Promised to the Crown (17 page)

“How I wish I'd known,” Nicole said. “I wish I could have been at your side. You didn't fail him, or anyone else. Adèle didn't live. She wasn't healthy, and for reasons we aren't meant to understand, she was taken from us. It wasn't your fault.”

Elisabeth loved that Nicole used Adèle's name. To others she had just been “the baby.” Use of the name acknowledged that Adèle had been a real person.

“But why is he so cold to me?” Elisabeth asked, pulling her shawl tighter, as though fending off her husband's frosty demeanor.

“If he feels cold toward you, he's a fool,” Nicole said. “And I don't think he does, or is. You didn't fail him any more than Luc failed me. You want to blame someone, Elisabeth, because you think that will make this easier, but it won't. Sometimes tragedy is blameless. You have to accept it.”

“I just wish I knew what to do,” Elisabeth said.

“I can't choose your path,” Nicole said, “but I'm sure you'll figure it out. You're a good wife, and Gilbert loves you. You will figure things out together.”

 

“Would you like anything else?” Elisabeth asked toward the end of supper.

Gilbert's eyes snapped up from his plate, surprised by her attempt at communication. “No, I'm fine. Thank you.”

“Gilbert, do you want to talk?” Elisabeth felt as blunt as a meat-ax but forged on anyway. “You've been so quiet. I know I have been, too.”

Gilbert stood and placed his dish in the washbasin. “It's fine. I'll be downstairs.” He bounded down to the shop. A few moments later she heard the door close as Gilbert exited onto the street below.

Rather than slink back into the bedroom for her evening cry, Elisabeth went to the window and tried to see where her husband was going. He turned right and continued on toward the main streets before Elisabeth lost him from her sight.

There were taverns in that direction and all manner of trouble. Whether he simply lost his sorrow in drink, or indulged in other vices, she knew not, but tonight would be the last night he ventured out without consequence.

I'm not letting you go so easily, Gilbert Beaumont,
Elisabeth said to herself.
Tomorrow you will talk whether you like it or not.

Elisabeth prepared to stand vigil on the lounge chair where Gilbert had taken to sleeping, but around midnight, she gave way to her fatigue. Sometime later, a persistent thudding at the door below roused her from her shallow sleep.

Bailiff Duval stood at the door, stern faced and annoyed at the call to duty at such a late hour. Gilbert stood beside him, unable to stand without aid.

“I believe this man is yours, Madame Beaumont,” Duval said in a humorless tone.

“Indeed.” Elisabeth took Gilbert's arm, no more amused than the disgruntled bailiff.

“I would suggest paying closer attention to your husband's comings and goings, madame,” Duval said. “He's been drinking himself into a stupor at Simonet's every night for almost a month. Old Gustave Simonet had enough of him and called for me.”

Elisabeth was not shocked that he, or anyone else, blamed her for Gilbert's misdeeds.

“Trust me,” Elisabeth said. “I'll be having words with him very soon. Quite a few, in fact.”

Duval looked satisfied, seeing what amounted to wrath in Elisabeth's blue eyes. He left the inebriated man in his wife's care. His smile told Elisabeth that he did not envy the morning in store for Gilbert Beaumont.

Elisabeth took no special care to keep quiet as she prepared breakfast. Although it was only four in the morning, Gilbert Beaumont was going to be on his feet and making bread whether he was ill from overindulgence or not.

She stifled a laugh as Gilbert stumbled into the kitchen, eyes bleary.

“Morning,” he mumbled, as much to himself as to his wife.

“Good morning,” Elisabeth replied with exaggerated good humor—and volume to match. “Have some breakfast.”

The sight and smell of eggs, bacon, bread, jam, and frothy, cold milk was usually the highlight of Gilbert's morning. Today it turned him green.

“I can't,” he said, pushing the plate away.

