Duty to the Crown

by Aimie K. Runyan

  “We weren’t exactly banished, Claudine,” Emmanuelle retorted, though her eyes seemed to admit her sister wasn’t in the wrong.

  “We had no more choice in the matter than if we had been,” Claudine reasoned. “And whatever you say, I remember how despondent Nicole was when the ungrateful little wretch left and she seems just as ungrateful now.”

  In truth Claudine had been puzzled at her sister’s distress when Manon had left only a few weeks after the Deschamps arrived from France, and utterly perplexed as to why a young girl would leave a comfortable home to live in the woods like a squirrel.

  “They were quite close,” Gabrielle said, glancing upward as she sat sprawled on the floor. “Manon called her ‘Maman’ and Seigneur Lefebvre paid for her schooling.”

  “And she repaid her so nicely by running away.” Claudine would not be swayed. No matter what her reasons, Manon had hurt Nicole badly by leaving and Claudine wasn’t as ready as the rest to forgive her.

  “I don’t know the whole story,” Gabrielle said, inching along the floor, rolling and pinning the hem of the delicate fabric as she spoke. “She came to live with them before I moved to town. It had something to do with the death of Madame Lefebvre’s first husband.” Nicole rarely mentioned Luc Jarvais, Hélène’s father, who had been killed in some sort of accident. Alexandre seemed to have taken over his role as husband and father so thoroughly there was no room for Luc’s memory. Such a story wasn’t uncommon. New France was a harsh place to live in and there wasn’t such an overabundance of women, especially ten years before, that widows remained unmarried long.

  “It seems so strange to think of Nicole married twice,” Claudine said. “But all the same, taking Manon back in—with a brother besides—seems overgenerous.”

  “Manon was good to our sister in her time of need,” Emmanuelle said, shooting her sister a severe look over the pages of her Latin text.

  “Go back to your books, Emmanuelle,” Claudine spat. Nothing set her on edge like her sister’s piety.

  “Don’t be so unkind, then,” Emmanuelle said. “Nicole was clearly attached to the girl. You saw how she cried that night when Manon turned up at Maman and Papa’s.”

  Quite the homecoming, yes. Crying over a Huron girl for anyone to see? I doubt Queen Maria Theresa has ever cried in her life. As much as Claudine wanted to argue the subject, she bit her tongue. Claudine didn’t trust her own temper.

  “There,” Gabrielle said, breaking the uneasy silence as she had enough of the hem sewn that she could continue at home. “It just wants a finished hem and time for the wrinkles to give way. You’ll be lovely.”

  “It’s beautiful, Gabrielle,” Claudine pronounced. “You’re truly talented.”

  “Thank you for trusting me with the job,” Gabrielle said, gathering her notions in her sewing basket. “I confess that working with such an expensive cut of silk did wear on my nerves.”

  “You needn’t have worried.” Emmanuelle stood up and clutched her book to her chest, finally admiring Gabrielle’s labors. “You sew so well, you could have your own shop in Paris.”

  “Yes, yes. It’s lovely. Madame Lefebvre will settle the bill,” Claudine said, adopting an officious tone. You’re going to be a society lady; it’s time to act like it. To speak like it.

  “Of course.” Gabrielle helped Claudine out of the gown and placed it carefully in her valise. “I’ll hem it properly tonight and send it over with Pascal tomorrow.”

  Claudine nodded and Gabrielle left the room with a nod in Emmanuelle’s direction.

  “You shouldn’t dismiss her like a servant.” Emmanuelle set her book aside. Claudine could see her sister’s usually placid hazel eyes bore into the back of her head from the mirror while she straightened her chemise.

  “What do you mean?” Claudine asked. “How else should one speak to a dressmaker?”

  “When one is a farmer’s daughter?” Emmanuelle asked. “You speak to her as your equal. Gabrielle has been our friend for years. Attends classes with us. She’s not a lowly chambermaid, nor are you some grand courtier.”

  Claudine glared at her sister as she pulled on her skirts for dinner. “I was friendly to her. I see no reason to be more than that. It’s not as if I were rude. You need to learn to temper your praise a little. Learn to be aloof for once in your life.”

