Duty to the Crown

by Aimie K. Runyan

  “You’ve got a gift,” Claudine said to her sister in a moment of quiet as the meal had faded and the party spread to the parlor.

  “Nothing too good for my sweet sister,” Nicole said, kissing Claudine’s cheek.

  “Thank you, Nicole. You’ve been better to me than I deserve.”

  “Not a bit. I think your husband is anxious to get home, though.” Laurent was in conversation with Alexandre, but never appeared more distracted in all his life.

  “I think you may be right.”

  “Just remember, dear. Let him lead. These things will all work out.”

  Claudine hugged her sister and hoped that Nicole’s optimism would spread to her own heart.

  * * *

  Claudine surveyed the rooms that would serve as her personal bedchamber and sitting room at the Robichaux house—her house—for the rest of her marriage. The room that had been Emmanuelle’s. Laurent had bid the servants to remove Emmanuelle’s personal effects, but her presence was still there. The furniture was a deep mahogany that contrasted with the powdery, pale blue papered walls without being too harsh or discordant. It was nothing like the pinks and yellows with light oaks and pines that Emmanuelle would have chosen for herself; but still, she lingered. Whether it was her scent, her spirit, her sweetness that remained behind, Claudine knew not, but she was convinced she shouldn’t find the room a peaceful place for all its comforts.

  She sat at the dressing table, her sable hair brushed into a sheen. She wore a chemise of the softest muslin, gifted to her by Nicole. She was a vision of bridal beauty, as her duty sounded at the door. She opened the door to Laurent already en déshabillé, forgoing his justaucorps and breeches for a dressing gown.

  “Do you like your rooms?” His voice wavered just slightly as he spoke.

  “Very much. They’re very beautiful.” The second sentence, at the least, wasn’t a lie. One would have to be blind not to appreciate the well-crafted furnishings and soft linens.

  “I’m very glad,” Laurent said. He stepped closer, shutting the gap between them. He wrapped his right arm around her waist, pulling her close. Slowly he craned his neck down and placed a kiss on her lips. This time he needn’t ask. She was his to claim as he liked.

  She closed her eyes and waited for him to finish. When he pulled back, he surveyed her face with a curious expression. He cupped her breasts with his hands and rubbed her nipples with his thumbs, causing her breath to catch uncomfortably in her throat.

  “You’re so beautiful, my angel.” The same words he whispered at the altar. He kissed her again, his lips hungrily seeking her own this time. She willed her breathing to slow, but her nerves prevented her from relaxing her muscles.

  “To bed?” His expression was hopeful, nervous, almost fearful as a boy’s moments before his first tumble with a girl in a hay pile in the barn. Claudine nodded.

  He did his best to keep his heavy frame from pressing her uncomfortably into the mattress. But he wasn’t entirely successful. She raised her chemise dutifully and allowed his fingers to explore the depths of her sex, made damp by his caressing of her tender breasts.

  “May I?” His question was loaded with all the expectation she could imagine. She wanted to spread her legs and let him claim her as his wife. It’s your duty to him, to the colony, to the Church, and your king. Your duty to yourself. But as she breathed in the sweetly perfumed air of her new bedroom, laced with dried rose petals, she could not let Emmanuelle’s husband have her.

  “Just hold me, Laurent. For tonight, just hold me.”

  He looked pained as he rolled off his young bride, but did not utter a word of complaint. He rolled her to her side pulled her to his chest, his arms tucked protectively around her, his stiff manhood pressing into her buttocks until it finally grew flaccid. For long minutes—perhaps hours—she listened to his breathing as he drifted off into sleep.

  I had no business taking my sister’s husband as my own. I will look after Zacharie at least and finish the job my sister started, even if I can’t be a proper companion to her husband.

  His arm grew heavy on her torso, but she dared not move. She willed sleep to take her away for a few hours, but it eluded her like the answer to a riddle she ought to have been able to solve. When the dawn light crept through her window, she thanked the stars that she would soon be free to stretch and move, despite her lack of rest. It would be a very long day, but no longer than the night of purgatory she’d just spent.

