A tall man, one built for the frontier, with a scraggly beard and rough-hewn clothes, entered the shop. Gilbert and Pascal were out running bread to the outlying customers. Given the size of the man, she wished very much that one of them were home. She gripped the broom handle and forced a smile for the savage-looking man. Elisabeth’s mantra echoed in her ears: A smile will sell bread far more often than a scowl.
“Welcome, monsieur. If there is anything you’re looking for, please don’t hesitate to ask.” And make no mistake: I will hit you upside the head if you look at me askance. She took her customary place behind the counter, but kept the broom by her side.
The man wordlessly surveyed the stock.
“One of those.” As he pointed to the smaller, cheap loaves, the man spoke with a voice that reminded Gabrielle of pine needles in August. Dry, brittle, scratchy. Unpleasant.
“Of course, monsieur.” A false smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. It was reflexive by now.
“If it tastes of sawdust, you’ll be hearing from me.” The man plunked down his coins as he accepted the bread from Gabrielle.
“It won’t, monsieur. I assure you.” Gabrielle’s customer manners melted into genuine confidence. There was nothing inferior about the Beaumonts’ inventory. Gabrielle grabbed one of her salted dinner buns, still warm from the oven. It wasn’t unusual for Gilbert or Elisabeth to offer new customers a small sample, so she felt certain they would not rebuke her for the gesture. “Here, try one of these before you leave, so you can pass your journey home knowing a fine supper awaits you.”
The man placed his purchase on the counter and accepted Gabrielle’s offering. He bit into the roll thoughtfully, like a hunter assessing the viability of a shot before loosing his arrow. Gabrielle felt the breath catch in her chest as she awaited his verdict and reminded herself to exhale.
“Not bad,” he pronounced after a few moments.
“I’m very glad you approve, monsieur.” The smile she offered this time was more genuine.
“If the loaf is just as good, you’ll have more of my business, Mademoiselle . . .”
“Giroux. Gabrielle Giroux.”
“Olivier Patenaude,” the man said with a nod, grabbing his bread and exiting the shop without a backward glance.
Resuming her sweeping, Gabrielle could see him mount a massive brown beast of a horse and head west. A homesteader for sure. He’d do better to sell his flour to Gilbert and have the bread delivered. Gabrielle resolved to mention the service to him if he ever returned to the shop, though if he never returned, that would suit her just as well. She did smile at his pronouncement, however. She was too much a Beaumont not to take pride in her work. To hear it praised was one of the purest joys of her life.
Gabrielle went back to the kitchen and turned her attention to a small batch of wild cherry tarts for the family supper. Pascal had stopped to gather a good crop on his way home from a delivery. Elisabeth always delighted in the challenge of a new ingredient, and Pascal in procuring them for her. The fruit looked like it might be past its peak by the next day, so she decided to get the good out of it, even if it meant depriving Elisabeth of the enjoyment of concocting a new recipe.
As she mixed the water, flour, and rich butter to make the crust, she occupied her mind as she often did, with satin, muslin, brocade and damask. She imagined the cut of a perfect gown. Sometimes ornate, fit for a ball at King Louis’s court. Other times the gowns were more serviceable, better suited for a stylish summer day out-of-doors by the St. Lawrence. She practiced the cuts, the stitches, the folds in her mind, since she rarely had the fabric to bring her creations to life. Claudine’s ball gown provided her the rare chance to practice her craft, and it called to her. It called, but she had to ignore the allure until her duties were done.
Elisabeth encouraged her talents, but Gilbert wondered at her for choosing a path outside the shop. Gabrielle suspected he hoped she’d find a nice young man who could take Pascal’s place in the delivery wagon once Pascal’s duties with the Lefebvres became too great for him to continue at both. It would be nice, dear Gilbert, but we rarely get what we want. The pink satin called to her, but the promise of imminently arriving customers forced her to remain downstairs.
