Promised to the Crown (9 page)

“Madame, it was a simple mistake,” Madame Huillier said. “It's not necessary.”

“I insist,” Elisabeth said, wrapping up two of the buttery confections and pressing them into the woman's hands, gnarled by long days of hard work.

“Bless you, my dear,” Madame Huillier whispered, eyes downcast as she left the shop. Only at Easter and Christmastide could the Huilliers afford the luxury of Elisabeth's good cakes.

Flustered by her blunder, Elisabeth waited on Madame Dupré, a woman considerably less charitable than Elisabeth's previous customer. The dark-haired, wiry woman looked over her change overlong before nodding her way from the shop.

“A rather extravagant gesture. Giving away two cakes worth six
sous
apiece for an error of a five-
sous
coin,” Gilbert said as the shop cleared.

“I know,” Elisabeth said. “I just felt so awful. I couldn't bear the thought of that lovely woman thinking that I'd dream of cheating her of a single
denier
.”

“I'm sure she doesn't,” Gilbert said, wrapping his arm around his wife, rubbing her back, made sore from the added girth of the baby mingled with the hours she spent on her feet. “Go to the convent and see the girls for a few hours. Take some cakes with you.”

“But the supper rush—” Elisabeth protested.

“Can be managed by me. Now run along.” Gilbert pointed to the door, a comical arch to his eyebrow.

Elisabeth felt she ought to protest further. The bigger the baby grew, the more duties fell onto Gilbert's lap. She wanted to keep up her old pace, but the pregnancy sapped more of her strength than she had ever imagined it would. For weeks, however, she had found herself longing for the carefree days after their arrival. The late-night chats with Nicole and Rose, basking in the warmth of their bedroom fire. But Elisabeth's marriage had ended that chapter in their lives. She longed for the days before her mother's meddling.

Elisabeth accepted Gilbert's offer, packing her basket with a sampling of her finest pastries, and walked slowly toward the narrow street that housed the convent. Both Rose and Nicole used the time before supper for mending, needlework, knitting—whatever had to be done. Winter made for longer than usual engagements and a lack of new courtships altogether. Elisabeth was lucky to settle her marriage before Advent, and snow made weddings a challenge. It was as good a time for a chat as Elisabeth would find. She lost no time distributing her pastries and the contents of her mother's letter.

“We both fear the judge will want to pursue the matter further,” Elisabeth said, sipping from a mug of her favorite cider. It tasted bitter in her mouth and it was all she could do not to spit it back in her cup. When the others had their eyes occupied elsewhere, she sniffed the contents of the mug.
It smells just fine. Why must everything I love taste so foul to me these days?

“Can your mother do such a thing?” Nicole asked, casting aside her knitting as Elisabeth recounted the substance of her mother's letter. “Can she really cause such a fuss?”

“Easier than you can dream,” Rose answered. Elisabeth nodded to her friend. Better than anyone, Rose knew the power of a letter written to the right people. Rose's late-night confessions to her roommates at the convent had made an indelible mark on Elisabeth's heart. She'd always endeavored to believe the best about people, but Rose's tale of her uncle's barbarism was enough to break the illusion that people were, despite their flaws, generally good. Elisabeth had clung to a young girl's love for her mother, but she knew now it was not, and probably never had been, reciprocated.

“Gilbert thinks it wouldn't be worth the trouble and expense to send me back,” Elisabeth said, abandoning her cup and leaning back in her chair, resting her hands on her swollen bulge. “He's being optimistic for my sake, but you know how the authorities here are when it comes to matters of propriety. They'd sooner deport a woman than have her sully the King's colony.”

Nicole nodded. “They ‘want the colony to be the best that France has to offer,'” she quoted in an unctuous voice. “We've heard the Sisters lecture us on it enough times.”

“Well the others on our ship were such a rowdy lot. So unlike us, am I right?” Elisabeth smiled despite herself.

Rose snorted, ignoring a glare from Sister Anne.

“I want to tell you they can't do anything,” Rose said. “I wish that were true. Whatever the law states, in the end, they will do as they please.

“Were I you, I would emphasize how quickly you married, the child you carry, and the business you're establishing—that is, the business
Gilbert
is establishing and in which you
help
tirelessly. That is what they want to hear: hardworking women who know their place and have plenty of babies for the colony.”

