Promised to the Crown

by Aimie K. Runyan

  And so it continued for six months. Uncle Grégoire did not miss an evening, and despite his assertion to the contrary, she never came to enjoy his unwanted attentions. Each month, Rose feared she would miss her course and she would be utterly ruined. Worse, Rose began to worry her uncle would never tire of her and continue his nightly visits forever. She longed to tell her aunt, but didn’t want to break her heart when she learned what a monster her husband was. She knew she was ruined for marriage, but she hoped that if the whole disgusting affair stayed secret she might remain a sort of spinster aunt who cared for the children and eventually their own children.

  That was until one night when, without preamble, Rose’s bedroom door was flung open just as her uncle was dressing to leave.

  “You little whore.” Aunt Martine looked with hate, not at her half-naked husband, but at Rose, who lay trembling, trying to forget his embraces.

  The next morning Rose was taken from her bed with nothing but her oldest dress and most basic belongings in tow. With one word from her aunt, she was now a ward of the state and a prisoner of the Salpêtrière. Stripped of all she ever knew and loved, she was terrified of this new hell in which she found herself.

  Rose was abandoned, screaming, at the gates of the Salpêtrière. The fear gripped her like the cold fingers of death. She was certain she wouldn’t live out the night, so she wasn’t afraid that her screams would earn her a beating. Seeing the dawn light through her cell window proved a disappointment that morning and many afterward.

  Rose thought of her father often. Sometimes she indulged in the fantasy that he was miraculously returned to life. She imagined his face as he saw her on her knees scrubbing the floor in a tattered dress. When he learned where she was, what his brother had done to her, there would be another duel, this time with a far more satisfactory outcome. In her childhood, she was given every whim of her heart, coddled and loved by him and a long string of overindulgent governesses. He loved to tell Rose how much she looked like his beloved, lamented wife. So far as Rose knew, he never loved another woman. She treasured the thought like a precious jewel. Like the emerald brooch of her mother’s that now her aunt surely kept for herself.

  Before her confinement, Rose had been only vaguely aware of the charity hospital’s existence. The vast, imposing compound of moldy brick and human stink had terrified her, as it did most children. As the sheltered daughter of the bourgeoisie, Rose had only rarely visited the sector of Paris where the specter of the Salpêtrière loomed over the surrounding streets. She didn’t realize, then, how fortunate that made her.

  She had assumed that, like many institutions of its kind, the Church had the running of the Salpêtrière, but Rose learned with surprise that the staff was a secular one. Adopting the title “Sister” and abandoning given names for religious monikers was only ceremonial. Despite the lack of official ties to the Church, the members of the staff were all deeply religious. They espoused the virtues of routine and constant occupation. Prayer, study, chores, meals. No idleness to tempt the “weak souls” in their charge. She overheard the officières use the term more than once. Are we really weak? Or merely inconvenient?

  Can I truly stay in such a place? Her grip on the brush was painful, but she gave it no heed.

  Vérité was right; in the hospital, Rose’s life had purpose. The children, the staff—they needed her, appreciated her, treated her well. But what awaited her in the Salpêtrière? A larger room? A salary? One day a month to escape into Paris under the watchful eye of a chaperone?

  Were those small liberties enough?

  Rose imagined that Vérité was also right about what awaited her in New France: harsh conditions, certainly . . . but perhaps a family of her own as well.

  Papa had been wonderful, but he alone did not constitute a family. In the years before she lived with her uncle, Rose had always pictured herself with a large brood of children, to make up for her own lack of brothers and sisters. That would never happen without a husband, though the thought sickened her. It would never happen in the Salpêtrière.

  In her logical mind she knew that not all men were such demons, but she could not separate the marriage act from the memory of her uncle’s careless, often painful, fumbling. Though her governesses and nannies had never discussed the topic with her, she’d had a vague idea of what happened between a husband and wife. She imagined it was a gentle, loving act of submission where the woman entrusted her body, soul, and heart to the man of her choice. Her uncle had shown her it was a brutish, animal act that she had no interest in ever repeating. The rough hands, putrid breath, his complete disregard for her pleas to stop . . . She could live happily never letting another man come so close to her ever again.