“You can, and you will,” Elisabeth said, her voice brimming with rage. “And then you're going to get your arse downstairs and bake. And when the morning rush is over, you're going to come up here and we're going to talk about your behavior last night and every night for the past three weeks.”

Gilbert stared at Elisabeth. His placid, sweet-natured wife was gone. He ate in silence, and Elisabeth imagined it took all he had to keep the food from resurfacing.

In the bakery they worked in tandem, no motion wasted, compensating for the late start and their fatigue. By the time customers arrived, both Beaumonts were shining with a layer of sweat, but prepared for the morning onslaught. Elisabeth sagged with relief when the last customer took her bread and left the shop quiet.

“Upstairs,” she said, the angry wife replacing the respectable Madame Beaumont.

The couple ascended the stairs. Gilbert took his favorite chair and awaited a raking-down they both knew he deserved. Elisabeth remained standing, hands on hips like a schoolmistress calling out a wayward student for his shenanigans.

“Get on with it,” he said, with no animosity in his voice.

“We're not up here for me to scream at you,” Elisabeth said. “As tempting as that might be, it would solve nothing.”

“Then why are we here?” asked Gilbert.

“I want to know what in Christendom is wrong with you,” Elisabeth said, taking a seat across from her husband. “You won't speak more than two words to me. You leave the room at every opportunity. Now you're running out to the tavern every night, doing God knows what with God knows whom. I'm sorry that Adèle died. You have no idea how sorry. I'd give my life to change it, but you have to forgive me and move on.”

“Forgive you?” Gilbert asked.

“The way you've been acting?” Elisabeth's voice wavered. “I know you blame me for what happened, but there was nothing I could do to prevent it.”

Gilbert shook his head. “You've been thinking that I blame
you
for our daughter's death?”

“You don't?” Elisabeth's eyes searched her husband's for some insight into what he was thinking.

“My God, I'm sorry,” he whispered. “I blame myself. You worked so hard while you were expecting. I let you do it. If I'd worked harder, made you rest, everything . . . would have been different.”

Elisabeth took Gilbert's hands in hers. “No, my love,” Elisabeth said. “I doubt there is a single thing we could have done to change things. Don't blame yourself. This was no more your fault than mine. Neither of us is to blame.”

Gilbert took her in his arms.

“Why have you been running away from me?” Elisabeth asked. “We must have the most accurate inventory for any stockroom in the whole settlement.”

Gilbert gave a weak chuckle, pulled her to his chest, and buried his face in her neck.

“I just sit in there,” he said, eyes brimming over with tears. “I didn't want you to see me cry. You had enough to shoulder.”

“We can help each other,” Elisabeth said. “We don't have to do this alone.”

“I was worried I was going to lose you,” Gilbert said, giving into his tears. “For weeks you seemed so pale and weak, heartbroken. I thought you were slipping away. It scared me so much.”

“I'm here,” Elisabeth said. “And I am feeling better. Not myself yet, but better—and much better now.”

“Promise me you'll rest?” Gilbert asked. “You must.”

“Of course,” Elisabeth said. “If it will ease your mind.”

Gilbert stroked her hair. “I love you.”

“I love you, too,” she murmured, kissing his cheek. “So very much. And you're done with the tavern? I don't want to know what else . . .”

“Just drinking. It was just trying to forget, if only for a few hours,” Gilbert said. “Never again. I'm sorry I made you worry.”

Elisabeth continued pelting his cheeks and brow with downy-soft kisses, making up for weeks of missed affection. Gilbert stood, took Elisabeth in his arms, and carried her back to their bedroom. For an hour they lay together, talking, caressing, and mourning for their loss.

When duty beckoned in the shop below, Elisabeth dried his tears and her own with her sleeve and kissed his salty cheek before they left the room.

“I'm so glad to have you back,” she said. The weight lifted from her shoulders and she mustered a real smile for her husband. She did not mar their happiness with her worry that the little wooden cradle in the corner would remain forever empty.

