He rang a long bell pull next to the fireplace, and a woman appeared who looked like an older relative of Mademoiselle’s, and Tristan said she would show Wachiwi to her rooms. He said that he had arranged for her dinner to be served in her own suite that night, but he would see her in the morning. He didn’t want to sit down to a solitary dinner with a single woman. It didn’t seem right to him, and he had no idea what they would do in future. Perhaps she could eat in the nursery with the children. It wasn’t proper for him to eat with her every night. Without Jean, their situation was more than a little awkward. Wachiwi taking her meals with the children seemed like the only possible solution to him.

The suite of rooms that Tristan had assigned to her, once he knew that his brother wasn’t with her, were a far cry from the slave quarters where his cousin Angélique had put her in New Orleans. She had an enormous sitting room with a view of the ocean, a bedroom with a four-poster canopied bed worthy of a princess, a large bathroom, a dressing room, and a small writing room with an elegant ladies’ desk. Wachiwi had no idea what to do with all the space. And she was so sad that Jean wasn’t with her. If he had been, although she didn’t know it, she would have eventually shared his gigantic suite on the same floor as Tristan’s, but under the circumstances, the marquis had put her in another wing of the château. The nursery where the children lived was just above her, up a single flight of stairs. She could hear them, but didn’t dare go up and risk Mademoiselle’s glacial gaze and stern disapproval.

She wandered around the room, opening drawers and cupboards, in awe of everything she saw, and eventually an enormous silver tray appeared, with meats and vegetables and fruit on it. There was a choice of sauces, a plate with cheese and bread, and a beautifully presented dessert. She cried when she saw it because they were being so kind to her, but all she really wanted here was Jean.

She slept fitfully in the enormous canopied bed, draped in swaths of pink satin, with tassels everywhere, and a wondrous feather bed. She dreamed of the white buffalo again, and didn’t know what it meant. The last time it happened, Jean had died, and she wondered if he was coming back to her now in spirit. She wished he would tell her what to do now. She was lost here without him, and Tristan was equally so about what to do with her. He had visions of her living in the attic of the château until she was an old woman, a legacy left to him by his brother. But what else could he do with her? He couldn’t send her back to America, since she said she couldn’t return to her people. He couldn’t turn her away, or refuse her shelter and care. He couldn’t really keep her there forever, unless he found something useful for her to do, and he had no idea what she was capable of. Probably not much. None of the women he knew would have been capable of surviving on their own, without the protection of their families and men. And Wachiwi was from an entirely different world and knew nothing of theirs. She was totally alone.

In the morning, Wachiwi dressed carefully in one of the dresses Jean had given her. She would have liked to go out to the gardens, but had no idea how to get there, so she walked up the stairs to where she guessed the nursery was instead. And she was right. The children’s voices grew louder as she approached a room just over her own, and she could hear the governess scolding them. She knocked as Jean had taught her to do and opened the door, and there they were. Agathe was sitting on the floor holding a doll and playing a game, and Matthieu was playing with a hoop, which the governess had just told him to put down at once.

Wachiwi smiled at them, and they bounded over to her the moment they saw her. They looked delighted, and she talked to them for a few minutes. She said she wanted to go to the gardens but didn’t know how to get there, and Matthieu instantly begged the governess to let them show her. Looking pained by the whole experience and Wachiwi’s visit, she agreed, and a few minutes later, with coats on, they all ran down the stairs, as Wachiwi followed. It was cold outside, but sunny, and there was a stiff November wind, but running through the maze, across the grass and in between the flower beds, both children stayed warm, and chasing them in their games, so did Wachiwi. She was having a wonderful time with them, and looked like a child herself. None of them noticed when the children’s father appeared and stood to one side watching them. He had never seen his children have so much fun.

Wachiwi noticed him only when she crashed into him, running away from Matthieu. She was startled when she saw him, and out of breath. She apologized profusely and looked embarrassed.

“Don’t let them wear you out!” he warned.

