When the little boy had appeared on the dock, rubbing his sleepy eyes and dragging a puppy as wide as it was long on a leash, Jeanne saw Simon’s face grow hard. She guessed a refusal was about to follow, if only as a matter of prudence. With a courage that was new to her—for she had grown up in submission—she stood up to authority. She borrowed Thérèse de Bretonville’s favourite tactic and let fly with a barrage of orders in all directions.
“Nicolas, did you thank the captain for his gift? Keep the dog next to you. Gansagonas, show him how to keep the animal quiet if he has to. Come sit beside me, Isabelle. You’ll see the dog tonight. Mathurin, is my medicine bag in the canoe? Good, then we can leave. Goodbye, Captain.”
She slipped into her place in the canoe and waited to see what would happen. Simon turned around and stared at her, open-mouthed. The expression on his face was one of profound amazement.
Then he shrugged his shoulders, raised his paddle and all the canoes glided over the water. Hubert, thinking it was too good to be true, waved to them from the shore.
Jeanne was in the midst of savouring her triumph when her husband turned around again.
“God preserve me,” he grumbled under his breath. “I’ve married a shrew.”
“And I a despot,” the rebel retorted sharply.
Simon took up the task of paddling again, and a few minutes later, Jeanne noticed his shoulders were shaking convulsively. His head thrown back, Monsieur de Rouville was laughing as if he didn’t have a care in the world. She was carried along by his infectious gaiety, and both of them shared the joke for a long time, united by a new friendship.
At the rear of the canoe, Limp, his toothless mouth opened in a wide smile, turned to his right.
Carrot-Top’s canoe was gliding parallel to him, a few feet away. The two coureurs de bois exchanged a meaningful glance. It had been a long time since they had heard monsieur laugh. It would be a good winter.
19
ONE MORNING, after days of travelling and numerous detours, the little boats approached the shore near a small clearing. Simon jumped into water up to his knees, and in one movement he pulled the canoe onto a sandy beach. He lifted up Isabelle at arm’s length and set her on the bank. Then he picked up Jeanne in the same fashion and whirled her around.
She’d never seen her husband so exuberant.
“Here it is. This is my estate,” he announced.
Where? What estate? Jeanne wondered, but she was tactful enough not to show her disappointment. Some estate indeed!
Simon took her by the hand and proudly showed her every inch of it. There was a field as big as the deck of a ship, the blackened ruins of a house and, beside it, a ten-foot-long dwelling made of round logs and lit by a doorway with an animal skin for a door.
“Before, it was just forest,” he said proudly, pointing to the clearing.
But it’s still forest, Jeanne thought, her heart softening. And far from fearing that hostile presence that encircled them, she loved it. Among those reassuring trees she was rediscovering all the joys of her youth.
Simon led her to the burned-out house. “You won’t be afraid to live near these ruins, will you? It’s temporary, you understand.”
“But I spent my entire childhood in ruins like these,” she exclaimed with a laugh.
Seeing her husband’s perplexed expression, she added smartly, “I’ll explain that to you later.”
They still knew nothing about each other, but they had a whole life time to remedy that ignorance.
The sight of his burned house must have brought back painful memories to the lord. His mouth took on a bitter curve and his eyes misted over with sadness.
The Builder’s friends had helped him construct a comfortable home in the middle of the forest for a spoiled girl who would accept nothing less. Simon rolled a piece of charred wood with the toe of his moccasin.
Jeanne felt pity for him, but at the same time a voice inside her cried out, You can see perfectly well that he hasn’t forgotten a thing. He still misses her and he’s searching for her everywhere, even in you.
It is difficult to believe in happiness when you have been deprived of it for so long. Simon and Jeanne often fell back into the insecurity of their past lives.
But they were both people of action. Jeanne turned towards the log cabin. “Is this where we’ll live?”
Simon was a little embarrassed. He thought of Aimée’s whims again.
“Yes. I was hoping to have time to build another house before you arrived, but I wasn’t able to.”
“In New France you don’t refuse very much. Everybody has to do his share,” Carrot-Top had said. And apparently her husband’s share was to build for others.
“Now it’s too late for this winter. We’ll have to live here,” continued Simon. “Do you think you can?”
With an effort he added, “If you prefer, I can have you taken back to Chambly with the children, or even to Ville-Marie. Before now I never realized how crude this shelter was. I’d built it for myself after...when...”
For the first time, Jeanne witnessed her husband at a loss for words. He was nervous, and he studied her anxiously. Surprised, she realized he seemed to be waiting for an outburst, a wave of protestations. Perhaps Aimée had conditioned him to recriminations and tearful scenes.
Faced with the prospect of a winter in that primitive structure, Jeanne couldn’t blame the poor woman, especially if she had been accustomed to an easy, ordered existence. But judging by the size of the ruins and the remains of the chimneys at each end of the blackened rectangle, the house where Rouville had brought his first wife had been quite large and comfortable.
Once again, the king’s daughter was thankful that fate had sent her here, and not the fearful Marie. This country was definitely no place for a lady. However, for an orphan girl brought up by a poacher, it represented an exciting challenge. Monsieur de Rouville would see that his wife’s rustic character had some redeeming factors.
