Duty to the Crown

by Aimie K. Runyan

Doctor Guérin had the decency to come examine Emmanuelle’s body. After only a few moments with her, he announced that she had simply bled to death.

  “I’ve seen it happen more than a few times,” Guérin told Laurent. “Once, it was a countess in the finest hospital in Paris surrounded by the best doctors and surgeons in the country. There was nothing to be done then, and I doubt I, or anyone, could have helped this time. Based on what I’ve seen here and how the child was taken care of, the Huron girl was an exemplary midwife to Madame Robichaux.”

  Claudine wrapped her arm around Manon, and Laurent offered what appeared to be an appreciative nod in her direction. You don’t blame me. I wish I could say the same.

  “You need some rest.” Nicole’s voice was raspy, in brief reprieve between bouts of tears. “Why don’t you have a lie-down in one of the guest rooms? It may be some time before we go home. If you’re hungry, one of the maids will find you something.”

  Manon nodded, but did not follow the corridor down to the guest quarters, nor could she abide the thought of food. She detoured a few doors down to the family rooms to the new nursery that Emmanuelle had planned out herself. The nanny, Madame Simon, paced with the new baby in her arms, her eyes slightly red though she’d only met Emmanuelle a few times. She looked up as Manon entered the room, her expression softening at the sight of her. It might be easier if you all blamed me. It would be easier to bear if I didn’t feel I was alone in casting the blame at myself.

  “Might I hold him for a few moments, Nanny Simon?” Manon asked. “I won’t leave the room.”

  “Of course, Mademoiselle Lefebvre. I confess I wouldn’t mind a brief escape to the kitchen and the privy while the nurse is napping.” She passed the sleeping boy over into Manon’s arms with expert grace. “I won’t be more than a quarter of an hour, if you don’t mind staying that long with the wee man.”

  “Take your time. It’s been a long night for all of us.” Manon took a seat in the plush chair covered in soft green velvet and looked down at the sleeping babe. His full round cheeks and strong chin were replicas of his father’s while his beautifully chiseled nose was identical to his mother’s. His eyes, when they were open, were a lovely gray-blue, but it would be months before they decided between his father’s handsome brown or his mother’s hazel-green or some shade in between. His black curls framed his forehead, making him look as angelic as the drawings of cherubs she’d seen in some of Alexandre’s books.

  “Sweet baby. I’m so sorry your mother won’t be here to comfort you. She longed to hold you. I hope you will be just like her. I would gladly trade my life to bring her back, but since I can’t, I’ll tell you every chance I get how wonderful she was. How much she loved you even before you were here with us.”

  With this, Manon placed the sleeping babe in his cradle and rocked him with the edge of her boot. She watched as the minuscule chest rose and fell with steady breaths. She admired his perfect fingers and impossibly long eyelashes. Manon recalled the fuzzy images she had of her own parents. Her mother’s flowing jet-black hair and her father’s broad chest, which was always warm against her soft five-year-old cheek. The dear boy would not even have those faded memories of the woman who gave her life to give him his.

  Nanny Simon returned as promptly as promised, looking far more comfortable than before. The good-natured old woman patted Manon’s shoulder with an encouraging smile, and bone-weary, Manon stumbled back to the guest rooms. She found the room that looked the smallest and easiest to restore to cleanliness. She removed her boots, jacket, and skirt and climbed in between the cool sheets, clad in her loose chemise.

  Manon focused on relaxing every muscle from the tips of her toes up to her legs, her abdomen, her chest, her arms, her neck, and her face. Willing sleep to claim her. Praying that she might have a brief respite from the pain and guilt—and the kindly stares that implied she needn’t feel either.

  * * *

  They held the funeral mass and internment on a hot July day whose cheerful weather seemed to mock the sobriety of the mourners. Robichaux bore his anguish with dignity befitting the most battle-tested Huron hunter. Nicole and Madame Deschamps had less success in restraining their pain. Alexandre propped his arm around his wife, while Monsieur Deschamps and Claudine did the same for Emmanuelle’s mother. The rest of the mourners, some close friends, others simply paying respects to the wife of a well-liked citizen, all wore the expression of those who saw the injustice of a healthy young woman taken too soon. Emmanuelle was only one woman in the long history of women who sacrificed their lives to bring their babies into the world, but that did not comfort a community who lost one of its kindest members.

