“The young madame come back to see us!” Madame Yollande cried. The two had rarely had occasion to chat, but she always welcomed Manon into the one corner of the Lefebvre house where the rest of the Lefebvres rarely ventured. “Might I fetch you something to nibble on, madame?”
“I don’t think I could refuse,” Manon admitted, thinking of her subpar breakfast and the insatiable appetite of the life within. “Thank you.”
“And how are you getting on all the way out there, madame?” Madame Yollande placed an appetizing meat pie and a mug of cider before Manon. She felt the need to restrain herself as she ate, else risk appearing as savage as many in town thought she was. The cook’s face was lined with sympathy as if Manon had been sent to the moon itself rather than a well-ordered farm that sat a relatively easy distance from town in fair weather.
“Things are going quite well,” Manon said in between the small bites she forced herself to take. “You’re an artist with food, Madame Yollande.”
“Oh, you’re too kind, madame.”
“Not at all. I’m a miserable failure as a cook. I never seem to get it right.” Manon set down her fork with a sigh. She’d had an enjoyable meal, but poor Pascal and Théodore would have to get along with her poor efforts.
“Now, madame, why don’t you stay on this morning and watch me as I put together luncheon. You might pick up a trick or two.”
“Are you certain I wouldn’t be in your way?” Manon stammered at the woman’s thoughtful gesture.
“Not in the least bit, madame. Have a seat right there and I’ll talk you through it all as I go along. You can rest your poor feet while you learn.”
Manon’s eyes stung, and she wiped away the evidence before the squat woman with flyaway gray hair could notice. It’s the onion. Else perhaps the fatigue of carrying a child. She doesn’t need me weeping in her kitchen.
For over an hour, Manon watched as Madame Yollande chopped, measured, stirred, and simmered. She narrated the meal preparation as simply as she would explain the process to a child. There was no end to her patience with Manon’s questions and her bumbling attempts to imitate Madame Yollande’s techniques that had taken the talented cook years to master.
Manon realized her own men would soon be in need of their midday meal, so she was forced to take her leave of her culinary patroness.
“Thank you so much for all your help.” Manon embraced the woman briefly. Madame Yollande patted Manon’s hand, one brow arched in mild surprise. A Lefebvre would never have made such a gesture to a servant, no matter how kind the deed.
I needn’t worry about rank and station anymore. I am a farmer’s wife, though he aspires to be so much more. It’s as freeing as a barefoot walk on spring grass.
Manon returned home, extra meat pies and bread thrust upon her by Madame Yollande after Manon promised to come back as often as she could for more lessons. At least Pascal and Théodore will eat well this afternoon, little thanks to me. I will return for lessons from Madame Yollande. I owe them that much.
Manon felt her shoulders drop slightly as the stone buildings gave way to lush pastures. The settlement was good to me, but this is home.
* * *
Manon took example from her first schoolmistress, Rose, and taught her class out of doors. Though the Lefebvres had done what they could to “civilize” Théodore, to turn him into a well-behaved French child who played indoors with toy soldiers and wooden horses, Manon was pleased to see that the Huron had not been completely bleached out of the boy. He loved the craggy hills and rugged trees. He loved the freedom to scamper unfettered like the babbling brook that wound through their land. He was a proper boy of eight with scabbed knees and energy that Manon envied as the baby within began to tax her stamina.
“Yearonta,” she called out as they passed a thicket of trees.
“Yearonta,” he echoed, his pronunciation better than it had been even a week before. The Wendat words came back to him quickly. They wandered farther afield that day, as far as the river, where he yelled out triumphantly: “Yeandawa!”
“Yes, the Yeandawa is mighty today. But we must return soon or Pascal will be hungry for his datarah.”
“Bread. Can’t we just live on the scenery? It will be sleeping for the winter soon.” Théodore looked as though Manon were dragging him away from a friend from whom he would be separated for years. In a sense, it was true. Winter would be there within weeks and he’d spend more hours indoors than he cared to. She smiled at the thought of the snowshoes that Pascal had bought for him in town that they would present him with at the first sign of his winter melancholy.
