Duty to the Crown

by Aimie K. Runyan

  “I suppose it must be. Perhaps it’s why I’ve never been very good at being a part of it.”

  “My dear girl, you’ll find your place here again. I’m sure of it. You’re a good woman. A good worker. People will see your value.”

  “As you say, Sister.” A child raised by Elisabeth Beaumont would never contradict an Ursuline, even if she said the sky were green and the ocean a vibrant red. I don’t know if you speak of wishes or truths, but I fear at best it’s a truth as gilded as your lifeless statues.

  CHAPTER 22

  Manon

  February 1679

  While Manon missed Claudine’s companionable chatter before bed, and even her grousing at the early morning sun, the solitude of having the room to herself before facing the day was a blessing at times. She took the note she’d sent to Pascal, the one in which she’d confessed the depths of her feelings and asked for his forgiveness, from the little box on her night stand. He had opened it, presumably read its contents, and wrote a missive on the back:

  You must think little of my dignity if you think me capable of accepting a vow of fidelity from a woman I saw in the arms of another man only hours before she sent this letter. Good-bye, Manon, and farewell.

  The servant Manon had sent with the note and brooch returned, both in hand, within the half hour. It wasn’t long in such a settlement before Manon learned that Pascal had gone off after her when he’d seen her walking toward the woods on her snowshoes. He managed to follow her as stealthily as one of her own Huron hunters. Whether to ensure she didn’t come to harm or to renew his pledge of affection, Manon could not know. He had seen her walking off to the Huron village with Heno and spent an agonizing afternoon wondering if she would ever return.

  She tried to put herself in his position. To imagine what it would have been like for her to see Pascal in the arms of another woman. She recalled the nights when the thought of Heno replacing her with a dutiful Huron girl had kept her abed for hours. She could imagine Pascal’s pain and was sorry she had been the cause of it. For all of this, she hoped that she would have listened to Pascal or to Heno had the situation been reversed. To know if she had misinterpreted their actions as Pascal had done.

  There was no unpleasant scene, no raised voices or teary oaths from either side. The note was the extent of his rebuke.

  She had tried on occasion to get him to acknowledge her. To explain the scene he witnessed. He would not return anything more than a simple nod. There was no anger in his eyes, only resignation. Heno would have raged like an angry sea and then begged her forgiveness. It was somehow easier for Manon to palate Heno’s volatile moods than Pascal’s placid acceptance. Worse, his stubborn refusal to hear her reasons for her brief departure.

  For weeks she’d borne her shame quietly and cried in private over her heartbreak. She could not bear to have Nicole console her or have Claudine revile him for his pigheadedness. She could not burden Gabrielle, the girl who would have been her sister, with more sorrow than she already bore.

  She dried her eyes and stowed the note. It was one thing to indulge her sorrow for a few solitary moments before greeting the world in earnest, but it was quite another to bask in it like summer sunshine. Gabrielle’s pain was far more acute than her own, and Manon would heal. Gabrielle would bear her grief for the rest of her days.

  Since Gabrielle’s return, Elisabeth still kept her nestled in the safety of the Beaumont home, and in the comfort of her bed for as many hours as Gabrielle would allow. Gabrielle insisted she was well enough to be of use in the shop, but aside from the occasional pass with the broom or minding of an oven, the Beaumonts coddled her like a lamed child. Manon knew the bakers acted from a kindness that ran deeper into their souls than most people could comprehend, but it did not keep Gabrielle from the brink of madness. She and Claudine visited, bringing some sort of occupation, every afternoon they could be spared.

  Manon and Claudine had respected Gabrielle’s need for silence regarding Patenaude’s untimely demise, despite their longing to know the truth. That afternoon, however, Gabrielle confessed the hell she had endured since the trial.

  “If he hadn’t died in the accident, I was going to do it myself.” Gabrielle’s hands shook as she spoke.

  “I’m sure you were tempted to stop things. He was a monster of the worst kind.” Manon handed Gabrielle the spool of thread so she could continue mending the rent in Nicole’s chemise, but Manon herself could not pay heed to the embroidery she’d brought with her.

