A week later, Rose arrived mid-morning at the Beaumonts’ bakery, armed with her usual commissions from Sister Anne.
“Sit and have some cider,” Elisabeth offered. “Gilbert will get your order ready. We’ve got fresh stock in the ovens.”
“It smells like heaven, but I came to work rather than rest.” Rose crossed to the flour-doused work surface in the kitchen, bypassing the small table reserved for refreshment and gossip. “I’d like to take a try at your almond pastries if you’ve time for a lesson.”
“Always, for you.” Elisabeth gave Rose a quick squeeze and took her place across the table, but grabbed a stool to rest her throbbing ankles.
She ordered Rose about, making the younger woman gather ingredients and measure them out with painstaking precision. While Rose worked, Elisabeth asked about the boardinghouse. Engagements made, engagements broken, and successful weddings were the most coveted news in the settlement.
Rose answered patiently—thoroughly, too—until Elisabeth voiced the real question she wanted answered.
“Why the sudden interest in pastry making?” Elisabeth looked away as if to downplay the question’s significance.
“Just something to do.” Rose didn’t look up from the dough taking shape beneath her fingers.
“Not a common occupation for a nun.” Elisabeth’s nonchalance was betrayed by a telltale squeak. “However, they say that the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach.”
“Excellent point.” Rose’s blue eyes shot Elisabeth a freezing glare. “A good skill to have when I am a Sister in a convent full of courting women, don’t you agree?”
Elisabeth nodded and continued the lesson. “So Alexandre Lefebvre’s nephew has nothing to do with this?”
Rose punched the innocent dough with an angry fist. “Merciful heavens, there are times when I miss city life. You can’t use the privy in this settlement without everyone knowing how long it took.”
Elisabeth’s laugh resonated from every surface in the kitchen. “First of all, don’t overwork the dough or you’ll be left with a mess. Second, if you want to refute idle gossip, don’t steam like a boiling kettle.”
“It isn’t funny,” Rose said, rolling the dough back into a respectable ball, hoping to make amends.
“I suppose it isn’t, but I thought you ought to know.”
“You’re right, I’m sorry,” Rose said.
“So is it true he came to see you?”
“Yes.” Rose nodded. “He saw me at church, and wanted a friend. He’s leaving in just over a week now.... He only wanted to get to know me.”
“Do you really think that’s true?” Elisabeth asked. “With so little time, why would he go to the trouble?”
“Maybe because he’s been traveling and he’s been lonely? How would I know? I’ve spent an hour in his company.” Rose took the rolling pin and spread the dough with skill enough that Elisabeth arched her eyebrow in appreciation.
“Really? The reports I’ve heard are far more romantic, but I doubted the truth in them.” Whether she wanted it or not, Elisabeth heard the gossip from every corner of the settlement.
“It’s a mercy you can tell the truth from an overembroidered fable. I told him I’ll be taking the orders soon,” Rose said. “He knows this can be nothing more than a friendship. If he wanted more than that, I doubt I’ll see him this afternoon. He seems a man of good sense, not one to waste his time.”
“I’m sure you’re right,” Elisabeth said. “But what if he did want more? Would nothing change your mind?”
“No.” Rose placed the pastries in the oven. “I don’t want to be a wife. I don’t want to have children.” She looked down at Elisabeth’s rounded bump and did not feel the pang of jealousy the childless woman was meant to feel. Childbirth could be so brutal. She could hardly welcome it. Why so many women did, she knew not.
“Then I’m going to ask a hard question: Why did you come here? You knew what was expected of us.”
“I thought I could do it,” Rose said, accepting the almost-forgotten mug of cider and seat at Elisabeth’s side. “But I know now that’s not the life I was meant for.”
“It’s not easy being a wife,” Elisabeth agreed. “And I can only imagine the challenges of being a mother. But I think there are few women who would give up their families, despite all the hardships.”
