The Price of Honor (Canadiana Series Book 1)

by Susanne Matthews

  “But won’t they smell? Barns and stables usually do.” Isabelle wrinkled her nose.

  “That’s the beauty of the refit and its location, my lady. Ships don’t sail directly into the wind; rather, the wind comes across the rear of the ship, placing the bow area downwind. The smell goes out to sea. Four men, who’ll sleep below with the sailors, are here specifically to care for the animals—feed and water them as well as keep the ark clean. The men are my engagés, who’ll disembark with us in New France and go on to my estate with the animals. They’ll work for me for two years to cover the cost of their passage. After that, they’ll be free men, able to start farms and families of their own.”

  Wanting to drag out the tour as long as he could, Guy showed them the animals already aboard including the Percherons he hoped would be the start of his own stable, the milk cows, calves, sows, and piglets that would add to the animals he had in New France. The fowl would be loaded later today.

  “The horses are magnificent,” Isabelle said, admiring the black stallion and white mare.

  From there, he showed them the work deck with its tables that would be used at mealtime, the galley with its new stone oven and firebox, a design borrowed from the Orient, one insuring more safety since fire aboard a ship was its greatest danger, and the oven-like attachment which would improve the quality and type of food served at sea. Finally, he took them to Sophie’s cabin where her satchel, trunk, and fur-lined cape had been delivered.

  “The room’s larger than I expected,” Sophie said, examining the cabin. “I should be quite comfortable here.” Her voice caught on the last word.

  There was a double bed bolted to one wall and a small table affixed to the floor beside it with a candle in a metal lantern in its center. On the opposite wall, a larger table and two chairs sat next to built-in shelves and hooks for clothes. A lantern swung gently from a hook above the table. In the corner, near the porthole designed to provide light and fresh air, a chair waited for the cabin’s occupant to sit and relax.

  Guy released Isabelle’s arm to show Sophie how to close and lock the window in case it rained, or she got cold, then showed her how to lock the heavy bolt on the door.

  “You have a cabin to yourself as does the young woman with the vines, but the other twelve girls are paired up in heirs. Each cabin has furniture provided by the husbands for the comfort of their brides. When the ship arrives in New France, the furniture will be unloaded along with the rest of the cargo.

  “I don’t have a husband,” Sophie whispered. “Who provided my bed?”

  “I understand Colbert provisioned you. Do you see that small leather trunk next to yours? Fourteen of them were delivered yesterday, although yours is slightly larger. The king has provided one to each of you as a dowry.” He lowered his voice. “Going to the colony may not have been your choice, but you will not suffer for it.”

  Sophie walked over to the small trunk and opened it. Inside were needles, pins, thread, knives, forks, and candlesticks as well as other goods a woman might need to start a home. There was also a leather pouch with the king’s seal stamped into it. She opened it.

  “There must be a hundred livres here! On top of what the countess gave me ... Isabelle, you must thank Colbert and his majesty. I just wish you were coming with me.” Her voice cracked.

  “So do I,” Isabelle said, her eyes shimmering.

  Guy swallowed awkwardly, knowing he would never forget the look of sorrow on her face.

  “The quilts covering the beds were made by the Carmelites at the convent where the king’s aunt stayed until her decision to involve herself in the court once more.” He turned toward the door and stopped. “The beakhead is just below you, down those steps at the end of the gangway. It’s been separated for this trip. The ladies will use those on the portside, the left side, of the ship. The men have no access to the area.”

  “Beakhead? What’s the beakhead?” Sophie moved to stand beside the bed.

  “It’s a privé at sea where you’ll go to relieve yourself or empty your chamber pot. On this voyage, the sailors, including the captain’s cabin boy, aren’t allowed in the forecastle, so you’ll have to attend to your own care. Perhaps we can arrange for one of the other girls to look after you.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” Sophie interrupted, her face reddening. “Despite appearances to the contrary, I’m not a noblewoman. I’m quite capable of taking care of myself.”

  He nodded. As the poor relative, she would’ve been treated well but perhaps not as well as Isabelle, much as he’d been treated as Pierre’s cousin.

  “When do the others arrive?” she asked, licking dry lips. “I would prefer not to be alone on the ship given the proximity of thieves. We sail at dawn tomorrow, don’t we?”

  “Rest assured, you won’t be alone. There are people aboard the ship now and the rest of the crew should be here within the hour. The garrison arrives mid-afternoon, and the passengers will be in their cabins by five. The captain is anxious to have everyone accounted for long before we sale. I made special arrangements to collect my mother from her sister’s just after eight this evening. Rank has its privilege.”

  Sophie reached out, took his hand, pulled him towards her, and shyly placed a quick kiss on his cheek.