“Well, I'm doing my duty by God and King as I promised to do,” Elisabeth said, patting her belly. “And this little settler can't come soon enough.”

“I worry that you're so uncomfortable so early on,” Rose said, arching her brow with concern.

“I'm sure it's fine. You'll be rocking that sweet little one before you know it, and Rose and I will be mad with jealousy,” Nicole said, sampling an apple tart and going back for a second mouthful with vigor.

“So long as his father and I are together to welcome him into this world, I'll be as patient as I can,” Elisabeth said, willing the ache in her spine to subside, even for a few blessed minutes.

C
HAPTER
8

 

R
ose tucked away her winter cloak in her wardrobe, perhaps the only woman in the colony to do so with regret. All welcomed the capricious weather of March giving way to April. It meant lighter fabrics and looser clothes for those who had them. At least a measure less of misery for those who did not. A hard lot in life, Sister Mathilde often said, is always easier to bear under blue skies than gray.

What I wouldn't give for another month of winter, though the entire colony would see me hanged for thinking it.
Rose slammed the lid of her trunk, smirking at the satisfying
crack
of wood on metal.

Rose worshipped the warmth and the sun like an idle cat, but the price of this summer was a good deal too heavy. Her marriage to Rémy Peltier loomed closer. Every day of fine weather brought his home one day closer to completion. Once his homestead was ready for her, the reasons for delaying the marriage would grow feeble. Until now, the engagement offered Rose a sort of protection. It provided her with an excuse to ignore the attentions of other men.

For months, Rose accepted Peltier's visits with a façade of sweetness and devotion. He was kind to her, bringing her trinkets every week when he came to visit, and paid her pretty compliments with an air of sincerity. She didn't dread Thursday afternoons as a rule—they added some variety to the monotony of the week—but she didn't look forward to Peltier's visits as she felt she ought to.

Rose looked to Nicole, who, every Thursday after lunch, dashed upstairs to freshen her dress, wash her face, and even take a brief nap if time allowed, so that she was at her very best when Luc came to call. Nicole took extra pains in the kitchens on Thursday mornings to ensure the gentlemen callers had plenty of refreshment. To entice him, she learned a few of the pastry recipes Elisabeth was willing to share. The finest examples of Nicole's handiwork—where the glazing shone, the shape was perfect, and the filling just plump enough so that it didn't spoil the look of the pastry—were always reserved for Luc.

Rose did not descend the staircase fifteen minutes early with the false pretense of knitting in order to snare the best seats in the common room. She took no special pains with her dress or her hair. In fact, it was now past time when the gentlemen should start to arrive. Peltier, no longer the overeager suitor longing to secure her hand, would not be among the first to arrive. He would not be long in following, however, and might well be waiting for her below.

Go to him and do your duty,
Rose chastened herself.
It's what you came here to do. If you wanted to live like a nun, you could have stayed at the Salpêtrière. At least Vérité would have been happy.
She touched the silver medallion at her throat as she thought of the girl, long since lost to her. Rose had written when she arrived in the colony seven months before, but there had been no reply. She had given up hope of one.

Rose placed one foot in front of the other, more out of habit than duty or willingness of spirit. She passed by the Sisters' study before entering the common room. She stole a glance at the black-clad women, some poring over texts, others lost in prayer. Rose felt a pang of jealousy in her core. No husband to mistreat them. No childbirth to cut short their lives. Few things of this world concerned them—only the prospect of paradise in the next.

Rose looked at them and envied their tranquility and wished beyond measure that she could share in it.

“Some spruce beer, Monsieur Peltier?” Rose offered. Despite their engagement, Rose clung to the formality of a title. It seemed natural for her, and he made no complaint on the subject.

“Thank you, yes.” Peltier smiled, pleased with her solicitousness. “I am glad to see you are well, my dear. You will be pleased to hear that building continues. We may even complete the house a week or two ahead of schedule.”

“I am sure you are anxious for its completion.” Rose picked at a nonexistent crumb on the tablecloth.

“Indeed.” Peltier's smile was laced with arrogance. “I am sure my homestead will be far more to your liking than the convent. Far more amusing, I would think.”

