Promised to the Crown (15 page)

A slender arm the color of warm cedar wrapped around Nicole and provided her with some warmth against the frigid night.

 

Sleep came faster and deeper than Nicole expected, and she was surprised when sunlight woke her the following morning. As she prepared breakfast for herself and the Huron girl, she felt more grounded, if not better. The Huron girl sat in the seat Nicole preferred, closest to the fire, and waited for her meal, hands placed demurely on her lap and black-brown eyes trailing Nicole around the kitchen. There was so much to be done. She had to see Luc buried properly. She had to figure out what to do with their home. Where to go. But before she could do any of those things, she had to see the little native girl fed a decent breakfast.

“I hope you like this,” Nicole said, setting a plate of good bread and salted pork before the child. To Nicole's relief, the girl ate with enthusiasm.

“Nicole,” she said, patting her own chest. It embarrassed Nicole that she hadn't thought of this before.
Of course, we were busy last night,
Nicole reminded herself.

“Nicole,” the girl repeated.

“Yes!” Nicole said with a smile. She pointed in the girl's direction. “You?”

The girl responded in Wendat, but Nicole could not wrap her tongue around the syllables. The young girl shook her head at Nicole's efforts. “May I call you Manon?” Nicole asked. “I've always liked that name.”

“Manon,” said the girl, trying the name on her tongue. “Manon.” She pointed to herself and nodded.

The rest of the meal was spent with Nicole naming objects in French and Manon mimicking her pronunciation. It was a good—if fleeting—distraction from the myriad duties at hand. Nicole looked toward the entry where Luc's body still lay. The trip into town could not be put off. Luc needed a proper funeral and burial, and the Sisters would be able to find out who the child was and where to take her. The idea of seeing a familiar face was also a comforting prospect.

She had never hitched the horse to the sleigh before, but managed without too much trouble. Luc's old nag, Gillette, looked at Nicole with martyred patience but seemed happy enough to stretch her legs.

Manon was delighted with the horse and disappointed that Nicole refused to let the girl hold the horse's reins as they drove along.

They left Luc's body behind. Nicole worried that she might hurt herself further if she tried to load him into the sleigh. She felt sure his friends from the regiment would collect their fallen comrade for burial.

Though not an accomplished horsewoman, Nicole urged Gillette on as quickly as she dared, anxious to reach town.
I can't believe you left me here all alone, Luc. You were convinced nothing would happen to me or the baby. You never stopped to think about what would become of us if something happened to you. . . .
Nicole channeled her anger to urge the horse through the snow.

Less than two hours later, Manon sat on the floor of the convent's common room, deep in conversation with Rose. Nicole was deeply impressed by her friend's grasp of the language after a month of study with Sister Hortense, who led most of the catechism courses with the native girls, but was unable to focus for long on the conversation. She mostly stared into the fire and tried not to think. Luc's death had yet to fully register, and she knew the pain would come soon enough. For now, finding out where little Manon belonged was her chief concern. It kept the angry thoughts about Luc's carelessness at bay. She wanted to think well of her departed husband, but found it difficult now that she faced a future with her unborn child without the protection of a spouse.

At one point, Manon giggled, jumped up, and ran toward the convent kitchen.

“I've sent her to watch Sister Éléonore make bread,” Rose said. “She's a sweet child.”

“That she is,” Nicole agreed. “What have you learned?”

“She lives with the Huron tribe that lives not far from your homestead, as you guessed. She saw what happened. She says it was an accident. Two of the Huron men were hunting. They mistook Luc for a deer. She thinks they left because they feared trouble with our law.”

“Reasonable enough,” Nicole said, knowing the laws in New France were often unkind to the native people. “She must want to get back to her family.”

“She lives with an elderly grandmother. Her parents died,” Rose said.

“Poor baby.” Nicole glanced toward the kitchen.

“She doesn't seem happy,” Rose said. “It sounds to me like the grandmother is ill. Perhaps gravely so. She says she's seen eight summers to her grandmother's eighty.”

“She's really eight years old? She looks like she couldn't be any older than five or six.” Nicole, not knowing what to do with her hands, folded them in her lap.