  All too soon, dawn’s weak sunlight peeked into the minuscule window of Rose’s cell, stripes of light painting her scrubbed floor. Rose would have to meet with Sister Charité soon, yet still she had no answer. She made up her mind, and changed it, a dozen times over the course of the sleepless night.

  As she walked the long corridor to Sister Charité’s office, Rose prayed the answer would come to her.

  Do I go? Risk the bitter cold? The savages? Starve in a strange land?

  Do I stay here and wither in this rancid building? Scour the floors and say my prayers?

  What exactly would I pray for?

  No answers came. When she reached her destination, she knocked on the open door to announce her presence.

  “Come in, Rose.” Sister Charité did not look up from her document, but motioned to an empty seat opposite her massive desk. Rose, never having visited the room before, took in the sparse furnishings, noticing that every object had some purpose. The Sister did not appreciate decoration or unnecessary trappings. Despite the Spartan nature of the room, the gently crackling fire created a welcoming ambiance, its warmth driving back the unseasonably cool weather.

  “What is your decision, my child?” The Sister sat back in her chair, giving Rose her full attention.

  Rose looked at her hands, willing herself to speak. A stack of books on the Sister’s desk, the top volume askew by a matter of a fraction of an inch, drew her attention. She itched to straighten it, but didn’t dare. After a moment she sputtered, “I don’t think I can go, Sister.”

  “Then you are a fool.” Rose felt Sister Charité’s brown eyes searching her soul and casting judgment. Disappointment mingled with the lines of experience on the old woman’s face.

  “Excuse me, Sister?” Rose looked up from her hands, eyes wide, glancing away from the book.

  “You heard me, child,” Sister Charité said. “You’re a fool. What’s worse, you’re a fool with a good brain and an education—that’s the worst kind of fool to suffer.”

  “Sister. It’s just so far . . .” Rose began.

  “Yes, it is,” Sister Charité said. “And it’s cold. And the men are not as civilized as in Paris, if indeed any man can truly be called ‘civilized.’ A rough life, to be sure. Vérité most likely convinced you of this, despite my orders.

  “However, it is a life, Rose. I have seen you are miserable here. Some women thrive on confinement and discipline. Some women stay here of their own free will because they need our guidance. Yet our regulations only serve to stifle a girl like you.”

  “I’m not unhappy here, Sister. Truly. I love the children—helping them with their lessons. I like being useful to Sister Vérité.” Do not touch the book. Rose gripped her hands, as though in prayer, against the compulsion.

  “Of course,” Sister Charité said. “Who does not wish to live a useful life? But there are uses for you in the New World as well, my dear. More than you can take on alone, I am certain. But then, you would have your own children to guide and teach.”

  “I don’t wish to marry, Sister.” Rose forced herself to look directly at Sister Charité as she spoke the words aloud at last. Looking at Sister Charité, focusing on the woman’s honest face, kept the image of her uncle, the stink of stale whiskey, and the nights o
f endless torture from resurfacing. Her interwoven fingers went white.

  For weeks she tried to plead with him to stop. He merely covered her mouth with an unwashed hand that reeked of tobacco and his own filth and took her anyway. He was at least a measure gentler on the nights she didn’t protest. After a few weeks, she couldn’t even summon tears. She would lie back, close her eyes, and pray that he wouldn’t make her pregnant. Pray he would tire of her and that somehow she might be able to go on with life as she had before. But it could never be. She was forever changed. Broken.

  After he left each night, she imagined barring the door against him. She imagined confessing the whole affair to Aunt Martine. She imagined begging the priest for help. In her mind, each attempt to win her freedom from her uncle’s cruelty always resulted in a beating or her public disgrace. Worse, the insufferable pity of a priest in her uncle’s employ who would tell her that suffering was a woman’s lot in life and that she could learn the valuable lesson of forbearance and self-effacement from her ordeal. In the end, her tenure in the Salpêtrière had confirmed her worst suspicions.

