For the first two weeks after Luc’s departure, it was the loneliness that plagued her. Her family’s farm was active and bustling; the convent, too, was alive with life. By contrast, her little home felt eerie and foreign. Nicole was unused to solitude and refused to make friends with it. In two weeks she scrubbed every surface clean to the point of sparkling, mended every scrap of clothing, and knitted miles of baby blankets and other garments. She passed the time, but felt unable to cast off her restlessness. Then the weather turned, and it was all she could do to keep from freezing. The paltry stack of firewood Luc had left was long since depleted, and it was all she could do to chop enough on her own to keep the fire going. Luc had been sure the storms would not hit so early. Yet another miscalculation.
There was a persistent thump-thump-thump at the door, which Nicole assumed to be the wind, until she realized the rhythm was too regular. She sat up in the bed and set aside the blanket with a regretful glance. It might be Luc, unable to open the door if the wind has barred it with snow. She saw the shotgun, always loaded, that stood next to the door. Or it might not be. She grabbed the gun with a silent prayer that she wouldn’t be forced to use it.
On the porch stood a young girl, four or five years of age. She was lithe like the white-tailed deer so abundant in the woods, with night-black hair styled in two messy braids and large black eyes filled with fear. Nicole guessed she was a child of the Huron people who had a settlement close to the farm. She was dressed from head to foot in thick leather and fur pelts, but still looked frozen to the porch.
“Hello.” Nicole spoke slowly, unsure if the girl could understand French.
The child responded with a few words in her own language. Nicole shook her head to show that she did not understand.
“Are you hungry?” Nicole pointed to the cauldron that hung with the frozen remnants of her supper from two days ago.
The child shook her head and grabbed Nicole’s hand, pulling her into the glacial October night. The child barely gave Nicole the chance to grab her cloak and shut the door with another prayer that none of the candles would burn the house down before they returned from wherever the child was dragging her. Still, the child’s panicked expression made Nicole unable to refuse the unknown request. Perhaps the child had a sibling in trouble and Nicole was the nearest adult to help. Whatever the reason, she had to go.
“Where are we going?” Nicole asked.
The child offered a few words, none of which Nicole understood.
They continued for a quarter of an hour into the heart of the woods where Nicole had never dared to venture. If the child left her, she would never find her way back, especially since the snow kept her from seeing more than a few feet in front of her. When the child dropped her hand and darted forward, Nicole’s stomach churned with fear.
“Stop!” she yelled. “Wait for me!” The snow stole the words from her mouth. The Huron child wouldn’t be able to hear her cries, no matter how loud.
She cursed her slowed movements and awkward gait. The Huron girl peeked back from around a tree and motioned for Nicole to join her.
At the base of the tree lay Luc, arrows lodged in his shoulder and thigh.
“Oh God!” Nicole dropped to her knees at her husband’s side. “Luc, no, please!”
She forced herself to take a few steadying breaths and gather her wits. She saw that his chest rose and fell, though the breathing was shallow and irregular.
Thank God, Nicole thought.
She examined his wounds, hesitant to touch them, but knowing he would have no chance otherwise. The arrows came out, taking hunks of flesh with them. She ripped strips from her petticoat and wrapped them on the wounds as tight as she could, though the bleeding refused to cease.
The Huron girl emerged from the forest, and Nicole scolded herself for not noticing that the girl had disappeared.
The child bore a large branch and ran back for another. She then rooted through Luc’s sack and found a thick woolen blanket that had been Luc’s bed since he left the farm. Taking a knife, the girl made slits in the fabric every few inches. Nicole was impressed by the girl’s skill, thinking she must be older than she looked, but didn’t spare the time to comment on it.
When the girl began to weave the blanket onto the branches, Nicole understood and helped the child fashion a crude stretcher to drag her husband home.
Nicole managed to lift and roll Luc’s considerable frame onto the stretcher and secure him the best she could. The girl gathered the supplies and hoisted Luc’s pack, almost as large as she was, onto her back and set off toward the farmhouse.
