So she sat in the shade and spun, daydreaming about flush toilets and refrigerators. More often than she would have liked, she found her thoughts straying to Nicolas. Monsieur Beaubien, she corrected herself. The way he’d held her when her arm was getting set. The wonder in his eyes as she showed off the relics from the future. His changeable eyes—one minute the soft gray of a kitten’s fur, the next, bleak granite.
His pride in his son; the grief over his lost family; his aspirations for remaking his life in New France.
Why weren’t there any men like him in the twenty-first century? Circumstances shaped character, Lucie decided. He’d been given a hard lot in life and had refused to let it define him. He’d certainly confirmed Lucie’s suspicions that good men existed. If she could only find one in her own time.
But did she want one like him? Or did she just want him?
The day of the dinner party finally arrived. Lucie overheard Soeur Anne talking to a younger nun about the fact that her brother had returned from Gaspésie.
Lucie washed as best she could and asked the young novice Soeur Madeleine for help with her hair. Her dress had stayed pretty clean; bless wool for its stain-resistant properties. Lucie picked some mint from the garden and tucked it into her bodice along the neckline to keep herself pleasantly fragrant and to help keep the odors of others at bay.
Though she was dismayed to find she was noticing smells less and less. Noseblind, she said to herself.
She had joined a gym after college and remembered being overwhelmed by the smell of sweaty bodies and chlorine for the first few days. After a week or so, she stopped noticing it and assumed that the gym had been thoroughly cleaned. But then one day, she met a newcomer on the neighboring treadmill who complained about the room’s reek—and Lucie realized she had become immune to it.
Lucie hated the thought of becoming used to the odors around her in the settlement, but she had to admit it made it easier to eat and generally enjoy life when not continually plagued by seventeenth-century stenches.
Michel came at six o’clock to escort her to the Beaubiens’ house. It was a short walk across the inner fort. Like all the other buildings in the settlement, Beaubien’s house was a piece-sur-piece log cabin. But Michel led her around back before taking her inside.
“See? Here my father is building a grand house,” he said, pointing to a stone foundation more than three times the size of the original cabin. “It will be a home for our family for generations to come.”
They walked back to the front and entered the crowded cabin. It comprised a single room about the size of the monastery’s chapel, with a big hearth on the wall opposite the door. A few small windows lined with parchment blocked most of dying light, but candles stood down the length of the long trestle table that dominated the room. Chairs and benches lined either side, and hay and lavender were strewn liberally on the floor. Nothing matched; Lucie guessed that to have a dinner this size, Beaubien had borrowed table linens, plates, and furniture from most of his guests. What it lacked in elegance, it made up for in cheer.
Beaubien turned from a group of men he’d been talking with. Lucie hoped she wasn’t imagining how his face lit up when he saw her. He came around the table and greeted her with the traditional kisses on either cheek. “Bienvenue, mademoiselle. You are looking very well. I trust your wounds are healing?”
“Yes, thank you. Your sister has taken excellent care of me.”
“I am delighted but not surprised. Anne is a skilled nurse.”
Lucie looked up into Nicolas’s eyes. He smiled down at her. She should really say something instead of staring back and grinning like a fool.
“Your business went well, then?“ she asked.
“Yes. We sailed to Gaspé Bay, where the Saint-Laurent empties into the sea. We bid the ship Godspeed on its journey back to France and made our way back on foot, trading along the way. It was a profitable and productive week. We stopped at Trois-Rivières to deliver a letter for my sister.”
Lucie chuckled inwardly as she thought of her most vivid memory of Trois-Rivières—a roller skating party with cousins at a discotheque-style rink, complete with flashing mirror ball, arcade games, and snack bar.
“You must have been relieved to encounter no more strange women along your route,” she said.
“Who says I did not?” Beaubien’s eyes twinkled. “At any rate, welcome. I’m glad you are here. These ruffians need to be reminded that the beauties of civilization still exist.” He bowed. “I’ll call the group now. I think we’re ready to serve dinner now that you’re here.”