Jeanne turned to the man anxiously watching her and declared, “You’ll be surprised to learn that I haven’t always lived in luxury either. If we must spend the winter here, then it’s high time we start preparing for it.”
With a determined wave of her hand, she brushed aside the fur pelt blocking the doorway. Her firm voice showed she was taking the situation in hand.
“To begin with, we’ll need a suitable door, with a solid beam to barricade it.”
She continued her inspection in the dim light while Simon, leaning against the doorway, watched her with fascinated eyes.
“We’ll need a table here near the hearth and two benches. Shelves here, and there and there. And in this corner”—she kicked at a pile of branches and old pelts—“in this corner, a good solid bed. Later you can give me a feather mattress,” she added without blushing.
Simon slipped behind her, laughing, and put his arms around her waist. His nose against her neck, he murmured, “There’s no doubt about it, I married a shrew. An adorable shrew.”
“Windows. I’d like windows. I need light.”
Her husband looked gloomy. “In New France, windows are hard to come by. I could make an opening, but it would have to be boarded up as soon as it gets cold.”
“I’ll think of something,” promised Jeanne, the incurable optimist. “Can you make a platform at this end with a ladder where the children can sleep, like at the blacksmith’s house at Chambly?”
The young woman went about the cabin, organizing, making plans. She asked, “Where will Gansagonas live?”
“She’ll prefer a shelter next to the house. The Hurons hate living in our houses. And Limp, too, for that matter. He’ll build himself a cabin near the river.”
“And Carrot-Top and the others?”
“They’ll be off in the forest hunting and trapping all winter. That
’s the season when the pelts are at their best. They have contracts with the traders in Ville-Marie who finance their expeditions and supply them with ammunition, provisions and blankets. In exchange, the trappers bring their furs to their warehouses.”
Suddenly Jeanne had an intuition. “And someone has financed you for the winter, Simon?”
Embarrassed, he looked down at his hands, then raised his head and returned her gaze with his pale eyes. Nothing and no one intimidated Rouville for very long.
“Well, yes! I have trading contracts to respect, too, before I leave on an expedition to Lake Ontario.”
“Then you’re going to have to be away and leave us alone, the children and me? Why didn’t you tell me?”
All of a sudden Jeanne felt betrayed, caught in a trap among the threatening trees of the encroaching forest.
“But I thought you knew. You saw the preparations I made. Everybody here knows I’m a trapper, not a farmer.”
Everybody but his wife, who is far too trusting, Jeanne thought bitterly.
Then she raised her chin with a determined air. “I’ll find a way to manage by myself.”
“You won’t be alone. Limp and Gansagonas’s brother Anonkade will stay with you. They’ll hunt and cut wood and in case of attack...”
He did not finish his sentence. As she had told Marie in her letter, Monsieur de Rouville had no intention of losing another wife at the hands of the Iroquois.
“If you must leave us so soon,” said Jeanne, just a trifle sharply, “all the more reason to begin making the repairs to the house as quickly as possible.”
Monsieur de Rouville didn’t have to be told twice. After all, the scene he had feared had gone very well. He would be spared the crying and tears that used to accompany each one of his departures. One day, as his friends had advised him, he, too, would spend months improving his property. Meanwhile, the forest awaited him, mysterious and dangerous. He still did not know how to resist its call.
20
SIMON WASN’T called the Builder for nothing. With his axe he expertly fashioned the door, shelves and furniture Jeanne had demanded.
Limp was a big help, despite his infirmity. They both hunted and smoked meat for the winter. With the aid of Jeanne and Gansagonas, they harvested the enormous pumpkins growing in the small field between the stalks of Indian corn. At the end of the summer, Limp came to gather the ears of corn for Simon and stored them in the “cellar” behind the cabin.
This cellar, a small eight-foot square underground room dug directly into the earth, was reinforced with tree trunks and lined with fir branches. It was used as a pantry and a cache for fur pelts. Sealed by a trap door and hidden under a square of turf, it was absolutely invisible to anyone who did not know of its existence. It was an undertaking of which Simon was very proud.
The two men stored supplies of dried corn, smoked eel and pumpkin in a chest. Set near the hearth, it would serve as a pantry and would contain the family’s staple food during the winter. The fruits of the hunt completed this frugal diet that was shared by all the settlers in the colony at that time. Molasses and raisins brought by boat from the West Indies were the only sweets that broke the dullness of these monotonous meals.
From morning till evening the king’s daughter, sleeves rolled up on her strong arms, washed, scrubbed and brought order to the dark cabin.
One way or another she got everyone settled. She put a mattress filled with leaves and moss on the rope bed. The patchwork bolster given to her as a wedding present by Madame de Bretonville livened up the “bedroom” corner with its bright colours.
On the rough table she placed the blue-flowered sugar bowl that Thérèse, seeing her admiration for it, had generously given to Isabelle.
In the corner near the hearth, the wooden trunk Louis XIV had given his “daughter” did double duty as a storage space and a seat.
The iron pot, essential for any cook, hung on the chimney hook that Simon had been farsighted enough to bring along in his baggage.
