Duty to the Crown

by Aimie K. Runyan

  She claimed the letter off the floor and curled under the covers with the missive. She loosened the wax seal with her finger and saw René’s bold scrawl across the page. They’d had only a handful of occasions to exchange notes of any kind, but the script seemed as familiar as her own.

  My dearest love,

  I pray this letter reaches you in safety and happiness. If you read this, then you must be aware that Annette has, despite my direct orders, spoken horrible rumors against you to cause an inquiry. Perhaps worse. I know these rumors to be unfounded. You are too good, too kind, too gentle to commit such an atrocious act, even against a monster of a man who would have deserved no better.

  It is only hours before my departure to France, and I have only just learned of her disgusting plot. I haven’t the time to settle matters on my own before the ship sails back home, so I have enlisted one of my assistants to uncover the truth in secrecy. I have also charged him with delivering this note to someone unconnected with me so that you might know the truth. There is a large part of my heart that wishes to see Annette board the ship and never see the like of her again. Alas, I cannot abandon her. I wish to say it is from the nobler part of me that strives to honor my vows. It comes, sadly, much more from the part of me that recognizes I am neither resourceful nor clever enough to carve a place for myself in the world without the wealth and influence of bigger men.

  I will think of you every day for the rest of my life, my darling Gabrielle. Would that I were free to claim you as my wife and be the husband you deserve. Alas, I must content myself with the lot I have chosen, and you must find yours. Be happy, my love. If I cannot be, you must be happy for both of us. There will be a time when your heart is so full of others, that you’ll have no room to remember me. I long for that day, for then I will know my memory no longer causes you pain.

  Good-bye, Beloved. And God Bless You,

  Your,

  René

  Gabrielle held the letter up from her lap so there was no risk of her tears smudging his words. He loved her. He had tried to protect her. Despite his flaws, he was the good and true man she’d longed for. Others would only see his infidelity, despite to an honorable, if unloving, wife. They would be blind to the brief moment of happiness he’d brought to Gabrielle’s dreary life.

  And she would never be able to tell him how grateful she was for those stolen moments whose memory faded more each day.

  His scent was gone from her pillow. The precise shade of his eyes was vanishing from her memory. In time he would be but a specter to her. She did not long for that day, as René wished for her. She knew, deep inside, that she would not be free of him when he became a ghost of himself. She would be haunted by him.

  CHAPTER 32

  Manon

  December 1679

  Manon grew restless in the confines of the Lefebvre house, but pushed the anxiety from her thoughts. Every time she felt her nerves fray, the child inside began to kick her furiously as a reminder to calm herself. It wouldn’t be long now. She had given her word to Alexandre and Nicole that she would come to town for her lying-in, though she began to question the wisdom of it as the time drew near. Pascal reasoned with her that the roads would be too treacherous to cross quickly if things went badly; that the trek was too long even when the weather was fine. After a week into their stay, she felt the walls grow closer and closer together. Fool, you’d be trapped inside at home just as you are here. At least this way Tawendeh is with his friends and you have company and care as well. Be grateful.

  Manon spent much of her time in her old bedroom near the nursery, behind Alexandre’s massive old desk in the company of her books. When she spent her time among the others, they watched her constantly, waiting for the child as if Manon were in imminent danger of collapsing in spasms. She looked over her old volumes that remained in the room as a sort of shrine to her girlhood. Each precious book as familiar as an old friend. She would have to remind Alexandre to have them moved back to his library where the others could access them more readily.

  Knowing the midday meal would soon begin, she heaved a sigh and left the quiet of the peaceful haven behind. She took one step down the stairs and gripped the railing as she felt a sharp cramping in her midsection and a flow of warm fluid down her legs. From what she could see it was clear and not tinged with blood. A very good sign. Rather than descend the staircase unaided, she returned to her old bedroom and rang the servant bell for help. It was the first time she’d ever bothered with the bell pull, but she knew she shouldn’t risk another surge as she walked down the stairs.

