Duty to the Crown

by Aimie K. Runyan

  “You might say that,” Verger said, his expression humorless. “And while he was neck-deep in his flask, he ended up shooting a rock and getting himself a chest full of rock and musket ball.”

  Gabrielle walked over to Patenaude’s form and pulled back his coat. There was so much blood she couldn’t begin to determine how badly he was hurt. She’d been so consumed with appearing normal when the men arrived, she didn’t notice the mud and blood on her husband’s clothes.

  “Will he be all right?” she asked. The thought of weeks—months—as his nursemaid sent her heart thudding against her rib cage. He would be horrific.

  “That all depends on how you look at it, ma’am. Ain’t nothing going to bother him ever again, so I’d guess you could say he’s all right as a man can be.”

  “You mean he’s—”

  “Dead, ma’am. I’m sorry to bear the news, but there it is.” Verger’s expression, to his credit, did show a trace of compassion. “We’ll leave you to see to things. I’m sure you’ll want to let the folks in town know so he can have a proper funeral and all.”

  Funerals cost money I don’t have. Gabrielle kept herself from speaking the thought aloud, and managed to indicate they should move him to the corner of the house farthest from the fire. It would keep the stink from spreading sooner than it had to.

  “Would you be so kind as to help me take him into town in the morning? I’m sure we can manage with the wagon and Olivier’s horse.” Her husband’s Christian name felt foreign on her tongue, but she would not win favors by appearing to be anything less than dutiful.

  “We’ve delivered him to you and you’ll have to take care of this on your own,” Verger said. He offered her a curt nod of the head, gave his son a smart rap on his chest with the back of his hand, and they backed out the door.

  Gabrielle ran her fingers through her hair, exhaling. She crossed the room over to her husband’s broken body and delivered a swift kick to his ribs that resulted in a satisfying crack of bone that, for once, was not her own.

  The sun hung low in the sky. It was easily a two-hour walk into town without the cover of snow and it would be dark long before she was able to make her way there.

  I will not spend another night here. Not with his rotting corpse. I will be free of him tonight.

  Once again, she donned her snowshoes and bundled up in her thickest cloak and Patenaude’s as well. He wouldn’t be needing it. She thought longingly of the woolen breeches—or a cleaner facsimile thereof. It would make the trek into town far easier than carrying her skirt and petticoat up above her ankles as she walked as deftly as she could across the packed snow. She could not be seen in the settlement in men’s clothes, however, so her skirts she would wear no matter how cumbersome they were.

  She was not a mile into her journey when she realized her claim about taking the body into town by horse and wagon was completely unfounded. The road would only be passable by sled and nimble horses. She’d have killed old Xavier in the attempt, not that the loss would be all that great. Were it not for the snowshoes, the trip would have been impossible for her as well.

  Trudge on, she told herself as she shivered in the dying light of the day. Trudge on.

  And so she did until she reached the door of the Beaumonts, promptly fainting in Pascal’s arms at the most welcome sight of the only man who had always loved her.

  * * *

  Elisabeth kept Gabrielle in bed as she had done in the weeks after her father had beaten her, left her for dead, and ran off into the Canadian wild for the last time. Gabrielle was lucky to have escaped any frostbite or permanent injury, but she was weak and frail. She was certain Elisabeth imagined the least ailment carrying her off, and Gabrielle hadn’t the energy to contradict her. Gilbert enlisted Alexandre’s equipage and manservants to fetch the body. Pascal arranged for a simple service that only the four eldest members of the Beaumont household bothered to attend.

  “You’re a brave woman,” the priest declared after the blessings were spoken for the departed. She had not shed a tear for the cruel man. “But time will heal your wounds, my daughter. You will find another lord and master as worthy as your first. You must pray for it, and I will do the same.”

  I’m afraid my prayers will not resemble yours, Father. I will pray for a life of solitude and deliverance from cruelty rather than submit to another marriage. You cannot force me to live through that hell again.

