Gilbert nodded. “It would have been far better to ask for help.”
“Yes, monsieur,” he said. “But isn’t that begging?”
“Better an honest beggar than a thief,” Gilbert said.
“I can’t wait till I’m grown.” The boy grew animated. “I’ll earn my wages and won’t ever starve.”
“A noble ideal, son,” Gilbert said. “And what is it you wish to do?”
“Anything but farming.” Pascal spit the words out as though they tasted bitter. “It’s too unsteady. One bad season and . . . Well . . .”
“It affects us all,” Elisabeth said. “Bad crops mean flour prices rise, we must charge more, and fewer people can buy our bread. We’re all at the mercy of the weather and other things we can’t control.”
“Well, I hate it,” Pascal said. “How’s a man to be certain of anything in this world?”
“He isn’t,” Elisabeth said, with a pat to her midsection. “We have to hope for the best and accept what happens.”
“That isn’t to say you can’t give fate a push,” Gilbert said. “God helps those who help themselves.”
He turned to his wife. “You stay here. I’ll see Pascal home. Hold some supper for me.”
“You mean I don’t have to walk?” Pascal asked, with tears welling in his eyes at the show of kindness.
“Of course,” Gilbert said. “It would be full dark by the time you reached the farm. You don’t want to get lost.”
“Take this for his family.” Elisabeth handed Gilbert a basket heaping with three or four loaves of bread and an assortment of rolls. Pascal’s eyes widened. He embraced Elisabeth with the enthusiasm of a five-year-old.
“You’re an angel, madame,” he said.
Gilbert placed his hand on the boy’s shoulder and led him off to the stables.
Two hours later, Gilbert returned, with Pascal in tow.
“An addition to our table tonight, if you don’t mind, madame,” Gilbert said in his teasing tone.
“Of course,” Elisabeth said, this time successful in her attempt to ruffle the boy’s hair. “I didn’t expect to see you so soon again, though.”
“I had a notion on the way to the Giroux place,” Gilbert said. “If Pascal is as serious as he claims to be about wanting to earn his way in the world, I thought he might be of use to us here in the shop. He could be an assistant, for now, and if that works out, I might make him my apprentice one day. If you agree, of course.”
“Please say yes, madame.” The pleading look in the boy’s eyes would have melted a sterner heart than Elisabeth’s.
“I think it’s a wonderful idea,” Elisabeth said.
Once more, Pascal wrapped his arms around Elisabeth. She kissed the top of his dirty head.
A bath, she thought, and before bed, too.
“You won’t be sorry,” Pascal said. “I’ll work myself to the bone, you wait and see.”
“Trust to that,” Gilbert said. “Madame Beaumont needs her rest and I intend to see that she has it. You are here, in part, to ease her load.”
“Supper, gentlemen,” Elisabeth said, placing a kettle of water on the stove to boil in preparation for the after-dinner scrubbing that Pascal did not yet know was in store for him.
Despite the two large rolls he had eaten only hours before, Pascal ate with the voracious appetite common to growing boys. With Elisabeth’s appetite increasing as well, she anticipated a few longer spells before the stove in coming months.
Pascal took to his bath with the grace of a feral cat, but submitted to Elisabeth’s orders in the end. She shuddered to think of the state of her guest room sheets if the boy had had his way. Once he was bathed and tucked away in his new lodgings, she soon heard the rasping of his sleeping breath.
“I hope you don’t mind, Elisabeth,” Gilbert said as they settled into bed a few minutes later. “It was a big decision to make without consulting you.”
“With a little bit of training he’ll be a lovely young man,” Elisabeth said, grateful to be off her feet. “It’s fine by me. Manon has been a great comfort to Nicole, and I’m sure Pascal will work hard for us. His parents didn’t object?”
“When given the chance for their boy to have an apprenticeship at no cost? Giroux isn’t such a fool as to turn that down. He rushed us out the door in case I changed my mind.”
“I hope he won’t pine too much for his family,” Elisabeth said. “He is very young to live away from them.”
