Duty to the Crown
Page 1
Praise for Aimie K. Runyan and
Promised to the Crown
“This gripping debut brings to life the saga of three courageous women from disparate backgrounds starting over in New France. Aimie Runyan deftly guides us through the hardships and rewards of life on the early Canadian frontier. Promised to the Crown is an absorbing adventure with heart.”
—Jennifer Laam, author of The Secret Daughter of the Tsar
“A captivating tale of three courageous women: Rose, Elisabeth, and Nicole, bonded by adversity, friendship, and love. In author Aimie Runyan’s skillful hands, their stories are woven together as seamlessly as were their fascinating lives. Promised to the Crown is an unforgettable saga of strength and sisterhood, one that will stay with you long after the final page.”
—Anne Girard, author of Madame Picasso and Platinum Doll
“In her original and well-written debut, Promised to the Crown, Aimie Runyan evokes the story of three young women who venture from France to Canada in the seventeenth century to marry and start a new life. It is a heart-wrenching and timeless tale of friendship, love, and hope that skillfully blends history and romance to educate, entertain, and inspire.”
—Pam Jenoff, author of The Last Summer at Chelsea Beach
“An engaging, engrossing debut. Runyan’s gift transports you to the distant, frozen landscape of seventeenth-century Canada, but Rose, Elisabeth, and Nicole feel as real as if they live next door. A romantic, compelling adventure.”
—Greer Macallister, USA Today bestselling author of The Magician’s Lie
Please turn the page for more praise for Aimie K. Runyan!
And praise for Duty to the Crown
“Runyan weaves a heartfelt story revealing the little-known history of the brave women who left France for the Canadian provinces to create their own destinies—for better or for worse. Their sisterhood, strengthened by formidable odds they faced, and their boldness in forging new identities in new lands, inspire this novel’s fresh take in historical fiction.”
—Heather Webb, author of Rodin’s Lover
Books by Aimie K. Runyan
PROMISED TO THE CROWN
DUTY TO THE CROWN
Published by Kensington Publishing Corporation
DUTY TO THE CROWN
AIMIE K. RUNYAN
KENSINGTON BOOKS
www.kensingtonbooks.com
All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.
Table of Contents
Praise for Aimie K. Runyan and - Promised to the Crown
Also by
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Epigraph
CHAPTER 1 - Manon
CHAPTER 2 - Claudine
CHAPTER 3 - Gabrielle
CHAPTER 4 - Manon
CHAPTER 5 - Claudine
CHAPTER 6 - Gabrielle
CHAPTER 7 - Manon
CHAPTER 8 - Claudine
CHAPTER 9 - Gabrielle
CHAPTER 10 - Claudine
CHAPTER 11 - Manon
CHAPTER 12 - Claudine
CHAPTER 13 - Manon
CHAPTER 14 - Claudine
CHAPTER 15 - Gabrielle
CHAPTER 16 - Manon
CHAPTER 17 - Claudine
CHAPTER 18 - Gabrielle
CHAPTER 19 - Manon
CHAPTER 20 - Claudine
CHAPTER 21 - Gabrielle
CHAPTER 22 - Manon
CHAPTER 23 - Claudine
CHAPTER 24 - Gabrielle
CHAPTER 25 - Manon
CHAPTER 26 - Gabrielle
CHAPTER 27 - Claudine
CHAPTER 28 - Gabrielle
CHAPTER 29 - Manon
CHAPTER 30 - Claudine
CHAPTER 31 - Gabrielle
CHAPTER 32 - Manon
CHAPTER 33 - Claudine
CHAPTER 34 - Gabrielle
EPILOGUE - Manon
DUTY TO THE CROWN
DISCUSSION QUESTIONS
To the extent that the image or images on the cover of this book depict a person or persons, such person or persons are merely models, and are not intended to portray any character or characters featured in the book.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
KENSINGTON BOOKS are published by
Kensington Publishing Corp.
119 West 40th Street
New York, NY 10018
Copyright © 2016 by Aimie K. Runyan
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.
Kensington and the K logo Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.
eISBN-13: 978-1-4967-0115-2
eISBN-10: 1-4967-0115-1
First Kensington Electronic Edition: November 2016
ISBN: 978-1-4967-0114-5
ISBN-10: 1-4967-0114-3
To Katie Atkin and Maggie Trumbly,
my sisters by birth,
who taught me that loving and squabbling
are not mutually exclusive.
And to Denise Frey and Tammy Runyan,
my sisters by marriage,
who welcomed me into their family
with warmth and graciousness.
I love you all.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
This book would not be in your hands without the contributions of the following wonderful people:
My lovely agent, Melissa Jeglinski, who has been an amazing guide through the publishing world.
My superb editor, John Scognamiglio, and the dedicated staff of Kensington Publishing, who have worked so very hard to make this book a reality.
My brilliant sister, Maggie Trumbly, who pointed me toward some much-needed resources on the native peoples of Canada. Any mistakes are mine, but there would have been many more without her help.
