“When are we leaving?” Phillippe asked his father.
Louis looked at Bridget.
“We have to skim off the cream and pour the milk into the milk can. We are taking both with us. The stew has to finish cooking before we can load it. I would say in about an hour.”
“So we must hurry,” Louis said.
Phillippe ate the last of his breakfast and went up to his room to pack. Although his and Jean-Luc’s beds were downstairs for the winter, their clothes and other items were still in their bedrooms upstairs. Until their sister Antoinette had married and moved into Montreal they had shared a room. When she left almost two years ago, Jean-Luc had moved into her room. Phillippe and Jean-Luc teased each other about how nice it was having the privacy of their own bedrooms. Moving their beds downstairs this past fall had put a stop to that. They were sleeping side by side again.
Phillippe shivered as he tossed his breeches, a leather belt to keep them up, stockings, waist coat, overcoat and new shoes into his carpetbag. He also added some extra underclothes. His mother made these from wool and everyone wore them year round. In the winter it was for warmth, in the summer to absorb the sweat or perspiration from working in the heat.
They were going into Montreal to celebrate Phillippe’s aunt and uncle’s anniversary and they were staying with them in town for a few days. Because summer was so busy with farming, winter was the time for the farmers and their families to visit distant relatives and friends.
If his parents were going away for only few days they would leave him to do the chores, which irked him. He wanted to get away as much as they did. But it was no use arguing and he would stay back on the farm.
This time, though, because it was a special occasion, they had gotten the neighbor to do the chores so that Phillippe could come with them.
The morning was brighter when Phillippe threw his carpet bag of clothes into the sleigh and hurried to the barn. He opened the stalls and put bridles on the two horses. He led them out of the barn into the cold, winter morning. They snorted and tossed their heads and their hoofs crunched on the snow. Phillippe hitched them to the waiting sleigh while his parents and Jean-Luc brought out boxes of food and their carpet bags of clothes. Rocks, heated in the fireplace, were placed on the floor to keep their feet warm.
Bridget wore a long dress made of heavy homespun wool for warmth. Like all the farm women, she sewed her family's clothes and made the dyes for them from tree roots and wood bark. Over top of her dress she had on her long cloak and muff.
Besides his deer skin jacket over his breeches and his high moccasins, Louis was wearing his fur tuque. Knitted and fur tuques were a man’s way of standing out. Each one had a tassel on it and each man tried to add some color or a unique style to his tuque to make it different from the others.
The four wrapped themselves in blankets and began their journey to Montreal.
The sun shone in the light blue sky as they drove towards Montreal. Unfortunately, it did not offer much heat. The rocks cooled and their feet began to get cold. They stamped them to keep the circulation moving. They met other sleighs and carioles on the narrow road as people were on their way to and from Montreal or to visit neighbors. They waved or called out a greeting.
When they reached Montreal they drove down the snow-covered dirt streets to Etienne and Marie’s home near the St Lawrence River. In spite of France not allowing industries in New France, there were entrepreneurs ready to do what was necessary to get ahead and help the colony. They were the carpenters, blacksmiths, house builders, cabinetmakers, butchers, innkeepers, bakers, dressmakers, all of which were the backbone of the towns. Etienne Chabot was one of them. He had saved his money from his three years in the fur trade and set himself up as a blacksmith. He made a very comfortable living.
Theirs was a large house on huge corner lot with stables beside the smithy in the rear for the horses. Louis pulled the sleigh near the back door. Etienne and Marie came out to welcome them. The women began to unload the food while the men unhitched the horses and led them to the stables. Phillippe and Jean-Luc helped their mother and aunt.
“Where are Jeanne and Marguerite?” Phillippe asked his aunt. Their cousins were close to his and Antoinette’s age and when they were younger the four of them spent time together when the families visited. However, as they grew older Antoinette and Jeanne had broken off from the four to be on their own as friends. He and Marguerite were still very close.
Poor Jean-Luc was five years younger than him and had no close cousins his age. When in Montreal he played with the grandson of Ira Levington, a neighbor who lived at the middle of the block. At home, he followed Phillippe around like a puppy, which irked Phillippe immensely.
“Jeanne is at the hospital and Marguerite is in bed.”
Phillippe felt his mood drop. A year ago his cousin had begun to feel unwell without really knowing why. She developed a cough and had a low grade fever. One night, not long afterwards, she awoke drenched in sweat. Her fever had broken and everyone was happy. She was well again.
But then the cycle started again. She lost interest in eating and her weight dropped. She complained that her chest sometimes hurt. The doctor was called and after examining her and asking questions, diagnosed consumption. This word struck fear in his and the whole family’s hearts. Consumption was a wasting disease that consumed the body.
Since then she had spent most of her days in bed.
“How is she doing?” Phillippe asked always hoping to hear good news.
“The same. She gets up for a while but tires easily and returns to bed. You may look in on her when you take your bags up to Jeanne’s bedroom.”
Phillippe carried his and Jean-Luc’s bags up to the bedroom they slept in when in Montreal. Jeanne moved into Marguerite’s room for their stay. His parents had a room off the kitchen.
