Promised to the Crown (20 page)

“I can't say I'm looking forward to it either, love,” Elisabeth said. “But we'll weather the storm.”

Gilbert said nothing, but squeezed his wife even tighter.
That's right, my love. Keep me close. Don't let me leave you, for I've no great desire to go.

Elisabeth knew the fear would only subside with the birth of the child. She clung to her husband and hoped that they would somehow find solace in the next few months.

 

“Very good!” Elisabeth praised her young pupil. “Now gently form the dough into a ball like so and cover the bowl with a warm, damp rag. Then we let it sit for an hour before we bake it.”

“Why can't we just put it in now?” Pascal asked. “It would be faster.”

“Yes, but if you don't let the yeast rest, the bread won't rise. It will just stay in a tough lump. Not very nice to eat,” Elisabeth explained.

“That must be how Mother makes her bread then,” Pascal said. “Hard as a rock. I'll give her lessons when I visit home.”

“She might appreciate that,” Elisabeth said, uncertain whether Brigitte Giroux was the type to appreciate tutelage from her young son.

As promised, Elisabeth sat as much as she could and taught Pascal the trade, making him “do” rather than “watch.” She soon realized that the boy would not have tolerated passive instruction well. After three days, Elisabeth trusted him with mixing and baking most of the bread, while she devoted herself to pastries and cakes. The inventory was finally keeping pace with the demands of the hungry settlement.

Each Sunday, as was the tradition of apprentices in the colony, Pascal returned home for a visit. He left with a heavy basket of bread and Elisabeth suspected he returned with a heavier heart. The longer he lived away from his family, the more he understood their dire situation and how little he could do to help them change it. Elisabeth sensed a growing tension between Pascal and his father, though the boy never breathed a word about the problem.

“You know you're welcome to stay with us on Sundays,” Elisabeth said. “We'd be happy to have you.”

“I know, but I want to see the rest of the family, especially Gabrielle.” Pascal had a soft spot for his sister, who was a few years younger than he.

Elisabeth sensed that the little girl and the basket of bread were the only things that kept Pascal going out to the farm each week. The basket comprised the majority of their pantry. Even one missed visit would mean hardship for the Giroux children, so Pascal made the journey without complaint. He even refused to let Gilbert drive him home and back. He was learning something of his master's pride. While it would serve him well in time, she hoped he wouldn't allow his dignity to compromise his health.

“It will be fine,” Pascal said. “The walk is good for me, and it lets me think.”

“It can be a comfort,” Elisabeth agreed. “My father lived for his daily constitutional. He said it energized him between bouts at the oven and teaching me his business.”

“He sounds like a good man,” Pascal said, with no small trace of envy in his voice. “A good teacher. If I ever have a son, I'll teach him a trade.”

“A wise notion,” Elisabeth said. She had no doubt that he meant what he said. Hunger had been a cruel education.

In such a short time, Elisabeth had come to think of Pascal as her own. Perhaps because she had not had children of her own yet, and because she could never consider her pregnancy as any sort of guarantee that she ever would. She was grateful for his presence as an assistant, for certain. The baby was becoming demanding of her energy, and there was no denying that Pascal lightened her burdens. Even without much training, he could fetch and carry, which proved an enormous help. But beyond that, he was a smart and affectionate boy. Elisabeth hated the harsh life he'd endured and hoped her child—or children, God willing—would never know such hardship.

“I think you've earned a break, son,” Elisabeth said with a smile. “Take a pastry or two and enjoy some sunshine.”

Never one to deny himself food or time out-of-doors, Pascal nodded enthusiastically and thundered from the kitchen through the shop to the freedom that lay beyond the bakery doors.

Elisabeth walked out of the kitchen to her seat behind the shop counter to see Pascal outside conversing with some of the other boys his age while they shared some of his pastry. Baked goods seemed a key to social success among his new social circle.
Enjoy some childhood, sweet boy. You've earned it.

C
HAPTER
20

 

R
ose wasn't quite sure how long she'd been staring into the void rather than hemming the trousers in her hands, but it was long enough for Nicole to clear her throat and call her friend back to the present moment.

“Rose, are you quite all right?”

“Fine,” Rose answered, looking up from her mending. “A bit tired perhaps.”
The ever-acceptable excuse for a young married woman. Never angry, sad, or lonely. Always tired.
Rose looked down at the frayed edges of Henri's trousers and tried to focus. Weekly, they met in Nicole's parlor to attend to these chores with the benefit of company to pass the time, but Rose wearied of the questions, no matter how much she cared for her friends.

“Do you think . . .” Elisabeth asked, patting her protruding midsection.

“No,” Rose said. Her courses had just ended and she would have had no cause to think she could be expecting anyway.

However, people were already talking.

Almost a year. No sign of a baby.