  Rather than a maid or a footman, Nicole came to investigate the cause for the summons.

  “It’s not going to be long,” Manon said, taking deep breaths between her words to slow her heart and relax her tensing muscles.

  “I’ll send for Gabrielle and the midwife. Let’s get you changed and in bed.” Nicole looked pale and frazzled as she absorbed Manon’s words. Nicole had brought five children into the world, but had never served as a midwife before.

  “Changed, yes. Bed, no. I want to walk.” Manon held on to Nicole’s arm as they traversed the corridor to the guest room that had been designated as Manon’s birthing chamber. It suited Nicole’s understated style—pale pinks and grays contrasted with deep-red mahogany. It was light and pleasant, which was as much as Manon could ask for. It had seen four healthy babies born in it—a good omen to anyone.

  “Darling, don’t you think you ought to lie down and save your strength? This could be a long business.” Nicole busied her fingers with the laces of Manon’s loose bodice and pulled the gown over her head. She stopped Nicole from pulling the clean chemise over her as a wave of pain slammed into her like a wall.

  “I need to walk,” Manon said as the surge eased. Nicole fussed over her remaining on her feet, but Manon insisted on pacing the room and walking the corridor. Every time she attempted to lie down she felt like she was just slowing the baby’s progress. After a half hour of pacing, the surges came so close she was panting just to keep the air in her lungs.

  “Now” was all Manon could utter, discarding her chemise. Though made of the softest fabric, it still felt oppressive in her current state. She pulled back the bed linens under her own strength and climbed onto the bed. Rather than lie prostrate, she gripped onto one of the posters that held the canopy and let her body work with her. “The baby isn’t going to wait for the midwife.”

  Manon vaguely heard Nicole’s requests to lie down and let her cover her, but she could not find her voice to contradict her. The surges were on top of one another, and all she could do was grip the solid mahogany post and let her body move as it willed. She was completely at the mercy of her own flesh. It was an uncomfortable reality, but she let her body complete its task without letting her mind hamper her progress.

  “Now,” she said again. With a surge stronger than all the others, she emitted a cry as fierce as any warrior’s and felt Nicole catch the child as it entered the world.

  She crumpled onto her side and breathed evenly, relieved that the surges had finally subsided. She heard the lusty sounds of her child’s cry. That the baby was well and that her own pain was over was all she needed to know.

  “A boy,” Nicole said, her voice quivering. “A strong Giroux lad if ever I’ve seen one. And the quickest birth of a new mother I’ve ever heard of.”

  Because I wouldn’t lie down and do things your way. “Let me see him.” Manon situated herself on the bed, not bothering with her chemise, but covering with the sheets. Nicole handed off a well-swaddled, clean lad just a few moments later. Manon unwrapped the blankets and held the naked baby to her bare chest so he could find her nipple and suckle. The little one flickered his eyes open for a few seconds and cooed, happy to be free from his confines.

  “Welcome, cheahhah.” Welcome, child. She murmured words of love in her native Wendat. His first words will be those of my people. May they ring true in your perfect ears.

  A soft rap at th
e door announced that Pascal anxiously awaited his first glimpse of his son. Nicole had wanted to clean the sheets and see Manon dressed and ready to receive her husband properly, but Manon called her permission for him to enter.

  “You can help me clean up before Tawendeh sees me,” Manon assured Nicole. “Pascal will be fine to see me as I am.”

  “Very well.” Nicole leaned in and kissed Manon’s forehead and stroked the baby’s brow before leaving the parents alone to admire their child.

  “He’s beautiful, my love.” Pascal kissed her deeply and wrapped his arms around mother and son. “And so fast. You must have been having pains all day and told none of us.”

  “Nothing more than a persistent backache.” Manon kissed his scruffy cheek softly. “He is a lovely baby, isn’t he?”

  “Indeed, darling. Though I think we’re incredibly biased.”

  “As well we should be.”

  “You’re right as always, my darling. Shall we give him a proper Huron name, do you think?”

