by Naomi Musch
“He is a good man, then?”
“Oui. René Dufour is a good man.” She nodded and left with the baby as quietly as she had entered.
Brigitte disposed of the soiled linens then wound her way to the kitchen, where three nuns worked to serve the afternoon pottage. Her step caught at the sight of the trapper seated at the table.
Sister Louisa handed Brigitte a bowl and tilted her head at their guest. “Give this to Monsieur Dufour, s’il vous plaît, before you are on your way.”
Brigitte set the bowl before him. His gaze drew upward and caught hers. She looked away, but not soon enough. His stare found purchase, searing her with its intensity.
“Brigitte, will you take the board and take inventory of the pantry?” Sister Louisa asked as she continued filling wooden bowls. “Your hand is so much neater, and I simply do not have time.”
“Oui.” She turned her attention to the task but felt the occasional glances of Monsieur Dufour as she pulled a slate from the shelf and moved past the table to the pantry. She began scratching out the list of items remaining on the shelves.
He cleared his throat, and her head came up before she could stop herself. “You can write.” His voice was deep, resonant.
“Oui. Naturally. I have been schooled by the sisters.”
“You must be a great help to them.”
The unexpected compliment caused her to miss a letter. She erased her mistake, and, blowing away the dust, re-wrote it legibly. “I try to be. They are good to me, so I come to help from time to time for as long as they allow it.”
“You are not a novice, or planning to become so?”
She had considered becoming a nun when she first began her schooling, but God had placed no such calling on her heart, so she soon gave up the idea. Still, it was no business of the trader’s. “Life is filled with choices.”
He grunted.
She paused and looked at him. “What? Why do you growl?”
Monsieur Dufour set his spoon down. He gave a small grin. “Did I growl? I apologize. You will likely marry then, or take a position?”
“Likely.” She thought of Tristan, and the chalk fell to the floor. She quickly stooped to retrieve it.
“Do I make you nervous, mademoiselle, or merely angry?”
She turned her back and looked again at the shelves. “Neither. I do not even know you.”
“This is true. I am only making conversation. Being polite. You have nothing to be angry or uneasy over concerning me. I swear to you, I know nothing of the child in the basket.”
He sounded genuine. Sincere even. Conviction punished her. Perhaps she had been too quick to judge. Hadn’t she been told often enough that she tended to such? “I beg your apologies, monsieur.”
“It is all right. I, too, was unhappy to see l’enfant abandonné.”
“It happens more frequently than you might suppose, and so often the infants do not survive.”
“Then you are justified in your sadness. And perhaps your anger.” His voice softened.
She turned and glanced at him. His features did not seem so dark as she first imagined. His eyes were soft, his face above the beard weathered by the sun. “You are a friend of the Sisters of Notre Dame. How is that?”
“I was a child in Montreal. My mother—God rest her soul—saw to it that my brother and I were brought up with prayers and Scripture. I am most often away now, making my trade in the upper country, but I come back now and again, every third or fourth year. It is a small thing for me, when I return, to give a gift in memory of the woman who raised me.”
Brigitte nodded. “She would be pleased, I am sure.”
The trader picked up his spoon and finished eating while Brigitte returned to her inventory. She completed her task and stepped out of the pantry as he rose to take his bowl to the waiting tub of wash water. Their paths intersected.
Her gaze lingered on him. A leather wang clubbed dark, thick hair at the back of his head, and a beard covered his face, but his eyes were actually blue and bright, like the colored glass in the chapel windows when the sun broke through. “Forgive me for saying, but you do not look like the traders I usually see in Montreal. The clerks and agents dress much finer …” She dropped her gaze as a flush raced through her. “I am sorry. I should not say such things.”
“It is all right. You are correct. I dress as the voyageurs because I prefer simplicity.”
