The Deepest Sigh

by Naomi Musch

  Gwendolyn Smith’s narrow window of time to escape Hugh Phelps is closing fast. Performing in speakeasies and underground clubs has left her mistrustful of most men, but the big fellow she plows into on her flight to the station seems safe enough to attach herself to for short-term protection.

  Friendship unfolds, but Gwen hides behind lies, wishing she might deserve such a God-fearing man as Jacob, and Jacob’s pursuit of a perfect wife conflicts with his mounting concern for Gwen. Meanwhile, Hugh is catching up. For Jacob and Gwen, trapped in their pasts and misconceptions, the time for truth and love is running out.

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  About Naomi Musch

  Naomi writes from the pristine northwoods of Wisconsin, where she and her husband Jeff live as epically as God allows near the families of their five adult children. She enjoys roaming around on the farm, snacking out of the garden, relaxing in her vintage camper, and loving on her passel of grandchildren. Naomi is a member of the American Christian Fiction Writers, the Wisconsin Writers' Association, and the Lake Superior Writers. Her great love is fiction, but she has worked as an editor for a small press, a staff writer for an EPA award-winning newspaper, a ghost writer, and published dozens of magazine and internet articles for the encouragement of homeschooling families and young writers.

  She hopes you found yourself whisked away to northern Wisconsin a century past with Marilla and Lang, and if you loved the book, please consider leaving her a review on Amazon or Goodreads.

  Naomi loves engaging with others and always discovering kernels of a new story. She’d be happy to speak at your event or meet with your group in person or online. Please visit her at naomimusch.com and connect around the web:

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  Mist O’er the Voyageur

  Chapter One

  “The year came when I regretfully took leave of ma petite fille for her instruction with my own sister and with the sisters of the Congregation of Notre-Dame.”

  ~Journal of Etienne Marchal, Voyageur

  Montreal, May 1807

  Brigitte Marchal gripped the handle of her wicker basket tighter, wishing to stall, but the nun beckoned her without looking back.

  “Come along with the basket, Brigitte.” The good nun wended her way between market vendors and traders hawking their wares and bushels of vegetables and baked goods. Rough-edged crates of small squawking and squealing livestock caught at her gown.

  Brigitte ducked her head and hurried behind the nun’s billowing veil and dark robes. Steps later, the nun halted, and Brigitte bumped into her. Sister Agathe turned around, her pale brows arched. “Whatever are you doing? Come walk beside me.”

  Brigitte peeked over the nun’s shoulder, her gaze darting this way and that across the market square. Her heart pounded as she released her breath. Tristan Clarboux had disappeared. Perhaps he’d slipped away on one of the side streets or into a shop. “I am sorry, Sister. I was distracted by…by the flowers.” She glanced at the vendor across the cobbled street.

  “Come along. We must get our eggs and fish before there are none left to be had.” The nun dabbed at her forehead with the sleeve of her habit. “My, but it is warm today.”

  Brigitte stepped to the sister’s side and scoured the square once again. Cher Dieu, do not let him see me. But it was no good. There he was, her unwanted suitor, standing outside the potter’s. His gaze settled on her. She scooted closer to Sister Agathe, crowding her.

  “Did you not hear me say how warm the day has gotten?” Sister Agathe gasped. “Whatever is the matter with you today?”

  “I am sorry. I did not mean to rush you.”

  Tristan stepped before them and inclined his head. “Sister. My dear Brigitte.”

  The nun paused, compelling Brigitte to check her stride, though it would have been impossible to maneuver around the young man blocking their path.

  He reached for Brigitte’s hand and drew it upward. She slid it free before it touched his lips and clasped it around the basket handle.

  The good sister smiled. “Monsieur Clarboux. How good it is to see you. You are faring well and doing your best to stay cool on this sweltering day, I trust?”

