“It is your hair,” Claudine said. “It’s simply too much. It might work for us, but on Manon it’s simply gilding the lily. Especially with all the embroidery on the gown. Hand me the brush, please, Nicole.”
“But—” Nicole protested, as Claudine picked up the silver-plated brush with its stiff bristles.
“It will be fine,” Claudine said, loosing the curls so they flowed down Manon’s back.
Manon closed her eyes as Claudine worked on her mass of hair, forcing herself to drink in the air of the perfumed salon and exhale it deeply. Her heart sill raced; she hoped the powders and rouge wouldn’t slop down her face with all the sweat.
Pascal would be waiting at the church by now. Would that we were merely alone in your wagon out in the countryside. Yet to church I must go . . . you would never abide another broken promise. Nor should you.
“There,” Claudine said less than ten minutes later. “If you hate it we can call the maid back in and see what can be done.”
Manon opened her eyes to see the massive tower of hair reduced to a fraction of its original height. The rest of her hair was now swept up with a few hairpins, but was mostly left in loose curls that Claudine swept gracefully over Manon’s right shoulder. I don’t exactly look like me, but a damn sight closer.
“You were right,” Nicole admitted, gracious enough to leave any trace of rancor out of her voice. “But we’re also late. We must get to the church before they bar the doors on us.”
“It’s her own wedding and you’re a Lefebvre. She could keep them waiting three quarters of an hour and no one would dare complain.” Claudine winked at Manon conspiratorially.
“Best not to press our luck,” Gabrielle interjected, picking up the short train of Manon’s skirt from the floor so she might walk with ease down the stairs.
Below stairs, Alexandre awaited, arm outstretched to escort Manon. The grim-faced butler wrapped a fine fur cloak at her shoulders and opened the door out onto the square. Manon blinked when she saw more than a few of their neighbors standing in their doorways, waving at her as she entered the gleaming sleigh with matched horses, as though she were a princess bride from one of the fairy stories Nicole read the children. She offered them a timid wave, and to her surprise, many returned the gesture with a smile.
“It’s rare they get to see such a display of beauty,” Alexandre said, as if to justify the attention.
Théodore sat to Nicole’s left, Alexandre to her right, Nicole, Claudine, and Gabrielle on the bench opposite, as the sleigh glided over the late-winter snow.
“You look scared,” Théodore said. “Don’t you want to marry Pascal?”
Alexandre laughed at the innocent question, for once unreserved; throwing his head back to the white flash of teeth brightened the dark interior of the carriage. “I think all brides are a bit nervous on their wedding days, young man.”
“Not as nervous as the grooms, my dear,” Nicole chided with a wink.
Please, enough with the banter. I know you mean well, but it does nothing to ease my stomach.
Manon listened to the cadence of the hoofbeats as they crunched down on the snow and ice. She let the steady slosh, slosh, slosh of the hooves over the melting snow transport her away from the here and now . . . let the sound ease the knots from her neck and shoulders so that she might face her husband with her back straight.
The doors to the church opened. Théodore escorted Nicole to her seat and claimed the seat to her left, leaving a space to her right for Alexandre. Gabrielle and Claudine followed and would stand to Manon’s left as her pillars of support.
I would never have imagined that you two would be the ones by my side, but I am pleased you’re there all the same.
On Alexandre’s arm, Manon took her first steps from the bright noon sunlight into the dark church, lit only by low candles. The dust and incense bit at her nose, but the soft glow from the votive candles was warm and somehow inviting.
Manon saw Pascal, haloed by the dim light, through the sea of people who had come to see the spectacle of a Lefebvre wedding. He struggled to keep the proper visage of the solemn groom that all expected, but he could not help but smile through the mist of incense at his approaching bride.
She took the decorously slow march down the aisle and listened to the words of the priest, responding in perfect Latin when prompted. My studies prove useful again. Perhaps for the last time?
Within a quarter of an hour they were married and Pascal claimed his bride with a chaste kiss on the lips.
Manon. Manon Lefebvre. Manon Giroux. Skenandoa is no longer.
* * *
“Madame Giroux, out of bed with you!” Pascal flung open the bedroom windows, letting the brisk morning curl around her sleep-warmed flesh.
“You cruel, evil man!” Manon said, sitting up, pulling the covers over her bare breasts. “A good husband would let his wife sleep after her wedding night.”
“It’s nearly noon,” Pascal said, arms akimbo. “And it’s not like I slept any more than you did.”
“I should think not!” Manon said. “Else I think we were doing things horribly wrong. Come back to bed and let’s make sure.” She held out her hand, inviting him back to the large, plush bed that dominated the finest guest quarters in the Lefebvre house. Nicole had insisted the couple spend the first days of their married life in the best comfort she could provide, and so the room would serve as their honeymoon cottage until they found a place to settle. It was far finer than Pascal was used to, and by the tense way he moved, Manon guessed he worried about breaking or spoiling anything he touched.
Rather than submit to Manon’s gentle tugging, Pascal pulled Manon from the covers, exposing her flesh to the cold air.
“You’re too beautiful to be real,” Pascal breathed, before covering her mouth with his and sliding his hands down the soft skin of her back and cupping her buttocks.
