Duty to the Crown

by Aimie K. Runyan

  Pearls are tears, and this one is yours, Pascal. Let this be a sign that you have finished weeping for me, my darling man. I wish I could be what you need. Wish I could let myself love you as you deserve, but you’re much better off without me.

  * * *

  Manon frequently felt restless in early January. The cold had kept her indoors too long and she felt drawn to the woods and the hills as songbirds were to the trees in spring. Manon bundled up against the chill and strapped on the snowshoes Alexandre had given her as his token of the season.

  She walked north, ignoring the stinging in her lungs from the cold air. The exertion caused her muscles to scream where they once would have rejoiced, but she trudged on until she left the settlement behind and found herself in the thickest part of the woods. The air was cleaner, the animals active, the trees stretched to the heavens, unaware of their worth as building material and fuel.

  “You’ve come back to us, Skenandoa.” A deep baritone voice sounded to her right.

  Heno.

  “I had no idea I’d ventured so far,” Manon confessed, the Wendat feeling foreign on her tongue.

  “It’s easy to wander when you follow your heart,” Heno said.

  “The warrior has become the poet. You’re a good way from the village. What brings you this far south in winter?”

  “Nothing could take me from my people but you, my beauty.” Your beauty? Am I still?

  “What do you mean, Heno?”

  “Father has died. I came to bring you back. And Tawendeh.”

  “What was your plan? To knock on the door of every Frenchman until you found me?”

  “If I had to.”

  “Chances are you wouldn’t have knocked on many doors before someone closed it with a musket. You’re lucky I found you.” Manon shivered at the thought of the welcome he would have had at the hands of the French. “I am very sorry about your father, Heno.”

  “He died well. On a hunt. Not from the white man’s fever or in his bed like an old woman.”

  Thinking of Mother Onatah, she stifled a hiss. “I’m pleased for him. He deserved a good death after living a good life.”

  “That’s very gracious of you to say. I know you weren’t particularly fond of him.”

  “No, but I respected him. He was a selfless leader, though I thought he was a misguided one at times.”

  “I hope I will follow in his footsteps. At least in that regard.” Manon’s eyes widened at the realization. Heno had been elected the chief of their people. He had been groomed for the task his entire life. His father’s life’s ambition had been realized.

  “As do I, Heno,” Manon said. “Our people need a strong leader and I hope they will find it in you.”

  “You don’t belong with those people, my beauty. Come home and be my wife. Stand by me and help me lead our people.”

  Manon looked at Heno, the picture of the Huron ideal. You’re strong. Confident. An upholder of traditions. Is that who I am?

  She found herself walking to the village, three paces behind Heno on the narrow path. Why am I doing this? What do I hope to accomplish?

  As she entered the village, Heno took her hand and called the clan together. All of them openly stared at her French clothes and well-crafted snowshoes. They won’t know who I am in these ridiculous weeds. Her people stood before her all dressed in the same shade of deerskin that made her Bordeaux-colored dress look garish.

  “My people, Skenandoa has returned to us.” Heno spoke with a voice loud and true. The voice of a leader.

  “Your father banished her.” One of the old men pushed his way to the front of the assembly. “You should not treat his memory so lightly, young hunter.”

  “I am the elected chief of this people, old man, and I won’t have you speak against my wishes.” Heno took one step in the direction of the withered man’s frail frame and he relented immediately. That works, for now. But for how long, Heno? You cannot bully your people into submission. They get enough from the French. The British. Any white face that covets their lands.

  “Where is Tawendeh?” a woman demanded. “Where is Onatah’s boy?”

  “In the French town,” Manon said, her Wendat halting after months of disuse.

  “She will go to fetch him at first light. Once we’ve spoken our vows.” He’s serious. He means to marry me. Two or three young women in the crowd frowned deeply. One looked openly hostile as she glanced in Manon’s direction. So true you’ve been to me, my hunter, though it’s not as though I’ve been faithful to you. The ice congealed in her stomach as she thought of Pascal. Sweet Pascal who did not order her about. Who did not command her before a throng of people.

  “Heno, perhaps it’s best we wait. The clan might be happier if they get to know me again,” Manon whispered. She could not be seen questioning him in front of his people.

  “Their happiness does not matter. You will be my wife and they will accept you as such.”

  And I will be your undoing. Because of me, they will question your judgment. Question your loyalty to the clan.

  She was an outsider, more now than she had been as Onatah’s daughter. If she married Heno, the people would have to be kind to her. They would never really welcome her as the wife of their leader. His positions would be challenged just because it was she who defended them. She pulled Heno away from the throng of her clansmen, far out of earshot.

  “Heno, your father was right. You need a traditional woman to make a proper wife to a chief. That can never be me.” Manon was surprised not to feel the pang of regret return to the pit of her stomach.

  “But I want you.” Heno moved forward and placed his hands on the sides of her arms. “My beauty, you cannot refuse me now that we are free to do as we choose.”

  “My hunter—Heno—” she said, hastily dropping her former endearment. “Take a lesson from your father’s example. In your heart do you think I am the best wife you could choose for the sake of our clan?”

  “That doesn’t matter, Skenandoa.” Heno’s grip tightened.