“It fills the soul, but not the stomach, my boy. Let’s head back.”
Théodore reluctantly returned back to the path Pascal had cleared and maintained, which was just barely wide enough for the two of them to walk side by side.
“You’re happy you came with us, aren’t you?” The question had been dancing in Manon’s mouth, waiting to escape. You love me, dear brother, but do we make you happy? Manon was content with the isolation, but Théodore might have a different take on the solitude.
“Of course, sister.” Théodore slipped his hand in hers. “Where else would I be, but with you?”
“I worried you might be lonely without your friends in town.”
“I miss them.” His eyes darted downward for a fraction of a second. “Frédéric, Pierre, and the others are great fun. But if you were my mother, would you have left me behind, even if I would miss my friends?”
Manon released his hand so she could wrap her arm over his shoulders. “Never.”
“I want to be with you. It’s what Mother—aneheh—would have wanted. Pascal is great fun, too. Did you know he promised to buy me a pony?”
“I had heard something about that, yes.” And wondered where the money would come from, but goodness knows there’s no arguing with Pascal once he gets an idea in mind.
It was shortly after their wedding that Manon realized Pascal and Théodore had barely spent five minutes in each other’s company and never alone. It wasn’t unusual for the children in a family like the Lefebvres to dine separately from company, but the realization that she’d completely neglected to consider how the two would get along had sickened her. Pascal eased her nerves by taking the boy on a fishing trip for an afternoon. Théodore came back with a basket of fish ready for supper and a more ebullient smile than she’d ever seen. Pascal returned having much less luck with the fish, but a great deal of admiration for the sweet-natured boy.
Pascal took to the role of father figure with more enthusiasm than she would have expected. That he waited with impatience for his child who grew in her womb, she expected completely. She had not anticipated the level of patience he showed when teaching Théodore the basic tenets of husbandry and farming, how to hold a knife properly when whittling, how to lead horses without spooking them. He was a born father. Manon rubbed the skin that stretched over her bulging abdomen and smiled to herself. You will have a loving mother, father, and brother. You’re born with some lovely advantages, little one.
“I do have a question for you, sister.” Théodore scuffed the dirt with the tip of his boot as he walked alone.
“Of course, my sweet boy. What is it?”
“I was wondering . . . I know they gave me the name Théodore so that I might fit in better with the French. We don’t really live with them anymore. Do you think you could call me Tawendeh again? I could always go by Théodore in town.”
Manon stopped in her tracks and pulled him into her arms. “Tawendeh, my curious, funny little otter, we will call you whatever it is you want to be called.”
“Do you miss being called Skenandoa?”
“It’s been so long since anyone has used it, it almost sounds strange to me,” Manon admitted.
“I know what you mean. I think it fits you better than Manon, though. And I think Giroux is a nicer family name than ‘Big Turtle clan.’ You’re too fast to be a turtle.”
“Ah, never underestimate the turtle. He can swim like a fish. He’s not meant to be on land like you and I. His place is in the water.”
“I suppose it’s hard to understand something when we never see it in its proper home.” He again scuffed the dirt with the toe of his boot as he walked.
“You’re too smart for your years, young man.” Manon ruffled his hair and tried to ignore the tears that stung at her eyes.
Manon thought of the rude woman from the cheese shop, the old man who used to scoff at her in church when she was a girl, even Alexandre and Nicole. If they saw her with her own people, how would they think her different? Would they see the grace of the turtle’s glide through water, or would they forever see his plodding movements on the hard, unforgiving earth?
* * *
Manon and Tawendeh arrived home as the light began to fade and the air grew crisp. Pascal, she expected to be home and waiting for them, but did not expect the whole of the Alexandre Lefebvre family to be waiting as well.