“I know . . .” Rose said. What do I know? That I’ve been treated so badly by my aunt and uncle that the idea of loving anyone else frightens me? That I miss Papa so much that the thought of marrying without his blessing makes me ill? The lewd images of her uncle’s advances mingled with the sensation of a walk to the altar without her father at her side, and it was all she could do to keep from curling into a ball on the flour-dusted floor. “I just can’t do it.”
“Rose, I can’t pretend to know your heart better than you do,” Elisabeth said, caressing her friend’s arm. “But I know you are capable of a great many things. I hate to see you trade a chance at happiness for a life of bland contentment.”
“It’s all I need,” Rose said, wondering if the words would become true if she spoke them often enough.
“The people in town think you’re using the Church as an excuse,” Elisabeth said. “They think you’re being overparticular.”
“I’m sure Rémy Peltier has nothing to do with that rumor.” Rose’s tone dripped acid. She’d feared hurting Rémy when she refused him, but his spiteful behavior since had banished whatever remorse she originally felt.
“He has,” Elisabeth said, “but plenty of others have tongues of their own. My advice is to deal with Henri honorably and take your vows—if that’s what you want to do.”
“Of course it’s what I want. Prayer, study . . . it’s fulfilling. It’s interesting. I’ve even thought of asking about doing some teaching for the native girls as I was being trained to do . . . back in Paris.” Rose refused to say the word Salpêtrière, as though the name of the prison might somehow summon her previous misfortunes.
“I think you mean what you say,” Elisabeth said. “You’d be a marvelous teacher. I also think the people in the settlement will think better of you once you’ve taken vows or a husband.
“But, as a friend, tell me,” Elisabeth said, rescuing the pastries before they burned to a crisp. “Why did you come here for baking lessons?”
“If I’m going to be a nun it’s not like I have to keep an eye on my figure, is it?” Rose asked.
The women burst into an uncontrollable fit of laughter. Even Gilbert’s shaking shoulders betrayed what he thought was his expert eavesdropping from the shop.
“I suppose that’s true,” Elisabeth said, wrapping up the warm pastries with the order for Sister Anne. “But put these to good use.”
Henri Lefebvre arrived at four, despite Rose’s predictions to the contrary.
“Monsieur Lefebvre, what a pleasant surprise.” Rose crossed the room and curtsied before him. Some skills are never truly lost, are they?
Sister Mathilde glanced up from her seat, surprised at Rose’s cheerful greeting, as the young man bowed in response.
“I asked last week if I might come again.” Henri’s brow furrowed in confusion as he looked down at Rose.
I never realized how tall he is. I must look idiotic next to him, Rose thought.
“I just thought . . . considering . . . No matter,” Rose said. “Would you like to have a seat?” She gestured to the spot by the window they had occupied the week before.
“If you don’t mind, Sister Mathilde has given permission for us to take a stroll. It’s such a lovely day. It seems a shame to not take advantage of the sun.” Henri’s hazel eyes looked hopeful. She ignored the tingling in her stomach. Just eager for an excuse to be out-of-doors, nothing more.
After months on a chilling ocean and several more months of travel before him, it seemed cruel to deny Henri the sun on his face and firm ground beneath his feet.
“That sounds wonderful,” Rose said. “Will you
permit me one moment?”
Henri nodded. Rose rushed into the kitchen, wrapped up the almond pastries, and placed them in the basket the Sisters used for light errands. A moment before leaving, she turned back and added a smaller bottle of spruce beer from the cellar and two wooden cups to her bounty.
“A refreshment,” Rose said as she rejoined Henri, indicating the basket.
“Brilliant idea,” he said, offering her his arm.
She accepted, and they headed out to the streets of the settlement, alive with activity on the warm day. They wandered around town and to the edge of the river. There, they sat on a patch of dewy grass and enjoyed the crisp, fresh liquid and soft pastries while they watched the water rush by.
“I can see why my uncle is so fond of the colonies,” Henri said. “Father doesn’t understand him, but then again, they never agreed on much.”
