Promised to the Crown (29 page)

“Manon, darling—”

“Maman, that isn't even my name. Not truly.”

Nicole sought words, but found none. The candlelight danced off her cheeks as her shoulders trembled.

“Don't make this harder than it has to be, Maman.” Manon embraced Nicole. “I'll always love you, but this is something I have to do.”

 

Nicole was helpless to hold back her tears as she shut her sitting room door behind her and found her place in the plain wooden chair Luc had gifted her at their wedding. The rustic piece of furniture looked as out of place in the feminine parlor as a fur trapper at a royal ball, but she had insisted on keeping it, nonetheless.

“Nicole, what's the matter?” Alexandre bounded across the room before she could speak. He walked her to their bed and held her as the sobs racked her body.

“Dearest, you must tell me what's wrong.” Alexandre stroked Nicole's tear-softened face.

“Manon wants to leave us.” The words were bitter on her tongue.

“For the Church?” Alexandre asked. “It was never your first choice for her, but it seems a good fit. She's young to enter the convent still, though, isn't she?”

“She doesn't want to take the orders.” Nicole steadied her breath as she wiped her tears. “She wants to go back to her people.”

“Why on earth would she want that?” Alexandre's expression looked as though Manon had announced a plan to swim the Atlantic.

“She doesn't feel welcome here.” Nicole stood, freeing herself from Alexandre's arms. She looked in vain for something to tidy or clean. “She feels like an outsider here. She said she always would.”

“Absurd.” Alexandre began to disrobe. “Don't fret over that ridiculous notion. She'll be more sensible in the morning. She just feels a bit put out with your family here. Once they've settled in the country all will return to the way it was.”

“I don't think so. She spoke so forcefully.” Nicole sat on the bench in front of her mirror and brushed out her long chestnut hair to give her hands an occupation. “You know how she is. She wouldn't say it if she didn't mean it.”

“I'll speak with her tomorrow, dearest.” Alexandre approached his wife and stooped to kiss her shoulder. “Regardless of how she feels, she is better off with us than anywhere else. She's a reasonable child. I will persuade her that her place is here.”

“Please do speak with her, dear heart,” Nicole said. She had seen Alexandre's persuasive tactics, and they were formidable.

She placed the brush on the vanity and looked into her own weary brown eyes, for once wishing she could feel more confidence in her husband's success.

Despite Nicole's pleas and Alexandre's reasoning, Manon stayed steadfast in her decision to return to the Huron. Nicole tried, and failed, to keep the tears at bay as she helped the sweet girl, her eldest daughter, prepare for her departure.

“You must take the cape, Manon, I insist.” Nicole placed the folded garment of navy-blue wool back in Manon's small bag. “You know what winter is like. I know you want to dress like your people, but I don't want you to freeze. This may come in handy someday. I want you to keep it.”

“Very well.” Manon snapped the leather bag closed and took a last look around her bedroom.

“Please—are you sure . . .” Nicole said.

“You promised,” Manon said, gripping her bag.

“Please,” Nicole said, gripping Manon's shoulders, “at least promise to visit?”

“I don't think that's wise.” Manon fidgeted with a strap on her case.

Nicole took Manon in her arms. She refused to entertain the thought that it might be for the last time. She wanted to scream at her. To wail. To plead with her to stay where she belonged. More than anything she ached to have the devoted eight-year-old child who had led her through the forest to Luc's body back in her arms. The child who would never have dreamed of leaving her. That child was gone, however, and Nicole knew more than a little about homesickness and the yearning for family. Nicole lingered in the embrace, knowing how empty she would feel when it was over.

“You will always be my girl.”

 

Nicole stared at her plate and managed a couple of mouthfuls of the roasted chicken and creamed potatoes, but no more.

Around her, Claudine and Emmanuelle chirped about their afternoon in town, while Alexandre and Thomas discussed spring planting strategies. No one mentioned Manon's absence, or seemed to mind it at all.

Only little Hélène had shed tears for her missing sister.

“Darling, eat your supper,” Bernadette chided.

Nicole placed her fork beside her plate and shot a reproachful look at her mother. “I'm not hungry.”

“You're not upset about the native girl, are you?” Claudine asked.

“My daughter? As a matter of fact, I am. She left a few hours ago. Am I to forget her already?”

“No one said that, dear.” Bernadette continued with her meal.

Nicole stood, throwing her napkin on her plate. She took no leave of the table, but didn't care about the breach of etiquette.

