Promised to the Crown (7 page)

Try as she might, Rose could not banish Gislène Laurier's anguish from her mind.

 

“Rose, I brought you some breakfast.” Nicole knocked on the bedroom door at mid-morning and entered without waiting for an answer. She carried a tray laden with the most inviting foods from the convent kitchen.

Rose stirred, but had not yet summoned the fortitude to rise.

“Thank you.” Rose sat up and wiped the sleep from her eyes. “How thoughtful.”

“You earned a lazy morning, after last night,” Nicole said. “I'm happy to do it.”

Rose ate the toast and moved the rest of the food on her plate, nibbling out of politeness.

“Are you unwell?” Nicole asked. “Did you catch a chill last night?”

“No, no. I'm fine,” Rose said, without making eye contact. “Just tired.”

“No doubt,” Nicole said. “You had a long night.”

“Indeed,” Rose said.

“What did Madame Laurier name the baby?”

“She named the little girl Nathalie.” Rose took a small bite of toast and gazed out the window, then back to the sweet brown-eyed girl who knew that Rose was concealing something. “I'm not sure what they will call the little boy. He didn't survive.”

“Oh, how awful,” Nicole said. “Those poor people.”

Rose nodded. “He died in my arms.”

Nicole embraced her friend but offered no words of comfort. Rose abandoned any pretext of calm, and let the tears flow on Nicole's shoulder.
That poor baby, born into the world just to die moments later. What was the point of all that poor woman's suffering?

Rose wasn't sure how long she wept in Nicole's arms, but at length, the tears subsided and she pulled back from the embrace.

“Thank you,” Rose said. “You're a dear friend.”

“Don't mention it,” Nicole said. “You'd do the same for me.”

“I just don't know if I can go through with it all,” Rose said, smoothing out her quilt. “She had such pain . . . and then the baby died. . . .”

“That's why the task falls to women,” Nicole said. “We're strong enough to handle it.”

“I hope you're right,” Rose said. “I have my doubts.”

“Things go wrong, but there's no reason to dwell on them,” Nicole said. “I'm sure you'll have a legion of healthy babies before long.”

Rose wanted to smile at her friend's assurances, but could not force her lips to comply.
I am not made for this life, yet I must carve one for myself from this frozen rock even so.

C
HAPTER
6

 

I
t may not be spring yet, but I can certainly pretend it today.
Nicole leaped at the chance to escape the confines of the convent to fetch some supplies for Sister Mathilde in town. Basket in tow and her chin pointed upward to absorb the fledgling sun, Nicole walked, enjoying the warmth on her face like the kisses of a long-absent lover.

She was shaken from her reverie when the toe of her boot caught the edge of a rock, pitching her forward into a pool of mud. Before she finished gathering her wits and the contents of her basket, she felt a steady hand at her elbow, helping her rise from the quagmire.

“Oh, thank you!” Nicole looked up to see to whom the helpful hand belonged. She found herself looking into the face of a tall man in uniform—a man of rank, but young. His features were soft and boyish, and his curly brown hair gave him an air of youth.
Jean, how is it you came to be here?
She silenced the question a heartbeat before it escaped her mouth. Jean Galet was married and back in France. This man could not be him. A moment's study revealed that this man stood taller than Jean, had a leaner frame, and the features of a man rather than a boy.

“Of course, mademoiselle,” the young officer said. “I hope you are unhurt.”

“Only my pride is injured. Thank you again, monsieur. . . .” Nicole willed, in vain, for the blush to leave her cheeks.

“Pardon me,” the officer said with a bow. “It's Jarvais, Luc Jarvais.”

“I am pleased to meet you,” Nicole said, trying not to wince as cold mud slid down the inside of her boot. “I am Nicole Deschamps.”

“At your service, mademoiselle,” Luc said, kindness emanating from his voice. “May I accompany you somewhere?”

“Unfortunately, I must return home.” Nicole looked down at her mud-coated dress. “I am not fit to be seen in company, though it is a shame to waste a fine day.”

“Indeed it is,” Luc remarked. “Will you at least allow me to escort you home?”

“Thank you, yes.” Given the circumstances, Nicole doubted the Sisters would object to her walking with him unaccompanied.

“Are you newly arrived to the colony?” Luc asked.

“Relatively. I arrived last fall, though at times it seems like I've been here for years.”

Indeed, the streets of the settlement town had become more familiar to Nicole than the bustling streets of Rouen.

“I know what you mean. I've been here for almost three years and haven't seen my family since.”

Nicole noted a slight trace of sadness in his voice.

“You are homesick, too,” she observed.

“At times,” Luc said. “I remember, at first, I thought myself truly alone in the world. I can promise you it does get easier, though. I still pine for home, and especially for my youngest sister, Babette, but it's not as unbearable as it was.”

