Rose laughed as a few tears followed the first. “I owe her an apology.”
“She’ll forgive you,” he said. “My uncle cares for her despite her hesitation. I can see why you get along so well. The most reluctant pair of brides our dear Louis ever endowed.”
Rose laughed once more. “Perhaps.”
“What about me?” Henri asked. “Should I forgive you?”
“For what, exactly?” Rose asked.
“You spent so much time convincing yourself that you don’t care for me,” he said. “We could have spent that time together. I should be furious with you. But instead . . .”
Henri leaned in, tentative at first, and placed his lips upon hers. She curled her arms around him and accepted his embrace.
“You aren’t,” she said, when he reluctantly pulled away.
“No I’m not,” he said with a laugh. “Not even a little. Marry me? Please?”
Rose looked into his deep hazel-brown eyes and kissed his lips once more. A look of horror crossed her face.
“I can’t,” Rose said, starting to climb to her feet.
Henri grabbed her arm and pulled her into his lap, irrespective of passersby.
“You can,” he said. “It’s what you want.”
“I do,” Rose admitted. “But I love teaching the Huron children, and learning about them, too. I don’t want to go back to France. I don’t want to give it up and spend my days keeping house.”
“I can’t promise that you’ll have all the time you want to teach,” Henri said. “I want children, and that will demand a good deal of time from you. Still, I want you in my life. We can stay here if you wish, and you can keep teaching if you wish. I don’t want you for scrubbing dishes and mending clothes.” He kissed her callused fingers gently. “I want you for my wife. Please say yes.”
At the mention of childbirth, Gislène Laurier’s anguished face appeared in Rose’s mind. That could be me in less than a year. She forced herself not to shudder at the thought. But as Henri held her in his lap, his face imploring, she could not deny him.
“Yes,” Rose whispered.
Henri stood, pulled Rose to her feet, took her in his arms, and spun around like a gleeful child.
“Thank God,” he said, kissing her before setting her down.
“To the convent,” he said, taking her hand in his. “We have arrangements to make.”
That night, after the children were settled, apologies offered, and tears shed, Rose related the tale of her proposal to Nicole.
“It just doesn’t seem real,” Rose said.
“I know what you mean,” Nicole said. “For weeks after I married Luc, when people called me Madame Jarvais, I didn’t realize they were talking to me and wouldn’t answer! I am so happy for you.”
“Thank you, Nicole,” Rose said. “He is a good man.”
“I’m sure the two of you will be very happy,” Nicole said. “Was Sister Mathilde disappointed?”
“Not even surprised,” Rose said. “She had us matched up long ago.”
“Wise woman,” Nicole said, not forgetting Sister Mathilde’s intentions for the elder Lefebvre.
“And what about you?” Rose asked, broaching the subject once again. “You need to come up with a plan. And soon, if you’re wise.”
“I know,” Nicole said. “I’ve thought about taking a place of my own, perhaps working for Elisabeth and Gilbert if they’ll have me.”
“Is that what you really want?” Rose asked.
“Not really, but it’s a start.”
“I suppose,” Rose said. “But Alexandre is a good man. Don’t break his heart.”
“His heart isn’t mine to break,” Nicole said, shooting a weary glance in Rose’s direction.
“Henri says that his uncle cares for you a great deal, in fact.”
“Let’s just be happy for you tonight, please?” Nicole asked.
Too buoyant to argue, Rose hopped out of bed and kissed Nicole on the cheek. “Thank you. I am truly happy.”
“I know of no one who deserves it more,” Nicole said, embracing Rose. “Though I confess, I’m curious to know what the dashing rogue did to change your steadfast heart.”
Rose laughed as she climbed back under the warmth of her covers. “I’m not sure if it’s something he did, really. It’s as though I didn’t have a choice. Not an obligation, mind you. It’s just that I feel like I couldn’t live without him. Not a full life, anyway.”
“I remember feeling that way about Luc,” Nicole said, some of the joy in her voice replaced by melancholy. “In the early days.”