  “I look forward to reacquainting myself with Madame Poirier. Her sugar cookies were always my favorite treats.” She licked her lips once more. “Thank you for the tour; at least now I’ll be able to find my supper and the beakhead.” She turned to Isabelle and reached for her hands. “Izzy, it’s almost midday and time to say goodbye.” She gazed at Guy. “If we could have a moment alone...”

  “Of course.”

  Guy moved out of the cabin to give them some privacy, but he could hear their voices in the background.

  “Izzy, I’ll miss you so much.” Sophie started to cry. “Things will be so awful for you...”

  “There won’t be a day that’ll pass without me thinking of you. Be happy. Find love and the life Pierre wanted for us. Vincent will be away most of the time. I’ll be fine. Maybe I can even beg him to let me keep Murielle.” Isabelle’s sobs were a knife wound to his heart.

  Guy tried not to listen, but the simple words had touched him as deeply as they did the speakers. The only friend who’d been as close to him as the girls were to each other had been Pierre, and he’d never had a chance to say goodbye to him. He’d think about Isabelle’s suggestion that he marry Sophie. It might be like having a small part of her, and they could console one another through the years. People married for far worse reasons than that.

  Isabelle came out of the cabin, her emerald eyes bright with tears, and her cheeks damp, but she still took his breath away. Her eyes had haunted him for years and would continue to do so for the rest of his life. He reached for her to comfort her, gave her a quick hug, and then led the way up to the weather deck.

  Just as Sophie was obligated to marry within a year of her arrival in New France, so was he, if he wanted to acquire more land. Children were the price the king exacted for his generosity. No doubt, if he chose not to offer marriage to Sophie, with is mother’s help, he could find a woman who would be a suitable companion, bear his children, and maybe in time he would come to care for her deeply, but it would never be the gut-wrenching, soul-torturing love he had for Isabelle.

  Isabelle could never love him. Pierre had had her love for a time, and any other she had to give would go to her children. The memories of their brief time together would warm his heart on cold winter nights. Letting go of the last of his dreams, he led a tearful Isabelle from the ship.

  She stopped to thank Monsieur Martin and wished him a safe voyage.

  “When you return to France, if your ship sails into Le Havre, be sure to come and see us at Caen. I’m sure that if you ever decide to visit New France, Sophie will be pleased to welcome you there as well.” She teared up. “Please take good care of her. She’s all the family I have left.”

  Turning, she preceded him d
own the gangplank and along the pier to the carriage, but instead of getting in on the side where she’d gotten out, she stepped around to the far side. Guy followed her, indicated to the waiting driver that he would help her in, and opened the carriage door. Isabelle stopped in front of the door and turned to Guy.

  “I don’t have the words to thank you properly for everything you’re doing for Sophie. Half of my heart is buried at Caen. The other half sails on that ship. You’re a good man, Guy Poirier. I wish you’d come back to Caen years ago. I’ll never forget you.” She stepped closer and raised her lips to him.

  Acting on instinct, Guy took her into his arms, bent his head, and claimed a prize beyond price. The kiss began tenderly, but soon the longing driving him deepened it. Isabelle didn’t resist his onslaught. Instead, she returned his ardor, her lips parting to admit him. This wasn’t a chaste kiss, but a kiss full of passion and longing for what could never be. His tongue duelled with hers, and he hardened painfully pulling her more tightly to him. Suddenly, she jerked away from him, her hand covering her mouth, her eyes brimmed with tears.

  Turning away without a word, she climbed into the coach, and he closed the door.

  “Isabelle, I—”

  The driver shook the reins, and the horses pulled away from the pier before he could finish the sentence.

  He stood rooted to the spot until the carriage was no longer in sight. Devastated by his actions, he turned and limped back to the ship. The memory of that kiss would last him forever, but it was the haunted look in her eyes that would plague his sleep.

  He plodded along the wharf, climbed the gangplank, and entered the forecastle. Perhaps he and Sophie could console one another, but the sounds of sobbing stopped him from knocking on the door. Food was probably the last thing she wanted now. He left her to grieve in peace. He would do the same when he could, but for now he had business to attend to.

  Isabelle sat in the coach trembling, stunned not only by the intensity of Guy’s kiss, but by her own reaction to it. Never in her life had she felt such hunger, such desire, such need. The countess was wrong. She wasn’t frigid—far from it. There was fire inside her. It just took the right man to ignite it.

  Pierre’s kisses had been gentle, his love-making sweet, and while she’d enjoyed it, it had never evoked the level of passion and yearning she’d just felt in Guy’s arms. She raised her fingers to her swollen lips, still warm from his. She could still feel him there, taste him, and the cravings he’d ignited continued to burn within her.

  She’d forgotten herself in his arms, responded to him shamelessly, but stabbing guilt had brought her back to reality. How could she be so wanton scarcely three months after her husband’s death? It was true she and Pierre had spent most of their marriage apart, but she did love him, even if that love seemed lukewarm compared to the hunger raging through her now.