  The injustice was highlighted by the presence of the child, christened Zacharie for his father’s father. There had been a brief row when Madame Deschamps suggested that little Zacharie might stay home with Nanny Simon during the funeral. Robichaux, normally very respectful of his mother-in-law, had snapped at her, saying it was the child’s last chance to be with his mother, whether he knew it or not, and that he would at least be able to tell the boy he’d been there to see his mother laid to rest. No one dared propose an argument to counter his wishes.

  At the burial, Manon stood toward the back of the congregation, not wanting to impose herself on the Lefebvres, Deschamps, and Robichauxes in their moment of grief. Elisabeth Beaumont wordlessly placed an arm around Manon’s waist and led her to where Pascal and Gilbert stood, Gabrielle having sent her condolences with a neighbor. The priest droned on, his voice spiritless as he eulogized Emmanuelle, but Manon tried to absorb his words.

  “Do not mourn for the dearly beloved Madame Robichaux. A woman of kindness, duty, and honor has surely found her place in heaven. . . .”

  You may feel we should not mourn for our Emmanuelle, who has gone on to the heaven you Catholics have created for yourselves, but do not begrudge your flock the sadness they feel at the separation from one so much beloved.

  Manon remembered the kind girl who never mocked her accented French or less than impressive stitches. She was always happy to discuss the plays and poetry that Rose shared with them without judging Manon for her point of view that was influenced by a culture so foreign to the French girl. She showed kindness not only to her, but to all who crossed her path, whether the kindness was returned or not. Manon could no longer restrain the tears, allowing them to drip off her cheeks and chin down onto the crisp linen of her bodice. Manon felt a hand claim her own, and she accepted the affectionate gesture, not bothering to look down to see who had offered it.

  It was not long, owing to the heat of the morning, before the priest dismissed the congregation. Even he, who had buried so many of his followers, seemed affected by the loss of the sweet girl. Those who didn’t know could still see that she had endeavored to fulfill her duty to King, Church, and her fellow man. She did all you asked of her, but it could not save her in the end.

  “Let’s go for a ride. You need to be away from all this.” Manon looked up to see Pascal’s tall frame standing over hers. His fingers were the ones entwined in hers. Manon knew the propriety of the French dictated that she should refuse to go anywhere unaccompanied with Pascal or any other young man, but the weight on her heart kept her from refusing the chance to escape her guilt and grief for a few hours.

  “I-I should let Nicole know where I’m going. . . .” Manon mumbled.

  “I’ll take care of it,” he said. He succeeded in catching Alexandre’s attention and gestured from Manon to the wagon with his left hand. The right still clasped her own. Alexandre raised an eyebrow, almost imperceptibly, but nodded his assent.

  Pascal released Manon’s hand to guide the horses on the way out of the city, but sat as close to her as he could comfortably do with the reins in his large hands. Less than an hour later, they were on a large clearing, not far from the Deschamps farm. They perched on the back of the wagon and looked out over the valley from under the shade of a massive evergreen.

  “When was the l
ast time you ate?” His words sounded like a gentle rebuke. From the way her dress hung, it must have been obvious to anyone she’d lost weight.

  Manon shrugged, unable to remember the last time she’d sat down to a proper meal. The Lefebvre cook had not prepared a hot meal since Emmanuelle’s passing the week before, but threw together small morsels when they were called for. Only the children took their regular meals. Manon realized she hadn’t called upon Madame Yollande’s services as often as she should have done.

  “Eat this.” It was a firm request, but not a command. He offered her a large slab of cheese and fresh bread, baked no more than an hour or two before with the good hard crust and decadent soft interior that Manon had pined for in her absence from the French. He pulled out a second portion for himself and they ate in silence. It was no chance encounter; he’d planned her escape from town before the funeral. She fought against the lump in her throat at the idea he’d been able to anticipate her need. When she was finished, she brushed the crumbs from her skirt and leaned her head against his muscled shoulder. He smelled like a man should—sweet pine entwined with the tang of honest sweat.