“I doubt he will miss them much,” Gilbert said. “If you’d seen their place you would know I had no choice but to take him on. God’s truth, Raymond Giroux must be the laziest man in all of New France. His wife looks like she’s working herself to death, and the children are half starved. The bread you sent was more food than they’d seen in a month.”
“Poor Pascal,” Elisabeth said. “No wonder he was so emphatic about making his own living.”
“That’s why I decided to hire him,” Gilbert said. “He’s seen the cost of laziness firsthand. He’d defend his father to his last breath, but I’d bet this very shop he’s sick of depending on that man and being disappointed by him. He’ll be the hardest worker in the settlement when he’s grown.”
“You’re a good man, Gilbert,” Elisabeth said, snuggling closer to her husband.
“I hope I’m right about Pascal,” Gilbert said. “And I hope he’s a quick learner so that you can get to resting.”
“I can teach from a chair, my love,” Elisabeth said. “And he needs us.”
“I can’t disagree with that,” Gilbert said, wrapping his arms around her. “He’ll need some schooling also. If he’s under my roof I want him able to face the world when he leaves our service. My father made me go to school, dragged me there more than once, and though I had no taste for it at the time, I’m grateful now.”
“That seems like a sound plan to me,” Elisabeth agreed. Considering Pascal’s brief tirade before his bath, she added, “Some of his vocabulary could use a little refinement.”
“That it could,” Gilbert agreed with a laugh. “I don’t think his father guards his tongue very well.”
“I’m sure you’ll do better,” Elisabeth said.
“I hope so, sweetheart,” he agreed, his hand finding her abdomen and rubbing gently. He kissed her brow and pulled her close. “God strike me dead for saying this, but as much as I want you to have my child, I don’t want to go through this again.”
“I can’t say I’m looking forward to it either, love,” Elisabeth said. “But we’ll weather the storm.”
Gilbert said nothing, but squeezed his wife even tighter. That’s right, my love. Keep me close. Don’t let me leave you, for I’ve no great desire to go.
Elisabeth knew the fear would only subside with the birth of the child. She clung to her husband and hoped that they would somehow find solace in the next few months.
“Very good!” Elisabeth praised her young pupil. “Now gently form the dough into a ball like so and cover the bowl with a warm, damp rag. Then we let it sit for an hour before we bake it.”
“Why can’t we just put it in now?” Pascal asked. “It would be faster.”
“Yes, but if you don’t let the yeast rest, the bread won’t rise. It will just stay in a tough lump. Not very nice to eat,” Elisabeth explained.
“That must be how Mother makes her bread then,” Pascal said. “Hard as a rock. I’ll give her lessons when I visit home.”
“She might appreciate that,” Elisabeth said, uncertain whether Brigitte Giroux was the type to appreciate tutelage from her young son.
As promised, Elisabeth sat as much as she could and taught Pascal the trade, making him “do” rather than “watch.” She soon realized that the boy would not have tolerated passive instruction well. After three days, Elisabeth trusted him with mixing and baking most of the bread, while she devoted herself to pastries and cakes. The inventory was finally keeping pace with the demands of the hungry settlement.
Each Sunday
, as was the tradition of apprentices in the colony, Pascal returned home for a visit. He left with a heavy basket of bread and Elisabeth suspected he returned with a heavier heart. The longer he lived away from his family, the more he understood their dire situation and how little he could do to help them change it. Elisabeth sensed a growing tension between Pascal and his father, though the boy never breathed a word about the problem.
“You know you’re welcome to stay with us on Sundays,” Elisabeth said. “We’d be happy to have you.”
“I know, but I want to see the rest of the family, especially Gabrielle.” Pascal had a soft spot for his sister, who was a few years younger than he.
Elisabeth sensed that the little girl and the basket of bread were the only things that kept Pascal going out to the farm each week. The basket comprised the majority of their pantry. Even one missed visit would mean hardship for the Giroux children, so Pascal made the journey without complaint. He even refused to let Gilbert drive him home and back. He was learning something of his master’s pride. While it would serve him well in time, she hoped he wouldn’t allow his dignity to compromise his health.
