Danielle Steel - Legacy (2010)

“I don’t know. I can’t go back to my people.” She had caused a chief to be killed and she and her people would be blamed for it entirely and punished severely by the Crow if she returned. There was no going back for her. Jean had known that. His brother didn’t.

“Perhaps you can stay for a while until you decide,” he said gently. He could see how devastated she was about his brother, and so was he. He had been prepared to celebrate, and now he would be in mourning for the brother he hadn’t seen in five long years. “Will you come with me?” he asked politely. She nodded and followed. She had nowhere else to go.

Wachiwi left the boat with Jean’s brother. She thanked the captain in the greatly improved French she had learned on the trip. And the marquis handed her into his carriage, and told the captain he would send another shortly for her trunks. Then the impressive carriage took off at a fast clip and left the port, and turned sharply toward the hills. Wachiwi had noticed the beautiful horses and wished that she could ride them. She saw that Jean’s brother was looking at her intently, as though studying her face, trying to discover who she was, and why his brother had loved her. For now, it was all a mystery to him. And then he realized something else.

“Jean never told me your name.” He had a kind face, Wachiwi decided, just like his younger brother. His was softer and not as full of fire and passion as Jean’s, but he had gentle eyes.

“I am called Wachiwi,” she said simply in French.

“You’re Indian, I presume.” There was no judgment in it, just a statement, unlike the people she’d met in New Orleans, who made “Indian” sound like a curse.

“Sioux,” she answered.

“I’ve met two of your great chiefs in our king’s court,” he said as they drove to the château where both brothers had grown up. “Perhaps they were related to you,” he said, trying to be pleasant, and still trying to absorb that the brother he loved was dead, and he had brought an Indian girl back to France. It was a lot to digest all at once. And what would he do with her now? Where would she go? He couldn’t keep her at the château forever. He would have to help her figure out something, but for now she could stay at the château with him and his children. And then Tristan smiled to himself as he looked out the window of the carriage. It was so like Jean to do something like this, to fall madly in love with an Indian girl, which was bound to shock everyone, and then die and leave Tristan to deal with her. He laughed as he thought about it, and smiled as he turned to Wachiwi. There was something totally absurd about it, and totally outrageous. And wonderful in a way too. He was sure that she was a remarkable girl if Jean had loved her enough to want to marry her. He had yet to discover what Jean had loved in her, and she was certainly very pretty. Tristan looked at her with a fatherly air and smiled. “Welcome to France, Wachiwi.”

“Thank you, My Lord,” she said politely, just as Jean had taught her, and then they sat silently together, and rode the rest of the way to the château.

Tristan could easily imagine Jean smiling at them, from wherever he was, or even laughing. Wachiwi, lost in her own thoughts, could feel Jean close to her, and had ever since he died. Even more so now that she was here.

Chapter 13

The drive to the Château de Margerac took longer than Wachiwi expected, since Jean had told her it was on the sea and not far from the port, but even with fast horses pulling the carriage, it took them nearly an hour on the narrow winding road.

The château was enormous and sat on a cliff with a magnificent view of the ocean. The terrain looked rugged, and the château was imposing and had been built in the twelfth century, but what softened its appearance were miles and miles of gardens, filled with brilliantly hued flowers and ancient trees that towered above them. Wachiwi had never seen anything so lovely in her life.

As they approached, Tristan told her some of the history of the family and the house. He said that his family had all been warriors in the early days, which was why the château looked so much like a fortress, and was inaccessible, to protect them from their enemies. It had served them well for centuries. She smiled and said that her ancestors had been warriors too, and the men in her tribe still were. Saying it made her think of her brothers and made her look momentarily sad. Tristan couldn’t help wondering how she had come to be with his brother, and how he had managed to take her from the Sioux. He wondered if Wachiwi had run away with him, which seemed likely.

“You’ll have to tell me sometime how you met my brother,” he said, sounding curious, and she nodded but said nothing. She didn’t want to tell him so soon that his brother had killed a man, because of her.

A footman handed her down from the carriage, and the marquis led her inside the château. There were long dark hallways going in all directions, filled with somber paintings of his ancestors. Some of them looked like him and Jean. There was a great hall in the center filled with hunting trophies and heraldic banners, a gigantic ballroom he had not used since his wife died, and several smaller receiving rooms. And all of it was cold and drafty, and looked daunting to Wachiwi. She wondered what it would have been like to discover all this with Jean, and not his more serious older brother. He was telling her about various ancestors as they walked around. She was confused by most of what he said, and overwhelmed. But she tried to look attentive. He spoke quickly in French, not realizing how recently she had learned.

And then he took her upstairs to an enormous living room with large chairs and many couches that looked like some kind of council room to her. She could imagine the warriors in his family meeting there to plan their raids on other tribes, just as the men in hers sat around the campfire or came to her father’s tipi to discuss similar things. In some ways, their histories and family traditions were not so different. War and hunting. She noticed with interest that there were no buffalo on his walls, mostly deer and antelope and elk. She wondered if they had no buffalo in France, but was too embarrassed to ask him.

A woman in a plain black dress with a lace apron came in and offered to serve them tea. She came back with two other women and a man and a gigantic silver tray almost too heavy to carry, covered with silver teapots and porcelain jars, and plates with small sandwiches and cookies. It all looked very interesting to Wachiwi, and she was starving. She sat down on the chair Tristan indicated, and ate as delicately as she could. It was all new to her still, but Jean had taught her well. He hadn’t wanted her to be embarrassed or feel awkward when she came to France, and thanks to his diligent lessons, she didn’t. The food tasted delicious to her.

She noticed that Tristan was watching her carefully, trying to decide what to make of her, and from time to time Wachiwi glanced out at the view of the ocean. And as she looked at the sea, she thought of Jean’s spirit, which was there now. And as she thought of him, two children walked in, with a tall serious-looking young woman with a pale face. She was wearing a gray dress, and she looked like an unhappy person, even to Wachiwi. She had plain brown hair, gray eyes, and everything about her seemed drab. The children looked like they couldn’t wait to escape her, and referred to her as “Mademoiselle.” They stopped in their tracks when they saw Wachiwi. The little girl looked to be about four years old, and the boy about six. Although they were beautifully dressed and very different, they reminded Wachiwi of the Indian children she had known. They bounded around the room like puppies, leaped at their father, and ogled the cookies on the tea tray, as Mademoiselle attempted unsuccessfully to dampen their spirits and make them sit down. They would for a minute, and then leap up again to laugh and play with their father, who looked delighted to see them.