  “No,” Manon spoke decidedly. She had not discussed the naming of the child aloud, not counting on blessings before they were hers to hold; however, she’d given it a good deal of thought. “His papa is French and so should his name be. But we can give him a second name in Huron so he will remember where his maman comes from.”

  “I’m partial to the name Julien, if you don’t mind. It was my uncle’s name, and though I only met him a handful of times, I remember him as being a man of great kindness. Or at least generosity. He always had a pocket of molasses taffy for us.”

  Manon smiled at the sweet memory and nodded her agreement. “Julien Scanonie Giroux. Do you think it suits him?”

  “It’s a mouthful for such a wee man, but he’ll grow into it.” Pascal took the baby into his own arms and placed a kiss on the downy skin of his son’s cheek. “Peace?”

  Manon blinked, surprised her husband recognized the Huron word she’d given as her son’s name.

  “It’s the greatest thing I can hope for him,” Manon said. “The greatest wish any mother can have for her child.”

  “A better name I couldn’t think of, my darling.”

  Manon could hear the whispers of the rest of the family gathered outside the door, all clamoring for their chance to welcome baby Julien to the family and congratulate the new parents. With a smile she allowed Pascal to place the baby in his cradle so Nicole could help her dress for company.

  My sweet little boy, welcome to the world. I hope it will be as kind and gentle to you as you deserve.

  * * *

  Manon cursed her thickened waist and discarded her favorite dress with delicate embroidery in favor of a plainer, looser gown she’d worn in pregnancy. Little Julien was three days old, and he was due for his christening. Manon had hoped to be dressed in her best, as all eyes would be on her as she and Pascal, along with Julien’s godparents, Laurent and Claudine, presented the child to the Church.

  Ridiculous ceremony. My child is free of sin and has no need to be forgiven . . . but this is the price of raising the child to be French. Or at least mostly French.

  She looked in the mirror, not pleased, but not too disheartened by the reflection. She heard stirring in the halls that meant most everyone was ready or nearly so. I’ll have to do. She went over to the cradle where Julien slumbered and lifted him into her arms. He was none too pleased as she replaced his plain swaddling clothes with the elaborate baptism gown Gabrielle had made. Lace and ribbon over every inch of fabric so that Manon could hardly find her sweet boy’s full cheeks and chubby fingers in the ocean of white frills.

  “Come, my pumpkin, let’s go to church. Your papa and Nicole are anxious to show you off to the town. Just don’t listen to the townsfolk too closely. Some are lovely. Many are not.”

  Manon wrapped a warm blanket of soft wool over the baby to protect him from the December cold better than the thin white linen of the gown.

  Alexandre readied a veritable caravan to the church to escort Julien to his baptism. Manon rolled her eyes at the excess of three large sleighs pulled by fine horses, but she held her tongue. It was his way of displaying affection, and she had to give him his due. He’d cooed over Julien like a proud grandfather, holding him for a solid hour once he’d been given his chance with the little one.

  Claudine, looking almost too pregnant to be seen in public, held Julien before the priest. The choice of an expectant woman to serve as godmother caused some whispers in the congregation, but so did Manon herself. Laurent supported Claudine with his arm, his face somber and distracted, looking as though he paid little attention to the priest’s words. Manon could feel the assembly take a collective breath as the priest approached the child to anoint his forehead with holy water. Would he remain asleep on his godmother’s bosom or explode with shrill cries to echo off the church walls?

  Manon could not conceal her smile as he slumbered through the ordeal, unaware that he was being welcomed into their community. Gabrielle, seated next to Nicole and Alexandre in the first pew, smiled back up to her. Manon was old enough to remember her own baptism, shortly after she’d come to stay at the convent with Nicole. The Sisters could hardly allow an unredeemed native child to stay among them, and Manon would have done anything to please Nicole and the Sisters in those days.

  There had been cake and a fine stew that night in honor of her baptism. And hearty congratulations from the Sisters as well as a rosary and a prayer book from the much lamented Sister Mathilde. It almost made up for the wary glances of the churchgoers who viewed her baptism as somehow insincere. She was too old, too brown, to take the sacrament seriously.