Phillippe cautiously opened his cousin’s bedroom door and peered in. The walls of the room were whitewashed and the floor was made of wide planks. Marguerite’s eyes were closed and she looked pale as she lay against the pillows. The bed was a double, four poster and Marguerite was on one side to make room for Jeanne. Above the bed was a cross and beside was a night table with a Bible on it. Each side of the four poster had a rug on the floor. Along the right wall stood an armoire for Marguerite’s clothing.
As if sensing his presence, Marguerite opened her eyes.
“Phillippe,” she said softly. Her smile was weak.
Phillippe’s heart was sad as he walked over to the bed. He sat down and took her proffered hand in his. Her skin felt fragile to his touch.
“I am glad you came,” Marguerite said.
“I was hoping you would be up so I could take you out for a drive.”
“Mother said that it is cold today.”
“It is but I would cover you with every blanket in the house so that only your eyes showed.”
Marguerite laughed. Her laughter was cut short by a coughing spell.
Phillippe watched helplessly as the hacking wracked her frail body. There was nothing he could do except wait for it to be over. When she finally settled, Marguerite lay back against the pillows exhausted. She looked over at Phillippe and smiled wanly.
“I am sorry,” she whispered. “I am not a very good companion right now.”
“I will leave you to rest,” Phillippe said. He bent and kissed her forehead. “I will come back and have supper with you.”
Marguerite nodded. Phillippe pulled the covers up to her chin. He went over to the fireplace and stoked the fire adding another log. Very few houses had a fireplace in the attic bedrooms. This one was in the wall between the two bedrooms and heated them both.
Even with a fireplace, it was cold upstairs in the winter. Since Marguerite had taken to her bed, he knew the family took turns keeping the fire burning during the night.
Phillippe went to the door and opened it. He turned for one last look at Marguerite. Her eyes were closed as they had been when he entered. His heart
went out to her. It was not fair that she should be so sick. She had done nothing to warrant it in her short life.
Phillippe went downstairs. A table had been set up in the common room and his mother and aunt were placing a cloth on it. The room had whitewashed walls, a plank floor, and a fireplace which also kept his aunt and uncle’s bedroom warm. There was a throw rug on the floor and a number of straight backed, upholstered chairs with narrow wooden arms and lathed legs pushed against the walls. His mother and aunt were discussing the latest quilt that his aunt was making for Jeanne’s dowry.
“Has Jeanne decided who she loves, yet?” Bridget asked straightening out some creasing in the table cloth.
Marie shook her head. “She has feelings for both Florian and Andrew. But she does not know if either of them love her.”
“Neither has said anything?”
“No. She is hoping one of them will ask her to marry him before they go with the fur brigades in the spring.”
“Does it matter which one?”
“I think she prefers Andrew, but I know she wants to get married soon and start a family.”
“Well, I hope she gets her wish.”
“Yes,” Marie said. “It would be nice to plan a wedding for one of my daughters. Antoinette’s and William’s ceremony was so beautiful.”
Phillippe headed to the door.
“Phillippe,” Marie said. “Could you help me bring in the bread?”
Bread was cooked outside in a bake oven made of stones, mortar, and earth and set up on rocks. It was sheltered from the wind and rain by planks of wood nailed to poles. The oven was hollowed out in the center. While the bread was rising in pans in the kitchen, wood was placed inside the oven and started on fire. When the wood had burned and the stones heated, the ashes were pulled out and the loaves of bread put inside. Bread was usually baked twice a week.
Phillippe opened the door of the oven. He took the flat piece of wood attached to long handle from his aunt and slid it under three of the loaf pans. He pulled them out and carried them into the house depositing them on the counter by the fireplace. He went for the last three and did the same. Bridget and Marie removed the loaves from the pans to let them cool.
Phillippe wandered out to the stables to see what his father and Uncle Etienne were doing. He grinned when he saw that his Uncle Pierre had come down from his room above the stables and joined his two brothers.
“Hey, you young bull,” Pierre ruffled his nephew’s hair. “You are getting taller.”
Pierre had black hair, a black beard, and a booming laugh. His shoulders were broad and his hips narrow. He had the knitted cap of a voyageur perched on his head. Although all voyageurs wore a knitted cap, it was only those who had spent a winter in the north who could decorate their cap with a feather or feathers. These men were known as Northmen. Pierre’s cap had a feather. He was a Northman.
“Have you signed on with a merchant, yet?” Phillippe asked.
“No. I am taking my time. I want to get the best deal.” Pierre took a drink of beer from the metal cup he was carrying.
“Do not even ask him,” Phillippe’s father warned him. “I need you on the farm.”
“Ah, Louis, you cannot expect him to stay on the farm when there is so much adventure in the fur trade,” Pierre said. “Even you tried it for a while.”
“Yes, I did but I did not find it adventurous as you say. It was hard work, the food was monotonous, and the travel dangerous.”
“Oh, you are such a chicken. There is danger everywhere.”
“Too many men are lost to the rapids and other accidents each year,” Louis said.