* * *
Gabrielle had the table set for supper and stew simmering over the fire when the family returned. She arranged her crisp, salted buns on a platter in the center of the table and kept the cherry tarts in reserve for dessert. So often, Elisabeth hadn’t the energy to put forth much effort at dinner, so when the duty fell to Gabrielle, she tried to make more of a fuss.
“You spoil us,” Gilbert said, taking his seat at the head of the table.
“What would you expect from a cook trained by me?” Elisabeth cocked her eyebrow at her husband. Even after years of marriage, Gabrielle still saw the playful smiles and knowing looks the couple exchanged. From her childhood, she hadn’t realized marriage could be so friendly, appear so effortless.
“Your skills haven’t gone unnoticed,” Gilbert said, winking at his foster daughter as he sampled the stew.
Gabrielle stopped, spoon halfway to her mouth, and placed it back in the bowl. “What do you mean?”
“I hear you waited on a new customer?” Gilbert said. “Olivier Patenaude stopped me on my way back into town when he was on his way back to his property.”
“Yes.” Gabrielle nodded, smoothing her skirts with nervous hands. “He bought a small loaf. I offered him a sample as you sometimes do for new customers.”
“He’s not exactly a new customer,” Elisabeth chimed in. “But he hasn’t come around very often since he took over his homestead.”
Gabrielle shook her head. Anyone who knew the Beaumonts knew their stock was impeccable. He had jibed her into giving him free food.
“I’m sorry. If I’d known, I’d never have given him anything without asking.”
“No sense worrying over a small gift for a customer on the odd occasion,” Gilbert said. “He told me he was pleased with you. Thought you were tidy and a hard worker from the way you kept the broom close at hand. Said the roll you gave him was excellent as well.”
Pascal, already on his third bun, nodded his agreement.
“I kept the broom handy in case I had to bash him in the head with it,” Gabrielle admitted.
Gilbert’s shoulders shook at his foster daughter’s pronouncement and his eyes danced with mirth. “He does look the part of a wild frontiersman, but he’s an honest tradesman. He asked if you had a beau.”
Gabrielle felt the blood drain from her face. The man had to be fifteen years her senior if he were a day. Not to mention he looked as friendly as the bears that roamed the mountains coming out of their slumber in early spring.
“What did you say?” Gabrielle set her fork down before she dropped it on the table.
“That you were unattached and one of the nicest girls in the settlement.” Gilbert’s attention never wavered far from his meal, as if they were discussing the sale of a cow rather than her courtship.
“Kind of you.” Gabrielle looked down at her piping hot stew, her appetite eviscerated.
“He only speaks the truth, sweetheart,” Elisabeth said, patting Gabrielle’s shoulder affectionately.
“He asked if he could come to dinner sometime.” Gilbert spoke in between bites of stew and bread, hungry from his day’s labor. Pascal and Pierre ate with no less fervor as Fabien chewed on a bun. “He wants to get to know you better.”
“He’ll propose within a week if the supper’s as good as this one,” Pascal claimed.
Gabrielle looked at her brother. He was a kind boy, but never seemed to put much stock in marriage. When people spoke of a couple being a good match, he often looked sideways. He didn’t see much difference in one man or another, and didn’t much see why one would suit a woman any better than another. As if one shoe would fit every foot. Gabrielle had long since given up trying to convince him that things could be otherwise. He saw Patenaude as a s
olution to his sister’s problem and would not see the point in looking for another.
“Invite him, then,” Gabrielle said, attempting to keep her tone neutral. “If you think he’s a good sort of man.”
“I don’t know him well,” Gilbert said. “But I’ve not heard a word spoken against him. In this settlement, if anything were amiss with his character, we’d have heard about it.”
“That’s true,” Elisabeth said, rolling her eyes. She was the unwilling recipient of most of the town’s gossip. She took pains not to relate the idle prattle; though Gabrielle suspected her foster mother’s friends heard a few choice pieces from time to time, but never out of malice.