“Oh, life here is never dull,” Rose said. “With a house full of young people and plenty of work to be done. It's a happy life here.”

Peltier looked askance at Rose, as though finding pleasure in the convent were anathema to him. “Really. How very . . . resourceful . . . of you to find a measure of contentment here. Though I am certain it won't compare to your own home, of course. Our home.”

“I'm not sure how true that is, Monsieur Peltier.” Rose's mind traveled to the small chapel where the Sisters sat deep in prayer. So tranquil. The envy she felt at her very core, like a ball of ice, had yet to melt. She felt the words spring from her mouth before she could even bring herself to draw them back in.

“Monsieur, I cannot marry you.” Rose made herself look Peltier in the eyes. She gripped her mug tightly, refusing to betray her shaking hands to him.

“You cannot be serious,” he said.

“I am very sorry, monsieur.” Rose longed to look away, but maintained her composure.

“You're overtired, my dear Mademoiselle Barré,” Peltier said, clucking his tongue as a mother would do to downplay the tantrum of an overweary toddler.

“I'm very well rested, Monsieur Peltier.” Rose set down the cup.
How could I have ever thought to marry such a man?

“Who is it?” Peltier demanded. “Who has tempted that faithless heart of yours?”

The look in his eyes was at once reminiscent of Aunt Martine in their final moments together. When her aunt had opened the door to find Uncle Grégoire just having defiled her, the kind aunt who had taken the place of her long-deceased mother turned as cold and unfeeling as a serpent. The long months helping tend her young cousins and being Aunt Martine's closest confidante were erased in moments. It was the worst outcome from her nightmares, and now the man before her treated her with the same cold contempt. Rose felt the pangs of remorse vanish. She sat straighter and breathed deeper than she had since Peltier's arrival.

“Indeed, no one, monsieur.” Rose kept her temper at bay, but only just. She gripped the edge of the scarred wooden table to give her hands an occupation. “I no longer intend to marry at all. I plan to ask the Reverend Mother about taking orders.”

“You cannot be serious,” Rémy repeated, as stunned as if she had announced an intention to transform into a fish.

“I am very serious, monsieur,” Rose said. “New France was a mistake for me. I hope, since I cannot fulfill my promise to marry, that I may serve my new country through her Church.”

In Rose's mind, the newborn plan felt sound. She would have less freedom than as an
officière
of the Salpêtrière, but at least the fetid environs would not kill her.

“I cannot believe you would consider a religious life,” Peltier scoffed, sitting back in his chair, legs askew, fingers pressed to his forehead, ignoring the presence of others. “A vibrant young woman has no place in a convent.”

“I hope to make my own place, wherever I choose, monsieur,” Rose said, her eyes flashing defiance.

“As you wish.” Peltier gathered his cloak and hat and made his way to the door without another glance at Rose.

“So, you wish to join our little order, do you?” Rose started at Sister Mathilde's question.

Of course, her conversation would not have gone unheard, but the Sisters' remarkable ability to hear everything while remaining unnoticed was, at times, unsettling.

“Yes, Sister,” Rose replied.

“When did you come to this conclusion, my dear?” Sister Mathilde asked.

“It's been a while, Sister. It's been coming along gradually, I suppose.”

“And these feelings began perhaps five or six months ago? Sometime in the neighborhood of the birth of the Laurier baby, or soon thereafter, perhaps?” the nun asked.

“Yes, Sister,” Rose admitted. “It was.”

“I am not surprised that you were frightened, Rose,” Sister Mathilde said. “That is why I took you with me. I see much fear in you, and wanted you to see what you will come up against as a wife and a mother here. However, I did not take you there to frighten you behind a veil.”

“But, Sister, when the baby died . . .” Rose said.

“I know,” Sister Mathilde said. “It happens all too often, for reasons only the Lord can understand. What you must see is that Gislène Laurier lived. She has a healthy daughter and a devoted husband, despite his flaws. She suffered a great loss that day, but has far more to be thankful for.

“If you are still serious about taking orders six months from now, I will speak to the Reverend Mother myself. In the meantime, you will come to this room every Thursday when the young men come to call. Is that clear?”