C
HAPTER
16

 

P
lease sleep, angel.
Nicole walked the dark corridor with baby Hélène, hoping the overtired infant would soon succumb to sleep. Nicole longed to stretch her legs in the weak spring sunshine and do her marketing, but until Hélène was asleep and entrusted to Sister Anne, she was captive. Afternoons were the most challenging time, but based on the stories she heard from other mothers, Hélène was a dream of a baby. Though Nicole thought to herself that if half the stories were true, half of the mothers in the settlement would have never borne a second child. Nicole kissed the satin skin of the baby's brow and smiled down at the lids that were losing their hard-fought battle to remain open. Hélène looked so much like her father that Nicole very often felt a pang of loss when seeing Luc's sweet blue eyes and mop of golden-brown curls on their daughter.

It was Thursday afternoon and the gentlemen had already come to call on the newest group of eligible brides. Girlish giggles escaped from the common room, recalling to Nicole's mind the youthful exuberance her own contingent had shared.
Can it only be two years since I arrived?
Nicole thought as she paced.
It seems like just a few weeks, but I feel as though I've aged three lifetimes.
The dark circles under her eyes testified to the truth of her musing.

Hélène was at last deep enough in sleep to be placed in her cradle with the doting Sister Anne. Knowing her free time was limited, Nicole grabbed her shawl and marketing basket and raced to the front door, not glancing into the common room where the ladies entertained the eager young men of the settlement.

Most days, Nicole was happy looking after Hélène and Manon and helping in various ways at the convent. Other days, she wished to run into the lush forests and never see civilization again. “You're just tired,” Rose would say. “All new mothers feel this way.” Though Nicole sometimes longed to throw it back in Rose's face that she had done nothing to earn her superior tone, she refrained. It seemed everyone, experienced with babies or not, had advice to offer, ranging from the sage and logical to the inane, stupid—even cruel and dangerous.

Pork, eggs, butter, cheese . . .
Nicole did not trust her foggy brain to retain something even as simple as a shopping list. She repeated it to herself over and over, or else preparing dinner might be more challenging than it already was if Hélène was out of sorts.

The salty tang of blood and freshly butchered flesh was a permanent fixture of the Rousseau butcher shop. Nicole refrained from wrinkling her nose against the pervasive stink, as Madame Rousseau, a wiry woman with erratic wisps of hair the color of dishwater that refused to be tamed into a respectable chignon, was quick to take offense. All the same, Nicole hoped she would not need to wait a quarter of an hour in the airless room as the humorless woman tracked down from the back rooms the cuts of meat that Sister Mathilde required.

“You're looking well, Madame Jarvais,” Madame Rousseau observed after Nicole gave her order. “No little one today?”

“I've left her with Sister Anne.” Nicole rubbed her nose for a moment as if preparing to sneeze, in reality shielding her nose from the stench for a brief moment.
Stop gabbing so I can leave!
“It makes running errands so much faster.”

“I can imagine.” Madame Rousseau's deft fingers wrapped the thick chunks of pork, fit only for stewing, in brown paper. She handed off the parcel to Nicole, who placed the coins in the slight woman's outstretched hand. “It must be so nice to have the Sisters' help. Some of us had to watch our children ourselves.”

Nicole blinked at the veiled insult, willing her tongue to remain civil. Sister Mathilde had warned about the importance of making—and keeping—friends. She took her parcel, stowed it in her basket, and turned from the store. Even plastered on an insincere smile for the hateful woman.

My God, it's unfair. I pay for my room. I work for the Sisters. I have the money from the homestead to pay my way—for now.
Nicole knew the money wouldn't last long. Their homestead was not large and their home on it was a glorified shack, so the price she fetched was not exemplary. She had calculated she could live in comfort for eighteen more months if the Sisters would keep her. It wasn't an eternity, but it was enough time to make some sort of plan. She thought about her future in the moments before lying down and drifting to sleep. It cost her more sleep than it solved problems most nights.