  “It’s all that matters. All that should matter to you, Heno.”

  “If that is your choice, then so be it.” Heno’s hands dropped to his side. “Do you think a Frenchman will offer what I do? Love? A place of honor? Respect?”

  Manon’s eyes narrowed at the last word. Few Frenchmen cared for the wits their wives possessed, it was true, but Heno was an exception among their people as well.

  “Heno, I cannot.”

  “You’ll end up a Frenchman’s whore, then,” Heno spat. Manon thought of Pascal. Heno had no idea that she had already cast aside the love of another good man for much the same reason. Her hand rose to the pearl at her throat and she thought of the contrast in their reactions to her refusals. She thought of the lazy summer afternoons in the back of a wagon with Pascal and compared it to her nighttime trysts with Heno. Which man would put my needs above his own? I don’t think there is much question.

  “You don’t understand them, Heno. And I will not waste my breath trying to convince you. You will just have to trust that I am doing what is best for you, for me, and for our people.”

  “So be it,” Heno said. “But you should send young Tawendeh back to us. His place is here.”

  At that very moment, Tawendeh—Théodore—was likely playing with the Lefebvre children in the warm glow of the nursery fireplace. He was cared for and loved. He was learning his way in the world, even if it was not the way of the hunter.

  “He will stay with me. It was our mother’s wish that I would care for him, and that is precisely what I will do.”

  “You have turned your back on your people, Skenandoa—or should I say Manon? Father was right. You’re no Huron.”

  “No. I might have been once, but I am not anymore.”

  * * *

  Manon returned to the Lefebvre house only moments before dinner was set to appear at the table. She discarded her cloak at the stand in the hall and took a few moments to warm her hands before the fi
re. The next time you go wandering in winter, be smart enough to return early enough to change into a dry dress before dinner.

  After the numerous feasts in honor of the Christmas season and New Year, the fare in early January was plainer, much to Manon’s relief. A simple stew with a portion of good bread was a welcome change after the endless courses of fine cuisine. Manon felt the muscles in her shoulders relax as the warm medley of beef, potato, onions, and carrots slid down her throat and restored her after a day in the cold.

  She rarely added overmuch to the dinner conversation, but tonight she reveled in silence. She watched as Alexandre, Claudine, and Nicole chatted companionably about a visit from the governor. She watched as Hélène practiced her table manners, studying her mother and Claudine with an attentive eye.

  I have judged this family too harshly. Nicole has taken me in—twice—without any thought for the effect it might have for her among her people. It’s not her fault that the rest of the town won’t accept me. But I can accept Nicole and her kindness. Alexandre’s begrudging affection, too.

  Though Pascal crept into her thoughts, and his image proved as stubborn as the man himself, refusing to leave, Manon stayed below, conversing in the parlor for a solid hour after dinner. It had been her custom to retreat to her little study with a book or to the nursery to visit with Théodore. Tonight she spent time with her family, making the effort, for once, to be part of them.

  When she finally retreated to the solitude of her bedroom, she looked at her reflection. She admired the creamy pearl at the base of her throat and thought of the young man who had so thoughtfully bestowed the gift on her. He was a hardworking man. He cared for her. Not her looks. Not her position, or lack of one. He truly cared for her.

  She went to her desk in the next room over, pulled a piece of parchment from the massive wooden desk, and dipped her quill in the black mire of her inkpot.

  Dearest Pascal,

  You say that you have loved me since I was a mere child. I was far too young to understand what romantic love was. I was a girl only aware that I had no place in the world. I was so heartbroken by the rejection I felt, I was unable to see the gifts I had in my possession. I am ashamed to admit my heart had not grown any wiser in the years since. Until now. I am sorry for the pain I have caused you, and I will try never to hurt you again. Our relationship will continue on in the manner of your choosing. If you cannot forgive me for the events of recent weeks, I will hope to—in time—regain your friendship. If you can forgive my foolishness, I will accept your previous offer with open arms and an open heart.

  Whatever you decide, please know that my love will always be with you.

  Your Manon

  With the note, she included a small golden brooch Nicole had given her for a birthday in years past before her return to the Huron, which she cared for greatly. It had a clever little compartment where she had kept pine needles to remind her of the scent of home. She emptied the dried needles into her chamber pot and removed the scissors from her desk. Carefully she snipped a lock of jet-black hair from the back of her head and twisted it into a coil until it was small enough to fit in the brooch. She sealed the note and trinket into a small pouch and descended the stairs, where she spotted one of the footmen.

  “Place this in Pascal Giroux’s hands and none other,” Manon commanded. The footman looked at her in surprise. So often Manon went out of her way to avoid soliciting the help of the servants, even when they offered it to her readily. To see her give commands with such confidence would have startled any of the household within earshot.

  The next step is up to you, Pascal. Please choose wisely, my love.

  Manon went back to her room and removed all the trappings of the French culture until she wore nothing but her chemise and Pascal’s pearl. There is a woman somewhere between Manon Lefebvre and Skenandoa of the Big Turtle clan. I must discover her. Invent her if I must. The people of this settlement may not accept me, but they will. Manon Giroux will have a place in this land. And our children as well. I will not fail them. I will not fail myself again.