“But not so beautiful that you won’t come back to bed? And men like to tease women for being contrary?” Manon let out a soft chuckle against the soft skin of his neck and nipped playfully.
“I’m too excited to spend the day in bed, my sweet. I’ve something to show you.” She felt herself lifted in the air and swung around like one of Hélène’s dolls during one of the “great cyclones” the boys reenacted. “Get dressed, as much as it pains me to ask it.”
“So this is the married life you waxed on about it?” Manon scoffed as she pulled her chemise over her head. “Lying in bed and making love all day. Mooning over each other as long as our bodies can stand to remain ensconced in our covers . . . it didn’t last long.”
“Quit your grousing, woman, and get moving.” Pascal strode over to the armoire, found a sturdy woolen skirt and jacket, and thrust them at Manon, his every muscle dancing with the impatience of a small child.
She longed to tease him further, but as they’d been married less than a full day she decided to bite her contentious tongue and don the clothes he’d tossed in her direction. She shook her head at the mismatched ensemble and, from the armoire, selected the jacket that was meant to accompany the skirt while Pascal paced.
Manon descended the stairs on Pascal’s arm, surprised when he curbed her attempt to enter the dining room.
“Am I not allowed to a simple breakfast before you drag me from the house? I had no idea you were such a heartless brute.” Manon winced at her own words, thinking of the hell Gabrielle had endured at the hands of a true monster. “I am hungry,” she added, her tone soft.
“First of all, Madame Giroux, it’s time for luncheon, not breakfast. Secondly, we will eat our feast in the great out-of-doors. It’s waiting in the sleigh for us. The more you stall, the longer you must wait.” Pascal pulled her from the house where waited one of Alexandre’s small sleighs hitched to the fine chestnut horse Gilbert had gifted him on the occasion of their wedding. He wasn’t a large beast, but strong and a willing worker—necessary for a beast of burden to be worth his feed. Manon patted his neck affectionately
before taking Pascal’s proffered hand and assuming her place by his side in one of Alexandre’s smaller sleds.
“Now will you tell me where we’re going in a foot of snow?” Manon asked.
“Patience, Wife.” His tone was chiding, but his expression couldn’t hide the joy he felt in using the term lawfully.
The familiar roads let them to their favorite clearing, where they had spent many clandestine afternoons wrapped in each other on the wagon bed.
“For pity’s sake, we could have stayed at home in a warm bed if you wanted . . . that.” Manon slid down from her seat and stretched her legs, looking out over the rolling hills that would soon come to life with the bloom of spring.
“That’s not why I brought you here, my sweet.” Pascal approached her behind, his fingers tracing the curve of her waist and trailing down to her hips.
“You’re not very convincing. . . .”
“Darling wife . . . this is ours. All ours. Alexandre has gifted it to us. The rest will pass to young Frédéric in time, but he’s given us fifty acres for our own to cultivate and pass on to our children. It’s ours.”
Manon looked out over the fertile land and felt her stomach lurch. Because a man gave us a paper . . . . Now it belongs to us? How does it belong to anyone? Manon wanted to scoff, but she knew the gesture was too generous to rebuke.
“I didn’t think you ever wanted to farm?” Manon tucked her head against the hollow beneath his collarbone. “Would you be happy here?”
“Fifty acres is no great enterprise. I’m here mostly to set an example to the tenants and to oversee things on site as it were, as his nephew Henri used to do before he got his own lands. We’ll take over their old home once it’s been repaired a bit. I’ll be in his employ and we won’t be solely at the mercy of the land. That’s what I’ve always loathed, though now that I’m older I see it was largely my father’s laziness, rather than bad harvests, that caused us to starve. That will never happen to us.”
“No, it won’t.” Whatever the future holds in store, I’ve no worry that Pascal and I will be able to care for our family. He’s stubborn, and I am cunning when I need to be. We’re the kind that survives.
“I thought you might be happier here than in town. Some distance might be good for you?” Manon relaxed into the brawn of his arms and breathed in the scent of soap and pine.
“You’re probably right.” It would be hard not to feel welcome here. It could be their haven. A legacy for their children.
It was a place to call home.
* * *
“You must see it makes more sense to keep him here.” Nicole set her fork next to her dinner plate with a metallic clack against the polished mahogany.
“Tawendeh stays with me.” Manon dropped the French moniker, her hands clasped until her knuckles shone white in the candlelight.
“It’s too much for you to put a home together and look after a child. Be reasonable, dear. He’s happy here with the other children to play with. Think of the education we can provide for him.” Nicole sat tall in her seat at the foot of the table, prepared for battle like a seasoned general.
And think of the education you cannot provide for him. He would never know anything of his people.
“I promised that I would care for him and keep him with me. I cannot fail on that promise.” Manon spoke each word as if the edges were sharp enough to cut her tongue if she didn’t pronounce them with precision.
“He’ll be taken care of beautifully. What difference does it make if he’s here or with you?” Nicole wasn’t completely successful in keeping her serene façade.
What does it matter to you? You know we can provide for him.
