Free Calico Captive by Elizabeth George Speare Page A

white stockings, and real leather boots. The girl brought her a comb for her hair, and a soft ribbon to tie it back. When it was all done, she stood back and stared at Miriam with flattering delight.
    "
Mais—vous êtes belle!
" she cried, so generously that Miriam's heart went out to her. She was far from whatever
belle
meant, she knew, even in these good clothes. There was no hiding her bony arms and her brown roughened skin. But the word did her good, nonetheless.
    "Thank you," she said shyly, the first word she had dared to speak.
    "Meeriam?" the girl questioned, giving the word an odd twist. "
Je m'appelle Hortense.
"
    "Hortense," Miriam attempted. "Thank you, Hortense."
    At one corner of the long wooden table they set for her a plate piled high with roasted potatoes and cabbage and some white baked fish. There were thick slices of crusty bread and a pewter mug of yellow milk. No wonder all these women looked so plump and pink-cheeked! Miriam dared not eat half of it. She had learned painfully in the wilderness how unwise it could be to feast on an empty stomach.
    As she ate, the kitchen became a bustle of activity. Evidently the evening meal was about to be served in some other room of the house, and the women had no more time to waste on the newcomer. Left alone at the corner of the table, Miriam watched their quick darting figures, so different from the deliberate motions of the Indian squaws or the sober efficiency of the women at Charlestown. These women seemed to have energy to spare. They got in each others way, and laughed and twitched their skirts and rolled their eyes and kept up a constant chatter. The noise and the high laughter made Miriam feel giddy. The kitchen wavered before her eyes, and she gripped the table edge hard with both hands. Suddenly Hortense noticed.
    "Tch, tch!" she clucked, and slipping a hand under Miriam's elbow, she drew her up from the bench and led her to a sort of ladder in the corner of the room, seizing a candle from the shelf as she passed.
    The loft to which they climbed was far more spacious and well furnished than the one in which Miriam had slept at Number Four. There was a row of plump mattresses on the floor, and to one of these Hortense led her.
    "
C'est à moi
" she explained, and then, on impulse, she bent forward and touched the mattress. "
Le lit,
" she said carefully. "
C'est le lit.
"
    "Lee," repeated Miriam. Then she too bent forward and touched the mat. "In English, it is bed," she told Hortense. "A bed."
    "Baid," repeated Hortense. Her round face wrinkled up with pleasure. Miriam took the stuff of the blue homespun skirt in her hands. "Dress," she said. "Dress."
    "
C'est la robe,
" the French girl answered. "
La robe
— dr-r-ess."
    They grinned at each other with mutual pride. "I'm too sleepy to learn any more tonight. But thank you— oh Hortense, thank you so much!" Hortense nodded. There was no doubt about the meaning of that heartfelt word. Then she put the candle on the floor near the mat and popped down the loft entrance, leaving Miriam alone.
    Relaxing in a real bed again, Miriam's conscience pricked her. Was there something shameless about her? Here she had been sold into slavery. Was it proper to relish enemy food and snuggle into a soft bed like an animal that cared for nothing but its own comfort? What would Susanna have done? The memory of Susanna sent a real shaft of pain through her content.
    Susanna would like Hortense, she assured herself. Hortense cannot possibly be an enemy.
    Her mind was hazy with sleep. She could not concentrate on Susanna far away in the wilderness. In spite of herself her natural optimism had bounced back. Now that it was over, her elastic young spirit shed that time of fear and degradation as easily as she had cast aside the deerskin jacket. There was nothing to fear in this place, and for the first time since the night of the party at Number Four her last thought of the morrow was not of foreboding but of