“Actually, I’d rather like to keep it.” Marguerite’s reply took the woman by surprise.
“Whatever for, dear?”
“I found it quite useful, actually.” Marguerite felt silly giving this reply, but it was the truth. “I imagine it might come in handy here in New France.”
“Suit yourself, love!” The woman chuckled. “I’ll have it washed for you at least.” She turned her nose up at the blood stains in the sleeve.
“Thank you.” Then Marguerite added, “My friend, who died … ” She paused again, hardly believing she was saying the words. “Do you know where they took her body?”
The woman’s face was soft and understanding. “She’s right here, love, in the preparatory rooms. Once we hear from her family they will decide what to do with the poor child. We’ve a place for her here in the yard, but we have to know from her family what they’d like to do.”
Even though Marguerite felt incredible guilt over Vivienne’s death, the thought that her parents could summon Vivienne back to that home she despised, even in death, twisted her gut. There was nothing she could do now, however. She just prayed they didn’t trump up any kidnapping charges against her.
She thanked the nun and stood, rubbing her arm and wincing.
“Does it trouble you a great deal?” The little woman had a soft face and kind features.
“Yes.” Marguerite felt safe admitting this. “It hurts more now than before, I’m afraid.”
“I have something for that. Just a moment.” She bustled away, her skirts rustling like a deer in a thicket, and returned with a small bottle of brown liquid. “Take this just after you lie down. It will ease the pain and help you sleep, although you might be a bit fuzzy-headed in the morning.”
Fuzzy-headed sounded wonderful to Marguerite at the moment. She thanked the smiling nun again and returned to her room.
Outil was powered down in the corner but came to life as soon as Marguerite sat on the bed.
“How are you, miss?”
“Just fine. I have girl clothes, medicine, and a full belly. Goodnight.”
“Goodnight then,” said Outil.
Marguerite threw the bottle back in one long gulp that burned her throat and mouth. She gasped a bit and coughed, then set it on the night table and curled up under her covers, her whole body quickly losing feeling and seeming to float away. She wondered if the nun wasn’t perhaps a fairy who’d given her a magic potion that would make all the bad go away like a nightmare. She’d read stories like that as a girl. Maybe if she could just sleep she would wake up back at home.
Marguerite did, in fact, sleep solidly until light streamed in her window and landed squarely on her pillow. She felt heavy and thick as she tried to roll over and blink open her eyes. The unfamiliar gray stone walls puzzled her at first. The bed was so hard, and too small, the table with the cricket and medicine bottle so tiny and rough. Her head was swimming in a pool of questions. Slowly, reality came floating to the surface.
This was New France. No fairies saved her in the night.
Her arm ached as she tried to sit up, but not as much as the night before. Outil was at her side in an instant.
At breakfast the other girls were teetering and giggling about receiving new trousseaus as soon as their paperwork was retrieved and their identities verified. Marguerite listened to them with wonder. You’d never know they’d almost lost their lives and had definitely lost companions only two days earlier.
Halfway through the meal the same elderly nun who had met her at the docks tapped on Marguerite’s good shoulder. She leaned in to whisper, “We’ve had a telegraph from your friend’s family. They are requesting that she be sent home for burial.”
“Can they do that?” It seemed like just another act of control, not love.
“Yes, I’m afraid they can.” The wise woman seemed to sense Marguerite’s hesitation. She thought for a split second about telling the nun Vivienne’s secret, that she hadn’t died because of pirates, but because of her father beating her, but what good would that do? Even if charges could be made, there was no one to testify now. Marguerite hadn’t actually seen her father strike her, so her testimony was only hearsay. She bit her tongue and said, “Thank you for letting me know.”
“You are welcome. The collection party should be here within the week.”
“Collection party?”
“Yes, the noble families generally send someone to identify the body and fetch it home.” She paused before adding, “Is there anyone you’d like to send word to, dear? Has your family been notified that you’re all right? I’m sure they are worried sick.”
Marguerite thought for a moment about her father. Her heart split with pain and longing. How she would love to collapse in his arms right now and apologize. He always knew how to fix everything. But he couldn’t fix this. He couldn’t bring Vivienne back, he couldn’t fix the fact that she’d run after a military man just like her mother. He couldn’t even buy back her good reputation. It was probably better if he thought her dead.
“No, ma’am, there’s no one to notify. It’s all been taken care of, but thank you.”
“All right, then. We’ll have a little orientation meeting in the chapel after morning meal.”
“Thank you.”
The meeting consisted of about twenty girls and an equal number of nuns. They were given a hearty lecture on the sanctity of life and the fact that God must have great work for them to do as mothers and wives if He had spared them the cruelty of corsairs. They were then lined up, and each one gave a full account of their personal information, talents, and goals for their lives, while two or three nuns took notes.
Marguerite waited patiently, listening with interest to the stories of the girls around her, women really, who had nearly died with her. They were all strangers, and yet they’d been through so much together. Some of them were clearly friends and some had made new friendships. Marguerite had not spoken to anyone but the nuns, and no one approached her. She felt quite alone and small looking at the comradery around her and listening to the accomplishments of the girls she once called common.