  Gabrielle only nodded and accepted the condolences of the priest, who thought he was comforting a woman bereaved instead of a woman freed from the shackles of a hate-filled marriage. For the rest of her days she would be forced to ignore Olivier Patenaude’s shortcomings and speak of his memory with deference. It was a cruel joke to offer such a man this level of consideration, but she had the chance to live as a respectable widow. She had to take it.

  She only spent an hour out of bed for the service, and found herself ushered back to the comfort of her bedroom by Elisabeth. There were days in the confines of the cabin she thought she would never feel truly warm again, but the quilts and well-tended fires at the Beaumonts’ home soon thawed her body. The ice in the pit of her stomach took longer to melt. It was only when Elisabeth gave up her protest and allowed Gabrielle a length of fabric so she had an occupation that she began to feel more like herself. It was just some plain brown wool she could fashion into a serviceable skirt, but it was the first new garment she’d had since before her wedding and would be the only one in good repair.

  Though Elisabeth meant well, and wanted to see the girl she loved as a daughter returned to health, the long hours in bed only gave her time to feel every sore muscle, every bruise, every scrape from the falls onto the rough wooden floor. It gave her mind every chance to replay every scene of Patenaude’s cruelty over and over again. Worse, she was able to recall each moment of the days where she lay in bed, bleeding and cramping, as her child slipped away from her.

  I’m so sorry I failed you, baby. I can’t say I dreamed of you. I can’t say I wanted you to have the father you did. But I was honor-bound to protect you, and I wasn’t able to. I am so sorry.

  Sleep only relieved her for a few hours at a stretch. It left her more irritable than if she hadn’t slept at all. She felt trapped in the four stone walls, and often imagined them turning damp and growing with moss. The imagined smell of mold and decay overpowered her. She had the sense of foreboding that they would soon close in upon her, the muck crushing her, enveloping her. Ultimately erasing her very existence.

  Of course the room was bright, warm, cheerful . . . and plentiful, appetizing food arrived along with Elisabeth, Gilbert, and Pascal’s lively company frequently. She doubted whether King Louis and Queen Maria Theresa’s babies and all the other royal bastards received such care from their nurses, maids, and valets. Certainly those ministrations were not given with the same love as Gabrielle felt flooded upon her.

  All the same, her womb felt hollow and her heart encased in ice for the life she’d been unable to protect. For the months of suffering. For the cruelty of the men—first her father, then her husband—who had failed her.

  All she had now were a few yards of brown wool and some thread to keep her mind from the pain. She made sure each stitch was tiny and even—painstakingly so. She made no haste, and was none too hesitant to remove a stitch and start anew. The wool would give long before her stitches, and this gave her pleasure to create something durable. But at last the hour came when she could no longer work on perfecting the seams, else the fabric would fray irreparably.

  I will ask Elisabeth for all the mending, despite her protests, too. And all the Lefebvres and the Robichauxes. I must have an occupation or I will go mad.

  She smoothed the wool over her like a blanket. It was warm. It was clean and new. It may not have been a thing of beauty, but it was a thing created of her own hands, and she felt pride in her accomplishment.

  * * *

  “Thank you!” Gabrielle said, smiling to the point of discomfort a
t the sight of Elisabeth ushering in Claudine and Manon. Gilbert and Pascal entered behind them, both carrying in heaping baskets of mending. Alexandre’s breeches, Zacharie’s nightgowns, their own chemises. Tattered hems, worn cuffs, holes in need of patching. A treasure trove of activity to keep her company. She sat up straight in her bed and ran her hand over the textures of linen and wool and muslin in the nearest basket. I will make them whole again.

  “It’s not every day you’re greeted with a smile when you bring someone a pile of work.” Claudine chuckled as she placed her basket of mending within reach of Gabrielle’s bed.

  Elisabeth shook her head in disapproval. “You need to be resting. Not working.”

  “I promise, I will rest better with something to do,” Gabrielle said, looking up at her foster mother, hoping she conveyed all the sincerity she felt. “A little exertion will help me sleep.”

  “She’s not wrong, Elisabeth,” Gilbert said, a gentle scold in his voice. “Let her have something to do.”