  “En fait, mademoiselle.” He nodded at the nun, but his gaze slid toward Brigitte with a gleam that made her chest tighten. She had heard the rumors about his philandering ways, even if the nuns and her aunt had not. His lips stretched into a thin smile. “I hope you have not forgotten my invitation to the masque tomorrow night. You will not let me down, I hope.”

  “My aunt …” She looked to the nun for support.

  Sister Agathe’s eyebrows rose nearly to the hood of her wimple. “There will be chaperons, will there not? Our dear Brigitte must not roam to such parties without supervision, though I am sure her interests are safe with you. “

  Brigitte clamped her mouth shut.

  “Oui. My father and mother will attend, and my sister will ride with us in the carriage.”

  Sister Agathe bobbed her head, sealing Brigitte’s fate. “Very good. We must look out for our dear girl while her aunt is convalescing. That gentlewoman would keep you on your toes, monsieur.” She shook her finger at Tristan. “Do not forget to bring your sister, and I’m sure you will be rewarded by God.”

  “Until tomorrow.” He smiled again at Brigitte, a smile her numb lips could not return. Tristan bowed and sauntered away.

  She pulled her gaze away from his back. “Shall we get the fish, Sister?”

  “Oui. Come. The others will have begun preparing the noonday meal. Our tasks have taken such a long time this morning.” She patted again at the dampness on her brow.

  Now that the threat of meeting Tristan had passed, Brigitte strolled beside Sister Agathe, searching for a way to explain her apprehensions.

  The nun stopped before the fishwife’s stall. “What have you for us?”

  The fishwife chased away the flies over a basket of whitefish. “You will not find fresher among the stalls today.”

  “How much? Keep in mind I have little to spare.” Sister Agatha almost always compelled the marketers to generosity. Brigitte looked away as they haggled over a price.

  Tristan’s father was rich. Were his gifts to the church the reason Sister Agathe assumed Tristan a safe match for Brigitte? Or did she favor him because he was the only man who’d shown an inclination to court Brigitte?

  He had spied Brigitte at mass, and she had avoided his glances. Why did he even pay her any notice when there were so many more beautiful ladies in his class? Yet she had caught his eye somehow.

  A cooling breeze blew through the booths, assailing her nostrils with the scent of fish. Fitting, as now she was caught in Tristan’s net.

  Sister Agathe exchanged an English and a Spanish coin for the fish. Brigitte carried them in her basket while the nun moved on toward the butcher’s stall. Father and son greeted Sister Agathe with a smile.

  Brigitte smiled as well. With all the time she spent caring for Tante Eunice, and coming so often to the convent, how would she ever meet someone else? What other man might offer for her and make her future secure once her aunt passed? The butcher’s son? She curled her nose. He always smelled like a market hog left too long in the sun. Besides, he hardly seemed to know she was alive.

  She adjusted the basket while the nun laid a thick portion of fatty pork inside and folded a stained cloth over it. The nun then directed them to the final stall where she counted out eggs, one by one laying them atop the pork.

  When the farmer turned his back to them, Brigitte summoned her courage. “Sister, I do not wish to seem ungrateful or offensive, but I had so hoped to avoid attending the party. It will be nothing so grand as a real masque, like I have heard about from the ones who
came from France.”

  “Seven … eight …” Sister Agathe paused to look at Brigitte. “I know you worry for your aunt, and you are good to come and help us as well, but you must do the things that young people do. You cannot spend all your time with us old ones.”

  “I do not regret my time spent serving others. It is only that …”

  “Oui? What is it?”

  “It is only Tristan, Monsieur Clarboux …” She glanced about warily, in case his eyes and ears might be close by. “I am unsure of him.”

  The nun chuckled and turned up the street. Brigitte hastened beside her, the full basket in tow. “Do not worry much about it. It is sensible for a young woman to be nervous when a young man decides to court her. I am sure your tante would tell you the same.”

  “I have heard things said of him, that he … that he has enjoyed the company of many young ladies.” There. She’d said it.