Phillippe thought he saw his father send his uncle a warning look. He obviously did not want Pierre to continue the conversation in front of Phillippe. But Pierre either did not see the look or ignored it.
“It is dangerous riding a horse,” Pierre said. “Look at the number of riders who are bucked off and injured or killed here in town.”
Louis waved his hand in dismissal. “We will not talk of it.” He turned to Etienne and began telling him about his new plans for his spring crop. Pierre shrugged and left the stables.
Phillippe had nowhere else to go so he sat on a stool and listen to his father. With any luck, he would not be around to see if his father’s ideas worked.
Chapter Three
Jeanne left the hospital. Her hood kept her head warm and her hands were tucked into her muff. Her long skirt and cloak swished around her legs as she briskly walked along the cobbled streets of the downtown area. She enjoyed the cold air, finding it invigorating. At the MacLeod Merchant House she pulled open the door. The warm air inside enveloped her. She looked around the large room and saw Andrew at the far end of the counter. He glanced up and smiled at her. He was a young man with a slight build and his three-cornered beaver hat sat on his head as usual.
“What are you doing here? I thought we were meeting at your parents’ house.”
“I just came from the hospital.” Jeanne removed both her hands from her muff and undid her cloak. “I thought we could walk to mother and fathers together with Antoinette and William.”
“Is it not too cold to be walking?” Andrew asked. He went and put another piece of wood in the small fireplace.
“With the sun shining it is not that cold,” Jeanne said. “Where are William and Antoinette?”
“They are upstairs.” Andrew said. “William just went to see if Antoinette was ready.”
When William had constructed the building to house his merchant company, he had put rooms upstairs for him to live in. Antoinette had moved in there when they married.
Just then the door opened and Antoinette and William entered, a gust of cold air following them. William had his arm around his wife who barely came up to his shoulder. His blond hair was in contrast to her long, dark hair. Jeanne rushed to hug her cousin. Even though Antoinette was two years older they had been friends since childhood. When Antoinette married William and moved from the farm into Montreal their friendship had deepened.
“Jeanne wants us to walk to her place,” Andrew said when the door had closed. “I think it is too cold to be out that long. We should take the cariole.”
“You will eventually have to get used to the cold,” William said.
“I do not know how you have done it.” Andrew shook his head. “I hate to leave this warmth even to climb the stairs to my room in your place.”
“Well, I have been here longer than you,” William admitted. “But you need to get outside more and get acclimatized to the cold. You have gone nowhere since Christmas at Etienne’s and Marie’s.”
“I have nowhere to go,” Andrew said sadly. “There is nothing of interest for me here.”
“What about me?” Jeanne teased.
Andrew smiled. “You are the best of what there is in Montreal. But I miss the plays at the theatres, the shops, and the hustle and bustle of London. I miss being able to sail across the sea to Europe for a holiday.”
“That will change once you have lived here a few years.” William slapped him on the back.
“I do not think so,” Andrew said.
“Look at me,” William said. “I was only going to give the business five years to get established and then turn it over to a manager and return to England.” He turned to his wife. “But then I met Antoinette and fell in love. As you know we will soon be celebrating our second anniversary. No children yet, but that will come.”
“That has worked for you,” Andrew said. “I do not know if love would make me stay here.”
Jeanne’s heart sank. Did that mean that he did not love her or was it that his love was not enough to keep him in Montreal? She glanced at Antoinette and saw sorrow on her face. She wondered if the look was mirrored in her own.
“I am tempted to go back to England,” Andrew continued, his voice dispirited.
This was not something she had expected to hear. It was the first time he had said anything about returning to his hom
e country. He had occasionally mentioned that he missed his family and missed the countryside of England but she thought that was normal. She did not realize he felt this strongly about it. What could have triggered this longing in him? She knew it did not matter. Whatever the reason, the words were out and she felt that they were going to change their relationship.
“You cannot go back,” William said cheerfully. “You promised you would go west for me this spring.”
“Yes, I did,” Andrew said. “And I will, but I am not sure about next year.”
* * *
The long table set up in the common room was covered with a white cloth and the plates and cutlery were all set out. When Jeanne, Andrew, William, and Antoinette arrived there was a rush of greetings and hugs. They removed their cloaks and coats and hung them up. Phillippe saw that Andrew even took off his three cornered beaver hat. He wondered if that was out of respect or to stop Pierre from teasing him about it like he had at the Christmas party and just about every time the two met.
Phillippe was glad to see Pierre enter the house just before everyone sat down to eat. He had been afraid that his uncle might be too annoyed at Louis to come back. Ira Levington also came bringing his grandson, Jacques, to play with Jean-Luc. Ira’s daughter had moved in with him when her husband was killed in the war against the British. She worked at the bakery. The two boys filled their plates and took them into the kitchen away from the watchful eyes of the adults. Phillippe remembered doing that when he was younger, wanting to eat only the foods he liked.
Phillippe snuck up the stairs to check on Marguerite. He would like to bring her a plate of food and eat with her. He opened the door and called her name softly. When she did not respond, he closed the door and returned downstairs. He would try again later. He joined the others at the table.
West to Grande Portage Page 2