Wild Rose (4 page)

“My dress!” Sophie remembered, and would have rushed to the wardrobe to look at it again, but the door to her room opened and grand-mère stepped inside, her black taffeta skirt swishing crisply back into place as she halted. She stared grimly down at her abruptly subdued granddaughter, then to the similarly cowed maid.

“Vite,”
she said to Sophie –
grand-mère
did not raise her voice – or smile,
“Dépêche-toi!”
To Antoinette she said, “We must go shortly. I will put on the veil when we are about to leave. Bring it downstairs.” She went out, closing the door smartly behind her, she did not slam doors either, a glitter of jet beads at the shoulder as she vanished into the hall. Already Antoinette was sliding on Sophie’s stockings, pulling up her frilly white drawers,
patting her tummy as she buttoned all in place, reaching for vest and then the petticoat and then – at last! The dress!

Antoinette opened the wardrobe’s door with a flourish, reached in to grasp the mass of white silk and tulle, it expanding as she brought it forward, Sophie’s eyes fixed on it, her heart tripping quickly. The maid held it up to herself for a second as though she remembered when she had first donned her own white dress so many years ago. But no, Antoinette had already told Sophie she had not had so pretty a dress. “You are a rich little girl,” Antoinette had admonished. “For you, the best; for me, a farmer’s daughter, a handed-down dress.” But she didn’t seem angry, although when Sophie asked her
grand-mère
if she was a rich little girl,
grand-mère
had washed out her mouth with soap. But when, at dinner,
grand-mère
told
grand-père
, he laughed, and the next day took her away to his store, the clerks nodding and smiling down at her, so that she might see that they were
très satisfait
but never
riche
. And Antoinette had cried.

She swooped, Sophie was lost in the whistle of silk as it slid down her body, the rustle, the whisper, oh, the lightness of it! How her body disappeared inside it, as if now her legs, her
derrière
had become silk and tulle, and were filled now with nothing but air; might she now fly?

Then, her long veil firmly pinned to her scalp, her new white boots pinching her toes so that she wiggled them – grandmother wouldn’t be able to see that – they were seated in their buggy in the line of buggies all going to the church, riding together with her two nearly grown brothers, Guillaume and Hector – she did not like Hector although she couldn’t remember why not–and her grandfather in his high black hat brushed and brushed until it gleamed, to the magnificent occasion of Sophie’s First Communion.

~

The long double line of communicants
was ushered in by the priest wearing a gold chasuble over his black soutane and white alb, his servers following in starched white with perfect lace edges resting on ruby gowns. Wide beams of coloured light
moved aslant, serenely through the stained glass of the high win
dows, dust riding on them, all the way down to pool on the white-clad children as they walked slowly, in step, girls on one side, boys on the other, down the main aisle to the pews saved for them. One by one they bent a knee and the head and slid to the left or the right, tiny white people in the heavy, dark oak pews, packed in, the girls’ long veils poofing out satisfyingly, their hair, dark mostly, but a few blondes, one redhead, muted by the white tulle. The sopranos reached up to the domed ceiling, the basses vibrating in Sophie’s eardrums and chest, the brand new organ’s thunder swelling and softening as Brother Fleury pulled stops, pushed against the pedals, his torso twisting as his fingers moving rapidly across the keyboards, and his legs pumped or stretched to reach this pedal or that. The vault of the church pulsed with sound that invaded and set every particle of Sophie’s being to quivering.

The communicants waited, not moving or speaking, trying to see the altar over the ladies’ hats, or around their husbands’ stiff fabric shoulders. Sophie’s heart fluttered, her breath was short; but wait, the incense! Sanctifying as it filled the new stone church of which the parishioners were so proud, it being far nicer than the one the parishioners of the nearby village of Ste Anne had just finished, it drifted from the altar down the rows of dark pews where the people rose or sat, the headiest, most unusual odour Sophie had ever smelled and she breathed hard not to miss any of it. And listened to the chink of the censer as the priest swung it rhythmically back against its chain.