  “I think we can trust our Gabrielle to mend while she’s mending,” Manon said with warmth. Pascal set his basket down wordlessly and headed back out with a brief nod to his sister.

  “Heaven knows I don’t mind passing on the chore,” Claudine confessed. “Of all the domestic duties I’ve inherited, mending will be the last to endear itself to me.”

  “I’ve no great talent for it myself,” Manon agreed. “And Rose has sent over a few things as well. She’s not been feeling her best. Nothing serious from what I understand, just the unborn babe making his presence known, but she’s grateful for the help.”

  Gabrielle smiled wider than she had in over a year. She could breathe new life into the clothes and make them not only wearable, but also beautiful again.

  “Sit, please,” Gabrielle said, gesturing to the empty chairs that Elisabeth, Pascal, and Gilbert occupied of an evening.

  “I’ll get you all something to nibble at while you chat,” Elisabeth said with a dubious glance at all the clothes that now dominated the small bedchamber.

  “Thank you,” Gabrielle said, watching the sweet-natured woman exit the room with a martyred sigh. I know you’re trying to protect me, but the real threat was buried three days ago, sweet lady. I promise you I will be well.

  “I’m so grateful you all came to visit me,” Gabrielle said. “And you’ve given me a gift.”

  “I can understand the agony of being idle,” Manon said. “Hopefully you’ll get some hours of occupation out of the mending, if not amusement.”

  “I’m sure I will,” Gabrielle said.

  “I’m just happy you’re back with us,” Claudine said, sipping from one of the glasses of cider Elisabeth placed on the small bedside table as they spoke. There was also a plate of the good cream puffs Gabrielle had longed for in her absence. In the past they had seemed too cloyingly sweet, but now they sated her hunger as nothing else would. Elisabeth kissed Gabrielle on the forehead and left the girls to their discussion. Gabrielle supposed it took a good deal of effort not to tack on an admonition that she ought to rest.

  “As am I,” Gabrielle said earnestly. “If only that damned judge had listened, the baby might . . .”

  Claudine crossed over to the bed in a flash and cradled Gabrielle in her arms. “I’m so sorry” was all she was able to mutter. It was all Gabrielle needed to hear. No platitudes about another child. A kinder husband. A better future. She let the tears fall, knowing that she was in company who would not expect her to conceal her grief.

  “He ought to have listened,” Manon said. “And he’ll be made to understand his folly. I’ll see to it that Alexandre writes a letter to the Intendant and the governor, since anything I write wouldn’t be read by anyone who matters.”

  “And Laurent, too,” Claudine said, still holding her friend. “It may not help your baby, but it may save someone else.”

  Gabrielle, unable to speak, nodded her appreciation as she dried her tears on the sleeve of her chemise.

  * * *

  “I’ll take it,” Gabrielle said, reaching for the basket heaping with four large loaves of bread along with an assortment of rolls and sweet pastries. The Sisters did their own baking most of the time, but commissioned Elisabeth to furnish finer breads and baked goods when they were expecting company of particular importance. Gabrielle knew not who the Sisters were entertaining, but she was ready to escape the confines of the bakery for an hour or two.

  “Are you sure—” Elisabeth began, moving the basket out of her reach.

  “Yes, she’s sure,” Gilbert interrupted, taking the basket from his wife and handing it to Gabrielle. “It’s been three weeks since she left this house and a short walk will do her a world of good.”

  “Very well.” Elisabeth sighed, returning to the mound of dough before her. “But be home before dark, please.” Elisabeth hadn’t made such an admonition since Gabrielle’s earliest days at the bakery.

  “Of course.” Gabrielle grabbed the basket and her cloak.

  Her muscles screamed at the exertion, but she fought through the discomfort. The convent was only a quarter of an hour away on foot, and while she was thrilled for the escape, she was equally glad she hadn’t farther to travel.

  Sister Marie-Jeanne, a young nun with a round, kindly face, opened the door and accepted the basket with a smile. “Bless you, my dear. Sister Catherine will settle the account.”

  “Naturally,” Gabrielle said with a dismissive nod. Even if the Sisters forgot to settle the account for months, there wasn’t a soul in the Beaumont Bakery who would ask for the money. Elisabeth remembered her months living at the convent before she married Gilbert with too much fondness to let accounts trouble her.