“I don’t know your uncle well, but I see he might not be the easiest man to get along with.” Rose stretched her legs out before her and brushed the crumbs from her white canvas apron. Her jacket and skirt were plain gray and black linen, but they were new, thanks to the Sisters’ generosity. Her rough woolen dress from the Salpêtrière had retired to rags months before. Rose considered the garment better suited for dusting than it had ever been for clothing.
“Uncle Alexandre isn’t all that bad once you know him,” Henri said. “A better mind for business you’ll never meet.”
“That I can well believe. He has an excellent reputation in the colony—for that, at least.” She kept the reports about his haughty nature and his banter with Nicole to herself.
“The talk about town is that you’re one of the smartest ladies the King has ever sent overseas,” Henri said, voice dropping.
“I’m not sure how worthy I am of the compliment.” If indeed that’s how it was meant, Rose thought. No one faults a woman for her lack of schooling here.
“I hoped you might accept this as a token of my esteem,” Henri said, taking a small book from the breast pocket of his justaucorps.
“Verses of the Trouvères,” Rose said, reading the title. “Medieval poetry. My father used to read to me from this before bedtime. I shouldn’t accept such a precious gift.”
The book she held in her hand was the first, aside from a prayer book or a Bible, she had held since leaving her uncle’s home years before. Even the aroma reminded her of her father. They had laughed over the poems as he promised her a future filled with knights victorious and ladies fair. How wrong you were, Papa.
“I insist,” he said, clasping his hands over hers. “I promise you, it will give me pleasure to know you have it.”
“Then I accept it gratefully. Thank you, monsieur,” Rose said. “I miss my father’s library. A new book will help break the monotony.”
“Life with the Sisters would be less dreary than the life of a frontier wife, I imagine,” Henri mused, looking over the expanse of the Saint Lawrence River as smaller boats and a few larger ships bustled about the nearby docks.
“I think so,” Rose agreed. The image of the dying Laurier baby still loomed in her mind. At least he understands to some extent. So many men think we hold our breath anticipating how we might serve them.
“It wouldn’t have to be that way,” Henri said, very gently taking Rose’s hand again. “Being a wife. Come with me.”
Rose felt her stomach churn. Could she accept a man she’d only met a few times before? It wouldn’t be the first time in this colony. She thought of the next crop of young ladies who would arrive at the convent within a few weeks, and was sure it wouldn’t be the last. Could she be happy to spend the rest of her life across the table from those kind smiles and mirthful hazel eyes?
For the first time she had to admit she might be. But there would still be children. He would still expect her to be a proper wife in every respect....
Every night she would have to push aside the image of Uncle Grégoire from her mind as Henri performed his duty as her husband. She would struggle to hide her disgust that would cause a good man needless pain. Perhaps she’d grow to accept his embraces without disdain, but at what cost to her nerves and his heart? And the inevitable arrival of the children. Risking her life and health with each lying-in. It was all too much to consider putting herself through, let alone a decent man like Henri.
Rose looked at Henri, but said nothing. Please don’t, Henri. Oh, please, don’t.
“I could provide for you, care for you in a way these good, honest farmers cannot. You wouldn’t have to work yourself to death.”
Rose knew he felt the calluses on her hands, and she knew he assumed they were from her hard work at the convent. He had never seen her relentless scrubbing, which had continued from her days at the Salpêtrière, and which she could never control when she was anxious or frightened.
He doesn’t know how broken I am, Rose thought. He doesn’t need this. Even if he will give me all the comforts this place could afford me, there would still be children.
She pried her hands from his and clutched the book to her chest. “I’m so sorry, Henri. I can’t do it.” She thought about handing back the book of poems, but didn’t wish to insult him any further.
Rose felt a tear slip down her cheek and ran back toward the convent before he could see the rest.
For three days the scrubbing did not stop, and the bleeding from her fingers was unceasing. Rose managed to curb the involuntary tears most of the time, but that awful hour before supper, and the even worse hour before bed, was her time for weeping. I made the right decision. Rose repeated the mantra over and over to herself. My place is here. She hoped that if she said the words often enough, she would believe them.
