As the night had already fallen and most of the soldiers were asleep, Adam was savoring a glass of wine alone, sitting in front of a simple but sturdy desk. In front of him were writing materials and a large book whose pages he had just started to fill.
So far, he had written only about ten pages, but he was quite satisfied with them.
The first page displayed only the title of his work: Beauty and the Beast.
He thought that, at this time, such a story might appeal to people and could even earn him some money. Perhaps, eventually, he could become rich thanks to the sale of his work.
Luckily for him, Disney did not yet exist, because otherwise, he would have found himself facing an army of lawyers. What he intended to write was exactly their story as it was told in the 1991 animated film.
Although it was old, he still considered it a great classic, like The Lion King, Aladdin, Cinderella, Snow White, or Sleeping Beauty. He had no doubts about their success at that time, only about his own ability to convey the beauty of those works through his writing.
However, he was unaware that some of these stories were already known in this latter half of the 18th century. For instance, the story of Cinderella originated from China and had been brought to Europe by an Italian in the 17th century when he wrote it down!
As for Beauty and the Beast, Adam was truly unlucky, as this tale had arrived in France twenty years earlier, written by Madame Gabrielle-Suzanne de Villeneuve, and had been published again in a new version in 1756-1757 by Madame Jeanne-Marie Leprince de Beaumont.
His work, unless he managed to distinguish himself from an experienced novelist like Madame Leprince de Beaumont, was doomed to failure.
Knock, knock, knock.
Adam raised an eyebrow in surprise when he heard a knock at his door and placed his glass away from his book to avoid any accidents. Slowly, he got up and walked toward the door of his room, lit only by two candles.
"Martin?" Adam said in surprise as he opened the door. "What are you doing here?"
"Sorry to bother you at this late hour, but I need your help. Um, I hope I’m not disturbing you?"
"Not at all," he reassured him immediately before stepping aside. "Come in, please."
"Thank you."
As soon as Martin entered, Adam gently closed the door to avoid waking everyone else on that floor before turning to his friend.
"So? What’s this about?"
"I… I need advice."
"Oh?" Adam replied before suddenly realizing something. "Could it have to do with a certain Englishwoman?"
Despite the dim light, Adam saw his friend blush and look away. He was holding a few sheets of paper in his hands.
"Y-yes. I asked her parents this afternoon for permission to court her."
"Her parents? Why would you do that?" Adam asked in surprise.
"What do you mean, why? Isn’t that normal? After all, she’s their daughter! Anyway, I managed to convince them to let me, even though it wasn’t easy."
Adam raised an eyebrow higher, as, despite having lived long enough to understand this era, many mysteries of what these people considered common sense still eluded him.
"Hmm, okay. And so?"
"And so, even though I got their approval, I still have to win her over. S-so I thought maybe you could help me?"
A wide smile formed on Adam’s lips as he saw his friend’s desperate expression.
Haha, no matter the era, some things never change! How to flirt? Now that I can handle!
"You knocked on the right door! Haha! I’ll help you!"
"T-thank you! I’ve written a poem, and I was wondering if you could give me your opinion."
"A poem?!"
Adam thought it was a joke but quickly realized Martin was very serious.
Holding back laughter so as not to hurt his friend’s feelings, he agreed to listen.
"Ahem! I’ve called this poem ‘To the Radiance of Your Eyes.’
When dawn is born and bathes the sky in gold,
It’s your radiance that makes the heavens pale.
In your gentle eyes, a solace untold,
A light that forever enchants without fail.
Your perfect features defy the hand of time,
A masterpiece wrought by nature’s own art.
Each smile soothes torments, oh so sublime,
Each glance ignites the darkest of hearts.
O fairest lady, hear my humble sighs,
These words of love, discreet yet sincere.
In your grace alone, my solace lies,
To celebrate you in verses clear.
Grant me the hope of a gentle return,
A single gleam to light my days in turn.
Adam, astonished, couldn’t respond immediately. His smile faded, for although he knew nothing about poetry, he could sense all the passion Martin felt for the young Ryckje van Schaick.
