Promised to the Crown (13 page)

“Uncle Alexandre isn't all that bad once you know him,” Henri said. “A better mind for business you'll never meet.”

“That I can well believe. He has an excellent reputation in the colony—for that, at least.” She kept the reports about his haughty nature and his banter with Nicole to herself.

“The talk about town is that you're one of the smartest ladies the King has ever sent overseas,” Henri said, voice dropping.

“I'm not sure how worthy I am of the compliment.”
If indeed that's how it was meant,
Rose thought
. No one faults a woman for her lack of schooling here.

“I hoped you might accept this as a token of my esteem,” Henri said, taking a small book from the breast pocket of his
justaucorps.

“
Verses of the Trouvères,
” Rose said, reading the title. “Medieval poetry. My father used to read to me from this before bedtime. I shouldn't accept such a precious gift.”

The book she held in her hand was the first, aside from a prayer book or a Bible, she had held since leaving her uncle's home years before. Even the aroma reminded her of her father. They had laughed over the poems as he promised her a future filled with knights victorious and ladies fair.
How wrong you were, Papa.

“I insist,” he said, clasping his hands over hers. “I promise you, it will give me pleasure to know you have it.”

“Then I accept it gratefully. Thank you, monsieur,” Rose said. “I miss my father's library. A new book will help break the monotony.”

“Life with the Sisters would be less dreary than the life of a frontier wife, I imagine,” Henri mused, looking over the expanse of the Saint Lawrence River as smaller boats and a few larger ships bustled about the nearby docks.

“I think so,” Rose agreed. The image of the dying Laurier baby still loomed in her mind.
At least he understands to some extent. So many men think we hold our breath anticipating how we might serve them.

“It wouldn't have to be that way,” Henri said, very gently taking Rose's hand again. “Being a wife. Come with me.”

Rose felt her stomach churn. Could she accept a man she'd only met a few times before? It wouldn't be the first time in this colony. She thought of the next crop of young ladies who would arrive at the convent within a few weeks, and was sure it wouldn't be the last. Could she be happy to spend the rest of her life across the table from those kind smiles and mirthful hazel eyes?

For the first time she had to admit she might be. But there would still be children. He would still expect her to be a proper wife in every respect....

Every night she would have to push aside the image of Uncle Grégoire from her mind as Henri performed his duty as her husband. She would struggle to hide her disgust that would cause a good man needless pain. Perhaps she'd grow to accept his embraces without disdain, but at what cost to her nerves and his heart? And the inevitable arrival of the children. Risking her life and health with each lying-in. It was all too much to consider putting herself through, let alone a decent man like Henri.

Rose looked at Henri, but said nothing.
Please don't, Henri. Oh, please, don't.

“I could provide for you, care for you in a way these good, honest farmers cannot. You wouldn't have to work yourself to death.”

Rose knew he felt the calluses on her hands, and she knew he assumed they were from her hard work at the convent. He had never seen her relentless scrubbing, which had continued from her days at the Salpêtrière, and which she could never control when she was anxious or frightened.

He doesn't know how broken I am,
Rose thought
. He doesn't need this. Even if he will give me all the comforts this place could afford me, there would still be children.

She pried her hands from his and clutched the book to her chest. “I'm so sorry, Henri. I can't do it.” She thought about handing back the book of poems, but didn't wish to insult him any further.

Rose felt a tear slip down her cheek and ran back toward the convent before he could see the rest.

 

For three days the scrubbing did not stop, and the bleeding from her fingers was unceasing. Rose managed to curb the involuntary tears most of the time, but that awful hour before supper, and the even worse hour before bed, was her time for weeping.
I made the right decision
. Rose repeated the mantra over and over to herself.
My place is here.
She hoped that if she said the words often enough, she would believe them.

“Rose, be a dear and fetch some bread from Beaumont's Bakery, will you?” asked Sister Mathilde, knocking on Rose's bedroom door. “Father Levesque is coming to supper. I'd like a good cake as well.”

“Yes, Sister,” Rose said and was gone without further preamble.

She didn't remember running to the bakery but was soaked with sweat when she arrived at the door.

“What in the world have you been up to, Rose?” Elisabeth asked upon seeing her friend's frazzled state. If she noticed Rose's cracked and bleeding hands, she said nothing.

“Sister needs bread and a cake for supper,” Rose said, catching her breath.

“And for this you come all the way from the convent at a dead run?” Elisabeth asked, showing Rose to a chair. “What is really the matter?”

