Gilbert and Rose rushed to her side, adjusting her position and smoothing the hair from her face.
“The baby,” she said.
“She’s here,” Rose said. “A girl. Your little Adèle.”
“I want to see her.” Elisabeth’s voice was not her own. It sounded like a weak and raspy shadow of itself.
Gilbert and Rose exchanged a glance.
Elisabeth accepted the baby from Rose and looked down at the miniature features, so much like her own mother’s. A warmth spread from her core. Tears spilled onto her pale cheeks.
“She’s so perfect. So beautiful.” Elisabeth cooed at the sleeping baby, stroking her soft skin.
“That she is,” Rose agreed.
Elisabeth looked at Gilbert, wondering why he remained silent.
She held Adèle to her breast, expecting the baby to suckle, but the infant did not stir.
“Perhaps—” Rose fumbled. “Perhaps she’s not hungry. Sister Mathilde told us to give her goat’s milk when you were asleep.”
“Don’t—” Gilbert began. “We must—”
Elisabeth saw the anguish in her husband’s eyes, so keen it seemed to cut her soul. “What’s wrong, Gilbert? What’s wrong with Adèle?”
Gilbert buried his face in his hands.
Rose sat on a corner of the bed, the tears brimming in her eyes, and took Elisabeth’s hand.
“Elisabeth, the baby isn’t well.” Rose began trembling. “Sister Mathilde says she’s very weak—she won’t—”
“She won’t what?” Elisabeth’s voice found some substance.
“My love, the baby can’t survive.” Gilbert finally spoke, tears streaming down his face.
Elisabeth clutched the sleeping bundle tighter to her bosom. She felt angry that her body was torn apart, only for her beloved daughter to be taken from her, and furious with herself for sleeping away any of the few hours the child would have on this earth.
It can’t be true. I won’t let it be.
“I’ll feed her. If she’ll just eat, she’ll be fine.” Elisabeth sat up, her muscles screaming in protest, and gently forced her nipple into Adèle’s perfect bow-shaped mouth.
The baby still refused to nurse, so Elisabeth massaged her breast, trying to release a few drops of nourishing liquid.
“She wouldn’t eat before,” Rose said gently. “Sister Mathilde says she’s just too weak.”
“She’s wrong!” Elisabeth screamed. “Just get out. If you won’t help me save her, just get out.”
Rose padded from the room, her footsteps barely making a sound against the hard wooden floors. Gilbert remained, seated in a straight-backed wooden chair that usually resided at the supper table. Elisabeth’s eyes, however, were only for her precious daughter.
“Eat, my little one,” Elisabeth said, coaxing a few more drops of clear liquid into the baby’s mouth and massaging her throat. “Please eat for Maman.”
Gilbert’s manful sobs from alongside the bed caused her to look up. His head was buried in his hands, shoulders shaking.
He’s given up on you, my love, but your maman won’t. You’re my good girl and you’re going to grow to be big and strong. You must.
Elisabeth held the baby for hours, not bothering with the swaddling clothes that many midwives insisted upon. She massaged what nourishment she could from her aching breasts until her hands cramped. With every movement, every pulled muscle and torn fiber of her body tried to reel her back into rest, but she ignored it. She ignored Rose’s and Gilbert’s pleas for her to entrust the baby to them and to rest. She ignored the growing seed of doubt that blossomed with every passing hour and choked her breath.
Adèle occasionally opened her blue eyes for a brief moment, filling her mother’s heart with hope. But Elisabeth ignored the shallow breath becoming shallower. She ignored it until she could ignore it no longer.
“Gilbert, fetch the priest.” Elisabeth’s voice was whisper soft and several octaves lower than her usual tone. It felt as foreign to her as the rest of her battered body.
He said nothing but walked from the room. Elisabeth listened to his footsteps that fell morosely down the stairs to the shop below and onto the street. Rose took his place at Elisabeth’s side, but did not offer to take the baby this time. She offered a hand, and nothing more.
Thank you. The words stuck in her chest, but she knew they need not be spoken.