  “You don’t understand my meaning,” Gabrielle explained. “I repaired his old musket. I was going to wait on the trail and kill him on his way home. If he hadn’t gotten too deep in a bottle and done the job for me, I would be a murderess.”

  “There’s no way anyone could find out what you . . . were planning.. . .” Claudine whispered, also failing to make progress on her embroidered nightdress for Zacharie. The Beaumont parlor was quiet, but no one could be certain his or her conversation couldn’t be heard in the shop below.

  “I don’t see how. I left the musket out in the brambles, but I’m not sure anyone could tell it had been mine.” Gabrielle spoke softly as well, but there was an edge of anger to her voice that Manon didn’t recall hearing before Gabrielle’s unfortunate marriage.

  “The important thing is to act as if nothing other than a tragic accident has occurred,” Manon said, hands busy with some of Gabrielle’s mending. “Because, in truth, that’s all that has happened.” Her mind wandered some years in the past when she’d come upon the bleeding body of Nicole’s first husband, Luc Jarvais, when she was a young girl. She had been afraid to approach him, in case he tried to shoot her out of fear. She’d run off to the chestnut-haired angel from the French settlement and dragged her to him instead.

  Gabrielle’s plans were deliberate, but Manon could not fault her for them. Olivier Patenaude had deserved his fate, and a good deal worse. She had lived among the Huron, who treated all living things as sacred. She now lived among the French, who considered the taking of a human life to be one of the gravest of sins. For all this, Manon could not condemn Gabrielle as the rest of her people surely would if they learned the truth.

  “Manon is right,” Claudine agreed. “Appearances are everything, as my brother-in-law is wont to say. You are the widow of a good man and faithful subject to the King. You mourn for your loss each day and regret all the strife the two of you had in your past.”

  Manon nodded. As much as it made her ill to think that Gabrielle should take any amount of the blame for Patenaude’s actions, it was what the authorities wanted to see. The penitent widow.

  “Devote yourself to your mending business. It shows you’re industrious and don’t want to be a burden on anyone,” Manon said.

  “Nor do I,” Gabrielle said, her eyes looking up from the frayed chemise she repaired. “I hope to set up my own shop and home soon enough. I can’t bear to impose on Elisabeth and Gilbert anymore. They’ve done enough for me as it is. It’s too much to ask them to look after me now that I’m of age.”

  Manon held her tongue, for she knew Gabrielle meant no offense. Manon was more than two years her senior and still living in the care of a family that was not her own. Perhaps it was time you thought of forging out on your own and starting a life for yourself as Gabrielle is doing. Manon remembered Alexandre’s lecture and knew that the next time she moved out of the Lefebvre house she would not be welcome back in it. She would need something more solid than a drive for greater independence before she left.

  “For now, stay here,” Manon encouraged. “Showing yourself as a dutiful daughter will cast you in a good light. Not to mention, it will be safer for you here than in your own home.”

  “Perhaps for now,” Gabrielle said, her hands shaking as she tried to stitch. “I’ve become accustomed to my solitude though. Sitting through dinner with a tableful of people seems almost chaotic. I used to love a bustling family dinner.”

  “It will take you some time, but you
’ll adjust.” Manon surveyed the patch on the knee of the trousers she mended, pleased with the result. “After quiet meals with Mother Onatah and Théodore, I thought the Lefebvre house was pandemonium itself. It took weeks to enjoy my food.” Not to mention the rich sauces and unending courses that tore at my stomach. How I longed for plainer fare.

  “But what . . . what if someone . . . somehow finds out . . . ?” Gabrielle asked.

  “No matter what your intentions,” Claudine said, “no one here would suspect you.”

  “What we need is someone to stand up for you,” Manon said. “Your family is one of the most respected in the town and it’s time they acted on your behalf.”

  * * *

  Manon said her farewell to Gabrielle and went out behind the Beaumonts’ shop, where Pascal hid from Manon while loading flour into the storeroom. Steam rose off his warm skin. She could see his body, made strong by honest work, and she felt a tug of desire—and something more. He was a good man and she was fortunate to know him. Even now.