  “Is that Mademoiselle Giroux come to visit?” Sister Anne, now the most senior of the order below the Mother Superior, walked into the entryway. Gabrielle remembered her from her first days in the settlement after the Beaumonts had taken her on. She’d been portly and spry, if not young. Now she was stooped, and her face lined with the burden of leading the daily running of the Ursulines.

  “Madame Patenaude for quite some time, Sister, but it is me.”

  “You’ll come and have a cup of coffee with an old woman, won’t you?” Sister Anne turned to allow Gabrielle entrance to the common room.

  “I’ve not had it before, but I’d be happy to join you, Sister.” Gabrielle removed her cloak and placed it in the waiting hands of another one of the younger nuns. The King hadn’t sent young ladies as brides for the settlers in more than five years, and there was something of an air of loneliness left behind.

  “Come sit by the fire, my dear.” Sister Anne had rearranged the room somewhat since her last visit. She had appointed her favorite chair along with a sturdy little table next to the fire. A graceless earthenware kettle and two cups filled every inch of the table. “Try this, my dear. I confess it’s one of the little luxuries I miss most from France. The good Seigneur Lefebvre sent me a tin when the last ship came in from the mother country.”

  “Kind of him. I remember Madame Beaumont saying he was as giddy as a schoolboy when it arrived. He ordered a massive platter of pastries to go along with it. He’ll be desolate when his supply runs out.”

  “I’ll be none too pleased myself, but it will give me enjoyment to share a cup with you and hear all your news.”

  Gabrielle sniffed at the dark brew as decorously as she could before sipping. Lord, it’s bitter. How could anyone enjoy this? But she could not refuse the Sister’s hospitality and would have to leave an empty cup behind her.

  “I am so sorry to hear about your husband, my dear.” Sister Anne looked into the crackling blaze thoughtfully.

  “Thank you, Sister.” Gabrielle shifted in her seat. I’m not sorry. Not one bit, but I can’t tell you that.

  “Have you made any plans?”

  “Nothing definite, Sister. But I’ve some ideas.” To cover the taste of the thick, bitter liquid, Gabrielle nibbled at one of the buttery biscuits Elisabeth
had sent with her.

  “Very good, very good. No need to rush into things. Especially while you’re in mourning.”

  Gabrielle fought not to snicker in her coffee mug. I mourn for him like I’d mourn for the loss of a gaping wound. Indeed, that’s what I feel like I’m healing from. The gaping wound he left on my body and on my heart.

  But then the image of her baby’s face popped into her mind. She was in mourning, just not as the Sister understood her to be.

  “What are the Sisters doing?” Gabrielle asked, looking for a means to change the subject. Four of the Sisters sat at the long table nearest the window, bent over statues and an odd sort of paper that caught the light and caused it to dance off the convent walls. Far too jolly for such a reverent place.

  “Gilding the statues for the Church. That is, covering them with gold leaf. The bishop is coming to look at their handiwork this evening. They’ve more than a little skill, my fellow Sisters.”

  The nearest Sister labored over a statue, the subject of which Gabrielle did not recognize, but the face was one of sorrow and suffering. As the nun applied the gold coating, the expression became softened—almost blank.

  “So it would seem. You’ll pardon me, but the statues seem lovely enough without the extra adornment.” Gabrielle took another sip of the coffee, the flavor growing less acrid as it cooled.

  “I don’t disagree with you, my dear. I much prefer to see the statues painted true to life. But alas, the decision is not mine. The good bishop wants his cathedral to be as grand as Notre Dame de Paris, and my opinion matters not.”

  “It’s so frequent that we must hold our tongues. Hide from the truth. It’s a shame.” Gabrielle started as a log snapped in the fire. She set down her mug, glad she hadn’t upset the contents all over herself.

  “How true, my dear.” Sister Anne looked at her, apprising. “We must gild the truth, make it more pleasing to the eye—or ear, if you prefer. I suppose it’s the price of living in society.”