Promised to the Crown (2 page)

Before her confinement, Rose had been only vaguely aware of the charity hospital's existence. The vast, imposing compound of moldy brick and human stink had terrified her, as it did most children. As the sheltered daughter of the bourgeoisie, Rose had only rarely visited the sector of Paris where the specter of the Salpêtrière loomed over the surrounding streets. She didn't realize, then, how fortunate that made her.

She had assumed that, like many institutions of its kind, the Church had the running of the Salpêtrière, but Rose learned with surprise that the staff was a secular one. Adopting the title “Sister” and abandoning given names for religious monikers was only ceremonial. Despite the lack of official ties to the Church, the members of the staff were all deeply religious. They espoused the virtues of routine and constant occupation. Prayer, study, chores, meals. No idleness to tempt the “weak souls” in their charge. She overheard the
officières
use the term more than once.
Are we really weak? Or merely inconvenient?

Can I truly stay in such a place?
Her grip on the brush was painful, but she gave it no heed.

Vérité was right; in the hospital, Rose's life had purpose. The children, the staff—they needed her, appreciated her, treated her well. But what awaited her in the Salpêtrière? A larger room? A salary? One day a month to escape into Paris under the watchful eye of a chaperone?

Were those small liberties enough?

Rose imagined that Vérité was also right about what awaited her in New France: harsh conditions, certainly . . . but perhaps a family of her own as well.

Papa had been wonderful, but he alone did not constitute a family. In the years before she lived with her uncle, Rose had always pictured herself with a large brood of children, to make up for her own lack of brothers and sisters. That would never happen without a husband, though the thought sickened her. It would never happen in the Salpêtrière.

In her logical mind she knew that not all men were such demons, but she could not separate the marriage act from the memory of her uncle's careless, often painful, fumbling. Though her governesses and nannies had never discussed the topic with her, she'd had a vague idea of what happened between a husband and wife. She imagined it was a gentle, loving act of submission where the woman entrusted her body, soul, and heart to the man of her choice. Her uncle had shown her it was a brutish, animal act that she had no interest in ever repeating. The rough hands, putrid breath, his complete disregard for her pleas to stop . . . She could live happily never letting another man come so close to her ever again.

All too soon, dawn's weak sunlight peeked into the minuscule window of Rose's cell, stripes of light painting her scrubbed floor. Rose would have to meet with Sister Charité soon, yet still she had no answer. She made up her mind, and changed it, a dozen times over the course of the sleepless night.

As she walked the long corridor to Sister Charité's office, Rose prayed the answer would come to her.

What exactly would I pray
for?

No answers came. When she reached her destination, she knocked on the open door to announce her presence.

“Come in, Rose.” Sister Charité did not look up from her document, but motioned to an empty seat opposite her massive desk. Rose, never having visited the room before, took in the sparse furnishings, noticing that every object had some purpose. The Sister did not appreciate decoration or unnecessary trappings. Despite the Spartan nature of the room, the gently crackling fire created a welcoming ambiance, its warmth driving back the unseasonably cool weather.

“What is your decision, my child?” The Sister sat back in her chair, giving Rose her full attention.

Rose looked at her hands, willing herself to speak. A stack of books on the Sister's desk, the top volume askew by a matter of a fraction of an inch, drew her attention. She itched to straighten it, but didn't dare. After a moment she sputtered, “I don't think I can go, Sister.”

“Then you are a fool.” Rose felt Sister Charité's brown eyes searching her soul and casting judgment. Disappointment mingled with the lines of experience on the old woman's face.

“Excuse me, Sister?” Rose looked up from her hands, eyes wide, glancing away from the book.

“You heard me, child,” Sister Charité said. “You're a fool. What's worse, you're a fool with a good brain and an education—that's the worst kind of fool to suffer.”

“Sister. It's just so far . . .” Rose began.

“Yes, it is,” Sister Charité said. “And it's cold. And the men are not as civilized as in Paris, if indeed any man can truly be called ‘civilized.' A rough life, to be sure. Vérité most likely convinced you of this, despite my orders.

“However, it
is
a life, Rose. I have seen you are miserable here. Some women thrive on confinement and discipline. Some women stay here of their own free will because they need our guidance. Yet our regulations only serve to stifle a girl like you.”

“I'm not unhappy here, Sister. Truly. I love the children—helping them with their lessons. I like being useful to Sister Vérité.”
Do not touch the book
. Rose gripped her hands, as though in prayer, against the compulsion.

“Of course,” Sister Charité said. “Who does not wish to live a useful life? But there are uses for you in the New World as well, my dear. More than you can take on alone, I am certain. But then, you would have your own children to guide and teach.”

“I don't wish to marry, Sister.” Rose forced herself to look directly at Sister Charité as she spoke the words aloud at last. Looking at Sister Charité, focusing on the woman's honest face, kept the image of her uncle, the stink of stale whiskey, and the nights of endless torture from resurfacing. Her interwoven fingers went white.

 

For weeks she tried to plead with him to stop. He merely covered her mouth with an unwashed hand that reeked of tobacco and his own filth and took her anyway. He was at least a measure gentler on the nights she didn't protest. After a few weeks, she couldn't even summon tears. She would lie back, close her eyes, and pray that he wouldn't make her pregnant. Pray he would tire of her and that somehow she might be able to go on with life as she had before. But it could never be. She was forever changed. Broken.