Lucie sat at Beaubien’s right. Michel was at the other end of the table, with Dufour next to him.
Dufour raised his glass. “A toast from our host,” he cried.
A cheer went up as the guests raised their glasses.
Beaubien grinned and raised his as well. “Thanks to you all for your company. Here’s to a prosperous summer and a short winter.”
Another cheer, and then everyone drank deeply. Beaubien sat back and fingered a religious medal he wore around his neck on a leather thong.
“Your patron saint?” Lucie asked.
Beaubien’s eyes grew melancholy. “That of my wife, Marie, God rest her soul.”
“I’m so sorry.” Lucie drank more cider. “Your son told me of your loss.”
“It has been nearly nine years, and yet sometimes ... sometimes I still wake up in the morning expecting her to be at my side. And when she is not ...” Beaubien stared into his goblet. “But enough. I need not burden you with my grief. How do you find our settlement?”
Lucie thought about the past week, how fascinating it had been to see in real life what she had only read about for years. The rhythm of the days, the social interactions. “I confess, I’ve enjoyed it more than I thought I would. It seems a quiet life, but a satisfying one.”
Beaubien raised his glass. “Here’s to satisfaction,” he said.
As they drank, Lucie looked into Beaubien’s eyes. The cider was cool, so why were her cheeks growing so hot?
Dinner lasted for hours. The food was delicious but heavy, especially on such a hot summer night. Thick fish chowder, peppery roasted venison and potatoes, ripe tomme cheeses and crusty wholemeal bread. It was a display of wealth for Beaubien to serve so much rich food. The nuns ate much plainer and lighter fare: roasted trout, fresh-picked dent-de-lion and mâche dressed in vinaigrette, stewed dried apples and cranberries, porridge. Lucie wished for a salad or at least some fruit, but there was none in sight. She thought for the thousandth time about the air-conditioned, bug-free Intermarché near her apartment, with its lavish aisles of fruit and vegetables from around the globe. Once she got home, she’d never look at avocados or bananas the same way again.
The smoke from the fire and the candles thickened the already-humid midsummer air, and Beaubien’s cabin got ever stuffier as the evening progressed. At the other end of the table, Michel had fallen asleep, his forehead pillowed on his arm. Lucie smiled at the sight, then sighed and wished she could do the same.
“Will you excuse me?” she asked Nicolas. “I need some air.”
“Of course. I’ll accompany you.”
Lucie laid her hand on his arm, ignoring the zing under her collarbone as she touched him. “No, thank you. I’ll be fine. Stay with your guests. I’ll be back in a moment.” She arose, made her way around the crowded room, and slipped outside.
The outside air was still humid, but at least it was fresh. She stared up at the stars, remembering an old legend that if you counted nine stars for nine nights in a row, the last star would point toward your future husband. She loosened her lace scarf so that the faint breeze could cool the back of her neck.
The settlement lay quiet, only the outlines of buildings and the stockade visible. There was no denying the primitive beauty of the seventeenth century. The stars were as thick as gravel, and the virgin forest whispered with life just outside the fort walls. Lucie paced around the small yard. How
strange these past days had been. She was grateful Mebkis had gone to his council of elders for help. When would he be back? She worried about her work and her apartment. Her plants were likely dead by now, and her rent was a couple of days past due. Did her colleagues miss her?
The crack of a snapped twig brought Lucie back to the present. She turned, peering through the darkness. “Who’s there?” she called softly, wishing she didn’t sound like a mouse.
Someone stepped forward heavily. Dufour.
“Good evening, monsieur.” Lucie tried to adopt the modest but firm reserve of Soeur Anne.
“There you are,” the man said, his words slurring. “At last, I find myself alone with you.”
The last thing Lucie wanted was to be alone with him. “I was just going back inside,” she said.
“Pray do not hurry away,” Dufour said, stepping forward to close the distance between them. “Do not play the coy mistress. There is no one else present, so kindly drop your maidenly act. You can be honest with me. I know what you really are.”
