“That is my cabin. Lovely door, yes?” He smirked. “Wouldn’t want anyone to confuse it with their own little hole.”
Marguerite rolled her eyes and kept walking.
“Don’t you want to see the view?”
“You’re being disgusting again.” She was tired of playing cat and mouse with him.
“How so?”
“Every time I start to think you are interesting and a worthwhile conversationalist you say something lewd and unbecoming.”
“Well I can’t help myself. I have lived most of my life at sea with a pack of ruffians, hardly a pretty girl in sight.”
“And this is my cabin, so I will bid you adieu, Captain Laviolette.”
“Will you be joining me for lunch? And please call me Jacques.”
“No. But thank you for the tour, Captain Jacques.”
“Dinner then, and just Jacques will do nicely.” It was a statement, not a request.
Marguerite wanted desperately to say no, but the thought of the food he would have for her made her hesitate. “We shall see, Just Jacques.”
He rolled his eyes. “Right then, eight o’clock sharp in the dining hall. Do not fear our lovely shipmates. Once you let your bonnet down with them as you have with me today, they will love you.” He tousled her hair and chuckled.
Ah! Her bonnet! Her hair must be a complete rat’s nest by now! And here she had paraded through half the ship looking like a wild beast.
“As I said before, we’ll see.” She put a self-conscious hand to her head where his had been and nodded as she backed through the door and closed it soundly.
Outil was there to meet her. “M’lady! Are you quite all right? You are so … disheveled!” Marguerite could tell the bot was trying to be polite, choosing words carefully. She didn’t care.
“Yes.” She took her frustrations out on the automaton freely. “I’ve just been thrust through five wind tunnels whilst trying to dodge the advances of our good captain.”
“We can have you cleaned up in no time, miss. Would you care to try the shower, as I have learned it is called?” Outil motioned toward the water closet.
“Yes, I suppose so.” Marguerite had taken off her gloves and stood in front of the mirror finger-picking through her snarls, completely embarrassed she’d let her appearance get this out of hand. A funny thought crossed her mind then, and she paused while gazing at her reflection. Back home she had never cared about her looks. She enjoyed dressing up as much as any other girl, but out on the estate with Claude, running free, she was sure her hair had been twice as wild as it was now, probably littered with grass and leaves; why did she care so much about her hair now?
She pulled the loose strands back from her cheeks. “Outil, do you think I’m pretty?”
“Pretty?” Outil tipped her head in question.
“Never mind.” She was embarrassed that she had even asked such a silly question, and doubly embarrassed that she had asked a bot. She turned and walked to the bedroom, intent on enjoying this newfangled shower thing.
As she passed through she glanced at Vivienne. Her friend was still sleeping but her face was pale and drawn. She was almost a gray sort of color, there was no rose blush left in her usually merry cheeks. Marguerite noted the time and asked Outil, “Has she been awake to eat yet?”
“No, miss, I was about to ask your opinion of the matter.”
“Has she said anything? Roused at all?”
“No, miss.”
Marguerite stopped and doubled back to the bed where her friend lay. She placed the back of her hand on Vivienne’s forehead. It was cold and clammy. She tried waking her.
“Vivienne dear. Vivienne?” Closer now, Marguerite could just make out beads of sweat on the small girl’s brow. “Outil, we must find some sort of doctor. This is not a good sign at all.”
“Yes, miss.”
“Hurry to the bridge; it’s back down the hall opposite of the dining area. Get Laviolette or whomever is available and come right back.”
“Yes, miss.” Outil was already striding toward the door.
Chapter Seventeen
It took Outil longer than Marguerite expected to come back with help. At first she waited fitfully by her friend’s side. She used a damp cloth to wipe her forehead and neck, thinking this might bring her around, but to no avail. She tried talking to her, but felt silly after only a few sentences. She paced the floor and stared out the window, but found none of the solace she’d felt before in the sight of the beautiful seascape.
Eventually, she stood still and felt tears welling up in her eyes as she considered all the things she’d done wrong. At the time, she’d thought for certain there was no other choice but to take Vivienne away from her abusive home. Now that they were thousands of miles away from medical help and surrounded by strangers, she was filled with doubt and regret.
She shook her head, determined not to dwell on the past. There must be something to take her mind off the situation at hand while she waited for Outil. She looked around the room until her gaze rested on her trunk. She stepped to it and opened the lid, trying to remember all the odds and ends she had crammed in at the last minute.
As she moved her clothes to the side searching for a book or a contraption, she came across her goggles. She took them out and held them to the light, checking the cleanliness of the lenses—might be fun to try after they got closer to land. She set them on the bureau and continued rifling through her things.
She paused at a small book on New France but her hand froze when her eyes glanced the packet of letters she’d stolen from the trunk in the cellars. Immediately she took them up, closed the lid, and secured it. She flopped on her small bed and started to go through them, momentarily glancing at Vivienne to make sure nothing had changed.
She untied the lavender ribbon and took up the first missive, unfolding the yellowed paper carefully. It was a handwritten letter in beautiful script, personally addressed to her father.