“Nothing,” Rose said. “I refused Henri Lefebvre, but it was the right choice. My place is at the convent.”

At least out loud, she thought the words sounded convincing.

“Then why are you so upset?” Elisabeth asked.

“I don't know,” Rose said. “He was nice, I enjoyed our visits, and then he had to bring up marriage. He was supposed to leave. I wasn't prepared for him to ask. . . .”

“You're afraid you hurt him,” Elisabeth said, rubbing the taut skin of her swollen abdomen.

“That must be it,” Rose said. “I should apologize.”

“That wouldn't do any harm,” Elisabeth said. “And neither would this almond tart. I'll send the other things on to the convent with Gilbert. It will keep him from clucking over me like a nervous chicken for a good half hour.”

Rose accepted the parcel and found her way to Henri's uncle's residence near the main market square, in the very heart of Quebec City. She thought of Henri's kind face, his willingness to continue their friendship despite her declarations for the Church. He'd never pressured her for more, aside from his proposal.
And one can't blame a person for asking for what they want.
She never felt anxious in his presence. There was something so inherently good in his being.
I can't be too late. I can't. He has to forgive me. . . .

She stood before the massive wooden door and summoned the courage to knock. After a time, Alexandre answered the door, displeased with the disruption.

“Hello, monsieur, you do not know me, but I am Rose Barré, a friend of your nephew's,” Rose explained, tripping over her words. “I was hoping I could speak with the younger Monsieur Lefebvre, please.”

“I'm sorry, mademoiselle,” Alexandre said. “He's left for the Antilles. I thought he made you aware of his plans.”

“Indeed he did, monsieur,” Rose said. “But I thought he wasn't to leave for several days.”

“He had an opportunity to leave early,” Lefebvre said. “As his business was concluded here, he had no reason to stay.”

“I see,” Rose said. “And do you expect him back in Quebec before long?”

“I seriously doubt he plans to return at all,” Alexandre said. “I manage his father's affairs here, for the most part, so Henri doesn't have the bother of coming here.”

“Please take this,” Rose said, thrusting the basket into his hands. “Thank you, monsieur.”

She rushed from the doorstep and was gone before the tears spilled over.

C
HAPTER
12

 

P
ain seized Elisabeth's body and refused to relinquish its grip. For ten hours, the labor contractions held her hostage, with only moments of reprieve between the surges. At first, everyone told her it was normal, just as, for weeks, they had called the swelling normal. They said not to worry that the baby came later than expected.

But nobody said things were normal now.

Elisabeth tried to find her voice, but it failed her.

She longed to voice her questions. Scream them. Beg.

Her tongue would not obey. Her body seemed a foreign thing and she wanted more than anything to regain control.

Sometime later she lost that urge . . . all she wanted was to slip away from the misery. She cared not how.

 

Sunlight streamed in through the smudgy window. The moment Elisabeth awoke, she knew she'd been unconscious for hours. She tried to sit up, but the pulled and torn muscles in her abdomen forbade it.

Gilbert and Rose rushed to her side, adjusting her position and smoothing the hair from her face.

“The baby,” she said.

“She's here,” Rose said. “A girl. Your little Adèle.”

“I want to see her.” Elisabeth's voice was not her own. It sounded like a weak and raspy shadow of itself.

Gilbert and Rose exchanged a glance.

Elisabeth accepted the baby from Rose and looked down at the miniature features, so much like her own mother's. A warmth spread from her core. Tears spilled onto her pale cheeks.

“She's so perfect. So beautiful.” Elisabeth cooed at the sleeping baby, stroking her soft skin.

“That she is,” Rose agreed.

Elisabeth looked at Gilbert, wondering why he remained silent.

She held Adèle to her breast, expecting the baby to suckle, but the infant did not stir.

“Perhaps—” Rose fumbled. “Perhaps she's not hungry. Sister Mathilde told us to give her goat's milk when you were asleep.”

“Don't—” Gilbert began. “We must—”

Elisabeth saw the anguish in her husband's eyes, so keen it seemed to cut her soul. “What's wrong, Gilbert? What's wrong with Adèle?”

Gilbert buried his face in his hands.

Rose sat on a corner of the bed, the tears brimming in her eyes, and took Elisabeth's hand.

“Elisabeth, the baby isn't well.” Rose began trembling. “Sister Mathilde says she's very weak—she won't—”

“She won't what?” Elisabeth's voice found some substance.