  “Thank you,” she said at last.

  “I knew you’d need to be away from everything for a while. It’s not your fault, you know.”

  “I should have been able to do something to save her. To save Mother Onatah. To save all of them.”

  “You can’t take the responsibility for the world on your shoulders, Manon. That’s not fair to you or anyone, even God. You have to leave some work for Him to do, after all.” Manon’s reply was a dry laugh, but the first she’d had in days.

  “It’s right to be sad, you know. She was taken from us far too young, but there was nothing we could have done. She wouldn’t blame you, and you shouldn’t disrespect her memory by contradicting her.”

  “You know me too well.” She found herself edging closer to him. He welcomed the gesture by wrapping his arm across her shoulders.

  “Of course I do. I love you.”

  Manon lifted her head and looked into his earnest brown eyes. “I know you do.” She pressed her lips to his, ever so gently. He responded with inexperienced enthusiasm blended with tenderness and genuine affection. He hadn’t perfected his art on a string of willing young companions as Heno had done.

  She wrapped her arms around him and let her own enthusiasm bloom like a reluctant flower in the chill of early spring. After minutes, perhaps even hours in his embrace, she allowed him to lay her down on the bed of the wagon and take her away from the pain, if only for an afternoon.

  Wordlessly she guided him in lovemaking the way Heno had taught her. She slowed his kisses so that they quickened her heartbeat with their sweetness. She showed him how to handle her breasts, caressing them delicately but firmly. He didn’t break her silence, but awaited her instruction with such earnest devotion that Manon felt her heart, and her resolve, melt away.

  If you allow this, he will beg you to marry him.

  She willed herself to stop his wandering fingers, but her body would not respond.

  You will cost him every opportunity to make a real life for himself. To build something more than Pascal’s father could have ever done for his children.

  He cradled her neck in the crook of his arm, kissing her deeply, then gently biting her bottom lip with a low growl. She felt her hands loosening his trousers and grasping his length, causing him to gasp with pleasure. There was no denying him now, or denying herself. She tried her best to hide the warm tears that spilled onto her cheeks. She wanted this as much as she’d wanted anything in her life, reveled in the feeling that she was wanted and loved by someone as kindhearted as Pascal.

  But soon enough, when the town shuns him for loving me, that desire in his eyes will turn to resentment, and my heart will never mend.

  CHAPTER 14

  Claudine

  September 1678

  Claudine paced the nursery floor, baby Zacharie in her arms, giving Nanny Simon her much-needed hour of respite in the afternoon. The sweet old handmaiden had been offered an assistant on numerous occasions in the three months since the baby’s birth, especially since the wet nurse wouldn’t be with them for much longer, but she refused to hand the child over to anyone except a family member. Mercifully, the child was growing well and sleeping for longer stretches, which gave her more rest. Knowing Nanny Simon’s reluctance to leave the child except with the nearest of kin, Claudine visited every afternoon she could be spared. She felt it was the least she could do for Emmanuelle’s baby. Many times she felt it was far less than Emmanuelle would have done had the situation been reversed, but she dedicated herself to the classroom and served as Nicole’s assistant in all things. Every charity event Nicole worked for, every company meal she planned, every accounting of the books Nicole made with Alexandre was done with Claudine at her elbow.

  A knock sounded at the door, Laurent emerging without invitation shortly after. Claudine let out a short squeak at the sight of her brother-in-law. These past months they had seen each other only a handful of times and exchanged only the bare minimum of words to maintain civility.

  “I’m so sorry to disturb you, sister dear. I just thought I’d take the time to see how you both are getting on.”

  “Fine, thank you,” Claudine said, looking down at the boy’s curious eyes, which had settled to a greenish-hazel, just the shade of his mother’s. “He’s such a sweet boy.”

