Promised to the Crown (32 page)

It wasn't for Anne's sake that Elisabeth wrote the letter, but for her own. She needed a release from her mother's specter, but disowning her mother with the same disregard as Anne had shown her would not free her. Her loving father had told her on more than one occasion that forgiveness was a mighty weapon when wielded with love and compassion. It was only now that Elisabeth had the strength to welcome her mother back into her life. If Anne ignored the invitation, that was her own affair, but Elisabeth had done what she could to mend the rift.

Still hearing Gilbert below, Elisabeth did not see any point in seeking out her bed. She found her sewing kit and her crisp white handkerchief. She had some lovely pink thread and began to watch as the delicate flowers took shape on the white background. The more she stitched, the more it seemed there was a bare space for another bloom.

C
HAPTER
32

 

“I
really, really, really hate Latin,” Claudine announced, laying her head on the wooden desk in defeat. “I'll never wrap my head around the stuff. I told you I wouldn't.” True to her word, Rose welcomed them for four hours every afternoon for their studies. Henri had converted a small room into a classroom, allowing the girls to escape from their home for a few hours and Rose to stay within earshot of the baby.

“That simply isn't true, my dear,” Rose said, patting the girl's back. “You've already made progress. A month ago you couldn't read a syllable of Latin, and now you're able to conjugate verbs and make out simple poems. You
are
making progress.”

Their curriculum was an evolving thing as Rose endeavored to follow in the Ursulines' footsteps and played to her pupils' strengths and weaknesses. Since the sisters opposed each other in their talents, Rose found that every lesson pleased one Deschamps girl as much as it dismayed the other.

Claudine raised her head and gave a baleful look Emmanuelle-ward. “Not as fast as she is.”

“Emmanuelle, what do you love above all things?” Rose asked, turning to the studious child, who just then looked up from her text. Her leg, still sore months after the accident, was propped up on a cushion while she studied.

“Study,” Emmanuelle said. “Reading. Languages. All of it.”

“And what do you do in your spare time?” Rose asked, standing to her full height and smoothing her dress.

“I read,” Emmanuelle said, placing her book aside and making eye contact with Rose as though she were answering questions for an examination. “Latin and Greek from our text sometimes. Mostly French because it's what Monsieur Lefebvre has in his library to lend me.”

“And, Claudine, what do you do in your spare time?” Rose asked, turning to the older sister.

“I sew and embroider,” Claudine answered, sitting up straight. “I enjoy doing fancy work.”

“As do I,” Rose said with a smile. “So, Claudine, is it so surprising that your sister should excel in Latin and you in needlework when you devote so many extra hours to those pursuits?”

“I suppose not,” Claudine admitted. “But Latin is so terribly dull. I'll never use it in my life, I know.”

“Wouldn't you like to understand the prayers in church?” Rose asked, sitting down at her own desk so she could sit at the girls' level.

“I don't see why,” Claudine said. “God understands them, so what difference does it make if I do?”

“You sound more like your brother-in-law every day,” Rose said.

“Good. I hope to be just like him,” Claudine said. Rose wasn't quite sure if she should smile or shake her head. Alexandre's irreverence and bitter jibes were tolerated because of his status and his ability to know when to hold his tongue—neither virtue had Claudine yet attained. Goodness knew Nicole's sweet temper was needed to balance out his acerbic tongue. No matter how unsuited she had felt for life in the upper crusts of society, he needed her unique blend of gentleness and social cunning to maintain his standing. Rose could tell her friend derived as much satisfaction from her role as Elisabeth did from running her bakery. She had envied them their place, many times, but now she had her teaching and her family to which she could devote herself.

“Darling, what is it you
want
from life?” Rose asked, taking Claudine's hands in her own.

“A husband, a comfortable home in town,” Claudine answered without pause.

“Things most girls wish for, to be sure,” Rose said. “But do you think those things alone will bring you happiness? What of friendship?”

“Oh, I want lots of friends,” Claudine responded, her eyes wide and earnest. “A nice group of girls to trade stories with and who will tell me how pretty I look.”

Rose refrained from rolling her eyes, knowing Claudine would turn a deaf ear to everything she said if she did. “Remember, darling girl, admirers and friends are rarely the same thing.”

 

“So how goes progress with your young scholars, my love?” Henri asked that evening as they climbed into bed.

“Not too bad. Emmanuelle is as smart as a whip and eager to please. She reminds me so much of Manon.” A frown crossed Rose's face at the thought of the sweet girl who seemed so very far away. She had spent more than a few hours sharing tears with Nicole over the departed girl. She prayed every night for Manon's safety . . . and hoped that the child could find some measure of happiness among her people.

