“No, but you did,” Manon countered.
To this Alexandre had no reply.
Alexandre set his mug of coffee, more expensive than his finest cognac, down on the table with precision. “Let us come to a right understanding, shall we? If you leave her and leave this house again as you did before, I won’t allow you back. Do I make myself perfectly plain?”
“As always, monsieur. I never intended to hurt her. I missed her bitterly. I only left because I wanted her to be happy. I wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for Tawendeh—Théodore, if you must. If I can’t find work among the French and my own people are ready to see me cast out as an evil spirit, I haven’t many choices, do I? If it were me alone, I’d do my best to live off the land, but I won’t see him suffer.”
“You deserve better than a life foraging out in the woods as well,” Alexandre said. “You’re a capable young woman. You’ll stay here, and your brother, too. But once you leave this house, you will stay gone. I won’t have you break her heart again.”
“Understood. I hope to find another situation so my brother and I needn’t trespass on your hospitality for too long,” Manon said, regaining her civility.
“Let’s have none of that. Nicole wants you to feel as one of the family, after all. If you leave, let it be for a good marriage so she has the pleasure of seeing you well settled. It would be a far better repayment for her kindness than skulking away.” Alexandre took on his officious tone. It’s business to the French, after all. Any true affection in marriage is just a nice, if unnecessary, windfall that precious few experience.
* * *
Manon welcomed the silence from Alexandre and Pascal as they drove along the dusty path to the Lefebvre estate. The largest holding, by a wide margin, was tended by Nicole’s father, Thomas Deschamps. Every inch of the land was tended with the utmost efficiency and modern methods, thanks to Alexandre and Pascal’s guidance. Thomas followed his son-in-law’s directives like gospel, and it worked to good result. The other farmers were less convinced by Alexandre’s suggestions. Manon supposed they saw his soft hands and shining leather boots and assumed he wouldn’t know which end of a hoe to use to till the soil. They wouldn’t be entirely wrong, but as she saw the Deschamps farm with its thriving fields of wheat, barley, oats, and peas, Manon admitted his notions must have merit.
When they arrived at the eastern border of the Lefebvre homestead, Alexandre gave order for Manon and Pascal to stay with the horses. The other tenants had been happy to see the seigneur’s young companions, but he warned it might not be the case here. The Giles were good people, but the patriarch, Hubert, would feel intimidated if Pascal and Alexandre both presented their suggestions. Manon’s presence would only confuse him. Pascal offered Manon a hand down from the wagon so they could stretch their legs and enjoy the summer sun while Alexandre spoke to his tenants about his tobacco fields that had continued to grow more and more feeble for the past three years.
“The old man needs to listen,” Pascal said. “Two years. Let half the land rest fallow and grow wheat on the other half one year and then swap the next. It would liven the soil up for another ten years.”
“I thought you hated farming,” Manon said, remembering the diatribes of his youth. “I thought you’d be in commerce with the Beaumonts for the rest of your days.”
“Time softens harsh memories, I suppose,” Pascal said. “Though I confess there were too many hungry nights to forget completely. It must be in my blood. Seigneur Lefebvre and I fell into a conversation about his estate two years back, and I’ve been training with him on the running of the place ever since.”
“And you enjoy playing landlord?” Manon asked, looking out over the expansive fields that butted up against the forest of her youth.
“I do,” Pascal admitted. “If I can help ensure the farms are well run, it means fewer people go hungry. I can’t think of a better trade than that. Since Alexandre’s nephew Henri was granted an estate of his own, Seigneur Lefebvre needed a hand, and I’m grateful for the chance.”
Manon nodded. Starving Frenchmen made for poor neighbors to the Huron.
“The seigneur tells me you’ve taken up where you left off—nose in the Latin and Greek and all that?”
“Yes,” Manon said. “And other things. Medicine, history... and domestic skills when I can’t escape them.”
“I never understood how you could read that stuff,” Pascal said with a playful nudge to her arm. “Though I can sit down with a book more easily than before.”