My Dearest Jean,
How I long to see you again. The nights are so cold here and I am weary of the quiet daytime hours. Only the night is worse when the darkness presses in on me in my solitude, a constant reminder of my mistakes.
Marguerite looked up and caught Vivienne in her line of sight, a reminder of her mistakes. She bowed her head and read on, completely engrossed, skimming through to the end. Who was this woman?
I beg you again to please reconsider, please come for me my love, or at least send word.
I remain your faithful wife,
Suzette Vadnay
Mother? How could this be? Marguerite glanced back at the top of the letter to the date. It had been written well before she was born. But what had happened to separate them? What mistakes could she be speaking of?
Marguerite folded the page and flipped through the next. One by one she skimmed the contents, looking for clues. Eventually she came to a passage that seemed to be from an earlier letter that explained much.
I was a fool. General Gault promised me things I had always longed for, things you openly stated you would never give me—travel, adventure, memories of exotic places. I should have known better, my love. I should have trusted your gentle, steadfast nature and never let him turn my head.
Now I am lost to you, surrendered by Gault as well, and wasting away in a convent full of judging old crones. I know I speak evil when I say this, I deserve their judgment, and yours, but my heart yearns for the life we had. I yearn now for the things you dreamed of for us.
Please forgive me, my love. You are my only hope for absolution.
In tears and sorrow,
Your Suzette
A chain of connections began to form in Marguerite’s mind. Her mother had run off with this General Gault person, a military man. No wonder her father despised them so. She felt a bit sick to her stomach thinking of the horror this must have been for her father, the shame and gossip.
And yet, he must hav
e taken her back. She knew her mother was Suzette Vadnay, even though she’d never met her. She’d always pictured her to be a sickly, repining kind of woman. Who else would die in childbirth? Not this strong, independent fool running away with soldiers, looking for adventure.
Running away … looking for adventure … The words rolled in her mind taking on a different shape. What must her father be feeling now? Left a second time by a woman he loved hell-bent on a military man. Would he find it in his heart to take Marguerite back as well? Would they ever get the opportunity for a reunion?
The cabin door opened and Outil called out, “M’lady, I have secured medical aid.”
Quickly Marguerite gathered the letters and tied them again, sticking them hastily in a bureau drawer and shoving down the nausea rising from her gut. She would have to read the rest another time, if she could stomach it. Maybe they held the key to her father’s forgiveness.
Chapter Eighteen
“I’m afraid the prognosis is not good.” The ship’s doctor was not a doctor at all, but a midwife in training on her way to a new life. Marguerite had put together a makeshift sort of tea she tried to get Vivienne to drink, but the girl just let it dribble out of her mouth and down her cheek, staining the white bed linens.
“What does that mean?” Marguerite had real concern stitched to her brow. She sat at her friend’s bedside while she waited for an answer, trying to remember what her nursemaid used to do for her when she was ill. Marguerite felt quite out of place and helpless. She had forgotten about her appearance once again and the midwife looked at her curiously when she tried to explain what she’d discovered.
“She’s definitely not well, but I don’t think it’s from an illness. When I saw the yellow on her face I checked her abdomen and back.” She motioned for Marguerite to follow. “I think you should take a look.”
The midwife gently lifted the coverlet and pulled back Vivienne’s nightshirt, revealing her lower back. Large purple patches lay blotched across her creamy white skin.
“What is this?” Marguerite gasped.
“Bruising.” The midwife was very matter-of-fact. “Was your friend in an accident? Her face is starting to heal, but I’ll bet she had a broken bone there. And you can see where the more minor contusions are starting to heal here and here.” She pointed at two smaller patches above her hip and on her spine that were circled with yellow. “But this is a problem.” She pointed at a large purple patch on her lower back.
“Heavens!”
“She’s had a pretty bad blow to the kidneys. I’m guessing she has a couple of broken ribs and possible internal bleeding. What happened?”
“She had a disagreement … ” Marguerite’s voice was quick but trailed off.
“Well, it seems as if she lost. We’ll need to get her to a real doctor soon. I’m not trained for this type of work. If she needed stitches or such I could help, but I’m not sure what to do for her other than broth and comfrey and I doubt we have any comfrey onboard.”
“What’s going to happen if we can’t get to a doctor? Do they even have doctors in New France?”
“Of course they do. We’ll be there in two days and I’m sure there will be someone at port in Montreal. The best we can do now is to keep her comfortable and try to get her to eat, or at least drink.”
“Right, eat and drink.”
“You’re the girl who’s been hiding out and stealing food aren’t you?”
“Excuse me?”
“The whole ship’s talking about you, you know.” The girl looked serious. “They talked like you were some sort of princess, too good to eat with us, but by the looks of things, you’re not in any kind of shape to eat with anyone.”
Marguerite touched her hair again, annoyed. “We have had other things to worry about down here besides my hair.”
“Down here? Listen, darling, this is the penthouse. You have servants and everything!” She motioned with her hand to Outil. “You should come see my bunk sometime. This is practically the Tuileries.”
Marguerite rolled her eyes and began to excuse the girl when she was cut off.