“Your time will come,” Nicole said with a gentle smile. Her own swollen belly betrayed her secret also.

Easy for the two of you to say,
Rose fumed.
Both of you are well advanced in your pregnancies.
Rose took a breath and scolded herself.
They are good friends; I shouldn't think that way. I should be happy for them even if I can't be for myself. I have no desire to give birth, God knows, but it would be nice to be free of suspicious glances.

“I'm sure,” Rose said, aiming for a tone of nonchalance, and not quite hitting her mark. Changing the subject, she added, “The bakery seems to be doing a roaring trade, Elisabeth.”

“So it would seem,” Elisabeth agreed. “Gilbert has hardly had a moment's rest these past two weeks. I must say I'm grateful he's ordered me off my feet. He and Pascal are doing beautifully, so long as I oversee the morning pastries.”

Nicole and Alexandre would be constructing a grand house in town that spring and renting out plots to farmers soon after. Alexandre had his fortune made.

“How about some cider?” Nicole offered, tiring of her knitting.

“I had best be going home, actually,” Rose said. “Several matters need me.”

If they thought her departure abrupt, Nicole and Elisabeth said nothing. Rose was grateful. She had no desire to answer their questions.

At home, Rose was not greeted, as she had hoped, by the aroma of dinner wafting from the kitchen. Not having the means that his uncle did, Henri's staff consisted of two: Agathe and Jacques Thiberge, an elderly couple who served the young Lefebvres. At least, they served to the best of their ability, but their stamina was not at its peak.

“Good afternoon, Agathe,” Rose said. “Have you begun supper?”

“No, madame, I was just about to.” Some ingredients had been gathered on the worktable, but no further progress made.

“Agathe, we're not in the custom of eating in the middle of the night. You need to remember to start meals earlier.” Rose kept the frustration from her voice at some cost.

“My apologies, madame,” Agathe said, not sounding contrite.

Discussing the matter with Henri would do no good. There wasn't an abundance of help to hire in the settlement, especially with limited funds.

“I'm afraid supper may be a bit late,” Rose said, knocking on Henri's study door.

“Fine, fine,” he said. He glanced up from his correspondence. “Anything else you need?”

“No, I'll leave you to your work. I'll call you for dinner.”

“Thank you,” he answered, already reimmersed in the papers before him.

Not knowing what else to do, Rose mounted the staircase and stretched out on a settee in her sitting room. Not feeling equal to a book, she closed her eyes and tried to relax.

Henri had withdrawn from the marriage, and Rose had, too. As much as she wanted to please her husband, Rose found his embraces impossible to endure. Every time he approached her, the specter of her uncle's caresses entered her mind and sickened her. The men were no more alike than a fine silk gown and a feed sack, yet she could not divorce herself from her past.

She pled for Henri's patience, but after a time his advances stopped. This relieved Rose . . . though the fact embarrassed her. After years of the finest training, she knew that a wife's first duty was to submit to her husband. She had come to this settlement to populate it, but she lacked the strength to allow it.

Rose half expected Henri to present her with an annulment notice, but he was too proud a man to let his marital unhappiness become a source of public gossip—any more than it already was.

The smells of Agathe's stew drifted up the stairs and beckoned Rose's appetite. Despite her deficiencies, Agathe was an impeccable cook, at least when it came to plain fare, which suited Rose just fine. A hearty mutton stew and crusty bread would be restorative on a brisk June night.

As was their custom, Henri and Rose chatted throughout the meal. The conversation never varied from the minutiae of the day. As always, they avoided the real issues. The tone remained cheerful.

The less the servants heard, the better.

“I must go to see my uncle later this evening,” Henri announced toward the end of the meal. “I may be gone quite some time.”

Rose wondered if this was a pretense to go elsewhere, but she dismissed the idea just as soon as it entered her mind. If Henri were going astray, he would not choose an alibi that she could so easily verify.

I wouldn't blame you if you did stray,
Rose thought.
My poor Henri, you deserve better.

“Of course. Would you like me to accompany you?”

“I have business to discuss,” he said, pushing his plate forward. “I'd prefer you didn't.”

“As you wish,” she replied. Her tone was sweet. If she could not be a good wife, at least she was dutiful where she could be.

 

Henri had not returned by midnight. Although Rose kept her own room, his absence bothered her. Unable to sleep, she walked the corridors of the house she loved. It was not as grand as her childhood home, or her uncle's, but it was warm and inviting. The day Henri had brought her here she felt at ease within its walls.

The door to Henri's study was open. Rose decided to straighten his desk, as she sometimes did, as a small signal of her attention to his needs.

A letter, written in a bold hand, caught her attention:

Rose stared at the paper, disbelieving. Her father-in-law, a man she had never met, nor was she likely to meet, disapproved of her so much that he was willing to disinherit his eldest son. From all prior discussions, it seemed that Henri had always enjoyed a convivial relationship with his father.