Nicole retired to her room and changed into her nightgown before she realized it was hours too early for bed. She busied herself with long-neglected yarn and knitting needles, making a massive rectangle that might evolve into a scarf or blanket that wasn't needed, but finding a measure of solace in the occupation.

An hour later, Alexandre knocked softly at the bedroom door, a custom that made Nicole smile under other circumstances.

“Ready for bed already?” he asked. “I looked the house over for you after dinner.”

“I was in no mood for company.” Nicole cast the needles aside. The lump of knitted fabric was now twice the size of a scarf, but less than needed for a blanket of any practical size.

“I imagine not,” Alexandre said, removing his coat and placing it over his chair. He sat on the edge of the bed to remove his boots. “She made her decision, dearest. We must respect it. There's nothing more to be done.”

“We should have tried harder, Alexandre.” Nicole looked out the glass, hoping Manon was safe. “We should have done more to make sure she knew she was wanted.”

“What more could we have done, Nicole? You raised the girl as your own, clothed her and fed her when you could ill afford it. I did what I could, as well, and she repaid us all by leaving. If I have any feelings on the subject, it's anger and betrayal on your behalf. This was a spectacular demonstration of ingratitude.”

“It doesn't matter now, does it?” Nicole mused, tracing the outlines of the pattern on the brocade chair. “She's gone. I've lost a part of my heart.”

“You know I cared for the girl, and I am sorry for your sake, but don't dwell on it overlong. She's with her people, and you with yours. We have two children and will have more.” Alexandre bent down by his wife. “Not to mention two boisterous sisters, a strapping young brother, and doting parents that I imported for you.”

Nicole smiled at his concern and warmth. He was not a demonstrative man, not in his day-to-day actions, but that only made his grander gestures more meaningful when they occurred.

“I will try,” Nicole said, reaching forward to kiss him. “But it will take time.”

“If it didn't, you would not be the woman I love.” He brushed a lock of hair from her face. “But you will heal. I'm sure of it.”

Nicole looked into the deep gray eyes of the man she loved. He was good and kind, but he would never understand her love for Manon or the debt she felt for the girl who had dragged her into the snow in hopes of saving Luc Jarvais.

C
HAPTER
29

 

L
ittle Benoît nuzzled his mother's breast, contented with a stomach full of milk, and drifted into the blissful slumber of a well-loved infant. Rose smiled down at his peaceful face, wanting to laugh at the cooing noises he made in his sleep.

She placed Benoît in his cradle and left the little nursery with all the stealth she could muster. She lifted her eyes heavenward and wished for a solid two-hour nap. If he did not sleep, he would be unbearable for Mylène. Leaving him with her, even for an afternoon, was still torture. It had been impossible at first, but she bowed to her husband's pleas to trust the capable servant with the baby's care for a few hours.

Rose sat in her favorite chair, pulled close to the window to take advantage of the cooling draft. She rummaged through her mending basket looking for a pair of Henri's breeches.

Such thrilling work
. Rose stretched the muscles of her neck that rebelled against her stooped posture. She knew that moving from the settlement out to the homestead would isolate her somewhat, but the extent to which she missed the town and the company of Nicole and Elisabeth had surprised her. The first months on the homestead had been so busy that Rose had no time left to notice loneliness. Setting up house and preparing for the baby had taken all of her time and precious energy. Now that Benoît was growing stronger and sleeping through the night, her mind grew restless, though her body remained occupied.

The hem stitches were lazy, but they would hold.

Rose tried to invest herself in household tasks, but they did nothing to stimulate her brain the way her teaching and studying had. She had mentioned her discontent to Henri several times, but he urged her to be patient. When he became a
seigneur,
with land of his own, they would return to town and she could take a more active role in society. Until then, she had to be content with the life of a country wife.

Rose changed from her housedress and prepared a finer garment, left behind from her months in town. The green satin overcoat, pale pink stomacher and underskirt, and stiff petticoats felt foreign and uncomfortable now.

As a girl, she had worn such clothes for play, but with passing years she had traded satin and silk for wool and linen, just as Latin and Greek had given way to mending and dusting.

At times, Rose cursed the education that made housekeeping so monotonous, but she could never bring herself to wish it away completely. It had saved her from the drudgery in the Salpêtrière and made her a suitable wife for Henri. A simple woman would have bored him.

Rose scolded herself for not taking more interest in running her home. Hundreds of women lived less comfortably than she, without complaint. She refused to blame Henri for her
ennui,
though she did spare the occasional unkind thought for her father-in-law for disowning Henri because of his marriage. She would never see the man, so she could see no harm in it, and she found some secret delight in wishing him ill.