“My love, the baby can't survive.” Gilbert finally spoke, tears streaming down his face.

Elisabeth clutched the sleeping bundle tighter to her bosom. She felt angry that her body was torn apart, only for her beloved daughter to be taken from her, and furious with herself for sleeping away any of the few hours the child would have on this earth.

“I'll feed her. If she'll just eat, she'll be fine.” Elisabeth sat up, her muscles screaming in protest, and gently forced her nipple into Adèle's perfect bow-shaped mouth.

The baby still refused to nurse, so Elisabeth massaged her breast, trying to release a few drops of nourishing liquid.

“She wouldn't eat before,” Rose said gently. “Sister Mathilde says she's just too weak.”

“
She's wrong!
” Elisabeth screamed. “Just get out. If you won't help me save her, just get out.”

Rose padded from the room, her footsteps barely making a sound against the hard wooden floors. Gilbert remained, seated in a straight-backed wooden chair that usually resided at the supper table. Elisabeth's eyes, however, were only for her precious daughter.

“Eat, my little one,” Elisabeth said, coaxing a few more drops of clear liquid into the baby's mouth and massaging her throat. “Please eat for Maman.”

Gilbert's manful sobs from alongside the bed caused her to look up. His head was buried in his hands, shoulders shaking.

He's given up on you, my love, but your
maman
won't. You're my good girl and you're going to grow to be big and strong. You must.

Elisabeth held the baby for hours, not bothering with the swaddling clothes that many midwives insisted upon. She massaged what nourishment she could from her aching breasts until her hands cramped. With every movement, every pulled muscle and torn fiber of her body tried to reel her back into rest, but she ignored it. She ignored Rose's and Gilbert's pleas for her to entrust the baby to them and to rest. She ignored the growing seed of doubt that blossomed with every passing hour and choked her breath.

Adèle occasionally opened her blue eyes for a brief moment, filling her mother's heart with hope. But Elisabeth ignored the shallow breath becoming shallower. She ignored it until she could ignore it no longer.

“Gilbert, fetch the priest.” Elisabeth's voice was whisper soft and several octaves lower than her usual tone. It felt as foreign to her as the rest of her battered body.

He said nothing but walked from the room. Elisabeth listened to his footsteps that fell morosely down the stairs to the shop below and onto the street. Rose took his place at Elisabeth's side, but did not offer to take the baby this time. She offered a hand, and nothing more.

Thank you.
The words stuck in her chest, but she knew they need not be spoken.

Less than twenty minutes later, Gilbert returned without Father Cloutier.

“Where is he?” Elisabeth demanded.

“Writing his sermon. He said he would be here before nightfall if he's able to complete it.”

“We . . .” Elisabeth faltered, but drew her breath. “We don't have that much time. Get the holy water. Now.”

His eyes had a hollow look she'd never seen before but his face betrayed no emotion.

The glass flask was soon in her hand and she unscrewed the lid while resting Adèle on her lap and left arm, careful not to disturb her. She dribbled a small amount of water on her right hand and made the sign of the cross on her daughter's forehead, sternum, and both sides of her birdlike rib cage.

“In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit, I baptize thee . . .”

 

“The child cannot be buried in consecrated soil if it was not baptized.” Cloutier stood at the foot of Elisabeth's bed dressed in a black cassock looking like the angel of death. Elisabeth still held Adèle's little body close to her breast, though the infant had breathed her last a few hours before.

“I blessed her with holy water myself,” Elisabeth said. The priest leaned closer to hear her strained tones. “My mother kept a flask of it in the house at all times when my father was ill. The priest told her she could administer my father's last rites.”

“That's not the same as a baptism,” Cloutier said, shaking his head.

“The priest in my village always made sure mothers who were on the point of giving birth had holy water on hand for cases just like these,” Gilbert said. His arms folded across his chest, barring any opposition from the obstinate priest.

“If you had made me aware of the direness of the situation . . .” Cloutier turned his attention to Gilbert, his voice a condescending sermon.

“I'm not sure how more evident I could have made things for you. ‘The baby is dying' is as direct as a man can be.”

“Parents often exaggerate these situations,” Cloutier continued.

“Obviously, we were
not,
” Elisabeth said, raising her voice to its usual volume.
Do not exert yourself and drop the baby.

“Clearly,” the priest admitted, a mask of insincere sympathy plastered on his face.