  “You were rude,” Emmanuelle snapped. “You might be as grand as the Queen of Sheba someday, but for now you’d do well to remember that Gabrielle Giroux is every bit of the same station we are.”

  “Not for long,” Claudine said. “Nicole welcomed us here so that we could make matches above our station. No one is taking that trouble for Gabrielle Giroux.”

  “As you say.” Emmanuelle, already dressed for the evening meal, returned to her book, her maddening little way of saying the conversation was over. Claudine lobbed the good chemise she reserved for eveningwear at Emmanuelle’s head.

  “I do say.” Claudine smoothed her skirt, pretending she’d not lifted a finger. “Nicole has opened up a new life for me. She’ll do the same for you, too, if you’ll look up from your books and let her.”

  “When the time comes,” Emmanuelle said, tossing the garment back with less precision than her sister. “This may surprise you, but I’m no more anxious to be a farmer’s wife than you. I prefer the comforts of town and varied society. I’m just not in as much of a hurry to wed.”

  Claudine rolled her eyes. She had never believed in the virtue of patience as Emmanuelle and Nicole seemed to.

  “No one will want you if you keep poring over those books of yours. The priest himself says that reading is an unsuitable pastime for ladies.” Claudine pinched her cheeks and admired the effect in the glass, desolate that Nicole forbade her to use even a hint of rouge.

  “And you’d do better to pore over something other than your poetry book. Courtly knights and ladies in distress. Your husband won’t know what to do the first time you sulk because he won’t defend your honor in a joust.”

  “First of all, dear sister, I don’t recall many jousting tournaments in this settlement of ours. Or anywhere of import for about the last hundred years, for that matter. Secondly, at least I know what I want.” The brave prince, gallant, strong, stoic. And wealthy, if at all possible. Preferably with a home in Paris where he will whisk me away, minutes after our wedding. That won’t happen for a farmer’s daughter. I must be more than a simple girl from the farm on the night of the ball, or I never will be more than that all the rest of my days.

  “I know exactly what it is you want, Claudine, but I fear he doesn’t exist outside of those poems of yours.”

  CHAPTER 3

  Gabrielle

  June 1677

  Gabrielle reveled in the buttery silk as it slid over her fingers, calloused by too many hours spent pulling hot trays from the oven and scrubbing bowls crusted with hardened remnants of sweet filings for Elisabeth and Gilbert Beaumont’s famous pastries. She was needed below stairs to help with the supper rush at the bakery. Customers would come needing their loaves for the evening meal and Elisabeth would need her to attend to those customers, no matter how much she longed to continue her work on Claudine’s gown. With a ragged sigh, she slipped a clean sheet over the precious garment, stifling the dancing golden light with the white cloth. A shame a gown like this must be for such a proud, spiteful girl, but so long as I have the making of it, I won’t complain about who’s to wear it. She tied her beige canvas apron over her tattered brown skirt and went down the stairs. That she still had work to do before surrendering the lovely dress to Claudine was no small consolation.

  Pascal would be out delivering today to the customers who sent in their flour in exchange for their bread at a lesser price. It was a complicated system, but it helped them to skirt some of the regulations the Crown had set forth regarding the inventories they must keep in stock and the prices they had to set. Make no mistake, the bailiff kept close eye on the Beaumonts and a closer eye on Gabrielle herself. She
was no more than eight months from her sixteenth birthday. Another edict. She would have to marry by her sixteenth birthday; else Gilbert and Elisabeth, her beloved adoptive parents, would be forced to pay a substantial fine. This would not affect the Deschamps girls. They were French-born and not bound to that decree. She, however, was a daughter of New France and did not have the luxury of time.

  What pained Gabrielle more was that the edict was in her best interest. Marriage was her only chance to provide for her future. While Gilbert and Elisabeth lived, she would always have houseroom and work, but when their sons took over the business, she would have no such guarantee. Marriage would provide her with security, but suitors did not line up to court the orphaned daughter of the town drunk and his wastrel wife. Ten years ago, even five, the lack of women would have assured her a match of her choosing. But women were more plentiful now, and Gabrielle would have to overcome her family’s reputation to secure a match of any kind.