Nicole looked down at her husband, kissed his brow, and lifted one end of the stretcher, dragging the other behind her. She had to stop every few moments to catch her breath. The muscles in her back screamed against the odd contortions and exertion. The snow, for the first time, proved an asset. The makeshift stretcher slid with relative ease over the snow, though it demanded every ounce of Nicole’s strength to pull it.
The trek into the woods had taken fifteen minutes. It took close to an hour, cloaked in complete darkness, to return. Nicole all but wept when she saw the farmhouse and redoubled her efforts until she reached the door.
Inside, Nicole resisted the urge to collapse on the floor. She worked on freeing Luc from the stretcher. The blanket was soaked through with blood; Nicole’s hands were slick with it as she attempted to loosen the wet knots. Once she freed him from the stretcher, Nicole gathered clean cloths and made proper bandages for the wounds. Nicole fought rising nausea as she removed the old bandages that had done little to stem the flow of blood from his shoulder and thigh.
His flesh was cold. Too cold.
Sometime during her slog back to the cabin, Luc had died.
She lay down next to her husband and surrendered to the tears. Despite his faults, he had been a good man, a kind husband.
No more late-night embraces, no more sweet boyish face to greet her. The injustice had yet to occur to her. The pain was all she could comprehend at that moment.
The Huron girl sat next to them, barely stirring except to stroke Nicole’s hair.
Within minutes, Nicole’s hips screamed for her to rise off the hard wooden floor, and she had no choice but to listen. She covered Luc’s broken body with one of the embroidered sheets she’d received as a bride and cleaned herself of his blood. The dress was frozen stiff with snow and caked with crimson. She looked down and shook her head, knowing it was destined for the rag pile.
What a thing to think of at a time like this. Nicole growled at herself as she found her warmest nightgown. You have another. Many could not say the same. Her pragmatic nature forgave the errant thought. Replacing her dress would be months off, especially now. If she hadn’t another, God knew how she’d be able to clothe herself until she regained her pre-pregnancy figure.
The little girl looked expectantly at Nicole. God, her parents must be sick with worry with her missing out in this storm. Nicole looked out the one window and saw that the snow still fell steadily and the night was moonless. There is no way I can take the child home in this. She’s better off here for the night. Her parents will be glad for it despite their sleepless night.
The Huron girl accepted one of Luc’s old shirts with a questioning look, perhaps confused by the need to change clothes for sleep. Nicole changed into her nightgown and climbed into bed. Every aching muscle shouted at her; she did her best to drown them out. Though she did not think sleep would come, she knew she needed to rest for the baby.
A slender arm the color of warm cedar wrapped around Nicole and provided her with some warmth against the frigid night.
Sleep came faster and deeper than Nicole expected, and she was surprised when sunlight woke her the following morning. As she prepared breakfast for herself and the Huron girl, she felt more grounded, if not better. The Huron girl sat in the seat Nicole preferred, closest to the fire, and waited for her meal, hands placed demurely on her lap and black-brown eyes traili
ng Nicole around the kitchen. There was so much to be done. She had to see Luc buried properly. She had to figure out what to do with their home. Where to go. But before she could do any of those things, she had to see the little native girl fed a decent breakfast.
“I hope you like this,” Nicole said, setting a plate of good bread and salted pork before the child. To Nicole’s relief, the girl ate with enthusiasm.
“Nicole,” she said, patting her own chest. It embarrassed Nicole that she hadn’t thought of this before. Of course, we were busy last night, Nicole reminded herself.
“Nicole,” the girl repeated.
“Yes!” Nicole said with a smile. She pointed in the girl’s direction. “You?”
The girl responded in Wendat, but Nicole could not wrap her tongue around the syllables. The young girl shook her head at Nicole’s efforts. “May I call you Manon?” Nicole asked. “I’ve always liked that name.”
