Land of Hope

by Paul C R Monk

  ‘As you can see, we have moved up in the world!’ added Madame de Fontenay with a drop of irony.

  ‘I would not, for a minute, imagine that you could become a supporter of slavery,’ said Jacob, flinging a handful of walnut shells into the fire. ‘But what about the plantation your husband spoke of?’

  ‘Oh, I will talk him out of it should the notion blossom in his mind, and he will listen to me, have no fear.’

  ‘And he certainly does that, all right,’ seconded Madame de Fontenay. ‘Why, he will do anything for her, just like my husband used to . . . in the early days. But slaves or no slaves, my dears, what is worrying is being so close to New France. It is bad enough living in the sticks with the wolves!’

  ‘We are not living amid the wolves, Grandmother, rather the squirrels.’

  ‘And the rats! And what if the French invade and capture Manhattan? What will happen to us?’

  ‘That is why those from La Rochelle have chosen the east side, Grandmother. You need not worry, Daniel already told you. And we shall have a splendid house, more land, and people with whom you can speak in French.’

  ‘Oh, I am past worrying about myself, my dear. The French and the Indians wouldn’t roast an old timer like me, far too nervy,’ said the old woman, as plucky as ever. ‘And I am not worried about a splendid house either. I’m quite all right with Martha next door; at least she doesn’t keep telling me how to knit properly! I was thinking about you two and the baby.’

  ‘Daniel says there will be a boat moored in the bay in case we need to escape to New York, or to Brooklyn. Besides, if the French attack, which they won’t, it would be from the west. They would come down the Hudson River from Albany.’

  The old lady gave no answer. Instead, she placed a finger on her lips and nodded towards the opposite armchair.

  Perhaps it was the coffee and nuts, or the warmth of the fire, or maybe something else, but Jacob at last had given in to an irrepressible urge to close his eyes. He had fallen into a snorting slumber, stirred only by the intermittent pouring of hot water from a ewer.

  *

  Half an hour later, he was transported back to his country estate in France, fields golden with wheat and orchards laden with fat fruit. He was standing in the reservoir he had devised for irrigation purposes, where his children and his farmhands sometimes bathed after a long summer day’s picking.

  He suddenly found himself standing underwater with a crowd of babbling people, fully dressed and having fun, bounding from the shallow lake bed to the surface. He looked around and saw his son Paul kicking away from the stony bottom with a gleeful smile. But as the boy reached the end of his thrust, the water’s surface seemed to inch agonisingly further away.

  ‘I need to breathe now,’ Jacob heard the boy say calmly after landing back down on the lake bed, eyes beginning to bulge. Jacob seized him by the waist, thrust him upward, but again the boy only broke the surface with his outstretched hands. Jacob propelled the boy upward again with all his might. Again, only the boy’s hands reached out of the water.

  But suddenly, as the lad began to sink back down, an anonymous hand plunged into the water, clasped the boy’s arm, and pulled him out of the lake.

  The next instant, Jacob was standing on the grassy shore. Paul was standing, eyes reddened, lips violet with cold, but alive. There came a sudden loud pop, and Jacob, fearing musket fire, threw his arms around his son protectively as a company of dead Spanish cadets came walking, weapons in hands, from out of the black waters of the lake.

  ‘No!’ cried Jacob. ‘No! Go away!’

  Jacob awoke to an insistent knocking at the lounge door.

  ‘Are you all right, Monsieur Delpech?’ called the voice of the old lady.

  The fire crackled in the grate as he sat up in the bathtub in a cold sweat, burdened by thoughts of his wife stranded in London, burdened by the thought of the woman on the ship drowned in grief and debt.

  ‘All is well, just fell asleep in the tub, ha,’ he called out, surprised at the thickness of his voice.

  *

  The following morning, Jacob ached all over and could barely stand, let alone walk. The bone-chilling cold and muffled silence, the bleak light seeping through the window, and the echoey caw of the crow gave an atmosphere of stillness.