“And her rascal of a sister?”

“Just as you describe—a rascal,” Rose said. “I worry for her. She's better suited for a Parisian ballroom than the wilderness.”

“Just like her auntie Rose?” Henri asked, wrapping his arm around her and kissing her forehead.

“Hardly,” Rose said. “These days it seems as though Paris might as well be as far away as the moon. To tell the truth, I would not wish it any closer.”

“You don't long for the fine clothes? The elegant salons?” Henri asked, no trace of humor in his voice.

“No,” Rose said, the certainty in her voice shocking even herself. “There are days I miss being in a town, I admit freely. But I have learned some lessons our young Claudine is not yet able to. I have a loving husband. I have a strong son. I have two dear friends who mean more to me than a legion of two-faced courtiers . . . and if I am very lucky, in seven months or so, I may be blessed with a daughter as well.”

“You minx!” Henri said, sitting up in bed. “Is this how you tell me I'm going to be a father once more?”

“Ah, so it's you who longs for the life of a courtier,” Rose said, sitting up nose to nose with Henri, her eyes flashing with glee. “Shall I make a formal declaration before our families so they might give us their blessing?”

“No need, my love,” Henri said, pulling her onto his lap. “My God, I am the luckiest man alive.” He pulled her face to his in a kiss that, less than two years prior, would have caused Rose to recoil in fear. Tonight, she was able to breathe, to embrace her husband, to love him as she had longed to do during all the months of cold and solitude of their early marriage.

“And I, the luckiest woman to ever draw breath, my darling,” Rose said, returning his kisses, breathing in his masculine scent—honest sweat and pine—as though it were a fine perfume.

She looked into his hazel-brown eyes and was unafraid. Could not bring herself to remember ever being so. She motioned for him to wait, but this time not to brace herself or steady her nerves. She only wished to revel in the freedom from the ghosts of her past.

E
PILOGUE

 

“S
he's beautiful.” Rose swaddled the rosy infant girl and placed her in Nicole's arms.
Another daughter for New France. Nicole has done her duty. We all have.

“I think we'll call her Sabine for one of Alexandre's sisters that he was fond of. He's been dropping hints for weeks now.”

Was fond of.
Rose rubbed the back of her finger against the baby's downy cheek. Alexandre's sister was alive and well, but it seemed like everyone in the Old World was spoken of in the past tense.
And so the Old World is for most of us. Dead and buried. Some of us with happy memories, others all too happy to be rid of the past.

“That's a lovely name,” Elisabeth cooed. Rose could see the maternal lust tinged with heartbreak in her eyes. Despite another loss, Elisabeth would want to try for a baby again, and soon. Pierre wouldn't be a baby much longer and would need brothers and sisters to tussle with on the bakery floor. Rose admired her perseverance and wondered if her heart were strong enough to bear such pain over and over again.

“Shall we invite Alexandre in to meet his daughter?” Madame Deschamps asked, taking a brush to Nicole's sweaty mane.
How quickly we try to erase all the signs of our hard work. We ought to let our husbands see how brutish this business is. They might have more sympathy for us.

“Just a few more moments. I'm not quite ready to share her yet.”

“Take all the time you need, dear. I'll just go end his suffering. Do you mind if I tell him that he has a new daughter?” Nicole's mother whisked away the soiled linens from the bed and passed them off to one of the maids who stood waiting in the hall. She'd quietly managed the birth with the efficiency of a Parisian surgeon. Rose marveled at the woman, beginning to stoop with age, who moved with the grace and dignity of someone far above her station.

“Of course. Thank you, Maman.”

“No thanks are needed. Ever.” Madame Deschamps kissed her daughter's brow.
Another granddaughter. A daughter married as well as she could ever hope to be. Two young daughters who stand to make great matches themselves with her help. I can't imagine many women in New France could be much happier.
Rose smiled at her friend's mother as she left the room, wishing her own mother might have had the chance to attend her labors.

But it wasn't to be. Nor was there any sense brooding on the matter.

“I'm so glad you were both here for me.” Nicole slid down in the bed, looking duly weary from her day's work.

“It was our honor, Madame la Seigneureuse, I assure you.” Rose relieved Nicole of her precious bundle to allow her some rest. The baby slept contentedly already, looking quite as exhausted as her mother from the ordeal.

“Rest,” Elisabeth ordered. “You've earned it.”