Less than twenty minutes later, Gilbert returned without Father Cloutier.
“Where is he?” Elisabeth demanded.
“Writing his sermon. He said he would be here before nightfall if he’s able to complete it.”
“We . . .” Elisabeth faltered, but drew her breath. “We don’t have that much time. Get the holy water. Now.”
His eyes had a hollow look she’d never seen before but his face betrayed no emotion.
You’re stronger than I am, Gilbert. Bless you for it.
The glass flask was soon in her hand and she unscrewed the lid while resting Adèle on her lap and left arm, careful not to disturb her. She dribbled a small amount of water on her right hand and made the sign of the cross on her daughter’s forehead, sternum, and both sides of her birdlike rib cage.
“In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit, I baptize thee . . .”
“The child cannot be buried in consecrated soil if it was not baptized.” Cloutier stood at the foot of Elisabeth’s bed dressed in a black cassock looking like the angel of death. Elisabeth still held Adèle’s little body close to her breast, though the infant had breathed her last a few hours before.
“I blessed her with holy water myself,” Elisabeth said. The priest leaned closer to hear her strained tones. “My mother kept a flask of it in the house at all times when my father was ill. The priest told her she could administer my father’s last rites.”
“That’s not the same as a baptism,” Cloutier said, shaking his head.
“The priest in my village always made sure mothers who were on the point of giving birth had holy water on hand for cases just like these,” Gilbert said. His arms folded across his chest, barring any opposition from the obstinate priest.
“If you had made me aware of the direness of the situation . . .” Cloutier turned his attention to Gilbert, his voice a condescending sermon.
“I’m not sure how more evident I could have made things for you. ‘The baby is dying’ is as direct as a man can be.”
“Parents often exaggerate these situations,” Cloutier continued.
“Obviously, we were not,” Elisabeth said, raising her voice to its usual volume. Do not exert yourself and drop the baby.
“Clearly,” the priest admitted, a mask of insincere sympathy plastered on his face.
Elisabeth looked at the scrawny, tall man, so very like the scarecrows out in the fields on the outskirts of Paris. Like them, he had no flesh, bone, nor beating heart beneath the tattered clothes. But she could understand his detachment, at least in principle. You see babies die all the time. You minister to the fathers. Console the mothers. You speak of God’s will and the importance of forging on. You cannot care for Adèle as we do. But I will see my daughter buried in consecrated ground.
“I am very sorry, but I cannot allow the child to be buried on Church land.” There was no room for debate in his expression. “I will be happy to say a blessing over the child wherever you decide to hold the funeral.”
“Your blessing won’t be needed.” Elisabeth set her teeth and looked down at the motionless babe in her arms. There were no words he could offer that would soothe a mother’s soul or mend a father’s broken heart. So innocent a creature did not need such a man to commend her soul to heaven.
The priest uttered some condolences and left Elisabeth with her child, Gilbert following him to the door.
“Would you like me to hold her for a little while so you can sleep?” Rose entered the room, bringing a mug with some milk. She apparently knew better than to try to offer food.
“No.” Elisabeth latched her eyes onto Adèle’s face. I can only spend so many more hours . . . minutes with you, little chick. You’ll be with me the whole time.
“Darling—”
“Don’t. Don’t even ask, Rose. I can’t let her go. Not yet.”
“I’m not asking you to, dear. Just please listen. You must rest. You must get better. You’ve lost a great deal of blood and you’ve torn badly. You must take time to heal.”
“Why? What does it matter now?” For the first time the salty drops spilled over. She realized she’d been in too much pain to let her tears loose before.
“Gilbert.” Rose sat on the edge of the bed, wrapping her arm around Elisabeth’s shoulders. The warmth felt good around her sore muscles . . . even those in her neck had been wrenched from her attempts to push her child into the world.
Gilbert. He will need me as I need him.
“I’ll rest,” Elisabeth promised. “When she doesn’t need me any longer. I will.”
Rose nodded. “Is there anything you need?”
My daughter, but there’s nothing you can do for her.
