Promised to the Crown (28 page)

“Sister, I have prayed extensively on the matter.” The tenor of Father Cloutier's voice attracted the attention of several young ladies in the room, who until then had at least pretended to be engrossed in their knitting.

“Mademoiselle Giroux has not.” Sister Mathilde's tone was no gentler than his. “No person should assume a religious vocation lightly, as you ought to know, nor should a child ever be forced into one. The Reverend Mother and I will not accept a candidate who does not wholeheartedly wish to devote her life to the Church. The decision is Gabrielle's and hers alone. Until she recovers, and unless she wishes to join the Church, she will remain with the Beaumonts.”

“Sister, if they were the faithful Christian couple you claim, they would have several children by now, not just the one. Their lack casts doubt upon their faith and character.”

Elisabeth's jaw dropped.

Sister Mathilde silenced her with a look before responding. “Madame Beaumont is not as young as some of our other brides, Father, and her pregnancies have not been easy. Surely you do not blame her for the loss of her first child, or for the two she has lost since then?”

“I . . . was unaware . . .” the priest began.

“It is not for want of duty that Madame Beaumont lacks a houseful of children,” the nun continued. “Perhaps the Lord has sent the Giroux children to fill it, since her womb cannot.”

“Sister, I doubt—”

“Father Cloutier, this matter is one for the convent to decide,” Sister Mathilde said. “I will visit Gabrielle when I can, to ensure she is mending properly and receiving proper care.”

“I am disappointed in your change of heart.” The priest stood.

“And I in your willful misinterpretation of my offer. Good day, Father.” Sister Mathilde did not rise to see him out, but gestured to the exit.

All eyes in the room were fixed on the priest as he left, slamming the door in his wake. A few nervous giggles escaped from the knitting corner, but Sister Mathilde's sideways glance silenced them at once.

“Thank you, Sister,” Elisabeth said, once she found her voice.

“Please, child.” Sister Mathilde took a sip from her cider. “Crossing that man is always a pleasure. Thank you. But tend to that girl of yours,” Sister Mathilde said. “Give him no reason to complain.”

 

For a month, life continued normally at the Beaumont household. Once a week, Sister Mathilde, assisted by Sister Anne, visited and checked on Gabrielle. The child grew stronger every day and delved into the books that Sister Mathilde furnished. Gabrielle's intellect would never equal Manon Lefebvre's, but she seemed just as eager to learn.

One Thursday afternoon, an hour or so after Sister Mathilde left and Elisabeth installed Gabrielle in a chair by the window to enjoy the warm June sunshine, Elisabeth heard raised voices in the bakery below. She exchanged a glance with Gabrielle and descended to the shop.

“Duval, you know how I run my business.” Gilbert stood nose to nose with the bailiff, face flushed an angry red.

“Rules is rules, Beaumont,” the bailiff said. “If you can't abide by 'em, you can't do business.”

“Let me see your mandate.”

“Here.” The bailiff produced the document.

Elisabeth wondered how much of the bailiff's annoyance was due to the fact that a “little man” like Gilbert Beaumont could read.

Gilbert scanned the paper and thrust it back. “This law was passed over a year ago. Why has no one complained before now?”

“That's not my business, Beaumont. Someone has complained. Comply with the law, or we'll take away your license to bake. Is that clear?”

“Fine; get out of my shop.” Gilbert pointed to the door.

Duval exited, shoulders back and nose aloft. His job was done.

“Of all the pompous imbeciles . . .” Gilbert sputtered.

“What was that about?” Elisabeth asked.

Gilbert raked his fingers through his hair and paced. “Apparently, when we raised prices two months ago, we exceeded the amount decreed by law.”

Elisabeth stopped. “But the price of wheat almost doubled. We all raised our prices. We less than all the others.”

“Don't I know it,” Gilbert said, pinching the bridge of his nose as he did when a headache was coming on. “People would have paid another two
sous
a loaf at least, but I didn't want to raise it any higher than I had to.”

“Did Duval speak to the other bakers?” Elisabeth asked. She busied her hands wiping the counters with a cloth.

“I don't know,” Gilbert said. “I should have kept my head and gotten more information, but I was angry.”