“I’m sure you’ll have those feelings again,” Rose said.
“No,” Nicole said. “I don’t need the flutter of young love again. But I do need a future for Hélène.”
“You’re wise,” Rose said. The thought of Nicole’s less-than idyllic future alone with a child tempered her own lightheartedness. Remembering the starry-eyed girl who asked Elisabeth about true love caused something to ache in Rose’s chest.
“I haven’t much choice. Hélène needs me to be,” Nicole said, her voice fading with fatigue.
The conversation soon dwindled and Rose was left alone with her thoughts. She would marry Henri and fulfill her duty to the Crown. But it did not ease the fear that gripped at her bowels and caused her to shake at night. Try as she might, the visions of Gislène Laurier and Elisabeth Beaumont’s children crept into her mind and refused to leave.
There must be a way to conquer this, or I will fail him. I will fail everyone.
CHAPTER 18
Nicole
July 1669
Rose and Henri were married one week later, with only Nicole and Alexandre in attendance. Henri beamed as the priest pronounced them husband and wife, and Rose smiled more than Nicole had ever seen. Henri had secured a fine stone house just three doors down from his uncle’s home, and the couple retreated there as soon as the marriage was blessed. Rose wanted no lavish meal or throng of guests, but contented herself with the luxury of a very handsome deep-red gown that Henri procured for her as a wedding gift. It must have cost the earth with the fine fabric and three seamstresses hard at work for the entire week, but the bride was so radiant, Nicole thought it well worth the cost.
“Allow me to see you home,” Alexandre said to Nicole as the happy couple disappeared from view.
“Please,” Nicole said quietly.
“A successful wedding, don’t you think?” Alexandre asked.
“Since the couple ended up married, I would say so,” Nicole replied, mirth shining in her eyes. “They did seem happy though.”
“I’ve never seen Henri so pleased,” Alexandre said. “Not since he was a small boy.”
“Rose, too,” Nicole said. “She deserves happiness. The last few years in France were not kind to her.”
“I envy their happiness,” Alexandre confessed. “I was married once before. Has anyone told you?”
“No,” Nicole said.
“I’m amazed. In a place like this, one’s life is hardly his own. I was married two years before you arrived. Her name was Laurence. She was sweet and gentle, with lovely chestnut hair like yours.” Alexandre’s voice was low, almost reverent as he spoke of his late wife. “We had a son, Philippe. That winter was terrible. The consumption claimed them both in two days.”
“I’m so sorry.” Nicole’s mind retraced its steps back to her first month in the colony and her first disastrous encounter with Alexandre and the conversation with Sister Mathilde that followed. She’d called him “poor man,” and Nicole hadn’t plucked up the courage to ask why he deserved her pity. But why had Sister Mathilde kept the secret from her? It would have served to soften her resentment of the proud man. Knowing she would never ask, she pushed the question from her mind.
“That’s why I was so short with you when I saw you out in the snow that night,” Alexandre said. “It was Laurence all over again. It was rude of me, and I’m sorry.”
“There is nothin
g to forgive, monsieur.” The past months had chipped away at the resentment she harbored toward him, but as he spoke of his past, the final shards melted like the last heaps of dirty snow in late spring.
“I know something of your pain,” he said. “I’ve tried not to press, but I still want you for my wife. If you won’t have me, at least let me send you and the baby back to France. I can’t bear to see you alone. A woman needs protection in a place like this.”
Return to France? To Papa and Maman and all the others? The prospect was delicious. For weeks, Maman would dote on her and the baby, feed them, coddle them . . . but then what would follow? The time would come for her to marry and she had nothing more to bring to a marriage than when she had left France. Alexandre’s offer wouldn’t include a dowry to marry another man. Nor could she bring herself to ask. And what could she muster for a dowry for Hélène when the time came? And there was Manon. What future could a native girl hope to have in the old country? In the settlement, people looked askance at her. In France, people would stare, treating her like an exotic attraction from a menagerie.