  CHAPTER 20

  Claudine

  January 1679

  I hope this makes you happy, darling baby sister. Claudine stared out the window and clutched her bouquet of evergreens and holly. If you disapprove, now is the moment to send down the lightning bolt to strike me down.

  “What are you doing, darling?” Nicole asked, fluttering about and straightening every fold and bit of lace on her sister’s gown.

  “Just checking the weather. It’s of no matter. Are we ready for church?”

  “It won’t be long. Alexandre will signal when it’s time to go. I’ll leave you alone for a few moments to collect your thoughts, darling.” Claudine nodded her appreciation to her sister as she exited the room with Manon. These were the last moments the room would be her own, and she wanted to savor them.

  Claudine looked critically at the reflection in the mirror. She wore a fine gown of rich blue velvet with a cream underdress. The lace trim matched the cream, highlighting the blue against Claudine’s creamy skin. Gabrielle had nearly finished the gown before she was hauled back into the wild. Nicole herself had finished the last of the detailed sewing. She didn’t have Gabrielle’s skill, but her stitches were even and true.

  The dress was modest, despite the luxuriant fabric, and would serve well for many an event that called for elegant but not extravagant dress. This was not the elaborate gala the Lefebvres had thrown for Emmanuelle, nor anything like the grandiose social event that Claudine envisioned only a year or two before. Claudine insisted on a simpler affair out of respect for Emmanuelle and out of deference for the fact that this was Laurent’s second marriage. It was just grand enough to befit the Robichaux and Lefebvre family standings, but no more.

  Alexandre knocked at the door, and Claudine descended the stairs.

  “You look so gorgeous, my baby girl.” Bernadette cupped her daughter’s face in her hands and placed a featherlight kiss on each cheek. I’m not really your baby girl, Maman. I’d trade my life to bring her back to you.

  “To church, everyone,” Alexandre announced, opening the door to the wintery morning for his family. “The groom and the good Father await us.”

  The snow required the wagons and carriages to be stored until spring, making sleighs and sleds the main mode of transportation. Despite Claudine’s pleas to keep the event as simple as decorum would allow, Alexandre had out his finest sleigh, polished to the luster of shimmering crystal, and four magnificent horses to pull it through the center of town. It was just before midday on a Tuesday, and more than a few people exited their homes and businesses to see the glinting equipage passing by.

  Claudine stood at the door to the nave, Thomas Deschamps at her right side. The church was festooned with evergreen boughs and red winterberries, the only flora readily available. Though it didn’t have the delicate grace of spring flowers or summer blooms, nor the dramatic punch of color of autumn leaves, the scent of pine and the pop of the red berries against the green backdrop were inviting enough to make Claudine forgo any regret about not marrying in the warmer months as so many others chose to do.

  Laurent stood at the altar, tall and confident. He wore an expression that reflected the solemnity of the occasion, but still radiated happiness. Because I said yes. Because I am here. The reality of the depth of his affection both flattered and frightened her.

  “You’re so beautiful, my angel,” he whispered as Thomas Deschamps placed his daughter’s hands in Laurent’s.

  “And you as well.” Claudine smiled up at Laurent, speaking with sincerity. His blue velvet justaucorps matched her gown and masked the slight sag in his midsection rather well. She clasped his hand as a sign of solidarity and turned to face the priest.

  Within moments they were man and wife. Claudine accepted Laurent’s chaste kiss and let him lead her back down the aisle.

  Well-wishers filled every corner of the church. The Robichaux and Lefebvre name
s commanded too much respect for the settlement to ignore a wedding that tied the houses—even if it was for a second union. Despite this, Alexandre agreed only to invite their closest friends and a few of the most important dignitaries in town. Most understood the reasons behind the modest nature of the celebration, but Claudine was certain that some would feel slighted.

  It doesn’t feel right to dance, to laugh, to celebrate, so soon after Emmanuelle’s passing. Less than a year. No one seems to think anything of Laurent taking her sister as a wife. It’s as though she never existed for you.

  The more rational part of Claudine realized they had known Emmanuelle but for a few months as a part of their social circle. She had been a quiet woman, a sweet-natured woman, but never one who called much attention to herself. All they knew was that a good excuse for a joyous social gathering was being passed over, and there were not so many occasions that the loss wasn’t felt. The less understanding part of Claudine’s nature spited those who had not instantly recognized Emmanuelle’s kindness, grace, and largeness of spirit.

  Claudine had left all the details of the nuptial luncheon in Nicole’s capable hands. Claudine didn’t care to be bothered with the particulars of the menu and the guest list when there was such an accomplished hostess at her disposal. When Claudine took her place at the table between her new husband and her sister, she realized that she’d done well to entrust the meal to her sister. Four courses—and all her favorite things. Rich onion soup, roasted goose with apples, the best bread from the Beaumont Bakery, a wonderful light cider procured by Alexandre for the occasion, and Elisabeth’s incomparable millefeuille pastries for the capstone. Had the dinner been a family-only affair, she would not have been able to resist licking the pastry crumbs from the back of her gilded fork.