Then, no time having passed, no signal having been given, the children were once again lining up in the wide aisle, walking slowly, palms pressed together and held chest-high, their new rosaries dangling from between their palms. Sophie’s was silver and white, her grandmother had given it to her, already blessed, after she had set Sophie’s long veil on her head and fastened it with pins that dug into her scalp. How precious, her very own rosary, the white beads glowing softly as if within they made their own light, the polished silver links and joining medallions gleaming so that the Virgin’s face engraved on the biggest one flashed light. It had seemed too precious to hold, but
grand-mère
scolded, pushing her hands together hard, to show how she must place it, and so she did. They knelt one by one at the altar, hands tucked beneath the starched cloth so white it was hard to look at, that covered the rail in front of them, and the priest came by to set, for the first time ever, the Host on each of their tongues.

Do not chew!
Sister Mary Magdalene had exhorted in her most fierce manner, although admittedly this was her usual expression:
Let it rest on your tongue; let it melt away. It is the body of the Holy Christ
– Sophie hadn’t heard the rest, terrified as she was but no, she would never chew as Rose had claimed she had seen Monsieur Robitaille do on his way back down the aisle only the Sunday past. Sister Mary Magdalene had slapped her face for that. No, Sophie would not chew.

Now however, as its cool smoothness rested on her tongue and she rose and genuflected and turned to find her place in line to go to her pew, her mouth closing at the same time, she thought of none of that. It was all gone. In its place, as she walked the long way back down the aisle, the adults still clad in bulky winter blacks and dark blues nodding and smiling on each side as the rows of white-clad children passed at bridesmaid pace in this vast gilt and blue interior, she felt herself lifted out of the darkness of her own solid being while, slowly, wondrously, her small chest expanded as it filled with a cloud of pure white light.

Chapter Three

La région sauvage

T
he horses were hitched
to the loaded wagon
and waiting in the yard in the front of the farmhouse, Pierre already in the driver’s seat holding the reins, his younger brother Herménègilde mounting on the other side, he to bring back the horses and wagon once their goods were safely loaded on the train, Sophie between them, the older brothers Alexandre and Marcel, watching silently, hands on hips, lips pursed in either disapproval or concern, Sophie wasn’t sure which and didn’t care. M. Hippolyte paced beside the load, Mme Hippolyte, alternately sobbing and praying below them, Pierre’s sisters, Lucie and Cécile, trying to comfort her although in tears themselves. Neighbours and relatives were gathering from every direction to say
au revoir
and
bon voyage
, calling advice, weeping, laughing, admonishing, Sophie so eager to be off that she had to force herself to smile and nod whether she heard what was said or not. Tucked safely between her breasts was a small packet, something
handed to her not by grandmother, but by Antoinette, immediately after her marriage. She had been puzzled, but only for a second. They were the diamond earrings that had been her mother’s, promised to be hers on the day she married.

A tiny pressure there, for one infinitely small part of a second causing her to remember she was leaving behind the graves of her parents, and the long, usually unacknowledged childhood dream that they would someday return to her. She wavered, before she
remembered Pierre beside her, and the promise of freedom, and thousands of acres of their own gleaming wheat rippling in the prairie breeze. And a triumphant return someday, before too long. What a thought! She would not return, Sophie thought, and turned her face away toward Sherbrooke and the future.

But the young
abbé
Chabot had rushed his buggy past the people, leaving it by the barn and was hurrying across the yard toward the gathering crowd, and the horses and wagon containing the newlyweds, his cassock swaying, beads rattling rhythmically, heavy wooden cross slapping against his skirted thighs, chickens flapping indignantly, squawking, out of his way. Sophie had expected no priest and was annoyed. There was
no stopping him: First he addressed the small crowd that had gathered about this foolish venture of theirs, leaving behind
la patrie
– yes, foolish even now as they were about to drive away –
then asked all of them to pray for their safety in
la région sauvage
, then that they would never forget their blessed and providential church, and the great language of their birth,
la langue française
. And their people–he went on at some length about their people until he had more of the crowd weeping. The courageous few who had come from France nearly two hundred years earlier, had made friends, finally, with the Indians too, after Père Brébeuf and Père Lalemant and so many other martyrs were created, and let us never forget Adam Dollard, Sieur des Ormeaux, and
les coureurs-de-bois
, who had cut down trees and plowed the land and made homes in the new world, and had many children and would have many more, all for the greater glory of God and their church, and… Here he suddenly wound down, as if he had perhaps just remembered another engagement, made a flattening gesture with his palm held high above his head which the crowd interpreted without difficulty and knelt as if one in the dirt, whereupon he murmured a long prayer over Mme Hippolyte’s sobs before standing again, so that all the others could stand too.