The alternative was to stay and marry the somber man who stood before her. Nicole touched the pearl brooch her mother had given her and thought of a second wedding her mother would not see. It flashed before her—a quiet affair—just she and Alexandre, perhaps Elisabeth or Rose or one of their husbands standing as witness. He would have her outfitted before the wedding in clothing befitting a woman of means. Fashionable, but sturdy. He’d see her settled in the Lefebvre house within an hour of the wedding, and her life would never again resemble her modest beginnings.
Would the change be welcome? Nicole shook the thought from her head and looked into Alexandre’s gray eyes. She had no choice.
“I envy their happiness as well, Alexandre,” Nicole said, astonished with herself for using his given name. “But I must also think of Manon.”
And of myself. Do I want to marry again? Alexandre won’t leave me to freeze in a shack, but will he be kind? Do I have a choice?
“The Huron child? I know you’re very attached to her.” Alexandre’s eyebrow arched at the odd bent in the conversation.
“I consider her my daughter.” Nicole met Alexandre’s eyes without wavering. “She risked her life trying to save my husband. I will not forsake her.”
“I understand. I would not ask you to,” Alexandre said, taking Nicole’s hand. “Please, I must know your answer.”
“If you don’t object to two daughters in addition to a wife, I accept.” Nicole exhaled as the words escaped her lips. She had made her vow.
“Nothing could make me happier,” Alexandre said, his smile subtracting years from his face. “I’ll take care of you all for as long as I take breath. You’ll never want for anything again.”
Alexandre kissed Nicole’s cheek and her color rose to crimson. The whole settlement would know the news before she reached the convent door.
Nicole looked into the face of her future husband. He had none of the youthful mirth of Luc Jarvais, or even the almost-forgotten Jean Galet. Alexandre Lefebvre was a man who had lived and knew the world. Still, Nicole realized her pain made her a poor companion for a green young man. Alexandre’s experience was what she needed, and the same was true for him. But could she endure his cold manner? Would she ever be welcome in his circles? She had to trust that he would help her find a place in his world, but faith in a husband had been a virtue poorly paid in the past.
At least I can bring him a measure of solace, even if that is all I can bring to the marriage.
PART 2
CHAPTER 19
Elisabeth
June 1670
Elisabeth tried and failed to fasten her skirt around her thickening waist. Although it was hard to dress in the dark, concealing her growing abdomen that grew more and more conspicuous each day was impossible. With a defeated sigh, Elisabeth dug for the larger clothes she had worn during her pregnancy with Adèle.
It’s just as well, thought Elisabeth. Perhaps some of the whispering will stop. Concealing pregnancy is both illegal and dangerous here, anyway.
Elisabeth, willing or not, heard most of the rumors and idle chatter in town. She knew nothing in the colony created more suspicion than a married couple that failed to produce a child almost every year. To be married for more than two years, and without a child, was all but unheard of. People whispered about the husband’s masculinity, the wife’s fidelity, or the couple’s dubious attempts to thwart pregnancy altogether. Her swollen abdomen would do nothing but improve her standing with her fellow settlers.
Elisabeth had suffered two miscarriages since Adèle, and was not eager to sing the joyous news of her pregnancy just yet. With each miscarriage, Gilbert’s suffering matched her own, and she was certain his worry even exceeded hers. For several weeks now, when she felt nauseated, she hid her illness with improvised excuses to leave the shop. When she could not bear to eat, she sneaked her soup back into the pot when Gilbert wasn’t looking or forced a small serving down despite her protesting stomach.
However, she calculated she had just five months until the baby arrived, so the time for secrecy was over.
“There you are,” Gilbert said with a smile. “I was wondering what was keeping you.”
“Sorry, love,” Elisabeth said, kissing his cheek. “I’ll get right to work.”
“Not to worry. Is that dress new?” Gilbert looked at his wife with an assessing eye.
