his hands, planting one long kiss on her neck where it joined her shoulder. “Dress,” he said. “Vite. If we’re lucky, by tonight we raise our tent on our own land.”
Surprised at his self-denial – she’d seen no hint of that before – she hurried inside before he folded the tent down around her, gathered her clothing – refusing her stays – pulling over her shoulders her chemise and undershirt, pulling up her pantaloons and stockings, down her petticoats, then the blouse, the long skirt, the tight little boots with their numerous buttons to be done. She would have left the stays behind on the prairie, but knew Pierre would frown on that, and who knew, she told herself angrily, a Cardinal might show up for tea and I would need my stays. She pushed them into her portmanteau, and carried out the two travelling bags, returning to roll the bedroll, cast about for anything else, and emerged, nodding to Pierre who quickly collapsed the tent. Just so.
“We’ll stop later for breakfast,” he told her, mounting beside her, the goods stowed, the tent spread out over them and tied down. She held the edge on the far side from him and he had come around to tie the knots himself.
“Show me how you did that,” she asked, noticing that his knots would hold, yet would be easy to untie. He demonstrated, but seeing he was growing impatient, said, “Never mind. I will practice and practice.” How extraordinary it was that one needed to know how to tie knots!
Then they were on their way, Sophie still tucking up the last strands of her hair, pinning them in place. His eagerness for their land surpassed hers. She wasn’t sure for what it was she had been so eager, and recognized that she had mostly looked only backward, at what she was escaping.
“Back to the bouncing!” she said, gaily, to evade her own thoughts.
All around them the tan and cream prairie spread, hints of green beginning to show, behind them only the ring of stones and the burnt twigs that had made their fire to show they had passed that way. Low rises mostly too small to be called hills undulated out to the horizon. But wait, wasn’t that…could that be… “Pierre,” she said, her voice low, her hand on his arm. Not a mile away, coming down the passageway between two hills was someone on horseback. Pierre drew Gog and Magog to a halt, his right arm going forward to where his gun stood against the front wall of the wagon box. They waited. The mounted man came forward, broke into two, a woman on a smaller horse behind him, a child riding in front of her. Indians. Sophie forgot to breathe.
Pierre murmured, “They’ll be curious; tea, the storekeeper said.” Sophie knew exactly where the tea was, in the seat below her, where it would be easy to find when they stopped for breakfast. The Indian family drew up, the man close to them, the woman and child on the pony staying well back, the horses motionless. Pierre did not get down from the wagon, nor did he lift his rifle.
“Bon jour,” he called, tipping his hat with the side of his hand. “A beautiful morning.” The Indian, medium-sized, his body the darkest brown and gleaming as if polished, no spare flesh but well-muscled, his face grooved, his hair in braids, said nothing. Pierre went on. “We have a gift for you,” un cadeau he said, and was there not a flicker in the man’s face as if this he understood? But, Sophie remembered, had not the first white men here been French? Pierre put his hand out to Sophie, who reached below to open the tin she had filled the night before so she wouldn’t have to deal with the sack each time she needed it. She took a piece of cheap cotton from her supply, this one about six inches square, scooped tea from the tin into the centre of the cloth, tied it into a bundle. Pierre took it from her hand. The Indian had made a gesture without so much as turning on his mount and now the pony carrying the woman and child was moving slowly forward, past him, until
Surprised at his self-denial – she’d seen no hint of that before – she hurried inside before he folded the tent down around her, gathered her clothing – refusing her stays – pulling over her shoulders her chemise and undershirt, pulling up her pantaloons and stockings, down her petticoats, then the blouse, the long skirt, the tight little boots with their numerous buttons to be done. She would have left the stays behind on the prairie, but knew Pierre would frown on that, and who knew, she told herself angrily, a Cardinal might show up for tea and I would need my stays. She pushed them into her portmanteau, and carried out the two travelling bags, returning to roll the bedroll, cast about for anything else, and emerged, nodding to Pierre who quickly collapsed the tent. Just so.
“We’ll stop later for breakfast,” he told her, mounting beside her, the goods stowed, the tent spread out over them and tied down. She held the edge on the far side from him and he had come around to tie the knots himself.
“Show me how you did that,” she asked, noticing that his knots would hold, yet would be easy to untie. He demonstrated, but seeing he was growing impatient, said, “Never mind. I will practice and practice.” How extraordinary it was that one needed to know how to tie knots!
Then they were on their way, Sophie still tucking up the last strands of her hair, pinning them in place. His eagerness for their land surpassed hers. She wasn’t sure for what it was she had been so eager, and recognized that she had mostly looked only backward, at what she was escaping.
“Back to the bouncing!” she said, gaily, to evade her own thoughts.
All around them the tan and cream prairie spread, hints of green beginning to show, behind them only the ring of stones and the burnt twigs that had made their fire to show they had passed that way. Low rises mostly too small to be called hills undulated out to the horizon. But wait, wasn’t that…could that be… “Pierre,” she said, her voice low, her hand on his arm. Not a mile away, coming down the passageway between two hills was someone on horseback. Pierre drew Gog and Magog to a halt, his right arm going forward to where his gun stood against the front wall of the wagon box. They waited. The mounted man came forward, broke into two, a woman on a smaller horse behind him, a child riding in front of her. Indians. Sophie forgot to breathe.
Pierre murmured, “They’ll be curious; tea, the storekeeper said.” Sophie knew exactly where the tea was, in the seat below her, where it would be easy to find when they stopped for breakfast. The Indian family drew up, the man close to them, the woman and child on the pony staying well back, the horses motionless. Pierre did not get down from the wagon, nor did he lift his rifle.
“Bon jour,” he called, tipping his hat with the side of his hand. “A beautiful morning.” The Indian, medium-sized, his body the darkest brown and gleaming as if polished, no spare flesh but well-muscled, his face grooved, his hair in braids, said nothing. Pierre went on. “We have a gift for you,” un cadeau he said, and was there not a flicker in the man’s face as if this he understood? But, Sophie remembered, had not the first white men here been French? Pierre put his hand out to Sophie, who reached below to open the tin she had filled the night before so she wouldn’t have to deal with the sack each time she needed it. She took a piece of cheap cotton from her supply, this one about six inches square, scooped tea from the tin into the centre of the cloth, tied it into a bundle. Pierre took it from her hand. The Indian had made a gesture without so much as turning on his mount and now the pony carrying the woman and child was moving slowly forward, past him, until
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