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The day was broken up by the serving of lunch. There were half a dozen guests for dinner, as René called the ample midday meal: a trader and two British officers with three of their men. René let Mariah serve them. "Pah!" he said as he helped her fill plates with the game stew she had smelled before. "It is not good for Thorn's business if I am in contact with the English; I run them off." |
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"Why?" Mariah asked, arranging filled plates on the tray that rested on one of the tables. |
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"Because they are English," he said, as though it explained everything. |
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"Wasn't the French and Indian War over a few years ago?" What year was it supposed to be here now? The screenplay took place in the mid-1760s, as she recalled. |
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"If that is what you call our war, yes, mademoiselle." He waved a wooden spoon in the air in irritation. |
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"Please call me Mariah," she insisted. "After most wars don't the hostilities cease?" |
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"The fighting, yes, Mariah," he agreed. "But not the ill feelings. I had many a comrade butchered by the English." |
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"And I'd imagine your group did some butchering of its own." |
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He turned a furious expression on her that slowly melted as he considered her words. "There are two sides to everything, are there not?" he replied. "But even though you are right, I do not forgive easily. My country had a right to expand here, to have trade routes, too. Now we are only in the north." |
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"If you feel that badly about it, why don't you go up north to . . . " She hesitated. Was the area called Canada now? "Or just go home to France?" She hefted the tray onto her shoulder and wiggled a bit to arrange its weight. Acting as a serving wench required strong muscles, she decided. |
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At least the work hadn't hurt her hands. Not yet, at least. And they'd seemed fine this morning, despite last night's grabbing of sharp tree bark. |
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"This is my home now," he said. "Remaining is my form of still waging war." He put up his stubby fingers at the look |
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