Duty to the Crown

by Aimie K. Runyan

  Claudine let him claim her as his wife. There was no pain or discomfort this time. Nor any pangs of regret or remorse. There is no great crash of lightning when I look into his eyes, but perhaps the love in storybooks is better left to the page.

  CHAPTER 24

  Gabrielle

  March 1679

  Gabrielle surveyed the small room that was slowly transforming from a bland, disused space in a rickety building into her workshop. The one she’d dreamed of since she learned how to hem her first skirt. There was not a useless piece of bric-a-brac in her possession, but the essential nature of every object in place gave the otherwise unremarkable room a conviviality. It breathed function and utility. Efficiency. It may be small and drafty, but it’s mine. Or at least as much mine as most shop holders can claim.

  “I insist you take the chair,” Elisabeth said, as Gilbert brought the solid piece of furniture into the shop from the wagon. “You need a comfortable place to sit while you work.”

  “It’s one of your best pieces of furniture. It’s too dear.” Gabrielle stood behind the shop counter putting her sewing notions in order.

  “We can buy another easier than you can. It’s none too dear for you.” Elisabeth shot Gilbert a look that conveyed an order he dared not countermand. The chair was placed in the corner by the window where she could sew by the natural light and there, Gabrielle realized, it would remain. It was beginning to look like a proper shop after three days of cleaning and another two moving all of Gabrielle’s supplies and personal possessions to the shop and the small apartment above stairs. The soft blue silk for the skirt of Manon’s wedding gown fell into soft, gentle folds from the makeshift mannequin she used for marking and hemming skirts. She’d never seen a proper dressmaker’s shop in Paris, but she couldn’t imagine they had fabric much finer than the silk Alexandre Lefebvre had secured for his ward. Both Manon and Claudine had spent hours scouring the floors and helping Gabrielle make the space her own. Gabrielle wished they could be there at that moment to help defray some of Elisabeth’s flutterings.

  The proceeds of the sale of Patenaude’s homestead and most of his worldly possessions enabled the endeavor. Though the cabin was nothing to speak of, the land was good, and partially clear. It would save the next habitant a few weeks of backbreaking labor to have a few acres cleared for planting in the coming weeks. If there is one mercy in this untamed land of ours, it’s that my husband’s goods came to me and no other. The women in New France are treated far better than our sisters in the old country on that score.

  She wasn’t left a wealthy woman, but even Gilbert and Elisabeth acknowledged she now had the hopes of being self-supporting. She would never earn an enormous sum making clothing. Too many of the settlers had to make their own clothes from cloth they spun themselves. Few in the settlement had expansive wardrobes, but there was at least a small population who could afford to send their mending to her. A few could afford the occasional dress, but those would be rare and enjoyable exceptions to mending frayed trouser legs and patching holes. But if nothing else, it was a living. It was a life.

  There was still work to be done, but her vision for the shop was becoming a reality. The Beaumonts had shown her how to keep a meticulous shop. Pascal taught her his methods for tracking his flour deliveries in a ledger, which she could apply to her mending jobs. Rose’s tutelage in arithmetic and keeping household accounts would be invaluable. For all of Elisabeth’s disquiet, there were few shopkeepers in the settlement as well trained as Gabrielle.

  “I think Gabrielle can take care of things from here,” Gilbert said, seeing that Gabrielle was reaching the stage in her preparations where outside help would only be a hindrance. “Let’s leave her be to get organized in peace.”

  “But—” Elisabeth looked about the room, her eyes clearly hunting for a chore that required her personal attention. She found none and heaved a sigh.

  Gabrielle crossed the room and gave Elisabeth a reassuring hug. “I’ll be fine. I promise. I’m not more than five hundred feet from your front door.” I won’t abandon you. I know how much this hurts you. Things will be better—not just for me—than they have been since before I married. I am sure of it.

  “You’ll join us for Sunday supper every week, yes? And any other night you wish to.” Elisabeth stood almost half a foot taller than Gabrielle and rested her chin atop her head.

  “It’s a bargain,” Gabrielle said. “You’re the best cook in the settlement; you won’t need to work all that hard to convince me.”