“Listen, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make fun. Your friend is in bad shape. It’s right of you to stay with her, but you should clean up and at least come to dinner tonight. We don’t bite, you know.”
The sting of guilt cut through Marguerite’s heart. She nodded absentmindedly at the girl and motioned toward the door. “I’ll try. Thank you.”
“All right, see you then.” The girl left and Outil closed the door behind her.
“Outil, we have to do something.”
“I’m sure I can procure broth, miss, if I tell the kitchen staff of the situation.”
“No, I’ll go directly to Laviolette. You wait with her. I’ll clean up and head to the dining room. Come find me if she gets worse.”
As Marguerite left the bedside to finally make use of the water closet, Vivienne cried out again. Marguerite quickly returned to her side. Vivienne opened her eyes and blinked several times.
“Vivienne.” Marguerite knelt and took her hand, brushing her hair back from her face. “Are you okay? Does it hurt? How can I help you?” She was frantic to communicate and make this dismal situation better.
Vivienne rolled over and winced a bit, visibly hurting. She groaned, then spoke.
“I need a drink.”
Outil was there in a flash with the cup of tea. Marguerite helped bolster her pillows up so she could drink without choking. Vivienne took a small sip with great effort, then another before laying her head back and closing her eyes again.
“Vivienne, stay awake dear, please.” Marguerite was trying not to panic.
“I’m awake. My eyes are just so sore and my head hurts like a horse kicked me. I do hope I will be better for my ball. I’ve ordered a dress from Paris, it’s the loveliest shade of coral. Do you think that will be too garish on me? Mother always said I had the coloring of a limestone.” She giggled a bit at her own comment and winced in pain again. “My body hurts so dreadfully. What happened, Mother?”
“I’m not your mother.” Marguerite was impatient now.
“She’s delirious, miss, give her a moment.”
“What do we do, Outil?”
“We practice the reel, you sillies.” Vivienne was looking at them through languid eyes and blinking profusely.
Marguerite took a deep breath and smoothed the girl’s hair back again.
“You were always so kind to let me play your games with Claude, Marguerite.”
“No I wasn’t. I was a complete beast to you.”
“Oh no.” Vivienne rolled her head gingerly back and forth. “You were delightful. So strong and brave, such a good example. I wish I was as brave as you.”
Marguerite couldn’t speak. She stared at the confused girl, feeling more helpless by the minute. Finally, she had an idea.
“Vivienne, you are brave. You can be brave. You just need to stay awake and drink some more tea and get well so we can practice the reel, all right?” She reached to smooth her hair again but her hand was shaking.
“M’lady.” Outil put a cold metal hand on her shoulder. “Let me finish here. I will feed her and sit with her. You need to freshen up and go to the galley for help and food.”
Marguerite stood, grateful for someone else’s direction. She nodded and walked toward the water closet, then paused and looked at Vivienne’s childlike frame in the small bed and sighed. “Please Lord, let there be doctors in Montreal.”
Chapter Nineteen
The dining hall was alive with chatter when Marguerite entered. She had tried to dress the part, choosing a simple gown from the official trousseau the King had given each of them, but she still felt as if every eye was on her.
And she wasn’t far from wrong. As she passed the second table, conversation ceased and the girls leaned toward each other to whisper and point. It was that way the entire length of the large dining hall. Every
few tables someone would recognize her and point her out to the others. Her good breeding kicked in and didn’t allow her to pay them any mind. She spotted Laviolette at the end of the room, not far from the stage, and she made her way to him.
He was laughing merrily with a girl wearing a red headscarf. Marguerite’s stomach clenched. Could it be the same girl from her first day’s unpleasant encounter? No matter, she was here for Vivienne and that was all.
Laviolette stood as soon as he saw her approach the table. The rest of the gentlemen officers did the same. A bot scurried to pull out a chair for her, across from Laviolette, next to the red-scarf girl.
“My dear, what a lovely surprise.” Jacques held out his arms in a grand welcoming gesture.
“Good evening.” Marguerite nodded to the ten or so other diners seated and standing around her, noting only two other women besides red-scarf girl.
“Well, how nice of you to join us at last, Lady Vadnay.” Red-scarf girl lost no time.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name.” Marguerite smiled sweetly as she drove the barb home.
“Excuse me! Where are my manners?” Jacques motioned to each girl with either hand. “Lady Vadnay, might I present Déja Boulanger.”
“Ahh yes.” Marguerite took her seat followed by the rest of the officers and allowed a bot to place a napkin in her lap as she addressed the girl who now had a name. “You are the baker’s daughter in La Rochelle. I remember you now. I’ve seen you outside the shop occasionally.”
“And of course everyone knows you, Lady Vadnay.” She drew the name out again with as much sarcasm as she could muster.
Marguerite ignored her. “I came to speak with you about Vivienne.” She looked pointedly at Jacques before she chose food from the plates being passed around the table in a very unrefined way.
“Yes, how is she? Not ready to leave your bunk yet?” Jacques’s voice held real concern.
The Perilous Journey of the Not-So-Innocuous Girl Page 13