On the wall near the door, wooden racks awaited the muskets that the settlers hung up as they came in, above the powder horns and sacks of lead shot.
Branches of autumn leaves, changed every day, were hung above the table, adding an artistic touch.
A broom made of twigs attached to a handle vigorously swept the dust from the beaten earth floor.
Next year, Jeanne planned, without a doubt to trouble her, I’ll ask for a wooden floor. No, why not a whole new house?
Meanwhile, in her energetic grasp, the log cabin became a warm and hospitable home.
When the principal furnishings were finished, Jeanne attacked the next problem. The children were so out of the habit of laughing and so uprooted that they sat in a corner for hours without moving. The harpy who had looked after them had terrorized them. Their big serious eyes followed the young woman’s every movement; the puppy was the only one who seemed to be enjoying his childhood.
Perplexed, the inexperienced mother studied the problem. Suddenly she had an inspiration.
In a spirited voice she announced, “Now, the most important thing is to make a doll for Isabelle and a ball for Nicolas. Come and help me, children.”
From the king’s daughter’s trunk, Jeanne produced two pairs of white stockings that were part of her trousseau. Sitting on a log in front of the doorstep, she opened the sewing kit Mother de Chablais had given her before she left.
With a malicious smile the good nun had said, “I know that using a needle and thread is not your favourite activity, my daughter, but the day will come when this kit will make you a perfect housewife.”
The Mother Superior disguised her nagging doubts with a commendable optimism.
Little by little a doll took shape, thanks more to the seamstress’s ingenuity than her deftness with a needle. The excited children gathered dead leaves to stuff it. Growing lively for the first time since Jeanne had known them, they gave her advice in their serious voices. Jeanne, as much an instinctive psychologist as Sister Berthelet, led the children to take part in the operation.
“We need some hair. What will we use for hair?”
“What about mine?” Isabelle suggested timidly.
Nicolas solemnly cut off one of his sister’s blonde curls, and the doll got its head of hair. A fringe borrowed from the Spanish shawl became a smiling mouth. For the eyes, Jeanne sacrificed—with no regrets—two of the blue buttons from the silk dress Thérèse had forced her to take along in her trunk. They dressed the doll in a flowered handkerchief, a present from Mademoiselle Crolo upon Jeanne’s departure from the Bon-Secours School.
Wild with delight, Isabelle pressed the shapeless doll to her heart.
“What will you call her?” asked Jeanne, threading her needle. “A name is very important for a girl.”
“Her name should be Aimée,” Nicolas decided, making Jeanne’s heart seize with pain.
“No,” decreed Isabelle, contradicting her brother for the first time. “She’s mine and her name is Zeanne.”
Tears in her eyes, Jeanne kissed the little girl’s blonde head.
“And what about me?” cried Nicolas without ill will. “What about my ball?”
They set to work again. Once more, a stocking and some leaves made their contribution. Artistically decorated with carbon, saffron and a few drops of blood—for the unskilled seamstress pricked herself often—the ball was thrown and caught with cries of joy. Unfortunately, its career was almost cut short; the dog got hold of it and ran off with this toy that had fallen from the sky into his clutches. An epic pursuit, punctuated by cries and laughter, ended in the capture of the ball.
“Bad dog,” scolded Nicolas. “He doesn’t come when I call him.”
“That’s because you haven’t found a name for him,” explained Jeanne. Out of breath, she let herself
drop onto her log.
“Call him Zeanne,” suggested Isabelle, who had a one-track mind.
“Silly. That’s no name for a dog. Mama, what’s a good name for a dog?”
“I once knew a boy whose name was François. He had a dog called Miraud,” said Jeanne dreamily.
“Then my dog’s name is Miraud. Come, Miraud. Here, Miraud.”
For safety’s sake, Jeanne tied a long string to the ball and fastened it to a branch. She was quickly discovering parental tricks for avoiding difficulties.
Happy with her success, she watched the children playing. A new idea came to her suddenly. Too long absent and awkward with the children, Simon was a stranger to Nicolas and Isabelle. She had to remedy that. Immediately she began a clever campaign to bring them together.
“Children, when your papa comes home, you must show him your new toys. Papas are very interested in their children’s games. He’ll be very pleased.”
She watched for Simon and ran to meet him when she saw him coming out of the forest, gun in hand, a haunch of venison over his shoulder. Surprised and touched by this welcome, he gave one of his rare smiles, revealing his sparkling teeth that had the power to make Jeanne’s heart melt. She trotted along by his side, very lively, absorbed by her own plot.
“Simon, you’ll have to be very interested in what the children are going to show you. It’s very important to them.”
“I’m afraid I’m not a good father.”
“But you can learn to be. You see, I wasn’t a lady either but I learned.”
That flash of wit made the hunter burst out laughing. Still holding his musket, he wrapped his arm roughly around her.
“Indeed. To look at you with your cap all askew, your sleeves rolled up and your nose all dirty, it’s plain to see you’re the mistress of a lord who wears a wig.”
Jeanne’s innocent ruse bore fruit. As Simon sat on the log carefully cleaning his gun, Isabelle timidly came near, holding her doll.
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