Though most days she took the time to enjoy her stroll away from the convent and the demands of parenting, she now found no joy in the weekly excursion that was her only reprieve. At every shop she imagined judging glances and disapprobation from everyone she encountered, though no one repeated Madame Rousseau's odious jibes. She offered cold greetings and forced smiles for the shopkeepers, but avoided conversation. As was her usual custom, she saved her trek to Elisabeth's bakery for her last stop.

“Good afternoon,” Gilbert greeted her. “The usual order for the good Sisters?”

“And spruce beer and pastry for us?” Elisabeth chimed in, entering the front room from the kitchen.

“Yes and no,” Nicole replied, endeavoring to keep her expression neutral. “Just the things for the convent, please. I need to be getting back to Hélène.”

“Is she well?” Elisabeth asked, her voice constricting in concern.

“Perfectly fine,” Nicole said. “I just can't expect the Sisters to do my work for me.”

Gilbert said nothing, but went off to the back kitchens as though looking for something of vital importance.
Perceptive,
thought Nicole.

“What's wrong?” Elisabeth pressed as she loaded two loaves into Nicole's basket. “You know the Sisters dote on that child.”

“Nothing . . . just . . . nothing.”

Elisabeth opened her mouth, but closed it once more. She took Nicole's hand from across the counter. “When you're ready to talk, come see me.”

Nicole squeezed her friend's hand in turn, appreciating her lack of tenacity. She accepted her purchases and left for the convent. Despite what she'd told Elisabeth, she walked slowly back to the convent, Madame Rousseau's words tumbling over and over in her head. She entered the convent to find Hélène still curled in her cradle under Sister Anne's loving gaze and Manon sitting with Rose in the common room working on her lessons.
Such a burden on the Sisters, aren't they?

Rather than pass the basket of food to Sister Éléonore, who ran the kitchen, Nicole waved her away and began preparations herself. The nun squinted her eyes at Nicole and left in a spin of movement that made her look like a cyclone—a very squat cyclone—who left order and repair in her wake instead of chaos.
Someone else I've offended,
Nicole scolded herself as she laid out the ingredients for that night's meal.
At least that time I deserved it.

The mindless repetition of peeling and cutting the vegetables for the stew helped ease the tension from her shoulders. She focused on breathing in time with each deft motion of the knife and nothing else.

“Anxious to help in the kitchen this evening?” Nicole looked up to see Sister Mathilde at the kitchen door, but did not stop the methodic chopping.

“I always attempt to be useful, Sister.”

“Of course you do, but you needn't dismiss Sister Éléonore from her own kitchen.”

“I'm sorry,” Nicole said, wiping her brow with the back of her hand and taking a pause from her attack on the produce.

“Then you must tell me what is bothering you. Though you are not of my order or my charge, I do feel responsible for your well-being all the same.”

“It's ridiculous, Sister. A woman in town just implied that I was perhaps taking advantage of your generosity. It hurt my feelings, but they'll mend as feelings often do.”

“Rubbish. Who said such a thing?”

“Madame Rousseau,” Nicole admitted, taking the knife back in hand to the mound of potatoes before her as she divulged the full contents of the insult.

Sister Mathilde threw her head back in a full-throated laugh, uncharacteristic of the decorous woman. “How absolutely typical. She abuses you, but pawned her son off on the neighbor woman whenever she could. Not that I blame her. I've never known a baby who cried as long and loud as he did. Thank God little Jérôme grew out of it and into a strong young boy. Pay her no attention.”

“But it does raise a valid question, Sister.”

“How novel for the Rousseau woman to be of use. What question is that?”

“What shall I do with myself?” Nicole rubbed her eyes against the omnipresent fatigue. “I cannot stay here forever.”

“No you can't,” Sister Mathilde agreed, pulling a stool closer to Nicole and sitting at the scarred wooden table where Nicole worked. “As much as we love having you here. You need to find your place in the colony.”