“Is she much younger than you?” Nicole asked.

“Four years my junior, though she will always be a tiny girl to me.”

“I suppose time does not stand still for the people we love any more than it does for us.” Nicole considered her siblings and how changed they might seem if she ever saw them again.

The thought of her sisters Claudine and Emmanuelle married, or her baby brother Georges a landowner, sent a pang to her heart.

“It is a shame,” he said. “How comforting it would be if it could all stay the same. Not very interesting, however.”

“Indeed,” Nicole agreed, with a smile.

“But my service is nearly complete. I'll have leave to return home soon, if I choose.”

Nicole felt a twinge of regret in her chest.
You've only just met this man. Why should you care that he's going home, aside from the fact you wish you could be going yourself?

Just then, they arrived at the door to the convent. Luc left Nicole with a deep bow and a polite brush of his lips on the back of her hand.

As Nicole shut the door behind her, she heard Rose set aside her mending to see who had escorted Nicole home.

“Well done!” Rose teased.

“I hope my dress isn't ruined.” Nicole looked down at the garment in dismay.

“Not that, you goose!” Rose said. “The handsome young officer! Here I thought you were just out for some fresh air and flour for Sister Mathilde.”

“And so I was,” Nicole said, exasperated. She did her best to remove her boots without getting any more mud on the floor than necessary.

“You're going to leave me here all alone, aren't you?” The merry glint had not left Rose's eyes. “For some handsome soldier who comes, banner flying, to rescue you from the muck.”

“I must admit, it was a romantic morning,” Nicole mocked. “A mud-bog rescue is definitely a choice first encounter with a prospective suitor.”

“So you say.” The false nonchalance in Rose's voice grated in Nicole's nerves.

“Honestly, he pulled me from a mud puddle and walked me home. He showed no affinity, at least none that I noticed. Now be a lamb and come help me out of this mess.”

“No doubt he'll come calling Thursday,” Rose said, feigning disdain as they climbed the stairs.

“He did ask if he could,” Nicole admitted, shucking off her muddy skirt.

“And the Thursday after, and the one after that, until you say yes,” Rose predicted, gathering the soiled clothes for the washtub.

“Unlikely. He's nearly released from service. He can go home if he chooses.” Nicole rubbed her cold legs with a dry cloth.

“I bet you could persuade him to stay. Do you think he's handsome?” Rose asked.

“I have eyes, Rose,” Nicole said. “Anyone who did would believe he is.”

“Would you say yes?” Rose asked, loosening Nicole's corset.

Nicole laughed. She agreed that Luc was a very suitable match, in many ways. As an officer, he would have both education and understanding. In France, his rank would almost certainly have ruined any chance for a match between them. But here, in New France . . . Nicole cast the thoughts aside as quickly as they came. He was going home, and a clumsy stumble and muck-covered skirts were no way to entice a gentleman into courtship.

 

The next day, a warm and welcoming Wednesday, Nicole decided to help Rose with the massive pile of mending rather than risk falling into another mudhole.

Mending was tedious work, but it occupied the hands, though not the mind. When a knock at the door interrupted the chore, Nicole rose to answer.

“Monsieur Lefebvre.” Nicole was astonished to see him, of all men, at the door. He had never come to visit Nicole, or anyone else, during visiting hours, and she hadn't expected him to. She had no affection for the man, but she did still remember his tirade on the rare occasions when she ventured into the snow alone. His chiseled chin and nose had etched their way into her memory; though she would have much rather Luc's boyish face and sweet dimples take their place.

“Yes,” Lefebvre said. “And you're Mademoiselle Deschamps, if my memory serves.”

He stood at least six inches taller than she and exuded wealth, education, and class far beyond her own. Nicole nodded, fearing her voice would falter.
Stupid git, speak! Don't let him know he intimidates you.

“Monsieur Lefebvre, we ask gentlemen to call on Thursday evenings,” Sister Mathilde said as she approached the entryway. “However, we can make an exception just this once. Please come join us in the common room, where you can visit with Mademoiselle Deschamps in more comfort.”

“Sister, I have not come courting.” Lefebvre's tone bordered on the uncivil. “I am doing a favor, delivering a case of cider from the Ferrier farm. I had business nearby and Monsieur Ferrier asked me to save him the trip into town.”

“Of course,” Sister Mathilde said. “Your man can take it to the kitchens. Please stay and have some cider along with a piece of Mademoiselle Deschamps's excellent cake.”
Stop forcing this, Sister. I beg you!
Nicole bit her tongue to keep the words from escaping.

“I have been out on errands all day; it might be nice to sit with a bit of refreshment,” he admitted.

“Of course,” Nicole said, plastering on a smile. “Please make yourself at home while I fetch you some.”