“So she claims,” Rose said, looking in the direction of the giggles from the kitchen. “I don't doubt her based on the way she spoke. She's bright.”

“Yes. And capable.” Nicole thought of the way the girl fashioned the stretcher in the midst of the storm, but could not bring herself to speak of it to Rose.

“Is there anything we can do?” Nicole wondered.

“I'll go to the tribe and ask,” Rose said. “They're pretty friendly. They've allowed several of the girls to take classes here.”

“Thank you, Rose,” Nicole said. “If it weren't for her, Luc would still be out there.”

She shivered at the thought of her husband dying alone in the woods. Tears began to fall.

Rose took her friend in her arms and rubbed Nicole's back as she sobbed. “He was almost home,” Nicole sputtered. “Twenty minutes at most and he would have been home.”

“Madame,” said a male voice from the door to the common room. “We've collected Luc. He's at the church. We cleaned up . . . as best we could.”

After a moment, Nicole recognized the young man from Luc's regiment. Something-or-other Gérard. A nice young man, from what little she knew.

“Thank you very much,” Nicole said. “I'm grateful to you all.”

“Say nothing about it, madame,” the soldier said. “We're terribly sorry it happened. Be happy to find the red-devil bastards who did this to him. Begging your pardon, madame.”

“No need. We've learned it was an honest accident.” Nicole did not feel the need to explain all Manon had done. The soldier was the type who would always think of retribution first.

“As you say, madame.” Though he looked unconvinced, the young man bowed his way out of the room.

Rose cast an annoyed look after the soldier. In her talks with Nicole, she revealed that the more she learned about the native people, the more she cared for them. Accidents like these were dangerous to the delicate relations between the settlers and the Huron. Too many on both sides considered violence as the most efficient form of diplomacy.

 

Luc Jarvais was laid to rest the following day in the settlement cemetery. As the priest spoke, Nicole did not weep or rage at the injustice of a life cut far too short. She felt a numbness, a disbelief, that had yet to dissipate.

“Thank you,” Nicole said to one of the numerous soldiers who offered a kind remembrance of Luc to his widow. So many of them descended upon her after the burial that their faces began to blur.

“You're exhausted,” Elisabeth said, rubbing her friend's back. “Let's get you home.”

Elisabeth scanned the small crowd for Rose, who stood at the edge of the group in deep discussion with Sister Hortense, Rose's mentor and friend.

Elisabeth caught Rose's eye and gestured her intent to take Nicole back to the convent.

“I wish I had words for you,” Elisabeth said as she installed Nicole in the common room with a cup of crisp spruce beer.

Nicole had refused food, and for today Elisabeth and the others would not press.

Manon, rarely out of Nicole's sight since the night Luc died, sat on the floor playing with a simple cloth doll that Sister Anne had fashioned for her.

“I do remember from when I lost my father. Words don't help much anyway,” Elisabeth said.

“Not really,” Nicole agreed. “I am so glad you're here. I thought you might be burdened enough.”

“I'm glad I was able,” Elisabeth said.

Nicole squeezed her friend's hand, wishing she had better means to express her gratitude.

“Have you any plans?” Elisabeth asked.

“Not yet,” Nicole said. For the moment, she lived hour to hour. Anything beyond that seemed too colossal.

“You'll stay here as long as you need,” Sister Mathilde said, entering the room and joining the two women near the fire with mugs of spruce beer for all of them. “You don't want to be alone when the child is born.”

“Yes,” Nicole said, tone wooden. Another of the countless worries she had yet to consider.

“I suggest selling the rights to the homestead if you don't wish to manage it yourself,” Sister Mathilde said, “and sooner rather than later. You'll fetch the best price while the land is cleared and the house is in good repair.” At that statement, Nicole bit her tongue. If the good Sister saw the condition of the house that Luc described as “being in good repair” she would have cursed him for ever taking one of her girls to live there.

“A sound idea,” Nicole said. The room swirled at the thought of managing a hundred acres.

“You don't need to make any decisions today, or for a few weeks yet,” Sister Mathilde said, patting Nicole's shoulder. “I don't mean to be callous, dear, but there are decisions that ought to be made.”

“Of course, Sister,” Nicole said.