  Elisabeth managed to laugh through the few tears that spilled down her cheeks. “Sweet girl.”

  “And you’ll have what you need from the bakery whenever you like,” Gilbert said, ruffling her red curls as if she were a child of six. “Consider it back payment for years of loyal service.”

  “Thank you.” Gabrielle gave Gilbert a tight hug and gripped his bicep for a moment as he pulled away. “If nothing else, I may come by to use your ovens when they are free. It will save me the trouble of lighting the one here.”

  Gilbert nodded his approval. The bread oven included in the use of the rented building was a small affair and had not been particularly well tended. Her little fireplace would do well for her humble soup, but the time she saved using the always-running Beaumont ovens could be spent sewing. What’s more, she could take her basket with her and mend while her bread baked, and have a good visit.

  Gabrielle felt the air catch in her chest as the two people who had been better to her than her own parents walked away from her shop, but only a small part of her longed to rush after them and return to her old girlhood bedroom. They’re leaving me in better condition to provide for myself alone than they did when they left me with a husband. I’ll manage fine on my own. Better than manage. I will thrive.

  * * *

  The supper Gabrielle prepared for herself was nothing of note, but far better than the meals she’d pieced together from odd bits of whatever she could scrounge when she was living on the homestead. Her soup, thick with salted pork and chunks of fleshy potato, was restorative against the spring chill. With the addition of the hearty bread Elisabeth had stocked in the kitchen, she was amply fed and reasonably warm, given the shoddy construction of the floor. The draft crept in on occasion, chilling her ankles despite her long skirts and petticoats. It’s no secret why the rent comes so cheaply.

  The light was too feeble for more mending, and her eyes too sore for the strain in any case. She wandered about the house for half an hour, dusting, tidying, and rearranging, but with Elisabeth and Gilbert’s help that morning, there was little left to be done. No book would hold her interest, nor had she any other leisure activities she could indulge in. These had been the hours she devoted to her sewing, but now her pastime was her profession and she could not afford to grow weary of her work. It was her first night in the home that was hers alone. Few women in the settlement would have that experience. Her friends moved from their fathers’ homes to their husbands’, never to know the feeling of true solitude. Gabrielle had spent weeks on her own when she was married to Patenaude, but his presence was always there.

  Gabrielle had craved a space of her own. She loved the Beaumonts so dearly, but she was a woman now and was loath to be dependent on them or anyone. Now she questioned the wisdom of seeking out her independence. Perhaps women didn’t live alone for good reason. A scratching of a tree branch against the side of the house sent a shiver through her marrow. I’m a bloody coward and a fool.

  Though she knew it had to be a solid hour before she usually retired, she changed into her chemise and sought out the solace of slumber. Her bed was the same she’d had for the duration of her stay at the Beaumonts, so as familiar as her own two hands, but felt foreign now that it was ensconced in her little room, barely larger than a broom closet. The glint of the moonlight bounced to the wall from her hand mirror, which rested on her tiny vanity table. The pattern it reflected on the walls was menacing, a gnarled hand reaching out for her in t
he night.

  Anyone could break in at any moment. The doors are not strong. The bolts far from impenetrable. Any number of people know I am alone.

  She pulled her patchwork quilt tight under her chin, closing her eyes against the errant moonlight and willing sleep to come. Calm down, you simpleton. No need for your heart to be racing. God knows you’ve faced enough real danger in your life. You don’t need to go inventing more.

  Each time she closed her eyes she saw Patenaude. Smelled his putrid breath. Felt him looming over her when he was drunk and lustful. Remembered the sting of his hand coming down against her cheek. Still felt the ache of where his massive fists connected with her ribs. The blow of his boot against her abdomen.

  And the pain, the agony that she thought—she prayed—would claim her as the baby lost his battle for life. She still offered up prayers that her hope of carrying a healthy child was not forever lost.

  I’m not sure whom I have offended, or how I have offended. If only God would show me what I have done to merit the treatment I endured at Patenaude’s hands, I would make amends. Somehow. Though I am not sure what sin merits such cruelty. And surely, if nothing else, I deserve a good night’s sleep.