“No. I haven’t worn it for a while, though.” She busied her hands measuring out flour, trying to keep her voice even.
A look of comprehension came over Gilbert’s face. He looked both thrilled and petrified. Elisabeth had bled so much, and been so ill, after the last miscarriage that the priest had been called to offer her last rites. Father Cloutier had spoken to Gilbert about the fragility of women, and how he must not despair if God chose to call Elisabeth home. Her husband’s scathing reply reached Elisabeth’s ears, even in her sickbed. She wasn’t surprised that the dour-faced priest had yet to return.
“How far along?” Gilbert asked.
“Four months. Maybe five. Almost halfway.” She had not looked up from her mixing bowl, but was proud that her hands did not shake.
“Good,” Gilbert said, embracing his wife. He pointed to the stool at Elisabeth’s worktable. “Now sit.”
She took her place with a smile and began her work.
“The more sitting you do, the less grief you’ll get from me. Do we have an understanding?” Gilbert softened his orders with a soft kiss on her floured cheek.
“Yes, monsieur,” Elisabeth purred.
“A blessing on obedient wives,” Gilbert said with a chuckle. “I’ll try not to be too much of a tyrant, though.”
“Thank you,” she said, knowing that her husband would gladly tie her to the chair to preserve her health.
After the afternoon rush, Elisabeth started for the stairs, excited at the prospect of a nap before supper.
The shop bell announced an arrival, so with a regretful look toward her bed, she turned back to the shop so Gilbert wouldn’t need to leave the ovens.
The customer was a young boy, perhaps eleven or twelve years of age. His eyes appeared to take up the majority of his smudged face, and he offered no smile or greeting.
“What can I get for you, young man?” Elisabeth asked, hoping a gentle prod would get the child to speak. Rather than respond, he grabbed a loaf of bread from the nearest basket and ran for the door. Had he not stumbled over the threshold, he would have escaped, but Gilbert emerged from the kitchen and caught the boy before he made off with his loot.
“What is the meaning of this?” Gilbert demanded as he detained the boy by one struggling arm.
The boy stared at Gilbert, expression mutinous, but did not speak.
“Are you hungry?” Elisabeth asked, guessing the root of the petty theft.
The boy looked at her, looked down, and still said nothing.
“Come with me,”
Elisabeth motioned. Gilbert followed her to the bakery kitchen, dragging the boy behind him.
Elisabeth placed a plate with a large roll and a generous cup of milk before the boy. “Eat, then speak.” She moved to ruffle his hair, but he dodged like a wary pup evading a kick.
A pang reached Elisabeth’s heart as the boy devoured every morsel of food.
“Who are your parents?” Gilbert asked, softening as he realized the extent of the boy’s hunger.
The boy opened his mouth to speak, but clapped it shut once more.
“You aren’t in trouble,” Elisabeth said. “We want to help you.”
“My name is Pascal Giroux,” he answered.
Elisabeth put another roll in front of him. It disappeared as quickly as the first.
“Your father is Raymond Giroux?” Gilbert asked.
The boy nodded. “You won’t tell him, will you?”
Gilbert shook his head. “Your farm is a half day’s walk from here. Is your father in town?”
“No, monsieur, I walked.” Pascal looked at his grubby hands. “We hadn’t nothing for breakfast. Wasn’t much chance of anything the rest of the day, either, so I . . . came here.”
“Things are that bad?” Gilbert asked.
Pascal nodded. “Maman’s sick. Papa’s not had good luck in the fields for two years. I thought you might not miss one loaf.”
“Young man,” Gilbert said. “You can’t think that way. What if everyone took ‘just one loaf’? Bakers everywhere would close their doors.”
“I didn’t think of it that way, monsieur,” Pascal said, looking ashamed. “I just thought of my stomach. I was going to share it, though.”
“I’m sure you were,” Elisabeth said. “And you’re young. I think the occasional error in judgment is forgivable—as long as it’s not repeated.”
Promised to the Crown Page 19
