It was deeply moving, standing there. There had been generations of her ancestors that had come later, but it was Wachiwi, the little Sioux girl who had stolen her heart, whose story she loved. The wild girl from the Dakota Sioux had survived being kidnapped, crossed a continent, an ocean, and come to France, found love and stayed, been presented to a king and queen at court, lived through a revolution and defended her home, and had been an important link in a long chain of generations that ultimately connected her to Brigitte, who felt a deep bond to this girl. Standing near Wachiwi’s final resting place, and her husband’s, made Brigitte feel as though she had come full circle in some way, and found her roots at last. She felt a part of this place, and these people, almost as though she knew them, and in many ways, thanks to what she had read about them, she did. She was suddenly deeply grateful to her own mother for leading her on this path, albeit reluctantly at first.

She and Marc stood holding hands in the cemetery, and then slowly, reluctantly, they walked away, past the chapel and the château. He put an arm around her, and they walked back to where they had left his car. It was an unforgettable afternoon. And she felt sad to leave them, and the château, as they drove away.

“Thank you for letting me come here with you,” Marc said quietly as they drove back to the little town. It had been moving for him too. The story had been so intricate until now, so mysterious, like a puzzle they had been trying to solve, and now it was laid out before them like a stained-glass window, all the pieces fit and the light was shining through it. He was proud to have been a part of it, and grateful to have shared it with her.

“I would never have known all I do about her now, if it weren’t for you,” Brigitte said, smiling at him. The court diaries she had found had made a huge difference in her understanding of who Wachiwi was and what had happened to her.

“I think it was destiny that brought us together,” he said with a sigh. He believed that. Stranger things had happened.

“Maybe,” she conceded, but she hadn’t done as much for him, and wished she had. She liked listening to his stories about his book.

“Perhaps it’s your destiny to stay in France too, like Wachiwi,” he said cryptically, and she laughed. He was definitely taken with her, enjoyed her company, and didn’t want her to leave. She had finished everything she had come here to do. And after they got back to Paris, she had to go home.

“I have to look for a job,” she said practically. “In Boston.”

“You can find one here.” He mentioned the American University of Paris again, and conveniently he had a friend there in the admissions office, whom he offered to call on her behalf.

“And then what would I do? I have no apartment, no friends. I have a dozen years of history in Boston.” And boredom, she thought to herself, but didn’t say it.

“You have me,” he said cautiously, but they were both aware that they hardly knew each other. Nothing had happened between them, and maybe never would. She couldn’t move to Paris for a man she liked talking to. That wasn’t enough, and they both knew it. And Brigitte wasn’t an impulsive person. She was sensible, and always had been. “I think you should write the book here, about your Sioux ancestor,” he insisted, but she wasn’t convinced. It was a wonderful story, because it mattered to her, but she wasn’t sure if it would make a book, nor if she could write it. She wasn’t a novelist or a historian, she was an anthropologist. This was different, it was full of the raw emotion she had no experience writing. “It might do you good to spend a year in Paris,” he said, still trying to convince her. “At some point in our lives, we all have to do something crazy that makes no sense but warms our heart.” And he knew that Wachiwi did.

“I don’t like taking risks,” Brigitte said quietly, and he turned to look at her.

“I know. I can see that. Maybe you should.” But it wasn’t his decision to make, it was hers. And hers was to go home to Boston. It felt like the right thing to do.

They had dinner at a different fish restaurant that evening, and spent the night in the little hotel. And on Sunday morning they drove back to Paris. They chatted occasionally on the drive, and part of the way Brigitte fell asleep. Marc looked over at her with a smile. It was nice having her there next to him, dozing peacefully as he drove. He was glad he had gone to Brittany with her. And he was sad thinking that in a few days she’d be gone. He only hoped that the days since he had met her had convinced her to stay.