“Rose, be a dear and fetch some bread from Beaumont’s Bakery, will you?” asked Sister Mathilde, knocking on Rose’s bedroom door. “Father Levesque is coming to supper. I’d like a good cake as well.”
“Yes, Sister,” Rose said and was gone without further preamble.
She didn’t remember running to the bakery but was soaked with sweat when she arrived at the door.
“What in the world have you been up to, Rose?” Elisabeth asked upon seeing her friend’s frazzled state. If she noticed Rose’s cracked and bleeding hands, she said nothing.
“Sister needs bread and a cake for supper,” Rose said, catching her breath.
“And for this you come all the way from the convent at a dead run?” Elisabeth asked, showing Rose to a chair. “What is really the matter?”
“Nothing,” Rose said. “I refused Henri Lefebvre, but it was the right choice. My place is at the convent.”
At least out loud, she thought the words sounded convincing.
“Then why are you so upset?” Elisabeth asked.
“I don’t know,” Rose said. “He was nice, I enjoyed our visits, and then he had to bring up marriage. He was supposed to leave. I wasn’t prepared for him to ask. . . .”
“You’re afraid you hurt him,” Elisabeth said, rubbing the taut skin of her swollen abdomen.
“That must be it,” Rose said. “I should apologize.”
“That wouldn’t do any harm,” Elisabeth said. “And neither would this almond tart. I’ll send the other things on to the convent with Gilbert. It will keep him from clucking over me like a nervous chicken for a good half hour.”
Rose accepted the parcel and found her way to Henri’s uncle’s residence near the main market square, in the very heart of Quebec City. She thought of Henri’s kind face, his willingness to continue their friendship despite her declarations for the Church. He’d never pressured her for more, aside from his proposal. And one can’t blame a person for asking for what they want. She never felt anxious in his presence. There was something so inherently good in his being. I can’t be too late. I can’t. He has to forgive me. . . .
She stood before the massive wooden door and summoned the courage to knock. After a time, Alexandre answered the door, displeased with the disruption.
“Hello, monsieur,
you do not know me, but I am Rose Barré, a friend of your nephew’s,” Rose explained, tripping over her words. “I was hoping I could speak with the younger Monsieur Lefebvre, please.”
“I’m sorry, mademoiselle,” Alexandre said. “He’s left for the Antilles. I thought he made you aware of his plans.”
“Indeed he did, monsieur,” Rose said. “But I thought he wasn’t to leave for several days.”
“He had an opportunity to leave early,” Lefebvre said. “As his business was concluded here, he had no reason to stay.”
“I see,” Rose said. “And do you expect him back in Quebec before long?”
“I seriously doubt he plans to return at all,” Alexandre said. “I manage his father’s affairs here, for the most part, so Henri doesn’t have the bother of coming here.”
“Please take this,” Rose said, thrusting the basket into his hands. “Thank you, monsieur.”
She rushed from the doorstep and was gone before the tears spilled over.
CHAPTER 12
Elisabeth
August 1668
Pain seized Elisabeth’s body and refused to relinquish its grip. For ten hours, the labor contractions held her hostage, with only moments of reprieve between the surges. At first, everyone told her it was normal, just as, for weeks, they had called the swelling normal. They said not to worry that the baby came later than expected.
But nobody said things were normal now.
Elisabeth tried to find her voice, but it failed her.
How much longer? Why isn’t the baby here yet? Can’t you make it stop?
She longed to voice her questions. Scream them. Beg.
Her tongue would not obey. Her body seemed a foreign thing and she wanted more than anything to regain control.
Sometime later she lost that urge . . . all she wanted was to slip away from the misery. She cared not how.
Sunlight streamed in through the smudgy window. The moment Elisabeth awoke, she knew she’d been unconscious for hours. She tried to sit up, but the pulled and torn muscles in her abdomen forbade it.
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