She hurried off to the kitchen to cut a slice of the butter cake that Elisabeth had coached her in making that morning at the bakery. Sister Éléonore passed her a mug of the good cider with a wink.
Don't get your hopes up, sweet lady. He has no more an eye for me than King Louis would have for a pockmarked tavern wench.

She placed the food and drink before him at the long table in the common room, careful not to spill the drink or cause a clattering sound as the plate touched the table's surface.

“This looks lovely, thank you.” He sampled a small morsel of the cake, chewing slowly and thoughtfully. “Clearly, you've learned from your friend, Madame Beaumont.”

“She's a very patient teacher.” Nicole looked down at her hands. Anywhere but at his too-intense gray eyes.

“And you, an able pupil.” He took a sip of the cider, looking her over as he drank. Assessing, as he had done at their last meeting.

“How are you finding our settlement, now that you've endured one of our winters?”

The weather? Really, Monsieur Lefebvre? I bore you so completely?
“I'm not sure if one can come to love the bitter cold, but the settlement is lovely.”
Not the dismal picture you painted before.

“I'm glad you're adjusting well,” Alexandre said, playing with a bit of thread on his trousers.

“Truly?” Nicole's tone was wry. He had seemed content to send every last one of the King's wards back on the next ship.

“Of course. I wouldn't have you miserable.”
How gracious of you.

They sat in uncomfortable silence for a few minutes as Alexandre finished his cake.
At least he approves of me in some measure.
She thought of her easy conversation with Luc Jarvais and longed to be on a stroll along the riverbank with him rather than cooped up in the convent's common room with stodgy Alexandre Lefebvre.

“I'm afraid I must attend to some other business. Thank you very much for your trouble.” Alexandre stood, brushing a few tiny crumbs from his front.

“It was a pleasure, monsieur.” Her tone conveyed a great many sentiments, pleasure being the least of them.

“Now that you've learned what a talented cook we have in Mademoiselle Deschamps, I hope you'll come visit us with the other gentlemen on Thursdays, Monsieur Lefebvre,” Sister Mathilde chimed in. It was rare she involved herself—at least directly—in the courtships that transpired under her roof. Nicole shot her a glance and wished she'd continue her pattern.

Alexandre looked at Nicole, his expression unreadable. Annoyance? Boredom? Even fear, perhaps?

“I'm afraid I'm very busy, Sister. I'm not sure I can spare the time.”

“What a shame, monsieur. Very well though, thank you for your troubles.” Sister Mathilde offered him a hopeful smile. “We hope to see you soon.”

He nodded farewell to the nun and made no gesture toward Nicole.

“I wish you wouldn't, Sister,” Nicole said when she was certain Alexandre was out of earshot.

“My dear, Alexandre Lefebvre is a good man. He just needs some persuading.” She resumed her place in her favorite chair and motioned for Nicole to join her.

“Sister, he doesn't care for me. You have to see that.” Nicole sat back and folded her fingers. Her mending wasn't within reach and her hands were foreign to the lack of occupation.

“Don't cast him aside yet, my girl. He's a prize worth catching.” The Sister opened her book as a signal that the conversation was closed for now. Nicole fetched her mending from across the room and worked as the pious woman studied by the afternoon sunlight that peered in through the window.

You're a wise woman, Sister, but you need to recognize a hopeless cause when you see one. Alexandre Lefebvre would sooner court
you
than pay me any mind.

 

Alexandre Lefebvre was not among the visitors that Thursday, but Luc Jarvais was in attendance, as Rose had predicted.

“These are for you, mademoiselle.” Luc handed Nicole a bouquet of young wildflowers that had only just begun to bloom.

“Thank you, Monsieur Jarvais,” Nicole said. “These must be the first of the season.”

“Indeed, the first to appear on my fields this year.”

Nicole looked down at the bouquet, little more than a bundle of stems, tied with a fine yellow ribbon.

“Please, Monsieur Jarvais,” Nicole said, remembering her manners. “Would you care to have a seat in the front room?”

“Thank you, mademoiselle.” Luc followed Nicole into the adjacent room, looking around the cozy surroundings as he took the chair Nicole offered him.

“These are lovely, Monsieur Jarvais.” Nicole accepted a vase from Rose and arranged the bouquet on the mantelpiece. “Thank you again.”

“Say nothing of it, Mademoiselle Deschamps,” Luc said. “They seem particularly fine this year.”

“I would imagine,” Nicole said. The subject of wildflowers exhausted, she racked her brain to find another topic of conversation. Luc seemed fascinated with the scarred wooden floors, or something on the tip of his boot. Nicole opened her mouth to make a comment, but a loud crash and a muffled curse from the kitchen cut her off.