  The sister paused. She gave a heavy sigh. “I am certain that most young men enjoy the company of a lady or two before they settle on the one they choose.” Brigitte glanced at the sister’s red face. Beads of sweat speckled her nose. “Nevertheless, you must not miss such an opportunity, Brigitte. You must think of your future.” She huffed as they walked on. “I dread to say it, but you must prepare yourself for your aunt’s departing.”

  “Oui, but I hardly know Monsieur Clarboux or his family.”

  Sister Agathe chuckled. “Then you must attend the party so you will get to know them better. I am sure you will find you like him very much.” She gave Brigitte a wry grin. “He is a very handsome young man, non?”

  He was handsome enough, but should Brigitte trust such outward appearances?

  The nun continued up the street. “Come. Let us return to the convent before the meat spoils. You will wish to return to your aunt’s house with plenty of time to prepare before Monsieur Clarboux’s arrival tomorrow.” Brigitte walked along, lagging half a pace behind the nun, when Sister Agnes added, “You would be foolish—even ungrateful perhaps—not to accept a soupirant such as Tristan. He is not without prospects in his father’s shipping company. He can offer you security. Should he offer for you, then likely it is God’s will that you marry and make a home together.”

  It was no use. If the nun thought him God’s will for Brigitte, how was she to explain the nettling feeling he gave her? If only Papa had returned after Oncle Robert’s death and Tante Eunice had not fallen ill.

  Brigitte had not heard from Papa in three years. He had likely joined Brigitte’s mother in the grave. If he would only return to see her again as he used to, she would have no need to consider Tristan, or any man for that matter. She would return to the Upper Country with Papa. She frowned, refusing to delve further into such a thought.

  Brigitte sighed, wishing she could twist the stifling muslin scarf from her head and let her black braid swing freely. The day was warm indeed for so early in the year, and thoughts of marrying Tristan suffocated her.

  At last, they broke free of the market and found brief spells of shade along the road back to the convent. Eager to return home, Brigitte picked up her pace, moving a step ahead of the nun. As they turned the corner beneath an oak tree, she stopped and clutched the sister’s robe. “Look.”

  A man stood upon the convent’s door stoop. A trapper, or maybe even a courier du bois from the looks of him. Broad-shouldered, dark and burly, wearing a white muslin shirt and buckskin leggings. A ceinture fléchée, or arrow sash, woven in hues of bright red and blue circled his waist.

  He bent over a basket.

  Brigitte’s heart shot into her throat. “He intends to leave le enfant.” She could barely restrain herself from dropping her basket and running to him. She would shake him until his eyes bulged. He must be shameless! Abandoning his responsibility in broad daylight on the nunnery stoop of the Congregation of Notre-Dame.

  Desperate women and battered wretches starving on the streets sometimes abandoned their babies at the convents. Most did not survive, though a lucky few were given a vestige of hope on the doorstep of the Grey Nuns’. Indignation flamed in Brigitte’s breast.

  Sister Agathe touched Brigitte’s arm. “I will speak to him. Come.”

  He did not notice them until they broke free of the shade. When he spotted them, his head jerked upward. Brigitte glared at him as they drew near.

  “Monsieur, may I help—Ah! Monsieur!” Sister Agathe’s firm tone fell away, and delight took its place. Brigitte shot her a look. Sister Agathe beamed and clasped her hands.

  Darkness fell heavier over Brigitte’s soul. This man—this father—would leave his babe to die in the sweltering sunlight, not even bothering to bring the infant inside the convent’s cool walls, yet the good nun would not rebuke him?

  Murder of unwanted infants was most common among mothers in Montreal, but everyone knew it was at their husband’s, father’s, or lover’s behest that it was so. Serving girls, household domestiques, left with little recourse when taken advantage of by their masters, often left their infants to die, or more often, gave them up to the river. Brigitte’s blood steamed.

  Sister Agathe rushed forward and bent to retrieve the child. “You are here once again, and what is this?” She lifted the child from the basket. It mewed like a kitten.

  “I know not. I only discovered the creature a moment ago.”