“Write to Nicole, please,” Elisabeth said after a few moments. “Spare her the details. I wouldn’t want to frighten her. But she should know. She’d want to know. I’d want to know if it were her.” God forbid. I wouldn’t wish this on anyone, let alone a woman I cherish like a sister.
“Of course. I’ll send her your love,” Rose said, her arm squeezing her friend’s shoulders gently as she kissed Elisabeth’s sweaty temple.
“Thank you, Rose.”
“Don’t you dare. But please, do try to drink some milk. It will help you feel a little better.”
Doubtful, you sweet girl. But I will. For you. For Gilbert.
The next day, the three of them buried Adèle beneath Elisabeth’s favorite evergreen tree, just outside of town. Far enough from the settlement that the tree was sure to stand for years to come yet, and close enough that Elisabeth could come and see her sweet daughter without too much difficulty. Unable to sit, even for the ten-minute ride outside of town, Elisabeth lay in the back of the wagon, Adèle still tucked safely in her arms.
Gilbert dug a hole deep enough so no beast would disturb Adèle’s slumber. The sweat poured from his brow, but he let it drip into his eyes. Elisabeth knew his tears made him oblivious to the sting. She sat up, with Rose’s help, when the hole was dug. He retrieved the impossibly small wooden coffin he’d built the previous night and removed the lid.
Elisabeth pressed her lips to the baby’s cold forehead. You must let her go. You must. Let her rest.
Shaking, Elisabeth placed the child’s limp body in the box Gilbert held out. The baby wore a simple nightdress that Elisabeth had embroidered with sheaves of wheat. Your grandpapa would have loved it. He’ll recognize you coming, my sweet girl. He’ll take care of you for me. Without looking down, Gilbert placed the lid atop the coffin. Adèle was gone.
Rose, as Elisabeth had requested, read a passage from the Bible. Something to do with the time and season for all things. Elisabeth didn’t listen to the words, but was just glad someone spoke them. Elisabeth stood with Gilbert’s help and sprinkled some holy water on her daughter’s grave. Adèle might not have the Church’s blessing, but she had her mother’s, and Elisabeth was certain that it would have to count for something.
When the time came for Gilbert to fill the hole, Elisabeth could not bear to watch. She lay back down in the wagon as the shovel connected with the dirt and covered her precious child. Clank, swoosh. Clank, swoosh. She closed her eyes against the oppressive August sun, but she could not muffle the sound from her ears, no matter how she tried. Clank, swoosh. Clank, swoosh.
She felt the warmth of a body slide behind her in the bed of the wagon and wrap a slender arm around her aching, broken body. Elisabeth reached up and grabbed Rose’s hand and tucked it to her broken heart in wordless appreciation.
“You will be well again. In time.”
I don’t see how, my dear friend. But I will trust that, somehow, you know better than I.
CHAPTER 13
Nicole
Late September 1668, Jarvais Homestead
Nicole approached the edge of the fledgling farm, weary but satisfied. It had taken Nicole just a few hours after her arrival to learn that French agriculture was a far more civilized affair than farming in the colony. Starting a farm on virgin soil meant waging war against vegetation that had claimed the land centuries before. Trees, vines, roots—all had to be cut down, dug up, and either burned or used for lumber to make proper fields for growing crops. Luc had begun the war against the land, but he needed Nicole to help win the last backbreaking battles. She spent much of her summer toiling in the Quebec sun that was every bit as nasty as her winter storms.
Luc’s plot gave them a decent harvest, however, and by autumn the rest of the land was cleared and ready for spring. It would be easier next year.
“Supper’s ready, then?” Luc rested on his hoe and wiped the sweat from his brow and patted her protruding midsection. Another miscalculation. Despite Luc’s assurances that their child wouldn’t make an appearance before summer, the first Jarvais child was expected in late February or early March. It was bad timing in more ways than one. It left them no time to improve the house and kept Nicole from spending many hours in the field when she was most needed.
“Yes, indeed,” Nicole said, wiping a sweaty lock from his brow. She looked down at his hand on her abdomen and smiled. “We’re both ready to eat.”