“There may be hope for you yet, then.” Manon smiled at the tall young man with his dark hair and serious eyes. “You certainly put enough effort into resisting your lessons. I’m amazed Monsieur Beaumont had the patience to teach you.”
“He may not look it, but he’s as stubborn as a worn-out donkey when he wants to be. It’s a good trait in a father.”
Manon gave a full-throated laugh. “I imagine it must be.” Her mind flitted back to Heno, Manon tucked in his arms, her face pressed against his muscled chest and her fingers in his flowing jet-black hair. He’d begged her for a child, but would he have had the patience to teach their son the skills he would need in life? The image of the brave hunter and the forbearing father seemed too sharp a juxtaposition for her to reconcile.
“I do have a bone to pick with you, you know,” Pascal said after a while as they looked out from atop a hill at the St. Lawrence rushing several miles away.
Manon sighed and did her best to look meek. “What have I done now?”
“You never told me good-bye, all those years ago. I had to hear from Gilbert that you’d left.” His jovial tone was gone. He didn’t look to her, but out across the valley he’d come to love.
“I had no idea you’d notice that I was gone.” Manon looked up at him, trying to read his expression. “We played, we chatted, we were friendly. But you had dozens of other children to play with.”
“I promise you, I noticed.”
Manon blinked with understanding. She had broken his sixteen-year-old heart when she was little more than a girl. Far too young to understand feelings deeper than friendship. I knew leaving had been the right choice, and now I’ve been given more proof. I’d have caused his ostracism from the settlement for sure. Now that Pascal was a man of twenty-one, he had a better understanding of the repercussions of a life with a native woman. She hoped he would let his good sense guide him away from her.
And her mind traveled once again back to the hunter she’d left behind. She was no suitable wife for an honest Frenchman. Even a sweet-natured man like Pascal could not look past her years with Heno. Though her adopted culture told her she ought to be ashamed of her midnight embraces, she could not bear to think of them with embarrassment. Especially now that the memory of those nights was one of the few comforts she carried with her from her time with the Huron.
* * *
It seemed indecent to think of the looming winter on one of the most gloriously sun-kissed days in August, but Manon had to admit that Nicole’s plan made sense. Certain crops were beginning to come in, and everyone was beginning to preserve their winter rations. They set to salting meats, preserving vegetables in brine and fruits in sugar, putting hardy crops in the coldest areas of their root cellars, and making sure they had flour and grain to last the season. It seemed like most farms ended the harvest with a surplus of one crop or another, so Nicole had it in mind to create a store of the extra food for the Ursulines to keep on hand for the families that would inevitably fall on hard times that winter. If the more prosperous farms gave a few jars of brined vegetables or a few sacks of flour, or a spare blanket or worn pair of trousers, they would have a formidable supply to help the struggling farms survive.
Manon remembered more than a few weeks in her village when rations grew sparse in the winter, even with the support of everyone in the tribe. She imagined that many isolated homesteaders would struggle terribly in the long white months that would be upon them. She volunteered to help Nicol
e gather the stock, knowing she would sleep better in her warm bed that winter for her efforts. Claudine, Emmanuelle, and Gabrielle pitched in their support as well. Manon sensed Gabrielle’s kindness stemmed from having known her share of lean winters, and Claudine’s from her eagerness to appear industrious and benevolent to the St. Pierre family. Emmanuelle, however, was always happy to help where she was needed.
Gabrielle, having learned how to drive a wagon at her brother’s side, would take Manon and Claudine to some of the nearer homesteads to the west to ask for donations. Emmanuelle, Nicole, Rose, and Elisabeth all focused their efforts in town and to the east.
“It’s a shame all charitable works can’t involve a wagon ride out into the country on a lovely summer day,” Claudine mused.
“Then we’d all be philanthropists,” Manon agreed. “We’ll have to remember today when we’re sitting in the parlor knitting our endless blankets for the unfortunate this winter.”