Rose laid her head down on the desk and wept. She felt ashamed to indulge her emotions, but she was as unable to restrain the tide of tears as she would have been to dam the Saint Lawrence with her bare hands.

The thought was so painful she had to push it from her mind.

She did not know how long she allowed the tears to flow, but when she was able to compose herself she went back to the task she had begun. Henri's office was tidy and efficient as it had ever been when she finished.

He already has a maid, such as she is,
Rose chided herself.
It's not enough. You know what you must do.

Rose ascended the staircase and entered her husband's bedroom, the one area in the house in which she spent very little time. It was not lavishly decorated, but his heavy silk bed linens and dark wooden furniture spoke of his good taste and breeding.

I was once a part of this world, too,
she thought.
If they knew me, knew of my family, they wouldn't object to me . . . at least not if I were in France.

She stood before his long mirror and, with great determination, removed her clothes. He had never seen her fully unclothed, and she wished to give this to him. She imagined few husbands in the colony saw their wives undressed with much frequency. It went against Church teachings, which urged modesty in all things—including the marital act—but Rose was beyond caring about trivial matters of doctrine.

Rose climbed into the bed and waited for Henri, drifting in and out of sleep as the time passed. She heard the door below open and close as quietly as Henri could manage. She smoothed her hair and positioned herself so she was lying atop the covers. Her heart beat a frantic pace as the knob to the bedroom door turned.

“Good evening, husband,” she greeted him, her tone whisper-soft.

“Good evening, my wife,” Henri said, his voice cracking as he looked away from her nude figure. “Wh-what are you doing in my bed?”

“I'd hoped it was clear,” she said, daring a soft laugh. “I must be worse at this than I thought.”

Henri approached her, bent over the bed, giving her a deep kiss on the lips. There was the sweet taste of his uncle's fine whiskey on his breath, but he was not intoxicated. He pulled away and rummaged through his bureau.

“Please put this on,” he said, handing her one of his shirts. “I can't do this tonight. I can't take another failed attempt. . . .”

“I know,” Rose said, pushing the shirt away. “I've been a horrible wife to you. I am so sorry. That all stops now.”

She grabbed his wrist and pulled him into an embrace. She repeated in her mind,
This is what you must do for him.

He was atop her, helping her to remove his clothes, all the while covering her with gentle kisses.

“Can you stay like that, just for a short while?” she asked, looking into his hazel-brown eyes. “Just let me get used to being this close to you.”

“Whatever you need,” he said. “My sweet darling.” He brushed the hair from her forehead and kissed the bared skin. Her breathing evened as she adjusted to the intimacy. She wrapped her arms around his torso and nodded her permission.

Rose felt the muscles in her shoulders and neck relax as she found herself able to submit to Henri's kisses and caresses without revulsion. His hands were gentle, his lips not too demanding. She still trembled with nerves, but found, mercifully, that she welcomed his nearness. It would not happen overnight, but she knew as she lay with him that the time would come that she would be able to take pleasure in his arms. She could finally allow herself to love him as she longed to.

 

“What do you mean ‘horrible wife'?” Henri asked in the hour before dawn as he cradled Rose in his arms.

“I wasn't able to perform even the most basic duty,” she said, tucking her face into his chest. “I am so sorry I made you wait.”

“I just wish I understood why,” he said, stroking her hair with his free hand. “I've longed to make you mine for so long. I don't care that you weren't a virgin. I could tell, and it doesn't matter.”

“No, I wasn't,” Rose said, exhaling a breath she didn't know she had been holding.

“I know that matters to most men, but I don't care about your past. I don't care if some dashing young rogue stole your virtue and broke your heart. I care about your present and your future,” he said, squeezing her tight to him as he had longed to do for months.

Rose felt the tears begin to stream once more, and she made no attempt to hide them.

“It wasn't ‘some dashing young rogue,' as you put it. When my parents died, I went to live with my aunt and uncle.... He . . . forced me to lie with him.”

Henri's grasp on her softened from lustful to tender. “To treat his own niece in such a fashion. I can't even imagine. A bout of drunkenness followed by a confession to your aunt, I expect?”

“It wasn't just one indiscretion. It went on for six months.” Rose felt the blood drain from her cheeks and she curled her face into his chest. “When my aunt found out, she had me shipped off to the charity hospital like a common orphan the very next morning.”

“My God, why didn't you tell me before?” Henri said. “I would have behaved so differently. It's no wonder you weren't able . . .”

“The past is the past, Henri. I should have been able to let it go. For your sake.”

“Don't be daft,” Henri said. “That monster scarred you as surely as if he'd carved your face with a knife. You can't just will that away.”