  “It is the idea of marriage that bothers you, not the reality of it, my girl,” Sister Charité said.

  “I don’t think that’s true, Sister,” Rose replied.

  Sister Charité’s eyes flashed in surprise at the severity of Rose’s tone. Rose was almost equally shocked, not having felt much conviction in her own opinions these past three years.

  “Go to the colony, girl,” Sister Charité said. “You may not find happiness in marriage, but I can promise you, without equivocation, that you will not find it here.”

  Rose took in a deep breath and looked the older woman in the eye as an equal. She means what she says. She thinks this stinking prison will kill me—sooner rather than later. And I can’t find anything in my heart that tells me she’s mistaken.

  “If I must,” Rose said, and with the deft movement of one hand, straightened the off-kilter book.

  “Finally some sense,” Sister Charité said, glancing away from the book and back to Rose. “You will leave Paris for Rouen in two weeks. There, you will meet the rest of the girls who will travel with you to New France. From Rouen, you will go to the port in Dieppe to meet your ship. Several of our girls are going. I want you to keep a special eye on Geneviève and Vivienne for me. They are very young and will be grateful for your attentions.”

  “With pleasure, Sister.” Rose knew the girls from their catechism classes. Geneviève and Vivienne were orphans as well, only a few months into their sojourn at the Salpêtrière. Both seemed sweet natured and eager to learn, though neither were gifted scholars. They never looked particularly happy, and Rose was glad Sister Charité had selected them. They were the pale, slight type of girl that, all too often, slipped from life in the middle of a chilly night in the dank prison.

  “Very good. I trust you will make sure these last two weeks are profitable ones,” said Sister Charité by way of dismissal.

  Rose walked slowly back to her dormitory. She hoped that Sister Charité was right, and that a useful life awaited her in New France. Rose enjoyed her duties at the Salpêtrière, but the officières could replace her. The putrid edifice would continue to rot beneath the feet of its inmates whether Rose taught catechism or not. In fact, there was only one person Rose would truly miss. Without realizing where her steps had led her, Rose found herself in front of Vérité’s apartment.

  Rose opened the door when bid to the sight of Vérité at her desk, bathed in the light of early morning, poring over her record book. Taking notes on the behavior and progress of her charges, as Rose had helped her to do countless times.

  How can I disappoint her? Maybe even break her heart? Rose’s breath caught in her throat. The decision is made and I must not waver. I am not a coward.

  “I am going,” she announced, instead of giving a proper greeting. She kept her gaze on Vérité, not wanting to show hesitation.

  “Stupid girl,” Sister Vérité said. “You will die a martyr to this New France. You will wish you had never left. I can promise you that.”

  “I’m sorry you feel so, Sister.” Rose felt a pain in her chest to see the flash of anger in Vérité’s eyes.

  “I am not your sister anymore, am I? Call me Pauline if you must speak to me at all.” Vérité attempted to keep her tone stoic, but Rose could hear an unmistakable quiver in the undertones.

  “Pauline.” The name felt strange on Rose’s tongue. “You will always be a sister to me.” She reached for Vérité’s hand, but the Sister rebuked her.

  “Then how can you leave me?” Something in Vérité’s countenance escaped Rose’s understanding, but she grasped the accusation of betrayal in Vérité’s voice all too well.

  “Your friendship has meant more to me than anything,” Sister Vérité said. “Your arrival here brightened my life, yet you cast my friendship aside. You cast me aside. You cast aside your very life.”

  “I will find death sooner or later, Pauline,” Rose said. “Who can say whether it will come any sooner in New France than in the Salpêtrière? Either way, I cannot stay.”

  “Do what you will.” Vérité stood and opened the door of the pleasant apartment to the gloomy hallway beyond. “The choice was yours, and you made it.”

  “I do not leave for two weeks, Sister Vérité,” said Rose, reprising the title for the sake of a few young girls within earshot. “We needn’t say good-bye—not yet.”