  * * *

  Zacharie filled her days with endless gurgles and gassy smiles. He was a darling baby, but she did not know how Nanny Simon had managed to spend so many hours alone in his presence without going stark raving mad for want of conversation. She was free to spend her time as she chose, but she felt compelled to spend as many hours mothering the sweet boy as she could bear. It was what Emmanuelle would have done. It was the least she could do for Laurent. Four times he had come to her room, and each occasion found her with some sort of an excuse not to give herself to him. The time would come when he would either force the issue or ease his frustrations elsewhere. Neither thought gave her any comfort.

  In a moment of desperation, Claudine wrote to Nicole in hopes she would be able to visit and relieve her from the doldrums for a short while. The missive was returned with an apology, that an essential dinner demanded her attention, but as the note was returned with Manon, who brought along her sewing basket, the blow was of short duration.

  Settled in her parlor, the maid sent off in search of refreshment, Claudine pulled out her own embroidery and set to work with Manon, who continued her progress on a large quilt made from lovely scraps she had cut into squares and triangles, which she pieced together into an intricate geometric pattern resembling a compass rose. It was large enough for a married couple’s bed rather than a single woman’s but Manon didn’t volunteer the recipient of the quilt and Claudine wasn’t in such spirits as to try to pry it out of her.

  “So Rose is left with just one pupil,” Claudine commented, to make conversation. She still had time for her studies, but people would look askance at a married woman continuing her schooling. If nothing else, Claudine endeavored to make no more disturbances in her social circles than she already had. “That must be lonesome for her. For both of you.”

  “She’s pining for you all,” Manon admitted, smoothing her completed square on her lap to inspect her stitches. “She told me as much. Without her students she has little to do outside of her domestic duties. I think it grows tiresome for her. And I’m afraid I won’t be able to offer my distraction, little as it is, for much longer.”

  “What aren’t you telling me?” Claudine’s playful nudge entered her voice for the first time since Emmanuelle had died. “You know a secret is worth gold in this place.”

  “All the more reason to cling to it,” Manon retorted with a laugh. “No, to be honest, I just think it’s time I focus on life outside the classroom. I’m eighteen years old, after all. Nothing more interesting than that.”

  Claudine nodded her understanding. She tried to enjoy her lessons as her sister had done, but she could never conjure up the same enthusiasm, even once she’d recognized their utility.

  “I feel bad for her,” Claudine said, thinking of the sleeping boy upstairs. “It can be wearisome to stay at home all day with nothing all that interesting to do.”

  “Especially for a woman like Rose,” Manon agreed. “She’s too well educated to take idleness in stride.”

  “I expect she’ll become more active in her church activities. They need someone like her to organize the charity work.” The R on her monogrammed handkerchief was not to Claudine’s liking, so she started it over again.

  “Anything to give her some diversion would be welcome, I’m sure.” The pieces of Manon’s third square hadn’t quite taken shape, but Claudine studied her method as she went along. Something else you excel at. I shouldn’t be surprised. But sewing, charity work, children . . . what else is there for us?


  “Has Pascal heard from Gabrielle?” Claudine asked. She thought with guilt about how rarely her friend’s fate crossed her mind. Between her marriage and caring for the baby, the world outside her front door now seemed like an abstract problem for others to handle.

  “I haven’t heard anything from Pascal in several days,” Manon said, her eyes never deviating from the scraps of yellow and blue fabric in her hands. “But I’m confident that he would have called on the Lefebvres or sent a note if he had word from her. They know we worry as they do.”

  “Is everything all right?” Claudine asked, setting her embroidery down.

  “Oh, fine,” Manon said, still not looking up. “He’s just extremely busy, you know.”

  “Of course,” Claudine said. And you’ve quarreled, but I won’t pester you. “I do worry for Gabrielle. I hope Patenaude learned his lesson from the hearing.”

