Geneviève wept for her dear friend, tucked in Rose’s arms, as the sailors lowered the small, shrouded corpse into the cold abyss. Nicole, taught to read by her convent-educated mother, read from her tattered Bible while the handful of mourners listened with quiet respect. The crew, none of them strangers to loss at sea, kept the bustle to a minimum as the women held the short memorial for the girl they had known for such a short while.
Good-bye, sweet girl, I wish I could have known you better so I could grieve for you as well as you deserve. Elisabeth looked out onto the vast midnight-blue ocean that Vivienne would soon become a part of. She drew in a deep breath and willed herself to be strong. Nicole needed her to be strong. Rose needed her to be strong. But as the sunburned sailor slid Vivienne’s shrouded body into the frigid waters, her strength failed her. The burning acid rose in her throat and she wanted nothing more than to give in to her grief. One diseased rat could kill this entire ship. One minor miscalculation with the food, and we could starve. Any one of us could follow in poor Vivienne’s wake.
A vision of her father’s disapproving face flashed in her memory. You’re better than this, Elisabeth. You’ll survive this crossing, flourish in this New France, and die an old woman, warm in your bed. Just to spite your mother.
When the service concluded, Elisabeth and Nicole convinced Rose to partake in supper that evening, though Geneviève was beyond persuasion.
“Another two months,” Rose said, looking down at her uneaten soup.
“We’ll manage,” Elisabeth said, eyeing the murky concoction. Though unpalatable, the soup was warm and rich, but each day the mixture would grow more and more watery as rations grew sparser. “Others have before us, and others will long after we’ve safely arrived on shore.”
“I spoke with one of the crew. He says we’ve passed the worst,” Nicole volunteered. “So long as we don’t hit any more storms, he thinks we may arrive early.”
“Lot of good that did Vivienne,” Rose mumbled to her dinner plate. “I should have stayed up with her.”
“Don’t blame yourself, Rose,” Elisabeth said. “You did what you could, as did I. A doctor might have helped, but maybe not. She was so ill, there was nothing left to do. She passed on knowing that we cared. Try to take solace in that.”
“I promised to care for her,” Rose said. “I promised Sister Charité.”
“Rose, I nursed my father for weeks before he died,” Elisabeth said. “I know what you feel. I felt it, too. I still feel that gut-wrenching pain—the guilt—two months later. The only way I managed to forgive myself is by realizing that Papa would not want me to take the blame. Vivienne would feel the same.”
“I didn’t realize you’d lost your father so recently,” said Rose. “I’m very sorry.”
“As am I,” Elisabeth said. “But I can hear his voice in my head: ‘It was just my time, ’Lisie. Have a good cry for me—I deserve that much—and move on.’ So that’s what I’m trying to do. As you must, also.”
The others giggled at Elisabeth’s impersonation of her father’s jovial tone. Even Elisabeth smiled. It became less and less difficult to think of Papa without pain. However, thoughts of her mother still forced her anger to rise to the surface like a festering blister. The scoldings for her disinterest in running a house. The jibes at her size. The spiteful way she disregarded Elisabeth’s talent in the kitchen. Elisabeth hoped someday she would learn to reflect on her childhood with a sense of peace.
“Your father sounds like he was a wonderful man,” said Nicole.
“The best of men,” Elisabeth agreed. “I miss him terribly. It’s silly, but I brought his favorite rolling pin with me. I knew he’d want me to keep it, so I tucked it in with my petticoats.” There was also a ridiculous handkerchief in her trunk that she tried not to dwell on.
“My maman sent me with a pearl brooch that belonged to her mother,” Nicole said. “And Papa made me a wooden bird to remember him by. When we were small he used to carve little toys for us out of scraps of wood in the evenings as he sat by the fire.”
Rose cleared her throat. “I have a doll from the Orient my papa bought when I was a girl. Maman died when I was born, but I have her looking glass—Papa saved it for me. My aunt didn’t notice I’d taken it.”