“Manon,” said the girl, trying the name on her tongue. “Manon.” She pointed to herself and nodded.
The rest of the meal was spent with Nicole naming objects in French and Manon mimicking her pronunciation. It was a good—if fleeting—distraction from the myriad duties at hand. Nicole looked toward the entry where Luc’s body still lay. The trip into town could not be put off. Luc needed a proper funeral and burial, and the Sisters would be able to find out who the child was and where to take her. The idea of seeing a familiar face was also a comforting prospect.
She had never hitched the horse to the sleigh before, but managed without too much trouble. Luc’s old nag, Gillette, looked at Nicole with martyred patience but seemed happy enough to stretch her legs.
Manon was delighted with the horse and disappointed that Nicole refused to let the girl hold the horse’s reins as they drove along.
They left Luc’s body behind. Nicole worried that she might hurt herself further if she tried to load him into the sleigh. She felt sure his friends from the regiment would collect their fallen comrade for burial.
Though not an accomplished horsewoman, Nicole urged Gillette on as quickly as she dared, anxious to reach town. I can’t believe you left me here all alone, Luc. You were convinced nothing would happen to me or the baby. You never stopped to think about what would become of us if something happened to you. . . . Nicole channeled her anger to urge the horse through the snow.
Less than two hours later, Manon sat on the floor of the convent’s common room, deep in conversation with Rose. Nicole was deeply impressed by her friend’s grasp of the language after a month of study with Sister Hortense, who led most of the catechism courses with the native girls, but was unable to focus for long on the conversation. She mostly stared into the fire and tried not to think. Luc’s death had yet to fully register, and she knew the pain would come soon enough. For now, finding out where little Manon belonged was her chief concern. It kept the angry thoughts about Luc’s carelessness at bay. She wanted to think well of her departed husband, but found it difficult now that she faced a future with her unborn child without the protection of a spouse.
At one point, Manon giggled, jumped up, and ran toward the convent kitchen.
“I’ve sent her to watch Sister Éléonore make bread,” Rose said. “She’s a sweet child.”
“That she is,” Nicole agreed. “What have you learned?”
“She lives with the Huron tribe that lives not far from your homestead, as you guessed. She saw what happened. She says it was an accident. Two of the Huron men were hunting. They mistook Luc for a deer. She thinks they left because they feared trouble with our law.”
“Reasonable enough,” Nicole said, knowing the laws in New France were often unkind to the native people. “She must want to get back to her family.”
“She lives with an elderly grandmother. Her parents died,” Rose said.
“Poor baby.” Nicole glanced toward the kitchen.
“She doesn’t seem happy,” Rose said. “It sounds to me like the grandmother is ill. Perhaps gravely so. She says she’s seen eight summers to her grandmother’s eighty.”
“She’s really eight years old? She looks like she couldn’t be any older than five or six.” Nicole, not knowing what to do with her hands, folded them in her lap.
“So she claims,” Rose said, looking in the direction of the giggles from the kitchen. “I don’t doubt her based on the way she spoke. She’s bright.”
“Yes. And capable.” Nicole thought of the way the girl fashioned the stretcher in the midst of the storm, but could not bring herself to speak of it to Rose.
“Is there anything we can do?” Nicole wondered.
“I’ll go to the tribe and ask,” Rose said. “They’re pretty friendly. They’ve allowed several of the girls to take classes here.”
“Thank you, Rose,” Nicole said. “If it weren’t for her, Luc would still be out there.”
She shivered at the thought of her husband dying alone in the woods. Tears began to fall.
Rose took her friend in her arms and rubbed Nicole’s back as she sobbed. “He was almost home,” Nicole sputtered. “Twenty minutes at most and he would have been home.”
“Madame,” said a male voice from the door to the common room. “We’ve collected Luc. He’s at the church. We cleaned up . . . as best we could.”
After a moment, Nicole recognized the young man from Luc’s regiment. Something-or-other Gérard. A nice young man, from what little she knew.