Luc took her hand and they walked back to the farmhouse. It was still small enough that you risked rolling out of bed and into the kitchen, but Nicole had made modest improvements to make the house a bit more comfortable. The pantry she fashioned from their fallen timbers looked as though it was on the verge of collapse each time she opened the door, but it still held. Each of them famished, Luc by his labor and Nicole by the baby inside her, they dug into the supper with ardor. It was a simple meal of bread and chicken stew, but satisfying after a day of work. They ate in relative silence, as was their custom, reserving conversation for after the meal.
Afterward, Nicole sat in her wedding-gift chair near the fire, knitting a small blanket from soft wool that Sister Mathilde had sent once she’d heard the news of the impending arrival. Luc, much like Nicole’s father, could not bear to sit idle, so he sat sharpening the blade of his favorite knife whose increasing dullness he’d taken to complaining about for the past week. Nicole relaxed and took in a purifying breath. This was her favorite part of the day, where they granted themselves permission to relax.
“The harvest will see us through winter,” Luc said, having assessed their haul that day. “Praise be.”
“That’s wonderful.” Nicole smiled at her husband’s relief. He was not as used to the uncertainty of farming as she was.
“So now, the question is, what to do with myself during these cold months.” Luc continued scraping his blade on the stone as he spoke.
“Staying in and getting fat on my cooking isn’t good enough for you?” Nicole asked, winking at her husband.
“Tempting as that sounds, we need a cash reserve, Nicole,” Luc said, no humor in his voice. “The harvest was fine this year, but what about next? Or the one after?”
“That’s the way farming works, Luc,” Nicole said. “We’ll have bad years from time to time. We’ll get through it.”
“I don’t want to ‘get through it’ or ‘make do.’ I want better for us. Better for the both of you.” Luc looked up from his blade to assess his wife’s reaction. “I’m going trapping with some of the fellows from the regiment next week. We plan to be out three or four weeks at most.”
“You’re going to leave me here alone?” Nicole asked. “There’s no one for miles.”
The remote location of their homestead made Nicole nervous. In France, she had lived an easy walk from Rouen.
“You’ll be fine,” Luc said. “You can always go into town and stay
with Elisabeth if you want.”
“She’s busy enough,” Nicole said, thinking of the heartbroken missive Rose sent after Adèle passed. Being so far removed from her friends was a hardship she had not yet conquered. It brought to mind that there was nothing at all keeping the same tragedy from befalling her. She placed her hand on her abdomen, where it was greeted with a distinct flop from the growing child, a reminder of the delicate nature of life in these early moments. “I don’t like it, Luc.”
“For three or four weeks, you’ll be fine here, Nicole,” Luc said, inspecting the edge of the blade in the weak candlelight. “And with the profits I’ll make, we’ll be set all year.”
Nicole couldn’t argue. The money could help repair the ramshackle cabin. Though she held her tongue on the subject, Luc knew the condition of the house paired with the arrival of a baby made Nicole anxious.
“Luc, I’d really prefer that you stay here.” Nicole set aside her knitting and took her husband’s hand. “As you said we’ll be fine for the winter. Anything could happen.”
“If the natives come calling you’re a better shot than I am,” Luc said, laughing at his joke and returning to his knife.
“Don’t make light of it.” Nicole gripped her knitting needles to keep from hurling them at his head.
“Calm down. It’s three weeks.” Luc’s expression changed to annoyance, as though her fears of wildlife, storms, and hostile natives were the products of an overly vivid imagination.
“If you think you have to, go,” Nicole said, throwing her knitting in its basket and retreating to the lonely bed on the other side of the room. Luc was an endearing man. Perhaps too much for Nicole’s own good, but he was never so infuriating as when he would not listen to reason. There would be nothing she could say or do to sway him from his course, and she had to let him go.
Curse Luc Jarvais for leaving me here. Nicole would have screamed if she weren’t too busy shivering under her blankets. The howling winds cut through the rickety cabin and the October air was as merciless as she’d feared. How could a baby survive here in February? How would I?
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