Then Pierre called to the horses, flicked the reins, and they were off, Sophie, blinking back something that might have been unwanted tears that warred with a schoolgirl’s strong desire to stand, throw her arms in the air, and scream with joy, Herménègilde taking off his hat to wave it to everybody, although he was only going as far as Sherbrooke, and Pierre, frowning and too busy with the reins, his jaw set as if he were angry, or, she suddenly thought, holding back his tears, not even acknowledging the good-bye waves until they had gone a way down the road when he thrust out one hand backwards, widely, glancing over his shoulder one last time at the crowd. But Sophie did not wave again, nor did she look back.

~

Their goods loaded into one of the cars
reserved for settlers’ effects, Herménègilde already having driven the team and empty wagon away toward home, Sophie and Pierre were taking one last look at Québec before they would mount the steps into the passenger car.

Pierre was being particularly solicitous to her, so that Sophie, unused from earliest childhood to being closely attended to with love rather than disapproval, was touched and thrilled until, glancing up to his face while he was looking away, it occurred to her, seeing again the reappearance of the odd set to his mouth, that he was anxious, maybe even afraid, and his solicitousness to her was to quiet his own unease. Still, puzzling as she found it, she loved him more for it, his sudden apprehension making her want to soothe and reassure him. But she would not; fearing shaming him, she would never even let him know what she had seen.

But there, coming down the platform toward them, past the noisy train, puffs of steam issuing from around its iron wheels, clanking noises mixed with long, steaming sighs drowning the voices of the people on the platform, and far down the way behind them the noise of the draymen turning their wagons, shouting at their horses and each other, was Guillaume. He wore a heavy black overcoat of some expensive cloth that she had never seen before and a white silk scarf around his neck as grandfather sometimes did to Mass, and a smart black hat. As he came up to them his expression was grave; he didn’t kiss Sophie and she stared up at him, willing him to show her the love, no matter what had transpired, that she was accustomed to from her oldest brother.

“I took the early morning train from Montréal; I’ll catch the evening train back.” When they didn’t speak, he went on. “My firm has given me business to transact here in Sherbrooke so as I would miss you when you came through Montréal, I thought I would say good-bye here,” although, Sophie thought, his expression seemed more to admonish her. He kept his distance from them, stiffly, as if they were mere acquaintances, not family, and ones not much liked at that; no kiss for Sophie, no handshake for Pierre.

“I had to have one last word,” Guillaume told her severely. “You must remember that we do not abandon you, Sophie. It is the other way around,” making no attempt to hide his disapproval, a steady questioning in his eyes as, finally, he shook Pierre’s hand, holding on a bit too long, any hint of smiles slowly disappearing from both men’s faces. Guillaume turned away then, his face closing tightly, straightening his shoulders, and in that turning Sophie remembered the day the Holy Ghost had come down and lit in her chest when she was a small child and Antoinette had said,
“It means God loves you,”
and had crossed herself, tears pouring, irritatingly, from her eyes. Antoinette would cry if a dog crossed the road, grandmother had once remarked to the air.
More of the blessed seigneuries
, Pierre had spit, when she told him,
as if good, honest feelings were a sin
. Nonetheless, she clung to this memory, telling herself,
I shouldn’t be afraid
. But it was the thought of Pierre’s protection that in her instant of fear, the first she had allowed herself and all the more powerful for it, that kept her from changing her mind and throwing herself on Guillaume to beg him to allow her to go with him back to Montréal. That, and his coldness that she knew she could not now do anything to mitigate. It was too late for Guillaume’s rescue, if she wanted rescue, she told herself, and tossed her head as if she had spoken aloud. He hadn’t even kissed her cheek.