  Below stairs in the shop, Gilbert was removing fresh loaves from the oven while Elisabeth tidied the shop for the onslaught of customers who arrived as dependably as the sunset in the two hours before their evening meal.

  The Beaumonts were a small family by town standards, with only the two boys to show for their happy union. For this reason, they were able to give Pascal and Gabrielle houseroom without difficulty. Though it was not to say the arrangement was without benefits to both sides. While the Giroux children earned experience in the bakery and had the protection and love of a family, the Beaumonts in return had two eager and willing workers. Not to mention, much-wanted children to love as their own, since it seemed an abundant family was not their destiny.

  It raised suspicion with some. In a town where a new babe every year was the norm, such a small family was thought to be the result of matrimonial discord, deceit, or witchcraft. Even though some large families haven’t enough to feed their youngsters, though their fathers are cruel and shiftless, though their mothers are worn as thin as ten-year-old kid gloves—those families are admired. Lauded for their contributions to the colony. She bit her tongue, however, when she heard the malevolent gossip, whispered loud enough the speakers could be certain she heard them. Her temper matched her flame-red hair, and to unleash it in public would do her no service. They were jealous of the Beaumonts’ successful business and Elisabeth’s infectious sweetness, and Gabrielle suspected more than a few wished their own unions hadn’t been blessed with such fecundity.

  “Sweetheart, can you call up to Pierre?” Elisabeth asked, looking up from the counter she wiped with a clean cloth. “It’s time for him to come help sweep the floors.”

  He was not quite seven years old, but even little Pierre had his place in the running of the bakery. Only his baby brother, Fabien, sitting with a wooden toy cow in the corner of the shop, was exempt from these duties. In a few years, the babbling toddler would be expected to do his part. As with every other family in their acquaintance, when the younger brother grew of age to take over a duty, the elder was promoted to new responsibility.

  Gabrielle’s calls above stairs went unanswered, so she bounded back to their living area to find what detained her usually dutiful younger brother. As their home above the shop was not overly large, his absence was obvious within a few moments.

  “He’s not upstairs,” Gabrielle announced as she descended the steps. “Is he out back?” The open space behind the shop, which housed the ovens they used in warm, dry weather, was a favorite place for Pierre to play. Gilbert emerged from the kitchens and shook his head.

  “I’m sure he’s gone off to the Lefebvres’ to play with Frédéric,” Elisabeth said. Her voice was calm, but the furrow of her brow betrayed her concern. The concern shifted to worry when Pierre had yet to return by the time Elisabeth was ready to put supper on the table. Pierre had a lot to learn about responsibility, but his punctuality at mealtimes was as dependable as snow in February.

  “I can go see if he’s had dinner with the Lefebvres. Go ahead and eat without me. The stew will keep well enough. I’ll be back within the half hour, Pierre in tow, I’m sure.”

  Elisabeth nodded; Gilbert gave an unusually surly grunt. “And he’ll have a tanned backside when next I see him, no mistaking that.” His exterior looked gruff, but Gabrielle knew it was a pretense to hide his disquiet.

  Gabrielle exited the shop and sucked the cool evening air through her teeth. The Beaumont boys did not yet understand how precious they were to their parents. Nor did they know how lucky they were to have parents who loved them so dearly. Visions of her own parents came to mind. Her father’s love for the bottle and his fondness for the strap. Her mother so worn down by caring for her brood and their teetering shack that she had no strength within her to stop his whippings when they exceeded decency. You are fortunate boys indeed. You’d do well not to frighten your poor parents into early graves.

  The Lefebvres’ butler admitted Gabrielle with civility, but no ceremony. She was a friend to the family, so treated with more respect than a servant, but not of such status to merit an announcement in the drawing room where they all sat invested in their pre-dinner pursuits. Nicole and Claudine embroidering, Emmanuelle, Manon, and Alexandre entrenched in their books.

  “I expect our Pierre is here, helping Frédéric give Nanny fits as usual?” Gabrielle asked after she’d greeted everyone.