“I don't blame you,” Elisabeth said, discarding the cloth. “We've a right to be angry. This isn't a Paris bake shop, after all. We only have so many suppliers for flour.”

“Too true.” Gilbert's voice sounded hollow. The voice of a man with no answers.

“We'll manage, Gilbert.” She looked up at his broad, sturdy face and planted a kiss on his cheek, ignoring the possibility of a passerby seeing her from the street.

 

The crowd outside the shop hurled angry insults as Gilbert closed the doors. Bailiff Duval smiled and dispersed the disappointed customers.

“They seem so angry,” Gabrielle said from her seat in the corner.

“Without bread for supper? They've a right to be.” Elisabeth took a bucket of soapy water and attacked the countertops with a brush. With the forced decrease in cost, they couldn't afford to buy the ingredients to keep their customers supplied.

“Duval is set to put us out of business, plain as plain.” Gilbert swept the floor in time with Elisabeth's scrubbing.

“Don't give that vile man the credit.” Elisabeth flung her brush in the bucket, causing the water to slosh on her skirts and the counter. “He hasn't the brains or the desire. It's Father Cloutier. He wants the shop shut down because of me.”

“What do you mean?” Pascal paused from scouring the oven.

“Don't worry,” Elisabeth said. “I have an idea to fix this. Gabrielle, can you manage the supper?”

Gilbert opened his mouth, but swallowed his question. A moment later, he changed his mind. “What do you plan to do? Nothing foolish, mind.”

“Of course not.” Elisabeth's frosty expression quashing her protective husband's protests. “For the moment, I intend to pay a call on the Escoffiers.”

Quentin Escoffier's bakery sat a ten-minute walk from the Beaumonts'. Though Elisabeth was not well acquainted with Quentin Escoffier or his wife, Thérèse, their exchanges had always been pleasant. She hoped they would give her the information she required.

“Madame Beaumont!” the jovial Quentin exclaimed when he recognized her figure at the door. He emerged from behind the counter and shook her hand. “I would not expect to see you here in the middle of the afternoon.”

Elisabeth took a quick inventory of the shop. She saw plenty of loaves of every description, therefore plenty of profits to cover the cost of flour. The cakes and pastries were few and unimaginative, though she approved of the cleanliness and order.

“I take it Bailiff Duval has not been here?” Elisabeth asked.

“Should I expect him?” Quentin asked, releasing her hand.

“I doubt it.” Elisabeth told him about the bailiff's threats, the closing of the Beaumonts' shop, and her theories concerning Father Cloutier. Gabrielle's case was well known in the settlement. No one grieved for the loss of Raymond Giroux.

“Thank you for the warning, madame,” Escoffier said. “Is there anything we can do for you?”

“I can't think of anything that will help, Monsieur Escoffier. If we aren't allowed to charge a fair price, we may well be forced to close our doors for good.”

“I will pray for you, madame,” Quentin said, his expression grave.

“I appreciate it. Thank you.” Elisabeth, as a token of respect for her fellow baker, purchased a small cake for her family before returning to the closed shop.

Gabrielle, with help from Gilbert and Pascal, had produced a respectable mutton stew in Elisabeth's absence. Even so, they ate in silence. The impending closure of the bakery hung heavy over their table.

The following afternoon, the supply of salable bread ran out two hours before closing. As expected, Bailiff Duval had stopped by twice to inventory the shop and disperse the angry crowd in the afternoon.

“If you cannot keep the people supplied, we can give your license to one who can,” Duval threatened.

Gilbert retired to douse the ovens for the day. Elisabeth ignored the bailiff and locked the door.

“Not so fast!” Escoffier called from the street. His wife, Thérèse, and four apprentices from the other bakeries in town accompanied the baker. They carried baskets brimming with fresh-baked bread. “I believe you need these loaves, madame.”

Elisabeth, eyes wide, ushered the group into the shop. They emptied the baskets into the cases, fully restocking the store in a matter of moments.

“Prayers are good,” Escoffier said, “but I realized you could use loaves even more.”

Elisabeth felt the tears spill over onto her cheeks as she embraced the small, round man.

“You're a guardian angel, Monsieur Escoffier.”