“It’s wonderful that we all have little remembrances,” Elisabeth said. “We have to remember where we came from, especially as we leave it all behind. We also have to bear in mind that where we’re going is just as important.”
For the rest of the evening, the women exchanged stories of home and family. The warmth of their memories cast out a bit of the cold. Elisabeth noticed that Rose ate a portion of her meal as she shared the details of her childhood in Paris. Nicole spoke of the green hills of Normandy, and Elisabeth shared about every nook of her father’s shop to the point where all three could smell the browning butter laced with sugar and longed for one of his pastries.
CHAPTER 3
Nicole
September 1667, Approaching the Docks in Quebec City
These will be my friends and neighbors. Nicole surveyed the docks as she gripped the rail of the gangplank on her way down from the loathsome ship. She scanned the faces of the dozens of settlers eager to catch a glimpse of the prospective brides, anxious to find a glimmer of kindness among them. How long will it be before I’m so starved for new society and a taste of home that I clamor to the docks to see the next arrival of passengers with the rest of them?
Distracted, her boot caught a ridge on the gangplank and she gathered herself just before she toppled into Elisabeth. Steady your nerves, you dolt, Nicole chastised herself. There’s no need to make a fool of yourself before they even know your name. The solid ground felt foreign beneath her feet as she stepped onto the dock. After three months, she wasn’t sure she trusted it to remain firm. Nicole squeezed Rose’s hand as she saw that Rose dried her tears on a grimy handkerchief. Only ten of the women would stay in Quebec City, the others bound for Ville-Marie or Trois-Rivières. Though the old crone of a chaperone had been too ill to spend any amount of time with them, she had decided on the town assignments without consulting the ladies themselves, nor would she brook any arguments to the list. Because of this, Rose bid Geneviève a tearful farewell as the latter was destined for Ville-Marie. Though incensed that the chaperone separated Rose from Geneviève, Nicole was elated that she was to remain with Rose and Elisabeth in Quebec, at least until they were married.
At the dock, near the throng of settlers, the governor, the bishop, and a handful of other officials waited on a platform to greet each of the ladies who would stay in Quebec City. Nicole mustered a stiff curtsy and a vague smile for the men dressed in finery as impressive as she’d ever seen in the grandest parts of Rouen. Satins, silks, brocades, and even starched lace. She looked down at her tattered woolen skirt and patched jacket and wished for a moment that she had allowed her mother to make her some new things for the journey. She had refused, wanting them to save every denier for new fields, but she couldn’t help but feel shabby next to these important men.
You came here to ease the burden on Papa and Maman, to give the little ones a chance, not for yourself. Nicole cast her eyes down, knowing that wasn’t the complete truth. The afternoon in April when Father Augustine found her in the churchyard, sobbing, she was not thinking of her family. When he offered her a place on the ship, she didn’t accept out of selflessness. She was thinking of her own broken heart as she stood, moments before, in the back of the church as she watched Jean Galet, her Jean, pledge himself to another woman not three weeks after he was supposed to marry Nicole. Her broken heart, her embarrassment. Not her family’s improved lot with one fewer stomach to fill. Not the dying fields that lay beyond her father’s front door.
She knew it was stupid to give one’s heart to a man before marriage . Too many hours distracted by his roguish brown curls and wicked dimples. Too many hours congratulating myself on my good fortune to find such a match meant too many hours of ang
uish when it all came to nothing.
Chin up and eyes forward, Nicole told herself, summoning the words her father, Thomas, had said almost four months prior as she entered the Rouen Cathedral to meet her shipmates. It was his motto, and Nicole decided it was high time she adopted it as her own.
The governor cleared his throat, preparing to offer a formal welcome to the brides, but a tall nun—a contradiction of a woman, with a lined face and a youthful step—silenced him.
“My good sir, I should like to see the ladies out of the cold air and settled in the convent as soon as may be. They are exhausted from their voyage and not used to the climes here. We would be honored to welcome you at any time if you wish to greet the girls properly.”