  “That he is. And you do well with him, so Nanny Simon says. And her praise is not given freely.” Laurent crossed the room to the green plush chair that Nanny Simon favored and motioned for Claudine to take the spare.

  Claudine smiled. “No, I don’t believe it is.” Nanny Simon had taken to Claudine after Emmanuelle’s death and she enjoyed the older woman’s company far more than she had expected to.

  For a moment, Claudine considered placing her nephew back in his crib, but knew he would resist sleep with all the power his healthy lungs could muster. He stared too eagerly at his aunt, enjoying her attentions. Claudine herself wasn’t ready to put him back, whether he was ready or not.

  “I must say, when we first met, I didn’t think you’d be the maternal type. I pictured you with a troupe of nurses, nannies, and governesses when your time came.”

  Claudine looked away, the color rising in her cheeks. You thought of me as a mother? How generous of you. I never really did before, and certainly don’t now.

  “I’m sorry. I’ve made you uncomfortable.” Laurent looked down, seemingly at a blemish on the toe of his impeccable boots.

  “No, not really. Things have just changed, that’s all.” Claudine placed a soft kiss on Zacharie’s forehead and was promptly rewarded with joyous coos punctuated with bubbles of spittle.

  “That they have. I pictured my entrée to fatherhood very differently, I must say.”

  “I imagine you did. No one excepted . . .”

  “No . . . we didn’t.” Laurent leaned over and stroked the black curls on his son’s forehead. “Poor chap. He’ll never know how wonderful his maman was.”

  “I tell him every day. It’s not the same, but it’s the best I can think to do for him. For her. Though Emmanuelle was the most selfless creature there ever was, she wouldn’t want to be forgotten.”

  Laurent looked toward the window for a few long moments and cleared his throat. “No. No, she wouldn’t. I’m grateful to you.”

  “Please don’t mention it.” Claudine did not speak to offer a modest platitude, but rather to implore he drop the subject.

  “I mean it truly, my dear. You knew her better than anyone. You’ll be able to help him know. . . .” A single tear escaped down Laurent’s cheek. He wiped it away once he realized his lapse from manliness, but looked as if the effort to restrain the rest of them cost him dearly.

  “I’ll do what I can for him, I promise you that. For Emmanuelle’s sake and yours.”

  “Thank you. He’ll at least know something like a mother’s love in his ear
ly days. Nanny Simon is incomparable, but she’s not family.”

  “No, sweet woman though she is,” Claudine agreed.

  “It seems impertinent to ask for anything else since you do so much already, but I was hoping I might ask you to stay to dinner from time to time. This place does get lonely after a while.”

  Claudine stifled a giggle at the thought of feeling alone in a house full of staff, but of course a man of his status couldn’t converse with a maid or a cook as he could with his sister-in-law. A wave of remorse washed over Claudine.

  “We’ve all been so worried about seeing to the baby, no one has thought to see to you.”

  “Oh, speak nothing of that. To be honest, I’m only now feeling equal to any sort of company.” Laurent’s tone was low.

  You wouldn’t tell us even if you needed us. “I can well understand that. Of course I can come to dinner as often as you like.”

  “I don’t wish to impose upon your time. Perhaps Thursdays would be convenient? You mustn’t feel obligated.”

  You may well be the only person in Christendom who feels Emmanuelle’s loss as keenly as I do. You might not be a dashing conversationalist, but I can brave a few lackluster dinners.

  “You can depend upon me, brother. It would make Emmanuelle happy for me to keep you company in these hard times.”

  “It will be the highlight of my weeks. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a few things to see to before evening. I will see you for supper tomorrow.”

  Claudine nodded, offering a weak smile for her brother-in-law. I would not wish your pain on anyone, dear man.

  * * *

  “Let’s turn our attention to embroidery for a while, shall we?” Claudine recognized Rose’s signal that conversation, rather than academics, was called for and opened up her embroidery basket. She was finishing a large tablecloth that Emmanuelle had started. She planned to pass it along to Laurent’s housekeeper so it could grace the table for which it was intended. The last few weeks, there had been a great deal more sewing and quiet chatter than literature and arithmetic.