In their years in the colony, the three of them had borne six children, fostered three, and there would be more in the years to come. When they boarded the ship, they knew this was the plan, but to see it realized so completely warmed Rose's heart. In her days with her father, she'd been taught to be respectful of the Crown. When she lived with her aunt and uncle, the monarchy was spoken of with absolute reverence . . . but after her tenure in the Salpêtrière the King had fallen in her estimation. Not for any particular action, but as a symbol of all that had kept her in prison those long years.

Privilege. Rank. Influence.

Things she never had, despite being born into that sphere. Despite being a gentleman's daughter, she had always been one letter away from spending the rest of her days in a dank death trap.

As she looked at the dear baby in her arms, Rose knew this child would never have to fear the wrath of her father or brothers landing her in a cell. There was no purgatory masking as a charity hospital here. This New France offered the freedom dear Sister Charité had promised, and Rose knew the precious child in her arms would know all the wonders that freedom would bring.

And the freedom it had finally granted her.

A
UTHOR'S
N
OTE

I
n 1663, Louis XIV and his ministers devised a plan to strengthen their claim on the Canadian colony and stave off British advances. The French decided to send marriageable women to the male-dominated population of New France, and thereby fortify the population and its ties to the new land. Other countries tried similar measures, but none on the scale and with the governmental and clerical support as the French.

Many settlers lived a nomadic existence, creating wealth through fur trapping and trading. The hope was that French women would marry the settlers and provide a “civilizing” influence, increasing the men's interest in farming. The French counted on these men to defend their land if the British invaded, and thought they would do so more valiantly if their livelihood were tied to the land they fought for. The plan would also result in a generation of “little Canadians” who would grow up and take their parents' places as permanent—and loyal—citizens of the French colony.

These brides became known as the
filles du roi,
“King's Daughters,” because Louis XIV offered the women passage, a trousseau, and sometimes a dowry in compensation for leaving France. These women were poor, orphaned, or, sometimes, too expensive to marry off in their native land. They came from every corner of France (a few were not even French), but largely from Paris and the northwestern part of the country. Many of the Parisian recruits were one-time residents of the Salpêtrière, a mammoth charitable institution called a “hospital,” but which had little to do with healing. For many, it proved a death trap.

Because so many women came from this atrocious prison, the rumor began to circulate that the “King's Daughters” were prostitutes, and that Louis attempted to solve two problems: ridding Paris of social pariahs and populating his colony in one efficient move. The Baron de la Hontan, a traveler and “historian” of his time, supported this rumor (along with other fantastic claims) and, as a result, this mistaken but widely held belief was popular for centuries. The realities were these:

 

• Seventeenth-century French prostitutes often suffered venereal diseases, which would have made them infertile—a poor choice for building a population of French Canadians. Later, King Louis did send women of questionable morals to his holdings in the Antilles, but his aims were different.

 

• Each woman was required to have an affidavit of good comportment signed by her priest in order to depart. Clergymen would not risk their own reputations by supporting a woman of poor moral quality.

 

• The clergy had a huge influence on the running of the colony. Women acting inappropriately would have been (and sometimes were) deported back to France. Unlike Britain, which expelled troublemakers to overseas holdings, France did not allow lawbreakers in its devoutly Catholic colony.

 

• Prostitutes were not widely arrested and placed in the Salpêtrière until the 1690s, almost twenty years after the last of the King's Daughters departed for Canada. The women of questionable conduct were held in La Force, the hospital prison, and were not considered eligible for emigration.

 

•
Very few children were born out of wedlock in New France; this would not have been the case if the women had proclivities toward prostitution.

 

With this information, we can deduce that if any of the King's Daughters were prostitutes in France, they were few in number and probably reformed before leaving for Canada. Today, though exonerated by historians, the King's Daughters remain little more than a footnote in history books. It is for this reason that this book exists.

My purpose is not to depict these women as angels. They were not. They were real women with struggles, aspirations, and fears, who had the remarkable opportunity to help found a nation. If they had a common virtue, it was bravery. They left a prosperous, flourishing France, sacrificing all they had, with little chance of return, in order to marry strangers and raise families on a foreign and often dangerous frontier.

The characters in this book are of my own invention. Through these fictitious women, I endeavor to relate the struggles and triumphs the King's Daughters experienced as they voyaged to and settled in the New World. I share their stories so you, the reader, can better understand the sacrifices of the women who helped found French Canada and who share a genetic link with two-thirds of the people who live there today.

With my humble thanks,

 

Aimie K. Runyan