  Half-frozen and trembling, he managed to slip his arms into his overcoat and stagger from the bedpost to the dresser near the second-floor window. His gaze fell upon a spectacular surprise. A glistening blanket of pure white snow lay over land, rooftops, and trees. He placed an eye to the cold brass telescope mounted on a tripod near the window box and pointed it towards the East River estuary. ‘Good God,’ he croaked to himself as a cold droplet dripped from his nose. ‘The river has frozen over!’

  TWO

  ‘My dear sister,

  I pray this letter finds you in good health, and that you and my dear nephew have found satisfactory refuge with the good people of Schaffhausen. Your letter gave me much hope for your husband, but both Robert and I are of the opinion that it would be better to rest until the spring, before you travel to London to be reunited with him. Please write back saying you will, my sister. It will reassure me to know you are with friends in wintertime rather than on the roads.

  ‘Elizabeth is becoming a fine young lady and misses you dearly. You must know that she would not follow your guide because, she recently confided, she could not leave her little sister in her grave, even less her baby sister Isabelle. She has indeed become a proper little mother and would make you proud.

  ‘I know it must pain you to be so far from them, but, though Robert has pulled through his illness, I will not pretend that he will ever be strong enough to leave the country. However, a day will come, he is sure, when Lizzy and Isabelle will be able to join you.

  ‘Meanwhile, he has been desperately trying to gather signatures of trustworthy men so that he may send you a bill of exchange. Although, as you can imagine, given the present climate, almost everyone he has approached would rather wait before committing their names and reputation in case they are discovered financing a Huguenot. It is preposterous, I do concede, but Robert is adamant he will get funds to you eventually. It is merely a question of time.

  ‘I have enclosed a sketch of the girls as they are now. They were drawn last Wednesday 14th December. What merriment we had, and such a job it was to have Isabelle sit still long enough. But she did so when we told her she would be sitting for her mother, the lady in the painting.’

  The sound of children’s laughter brought Jeanne’s eyes from Suzanne’s letter.

  She gazed out of her bedroom window at the undulating ice-crusted layers of snow that surrounded the house of her hosts. It sat outside the city walls, a daring decision for sure, but it meant paying fewer taxes and being near the sawmill. And besides, young Etienne Lambrois feared neither villain nor beast.

  She watched Paul and a host of rambunctious children guffawing, running and sliding behind horse-drawn sleighs that were being conducted to the frozen lake at the end of the snow-covered track. A steady stream of villagers in boots and furs were cheerily walking or skiing down to join the crowd that had already gathered there. Today was a particularly special day, the last day of the sleigh races. Two of the Huguenots would be racing in the final, and the honour of the seasoned Schaffhausen sleigh drivers was at stake!

  Etienne and Jean Fleuret had repaired and made new a number of sleighs, two of which they had purchased for their own winter activities. They were at present driving them down to the lake around which the races had been taking place since yesterday.

  Jeanne returned a wave to Paul, who was climbing aboard Jean Fleuret’s sleigh, before glancing round at the wall above her pinewood dresser where the sketch of her daughters was pinned. She then reread the lines in her sister’s letter that mentioned why Lizzy had refused to join her, and that she missed her mother, which gave Jeanne some consolatory reassurance. But of course, Suzanne could not say the same for her baby daugh
ter, snatched from Jeanne’s bosom when she was barely weaned. Isabelle, who would be a walking, talking child by now, would have no recollection of her mother to miss. Jeanne would be the lady in the painting at the top of the stairs, that was all. After mulling it over time after time, it now made sense to Jeanne that it could only be God’s will for Lizzy to remain in her hometown, where she could watch over her baby sister and at least transmit some of the motherly love Jeanne had given her.

  ‘Jeanne?’ called an excited female voice. ‘Jeanne? Are you coming?’

  ‘Yes, yes, Claire. Be down in a moment,’ returned Jeanne, getting to her feet and reaching for the winter cloak and muff laid out on her bed—her green coat of old no longer sufficing for the rigours of the Swiss winter. They had been given to her by a widowed burgher who had heard of her plight and brutal fall from wealth. But Jeanne had insisted on paying with earnings from her work. She made cloth for a master weaver anxious to learn the techniques taught to her by the French weaver in whose workshop she had been given refuge, before her flight from France.