“I've thought about what I could do, Sister,” Nicole said, exhaling deeply and rubbing her eyes. “I don't know if the Beaumonts need my help, but if they don't I'm sure there is someone in town who needs help. I'm capable.”

“I know that, my dear, but our good King Louis did not send you here to bake.”

Nicole allowed her meaning to sink in and had to swallow against the bile in her throat. “Luc has only been gone six months. . . .”

“I know, my dear. But think of this . . . women are few and precious here. You're a healthy woman, a hard worker, and a good mother. Many will see you here and think you are wasting your gifts and your childbearing years with us.”

“Heavens above, I just had a baby three months ago. . . .”

“Maryse Rousseau is a bitter woman. Her comments came several months earlier than I expected . . . but I did expect them. If you were to accept suitors again, you'd have dozens of men coming to pay you court.”

“Sister, I can't—”

“It seems impossible, I expect, but if you come down to the common room of a Thursday afternoon from time to time and make conversation, I think you'd find it easier than you think. It's unfair, I know, but life here seldom leaves us the luxury of working through our grief before moving on.”

 

The tray, laden with beverages and cakes, shook as she placed it on the common room table. A few eyebrows arched as Nicole took a seat and joined the ladies as they welcomed the throng of suitors without the protective shield of Hélène, who was swaddled and sleeping with Sister Anne.
Please let me endure this without ridicule.
It was the highest aspiration she had for the afternoon.

For the first twenty minutes, Nicole thought she might be safe. Only six young men came to visit, each already paired off with a lady he had visited before. All the couples were engaged or days away from it. They would soon be gone, and the second new group of young ladies since Nicole's own arrival would be hard on their heels. Though Nicole's presence signaled her availability and the men would be sure to spread the word that there was an eligible woman to be had, perhaps there might be a week of solitude. Nicole's shoulders relaxed and she busied her hands with the skirt she was hemming for Manon.
A more productive afternoon than I bargained for.

Footsteps entering the room broke Nicole's concentration and she looked up from the brown linen in her lap. Alexandre Lefebvre stood in the doorway looking as awkward as a nervous schoolboy. None of the ire from their previous encounter was present in his eyes. Nicole made an unnecessary survey of the room, knowing that each of her companions was occupied with a suitor.

“Some cider, monsieur? Perhaps some cake?” Nicole stood, folding the skirt in haste and placing it back in her sewing basket.

“Just cider, please.” He took the seat nearest hers and accepted the cool beverage with a nod and slight smile.

Nicole helped herself to a mug of cider as well, deciding it best to keep her hands occupied with something, else her fidgeting would betray the state of her nerves. There was not a sentence in her mind that she felt was worth uttering aloud, so she stilled her tongue, allowing him to break the silence this time.

“I'm glad to see you are well,” he said. “I had come to inquire after you when the child was born, but of course you were not feeling well enough for visitors.”

“I . . .” Nicole stammered, wondering why he had taken the trouble to do such a thing when he had spent less than a quarter of an hour in her presence. At a loss for anything more intelligent to say, she could only offer a stunned, “How very kind of you, monsieur.”

“What have you called the child?” he asked after a few seconds of silence.

“Hélène. It was my grandmother's name. I never knew her, but Maman always spoke so lovingly of her. I couldn't think of anything that suited her better.”

“May I see her?” Alexandre asked. Nicole stared for a moment before she was able to remember her manners. Never before had she seen a man wanting to hold a child that was not his own. She scooped the baby up from Sister Anne in the adjacent room and returned, handing him the baby, making every effort to keep her from waking. He peered down at Hélène, and a genuine smile crossed his lips, transforming his face to that of a much younger man.

“She is a lovely baby,” he said, his movements those of a man who knew how to handle an infant.

“She looks so much like her father,” Nicole said, proud that her voice did not crack at every mention of Luc like it used to.