“It will be fine,” Pascal said. “The walk is good for me, and it lets me think.”
“It can be a comfort,” Elisabeth agreed. “My father lived for his daily constitutional. He said it energized him between bouts at the oven and teaching me his business.”
“He sounds like a good man,” Pascal said, with no small trace of envy in his voice. “A good teacher. If I ever have a son, I’ll teach him a trade.”
“A wise notion,” Elisabeth said. She had no doubt that he meant what he said. Hunger had been a cruel education.
I will train you, young man. I will see to it that you have a good start in life. If your parents cannot do that for you, I must.
In such a short time, Elisabeth had come to think of Pascal as her own. Perhaps because she had not had children of her own yet, and because she could never consider her pregnancy as any sort of guarantee that she ever would. She was grateful for his presence as an assistant, for certain. The baby was becoming demanding of her energy, and there was no denying that Pascal lightened her burdens. Even without much training, he could fetch and carry, which proved an enormous help. But beyond that, he was a smart and affectionate boy. Elisabeth hated the harsh life he’d endured and hoped her child—or children, God willing—would never know such hardship.
“I think you’ve earned a break, son,” Elisabeth said with a smile. “Take a pastry or two and enjoy some sunshine.”
Never one to deny himself food or time out-of-doors, Pascal nodded enthusiastically and thundered from the kitchen through the shop to the freedom that lay beyond the bakery doors.
Elisabeth walked out of the kitchen to her seat behind the shop counter to see Pascal outside conversing with some of the other boys his age while they shared some of his pastry. Baked goods seemed a key to social success among his new social circle. Enjoy some childhood, sweet boy. You’ve earned it.
CHAPTER 20
Rose
June 1670
Rose wasn’t quite sure how long she’d been staring into the void rather than hemming the trousers in her hands, but it was long enough for Nicole to clear her throat and call her friend back to the present moment.
“Rose, are you quite all right?”
“Fine,” Rose answered, looking up from her mending. “A bit tired perhaps.” The ever-acceptable excuse for a young married woman. Never angry, sad, or lonely. Always tired. Rose looked down at the frayed edges of Henri’s trousers and tried to focus. Weekly, they met in Nicole’s parlor to attend to these chores with the benefit of company to pass the time, but Rose wearied of the questions, no matter how much she cared for her friends.
“Do you think . . .” Elisabeth asked, patting her protruding midsection.
“No,” Rose said. Her courses had just ended and she would have had no cause to think she could be expecting anyway.
However, people were already talking.
Almost a year. No sign of a baby.
“Your time will come,” Nicole said with a gentle smile. Her own swollen belly betrayed her secret also.
Easy for the two of you to say, Rose fumed. Both of you are well advanced in your pregnancies. Rose took a breath and scolded herself. They are good friends; I shouldn’t think that way. I should be happy for them even if I can’t be for myself. I have no desire to give birth, God knows, but it would be nice to be free of suspicious glances.
“I’m sure,” Rose said, aiming for a tone of nonchalance, and not quite hitting her mark. Changing the subject, she added, “The bakery seems to be doing a roaring trade, Elisabeth.”
“So it would seem,” Elisabeth agreed. “Gilbert has hardly had a moment’s rest these past two weeks. I must say I’m grateful he’s ordered me off my feet. He and Pascal are doing beautifully, so long as I oversee the morning pastries.”
Nicole and Alexandre would be constructing a grand house in town that spring and renting out plots to farmers soon after. Alexandre had his fortune made.
“How about some cider?” Nicole offered, tiring of her knitting.
“I had best be going home, actually,” Rose said. “Several matters need me.”
If they thought her departure abrupt, Nicole and Elisabeth said nothing. Rose was grateful. She had no desire to answer their questions.