  Over and over, she would dip into sleep . . . only to wake doused in sweat and choking back her bile until she was forced to heave into her chamber pot. Shaking, she wiped the corners of her mouth on the cloth she used for cleaning her face in the morning. She descended the stairs to her kitchen to find water to clear the acid taste from her mouth.

  She sat at her kitchen table, head in hands, fighting to slow her breath, which heaved from her uncontrollably. Muscle by muscle, sinew by sinew, she made herself relax until she felt like the mistress of her own body once more.

  Leave me in peace. Leave me in peace. Leave me in peace.

  She breathed in time with the words, making order from chaos. Gabrielle didn’t know if an hour or three elapsed as she sat at the kitchen table, battling with the horror of her memories.

  * * *

  It’s perfect. Her head cleared from her lack of sleep, and she surveyed the shop with satisfaction. Every spool of thread, every needle, every scrap of cloth she used for patching had a place. A real Parisian tailor couldn’t find fault with her systems and organization. Though she longed to attend to Manon’s wedding gown, Rose and Henri had sent over a large basket of mending that took precedence, so she settled herself in the comfortable chair by the window and set to work on the hem of one of Rose’s frayed skirts.

  She was deep in concentration when the shop door opened unexpectedly.

  “Heavens above, you frightened me!”

  “Have I?” A man of middling height with blond hair and blue eyes looked as though he wanted to laugh at her shock. “You clearly are new to running a business.”

  “I’ve tended the Beaumont Bakery since I was twelve years old. Worked there since I was nine. I would hardly say that’s the case.” Keep the fire from your voice, git. He might be a client.

  “I apologize, that’s not what I meant. Those accustomed to tailoring become accustomed to interruption.” The man gave a sincere-looking bow of apology.

  “Indeed. Baking is different work. It doesn’t require the same concentration.”

  “I should imagine not. And now that I’ve made myself look like an inconsiderate fool, let me introduce myself. I’m René Savard, deputy to His Excellency, the governor. He has commissioned me with greeting—and encouraging—all of those who open an enterprise within the settlement.”

  “Gabrielle Patenaude.” She curtsied deeply, honoring the distinction in rank. “How very kind of the Governor de Frontenac. I hadn’t thought my little shop worth his notice.”

  “His Excellency cares a great deal about commerce. And he has a great attention to detail.” He surveyed the shop, and Gabrielle could see him mentally cataloguing the contents for his report to the governor.

  “May I offer you some refreshment?” Gabrielle was now exceedingly glad for the heaping hamper of baked goods from Elisabeth and the bottles of young cider from Gilbert. The cider was over-tart for Gabrielle’s liking, but it was at least something more suitable to offer her company than water or milk.

  “I shouldn’t waste your time, Madame Patenaude, but I confess I had to leave early this morning and have barely had a moment’s peace since.” Gabrielle motioned for the deputy to sit in the spare, far less inviting chair while she fetched her bounty from her small kitchen.

  “Compliments of the Beaumont Bakery.” Gabrielle placed the tray with pastry and cider on her worktable in front of the deputy and distributed a plate and glass to each. She’d thought to save her pastry as a dessert after her evening meal, but she could not resist when the deputy’s visit called for hospitality.

  “Your former master and mistress are unequalled in their craft,” René pronounced as he lifted a forkful of pastry filled with cherries and almonds to his lips. Gabrielle shuddered at the terms master and mistress. Never had they treated her as a mere apprentice.

  “Indeed they are,” Gabrielle said, acknowledging the compliment.

  “And an asset to the community. As I’m sure your business will prove to be as well.” The deputy leaned forward as he spoke. A man who cares deeply about a thriving economy in our little town. What a refreshing change in a politician.

  “That’s my fervent hope, monsieur.” Gabrielle looked into her cider cup hoping it contained something interesting for her to say to the deputy. Sadly, it contained only the beverage she’d poured.

  “I understand you were living on a homestead until very recently. I am very sorry to hear of the loss of your husband.”

  Gabrielle nodded soberly. You may be the only one. “Very kind of you, monsieur. Though it seems you have all the advantage here. I know nothing of you. A rarity in our small settlement, to be sure.”