The talented ladies of the BWW: Katie Moretti, Jamie Raintree, Ella Olsen, Gwen Florio, Andrea Catalano, Orly Konig-Lopez, and Theresa Alan. You’re the best cheering section a scribbler like me could ask for. I love you tons.
My tribe, the Tall Poppy Writers: You embody all that is good about this crazy writing world. The same goes for Rocky Mountain Fiction Writers, the Women’s Fiction Writers of America, Pikes Peak Writers, and all the other groups who give writers a place to call home. You’re indispensable.
Abby Polzin, thank you for being my extra eyes. I love you, girl.
And as always, foremost and forever, to my family. The Trumbly and Runyan clans, the whole lot of you, have been so wonderfully supportive. Ciarán and Aria, you never cease to make me laugh. And Allan? You’re simply the bee’s knees.
Only he can understand what a farm is, what a country is, who shall have sacrificed part of himself to his farm or country, fought to save it, struggled to make it beautiful. Only then will the love of farm or country fill his heart.
—Antoine de Saint-Exupéry, Flight to Arras
CHAPTER 1
Manon
May 1677, Outside the Quebec Settlement
Only for her little brother would she venture onto the white man’s land—especially this white man’s land. The air had not yet lost the cruel bite of winter, and Manon longed for the warmth of her longhouse. She had several miles left to trek and medicine to brew before she could rest. Young Tawendeh was ill with fever, along with half the village. Most were not grievously ill, but it was enough for concern. She had seen fever turn from mild to lethal in an hour, so she took no risks. Her remedies
were the best chance for a quick recovery, though she feared few would accept her help until they were too far gone.
The path through the forest was far more arduous than if she skirted its perimeter, but the cover of the trees protected her from view. The scent of pine danced in her nose and perfumed her skin. Manon considered it the smell of her home and her people. She cursed the feeble light of the dusk hour when the towering evergreens blocked much of the weak spring sun. When true night fell, she would be able to track her path by the stars, but only if she could see them free from the overhanging limbs. She did not fear the night or the animals that lived by moonlight. A child of the forest, she knew the most dangerous creatures lived not in trees, but in the growing town to the southeast of her village.
“What have we here?”
Manon froze at the sound of the raspy male voice.
“A bit far from home, aren’t you?” he continued.
She turned, very slowly, not wanting to give the man any reason to strike. Alone in the forest, he would face no consequences if he attacked her.
“Stupid thing,” he drawled. “You don’t understand a word I’m saying, do you?”
“I am just passing through, monsieur,” she spoke softly, but in perfect French. She did not allow the tremor in her heart to reach her voice. She would not let this dirty farmer know she feared him.
“This is my land.” The man, hunched and weary from a day’s labor, straightened to his full height. “You’re trespassing here.”
This is not your land, you foul creature. Nor any man’s. Manon kept the thought to herself; it would only spark his temper.
“I mean no harm, monsieur.” The courtesy tasted bitter on her tongue, but she sensed his considerable self-importance. “I am going home. This is merely the shortest route without cutting through your fields.”
“I don’t care for trespassers,” the man insisted. “What’s in your bag?”
“Nothing of interest, monsieur.” Manon spoke the truth. White men had little use for plants they couldn’t eat.
“Let me see in your bag, you little savage.” The large man’s stench nearly overpowered her as he stepped close and grabbed her wrist, snatching the deerskin pouch with his free hand. “Nothing but weeds. Are you trying to cast some kind of spell, witch?”
“No, monsieur.” She fought harder to swallow back her fear. A whisper of the word witchcraft could see her dangling from the gallows. “I am simply gathering herbs to heal fever.”
The man spat without releasing her wrist. “You were stealing those weeds off my land. I could see you hanged.”
He wasn’t lying. She paused for a brief moment to consider whether she could inflict enough damage on the brute of a man to enable her escape. He took a step closer.
“Don’t be upset,” he said, caressing her cheek with a dirty finger and moving closer still. Close enough that she could smell his rancid, whiskey-laced breath. “You’re too pretty for the hangman’s rope. We might be able to work something out.”
Anger flashed in her eyes. This grimy man spoke as if she were the dirt beneath his feet, and he was going to force her to tell her full identity. Something she’d sworn never to do.
“I don’t think so.” Manon broke his grasp on her wrist and stepped backward. “This land is not yours. It belongs to Seigneur Lefebvre.” She spat his name like a curse. The lord of these lands had once been her protector, but she hated using his name to earn her freedom all the same.
Before she could react, one of the farmer’s massive hands slammed into her cheek, and stars dotted her vision.
“How dare you,” Manon growled. “I know the seigneur. I was known as Manon Lefebvre to your people. The seigneur would not appreciate your behavior toward me. But please, continue, if you wish to lose every inch of your lands.”
Manon saw a shimmer of fear in the farmer’s eyes.
“Likely tale, you brown trollop,” he said, voice wavering. “How do I know you aren’t lying?”