“Too true,” Gabrielle said. “The Mercier farm is just ahead. She’s a kind woman and will be sure to have something in her pantry to spare.”
“From her figure, she’s not known a hard winter, either,” Claudine said with a derisive snort.
“It might be best if you refrain from such talk when we get there.” Manon rolled her eyes as she gazed off toward the inviting farmhouse. Claudine’s tongue would earn them no great support from the homesteaders they canvassed if she would not keep it in check.
Manon walked aside Gabrielle, who, knowing the woman best, took the initiative to knock on the door.
The woman was every bit as stout as Claudine had led them to believe, and her mouth was quick to smile at the sight of the girls, proving Gabrielle’s assessment of her character to be true as well.
“The Sisters are seeking donations for the Indian children, then?” Madame Mercier’s brow furrowed at Gabrielle’s explanation of the winter stockpile scheme. She looked at Manon’s French clothes contrasted by her thick, black braids, clearly not sure what to make of her.
“It’s possible the Sisters would help any of the families in the area that came to them for help, but our thoughts were really of those on the outlying homesteads and those newly settled who will have difficulties this winter.”
The woman nodded, but did not appear convinced of the tale. She sent them on their way with a half dozen jars of preserved fruits and vegetables from her larder and a small sack of flour.
“Well, if every stop is this successful we’ll have something to show for our day, aside from the benefits of fresh air and sunshine,” Claudine said, satisfied.
Manon agreed, and did not voice her annoyance at the woman’s assumption that Manon’s involvement meant the rations would be distributed to the Huron and other neighboring tribes. We fare the winter far better than your people do, because we do not scatter like seeds in the wind. This whole exercise of Nicole’s would be unnecessary if you lived as a tribe, but you do not look beyond your own families and closest companions.
They visited eight more homesteads before they began to circle back to town. The families all had far more to spare than the single men. The wagon didn’t sag under the weight of their donations, but every last potato and frayed jacket would be helpful.
“Let’s make a last stop at the Faillon place,” Claudine suggested. “We have a bit of room left and he’s always one to leave his sou in the collection plate.”
Gabrielle nodded her assent and guided the horse down the path that led to the well-ordered farmhouse.
A spindly man of forty years came from the fields around the east side of the house, having seen the wagon approaching. This time, Claudine announced their business, her smile perfectly posed to charm the weary farmer. Manon appraised his work-worn face and decided she would do best to stand behind Claudine and Gabrielle, rather than at their side.
“I ain’t got food to spare for them that can’t help themselves,” he replied with a growl.
“We’re so sorry we interrupted you while you were in the fields, monsieur. We know your farm is one of the best tended in all the colony and you must work yourself like a plow horse to keep it so,” Claudine purred. “We just know that the winter can be such a treacherous season, even for the hardest-working among us. Crops fail; kitchens burn, taking a winter’s worth of food with it—any number of things can happen. We just want to have a modest supply on hand for families who find themselves in distress.”
“More like, those Sisters of yours in that convent want a big, fat larder to bribe those Indians into converting.” Faillon looked directly at Manon. “Don’t let them fool you. They don’t care for us once we’ve pledged our souls. They’re just looking for new recruits, you mark my words.”
Claudine thanked the man with such frost encrusting each syllable that it sent a frigid breeze to quell the August heat.
Back in town, Pascal waited at the door of the Ursulines’ storeroom to help unload the bounty. The room was already lined with abundant donations. Their addition to the stock would hardly be noticed.
Nicole looked over the various foodstuffs and goods Manon and the others had been able to amass. She furrowed her brow for a moment and gave the order to Pascal to unload them according to the system she had devised.
“You visited all the farms I suggested?” Nicole asked Manon with a weary eye cast at Claudine.
“And two others besides,” Manon said, acquitting Claudine of the unspoken accusation of convincing the others to shirk their duties.
“Well, we all know that some farms do better than others. And who’s to say what their situations are.” Nicole smiled and patted Manon’s shoulder before returning to the storeroom.