“Yes, Sister,” Rose replied.

 

Faithful to her word, Rose descended to the common room on Thursdays to greet the gentlemen of the colony. She sat, each week, mending in hand, displaying a look of utter indifference to the young men who came to call. They seemed to understand her meaning, for no one had bothered to disrupt her sewing in weeks. Although she was engaged, Nicole had taken to doing her knitting with Rose to keep her company. Of course, Rose suspected that Nicole hoped for an unannounced visit from Luc, but she gave
most
of the credit to her friend's kindness and not her self-interest. With just a month until her wedding, Nicole had plenty of sewing to keep her occupied.
And, mercifully, she doesn't prattle on about Luc. At least, not too often.

Then, when six weeks after her refusal, Peltier entered the common room, Rose drew on every ounce of her restraint to greet him with civility.

“Monsieur Peltier,” Rose said. “I had not thought to see you. . . .”

“Mademoiselle Deschamps.” Peltier ignored Rose's greeting and approached Nicole instead. “I am very glad to find you at home today.”

Nicole looked at Rose, puzzled. Never once had Peltier paid attention to her before. He seemed to prefer Rose's innate refinement and dark good looks to Nicole's plainer manners and more subtle beauties.

“How may I help you, monsieur?” Nicole could not keep the astonishment from her voice.

“I was wondering, mademoiselle, would you consider allowing me to pay you court?” If Peltier felt any hesitation at making an offer to Nicole in front of his former fiancée, his voice did not betray it.

“Excuse me?” Nicole asked. “I'm afraid I don't. . . .”

“I have seen you, often, during my visits,” Peltier said. “You seem a gentle young lady who would make a good wife.”

“Thank you for your compliments, but I am promised to another,” Nicole answered. “And I am happy with the arrangement I've made.”

“Commendable. You keep your promises better than your friend,” Peltier said, no small amount of venom behind the words.

“Monsieur Peltier, I am not ignorant of your situation,” Nicole said. “You also seem to forget that the woman in question is standing no more than three feet away as we speak.”

“Mademoiselle Barré ended our engagement for reasons that had nothing to do with me. There is no reason I should not pay court to another,” Peltier said, no sympathy in his voice.

“She deserved . . . deserves . . . more courtesy,” Nicole said. “You let pride and injured feelings get in the way of finding out why she chose to end the engagement.”

“You display admirable loyalty to your friend.” Peltier shifted his gaze from Nicole to Rose and back again. “My apologies. I should have asked you in private.”

“Indeed you should have,” Nicole said, attempting to control her rage. “Nonetheless, my answer remains the same. I have no desire to know you better. Good day, monsieur.”

Nicole turned her back on Peltier and returned her attention to the soft wool blanket that took shape in her hands—hands that shook with satisfaction after serving the dreadful man a bit of his own bitter medicine.

The echo of Peltier's angry footsteps resonated through the convent.

“Thank you,” Rose said, at last.

“It was, most assuredly, my pleasure,” Nicole said.

“Can you tell me what you two are playing at?” Sister Mathilde approached the mantel, making no attempt to lower her voice, drawing stares from the other young ladies who had just bid farewell to their suitors.

“What do you mean, Sister?” Rose set the garland aside.

“The pair of you came here to marry—and came at the King's expense, I will remind you. Yet you treat this sacred duty without reverence. I know your intentions, Rose, but I won't have you turning others from the King's instructions. I expect more from you as well, Mademoiselle Deschamps. Promised or not, you had no right to treat an honorable proposal with contempt. The pair of you set the example for the prospective brides in this convent, for good or evil.”

“Yes, Sister,” Nicole said. “It's just that Monsieur Peltier . . .”

“Is a conceited popinjay, I know. He's not my first choice for any of you. But all you need do was rebuke him kindly and hint that someone else has captured your interest. That would have caused him no insult. Casting him off on your friend's account makes you appear spiteful.”

“Yes, Sister,” Nicole said, eyes downcast. “I understand.”

“Good. This is not the society of Paris you are used to, Mademoiselle Barré. The loan of a few sticks of firewood can mean the difference between life and death on a homestead in the winter. You cannot afford to lose friends—or make enemies—here.”