“He’ll be here Thursday next,” Gilbert said, taking a deep draught of cider. “So plan a good dinner, sweetheart. He’ll want to sample your handiwork, I’m sure.”
Gabrielle nodded and pretended to pick at her food. So there it is. In less than a month my family will marry me off to a veritable stranger. As soon as Gilbert had extended the invitation, the banns were as good as read. She wanted to yell. To cry. Instead, she kept a weak smile tugging at the corner of her lips and added to the idle conversation from time to time. She would no longer be a burden on the family she loved, and she had to at least pretend that the marriage was anything other than repugnant.
But she dried her eyes as she retired to her room. Now, in the waning hours of twilight, the time was hers to spend as she chose. She pulled the delicate pink silk from her basket and continued to stitch until the skirt of Claudine’s ball gown swept the floor with every pleat falling artfully into place. Gabrielle set the skirt aside with a pang of loss. There would be nothing but patchwork once she married.
CHAPTER 7
Manon
August 1677
If the elegance of Paris could not be attained, supper at the Lefebvre house was served with at least as much pomp as one would find in any French country manor. Manon took the place to Nicole’s right at the dining table, the place usually reserved for the eldest daughter. Hélène, the least resentful child Manon had ever met, surrendered the place at once upon her adopted sister’s return. Whether Nicole prompted the deed, Manon knew not, but Hélène only had smiles to send across the table as she sat to her mother’s left. Hélène was only recently allowed to dine with the adults to practice her table manners. Manon had heard that Alexandre had voiced some displeasure at allowing the practice so early, but his Parisian formalities had to be relaxed in their more rustic environs. He did admit, when Hélène was out of earshot, that the well-mannered girl was no nuisance at the table.
An adorable child who has never known suffering. None of the Huron but the smallest infants know such peace. Manon did acknowledge that the cherubic girl with golden-brown curls did have a mark of sadness on her past. The young soldier-turned-homesteader, Luc Jarvais, never knew the darling girl he fathered with his young bride out in his ramshackle cabin on the frontier. But then again, a wealthier and, from what Manon gathered, more deserving man took Luc’s place before the child was a year old.
Emmanuelle and Claudine were lost in their own conversation that night, and the only addition to the family meal was Pascal Giroux, who had accompanied Alexandre to his holdings that afternoon. Manon remembered the gangly boy from five years ago, whose stomach seemed like a bottomless canyon. Manon had teased him that he must have a wolf cub living in his belly, so ravenous was his hunger. Now he sat to Alexandre’s right, the place for the honored guest—a position he assumed by default of being the only guest in attendance. He ate more slowly now, having perhaps learned the value of chewing in the interim years. He had only grown a few inches in height, but his shoulders and arms were now those of a man and not a spindly boy.
“We need to convince the tenants on the east end of the property that they all need to diversify their crops.” Pascal spoke forcefully, given that he spoke to a seigneur. “They’ll deplete the soil far too quickly if they grow nothing but tobacco. They need to have a rotation of wheat or let the soil rest altogether.”
“Have them talk to my father if they want to know how important it is to rotate crops.” Nicole’s tone was humorless. A few better decisions on which crops to sow from Thomas Deschamps might have meant a very different future for his daughter.
“Too right,” Alexandre said, nodding to his wife as he sampled the exquisitely prepared roast quail. “And the Intendant doesn’t want our tobacco crops large enough that we pose any real competition to the French holdings in the tropics. Heaven knows our tobacco isn’t anything in comparison. They’d do far better with hemp or flax if they won’t grow wheat. We’ll have to speak with them again. I don’t want to revoke their homestead, but we can’t allow them to destroy good farmland. It’s too hard to clear more.”
Yes, trees, shrubs, native peoples . . . all difficult to clear away.
“How have your people dealt with soil quality?” Pascal asked, directing his attention to Manon. “Have you a set rotation for crops?”
“I’ve had little to do with the farming,” Manon admitted. “But crop rotation is easy enough when you haven’t the means to find or buy the seeds you like. You get what you can and hope the harvest will see you through the winter.”