  Manon shook her head. “If anything, it probably made things worse for her. He’s not the kind to ignore such public shaming.”

  “If indeed it was a shaming for him. It seemed like the judge placed all the blame on her shoulders, though he was the one who did the beating.” The handkerchief was now wrinkled from her angry grip and would have to be pressed before she could continue embroidering.

  “I won’t disabuse the judge for deciding within the confines of the law, but it was cruel to send her back for more abuse.” Manon’s expression was as solemn as Claudine had ever seen. The effort to restrain her venom against the French laws was clearly not easily borne. “And it was silly she was forced to marry at all.”

  “I suppose they need more children to help hold the colony safe from the British. It does seem unfair that she was forced to a different standard than I was just because of where we were born.” Claudine sat back in her chair, feeling tremendously grateful. I might be a terrible wife to Laurent, but at least the choice was my own. “I’d suggest we venture back out to the homestead, but I don’t think the roadways out there are in any condition for it.”

  “I’m afraid you’re right,” Manon agreed, looking out the parlor window. There was a thick blanket of snow that coated the buildings, making them appear as though encased in clouds. “And I don’t think we’d be welcome any more than we were the first time.”

  Claudine nodded her agreement, smoothing the rumpled handkerchief with her sweaty hand. The crackle from the fireplace and the warm cider chased the chill of winter from the Robichaux house, but she doubted Gabrielle was as fortunate.

  CHAPTER 21

  Gabrielle

  January 1679

  For weeks she planned out the task in her mind and dreaded killing herself in the process. She barely knew how to fire a musket, but she had to repair Patenaude’s discarded weapon well enough to function properly. She took the rusted old musket to her kitchen table and looked it over. Patenaude didn’t care for the fussy trigger and claimed that it tended to lock up when he was loading it. That’s how he justified spending their last few sous to replace it, but Gabrielle hadn’t questioned him. She didn’t dare speak unless he asked her a direct question. It makes for a much nicer environment. Almost as nice as when he’s gone. Almost.

  Carefully she scrubbed away at the rust and let the amber flakes fall onto the scarred tabletop. She took a light coating of grease made from rancid butter to free up the trigger as it bound up when she squeezed. She was certain it wasn’t good for the gun, but it only had to work once.

  After an hour of her inexpert tinkering, she took the gun out into the snow-covered pastures that lay fallow with no plans for a crop the next season. She loaded the gun as she had seen Patenaude and her own father do countless times.

  This is lunacy. You’re going to get yourself killed. Or worse, maimed. He’ll know exactly what you did and you’ll be all the less able to defend yourself with a missing hand or foot. Stop being a damned fool.

  But Gabrielle did not heed her inner voice. She took the loaded musket and aimed it at a knot that sat heart-level on a tree about thirty feet away. With her first shot, she made her mark, blasting away bits of bark from the tree. She would only make the one practice shot. She couldn’t risk the gun breaking beyond repair or the neighbors becoming suspicious of the musket fire. She only had the chance to make one shot. She had to make it count.

  She returned to the house and sought out Patenaude’s oldest patched woolen breeches, which would never cease to smell of alcohol. She cinched them with a leather strap, but still they hung ridiculously off her slender frame, like brown skin off a sickly leper. It was necessary though, as they were easier for moving about in the snow than her tattered skirts. She strapped on Patenaude’s old snowshoes, slung the musket over her shoulder, and went back out into the biting cold January afternoon.

  She trudged along the trail that Patenaude favored, hoping he wasn’t days out. He ought to be on his way home by now—the last snowstorm would have driven the animals into shelter and the trapping wouldn’t be worth his time. An hour from the cabin, she found the tree she’d been looking for. It would shelter her from view, but allowed for a clear shot onto the path that Patenaude always took on his way home. She climbed the tree, perched on a solid branch, and lay in wait. Her prey had to be along soon.