They were anything but common. They all had skills and trades. One was a baker, one was a seamstress, one had worked the land along with her family on a farm with no automatons, and one girl had actually worked with her uncle in a machine shop fabricating parts for dirigibles and aerships. They all seemed so much more capable than Marguerite.
When her turn came she nearly whispered her name.
“Excuse me dear, could you speak a bit louder please?”
“Marguerite Vadnay.”
“Her Royal Highness Lady Vadnay,” someone behind her called out. The room rippled with stifled laughter.
“Lady Vadnay? Is that correct?” The nun’s eyebrows were raised impossibly high.
“Yes, ma’am.” Marguerite wanted to crawl back into her small room and shut the door for a few days.
“Well, it’s been quite a while since we had any nobles come through the program. It’s a welcome change! I still need to ask you all the standard questions, m’lady. Let’s see, what skills have you brought to New France for His Majesty?”
Marguerite had been trying to think of something to say for the past ten minutes, but had been so wrapped up in the other girls’ accomplishments she hadn’t come up with any of her own.
The truth of it was that although Marguerite was a fine dancer and could recite poetry more prettily than any girl in the room, it didn’t count when you were talking about taming a frontier. She felt incredibly useless.
“Well?” The nun was kind but growing impatient.
“Her ladyship is an excellent marksman, is well versed in the history and geography of the region, is a fine equestrian, and has a working knowledge of solar power and mechanics,” Outil’s lovely mechanical voice rang out in the chapel over the giggles of the other girls, rendering them all, including Marguerite, speechless. “She is also fl
uent in English and German and has training in the management of a large household.”
The nun smiled. “That’s a fine list of qualities, m’lady. I’m sure you’ll make a wonderful match. We still have many high-ranking officers who are interested in marrying adventurous partners.”
“But I’m looking for someone in particular.”
“Oh, yes!” another nun chimed in. “You asked me last night to help you find him, what was his name?”
“Claude Vadnay de LaRochelle. He would have come through a few weeks ago, maybe two?”
“Is he a relative of yours? We should be able to look him up.” The nun reached for a large book on the table and flipped it open, licking her thumb as she gently turned the pages.
“No, he’s a smithy, a brilliant smithy.”
A few other girls giggled again, and someone whispered, “She’s still looking for him? Hope the captain doesn’t find out.”
“Don’t you mean you hope the smithy doesn’t find out about the captain?”
“Quiet, please!” The nun was still flipping through the pages.
“You know, I remember a lad coming through that was assigned to the royal engineering corp, quite odd to be assigned somewhere schooled men usually go. He was said to be extremely bright and good with machines. That was about two weeks ago, wasn’t it?”
“Yes! I remember him! Very tall and very handsome.” Another nun smiled at Marguerite. “But I don’t think he was called Vadnay.”
“Here he is, Claude Durand de LaRochelle, Smithies.”
Durand! Of course he would use his father’s name. Marguerite really was a fool. She rubbed her forehead with her fingertips, willing herself not to cry from frustration and elation. They knew who he was, which means they knew where to find him.
“Yes, he was here two weeks ago, fresh off the boat and assigned to an engineering company and a Miss Louisa Martin. Very pretty and sweet girl. It was a good match.”
Marguerite let her hands drop. “Excuse me?”
“Yes, yes! He’s with the Lachute Engineering Company. Should be very easy to find, dear!” The nun clapped her hands with excitement.
“But you said something about a Miss Martin?”
“Oh yes, she was a lovely girl. So sweet and kind. It was a wonderful match. You could tell he was pleased she picked him. She was a stout, solid worker too. He’s going to need that up in Lachute. They will most likely be given a homestead at the foot of the mountains.”
“He’s married?”
“Possibly. You never know how fast or slow these things happen. He’s most definitely spoken for, however. We can find you a ride there tomorrow if you’d like. Now, a few more questions.”
“I think I need to lie down.”
Outil was at her side before she even swooned, helping her walk back to her quarters. Mercifully, the room was silent.
“Why, whatever is the matter? Are you ill?” a younger nun asked.
The eldest at the table nudged her knowingly and whispered, “He was obviously not her cousin.”
“She is weary from her adventures,” Outil said, always ready with a reply. “Please forgive us.”
Marguerite looked up to the silver face of her companion. She couldn’t say the words she desperately wanted to say, so she willed the bot to read her mind:
What am I going to do now?
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Marguerite took to her bed that afternoon and didn’t arise for several days. She was prone to fits of crying the first few hours, but then she slept and soon fell into a deep depression accompanied by a fever, most likely from her still-throbbing wound.
Outil spent the rest of the week caring for Marguerite and exploring the convent whenever Marguerite was sleeping peacefully. The bot gathered what information she could, knowing that when her mistress was herself again she would need to make some rather important decisions. Outil never left the little room for long and always returned with food and drink, reporting all she had learned to her mistress, whose red, swollen eyes caused the bot’s metal heart to tremble a bit in its gears. At times Marguerite would comment, but as her fever grew, her consciousness slipped farther away.