Despite his lack of expertise, he could also see the effort his friend had put into writing those few verses. He wasn’t sure he fully understood it all, but the essential message was clear: it was a declaration of love.
“So? What do you think?” Martin asked nervously, clutching his notes tightly.
“It’s, uh, very pretty.”
“But? It’s no good? Are my rhymes bad? I tried to make it an alexandrine. Maybe it’s too short?”
“No, it’s not that. It’s just…”
A poem? That’s so cheesy! Well, in my time it is. Here, I don’t know if it’ll work.
“Well?” Martin pressed, his tone pleading, as though he were being tortured.
“Look, she’s not French. Even though she’s started learning our language with the Augustines, she might not understand your poem.”
Martin’s eyes widened, only now realizing the issue. His shoulders slumped as though the young woman had already rejected him.
“Hey, it’s too early to give up! You know what? Let’s try to make her a poem in English, alright? I might not be a poet, but at least I can handle English.”
“Thank you, François! You’re the best!”
The two young officers got to work, illuminated by the two candles on the desk. They stayed up late into the night, with Martin only returning to his room a few hours before dawn.
Despite their sleepless night, Adam and Martin rose at their usual hour to attend to their duties as officers.
That morning, Colonel de Bréhant was inspecting his troops.
The third battalion, which included Jean, Jules, Louis, and Charles, was not present in Quebec, having been left under Lieutenant Colonel Lecornu in Portsmouth to defend the territories seized from the British Crown. Meanwhile, Captain de Boishébert was doing his best to secure control of the lands between Acadia and Portsmouth.
This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.
Fortunately, he could count on the support of the Abenaki and Mik’maq, who saw this as an ideal opportunity to expand their territories.
Adam’s company went unnoticed during the ceremony, and his men managed to perform all their drills correctly, much to his relief. Even the soldier Tournier.
Finally, around noon, the moment of truth arrived.
Martin asked Adam to accompany him to the general hospital to lend a hand in case something went wrong. Martin hadn’t been able to sleep since their parting, too anxious about the prospect of failure in front of the young lady who had unknowingly stolen his heart.
The two young men walked to the hospital, their expressions starkly contrasting. While Adam seemed relaxed, as though he were about to watch a performance, Martin looked as if he were marching to a court martial.
He held in one hand his poem and, in the other, a bouquet of wildflowers he had picked just moments before.
Suddenly, Martin froze in his tracks, as if paralyzed.
“What is it? What’s wrong?”
“I-I think it’s her, over there. I-I can’t do it, François.”
Adam followed his friend’s gaze and saw a graceful figure, dressed entirely in white except for her black veil. She seemed to be heading toward a fountain.
“Of course you can! Worst case, she says ‘no.’ It’s not the end of the world!”
“Don’t say that! You’ll jinx me!” Martin cried, spinning sharply toward Adam. “If she refuses, I won’t be able to face her again. I’d be too ashamed!”
“You’re overreacting. Look, if you don’t go, you’ll never know. You’re not seriously going to chicken out at the last second after we spent all night working on that damn poem, are you?”
Martin, feeling more tense than a drawn bowstring and chilled to the bone despite the mild air, was even clenching his teeth.
“F-fine. I-I’ll go.”
Taking a deep breath, Martin stepped forward, rounding a low stone wall. Adam stayed behind, letting his friend approach Ryckje van Schaick on his own.
His steps, confident at first, quickly grew hesitant as he neared her.
Adam had been in Martin’s shoes a few times before, but the circumstances had been entirely different. Back then, he’d only dealt with twenty-first-century girls.
With them, it had been simple. All he had to do was tell them they were beautiful and that he wanted to get to know them. The girl might accept or decline, but it was never a big deal.
Rejection stung, sure, but it wasn’t a catastrophe. Thanks to his good looks, he could always try again with someone else.
Every success and every failure had given him experience. By the time he’d ended up in this body, he’d already built up quite a lot, despite his youth.