Lucie had resisted retreating as he advanced, thinking that showing her fright and aversion wouldn’t help. But now he was inches away, his foul breath bathing her face. She stepped back, but he lunged and grabbed her arm.
“You are no lady, it is clear,” he murmured. He was strong; Lucie twisted in his grasp in vain. “But you are a woman, and it has been a long time since I’ve been close to a woman. Play nicely, and I will reward you handsomely.” As he bent toward her, Lucie turned her face away so that his fleshy lips landed just below her ear.
Then he was wrenched backward, still clutching Lucie, so that she stumbled over his legs and landed on her hurt arm. Dufour finally released her, and she rolled away across the grass, squinting through the shadows to see what was going on.
Beaubien had come to her rescue. He and his business partner exchanged several blows. Dufour was bigger, but his bulk slowed him down. Finally, Beaubien broke free of Dufour’s grasp, reared back, and hit the other man in the jaw. Dufour fell to the grass unconscious.
Beaubien turned to Lucie, wiping his bleeding nose with the back of his hand. “Are you all right?”
Lucie nodded, trying not to cry. “Thank you,” she whispered. “He was ... presuming.”
“I could see that. I am so sorry, mademoiselle. Most of the men here count themselves deprived of female attention, but that is no excuse for depraved behavior. I submit to you my deepest apologies.”
“I’m fine,” Lucie said, silently vowing she’d take a self-defense class when she got home. “But I’m tired, and I’d like to go back to the monastery, if you don’t mind.”
“Of course. I shall escort you.” Beaubien drew her unhurt arm through his and walked slowly through the streets. “I had hoped tonight would be a pleasant experience for you.”
“It was, really. Except for Dufour, your friends are gentlemen, and I enjoyed getting to know them.”
“I am glad.”
They fell silent as they made their way to the monastery. At the door, Beaubien bowed. “Again, I apologize for Dufour’s behavior. I’ll see to it that he never bothers you again.”
“Thank you.” Lucie looked at Nicolas’s face, shadowy in the moonlight. “And thank you again for inviting me to dinner.”
Nicolas pressed her hand and took a step closer. “The pleasure is all mine,” he murmured. His gaze dropped to her mouth, and for a breathless moment, Lucie thought he might kiss her. She gasped a little at the way her heart started pounding. How different this was from being close to Dufour. All was still. She leaned toward him and closed her eyes.
Then Nicolas turned away and sighed. “Good night, mademoiselle,” he said gently. He turned and left the monastery’s porch.
Lucie watched him go, embarrassment and disappointment warring for territory in her heart. She’d been a fool; Beaubien was clearly still devoted to the memory of his beloved wife. Lucie had to remember not to get too attached to any of these people. With any luck, she’d be leaving them very soon.
Mebkis and Beaubien joined Lucie and Soeur Anne in the monastery garden the next morning.
Beaubien spoke first. “Mademoiselle, I wanted you to be the first to know that I have canceled my contract with Dufour and strongly advised him to take up residence in Trois-Rivières. He shouldn’t bother you again.”
Lucie felt as if a boulder had just fallen off her back. “Thank you. I hope you have not been inconvenienced.”
“Not at all. A man without honor is not someone with whom I want to do business. We will be better off without him.” He settled back in his chair and gestured to his friend. “Now, Mebkis. Share your news with us.”
Mebkis leaned forward, eagerness enlivening his usually grave features. “I have met with the elders, and I believe there is a way I can help you.”
Lucie stopped the treadle on the nuns’ spinning wheel and stared. “Truly? Oh, Mebkis. That would be a miracle.”
“And like the miracles of your saints, it will take much faith and work. We will need the help of Nicolas as well.”
Lucie looked at Beaubien. “Will you help me?”
Nicolas’s eyes were distant even as he smiled. “Of course. I will contribute however is needed. Tell us more, Mebkis.”
“There is a cave a half day’s journey from here, hidden by the tall waterfall we call Gondawakamigise.”
“I know the place,” said Beaubien. “Champlain named it Montmorency Falls. But I did not know about the cave.”