  “Not that I’ve seen,” Nicole said. “But it’s been at least two hours since I was in the nursery. Shall we go see?”

  Gabrielle nodded and ascended the staircase in Nicole’s wake. She wondered if she ought to say something to spark a conversation out of politeness, but could think of nothing that did not sound ridiculous in her head. Though Nicole Lefebvre was the picture of graciousness, Gabrielle found her stomach twist whenever she was forced to speak more than a few words in her presence.

  Nicole opened the door to the nursery to find Hélène directing the twins and Sabine in a make-believe session of school. Pierre wasn’t in the fray and neither, it seemed, were Frédéric or Manon’s brother, Tawendeh, whom Nicole had dubbed Théodore to ease pronunciation woes in the nursery.

  “Nanny LaForge, where are the boys?” Nicole demanded. “Was Pierre Beaumont here with them?”

  “Yes, indeed, madame,” the older woman said, standing to address her mistress. “He came about an hour ago. The boys set in that corner there hatching some devilishness, I’m sure. They said they was going to the Beaumonts and would ask your blessing before going out. I figured they were just off to pester the good Madame Beaumont for some sweets.”

  “They were whispering in the corner as Nanny says, Maman,” Hélène interjected. “They never let me in on their fun. They say I tattle since I stopped them from leaving the frog in Claudine’s bed.” Hélène’s large blue eyes searched her mother’s face, as if to assess if she herself were in any sort of trouble.

  “Do you have any idea where they may have gone?” Gabrielle took a steadying breath. There was no sense in frightening the girl. If she burst into tears, they might lose precious time they needed to search for the boys.

  “Frédéric has been asking Théodore to take him to his village so he can see the longhouses. Pierre made them promise to take him with them when they decided to go. I didn’t think they’d really do it, but they’ve been talking about it since Théodore came. Pierre wants a real Indian bow for himself.”

  How Théodore was able to talk such things after only a few weeks immersed in the French language, Gabrielle could not quite fathom. Apparently a trip into an actual native village and the promise of an authentic Huron bow were enough to motivate them to find a way to make themselves understood.

  Gabrielle was already halfway down the stairs announcing Hélène’s report of the boys’ whereabouts before Nicole could finish barking orders at the nanny. If that woman has her job in the morning, it will be an utter miracle. Alexandre was the first to get to his feet. His older son and heir was out, darkness falling, possibly cavorting off to a vil
lage his mother and aunts had been chased out of only a few weeks before. He called out a command in the general direction of the kitchen, to which the response was the thud of boots on stone floors.

  “You cannot go bursting into the village brandishing muskets and torches,” said Manon, taking to her feet. She stood only a few inches shorter than Alexandre and used all of her height at that moment. Every motion she made conveyed that she needed him to listen to her.

  “I can and I will,” Alexandre said, ignoring Manon, continuing to organize his conquest.

  “I am not doubting your ability or sincerity, monsieur. I am simply pointing out it is not the wisest course of action if you wish your son to be returned unscathed. If he has gone, they will likely send him home. If they reach the village, the worst-case scenario is that they keep Tawendeh—Théodore—and send Frédéric and Pierre back by themselves. I mean no disrespect, but I know Tawendeh is a fair hand at tracking in the woods. I don’t know if your boys are as skilled as he.” Manon stood, arms akimbo, defying him to question her. How she can speak to the seigneur with such authority, I’ll never know.

  Nicole touched her husband’s arm, his entire attention shifting to her. “Darling, I think Manon may be right. She knows her people far better than we do.”

  “Then what do you propose we do?” Alexandre turned to his ward, his tone and expression calm. He didn’t want to take her advice, but could clearly see the logic in his wife’s words. He was nothing if not a rational man, and it was because of this trait that the ears of Quebec’s elite bent in his direction when he spoke.

  “Let me go. I may not be welcome there, but they will question my presence in fetching the boys far less than any of yours. They won’t harm me out of respect for Mother Onatah’s memory,” Manon suggested.

  “We couldn’t let you go alone,” Nicole insisted. “If, God forbid, one of them is hurt, you’ll need help.”