“Thank you very much,” Nicole said. “I’m grateful to you all.”
“Say nothing about it, madame,” the soldier said. “We’re terribly sorry it happened. Be happy to find the red-devil bastards who did this to him. Begging your pardon, madame.”
“No need. We’ve learned it was an honest accident.” Nicole did not feel the need to explain all Manon had done. The soldier was the type who would always think of retribution first.
“As you say, madame.” Though he looked unconvinced, the young man bowed his way out of the room.
Rose cast an annoyed look after the soldier. In her talks with Nicole, she revealed that the more she learned about the native people, the more she cared for them. Accidents like these were dangerous to the delicate relations between the settlers and the Huron. Too many on both sides considered violence as the most efficient form of diplomacy.
Luc Jarvais was laid to rest the following day in the settlement cemetery. As the priest spoke, Nicole did not weep or rage at the injustice of a life cut far too short. She felt a numbness, a disbelief, that had yet to dissipate.
“Thank you,” Nicole said to one of the numerous soldiers who offered a kind remembrance of Luc to his widow. So many of them descended upon her after the burial that their faces began to blur.
“You’re exhausted,” Elisabeth said, rubbing her friend’s back. “Let’s get you home.”
Elisabeth scanned the small crowd for Rose, who stood at the edge of the group in deep discussion with Sister Hortense, Rose’s mentor and friend.
Elisabeth caught Rose’s eye and gestured her intent to take Nicole back to the convent.
“I wish I had words for you,” Elisabeth said as she installed Nicole in the common room with a cup of crisp spruce beer.
Nicole had refused food, and for today Elisabeth and the others would not press.
Manon, rarely out of Nicole’s sight since the night Luc died, sat on the floor playing with a simple cloth doll that Sister Anne had fashioned for her.
“I do remember from when I lost my father. Words don’t help much anyway,” Elisabeth said.
“Not really,” Nicole agreed. “I am so glad you’re here. I thought you might be burdened enough.”
“I’m glad I was able,” Elisabeth said.
Nicole squeezed her friend’s hand, wishing she had better means to express her gratitude.
“Have you any plans?” Elisabeth asked.
“Not yet,” Nicole said. For the moment, she lived hour to hour. Anything beyond that seemed too colossal.
“Yes,” Nicole said, tone wooden. Another of the countless worries she had yet to consider.
“I suggest selling the rights to the homestead if you don’t wish to manage it yourself,” Sister Mathilde said, “and sooner rather than later. You’ll fetch the best price while the land is cleared and the house is in good repair.” At that statement, Nicole bit her tongue. If the good Sister saw the condition of the house that Luc described as “being in good repair” she would have cursed him for ever taking one of her girls to live there.
“A sound idea,” Nicole said. The room swirled at the thought of managing a hundred acres.
“You don’t need to make any decisions today, or for a few weeks yet,” Sister Mathilde said, patting Nicole’s shoulder. “I don’t mean to be callous, dear, but there are decisions that ought to be made.”
“Of course, Sister,” Nicole said.
Sister Mathilde was one of the least callous people Nicole knew, but the nun was ruthlessly practical. “Thank you for letting me stay here. Your kindness means so much to me. I hope I can be of some service while I’m here.”
“Our pleasure to help,” Sister Mathilde said. “Just rest and protect that child of yours. That is the biggest service you can provide.”
“I’ll do my best.” Nicole looked down at her abdomen that had begun to swell with child, and felt an overwhelming sadness for the child who would never know firsthand how much his father loved him. But as she sat, absorbing the warmth of the fire, grateful for the absence of wind blowing through timber gaps in shoddy walls, she knew she was better off here. She rubbed her swollen abdomen; the baby certainly will be, despite Luc’s grand plans and good intentions. That night she wept herself to sleep. Not out of grief for her husband, but out of shame that she would not miss him like a wife should.
Promised to the Crown Page 14