  Your papa is French. Your skin is only a degree darker than his. You could pass for one of the Frenchmen near the Mediterranean with their olive skin and dark eyes. The Provençal with their lilting accents. No one will doubt your sincerity, your piety, to the point where you question it yourself.

  Manon felt her shoulders lower as the priest offered a final benediction to the congregation and dismissed them to the frosty December day.

  Nicole would not hear of a quiet celebration en famille to commemorate the event. All the elite of the town had been invited to a fine dinner that had taken every member of the staff, along with half of the members of the Robichauxes’ as well, two full days to prepare. At least this will take the place of the Christmas ball and we will be spared a second spectacle.

  “Congratulations, Madame Giroux,” said a deputy—or assistant deputy—or some far-flung secretary of the governor’s, who then kissed her hand with pomposity. “May this be the first son in a large family devoted to the glory and honor of His Majesty.”

  “Th-thank you,” Manon stammered, not knowing how to address the absurd compliment.

  “What a lovely christening gown,” the deputy’s wife breathed as she looked into the baby’s curious black eyes.

  “Thank you. Madame Gabrielle Patenaude made it.” Manon glanced over in Gabrielle’s direction with a pointed smile. Her decision to commission the baptism gown from Gabrielle rather than use a Lefebvre family heirloom was a strategic one.

  “Oh, I see.” The woman gave a sideways glance toward Gabrielle. “You being out of town much of the time, you might not have heard about the terrible to-do with the late Monsieur Patenaude.”

  “Oh, but I have, madame. How fortunate that Monsieur Verger was able to answer everything about the terrible accident to Judge Arnaud’s satisfaction. It must give poor Madame Patenaude such solace to hear the full truth spoken without any equivocation. And how fortunate for all of us that our justice system is so rigorous.”

  “Quite.” The woman’s expression grew cold as she registered Manon’s meaning.

  “It’s such a shame the man was careless enough to drink while hunting. Don’t you think? Then again, alcohol really is the devil’s own handicraft, isn’t it?”

  It had not escaped Manon’s notice that the wrinkled woman had a glass of port in her hand, though it was barely past the noon ho
ur. The woman looked down at her glass with an indignant blush, claimed to see an acquaintance with whom she needed to speak, and made her leave. Yes, go. And sleep sound in your bed knowing that dangerous criminals like Gabrielle Patenaude are not on the loose.

  Nicole, having overheard the conversation, offered her a mischievous wink. Well, if I’ve learned the art of turning a phrase on its end, I learned it from you.

  By the time the last well-wisher had passed on his praise of the child to mother, father, and the rest of the extended family, Manon was close to tears from her fatigue. The nanny ushered the baby to Manon’s room and, for once, Manon did not feel the prick of annoyance at the woman’s interference.

  “You were magnificent this afternoon,” Pascal whispered into her ear as the family gathered in the parlor with warm cider and spiced biscuits from Elisabeth’s kitchen.

  Manon kissed his cheek and followed him to the small settee. It was torture, but my son will have a place here. If I have to endure a throng of Nicole’s guests for his sake, so be it.

  * * *

  “Have you recovered from the festivities?” Nicole asked, popping her head in Manon’s room the following morning. Despite the repeated offers to hire a wet nurse, Manon insisted on nursing Julien for as long as she could. She sensed Nicole wished to argue the point, but Manon knew Nicole had nursed Hélène before she married Alexandre. She wondered if she would have done the same for the rest of her children had Alexandre not paid so much credence to fashion and style.

  “Fairly well,” Manon said, offering her a small smile from the comfortable chair.

  “I hope it wasn’t too much for you.”

  “It was lovely,” Manon allowed. “Thank you for all your trouble.”

  “I know it wasn’t the quiet affair you wanted. Thank you for indulging me.” Nicole leaned over, kissed Manon’s forehead, and took her place in the spare chair.