“Don’t you fret,” Nicole greeted, kissing Manon’s cheeks, then moving on to Tawendeh’s. “We’ve brought supper with us. It’s warming now. You needn’t feed the whole Lefebvre army without notice. Madame Yollande sends it along with her compliments. I never knew you’d been so friendly.”
“It’s a recent friendship.” Very recent. “And bless her. I’m thrilled to have you, but managing dinner for so many would have stretched my skills, to be sure,” Manon chuckled, kissing the top of Hélène’s mop of golden brown curls. Tawendeh and Frédéric quickly fell into a conversation that looked to Manon’s intruding eye as serious as the peace talks between the great clans of the Iroquois Nation. Little Sabine and the twins played on the floor with Pascal’s new pup he was training up for a hunting companion.
Nicole served the hearty chicken stew and crusty bread as she used to do alongside Sister Éléonore at the convent before Alexandre whisked her off to become a society wife. Manon smiled at her foster mother and passed the bowls brimming with the rich mixture of meat, vegetables, and broth around the table. This life suits you better than you remember, Nicole. It’s wonderful to see that you haven’t forgotten that entirely.
Alexandre and Pascal dominated the conversation with discussion of the tenants and farming, the children interjecting as they so rarely had occasion to do. Manon studied Alexandre’s face, surprised not to find a trace of annoyance there. He looked completely at ease, dining without ceremony or splendor. Your kind tend to be malleable, I will say that. The obdurate would never rise as far as you.
“And how are you feeling, darling?” Nicole eyed Manon significantly. Alexandre’s momentary lapse in formality would not extend to an open discussion of Manon’s condition.
“I tire easily, but nothing one wouldn’t expect.” Manon patted the top of Nicole’s hand.
“You must promise to let me know if you need help. I can come as often as you need, or else you could let us hire a maid for you.”
“Do you really think you could find a maid wanting to live so far out of the way? Never mind that we’d be awfully crowded with another adult here.”
“The house will need expanding before long, it’s true.” Alexandre wiped the corner of his mouth with his cloth. “We’ll be sure to allocate some of the rent from the other farms for the expenditure.”
“That’s generous of you,” Manon said, eyes wide. The home was no longer Alexandre’s responsibility to maintain, but part of Pascal’s duty as a landowner in his own right.
“Not at all.” Alexandre dismissed her praise with the wave of a hand. The expense was nothing to him, but would mean a good deal more comfort for Manon and her family.
The meal continued long into the dark until at last Alexandre announced that he’d better set to yoking the matched horses to the small carriage.
“Let me come hold the lantern for you,” Manon offered, grabbing her shawl and the lamp before Pascal could offer.
They walked the first few steps to the barn in silence, but Manon found her tongue at last.
“I’ve never thanked you.” Manon’s voice was unsteady, her eyes focused on the path ahead rather than on Alexandre’s reaction. “For this land. For giving Pascal a job he might never have aspired to. For taking me in when you married Nicole, for that matter.” You have been ungrateful. Despite his flaws he has been good to you.
“My dear, it’s the sort of thing one does for family.”
“You’ll forgive me, but I got the impression you didn’t think of me that way.” Manon held the lantern high now that they’d reached the stable, so Alexandre could see to the task of yoking the horse to the cart. You’re better at this than I expected from a man with an army of servants at his disposal.
“Whatever gave you that impression, my dear girl?” His eyes were on the wagon’s rigging, but his tone conveyed that Manon had his full attention.
“I heard you telling Nicole that you didn’t think of me as a daughter like you did Hélène. Years ago before I went back to the Huron village.”
“I never dreamed you heard that. I’m heartily ashamed.” He patted the horse and looked up at Manon, regret in his dark gray eyes.
“Don’t be. I am not your daughter and I had no right to expect you to think of me as Nicole did. She’s more given to sentimentality than you are.”
“That she is, but all the same, I didn’t ever intend for you to feel unwelcome in my home.”
“I was oversensitive. It doesn’t matter now. I’ve been ungrateful and ought to have thanked you before now.”