  “I come in peace,” Manon said, when he looked up and scowled in her direction.

  “I don’t want to talk,” Pascal said, throwing a fifty-pound bag of flour onto the pile with the others as if it weighed no more than a feather.

  “I don’t need to talk about us,” Manon said. “Not now. I’m worried about Gabrielle.”

  “As are we all. It’s not your concern. We’ll take care of her.” Gilbert flung another sack of flour from the cart with a swish as it flew through the air and a dull thud as it came down.

  “It is my concern. She’s my friend. One of the only ones I have, it seems. And she doesn’t need to be swaddled and taken care of. She needs your support in town so she can rebuild her life.”

  Pascal looked up briefly, his brown eyes flashing at her. She could see him bite his tongue against the scathing response he wanted to hurl at her. Go ahead and speak plainly to me for once. Stop being so damned French!

  “What would you have me do?” Pascal said, hands on his hips. “As much as I wish I could influence the people in this place to think differently about certain things—certain people—I’m not all-powerful.”

  “You’ve got more influence than you give yourself credit for,” Manon said, keeping her voice even, though she yearned to scream at him. “Just mention your sister’s mending business. If you know of someone who needs a new suit of clothes or a dress, suggest her. Find ways to mention her industriousness, her goodness, as often as you can. Encourage Elisabeth and Gilbert to do the same.”

  “Elisabeth doesn’t want to see Gabrielle working so much just yet.” Pascal wiped the sweat that pooled on his brow with the back of his hand.

  “Elisabeth needs to trust Gabrielle to know what she’s capable of. You all do. If she doesn’t have something to do she’ll run mad. She doesn’t need to be making ball gowns yet, I’ll agree. But patching trousers and hemming skirts keeps her hands busy and her mind from venturing into the shadows. Certainly you see that. She’s been through hell and she needs the chance to come back to the real world.”

  Pascal nodded. “That much I won’t argue with. I’ll talk to Gilbert and Elisabeth.”

  “Thank you,” Manon said. “I know you don’t want to talk to me—even to see me—but I can’t bear to see Gabrielle hurting if there is anything, however small, that can be done to help.”

  “That’s good of you,” Pascal said. He looked at Manon square in the face and exhaled deeply.

  “What aren’t you saying, Pascal?” Do not beg. You’re not going to stoop to that.

  “You’re a good friend to my sister, but you’ve shown me a good deal less consideration.” Pascal’s gaze now did not waver. She knew it cost him dearly to say these things aloud. In many ways he wasn’t unlike the Huron hunters of her youth.

  “Pascal, I’ve tried to apologize. Tried to explain. I offered you my heart and you hadn’t a word to say to me. I don’t know what else to do or say. I’m so tired of the silence. Of feeling guilty. Of feeling angry. Just so tired. Bone-weary.”

  “Why did you go back?” Pascal asked. “Why did you leave me again? You didn’t even tell me you were going. I went looking for you at the Lefebvres and no one knew where you were. Then I saw you walking back with . . . him. Who’s to say you won’t go again?”

  “I was gone for a few hours. I had to be sure, Pascal. I had to pay respects to my Chief and see if there was a place for me with my people. You belong here, Pascal. There’s no question of it. You live with the people you were born into. No one has ever questioned your place. Since I was eight years old, people have looked at me like an outsider. Something unknown. Dangerous. Even as a child . . . and then when I went back all those years ago? No one except Mother Onatah would speak to me. Acting as though I were tainted. You can’t know what that’s like, Pascal.”

  “It doesn’t make it hurt less when you leave,” Pascal said.

  “I know it doesn’t, Pascal. But I had to know. There is no place for me among my people anymore. I knew within the hour of my arrival at the village I would be an outsider there for the rest of my life. There isn’t much of a place for me with the French, either . . . but I have to try to carve one out for myself. By and large, I think it’s better for Théodore, if not both of us. I tried to explain that to you, but you didn’t care to listen.”