Chapter 18


  Wachiwi

  1793

The months and years after the onset of the Revolution had been frightening for all of them. Fortunately, they had been in Brittany when the first outbursts of violence had erupted in the streets of Paris. The news that came to them from those who fled was impossible to believe. Versailles invaded by armed ruffians and revolutionaries, the entire royal family arrested and imprisoned, the Palais du Louvre thronged with crowds defacing the exquisite rooms. Noble children murdered, adult royals on the guillotine, heads rolling in the streets, blood in the gutters everywhere. And many of Tristan’s friends and relatives were dead.

They had no idea what had happened to their house in Paris for many months and finally learned that it had been pillaged and looted. Revolutionary soldiers had camped out in it, and then abandoned it again, taking much of value with them. Wachiwi was grateful that they were in Brittany with their children.

Wachiwi was frightened at first and reminded of when she was kidnapped by the Crow. Tristan understood immediately and assured her that no one would ever take her away again.

“I will kill them first,” he promised her with an unfamiliarly murderous look in his eyes. “I will protect you.” And she knew he would. She felt safe with him. He turned the château into a fortress, raised the drawbridge, and transformed their home into an armed camp, with other nobles staying with them. They formed a band of more than fifty resistants staying there. He taught Wachiwi to fire a musket and load a cannon, and she fought at his side on many nights. She was never afraid when she was with him.

It was Wachiwi who saw the flames first the night the revolutionaries set fire to the north wing of the château. Her babies were inside, with Agathe and Matthieu, and the man she loved, as flaming arrows flew over their walls and set fire to the trees, which spread almost instantly to the château, fanned by a fierce wind. And then suddenly the Sioux in her rose up and took control. She took a powerful bow from one of Tristan’s archers and began firing arrows back at them and injured many men, and killed more than a few. She was a Catholic since her marriage, but had no pangs of conscience about what she was doing. She was fighting for their home, and as he watched her, Tristan was proud of her and had never loved her more. She was the only woman fighting beside the men, and she was tireless as she fired muskets, and shot arrows at their attackers.

She was wounded once in the same shoulder that had been injured when she tried to flee from the Crow, but it was only a graze this time too. After that Tristan insisted she stay with her children, but within hours she was back in the fray, alongside him and the other men.

It was an infamous time in France with their countrymen turning on each other and killing their own. The damage to the north wing was considerable, but in time the attacks diminished and the revolutionaries left. The other Chouans went home, the countryside was peaceful again, and Tristan put his efforts into rebuilding the château, grateful that they had lost neither their heads nor their home. He hadn’t been to Paris to observe the damage there. The house was closed, and he had no desire to leave Wachiwi, their three small boys, and his two children. He wondered if they’d ever feel safe again. And he loved her more than ever. He had discovered a fierceness in her as she fought beside him that made him realize again what an extraordinary woman she was, and how much she meant to him, more even than his country or his home. He had been fighting to protect her and their children, more than anything else. And she felt the same way about him. She lived for Tristan and their three sons and her stepchildren, and would have killed anyone who was a threat to them.

“So, Madame la Marquise,” Tristan said as they walked in the sunlight of the gardens that were still partially burned. The stables had been damaged too, and they had lost some horses in the fire. But the revolutionaries had retreated, when they couldn’t take the château. The Chouans in it were too fierce, so they moved on to other locations that were less well defended. Tristan and Wachiwi had saved their home. He looked proud of her as he smiled and sat down on the bench where he had proposed to her, and it showed scars from the fire too. The maze had been destroyed. “It can all be rebuilt,” he said quietly, and Wachiwi knew he would. He loved his home, and hated the revolutionaries and what they did. She had never realized what a brave warrior he was until then. He was a peaceful man, but no one was going to take his home or hurt them. It reminded her of her brothers who were so far away. She still missed them, but her life was here with Tristan and her children. She felt as much French as Sioux now, although the Sioux in her had come out during their battle to defend their home.

“How is your shoulder?” he asked gently, and she smiled back at him.

“It’s fine. You would make a good Sioux warrior,” she said, and he laughed as he put an arm around her as they sat on the bench. “I don’t ride as well as you do.”