The bishop opened his mouth, looking as if he wished to object, but glanced to the governor already bidding the ladies a cheerful farewell, and stayed his tongue.
Nicole blessed the woman as she claimed her spot in the open wagon. The Ursulines lived not far from the docks, so it was less than a half hour before Nicole and the others found themselves in the convent common room, warming themselves before a well-fed fire as the dozen or so nuns of the order introduced themselves. Nicole had thought the Sisters would find the arrival of ten energetic young women a disruption to their staid and solemn lifestyle, but they seemed all too happy to welcome their guests, even if it meant their solitude was shattered like a china cup on a stone floor.
Upstairs, the girls were allowed to choose from the rooms appointed to their use, and Rose and Elisabeth claimed a cozy room with Nicole. The wooden floors looked sturdy and not given to drafts. The beds were draped with sensible green canvas curtains and warm, clean bedding. More comfortable than her own tiny bedroom in her father’s farmhouse, to be sure. Their trunks appeared before long, but the emptying of their finery into the armoire was the task of minutes.
Following the others’ example, Nicole shrugged off her shoes and slid under the warm covers of her new bed. She relaxed every muscle in her body, sinking into the soft mattress. Her eyes welled up with tears of gratitude. Never again will I cross that damned ocean. Come what may, this place is my home and I will make the best of it.
Nicole smiled throughout the meal and answered questions with a polite expression, but the weight of fatigue still hung heavy on her, despite the short nap. Her eyes felt rough, as though her lids were lined with sand. Every muscle felt sore and overused—reeling from the lack of rock and sway on the solid stone floor. The beef stew and warm bread was the most appetizing thing she’d seen since embarking the ship, perhaps months before then, if she was honest with herself, but after the first few mouthfuls, she couldn’t force any more down, sure her papa and maman would not be eating so well that night.
“I understand from your parish priest that you have an impressive education,” Sister Anne, a plump nun with a sweet face, said to Nicole. As all their priests sent along letters to the Ursulines, the bit of information did not surprise Nicole, even if being the subject of correspondence between her confessor and a stranger was more than a bit off-putting.
“My mother was brought up in a convent, Sister,” Nicole explained. “She taught us all to read, write, and do some simple figuring.”
“A solid foundation, my dear,” the nun replied. “We must be sure to find you a young man with some wit about him.”
Nicole nodded, not giving much thought to the prospect. The thought of “husband” and “Jean Galet” was still too synonymous for her to think of anyone else.
All around, the Sisters questioned the young ladies about their lives in France, just as Sister Anne questioned her. Not just a method of getting to know their new housemates, but a tool for matchmaking, Nicole realized. The apple tart before her lost all appeal and she pushed it to the side where it was soon claimed by one of the other girls. Despite the lectures that laid the expectations plainly before the King’s wards, Nicole had managed before now to shove the reality from her mind. They were to marry, and to do so as soon as they were able.
“My dear ladies, if I might claim your attention for a few moments before you seek out your beds?” The eldest of the nuns, the one who had interceded at the dock, stood at the head of Nicole’s table. “I am Sister Mathilde and will be responsible for your welfare while you are with us. We are so pleased to welcome you to our little convent and hope your time here will be enjoyable and profitable.”
Not an eye in the room wavered from the old woman’s face. Her voice was as sure as her step, and confidence emanated from her in equal measure with kindness of spirit.
“While you are here, we hope you will voice any deficiencies you might have in your domestic education. If you have little skill in the kitchen, you will find yourself before a stove more often than you might like. If you cannot sew, we expect to see you with needle in hand for at least an hour each day. Likewise, we expect you to share your talents for the benefit of your shipmates and the order while you are here.”
Nicole looked to Elisabeth, who harbored a small smile on her lips. Elisabeth’s talents were obvious. At least Maman sent me with her favorite knitting needles, Nicole thought. Blankets and scarves won’t come amiss with winter so near.