  Without friends, she thought to herself, where would she be now? How would she have survived the harsh northern winter? With a last glimpse through the window at the leaden sky, Jeanne pinned on her flat beaver hat and exited the room, thinking to herself that it would not be easy to give up a roof and her friends when the time came to leave.

  *

  Down at the lakeside, Jeanne, Claire, and Ginette joined the village folk standing in little clusters—now cheering as the sleighs sped by, now dipping their heads into their shoulders like the subdued crows perched in the tall, bare trees of the nearby copse.

  The afternoon rolled on in high spirits, along with hot mulled wine and pleasant chatter, into the final race. Already chimneys on distant farmsteads were letting out wispy ghosts into the purpling sky.

  ‘Beautiful, invigorating, and nose-nippingly cold, Monsieur,’ said Jeanne to a burgher who had asked in French how she found their life in the north. Never once had she imagined she would one day experience such a spectacle, born as she was in a warmer clime. Only once had she ever experienced foot-deep snow in her native Quercy. She well remembered how quickly it became the curse of ladies’ hems sullied in the ensuing slush.

  Yet here in Schaffhausen, where for months on end it fell in places as deep as a maid was tall, folk took it in their stride, fitted as they were with fur-lined clogs to keep toes warm, and raquettes tied to shoes to keep them from sinking into the powdery snow. They carted goods on sledges and travelled on rough snow carts that gave a smoother ride than many a luxurious carriage, thought Jeanne, having ridden down to the edge of the frozen lake on one. The racing sleighs, however, were veritable works of art, feasts of the imagination with elaborately carved wooden figureheads of fantastic animals, griffins, naked savages, and wild beasts.

  ‘Come on, Etienne!’ cheered Claire as the magnificent pageant of horses and sleighs now approached the bend where the three ladies were standing near the bonfire. Jeanne and Ginette joined in with cheers of encouragement as the sleigh bells grew louder, along with the rumble of hooves and the thunderous swish of the runners. Etienne whooshed by, still holding second place, with dogs yapping at his horses’ hooves.

  ‘Go, Jeannot, come on, Paul!’ called Ginette as Jean Fleuret’s sleigh thundered by, cutting the ice in fifth place. Paul, sitting by his side, threw a wave to his mother as the vehicle flew by at a frightening speed.

  The man and the boy had bonded following the loss of Jean’s son Pierre, who had been Paul’s best friend during their time in Geneva. It was not something Jeanne had wanted to encourage, for she knew how difficult it would be for them both when the time came to depart.

  The ladies continued their chatter near the glowing embers of the log fire. Claire’s baby, who had been left at the house with the maid, was teething. Ginette was coping with the death of her boy and was glad to be pregnant again. Jeanne spoke of her plans now that she had received a letter from Jacob, telling her where to join him.

  ‘But what if your husband was dead? Where would you go once you got there?’ said Ginette Fleuret, round and rosy-cheeked, cradling her large bust with her muff.

  ‘Ginette!’ said Claire in feigned reproach, her pretty chin raised, hands held together inside her fur muff. ‘I dare say Jeanne has not thought of that eventuality.’

  The contrast between the two ladies was almost comical, but Jeanne loved them both equally. If Claire were made of porcelain, refined and fragile, Ginette would be made of potter’s clay, robust, rough, and solidly fashioned.

  ‘Well, I think she ought to,’ said the seamstress from Marseille, placing her chubby hand on her waist like a handle. ‘I mean, if he has gone and popped his clogs, God forbid, where would she go once she got there?’

  The question often reverberated through Jeanne’s mind like the ever-present sound of carrion birds in the bleakness of winter. What if Jacob had died en route? What if all her prayers had been for nothing? But surely that would be too cruel. Yet, had she not prayed for the safety of her dear three-year-old daughter with the same fervour? Had she not prayed hard for weeks on end, and then seen herself running after Lulu in her dreams, seen her child wriggling from her belly-kisses, and then lying asleep in her arms as per her habit the minute they had begun a carriage journey to their country house? Yet, all the time she had been praying and feeling solace from her prayers, Lulu was dead, her soul long since elevated to heaven. Could her prayers for Jacob be just as much in vain? If they were, then she would rather remain here with her friends, and commit herself to the local language and customs.