Elisabeth looked at the scrawny, tall man, so very like the scarecrows out in the fields on the outskirts of Paris. Like them, he had no flesh, bone, nor beating heart beneath the tattered clothes. But she could understand his detachment, at least in principle.
You see babies die all the time. You minister to the fathers. Console the mothers. You speak of God's will and the importance of forging on. You cannot care for Adèle as we do. But I
will
see my daughter buried in consecrated ground.

“I am very sorry, but I cannot allow the child to be buried on Church land.” There was no room for debate in his expression. “I will be happy to say a blessing over the child wherever you decide to hold the funeral.”

“Your blessing won't be needed.” Elisabeth set her teeth and looked down at the motionless babe in her arms. There were no words he could offer that would soothe a mother's soul or mend a father's broken heart. So innocent a creature did not need such a man to commend her soul to heaven.

The priest uttered some condolences and left Elisabeth with her child, Gilbert following him to the door.

“Would you like me to hold her for a little while so you can sleep?” Rose entered the room, bringing a mug with some milk. She apparently knew better than to try to offer food.

“No.” Elisabeth latched her eyes onto Adèle's face.
I can only spend so many more hours . . . minutes with you, little chick. You'll be with me the whole time.

“Darling—”

“Don't. Don't even ask, Rose. I can't let her go. Not yet.”

“I'm not asking you to, dear. Just please listen. You must rest. You must get better. You've lost a great deal of blood and you've torn badly. You must take time to heal.”

“Why? What does it matter now?” For the first time the salty drops spilled over. She realized she'd been in too much pain to let her tears loose before.

“Gilbert.” Rose sat on the edge of the bed, wrapping her arm around Elisabeth's shoulders. The warmth felt good around her sore muscles . . . even those in her neck had been wrenched from her attempts to push her child into the world.

“I'll rest,” Elisabeth promised. “When she doesn't need me any longer. I will.”

Rose nodded. “Is there anything you need?”

“Write to Nicole, please,” Elisabeth said after a few moments. “Spare her the details. I wouldn't want to frighten her. But she should know. She'd want to know. I'd want to know if it were her.”
God forbid. I wouldn't wish this on anyone, let alone a woman I cherish like a sister.

“Of course. I'll send her your love,” Rose said, her arm squeezing her friend's shoulders gently as she kissed Elisabeth's sweaty temple.

“Thank you, Rose.”

“Don't you dare. But please, do try to drink some milk. It will help you feel a little better.”

 

The next day, the three of them buried Adèle beneath Elisabeth's favorite evergreen tree, just outside of town. Far enough from the settlement that the tree was sure to stand for years to come yet, and close enough that Elisabeth could come and see her sweet daughter without too much difficulty. Unable to sit, even for the ten-minute ride outside of town, Elisabeth lay in the back of the wagon, Adèle still tucked safely in her arms.

Gilbert dug a hole deep enough so no beast would disturb Adèle's slumber. The sweat poured from his brow, but he let it drip into his eyes. Elisabeth knew his tears made him oblivious to the sting. She sat up, with Rose's help, when the hole was dug. He retrieved the impossibly small wooden coffin he'd built the previous night and removed the lid.

Elisabeth pressed her lips to the baby's cold forehead.
You must let her go. You must. Let her rest.

Shaking, Elisabeth placed the child's limp body in the box Gilbert held out. The baby wore a simple nightdress that Elisabeth had embroidered with sheaves of wheat.
Your grandpapa would have loved it. He'll recognize you coming, my sweet girl. He'll take care of you for me.
Without looking down, Gilbert placed the lid atop the coffin. Adèle was gone.

Rose, as Elisabeth had requested, read a passage from the Bible. Something to do with the time and season for all things. Elisabeth didn't listen to the words, but was just glad someone spoke them. Elisabeth stood with Gilbert's help and sprinkled some holy water on her daughter's grave. Adèle might not have the Church's blessing, but she had her mother's, and Elisabeth was certain that it would have to count for something.

When the time came for Gilbert to fill the hole, Elisabeth could not bear to watch. She lay back down in the wagon as the shovel connected with the dirt and covered her precious child.
Clank, swoosh. Clank, swoosh.
She closed her eyes against the oppressive August sun, but she could not muffle the sound from her ears, no matter how she tried.
Clank, swoosh. Clank, swoosh.

She felt the warmth of a body slide behind her in the bed of the wagon and wrap a slender arm around her aching, broken body. Elisabeth reached up and grabbed Rose's hand and tucked it to her broken heart in wordless appreciation.

“You will be well again. In time.”