“Nonsense. I am a man with a sense of justice. Do you hear that, Duval?” Escoffier rounded on the bailiff, who had entered the shop with a flood of eager patrons. “You cannot bully these good people. Who will bake bread for our citizens if the bakeries close? Will you?”

“Leave the Beaumonts alone, and find something better to do with your time!” a patron shouted. The others grumbled agreement.

Duval exited the shop without a word.

“What happened?” Gilbert asked, entering to see his shop bustling once again.

“Your brother bakers stood up for you and your wife, Beaumont,” Escoffier said. “We won't see your business ruined.”

Gilbert nodded, unable to speak. From behind the counter, Elisabeth smiled at her husband. She remembered the kindnesses of her father's patrons and colleagues in Paris. She was not so surprised as he. She only hoped the gesture would be enough to keep the law at bay long enough to save the business from ruin.

C
HAPTER
28

 

T
he ship came into view just before noon.

Nicole gripped baby Frédéric to her chest, racing heart lulling the infant into a slumber.

Hélène squirmed as she held Alexandre's hand. She was anxious to meet the mysterious “Mamie” and “Papi” that everyone spoke of.

Manon stood still, a picture of decorum. Her face showed mild curiosity, but no stronger emotion, at the arrival of her adoptive mother's family.

“Can we take them to see Papa's land this afternoon?” Manon asked, looking up at her mother.

“No,
chèrie,
they'll be exhausted from the journey.” Nicole adjusted Frédéric as she spoke. Her sturdy son was a bigger burden to carry than his delicate sister had been. More energetic, too.

Exhausted, at best
.
The voyage is hard enough on the young, let alone those who are past their best days
. Nicole gripped her son, not giving her fears credence by voicing them.

It seemed like hours before the passengers disembarked, but Nicole soon saw her family on the gangplank. She rushed to them and grasped her mother, as though convincing herself that Maman was a real person and not a shadow from her dreams.

Words failed as tears choked Nicole.

“My darling girl,” Bernadette said, admiring her well-dressed daughter. She wiped her own tears. “You've grown into a beauty. I knew you would.”

“Don't keep her all to yourself!” Thomas chided with a smile. “I never thought I'd see my girl again.” He enveloped Nicole and the baby in his arms.

“This is your grandson, Frédéric,” Nicole said, passing the baby to her mother. “And these are my daughters, Hélène and Manon, and my husband, Monsieur Alexandre Lefebvre.”

Thomas took his son-in-law's hand and shook it. “God bless you, son. Thank you for looking after my daughter.”

“She is a treasure, monsieur,” Alexandre said, with no trace of his usual courtly flattery. “I'm glad that you can be reunited. Shall we continue our conversation at home?”

The Lefebvres had yet to move to the new house, in the heart of the settlement, but their current residence was enough to awe the Deschamps family. It lacked the refinement of a Paris apartment or the grandeur of a country estate, but it was among the finest in New France. Nicole had rooms prepared for her family to rest in comfort and reacquaint themselves with their eldest daughter and her family before they made the move to their lodgings at the farm.

That afternoon, Thomas asked his son-in-law for a carriage tour of the settlement. Nicole was surprised and pleased to see her father so energetic after his journey.

Claudine, Emmanuelle, Manon, and Georges eagerly joined them, leaving Nicole and Bernadette behind to put the younger children down for naps.

“Maman, you and Papa will stay here,” Nicole said, showing her mother the second bedroom. “But the maid will see you settled. Let's have some refreshment in my sitting room.”

“Your sitting room, my my.” Bernadette smiled and gave her daughter a roguish wink as they entered the plush little parlor. It was clearly the domain of the lady of the house as evidenced by the pink and green fabrics and the glints of light that bounced off the walnut furniture. Bernadette looked at her daughter, wide-eyed. This room alone was at least half the size of the farmhouse they'd left behind. The only piece of furniture that would have looked at home in their old farmhouse was the sturdy chair Luc Jarvais had purchased for his bride.

“You'll get used to it, Maman. It wasn't easy for me, either.” Nicole poured the cider into cups and offered her mother a biscuit from the platter.

“I'm going to look like a beggar among your friends,” Bernadette said, admiring her daughter's fine dress.