“Dearest, I’m sure Manon is aware of her capabilities. Younger women than she mother children without trouble, and she’s sensible enough to ask for help if the need arises.” Alexandre gave his wife a pointed look from the opposite end of the long table and took a long draught of wine from his goblet.
“Alexandre, I don’t think she understands how much work it will be to set up a home.” Nicole placed her napkin at the side of her place, food clearly no longer a priority.
“We won’t have a home anywhere as grand as this. We intend to live simply.” Manon lowered her voice, but did not avert her gaze. It would do no good to appear confrontational.
“And she won’t be alone. I’ll be there to help her.” Pascal rarely interjected in the mealtime conversations at the Lefebvre house unless the discussion centered on farming, but his voice rang true as he voiced his support for his wife.
“I don’t see what the fuss is about. The cabin won’t be ready for another month or two at best. The tenants who lived there last acted like they lived in a run-down tavern rather than a home, so let’s not borrow trouble before it knocks on our door, shall we?” Alexandre clearly was reaching his limit of patience with the conversation, and Manon agreed with him.
“That seems wise to me,” Pascal agreed, his expression lined with gratitude for Alexandre and his peacekeeping.
“And it’s not as though the boy couldn’t stay two or three weeks longer while they get settled, in any case.” Alexandre returned his wife’s mutinous glare with a wry one of his own. Sometimes it’s like living with two moody bulls. Their personalities can be too big for one bull pen . . . or house.
“That seems reasonable.” Pascal’s brown eyes shot purposefully and Manon gleaned their meaning in an instant. Don’t be stubborn. It’s a good compromise.
“Of course.” Manon took a few bites of the stew before her in a pretense of politeness. It is reasonable to leave him here for a few weeks as we set up housekeeping. I know Nicole will argue when the time comes to take him with us, but he is my brother.
Alexandre shifted the conversation as deftly as he could, but Manon could see the longing in Nicole’s eyes. She wanted to keep the argument alive. She didn’t want to lose a single chick from her nest. She would have gladly kept Manon and Pascal in the guest room for the rest of their days if they’d been willing. Let it be, please, Nicole. You can’t control everything.
That night, Pascal removed his wife’s dress with the reverence of a priest unwrapping a precious relic of the church as he prepared to worship.
“My raven-haired beauty is upset.” He twirled a wayward strand of her ebony hair around his finger for a moment, then traced the edge of her jaw with his calloused fingertips. “Please be happy, my dearest one.”
“I am.” Manon turned to face the mirror and pulled his arms around her waist, rubbing the soft skin of her buttocks against him as she drew him close. “When you and I are alone, the world is a place of calm and peace.”
“Don’t fret so.” He cupped her right breast with his hand and nipped at her earlobe. “You know she only wishes to help. She wants to make sure young Théodore has the same advantages as every child under this roof. Considerable ones.”
“You think I should leave him here, don’t you?” Manon turned back to face him so she could read his expression.
“No, I don’t. If for no other reason, it would make you unhappy to do so.” Pascal drew her back in his arms and brushed a stray lock of hair from her face.
“I promised I would take care of him. I promised he would know where he came from. If he stayed here he would be French. He would lose all that he was.”
“And in turn, so would you.” He kissed her temples with feather-soft brushes of his lips. “I would not have that. I love who you are and would not change you. He is your link to your people.”
“Pascal . . . Sometimes I think I’m all alone in the world and then you say things like that.” She did not attempt to check the tear that rolled down her cheek.
“I know you, my sweet. You forget. There hasn’t been a day since I met you that you haven’t been in my thoughts. Not a time that you’ve been in my presence that your actions haven’t been the most significant doings in the room for me.”
“I love you, Pascal.” She breathed the words into his
bare chest and closed her eyes as she let her damp cheek absorb his warmth.
“I love you, too, Skenandoa. Manon. Madame Giroux. I will help you build a life with me. We will find our place.”
Manon thought of the familiar meadows and hills that would soon be their home. The little stone house that would welcome them as man and wife. The little black-haired boy asleep in the nursery who would grow to a man there under her care. Away from the prying eyes of town, it seemed no better place could be their nest.
Though the doubt lingered in the pit of her stomach, she relaxed into Pascal’s arms and trusted that he would endeavor to keep his promise, though she knew the world worked against him.
CHAPTER 26
Gabrielle
May 1679
“Monsieur Savard, what a pleasant surprise,” Gabrielle said, looking up from the tattered chemise she mended and offering the governor’s deputy a smile. She wiped the sweat from her palms onto her apron as discreetly as she could manage. He’d visited the shop a handful of times in the past months, bringing a torn waistcoat or a chemise in want of a new hem. Madame Savard never sent commissions. From the rumors about town, Annette Savard would sooner discard a garment than take the trouble to mend it.
“I’ve a pair of breeches that have become frayed and thought I’d ask you to take a look at them.”
“With pleasure,” Gabrielle said, extending her hand for the garment, which he produced from his satchel. There was the slightest hint of some loose silken threads at the cuff that hit just below his knee. The deputy dressed impeccably, especially by settlement standards, but this attention to the state of his clothes seemed excessive.
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