At home, Rose was not greeted, as she had hoped, by the aroma of dinner wafting from the kitchen. Not having the means that his uncle did, Henri’s staff consisted of two: Agathe and Jacques Thiberge, an elderly couple who served the young Lefebvres. At least, they served to the best of their ability, but their stamina was not at its peak.
“Good afternoon, Agathe,” Rose said. “Have you begun supper?”
“No, madame, I was just about to.” Some ingredients had been gathered on the worktable, but no further progress made.
“Agathe, we’re not in the custom of eating in the middle of the night. You need to remember to start meals earlier.” Rose kept the frustration from her voice at some cost.
“My apologies, madame,” Agathe said, not sounding contrite.
Discussing the matter with Henri would do no good. There wasn’t an abundance of help to hire in the settlement, especially with limited funds.
“I’m afraid supper may be a bit late,” Rose said, knocking on Henri’s study door.
“Fine, fine,” he said. He glanced up from his correspondence. “Anything else you need?”
“No, I’ll leave you to your work. I’ll call you for dinner.”
“Thank you,” he answered, already reimmersed in the papers before him.
Not knowing what else to do, Rose mounted the staircase and stretched out on a settee in her sitting room. Not feeling equal to a book, she closed her eyes and tried to relax.
Henri had withdrawn from the marriage, and Rose had, too. As much as she wanted to please her husband, Rose found his embraces impossible to endure. Every time he approached her, the specter of her uncle’s caresses entered her mind and sickened her. The men were no more alike than a fine silk gown and a feed sack, yet she could not divorce herself from her past.
She pled for Henri’s patience, but after a time his advances stopped. This relieved Rose . . . though the fact embarrassed her. After years of the finest training, she knew that a wife’s first duty was to submit to her husband. She had come to this settlement to populate it, but she lacked the strength to allow it.
Rose half expected Henri to present her with an annulment notice, but he was too proud a man to let his marital unhappiness become a source of public gossip—any more than it already was.
The smells of Agathe’s stew drifted up the stairs and beckoned Rose’s appetite. Despite her deficiencies, Agathe was an impeccable cook, at least when it came to plain fare, which suited Rose just fine. A hearty mutton stew and crusty bread would be restorative on a brisk June night.
As was their custom, Henri and Ros
e chatted throughout the meal. The conversation never varied from the minutiae of the day. As always, they avoided the real issues. The tone remained cheerful.
The less the servants heard, the better.
“I must go to see my uncle later this evening,” Henri announced toward the end of the meal. “I may be gone quite some time.”
Rose wondered if this was a pretense to go elsewhere, but she dismissed the idea just as soon as it entered her mind. If Henri were going astray, he would not choose an alibi that she could so easily verify.
I wouldn’t blame you if you did stray, Rose thought. My poor Henri, you deserve better.
“Of course. Would you like me to accompany you?”
“I have business to discuss,” he said, pushing his plate forward. “I’d prefer you didn’t.”
“As you wish,” she replied. Her tone was sweet. If she could not be a good wife, at least she was dutiful where she could be.
Henri had not returned by midnight. Although Rose kept her own room, his absence bothered her. Unable to sleep, she walked the corridors of the house she loved. It was not as grand as her childhood home, or her uncle’s, but it was warm and inviting. The day Henri had brought her here she felt at ease within its walls.
The door to Henri’s study was open. Rose decided to straighten his desk, as she sometimes did, as a small signal of her attention to his needs.
A letter, written in a bold hand, caught her attention:
M. Henri Lefebvre:
Be advised that upon learning of your unsanctioned marriage to Mademoiselle Rose Barré, your father has, effective immediately, transferred the inheritance of his entire estate to your brother, M. Lionel Lefebvre. Your father believes the accounts that the women sent by the King to his colonies are common orphans at best, and remains adamant that you have made a “horrendous error in judgment” (his words).
You retain your holdings on Martinique, as they were gifted to you, but you stand to inherit nothing at the decease of your father. He wishes to express his disappointment in your choice not to return to France and take your place as his son and heir.
Promised to the Crown Page 20