  “I couldn’t bear to hear it,” Pascal said. “All I could feel was the pain when you left. I thought I’d never see you again and you didn’t have the decency to say good-bye.”

  “I didn’t know I’d be leaving. I didn’t plan any of it. I had to see for myself. I was gone the length of an afternoon, but my place isn’t there. It’s here.”

  “I know . . . I can see that now. I couldn’t then. I was just too angry. I couldn’t be your second choice.”

  “And you had a right to be angry, Pascal.” Manon took a tentative step toward him. “I didn’t mean to hurt you, but I know I did. Do you think now you might start to forgive me? We could at least be friends again? I’ve missed you.” The truth in her words stole Manon’s breath like an unexpected punch to her gut.

  “No, Manon,” Pascal said. “I can’t be friends with you.”

  An unwelcome, unexpected tear stung at the corner of Manon’s eye and rolled down her cheek. Be strong. Do not show your pain to him.

  “Manon, you and I could never be friends. You’re too much more than that to me. Either you’ll be my wife or we’ll be nothing at all.” He stood, shoulders broad, waiting for her words like he would brace for the kick of a mule.

  “Wh-what?” was all Manon could stammer.

  Pascal took two long strides and closed the gap between them. He took her hand in his and knelt down on one knee.

  “Manon Lefebvre, will you please be my wife?” The words were spoken so quietly she might have mistaken them if he weren’t on bended knee.

  This was her last chance. If she didn’t take Pascal now, he would never repeat the offer again. Their friendship would be forever severed and he would never speak to her more than the exchange of pleasantries between two distant acquaintances. He would be lost to her. The pain at that thought was so great she had to breathe through it to be able to clear her mind.

  “Yes, I will,” Manon agreed. A warmth flooded her as Pascal scooped her up in his arms and covered her mouth with his as he stroked the length of her black tresses that hung loose past the middle of her back. My future is tied to yours, Pascal, and I know I shall be happy. I only hope you will be able to say the same.

  CHAPTER 23

  Claudine

  February 1679

  I dreamed of my gallant prince. A fine palace. A dozen beautiful children. A life filled with excitement. I don’t dream anymore. Alone in her room, Claudine brushed out her long mahogany mane into smooth, rippling waves that flowed down to her lower back. She massaged the crick in her neck and looked at her reflection in the vanity mirror. She recognized the reflection of the girl who dreamed of her coming-out b
all and dreamed of a dashing prince to take her away from the monotony of daily life. She recognized her, but that girl had died months ago, buried with Emmanuelle. There was more understanding in her deep brown eyes, a furrow of concern in her brow, and something she refused to acknowledge as the start of fine lines of experience forming in the corners of her mouth.

  She wore a nightdress of soft white muslin that did little to keep out the February chill, but it was not her thin gown that caused her to shiver that night. The fresh memory of Gabrielle, barely able to leave her bed, bereft of her child, enshrouded in grief and guilt . . . all at the hands of a cruel and callous husband. Her eyes flitted to the door and thought of Laurent across the hall in the master suite. Never a cross word. Never had he voiced a single complaint about her lack of affection. A more attentive father had never been seen.

  And yet, you do not love him. You’re a dolt. A fool to treat a good man with such coldness.

  A tear rolled down her cheek as she thought of Gabrielle alone in that cabin all those months. Worse, the weeks when Patenaude graced her with his presence. The darling boy in the nursery might not be Claudine’s own, but he was close enough to it that she could at least imagine the flavor of Gabrielle’s anguish, though she’d not tasted it herself.

  So many hours Claudine spent in the nursery kissing toes and playing mindless games with more and more patience. She never thought she’d grow so fond of tending to a child, but he’d charmed her with his big eyes and black curls. When she held him in her arms, a hollowness ached in her core. She longed to give Zacharie little brothers and sisters. She longed to give Laurent the tribe he wanted. That he deserved.

  But that would mean telling Laurent the truth.

  The time will come, sooner or later. You ought to make it the time of your choosing. Better to come forward and soothe his feelings. Perhaps he won’t cast you to the wolves if you’re honest with him.