  ‘And if he were, my lovey,’ pursued Ginette, ‘we’d keep you here with us. I’ve seen plenty a roving eye glancing sidelong at you, my Jeanne. You’re still of marrying age, you know, and there be eligible men even in Schaffhausen!’

  ‘Ginette!’ gasped Claire, putting a hand to her mouth.

  Ginette went on in a confidential tone. ‘Take the widowed burgher . . . nice catch, sensible man . . . you’d bring some refinement to his household, my dear lady. And didn’t he say he loves to speak French? A right chatter-mill an’ all—’

  ‘Ginette, shhh, you do go on,’ said Claire, sensing Jeanne’s discomfort.

  ‘I’m only thinking out loud,’ said Ginette, who knew, whenever Jeanne let her ramble on, that she was not far from hitting the spot.

  ‘Thank you for your concern, dear Ginette,’ said Jeanne good-humouredly, ‘but sometimes I’d rather you thought inside your head!’ There was no point in denying her deepest doubts that Ginette had a knack of bringing to the fore.

  It did sometimes occur to her that it would be easier if her husband had perished. She would bear up to the fact. It would even make her life easier, for she could start over. But there again, who said life was easy? It was not, and Jeanne never had chosen the easy path. If she had, she would have pretended to forsake her faith; she would have kept her children. And Lulu would be alive and well, if she had forsaken her faith.

  But what was a person without a soul? An empty vessel navigating life without a destination, without any hope of going somewhere. God was hope, and she hoped, nay, she firmly believed, that the final reunion was in heaven as Jesus had promised. How pointless living would be if there were nothing but blackness, and how terrifying.

  ‘I am sure Jacob is still alive,’ said Jeanne with confidence. Once again, she stood proud in the satisfaction that she had beaten down those dreadful demons whose sinful whispers sometimes came to prey on her. ‘But you are right, Ginette. I cannot leave my friends again without prior knowledge of Jacob’s safe arrival in London. It would not be fair on Paul.’

  ‘No,’ said Ginette, ‘nor on my Jeannot . . .’

  ‘But he is alive, I am sure!’

  Ginette gave Jeanne a squeeze on her arm as the horses drawing the sleighs came cantering back in a thrilling, icy rush. Jeanne’s momentary doubts made way for the exhilarating swish of the sleigh blades as Cl
aire clapped and called out her husband’s name.

  ‘Come on, Etienne!’ shouted Jeanne too as Etienne’s horse took the lead coming out of the turn. Jean Fleuret and Paul were not far behind as the main pack, closing up the gap, entered the bend.

  The fast and massive dogs were racing the horses again, a little too close perhaps for comfort, thought Jeanne, as one of the young dogs, fast and fearless, ran along Etienne’s horse as if yapping encouragements at it to go faster. But then the rider just behind, taking advantage of the impetus of the bend, came hurtling fast and furious on the outside.

  ‘How thrilling!’ cried Claire, clapping her hands and cheering her man at the top of her voice. ‘Come on, Etienne!’

  But Jeanne, who had been watching one of the dogs pestering the horses’ course, had stopped cheering. An instant later, her fears were confirmed when there came a terrible high-pitched yelp as the dog, who must have slipped on the ice, received a hoof to the head.

  ‘Oh, my goodness!’ cried Claire as the animal screeched and rolled across the track.

  The Swiss driver close behind skilfully avoided the creature by an inch of its life. But Jeanne now wished he had not. For ten lengths behind, Jean Fleuret was also racing out of the bend, taking third place. Jeanne froze in fear, stopping her mouth with her hand. The dog lay in the path of Jean Fleuret’s sleigh.

  Ginette, standing beside her, let out a loud, guttural cry. Jeannot roared and pulled back the reins, in an effort to steer the horse away from the wounded dog lying in the way of the sleigh runners. But with the pack of racers being so bunched together, there was no place to go. This, after all, was a race of honour. The Swiss drivers, oblivious to the wounded dog immediately ahead, could not be beaten by French novices.

  There came a short, appalling squeal, a thud and a horrible crunching sound as Jean’s nearside sleigh runner hit the animal full on.