  “So you say.” Brigitte stepped forward, her chin raised in challenge.

  “Brigitte!”

  She stepped closer, her fists curling around the handle of the fish basket. “The babe could have died in the sun.”

  He picked up the babe’s basket. “Such would have been most unfortunate.”

  Her eyes widened. “You pretend you know nothing of this child you have no doubt fathered. You are without conscience.” She spat at his feet.

  He jumped back, his brow drawing down into a black line. “Espèce d’idiot. I am not the baby’s father. Tell her.” He looked sharply at Sister Agathe.

  “Brigitte, non. Surely not. This is Monsieur Dufour, our friend these many years. You remember.”

  Dufour. She jerked her chin up and studied him.

  “He is a bienfaitreur.”

  A benefactor. She eyed him again. She could not recollect having met the man.

  Sister led them both through the door into the relief of the convent’s cool interior. She held the infant close while Brigitte and the trader followed, carrying the now-empty child basket. He set it on a long, timber frame table, the lone piece of furniture in the wide stone foyer.

  Sister Agathe faced Brigitte. “Perhaps you should see to la bébé. Monsieur Dufour will assist me in taking our goods to the kitchen.” Brigitte avoided looking directly at the trader as he took the basket of fish and produce from her. Sister Agathe handed the newborn to Brigitte. “Once we have tended to the child’s needs, we will deliver it to the care of our Sisters of Charity at the Hôpital Général.”

  Brigitte was more than glad to take the child and get away from the stranger. She’d heard stories aplenty of the traders in the west. Of the voyageurs who transported goods, and the courier du bois who traded illegally apart from the North West Company, making alliances with the natives. The native women they took as wives or simply used.

  Her father had been such a man, yet he had always spoken of Brigitte’s native mother with love. It was so hard to remember her now. Brigitte had been a girl of only seven summers when her mother died. When she was nine, her father took her from her mother’s people, the Ojibwa, to Montreal to be raised by his sister, Tante Eunice and her husband, Robert. They had seen to her education at the convent.

  Brigitte bit her lip as she hurried the child to a whitewashed room. The sparsely furnished room contained a washstand with pitcher and bowl, a chest of linens, and a narrow bed upon which she could change the babe’s swaddling and feed it before it would be taken to the Grey Nunnery.

  Brigitte cooed as she washed and changed the abandoned infant girl. Such little comfort t
here was to offer the tiny soul. She wrapped it in a blanket as her thoughts burned. If the man downstairs had not fathered the child, who had? Some poor man farmer who could not feed another mouth? Or might it be a man who thought the child a nuisance? A rich man, perhaps someone like Tristan Clarboux? She had seen these kinds of things often enough.

  The baby let out a weak cry, and Brigitte nestled it close. “Shh …”

  Brigitte had learned to care for children, to read and work figures, to produce food in the gardens, to cook, and launder—to improve herself as a desirable candidate for marriage. Even so, how could she ever give herself to a man like Tristan Clarboux, whose smile did not reach his eyes and whose nearness felt akin to that of a spider’s? How could she bring children into the world with such a man? Surely she was not wrong to trust such an instinctive feeling about him. No matter what his father could offer in gifts to the church, the notion of belonging to Tristan repelled her. As long as her aunt breathed and the nuns did not encourage his suit further, Brigitte would carry on until someone else offered for her. Or until Papa returned.

  “Brigitte.” Sister Therese spoke in a soft voice as she slipped inside the room. “I will take the child now.”

  Brigitte nodded and handed her the baby, her heart aching for the abandoned whelp. The room smelled sour from the infant’s fouled clothes. Would this child live, or would it die like so many others whose mothers had given up hope of caring for them? Likely it, too, would not take many breaths in this cursed world.

  “Sister.” Brigitte stalled the young nun’s departure. “Do you know anything of the man called Dufour who is downstairs with Sister Agathe?”

  “Monsieur Dufour? Oui.” Sister Therese smiled. “He brings gifts upon occasion. I did not know he had returned.”