Sister Mathilde was one of the least callous people Nicole knew, but the nun was ruthlessly practical. “Thank you for letting me stay here. Your kindness means so much to me. I hope I can be of some service while I'm here.”

“Our pleasure to help,” Sister Mathilde said. “Just rest and protect that child of yours. That is the biggest service you can provide.”

“I'll do my best.” Nicole looked down at her abdomen that had begun to swell with child, and felt an overwhelming sadness for the child who would never know firsthand how much his father loved him. But as she sat, absorbing the warmth of the fire, grateful for the absence of wind blowing through timber gaps in shoddy walls, she knew she was better off here. She rubbed her swollen abdomen;
the baby certainly will be, despite Luc's grand plans and good intentions
. That night she wept herself to sleep. Not out of grief for her husband, but out of shame that she would not miss him like a wife should.

C
HAPTER
14

 

“T
he—the fat b-brown cow yumped . . .” Manon stuttered.

“Jumped,” Rose corrected.

“J-jumped,” Manon repeated. “Jumped.” The girl's satiny brown brow furrowed, branding the word and its corresponding sound into her memory through brute force of will. She sat slouched over the scarred wooden table in the convent's common room, appearing oblivious to all the other occupants of the room as well as the crackling of the fire and the swirling snow that painted ice flowers on the windowpanes. Nicole usually gave Manon her French lessons, but a headache kept her in bed that afternoon. Rose suspected the inconvenience of selling the homestead and dealing with Luc's affairs were the root cause.

“Very good, my darling girl. You're making wonderful progress.” Rose rubbed Manon's back as she arched over the book, concentrating as though the pages contained the great mysteries of the universe and not a compilation of children's rhymes.

“Not fast enough.” Manon spoke as much to the book as to her tutor.
The frustration of an eight-year-old is a powerful thing.

“Dearest, several weeks ago you didn't speak a syllable of French. You're coming along better than any of us could have dreamed. Don't be so hard on yourself.” Rose scratched the small square of skin between Manon's shoulder blades, causing the girl to purr like a kitten.

“I am stupid,” Manon said, pronouncing each word with deliberation.

“No you aren't, and no one who knows you thinks that either, my dear. I worried that the people in England thought the same of me when Papa took me to London and I couldn't order my own supper. I was just about your age, maybe a year older.” Rose chuckled as she remembered the fire of her indignation at the waiter's gentle scoff—a fury unmatched by anyone over the age of ten. How dare he laugh at her? The stupid man was much older than she and didn't know a word of French. She imagined that Manon must feel the same when people smiled at her lilting pronunciation that Rose found more beautiful than the most cultured Parisian accent. Rose hoped the girl wouldn't lose it entirely. But she knew that speaking as the settlers did was in Manon's best interest.

“Where is Eng-land?” Manon asked.

Rose took advantage of the distraction to give Manon a break from the text. She opened the Sisters' atlas, so old it contained no reference to the land on which they stood, and she turned to the outdated world map.

“Here is France, where I'm from. I was born in Paris, just here.” Rose pointed to the large, scripted words that dominated the center of the country. “London is there.”

“That isn't far,” Manon said, measuring the distance with her fingers. “Only this far away.”

Rose stifled her chuckle at some cost, covering her efforts with a cough. “It's actually quite a distance, dear. The real distance wouldn't fit on the page. That's why we have maps, so we have at least some idea of where countries are in relation to one another.”

“That is smart,” Manon said, studying the map. “My people don't have maps. This way is better.” If Rose had been a less observant woman, the dark cloud that passed over Manon's face would have gone unnoticed.

“Did someone you know get lost?” Rose asked.

“My papa,” Manon said, not taking her eyes from the atlas. “He was hunting. He never came home.”

“I'm so sorry, my darling,” Rose said, her voice hushed. Losing her father at an older age than Manon's had been an impossible lot to bear. This small girl had lost all the people who had cared most in less than a year. Manon's attachment to Nicole made all the more sense to Rose.

“This is Rouen,” Rose said, indicating the large town in the northwest. “Nicole was born on a farm just outside of it.”

“It must be a lovely place,” Manon said.