The young Joanna, the girl he had been dating before being accidentally thrown into this era, was just the latest in a long list and meant nothing to him. He’d even forgotten her name.
But here, relationships were taken far more seriously. The fact that Martin had no experience with women at his age really shouldn’t have surprised him.
Adam found the situation more intriguing than amusing, as he wanted to observe how young men of this era attempted to woo someone. They had briefly discussed it the night before—or rather, earlier that morning—but there were still many points Adam didn’t understand.
Not far away, Martin came within earshot of Ryckje, who was busy running errands for the hospital. She also helped elsewhere, but that was where she was most needed. After all, people often fell ill or got injured.
The nuns constantly needed assistance. They lacked not only capable hands but also resources, which they made up for with clever tricks.
“Uh, M-Mademoiselle van Schaick?”
“Hmm?”
The young woman, who had turned eighteen in January, straightened and noticed a young French officer her age. She immediately recognized him as the one she had tried to assassinate, which had led to her current predicament, forced to stay with the Augustinian nuns.
She had also spotted him the previous day near a soldier whose back was lacerated. He had been standing with another officer she had also tried to stab.
She had done everything she could to avoid meeting his gaze and had prayed to be forgotten, yet here he was, standing in front of her with an impressive bouquet of colorful flowers.
Her large doe-like eyes shifted from the bouquet to the young man, slightly taller than her. Despite the shame welling up inside her, she refused to avert her gaze this time.
It was the boy who looked away first, but the young woman’s expression did not soften.
“W-would you spare me a moment of your time?”
“What do you want?” replied the Englishwoman in her imperfect but melodious French, her brows slightly furrowed with irritation.
Martin swallowed hard, trying to calm his nerves and recall everything he had prepared for this encounter. It was both very little and an enormous amount. Everything was jumbled in his mind, making it difficult to form coherent thoughts.
Finally, he abandoned most of his plans and held out a neatly folded piece of paper.
“I-I wanted to… uh… give you this.”
Ryckje didn’t move, her cold gaze fixed on the paper as her brows furrowed further. She set down the heavy jug she was holding, now unbearably heavy since it was full, and crossed her arms over her chest, hidden beneath the thick fabric of her uncomfortable dress.
Her merciless eyes bore into the young officer, who seemed to shrink before her.
“A piece of paper? How generous of you.”
“No, it’s… a poem. For you.”
An awkward silence immediately settled between the two young people. Ryckje scrutinized him, her brows knitting even closer together.
From where he stood, Adam could see his young friend struggling, but it was too early to intervene. This was a decisive moment.
“A poem. For me,” repeated the young woman, her voice growing heavier. “What do you think you’re doing? Who do you think you are, and who do you think I am?”
“Gulp!”
“After everything that’s happened, do you think a piece of paper will change anything?”
Martin instinctively took a step back in the face of Ryckje van Schaick’s pent-up anger. Though she had tried to hide it since her sentencing the previous winter, she hadn’t forgotten. Her anger was still there, very much alive.
Adam tensed, ready to step in.
Damn, this isn’t looking good. Defend yourself, Martin!
At last, Martin stopped retreating and lowered his arm holding the poem.
“I can’t undo what happened, Mademoiselle van Schaick. That’s a fact. I can offer a thousand apologies, a thousand condolences for the loss of your brother, but I know it wouldn’t change anything. If it’s apologies you want, I could spend my life giving them.”
“I don’t want apologies,” Ryckje snapped. “Not from you, not from any Frenchman. You have no idea what I’ve lost!”
“I do,” Martin said softly, as he was familiar with her case.
Unconvinced, Ryckje let out a cold laugh.
“Do you? Have you lost your home? Been separated from your friends? Lost your brother without being able to bury him properly? Been moved to an enemy city and forced to live among them? Watched your closest family grow close to your enemies and been forced to learn their language through beatings? You know nothing because you’re one of the people who took everything from me!”
Her angry gaze pierced Martin like a lance with its tip searingly hot.
“And now you want to give me a poem? As if that would change anything?”