“I love playing with them,” Wachiwi said, breathless from their games, and he could see that she meant it. And with that Mademoiselle used the opportunity to say it was time to wash up before lunch, and spirited them away. “You have wonderful children!” Wachiwi said admiringly. “We’ve had a lovely time together this morning.” She was still smiling as she said it, and sorry they had left.

“How did you sleep?” he asked, looking serious.

“Very well, thank you.” It was one of those standard responses that was one of the first Jean had taught her. But in fact, she hadn’t. She had barely slept at all. “It’s a very comfortable bed.” That was true, but her bad dreams and concerns about her future now made it irrelevant how soft the bed was. And she didn’t want to seem ungrateful to him. She was well aware that what happened to her now was not his problem, and he was being very kind, out of love and respect for his brother and the woman he had wanted to make his wife.

“I’m glad to hear that. I hope you’re warm enough. The house can get a little chilly.” She laughed then.

“So can a tipi.” He looked at her, not sure what to say, and he laughed too. She was so open about everything, and not afraid to be who she was, or say what she thought, without ever being inappropriate or rude. “Your brother said you have wonderful stables.” She was aching to see them, but she didn’t want to push.

“I wouldn’t go that far. I was going to buy some new horses in the spring. We have some good ones. I use them mostly for hunting.” She nodded. “Would you like to see the stables?” He didn’t know what else to suggest to her. He was planning to have lunch with her, to be polite, but the stables would provide a welcome distraction before that. He assumed they had very little in common, and conversation would be pretty thin. His brother must have talked to her about something, or maybe their relationship was all about physical attraction and passion. But he had to admit, the French Jean had taught her was excellent. She made few mistakes, and usually corrected them herself when she did. He had taught her well, and she had had two months of constant practice on the boat. Jean had been very diligent with her about it, preparing her for their arrival in France, into his world.

Wachiwi followed him to the stables, and Tristan saw her face come alive when she entered. She went from stall to stall, checking out his horses, sometimes she went in, and felt their muscles or their legs. She talked to them soothingly in what Tristan assumed was Sioux, and she singled out each of his best horses with a practiced eye.

“You must like to ride,” he said pleasantly, impressed by how at ease she was with them and what she seemed to know.

She laughed at what he said. “Yes, I do. I have five brothers. I used to ride with them, and sometimes they would have me race against their friends.”

“Horse races?” Tristan looked startled. He had never known a woman who raced horses. But Wachiwi knew he had never known a Sioux, although she had been unusual in her tribe too. None of the young girls raced horses against the men, or at all, except Wachiwi. He was guessing that the horses she had ridden had been very tame. “Would you like to go for a ride this afternoon?” he suggested. It would be something for her to do. He was treating her like an honored guest, which she was. She had come all the way from New Orleans to marry his brother, and now she had nothing to do and no reason to be here, and he had even less reason to be with her. If riding would help pass the time while he attempted to entertain her, he was game. Her eyes lit up the minute he suggested it.

“You ride sidesaddle, of course?” he questioned, and she shook her head.

“No, I don’t.” She had seen women riding sidesaddle in New Orleans, but it looked awkward and uncomfortable to her, and like a very insecure and silly way to ride. She had said as much to Jean at the time, and he laughed and told her she would have to learn. It was the only thing he had ever told her that she refused. Riding was sacred to her.

“What do you prefer?” Tristan asked, looking bemused. He couldn’t imagine her riding astride like a man, although perhaps it was a tradition for women to do so among the Sioux.

“No saddle at all. Just bridle and reins.” Jean had told her what they were called. “I’ve ridden that way all my life.” She didn’t mention her little trick of sometimes riding along the side of the horse. Tristan looked startled at what she had suggested, but he was suddenly curious to see what kind of rider she was. “Will anyone see us?” she asked, which shocked him even more.

“Just the grooms and stable boys.”

“May I wear whatever I choose?” He was a little frightened by what she was suggesting, and wanting to be polite to his brother’s almost-bride, he nodded. “I’d like to wear one of my old dresses when I ride. I can’t ride properly in all this.” She looked down at her voluminous skirt, the gloves, the bonnet, the shoes. It was just too much, and impossible for her to ride that way.