Rose had visited Rouen three or four times in her youth, but the town had made little impression after a childhood bathed in the splendors of Paris. “Why do you say so, my dear?”

“Because she's a lovely person. She must come from a lovely place.” Manon's sweet, girlish logic brought stinging tears to the corners of Rose's eyes.

“Quite right,” Rose said, clearing her throat. “Let's take a break and do some needlework, shall we?”

“Very well,” Manon said, sighing as she closed her book. As challenging as the book work was for Manon, it held her interest much more than domestic tasks.

Rose pulled Manon's small sampler from the basket and gave her directions on how to proceed with the design. Forming the letters stitch by stitch, Rose reasoned, would help etch them into Manon's memory.

“And how are the studies coming, my dear?” Sister Mathilde asked, taking a seat near the student and pupil.

“Brilliantly,” Rose answered, smiling at Manon.

The Sister flipped through the texts and asked Manon the occasional question, observed her progress in the needlework, and looked over the samples of her attempts at handwriting. “Manon, dear. Why don't you go ask Sister Anne for something to eat? You've been working very hard. Tell her I sent you.”

With no further prompting, Manon dashed in the direction of the convent kitchen.

“My dear Mademoiselle Barré, you have made tremendous progress with our young pupil. I had not thought your education plan to be as ambitious as it seems to be. In just a few weeks she has more ability than many in the colony. At least in terms of reading and writing.”

“And you shall have my skills at your disposal, Sister,” Rose said. “You told me I had to wait six months before you would speak to Mother Marie. It's been that and more. I'm still determined to take orders.”

“And what of young Lefebvre?” Sister Mathilde asked. “I thought the two of you were becoming friendly. Whatever happened?”

“He has gone to the Antilles, Sister,” Rose said. “And has no plans to return, according to his uncle.”

“That is a shame, my dear.” Sister Mathilde arranged Manon's papers in a neat pile, unable to let her hands rest idle. “But since you found one agreeable young man, I am sure you can find another.”

“No, Sister,” Rose said. “If you will not speak to the Reverend Mother for me, I will do it myself.”

“Very well, child.” Sister Mathilde folded her hands and looked into Rose's eyes. “I have business with her tomorrow and will speak to her then. I hope you are prepared for this life. There are many sacrifices you will be called to make.”

“I know, Sister, but I have only one way to find out.”

 

Two days later, Rose waited in the dark corridor outside Reverend Mother Marie de l'Incarnation's small office. Rose jiggled her foot to no beat or rhythm, unable to shake the feeling that she was a petulant child awaiting punishment from the headmistress. Memories of her meeting with Sister Charité swam through her brain. If anything, the cold iron in the pit of her stomach weighed even heavier this time.

Sister Mathilde opened the door and motioned for Rose to enter, then left the young woman alone with the head of the Ursuline order.

Wordlessly, Mother Marie motioned to a severe-looking chair that seemed created to keep visits brief. Mother Marie was somewhat of a legend. Rose heard the Sisters speak of her in whispered tones. She was the founder of the Ursuline order. A true pioneer. Rose could imagine what the settlement was like when Mother Marie first arrived. It must seem as bustling as Paris to her now.

Mother Marie was a slip of a woman with a face lined with the experience of a founding mother of a country. No shaded cloisters and grand cathedrals for many years. Though she was slight, Rose could see why Mother Marie inspired such reverence in her Ursulines. The serenity of her spirit, her presence, was enough to startle Rose into silence. She took her rosary from her apron pocket for comfort. It was a plain wooden affair, nothing like the elegant creations in silver, gold, and precious stones that her aunt Martine carried to Mass. Rose rubbed the smooth beads with her thumb and forefinger, focusing on the texture to calm her breathing.

“So, you wish to join our order.” Mother Marie's voice was strong for a woman approaching seventy years of age. Her face was lined with experiences, sorrowful and joyful, but there seemed a peace about her that Rose envied.

“Yes, Reverend Mother,” Rose said, looking down at her folded hands as she spoke.

“Sister Mathilde spoke very highly of you.” With her smallest finger, Mother Marie traced a pattern, unseen to Rose, on the small wooden desk that separated the women. “She says you read Latin?”