  It was less than an hour before she heard the crunch of footsteps on virgin snow. She raised the musket and closed her left eye. She took a deep breath and exhaled to steady her hands. The sound of male voices wafted as far as her tree despite the dampening of the sounds in the snow. They were too far away to see clearly, but there were at least three men. Damn it to hell and back. He isn’t alone.

  Gabrielle hadn’t counted on that possibility and cursed herself for her folly. He’d brought home his hunting companions before, charming men such as they were. She’d imagined the perfect scenario in her head and didn’t allow for any deviations from her plan. Dolt! They’re less than an hour from home and here you stand in these wretched pants with a loaded, perfectly functional musket. Women have been hanged for less.

  With a colorful oath, Gabrielle descended the tree and tossed the musket into the brambles. She could fetch it later if it was missed. She’d think of an excuse for its absence later. She cut through neighboring pastures to reach the farm before Patenaude and his companions, trudging as fast as the snowshoes allowed. She hoped her head start, light load, and cross-country path would give her a few minutes’ advantage over the men.

  Seeing no trace of Patenaude when the cabin came into view, she flung open the creaky door and threw herself through the doorway. Her lungs were screaming from the exertion, but she did not dare pause. She tore off Patenaude’s cast-off clothing, placed them in his trunk, and donned her ragged skirts and patched woolen jacket, the chief virtue of which was that they had been lying by the warm hearth. She stoked up the fire, adding two logs and standing as close as she dared to chase away the frost from her fingertips and toes. She scanned the room—nothing seemed out of place that anyone would notice. There were tracks from the snowshoes, but there were any number of explanations as to why she would have ventured out on them in the past three days since the last snowfall. Act normally and be a model hostess. Maybe he won’t beat you when they’ve left if you treat them kindly.

  She had to trust that she looked as normal as possible, and settled into her chair with some mending. She forced her breathing to slow and her hands to steady with reasonable success. Not five minutes later, a knock sounded at the door. The sound of two, perhaps three, male voices wafted in through the door. Why did I leave the musket behind? It may not have been him on the road at all. God knows who’s at the door. Patenaude wouldn’t have knocked.

  In the space of a moment, visions of her dead body splayed, her crimson blood befouling the sparkling white snow, danced in her mind. I will not have survived Patenaude only to meet my end at the hands of a few haggard bandits. She scanned the room for a weapon but only saw a convenient stick of firewood that might serve well to bash one of them in the head. The other two
would disarm her before she could inflict more damage, but she would at least do her level best to defend herself.

  “Who are you and what do you want?” Gabrielle summoned her voice from the depths of her chest, trying to make herself sound forceful.

  “Jacques Verger,” one of the voices answered. The smelly man from our wedding. Gabrielle rolled her eyes and cast the firewood aside. He might have been crude—he might have had an aversion to soap that Gabrielle couldn’t understand—but he was not dangerous. She opened the door and allowed Verger and his companions in.

  The other man with him was just as gruff-looking, and just as foul-smelling. He had to be Verger’s grown son she’d heard of but never met. Between them, Patenaude was draped with an arm over each shoulder, his head drooped. Drunk again, the swine.

  “Oh dear. Bring him in and lay him on the bed, please.” Gabrielle shook her head at the sight of her unconscious husband. He’d awake with a monstrous headache and a mood to match. The men didn’t look her in the eye, nor did they follow her instructions, leaving Patenaude’s limp form just inside the door. Kind men, to be sure, but if they tell Patenaude you were rude, you’ll pay.

  “Thank you, gentlemen. Is there any refreshment I can offer you? I might have a little spruce beer left if you like. Lugging him about must have been thirsty work.”

  Jacques and the boy who must have been his son exchanged a glance.

  “You needn’t feel awkward. I’m sure my husband would want me to be hospitable even if he’s not at his best.” Gabrielle mentally scanned the meager contents of her cupboard. Little to serve that wouldn’t embarrass her.

  “Not at his best?” Jacques gave her a questioning look.

  “Too much drink on the hunt again, I assume,” Gabrielle said, rolling her eyes in the direction of her husband passed out on the floor.