“It is a mystical place, usually unable to be reached. But at the height of summer, sometimes the water is low enough that one can risk the climb and enter the cave.
“We must go behind the water to the cave and build a fire of birchwood. Each person present must sacrifice an object very dear to them in order to feed the sacred fire. My elders have given me the words that must be spoken and the motions that must be made—all very precise, so I will practice. If we perform each step correctly and our wills are strong enough, the elders say we can open a pathway through time—a door to your home, Lucie.”
Hope flooded through Lucie. “Thank you, Mebkis! When can we go?”
“We must wait another fortnight, at least. The water is usually at its lowest near the end of the month you call July.”
“July twenty-sixth is Sainte-Anne’s Day,” volunteered Soeur Anne. “As the patron of unmarried women, my namesake might grant you your heart’s desire on her feast day. Perhaps that would be an auspicious day for this endeavor.”
Mebkis thought for a moment. “The light of the full moon would favor us on that night,” he said. “We should plan to go then.”
“We must speak of this to no one,” cautioned Soeur Anne. “To anyone else, this would speak of witchery. To the undiscerning, there has ever been a fine line between the miracles of the saints and the craft of witches.”
You don’t know the half of it, thought Lucie, thinking of events in Massachusetts still fifty years in the future. “And you’re sure it will work?”
“Nothing in life is sure, but it should work if we believe it will work,” said Mebkis. “Desire and imagination will be the forces that bring it about.”
“Desire and imagination—we call that combination ‘faith,’” said Soeur Anne. She turned to her brother. “Nicolas, you have said little. What think you of this plan?”
Beaubien shook his head. “I trust Mebkis with my life and more. If Mademoiselle Lucie wants this, I will help all I can.” He looked out across the garden, his face unreadable. “Well,” he said, standing. “I must get back to work.”
Mebkis stood as well. “Mademoiselle, think of the possession most precious to you. That is what you must be willing to sacrifice to the sacred fire. It will be wasted, otherwise.”
Lucie nodded. “I don’t have much, so it shouldn’t be hard to figure out,” she said.
Beaubien walked toward the door but then came back to where Lucie sat. “May I renew my offer to fix your spinning wheel?
It looked to be a fairly simple repair. Michel and I would love the chance to examine its workings. We have three weeks. It could be my parting gift to you—something for you to remember me ... us by.”
“I would like that very much,” said Lucie, her traitorous heart thudding. Why did she let him have this effect on her? “I’ll go fetch it now.”
A moment later, she returned, her leather wheel case in her arms. “Thank you. You’ve done nothing but help me. I’m afraid I’ve been a terrible burden.”
Beaubien took the case and bowed. “Not at all, mademoiselle. Not at all.”
26 July 1640
It was still oppressively hot at four o’clock on the afternoon of Sainte-Anne’s Day, but it was time to go. Standing outside the monastery with the rest of the traveling party, Lucie smoothed the patched breeches she wore. Mebkis had warned that the climb to the falls was treacherous under any circumstances, definitely not to be attempted in a gown and petticoats. Nicolas had given her a set of clothes that Michel had outgrown before they were worn to utter rags. Soeur Anne had contributed a pair of battered riding boots she’d found in the monastery’s storeroom.
Now that her splint was finally off, Lucie had been able to braid her own hair for the first time in weeks. Her long plait was tucked into the back of her shirt, and her gown and twenty-first-century belongings were bundled into a linen knapsack. She carried it and her spinning wheel’s leather case on her shoulders.
She embraced Soeur Anne. “Thank you for everything,” she whispered, sorrow closing her throat.
“I will fast and pray in the chapel until my brother returns,” said Soeur Anne. “Though it pains me to bid you adieu, I know you must be desirous to return home after all this time. I wish you safe journey.” She pressed something into Lucie’s palm. “Keep this as a remembrance,” she urged.
Lucie opened her hand to see an oval medal on a fine ribbon. She held it up and saw that it bore the face of Saint-Anne. Tears spilled freely from her eyes. “I shall never forget you, Soeur.” She put the medallion around her neck.
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