Savage Lands by Clare Clark

the warmth of him. When the kiss was over, he raised himself on his elbow to look at her, one hand upon her belly. She smiled up at him dazedly, memorising all over again the flecks of gold in his grey-green eyes. He touched his mouth lightly to her forehead. Then, abruptly, he sat and swung his legs round to the side of the bed. The air was chill against her bare skin as he reached for his breeches, the first smoky breath of winter visible as he sighed and stood.
    ‘I have to go,’ he said.
    ‘Now? But you are only just come home.’
    He shrugged, his back to her as he pulled his shirt over his head.
    ‘I have business at the tavern.’
    ‘Tonight?’ She tried to laugh. ‘They shall surely not expect you tonight?’
    ‘On the contrary, I was supposed to have gone there directly. Now where are my boots?’ Still fumbling with the buttons of his breeches, he leaned over to kiss her briefly on the mouth. ‘Do not wait supper for me. I shall eat there.’
    ‘But I have meat for you. And whortleberries.’
    ‘They’ll keep.’
    ‘Don’t go,’ she pleaded, no longer troubling to conceal her dismay, and she reached up to caress his neck. She felt the twitch of his muscles beneath her fingers as he leaned past her to retrieve his discarded neckcloth. ‘Please. Not tonight.’
    ‘Come now,’ he said, with a wry smile, pulling away from her embrace as he straightened up to arrange the cloth around his neck. ‘For weeks you have been spared the affliction of a stinking husband clogging up the place. You expect me to believe you are not a little bit glum that I am come home?’
    Her eyes flew open.
    ‘How can you be so cruel? I have done nothing but long for your return. Without you I am – I am nothing.’
    His fingers stilled. He looked at her and his smile contracted to a twist that caused her skin to shrivel.
    ‘I am going to the tavern, Elisabeth,’ he said coldly. ‘Not New France.’
    ‘I – forgive me.’ She attempted a smile. ‘I have spent too much time with the other wives. I have learned to be a scold.’
    Jean-Claude shook his head at her, rolling his eyes. Her heart unclenched.
    ‘Then unlearn it forthwith or, God help me, I shall go back up the St Louis this very night and take refuge with the savages.’ He laughed softly through his nose, touching his lips to her forehead. ‘Believe me, a man can suffer no greater misery than a shrewish wife.’

T he first days of November blew in on a flurry of wind and spitting rain. Elisabeth was entirely happy. In the winter the upper reaches of the river froze and the men no longer made their long expeditions north. The winter months were devoted instead to repairs around the settlement, to planning and preparing, to waiting for spring. The cabin was full of him, the scatter of his discarded coat and boots, the greasy smears of breakfast on an abandoned wooden plate, the dent of his head in the moss pillow on their disordered bed. It astounded her, the delight she took in caring for him.
    It was not just Elisabeth who was grateful for winter. The brisker air lifted spirits dulled by months of stifling heat and humidity and brought an end at last to the cursed mosquitoes. The warehouses were adequately stocked and the forest a fine source of firewood. It was generally agreed among the settlers that a little French weather was by no means unwelcome.
    Their sanguinity was short-lived. That winter, the winter that heralded the year of 1709, was the bleakest anyone could remember. Elisabeth’s crowded shelves grew empty. The supplies in the warehouses dwindled. By February they had run out. The commandant despatched an emergency expedition to nearby savage villages but the savages had little to spare and the men returned with less than a quarter of the anticipated rations.
    There was hardly any meat. Rabbits were scarce, deer scarcer. The men shot scrawny squirrels and scoured the shreds of flesh from the bones with their teeth, while the women foraged in