A doctor was summoned and the best medicines were procured. Marguerite often asked for the small bottle of brown liquid and it was given to her before her wound was swabbed with alcohol. She’d taken to wailing if they tried to clean it without drugging her first and it distressed the entire household.
By the fifth day her fever broke and the swelling in her arm started to recede. Five nuns were gathered in her room clucking over her when she awoke.
“Heaven almighty, have I died?” Marguerite looked at the faces of the nuns and rubbed her eyes.
“No, dear,” the youngest one replied. “You nearly did, but you’re safe now. Just a matter of getting yourself up and eating something.”
They were all smiles as they fluffed her pillows and delivered broth while filling her in on everything she’d missed.
Most of the girls had received their immigration paperwork quickly and found suitable husbands. Even though the nuns were paid handsomely for housing and feeding the Daughters of the King, they still liked to urge the girls to move quickly to their matches or join the order. Every penny saved meant more good that could be done in the community.
“We’ve put together your story pretty well from the other girls. There’s no need to worry yourself now, but you do need to make some choices, love.” It was the eldest nun, the first she’d met, speaking now. “There are plenty of eligible noblemen available for you to interview, but my heart tells me you may be happier here with us. I do not want to pressure you one way or the other, but there is always great need for another set of helping hands here in our ministry, and helping hands heal broken hearts.” She added the last bit sagely, with an authority only God himself could have given her.
Marguerite’s head was splitting with the pain of withdrawal and all the news pushed on her at once. She thanked them and asked to be left with Outil for a while.
“Do I have to decide today?” She felt a bit overwhelmed waking up to a pressing life choice.
“No, dear, of course not.”
Marguerite sighed in relief.
“You can tell us tomorrow.” The nun smiled merrily as she left the room, unaware of the knot she’d just firmly made in Marguerite’s abdomen.
“There are many options, miss.” Outil was as desperate as a bot could get over the state of her mistress. “There are still several eligible officers looking for wives. I know you aren’t fond of the idea of homesteading in the wild, and many of the officers have homes here in the city or have the means to purchase bots. There are also several schools that you could enroll in if you wanted to learn more and have your own career. It’s actually quite common here for women to own a business or provide a service.”
“Just what I need, Outil, a bakery. Thank you.” Marguerite tried to sip her broth and clear her mind.
“Excuse me, m’lady. I should have been more specific. There are women who own machine shops and liveries, dress and hat shops; also there is a flight school for women.”
Marguerite reached for her hanky and blew rudely into it with her nose. Just as her honking subsided there was a faint tap at the door. Outil rose and answered it.
Yet another nun Marguerite didn’t know poked her little head in and said, “You have a visitor, dear, he’s in the front receiving room.”
“A visitor? Who?”
“A handsome young fellow. He didn’t give his name.” The nun looked her over from head to toe. “I’ll tell him it will be a few minutes. You probably want to get cleaned up. Do you feel like you can see him?”
“Yes, I suppose I do need to move a bit.”
“Oh, and we got word that the collection party will be here sometime tonight or tomorrow as well, so if you want to say any last goodbyes, just let us know.” Her voice was reverent and sweet.
“Of course.” Marguerite tried to return the kindness. “Thank you.”
She stood, her head pounding and body stiff from lack of use. She looked at herself in the small copper mirror over the dresser and groaned. Even the golden-hued metal couldn’t hide the matted hair and dark circles under her eyes.
A trousseau had been dropped off for Marguerite at some point during the week. Outil went to it and started digging out a proper dress for her to wear while Marguerite tried to tame her disheveled locks. The bot pulled out a very simple but pretty yellow dress and held it up for Marguerite’s approval.
She considered it for a moment. There was nothing wrong with it, but somehow it didn’t seem right. She looked back to the open chest and her eyes fell on a brown folded mass on the floor next to it—her flight suit.
She pointed it out to Outil. “I will wear that.”
“The flight suit?”
“Yes. It is rough and ugly and fits my mood perfectly. Plus I find all the pockets handy. And, as it turns out, I’m quite fond of trousers.”
“Beg your pardon, m’lady, but as long as you’re getting out of bed I don’t mind what you choose to wear.” Outil’s voice was genuine as she handed over the flight suit.
Marguerite dressed quickly; she found she had much more mobility in her arm, even though it still ached. She was able to dress herself but needed Outil’s help to tie back her unruly hair. There was no other way to hide the fact that she hadn’t touched it in over a week.
Outil fitted her with the sling. Marguerite put her free hand in the pocket of the jumpsuit and felt a strange loss. Something was missing. She patted the other pocket and looked around the room and noticed the cricket sitting on the bedside table where she’d left it the first night she took to weeping uncontrollably.
She paused for a moment, thinking about her ruined plans, all of which had seemed to be wrapped up in the little insect miracle. She steeled herself to go ahead without it, but after two steps toward the door she changed her mind and went back to swipe it off the table and tuck it back in her suit pocket where it belonged.
The Perilous Journey of the Not-So-Innocuous Girl Page 19