  “A very simple explanation, madame. My wife and I made the crossing just last year at the governor’s request. We’ve been in the settlement only eight months.”

  Gabrielle’s heart made an uncomfortable thud against her rib cage at the word wife, but she ignored it.

  “Ah,” Gabrielle said. “It was fortunate your wife was willing to make the journey. Few women are.”

  “You speak the truth. We were married shortly before our departure. I knew it would be far easier to bring a wife along than to find a suitable bride here.”

  You speak of your wife as you might bring along a case of your favorite wine with your trunks.

  Gabrielle cast the spiteful thought from her mind; he was right. Marriageable women for a man in his station were scarce.

  “And how does settlement life suit you?”

  “I’m dreadfully fond of it. The people here are better than you’ll find anywhere.”

  “It can be a lonely life,” Gabrielle said, her fork tracing the edge of her uneaten pastry.

  “Yes, I confess Madame Savard agrees with you. She was raised among the first circles, you see. She doesn’t find many peers here. Nor much in the way of diversion.”

  Foolish to bring a lily into the ice and snow. “I can imagine it might be hard for her. Of course the ladies of the Alexandre and Henri Lefebvre families would make fine acquaintances for her.”

  “Madame Savard hasn’t the easiest time making friends. But still, I hope she’ll continue to adjust.”

  “We haven’t much choice, do we? We must adapt or perish, as is the way of all life, is it not?”

  “A very astute observation. One wouldn’t expect a seamstress to be so insightful.”

  “One oughtn’t underestimate seamstresses, monsieur. We must maintain an eye for detail.”

  “Quite so,” René said with a chuckle. “I hope our paths will cross again. I assure you the Savard house will be sending you some business. My wife is none too fond of mending.”

  “I would be grateful, monsieur.” Gabrielle gave a slight curtsy as she opened the shop door for him. “Business often begets more business.” />
  Gabrielle watched the deputy . . . perhaps for a bit longer than propriety would have allowed. She noticed his clothes for the first time. Well tailored, well cut, impeccably clean, but made of sturdy, serviceable fabric. Taste and practicality. She contrasted Alexandre Lefebvre’s fine clothes and Gilbert’s sturdy work breeches and plain shirts. The deputy had found a pleasing middle ground. A harmonious match we don’t see often enough. It’s a pity, really.

  She forced herself back into her seat and returned to Rose’s skirt hem, covering the worn edge with a new ruffle. She made sure each stitch was small and even, as though they would be inspected at length. As soon as it was complete, she saw to patching a chemise and two pairs of breeches. She cursed the fading light that forced her to abandon her toils, knowing full well the deputy’s face would linger in her dreams.

  CHAPTER 25

  Manon

  March 1679

  Manon took in her reflection in the long mirror in Nicole’s private sitting room and was unconvinced by her adoptive mother’s flattery. The blue silk complemented the rich hue of her skin. The folds of the gown Gabrielle sewed so expertly gave her the illusion of hips and a bust. Pascal’s pearl shimmered perfectly at the hollow of her neck. It was the fontange hairstyle, with its pile of ebony curls, which seemed to take on the form of a frightened crow showing off its plumage, that gave her pause.

  “Are you sure my hair isn’t . . .”

  “It’s perfect, darling.” Nicole patted Manon’s shoulder affectionately.

  “The maid did a lovely job,” Claudine agreed, with a note of hesitance. “But you don’t look like our Manon.”

  Manon looked in the mirror at Claudine’s reflection, eyes widened momentarily at the endearment. “I don’t feel like her, either.”

  “Is it the dress?” Gabrielle said. “There isn’t much time, but I might be able to fix it somehow.”

  “No, the dress is . . . well, nothing short of remarkable.” Manon never offered false praise, nor did she adopt the bad habit on the occasion of her wedding. The lovely length of blue silk was not only well sewn, but the beading and embroidery that covered the majority of the fabric, and the modest cut of the neck somehow called to mind the patterns her own people used in their clothing and textiles. Manon knew Gabrielle’s thoughtfulness; this wasn’t a happy accident.