After he left each night, she imagined barring the door against him. She imagined confessing the whole affair to Aunt Martine. She imagined begging the priest for help. In her mind, each attempt to win her freedom from her uncle's cruelty always resulted in a beating or her public disgrace. Worse, the insufferable pity of a priest in her uncle's employ who would tell her that suffering was a woman's lot in life and that she could learn the valuable lesson of forbearance and self-effacement from her ordeal. In the end, her tenure in the Salpêtrière had confirmed her worst suspicions.

 

“It is the idea of marriage that bothers you, not the reality of it, my girl,” Sister Charité said.

“I don't think that's true, Sister,” Rose replied.

Sister Charité's eyes flashed in surprise at the severity of Rose's tone. Rose was almost equally shocked, not having felt much conviction in her own opinions these past three years.

“Go to the colony, girl,” Sister Charité said. “You may not find happiness in marriage, but I can promise you, without equivocation, that you will not find it here.”

Rose took in a deep breath and looked the older woman in the eye as an equal.
She means what she says. She thinks this stinking prison will kill me—sooner rather than later. And I can't find anything in my heart that tells me she's mistaken.

“If I must,” Rose said, and with the deft movement of one hand, straightened the off-kilter book.

“Finally some sense,” Sister Charité said, glancing away from the book and back to Rose. “You will leave Paris for Rouen in two weeks. There, you will meet the rest of the girls who will travel with you to New France. From Rouen, you will go to the port in Dieppe to meet your ship. Several of our girls are going. I want you to keep a special eye on Geneviève and Vivienne for me. They are very young and will be grateful for your attentions.”

“With pleasure, Sister.” Rose knew the girls from their catechism classes. Geneviève and Vivienne were orphans as well, only a few months into their sojourn at the Salpêtrière. Both seemed sweet natured and eager to learn, though neither were gifted scholars. They never looked particularly happy, and Rose was glad Sister Charité had selected them. They were the pale, slight type of girl that, all too often, slipped from life in the middle of a chilly night in the dank prison.

“Very good. I trust you will make sure these last two weeks are profitable ones,” said Sister Charité by way of dismissal.

Rose walked slowly back to her dormitory. She hoped that Sister Charité was right, and that a useful life awaited her in New France. Rose enjoyed her duties at the Salpêtrière, but the
officières
could replace her. The putrid edifice would continue to rot beneath the feet of its inmates whether Rose taught catechism or not. In fact, there was only one person Rose would truly miss. Without realizing where her steps had led her, Rose found herself in front of Vérité's apartment.

Rose opened the door when bid to the sight of Vérité at her desk, bathed in the light of early morning, poring over her record book. Taking notes on the behavior and progress of her charges, as Rose had helped her to do countless times.

How can I disappoint her? Maybe even break her heart?
Rose's breath caught in her throat.
The decision is made and I must not waver. I am not a coward.

“I am going,” she announced, instead of giving a proper greeting. She kept her gaze on Vérité, not wanting to show hesitation.

“Stupid girl,” Sister Vérité said. “You will die a martyr to this New France. You will wish you had never left. I can promise you that.”

“I'm sorry you feel so, Sister.” Rose felt a pain in her chest to see the flash of anger in Vérité's eyes.

“I am not your sister anymore, am I? Call me Pauline if you must speak to me at all.” Vérité attempted to keep her tone stoic, but Rose could hear an unmistakable quiver in the undertones.

“Pauline.” The name felt strange on Rose's tongue. “You will always be a sister to me.” She reached for Vérité's hand, but the Sister rebuked her.

“Then how can you leave me?” Something in Vérité's countenance escaped Rose's understanding, but she grasped the accusation of betrayal in Vérité's voice all too well.

“Your friendship has meant more to me than anything,” Sister Vérité said. “Your arrival here brightened my life, yet you cast my friendship aside. You cast me aside. You cast aside your very life.”

“I will find death sooner or later, Pauline,” Rose said. “Who can say whether it will come any sooner in New France than in the Salpêtrière? Either way, I cannot stay.”

“Do what you will.” Vérité stood and opened the door of the pleasant apartment to the gloomy hallway beyond. “The choice was yours, and you made it.”

“I do not leave for two weeks, Sister Vérité,” said Rose, reprising the title for the sake of a few young girls within earshot. “We needn't say good-bye—not yet.”

“You're already gone,” was Vérité's farewell.

 

Indeed, for the next two weeks, Rose lived like a shadow in Vérité's presence—there, but never noticed or acknowledged.

Please speak to me!
Rose wanted to shout as she assisted the silent Vérité in her duties. She knew it would accomplish nothing, so she held her tongue. Worse, she feared any attempt to break the silence might cause Vérité further grief.

On the day the three girls left for Rouen, Sister Charité stood beside the carriage in the weak spring sunlight and presented each one with a rosary and a benediction.

“Go and do your duty, my daughters,” Sister Charité said as she opened the door to the carriage. “Know that my prayers and good wishes go with you.”

Rose forced a weak smile for the formidable woman. She waited for Vivienne and Geneviève to take their seats before claiming her own. Rose hesitated as she climbed onto the step of the carriage and onto the worn leather seats. The last carriage she'd traveled in, more than three years before, had been far grander, but brought her to the place of her nightmares.
Please God that this rattletrap take me to a brighter future.