“We want you all to take advantage of your time afield, for many of you will settle quite far from here. You may well find yourself at quite some distance from any neighbor who is able to instruct you, nor will it be likely that she—or you—will have the time to spare. And, ladies, I cannot caution you enough, make your choice of husband carefully. You will have your pick, I assure you, but not all the men are equally deserving. Above all, you must ask any prospective suitor if he has built upon his land. We don’t want to see you with less-than-adequate lodging in the midst of one of our winters. You are here to keep houses, but not clear the land for them.”
Sister Mathilde continued her speech for a few more moments, but Nicole felt it impossible to focus on her words. Within days, the single men of the settlement would descend on the convent, each vying for the attentions of the ladies, hoping to secure a bride. Nicole had a vision of a cattle auction where the group of farmers schemed to purchase prized stock for their herd. Looking for wide hips and straight teeth in his future bride as he would look for a rounded rump and strong legs in a dairy cow? Dinner churned in her stomach, and Nicole suspected it had very little to do with the richness of the food.
They retreated upstairs to their room after the speech, Nicole happy to leave the chatter of the group behind. She changed into her nightdress and all but launched herself into bed. Nicole’s affection for her decadent mattress grew with each moment she wallowed in it.
“Isn’t it exciting?” Elisabeth asked, straightening her bedcovers. “To think our arrival is such an important event? That the settlers are so anxious to meet us all?”
“Nerve-racking, more like,” Nicole said, pulling up her blanket. “What if we choose poorly?”
“We must take our time and be prudent, that’s all,” Elisabeth answered, stretching before climbing into her own bed.
“Spoken with such confidence,” Rose said with a chortle as she placed her skirt in her trunk. “I suppose you did a fine job selecting from all your suitors in Paris.”
“Ha ha.” Elisabeth lobbed a pillow at Rose’s head. “I was too busy working to bother with suitors. Though I can assure you, I rejected my one offer with great enthusiasm. I can tell you, you’ll know the bottom of the barrel when you see it. If you need any help, I’ll be sure to point them out for you.”
Rose laughed, but Nicole couldn’t summon it.
“Cheer up,” Elisabeth said, peering over at Nicole from her bed. “What’s bothering you?”
“I’ve never in my life made such a decision without my parents,” Nicole said. “Papa arranged the match between myself and Jean. I’m sure we’d have been terribly happy . . . if there’d been money at least.”
She didn’t tell them how much she’d cared for him. How much she was certain he cared for her. Even though
the match was arranged, she’d rejoiced in her father’s choice.
“The Sisters will guide us, I’m sure,” Rose said. “They don’t want to see us settled in misery. You heard Sister Mathilde. We’re the ‘mothers of New France’ and a valuable resource.”
The image of the cattle auction resurfaced in Nicole’s mind and did not settle her troubled thoughts. Not for the first time since she’d left France, Jean Galet’s face came to mind. The sweetness of his dimples, the mischief in his greenish-blue eyes. Will any of those young men clamoring for brides be as kind as you, Jean? Will any of them make me as happy as you would have done?
Nicole choked back her tears, but had far less success with her doubts.
A week after their arrival, the benches and podiums of the town hall gave way to a bower of autumn leaves and a refreshment table to welcome the new ladies and their prospective suitors. A group of younger men played melodies on their well-worn instruments off to the side. Though they did not play well, the tunes were lively, which inspired the conversation to be likewise. None danced, however, for the clergy did not approve. The Sisters watched the proceedings with the attentiveness of hawks on the hunt, ensuring any lapse in decorum was rooted out on the spot.
Nicole lurked toward the edge of the gathering, sipping from a cup of cider, taking stock of the assembly. Rose, having grown up in society, was undaunted by the reception and chatted with a rather tall man with a weak chin. She seemed attentive, but Nicole could not tell if it was due to politeness or genuine interest. An impressive skill, but not something one learns on a farm milking cows. Elisabeth, too, bore a sweet smile as she conversed with two eager men. Nicole imagined at Elisabeth’s father’s side in the bakery was as good a place to learn conversation as any ballroom.
Promised to the Crown Page 4