Pascal looked dark for a few moments. Manon remembered the condition he and his sister were in when they moved in with the Beaumonts.
“I understand the Huron tend to grow more maize than wheat,” Alexandre said. “I’d be interested to see how your soil holds up comparatively.”
It’s not my soil. Not anymore. It never really was. “I don’t think it’s particularly easy on the soil, but not as bad as tobacco. But we leave fields empty frequently and move them around almost every year.”
“You ought to come with the seigneur and me to visit with the rest of the tenants tomorrow,” Pascal suggested. “You might find it interesting.”
“I’m sure you and Seigneur Lefebvre will be too busy to bother with me.” Manon did not make eye contact with Alexandre. She was sure that being seen by the whole settlement in a wagon with a native girl was not something he welcomed.
“You needn’t be so formal, dear,” Nicole said, patting Manon’s hand. “You used to call him Papa.”
As seldom as possible and only when you were in earshot. “Monsieur” suited both of us far better.
“Alexandre is fine if you prefer, Manon,” Alexandre said, glancing toward Manon. “And you’d be welcome. If the tenants see us together it might avoid any further . . . unpleasantness like we had last spring.”
Nicole beamed at the kind words her husband directed at Manon.
“As you say,” Manon replied, nodding. He was providing her houseroom and education. Her brother as well. She could hardly refuse such a small request. Though she would rather do any number of things than accompany Alexandre Lefebvre as he lorded over his lands, she was not one to slight the man’s generosity.
“How lovely, you both can get reacquainted with Manon. I’ll make sure you have a nice little luncheon to take with you,” Nicole all but purred with satisfaction. The woman did thrive on domestic harmony.
And I’m sure things were a lot more “harmonious” before I arrived.
* * *
The next morning, Manon descended the stairs to breakfast to find the table deserted except for Alexandre, who read over his account books while he sipped a very small mug of coffee and ate his toast distractedly. One of the many maids appeared silently, bearing a tray laden with more food than Manon could eat in a week, and prepared to set a place at the foot of the table.
“Mademoiselle will sit here,” Alexandre said, gesturing to his right side. The maid scurried to comply with his orders and vanished without a word.
“I’m glad you agreed to come with us today,” Alexandre said, placing his toast back on his plate and turning to Manon. “I was hoping to speak with you in private.”
Manon looked at the massive platter before her. Pastries, sausages, eggs, rolls with an assortment
of jams. The sight of so much food made her stomach roll. She took a link of sausage and a small pastry on her plate and shoved the rest away. “Is that so?” Manon asked, not looking up at his face for more than a few seconds. They’d been in the same house for months, but never alone. Mostly because Manon spent as much time in her room as she could without offending Nicole.
“Yes. You know your leaving wounded Nicole.” Alexandre shut the account book, his expression the one he used when dealing with particularly challenging tenants or when negotiating for something of grave importance. “She was disconsolate for weeks.”
“She seems to have recovered,” Manon said, eating as quickly as decorum would allow.
“Yes, but I can’t allow her to be wounded again. She is my wife and it is my first duty to ensure that I spare her from pain whenever I can.”
“Admirable,” Manon said, her words as flat as the table where they sat.
“You’re rather a heartless thing, aren’t you?” Alexandre said, his voice dripping with a mixture of sarcasm and incredulity. “The woman cared for you for years and one day you decided to pick up and leave with little more than a ‘fare thee well.’ Is that any way to repay her?”
“Yes,” Manon said, raising her head so her black eyes could sear into his gray ones. “Considering the hateful stares she pretended to ignore every time we were in public, every veiled insult she deflected on my behalf. Yes, I thought leaving was a great kindness. When I was a small girl, it didn’t seem to matter as much. Perhaps because I was just a child, people could forgive her indulgence toward me. As I grew, and especially after you married her, people were less forgiving.”
“She didn’t care about all that,” Alexandre said, his tone softening slightly.
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