Martin lowered his head, as if finally realizing his mistake. Adam saw it too and let out a deep sigh.
Looks like it’s a failure, Adam thought. Well, it’s not that surprising, I suppose. He really didn’t pick the easiest target. Ah, he should try his luck with a French girl—he’d surely have more success with his innocent face.
To Adam and Ryckje’s surprise, however, Martin didn’t back down and held out the poem again.
“Please, read it. If not, tear it up, but it’s all I have. I’ve poured all my feelings into it, and I swear they’re sincere.”
Ryckje raised an eyebrow, her gaze once again landing on the small piece of paper. She tried to show no weakness, no hesitation, but the young man’s persistence stirred a tiny spark of curiosity within her.
She had long dreamed of having poems dedicated to her back when she lived in Albany, but the young men her age hesitated to approach her, largely due to her father’s status. Few came from families as prominent as hers. As a result, she had been courted very little despite her great beauty.
Finally, with a long, annoyed sigh, she extended her hand and accepted Martin’s poem, nearly snatching it from his grasp.
She unfolded it delicately nonetheless and began reading it silently.
She was surprised once again when she realized it was in English—imperfect, but understandable. The handwriting was beautiful, fine, and without hesitation, suggesting a certain mastery of the pen.
Adam and Martin both noticed a subtle change in the young woman’s gaze as she read the poem a second time. There was still anger in her bright, sparkling eyes, but it was far less intense than it had been just moments earlier.
Martin nervously wiped his hands on the edges of his white coat and tried to calm his poor heart, which was pounding so hard he felt like the whole world could hear it.
When Ryckje finished, she folded the paper slowly, almost methodically.
“It’s lovely,” she said softly, “but it changes nothing.”
Martin felt his heart sink, but then he saw Ryckje van Schaick slip the poem into a fold of her dress. At that sight, his heart instantly filled with joy.
“This poem,” she said a bit harshly, “I’ll keep it, but don’t think I’ll forget the past. I will never forget what you French have taken from me.”
She paused, her eyes suddenly landing on the bouquet he was awkwardly holding in his trembling hands.
“And… these flowers?”
“I… I just wanted to do the right thing. That’s why I brought you these flowers, though they’re nothing compared to your beauty.”
“The right thing? What nerve! And in public, no less! If my father finds out…” she said threateningly.
“I spoke to your parents yesterday and received their approval,” Martin stammered, lowering his eyes to the bouquet. “Without their consent, I would never have dared. Please, accept them.”
Ryckje squinted, scrutinizing Martin with obvious suspicion. Then she lowered her gaze to the large bouquet made of wildflowers from the region. They were beautiful and vibrantly colored.
She bit her lower lip and crossed her arms to hide her unease.
“Y-you’re an idiot, sir. Do you think this will earn my forgiveness? It’s not enough,” she whispered softly through clenched teeth.
“T-then allow me to write to you, miss! I… I’ll write to you every day! No, twice a day!”
“D-do as you please. I don’t care.”
With that, the young woman accepted the bouquet, picked up her pitcher, and turned her back on Martin, who stood frozen like a statue. He stayed that way for a full minute before Adam “woke” him.
“Congratulations! Wow! You nailed it! You really surprised me!”
“I… I don’t know… I can’t think… I can’t even process this, François.”
“Haha! Trust me, this isn’t over yet. She kept your poem, didn’t she? Hehe!”
“But she still hates me.”
“Maybe, or maybe not. It’s far from over. Oh, what a romantic! ‘I’ll write to you every day, no, twice a day!’ Hey, didn’t you see her face? She blushed! Come on! The day isn’t over yet, and we haven’t left! Let’s make the most of it! Back to work!”
Adam threw an arm over his friend’s shoulders and led him into the bustling streets of Quebec.
Well, that was very interesting. Strange, but interesting. I think I’ll have to read a book on poetry now.
Meanwhile, Ryckje van Schaick was reading the poem she’d just received once again. Her cheeks grew warmer and redder as she thought about what had just happened.