“No thanks are needed, my dear Manon. I may not have thought of you like a daughter. Hélène happened to be the very image of a favorite young cousin of mine. Perhaps it’s what made it easier to feel as a father to her. She was also a baby and you were not. All that withstanding, I always thought of you as something like a much cherished niece. I know it ought to have been more, but you mustn’t feel like I have no affection for you at all.”
“I don’t think I ever felt that way. Not really.” Manon gave him a quick embrace. She’d never dared before. She’d always offered him the same prim kiss on the left cheek, never quite touching lips to skin.
“I’m glad we’ve come to a better understanding. I hated to see the rift between you and me cause any unhappiness for Nicole.” Alexandre took the lantern with his left hand to guide them back to the house as he led the horse with the right.
“I feel the same. And please, let me thank you. What you’ve done for Pascal, for Tawendeh, for me. Thank you.”
“I can’t say the generosity is all selfless.” Alexandre chuckled softly. “Pascal is one of the best estate managers in all of New France, I’d lay wages on it. Despite his young age, he knows the land and the tenants and has the skill to manage both. Not to mention his work ethic. Giving you land and keeping your home in adequate condition will keep you both happy, and hopefully dissuade you from giving up on this enterprise of ours for a good long while.”
“I think you’re safe in that. Pascal has never seemed more content than in the months he’s been here. The out-of-doors is good for him.”
“A good wife and a strong, strapping son—adoptive or no—and another child on the way have done more than this parcel of land. Though far be it from me to contradict a lady.”
“I’m sorry for the way I’ve acted toward you, Alexandre. You’ve been kinder to me than I deserve.”
“Say no more of it. And while we’re in the moment for making heartfelt confessions; daughter or not, there is no young lady who could have made me prouder.”
Manon looked down at the earth beneath her feet, ignoring the dark splotches that now formed on it from her tears. That those words should be so important for her to hear after all this time was perhaps ridiculous, but she could not alter how she felt.
“Come now, you mustn’t carry on so. It’s not good for the little one. And now that the subject is at hand, my dearest wife had asked me to persuade you to come to us for your travail
s. It would make her easier knowing you were nearer to help should the need arise.”
Manon nodded. “Thank you, Alexandre . . . for everything.”
CHAPTER 30
Claudine
October 1679
Claudine stood over the kitchen worktable, taking her mother’s instructions on how to preserve cranberries in sugar for their enjoyment throughout the spring. The morning had been spent salting fish and a freshly butchered hog. There were winter squash and potatoes to store in the root cellar and beans to dry. The orchestra of smells transported her back to their ramshackle farmhouse outside of Rouen where she’d spent her girlhood. September and October were always months defined by labor. She’d helped her mother in the harvest season before, but never had the bounty been so large.
Papa’s farm in France really was depleted. Just twice the amount of land here, but five times or more the harvest. In two or three years we might have starved.
Claudine shuddered at the thought. She’d cursed her parents for taking her out of France when she was twelve and she realized how remote her life would be still. Farther away from the fine dresses and courtly manners she had imagined were the norm in Paris. Even the more rustic version of sophistication she’d seen in Rouen would be lost to her. It had broken her heart and she’d howled like a beaten dog every time they had to come home from Nicole’s house in town. Emmanuelle always tried to comfort her, but in those years, there was nothing that could have soothed her.
As she wiped up the filled jars with a clean rag and set them in crates for the hired boy to take to the cellar, she conjured up her childhood image of Paris. Every woman wore silk from the Orient and yards of hand-spun lace and carried a ridiculously small dog. Every man was dashing, wore an intricately embroidered justaucorps, and had family money to spare. After close to a decade in New France, that old image of luxury and refinement seemed a distant dream. Not to mention, ridiculously inaccurate. Rose and Elisabeth had shattered her childhood fantasies with their descriptions of the poverty and hardships in the capital. The grandeur wasn’t wholly imagined, from what she’d learned of Rose’s early life, but it existed amidst squalor. She knew now she wouldn’t enjoy it.
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