“Nonsense, Maman. You'll be welcome everywhere. Besides, I have winter cloaks for you and Papa already, and dresses made for you and the girls. I used Manon as a model, though it was hard to think of the girls having grown so big.”

“They are almost ladies, aren't they?” Bernadette sighed as she folded a nightdress. “How did the little native girl come to you?”

“She found my first husband after he had been shot by one of the men in her tribe.” For the first time in years, Nicole shed tears for Luc Jarvais as she told her mother the story.

“The girl seems very quiet and ladylike,” Bernadette said when her daughter had finished. “You've done an excellent job of raising her.”

“I'm not sure how much I had to do with it.” Nicole smiled as her mother took a second biscuit. “She was born a lady. The Sisters and I just helped her along. She's so bright, Maman.”

“I have no doubt. She's a lucky girl to have you.”

“She saved me, Maman. If she hadn't stayed, I don't know that I would have had the strength to move on. Those first few months . . .”

“You would have managed,” Bernadette said. “You don't give up on anything. All the same, I'm grateful the child gave you some measure of comfort.”

“It doesn't seem real that you're actually here, in my very room,” Nicole said, embracing her mother.

“There were times I didn't think I would make it,” Bernadette admitted.

Nicole remembered Elisabeth's ministrations when she was so ill on her own voyage. She nodded.

“Still,” Bernadette said, “I can see why the King is so set on keeping this land. It's beautiful. I can't believe how well you've done for yourself.”

“Alexandre is a good man,” Nicole replied, averting her eyes.

“Your father and I could never have settled you half so well.” Bernadette's tone was as wistful as it was truthful. “We went 'round and 'round when you asked for our blessing to leave. I thought I was right then, and I know it now. I couldn't be prouder.”

Nicole bit her tongue. She was comfortably settled, to be sure. But she felt that Elisabeth and Rose deserved far more credit for their successes than she did for her own. Nicole knew she was of use to Alexandre, but each day she despised her role in society more. She lived for the days when she stayed at home, tending to Hélène and Frédéric and helping Manon with her lessons. Those were the days she felt useful.

For over an hour, mother and daughter caught up on the goings-on of the past four years. The dozen letters they had exchanged, while prized and reread until the paper grew too thin to handle, could not convey all the details of life on either side of the ocean. Bernadette listened, enraptured, to tales of Rose's change of heart and marriage to Henri, and Elisabeth's bakery, and the incidents with the Giroux family. Nicole smiled at her mother's gossip about their former neighbors and the news of her older brothers, Christophe and Baptiste, now fathers themselves, with thriving farms in France.

 

“This will be the prettiest dress I've ever had!” Claudine breathed, holding up the basted-together garment and admiring herself in the mirror.

“It was nice of Monsieur Lefebvre to buy us the fabric,” Emmanuelle said, fondling the length of blue-and-gray silk brocade she had selected on their afternoon tour of town.

“You must have something nice to wear when you come visiting from the farm,” Nicole said, knowing how a gift so lavish would have turned her own head at the age of twelve.

Nicole insisted on making her sisters' dresses at home instead of allowing Alexandre to hire a seamstress. She had missed sewing with her sisters and was anxious to reclaim at least a portion of that experience. Besides, the girls would have to sew for themselves on the new farm, as they had on the old one.

“I wish we could stay and live in town.” Claudine pouted at herself in the mirror, though the sight of her soft pink dress-to-be seemed to cheer her.

“Papa could never handle a life in town. Not even one as small as Quebec,” Nicole said as she cut the pieces for Emmanuelle's dress. “You'll love your beautiful new house. You won't miss town at all.”

“Not likely,” Claudine said.

Seeing Claudine's even stitches, Nicole had to admit that her mother's teaching skills had not faltered in the years since she had left.

“Nothing ever happens on a farm,” Claudine complained. “Town is where the excitement is.”

“How can you say that, Claudine?” Emmanuelle, less enthusiastic about sewing, buried herself in a book she had borrowed from Alexandre. “Farms are full of life. We'd starve without them.”

“Listen to your sister,” Nicole said, arching her brow. “I've only met one other eleven-year-old who speaks such sense. And speaking of the sun, there it shines.”