“Madame Lefebvre’s parents live less than a mile from here,” Manon said. “They will vouch for me and my right to be here. I’m sure they’ll welcome the intrusion over a bag of weeds that means nothing to any of you.”
“You’re lying,” the man pressed. “Trying to trick me.”
Her hunter’s instincts forced her heart to slow and her breathing to steady. If he fought, she would defend herself, but killing—or even injuring—a white man would cost her life.
He had to go with her to the Deschamps’ house.
“Monsieur, I speak the truth,” she said, returning to a respectful tone. “The Deschamps can assure you that the seigneur has no objection to my presence here.”
The man hesitated. Anyone might know the landholder’s name, but his wife’s family was not of the first circles.
“Fine, then. Lead the way, if you know it so well.”
She started west, toward the cultivated fields. Her moccasins made a slap-slap-slapping noise on the hardened earth. She moved quickly, but not fast enough to give the farmer cause to think she would run. He trudged along a few paces behind her, breathing labored from the exertion.
Hurry up, you great moose! I need to get home.
Less than ten minutes later, Manon knocked on the door of the small but inviting farmhouse. Though visitors here were scarce, the flickering of the fire and the smell of good food radiated the kind spirit of its mistress.
An old woman answered the door. She no longer stood as straight as she once had, but moved with efficiency. No spark of recognition lit the woman’s eyes as she looked with a furrowed brow at the unknown girl.
“Manon!” The cry came from behind the woman. It was the first time anyone had called her by her French name in ages, and it fell hard on her ears.
Familiar chestnut hair and soft eyes came into view. It had been five years since Manon last saw Nicole Lefebvre, the woman she once considered her mother. The years had been kind to Nicole, leaving only a few lines of experience around her eyes and a bit more fullness to her hips. Nicole dressed in fine fabrics, perfectly cut and tailored, as one would expect from a woman of status, even in her small community.
“Hello” was all she could utter as Nicole took her in her arms. She felt a few decorous tears fall from Nicole’s cheek onto her own as they embraced.
“Look at how you’ve grown, my sweet girl! You’re practically a woman,” Nicole said, then seeing the red handprint on her cheek, she cradled Manon’s face in her hands to inspect the injury. “What’s happened to you?”
“A misunderstanding,” she answered. The red print would soon be a bruise, but would fade in time. Nothing to worry over, especially with Tawendeh’s condition apt to deteriorate the longer she was away. Manon did not say that the Huron people had long considered her a woman. She had learned years before that the French had the luxury of long childhoods.
“Welcome, Manon,” said a commanding voice from the dining area.
Alexandre Lefebvre, her onetime foster father, entered the living area and bowed, very slightly, in her direction. Manon offered him a barely perceptible nod, like a queen acknowledging a stableboy. The farmer shifted his weight from one foot to the other, his considerable size causing the floorboards to creak, calling attention back to himself.
“I am sorry to disturb you,” Manon said, the French language still feeling odd on her tongue. “Your tenant found me gathering herbs in the forest, at the edge of your lands. I assured him that you would not object to my presence, but he preferred to hear it from you directly.”
“The young lady speaks the truth, Rocher,” Alexandre said to the farmer. “She is welcome anywhere on my lands and is not to be harassed, is that understood?”
“Yes, Seigneur,” the man said with a bow. “Forgive the intrusion. Can’t be too careful, you know.” The man cast a spiteful look in Manon’s direction. Yes, because my people are the dangerous ones. You have that much to fear from a woman half your size alone in the woods?
; “Quite,” Alexandre said. “You have other things to attend to, Rocher. Have a pleasant evening.”
The farmer shook his head at the sight of Dame Lefebvre embracing a native girl, and bowed his way from the house.
“I’m sorry to have bothered you,” Manon said, her tone still formal. “I must return home.”
“Nonsense.” Nicole took Manon’s hand and led her to the table where the rest of the family sat. “You’ll stay for supper.”
“I cannot,” Manon said, patting Nicole’s hand. Now that Nicole was Madame Lefebvre, her hand was free of the calluses earned from a hard day’s work. It pained her to refuse the hospitality of the woman who had been so kind to her, but she would not be able to sit still while Tawendeh was ill. “There is a fever in the Huron village. My brother is among the ill. It can become serious so quickly.”
Nicole responded with the quizzical furrow of her brow at the mention of the word brother.
“Adoptive brother,” Manon explained. She was an orphaned only child when she’d first met Nicole some nine years prior. Her aging grandmother had been less and less able to keep track of her young granddaughter, so Manon roamed unchecked. Her favorite thing to do was to wander into the woods and follow the brown-haired French angel who lived in the run-down cabin near the Huron village. She had never spoken to this lovely creature with her foreign clothes and creamy skin, but love-starved Manon could only imagine she was as charming and sweet as she looked. When Manon happened upon Nicole’s husband, gravely injured by a Huron arrow that was meant for a stag, Manon found the angel and dragged her to the dying man. In the end, they were too late. Nicole adopted Manon and they were inseparable for the three years that followed.