More and more, though, she thought about Vérité's—Pauline's—predictions for her future in New France. The dilapidated house, removed from society, a husband half-gone savage, bearing child after child until her body wore out, and complete and utter boredom through it all. Pauline had missed many key details—Rose's husband was genteel and her home was comfortable, at least by colonial standards, but the loneliness and boredom . . . In that, at least, Pauline had been correct.

Henri entered the room, sweating from the exertion of a day on horseback under the August sun. He removed his soaked chemise and washed his torso with Rose's dampened cloth.

“How are your holdings, Seigneur?” Rose asked with a teasing grin.

He approached her from behind, pressing his bare chest against her linen shift and kissing her neck, left exposed by her upswept hair.

“Perfectly well, Dame Lefebvre. Though not mine . . . Neither are we Seigneur and his lady—yet.”

“Soon, I hope,” Rose said, tilting her head, inviting more.

“You're so beautiful,” he said, his breath soft on her neck as he kissed it again.

“Thank you, sweet husband of mine,” Rose said. “You ought to dress so we aren't late.”

“What if I don't care that we're late?” He turned her around to face him and pulled her body close to his. He bent down and kissed her—slow, passionate, probing on her waiting mouth.

She welcomed his embraces now, and since Henri knew the source of her occasional apprehension, he knew when and how to give her space on the rare instances where she needed it.

Henri deepened the kiss as she wrapped her arms around his neck as a signal that she was willing. Too eager for the bed, he freed himself from his breeches, lifted her against the wall, and raised her shift, entering her when his probing fingers felt the least amount of wetness. A dozen thrusts and he climaxed. Breathing labored, he picked her up and carried her the five strides to the chair in the corner of the room that he used to pull on his boots in the mornings. He cradled her in his lap and stroked her mussed black curls.

“Sorry, my darling. I'll give you your chance later.”

“No need to apologize, beloved,” Rose said, nuzzling the sweet, musky-scented curve of his neck. “I missed you today, too.”

“You're unhappy, aren't you?” he asked.

“I miss town,” Rose said. She knew that telling the truth would hurt him less than withholding it. “I miss the girls. I miss the people.”

“I wish I could promise that we could move back soon, but you know I can't.”

“Don't fret,” she said. “I just have to find happiness here. You've done nothing wrong.”

“I can't help but think you would have been better off with someone who could provide you with more than this.” He gestured to their small, plainly furnished room.

In many ways the move to the country had been even harder for Henri than for Rose. She had learned to live in meager conditions before. He had not.

“If you had never come along, I'd be Sister Marie-Rose by now.” She cast a violet-blue gaze into his hazel one. “Teaching Latin to native girls and scrubbing the floors when Sister Mathilde wasn't looking. Don't ever apologize for saving me.”

 

Rose settled into the plush chair in Nicole's parlor, allowing her muscles to relax in the absence of a screaming baby demanding her attentions. Three stitches into her embroidery, she stiffened, expecting Benoît's cries to summon her away from her work.
He's with Mylène. He's well and safe. Relax and enjoy your time away.

While Rose embroidered and Nicole knitted, Elisabeth stared at the Lefebvres' parlor wall. Rose peered over her shoulder to the spot that had her friend so transfixed. It was as handsome a wall as Rose had ever seen, but there was nothing particular that ought to have captivated Elisabeth.

“I thought at least a spider might be crawling up the wall, the way you stare,” Rose remarked.

“Just ignore me,” Elisabeth said, reaching for her cup of cider. “Try though we might, we can't supply the people with the bread they want at the prices Duval claims we must.”

“You can't keep this up,” Nicole said. “You'll make yourselves ill.”

“I don't see what choice we have,” Elisabeth said. “We owe your husband the earth and Gilbert is too proud to give up on the shop and try something else. Not to mention, the very idea breaks my own heart.”

“You won't have to, I'm sure,” Nicole said. “And don't worry about the money. As Alexandre always says, ‘It's never wise to be shortsighted with a long-term investment.'”

“More important, have there been any developments with Gabrielle?” Rose asked. The memory of the girl clinging to life, her pale skin indistinguishable from the bleached sheets, haunted her still.

“Would that God had sent Father Cloutier into oblivion instead of into our lives. And the wretched bailiff along with him.” Elisabeth's blue eyes flashed.

Rose reached over and took her hand. “You of all people don't deserve the foul man's attentions,” Rose said.

“I'd wager my favorite knitting needles he's been sent here to the very edge of civilization because no one wanted him back home,” Nicole said.

Elisabeth nodded a weak chuckle, but Rose's hand clapped to her mouth.