Manon felt the muscles in her neck and jaw tighten, and she forced herself to breathe deeply so they would not clench any further. If she did not, she would be down for hours with another one of her headaches. The farmers donated less because of me, I’m sure of it.
She wanted to go into the storeroom and join Claudine, who teased Gabrielle companionably about her upcoming nuptials to Olivier Patenaude as she sorted through and organized the donated clothes. Manon saw the invitation in Pascal’s eyes to come and help sort the various foods. She had thought a little too often of his confession two weeks prior, and knew she was not indifferent to his kind eyes and easy smile. She wondered what it would be like to take his hand, ever so briefly, knowing full well the simple gesture would likely set into motion a course of events that would see her as his bride before the following spring.
The face of the surly farmer, the shrewish shopkeeper, and all the sidelong glances from the rest of the townsfolk convinced her that such an act would doom him to a life of obscurity. He could achieve so much more than that, with Alexandre’s guidance. He could, in time, become a seigneur himself, and she could see the glint of pride in his eyes when he spoke of their improvements to the land. Not only did he deserve to climb in social prominence, his efforts made the lives of Alexandre’s tenant farmers infinitely better.
If he yoked himself to her, she would be denying him his chance, as well as depriving the tenants of a skilled and compassionate manager. Worse, as her husband, the dubious gazes in town she endured would be cast onto him as well. Doors would close in his face, just as they had for Mother Onatah. Even occasionally for Nicole, though marrying Alexandre had opened them wide once more. She could not bear to see him shunned. Her own happiness seemed a reasonable price to spare him from the ostracism that he had no idea he would face.
CHAPTER 8
Claudine
August 1677
Less than three hours from schoolroom to ballroom, not bad. Claudine followed Nicole and Alexandre into the St. Pierre ballroom. The unexceptional sextet played to welcome the guests; their notes soared to the lofty ceiling as Claudine surveyed the room that sparkled with the glint of candlelight against crystal and jewels. As had become her custom, she scanned the room to see if any of the young women outshone her. She smiled in satisfaction, seeing none.
Claudine spotted Victor across the room, chatting with one of the governor’s deputies and a throng of old women. Poor boy, what dreary company, but you’ll find an excuse to break away soon enough.
Claudine’s reverie was shattered when Nicole grabbed her at the elbow and dragged her before a man deep in conversation with Alexandre. He was a man of middling height, nondescript brown hair, and no particular charm. He had rather a round face to match his stout form. Were his eyes not surrounded by a few lines of experience, they might have been described as mirthful. It was the only aspect of his appearance that Claudine thought merited any notice.
Another stolid, respectable old man.
“Seigneur Laurent Robichaux, I’d like to present my sister, Claudine Deschamps,” Nicole said as the men broke their discussion.
“How very kind of you.” Robichaux bowed slightly to her. “Such lovely young ladies are so rare in the settlement, it’s a real pleasure to make the acquaintance of one.”
Oh, deliver me from this boor. Do these old men study from the same stale book of flattery?
“Very nice to meet you, seigneur.” Claudine curtsied low. She only just kept from gritting her teeth. Why must everyone outrank me?
“Would you do me the honor of a dance, mademoiselle?” Robichaux asked, extending an arm.
Sure of yourself, aren’t you? Claudine knew of no polite means to refuse him, so she accepted his escort to the dance floor.
The dance was prim and gave the couples ample time for conversation, much to Claudine’s dismay. Endless prattle about tenants, crops, and livestock. Not a syllable about people or society or anything that mattered. Victor shot her a roguish smile as he danced with a gray-haired woman. Claudine answered Robichaux’s questions with all the grace expected of a Lefebvre, though the charm she aimed in his direction was as false as some of the glass jewels the lesser women wore.
Victor intervened as the next dance started, much to Claudine’s relief. The next number was more exuberant than the last, so Seigneur Robichaux looked none too disappointed to relinquish Claudine into the arms of a more skillful partner.
Duty to the Crown Page 9