obtained.” And then he seeks another wife, and if not pleased with her, then another. And even if she does please him, she can be bartered away, or he can take a second wife. She swallowed again. Is this to be my lot in life? Is this to be the continued way of life for the women of my tribe?
There was little regard for the sacredness of marriage here, and certainly no concept of what it was meant to reflect—a partnership,