  “You’re already gone,” was Vérité’s farewell.

  Indeed, for the next two weeks, Rose lived like a shadow in Vérité’s presence—there, but never noticed or acknowledged.

  Please speak to me! Rose wanted to shout as she assisted the silent Vérité in her duties. She knew it would accomplish nothing, so she held her tongue. Worse, she feared any attempt to break the silence might cause Vérité further grief.

  On the day the three girls left for Rouen, Sister Charité stood beside the carriage in the weak spring sunlight and presented each one with a rosary and a benediction.

  “Go and do your duty, my daughters,” Sister Charité said as she opened the door to the carriage. “Know that my prayers and good wishes go with you.”

  Rose forced a weak smile for the formidable woman. She waited for Vivienne and Geneviève to take their seats before claiming her own. Rose hesitated as she climbed onto the step of the carriage and onto the worn leather seats. The last carriage she’d traveled in, more than three years before, had been far grander, but brought her to the place of her nightmares. Please God that this rattletrap take me to a brighter future.

  “Wait!” Vérité called from behind them.

  Rose turned to see her friend rushing from the doors, gasping from the exertion of her run.

  When Vérité reached Rose she removed her necklace, a small silver medallion depicting St. Agnes, and clasped it around her neck. Then she took Rose’s face in her hands and kissed her cheeks.

  “I am so sorry . . . these past weeks . . . I just couldn’t . . .” Vérité struggled.

  Rose silenced her friend with a hearty embrace.

  “Please don’t forget me, Rose.” Vérité did not bother to restrain her tears.

  “Never,” was all Rose could manage.

  Rose forced herself to board the carriage and watched as Vérité . . . Pauline . . . grew smaller and smaller in the distance. She watched until she could no longer see the face of the one person who had truly loved her these past three years.

  Once out of sight, as much as it pained her, Rose forced herself to turn around and look forward.

  CHAPTER 2

  Elisabeth

  August 1667, On the Atlantic Ocean

  Hell isn’t fire; it’s a frozen abyss. The streets of Paris would be stifling this time of year, Elisabeth Martin thought with a pang of regret. I’ll never be properly warm again, will I? She looked out over the vast gray ocean, her wheat-blond hair blowing loose in the wind, and longed to feel the sun on her shoulders a
s she wandered the narrow avenues of the Saint-Sulpice district arm in arm with her father, Pierre. The crew said it was colder than usual for summer, but at least the bone-chilling rain had given way to fog. She could only imagine what winter would be like on the open sea.

  To summon warmth on the fog-blanketed ship deck, she tried recalling one of the many fine afternoons in that same Parisian sun that she spent with her father, when they closed his bakery for an hour or two to scout their competition. They judged a baker first by his inventory. Was his supply overflowing at noon? Gone by ten in the morning?

  “A good baker makes what the people want,” Pierre repeated to his daughter almost daily, “and enough of it, too. But not so much that it goes to waste. No matter what they preach in the churches, there’s no greater sin in my book, girl.”

  Next, they assessed the creativity of his offerings. Did he sell only baguettes and buns, or did he venture into pastries and cakes? At last, they would taste.

  Truth be told, the tasting was their main objective.

  From the age of fourteen, Elisabeth worked in the bakery as her father’s equal partner. She inherited his work ethic, and he freely admitted her technique and creativity surpassed his own. Were Elisabeth a boy, she might have become a preeminent Parisian pastry chef. As a girl, she could work in her father’s shop, but no more. He raged at the injustice on her behalf, but she loved the days at her father’s side too much to fret over the missed chance at renown.

  Now, after a month at sea, Elisabeth had become so inured to the cold that she could barely summon the memory of the Parisian summer sun. The salty spray that seeped into her bones reminded her of the chilly late-winter day when Elisabeth stood next to her mother in the cemetery, her own large frame towering over the diminutive woman, and watched the grave diggers lower her father into the cold dirt.