He puzzled her. Most men, even the boys her age signing up with the company as engagés or apprentice clerks, stuck out their chests and put on airs over their positions with the company. Grand adventurers they thought they were, off to make their fortunes. Most never returned. Those who came back, men like this one, usually wore fine coats and tall beaver hats. If Monsieur Dufour had come to the door dressed better, perhaps she would not have been so hasty in her conclusions.
Such thoughts! Did not the wealthy and privileged abandon their children as easily as the poor? She had seen it so.
She relaxed her shoulders. “My father is a voyageur. He brought me here from the lake country.”
“Away from your mother?”
“She is dead, though I lived with her people for a while.”
“Which people?”
“Ojibwa.” She pressed her hands to the side of her dress. “His name is Marchal.” She bit the corner of her lip and watched for his response.
His glance flickered, but he said nothing.
“You do not know him?”
“I am sorry. I do not.”
Brigitte hugged her waist. “I am afraid, sometimes, that he is dead or has forgotten me. It’s been a long time since last he came to Montreal.”
“It is a hard life.” He sighed. “The journey is long and tiresome.”
The journey to Montreal she remembered as arduous. She and Papa rode in a big canoe for a long, long time with voyageurs who sang and cursed and left a rank smell imprinted on her memory. “Oui. I am fortunate to have been provided care in his absence.”
His gaze scanned her face. Finally, he nodded and moved away to deposit his empty dish into the tub. “If I should ever meet this Marchal, I shall tell him that his daughter is well.”
She dropped her gaze. “Thank you, monsieur.”
“Au revoir, mademoiselle.”
“Au revoir.” She looked up as he departed, and an ache pinched her chest. With his back to her, his shirt and sash made her think again of her father, but she swallowed the reminder away as her gaze lifted to the dark queue of hair that touched the base of his muscular neck. And for some reason, her thoughts flickered to Tristan who made such a pale comparison.
~~~~~
The following evening, the sun hovered over the housetops to the west, yet Brigitte was too busy to enjoy the lingering rays of day’s end. She emptied the slop bucket out the back door and hurried back inside to tidy up her aunt’s small kitchen. She had succumbed to the notion of attending the party with Tristan Clarboux. As much as the idea galled her, it would be best not to concern Tante Eunice right now.
She slipped into her aunt’s bedroom, and the old woman stirred. Brigitte stroked the woman’s cool brow. “Are you awake, Tante?” From a pitcher on a side table, she poured fresh water into a cup.
A thin smile appeared on aunt’s pale lips as she opened her eyes. “You are ready for the party?” She struggled for voice.
Tante Eunice hadn’t noticed that Brigitte still wore her stained work dress. She slipped her hand behind her aunt’s neck and offered a sip of water. “I am getting ready now. Angelique will be here soon to sit with you while I am gone.”
“She’s a good girl.” Her head settled back into her pillow.
Brigitte nodded, but her aunt’s papery eyelids had closed again, and her mouth dropped open in a soft snore.
Brigitte climbed the narrow stairs to her small bedroom and slipped out of her soiled apron and dress. Dipping a cloth in the bowl on her washstand, she wiped the day’s dirt and sweat from her face, neck, and arms,
and whispered a prayer. “Cher Dieu, I do not wish to attend this masque. Please do not let Tante Eunice suffer while I am away. Perhaps I am selfish. My life could be worse.” She remembered the abandoned baby girl. “Cher Dieu, laissez vivre l’enfant.” She set aside the cloth and crossed herself. “I will call her Renèe,” she whispered. One day, should Monsieur Dufour return, she would tell him of his namesake.
She donned and buttoned her clean dress. She would not likely see the trader again when or if he returned. He himself had told her that he only came to Montreal once every several years, just as Papa had done. Look how Papa had disappeared. By the time Monsieur Dufour next visited the nuns, she would likely be married and raising her own family. Only not to Tristan Clarboux. A shiver raced up her arms as she tugged her cuffs straight.
“I pray it is not so,” she whispered.
Click here to continue reading this book.
Click here if you would like to receive future updates on new releases by Naomi.