Manon stood at the entry to the sitting room with a shy smile on her face and a thick book clutched to her chest. “I'm twelve, Maman.”

“Of course you are, but you spoke almost as much sense last year as you do now.” Nicole winked at her daughter. “Where is your fabric, sweetheart? We can baste all the dresses together by supper if we don't dawdle.”

“I didn't get any fabric, Maman,” Manon said. “I'm off to study. Latin examination tomorrow.”

“Your papa didn't offer you a length of fabric along with your aunts?” Nicole asked.

Claudine and Emmanuelle snickered at being called aunts to a girl practically their own age.

“He did, Maman, but I have enough clothes. Too many, in fact. I didn't need another dress.”

“As you wish, darling,” Nicole said. “We would have enjoyed your company, though.”

Something in Manon's expression made Nicole's maternal hackles raise in alarm.

“Is everything all right, sweetheart?”

“Fine, Maman. I need to study this passage before supper.”

“Give Horace my regards.” Nicole smiled at her daughter as she padded from the room.

“Imagine wanting to study that stuff instead of making dresses and having fun.” Claudine shook her head as she stitched.

“She's a smart girl,” Nicole said. “She enjoys her studies. Speaking of which, Maman said a few more hours with a book wouldn't do you any harm.”

Emmanuelle nodded agreement.

“Maybe, but not Latin,” Claudine said, setting the garment down. “If I'm going to read something, it better be in French. One language is enough for me.”

Emmanuelle rolled her eyes. Manon didn't need to worry about Claudine ever staking a claim to the title of family scholar.

 

“May I speak with you?” Manon stood at the nursery door and spoke softly, so as not to disturb the younger children.

Hélène was already tucked into bed and Frédéric settled with his nurse.

“Of course, darling. Let's go to your room.” Nicole extinguished the candle and blew a kiss to the sleeping Hélène.

Manon's room was cheerful, and close to the nursery, but private, as appropriate for a girl on the cusp of womanhood. A large mahogany desk that had once been Alexandre's dominated the space. It was covered with books and stacks of paper, each one organized in a system that only Manon understood completely. The girl sat on the edge of her bed and motioned for Nicole to do the same.

“What do you want to talk about? It has been a big week, hasn't it?” Nicole tucked a wayward strand of hair out of Manon's face and stroked her cheek.

“You're happy now that your family is here, aren't you?” Manon looked at the pattern on the wall beyond Nicole's shoulder rather than making direct eye contact.

“Having us all together makes things complete.” Nicole patted Manon's hand as she spoke. “Do you enjoy having them here?”

“They're nice.” Manon's voice rang with sincerity. “I can see why you missed them so.”

“What aren't you telling me, Manon?” Nicole asked.

“I miss my people, Maman.” Manon managed to look at Nicole. “The Huron girls don't consider me one of them anymore. It doesn't feel right.”

“I'm so sorry. I could speak with Sister Hortense, arrange some visits to the Huron village. Would that help?”

“I don't think it's enough, Maman.” Manon's voice was resolute, bolder now that the issue was out in the open. “I've turned my back on who I am. My mother—my birth mother—my grandmother, my tribe—they all deserve better from me.”

“I can't imagine they would be anything other than proud of you. You're accomplished in Latin and Greek, the smartest girl in your class,” Nicole said.

“And there are days when I can barely remember my native tongue.” Manon looked out her window at the starlit night. “I love living here. I don't want to leave you, but now that you have your family, you don't need me anymore. I should return to my own people while I still can.”

“Manon, I couldn't bear to part with you.” Nicole rose and placed her hands on Manon's shoulders. “You're my daughter. You belong with me.”

“You have treated me as your own,” Manon said, “but you have a daughter, and a son, and sisters. Other people here don't welcome me the way you do. I know that makes you sad, and you would change it if you could, but it won't change. I see it every time we go to church, every time we're in town. People look at me like I don't belong.”

“I don't care about what they think.” Nicole turned Manon around. “Do you think they're more important to me than you are?”

“No, but it matters to me,” Manon said, her voice unwavering. “These are your people. They're right, I don't belong, and if I stay here much longer I won't belong with my own people anymore, either.”