“You're a genius, Nicole,” Rose said, rubbing her temples in thought.

“Naturally,” Nicole chortled, “but what have I done to demonstrate my mental prowess this time?”

“We need to get Father Cloutier transferred—and far away, too,” Rose said. “Heaven knows a personal vendetta against a good family like the Beaumonts does the settlement no good. The bailiff doesn't matter; he's just the priest's henchman. If we cut off the head, the hand won't be of much use.”

“How on earth can we manage such a thing?” Elisabeth asked. “The bishop would be unlikely to have an audience with us, let alone act on our request. Chances are, the bishop would just support old Cloutier and leave us to our own devices.”

“You're not wrong,” Rose said. “We can't be so direct. We must go through the governor. He's the only one with any influence at all over the bishop.”

“Alexandre has said time and time again that the governor wants nothing to do with these sorts of domestic matters,” Nicole said, setting aside her knitting. “Though the issue of a priest involving himself in commerce might not please him.”

“I'm not sure he needs to know the details,” Rose said. “All he needs to know is that it would please the lovely Madame Lefebvre, wife of Seigneur Lefebvre, and things may fall into place.”

“Do you really think he would listen to me?” Nicole asked. “And how would I contrive a reason to meet with him?”

“Oh, I think he'll listen to you,” Rose said. “Especially if his mood is softened by good food and music. You must host a ball.”

“Alexandre has been harping that we ought to have one, though I was thinking of waiting until autumn,” Nicole said, sitting back in her chair, the guest list, menu, and linen inventories all but printed on her forehead.
Not quite the shy farm girl from Rouen anymore, are you?
Rose smiled at the confidence.

“Give me three weeks,” Nicole said. “We'll have him gone, or we'll have thrown a magnificent party for no purpose. We'll be no worse off than before in either event.”

 

For the last half of September, Rose and little Benoît all but took up residence in town. They stayed with Nicole and Alexandre to help Nicole prepare for the ball.

Elisabeth and Gabrielle helped, too, as often as the bakery could spare them, which usually meant when Gilbert and Pascal were tending the ovens mid-morning. Henri came, too, when the demands of running the estate permitted.

Days of linen pressing, menu planning, wardrobe gathering, and planning each minute detail had left Nicole crazed, but Rose's calming influence kept her in check. One afternoon, four days before the ball, Rose stood to stretch her back, stiff as starched cotton from too many hours hemming napkins following too many other days penning invitations in her finest script. Rose feared the blue ink would never fade from her fingers.

Parisian society ladies had linens, china, silver, and crystal stocked neatly in armoires, ready for shining, ironing, and polishing by their massive household staffs. Nicole had settings to entertain twenty to thirty guests, but a ball for a hundred or more was beyond her stores. They had to purchase, borrow, and make the rest in the short time they had allotted themselves.

Rose was about to force herself back to her hemming when a commotion from the entry drew her attention. She and Nicole left the parlor to find Henri, Alexandre, and Thomas Deschamps engaged in a frantic conversation.

“No idea which direction they went?” Alexandre asked.

“None,” Thomas said. “I followed the tracks as far as I could, but I know they headed west for a little while.”

“I'd wager they headed into town,” Henri said. “I'm surprised we didn't see them on the way.”

Alexandre nodded. “Seems most likely.”

“Will someone explain what's going on?” Nicole asked.

“Your fool sisters have taken the horse and wagon and taken off,” Thomas said, temper rising in his cheeks. “I'll take a whip to them when we find them.”

“As Henri says, they're probably coming here,” Rose offered. “Claudine hasn't stopped talking about the town since she arrived on the farm.”

Rose had come to know Nicole's family well, since they were her closest neighbors. She agreed that Claudine was too impetuous, but the girl's independent spark had also endeared her to everyone. However, bookish Emmanuelle was Rose's favorite.

“We must organize and search our way back toward the homestead,” Alexandre said. “I hope they haven't broken a wheel or lamed a horse.”

“Or run into the natives. Bernadette is ill at the thought,” Thomas said, his face grim.

Rose wished to contradict him, remembering her sweet-faced pupils and wonderful Manon, but she held her tongue. Abductions did happen, and two unescorted girls could run into trouble on their own.

They split into three search parties, two people each: Nicole with her father, Rose with Henri, and Alexandre with a servant, each equipped with horses, wagons, and routes to search.

“We'll meet back here in four hours, whether we find the girls or not,” Alexandre said. “If you find them, bring them here and send riders to find the other teams. The servants have instructions to do the same, should the girls show up here in the meantime.”