“Yes, Reverend Mother,” Rose said. “And Greek. And French, of course.”

“Most unusual.” Mother Marie assessed the young woman before her. “She says you have been quite successful with the education of one of the young native girls as well. Already learning their language. You would be an asset to us, but you were sent here to marry. We need wives in this colony even more than we need teachers to spread the word of God.”

“Yes, Reverend Mother,” Rose said. “But I cannot marry.”

“I am sure you could find a young man in this colony to tempt you,” said Mother Marie, echoing Sister Mathilde's words. “There are plenty to be had.”

“Let me speak plainer, Reverend Mother,” Rose said. “I will not marry.”

“Marriage is a duty placed upon you by the King himself, a duty you accepted voluntarily, I would remind you.” Mother Marie's eyes fixed on Rose, perhaps noticing a troublesome speck of defiance in the young woman's character. “This order has no need of those who are derelict in their duty.”

“By no means, Reverend Mother,” Rose said. “But I see that my duty has changed. I wish to serve my country and my king by teaching the new wives and girls rather than taking a husband of my own. I take those responsibilities to heart, I assure you, Reverend Mother.”

Rose kept the calm in her voice, but did not avert her eyes as she longed to do.

“That's better,” said Mother Marie. “And something I can well understand. The postulate period is one year. During that time you will live with the Sisters, pray, and study. After that, Sister Mathilde will report to me if she feels you are ready to enter the novitiate.”

“Very well, Reverend Mother,” Rose said.

“Sister Mathilde also says you wish to teach the native girls, and have been working with Sister Hortense as a sort of assistant. I agree this is an excellent use of your talents, and I wish you to continue learning their language. I want it to be the main concentration of your studies, even beyond Church doctrine,” Mother Marie said. “It will serve you even better in your teaching, for we will rarely venture beyond the basic catechism with these young ladies. I trust you know your catechism well enough.”

Rose nodded; she couldn't have spent three years in the Salpêtrière without knowing it as well as her own name.

“Excellent. I am pleased to have your skills at our disposal, my dear. You may go now and get to work.”

“Yes, Reverend Mother.” Rose offered a small curtsy as she stood. “And thank you.”

“A pleasure, my daughter,” Mother Marie said. “May God bless you on your path.”

 

The first thing Rose learned as a teacher with an entire class of her own was that despite the bite in the October air, the Huron girls had far more success sitting and listening while outdoors for their lesson. The walls of the convent confined them, made them restless. Rose kept things very simple for their first session. She taught them two prayers, and explained their meaning in halting Wendat. Manon supplied her with a missing word, causing one girl with a long face and rather pointy nose to hurl an insult for which Rose needed no translation.

“Young lady, you will not speak in that way to a member of this class. Nor should you speak to anyone in such a manner.” Rose's Wendat, though imperfect, was able to convey her message without any confusion. The offending child turned stone-faced for the remainder of the lesson, refusing to participate or respond for the entire hour.

Wonderful. Another Huron child who'll have no love for the French. Exactly what the Sisters asked me to do
.

Rose didn't display her frustration to the children, but dismissed them with a forced smile and a genuine wish to see them back the next week. She did not anticipate Manon's detractor would be among them.

“Very well done, my dear,” Sister Mathilde said, joining Rose in the courtyard as she collected her texts.

“Oh, I don't think it was any great success, Sister,” Rose said.

“On the contrary, the girls seemed very attentive.” Sister Mathilde opened the door for Rose, and pointed the way to the small room that served as her office.

“I fear the one girl—the one with the pointy nose—won't be back,” Rose said, taking a seat opposite the Sister's plain pine desk.

“Don't you worry,” Sister Mathilde said. “Our young Sarah, as we call her, will be back. Her mother is happy for the reprieve.”

Rose didn't quite succeed in stifling her laugh. “I can imagine so. I didn't know we had given them French names.”

“They would have been only too happy to tell you, if you had asked,” Sister Mathilde said, leaning against the back of her rigid chair. “Allow me to offer you a piece of advice: Never hesitate to ask a question of your pupils. They will think more of you for taking an interest in them.”

Rose felt herself shrink into the chair. Such a careless mistake.