  What must Guy think of her behaving like a brazen courtesan? While she might have asked to be kissed, he’d been a willing participant, taking over without any additional prompting on her part. He’d certainly been moved physically as the bulge of his desire against her had testified. There always seemed to be something more primitive, more physical, more intense about a man’s sexual needs, often quite evident like the lust so readily seen on the chevalier’s face.

  Sitting back, despite her confused emotions, she closed her eyes intent on remembering every aspect of the stolen kiss. The man who’d held her in his arms was a far cry from the shy, sensitive youth she recalled. Last night, going through the many things she would have to leave behind, she’d found the pressed flowers he’d given her that long-ago summer in the book of Spanish poetry now hidden in her satchel.

  She swiped at the tears that continued to fall. How would Guy react when he discovered her crime? Would he understand why she had to commit treason? Would he forgive her? Or like a loyal peer of the realm, would he turn her over to the authorities to face her fate? If he did, she would commit suicide rather than return to Caen and the chevalier’s bed.

  Isabelle pulled herself together. As she’d planned, not one man on that dock would forget her. The kiss, given behind the carriage in the shelter of the door had been something special and private—a gift to herself in case her plan didn’t succeed—something to give her courage to step into the millpond.

  Her reconnaissance mission had been a success. Thanks to Guy, she knew the layout of the ship, the exact location of Sophie’s cabin, and had figured out how to get back to Le Havre and aboard the vessel.

  The moment the coach came to a halt outside the governor’s lodge, Isabelle was out of the carriage, sobbing loudly. Any of the staff seeing her run by would think her heart was broken ... and if the plan didn’t work, it would be.

  Ten minutes later, safely ensconced in her bedroom, she tossed the silk skirt on the floor and jumped at the sound of her door opening.

  “Murielle, you scared the daylights out of me,” she said, as she peeked around her dressing screen. “The plan has to work; I’ll die if it doesn’t. I can’t marry the chevalier—not now, not ever.” She choked back her tears.

  As she’d worked out her plan, it hadn’t taken her long to realize she would fail without help. On Sunday night, she’d turned to Murielle who’d been like a mother to her and confessed everything—her father’s note, the possible plot against those in line for the throne, and her suspicions that even Pierre’s death had been an orchestrated part of this—and begged for her help. The woman had agreed, vowing to keep her secret to the grave if need be.

  “I know how to get back to Le Havre without getting caught. Have Lucie prepare several cases of non-perishable food, salted and smoked meats, jams, jellies, rum soaked cakes, wheels of cheese, chocolate, whatever we have left over from the winter stores, as well as a small box of fruit and root vegetables, and a couple of casks of Papa’s finest wine. Send them as gifts from Caen to augment the ship’s stores. Have Hector drive the wagon to the port and promise him an extra deux écus if he gets there after eight but before nine.”

  Murielle frowned. “Of course, but how will this help you get back to Le Havre?”

  “I’ll disguise myself as planned and hide under the tarp in the wagon bed. When we get to the port, I’ll slip off the wagon, pretend to be a dock orphan, and offer to help Hector transport the goods aboard the ship. I’ll put my satchel under some apples and carry the box to the galley where the food’s prepared. From there, I’ll sneak into Sophie’s cabin.”

  A knock on the door sent her sprawling onto her bed, covering her head with her arms.

  “That’ll be Beatrice with a cup of chamomile tea for you. Drink it. It will calm your nerves. I’ll go down and arrange everything as you’ve asked. The cart will be ready to leave by five. It won’t give you much time.”

  “I won’t need much.”

  Isabelle hid her puffy face in the pillow as Murielle opened the door to Beatrice. She listened to their whispered conversation and heard the door close behind her. The sound of the rustling skirt alerted her to the servant girl’s nearness.

  “I’ll hang up your gown, madame. I know how upset you are. Sophie was my friend. I’ll miss her, too.”

  The girl’s heartfelt words brought tears to Isabelle’s eyes once more. She sat up and accepted the cup of tea from her.

  “Murielle says you have to drink it all. It’ll make you feel better.”

  After she’d hung the dress, Beatrice drew the drapes and left the room.

  As soon as the door closed behind her, Isabelle got out of bed, hurried to the door to lock it, and then gathered her supplies. Within minutes, Murielle knocked using the code they’d chosen.

  “Cook is gathering the foodstuffs, and Hector swears he will get the boxes to the ship as ordered. Now, the only thing left is you.” She frowned. “Are you sure about this? Once it’s done, you’re committed.”

  “I know, but my only alternative is the millpond.”

  Murielle nodded and reached for the scissors.
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  Twenty minutes later, Isabelle pivoted in front of her. “Will I pass for a boy?”

  Murielle nodded. “A young man from Spain or Navarre, I think. Your own father wouldn’t recognize you, but be careful, your eyes may still give you away.”

  Between them, they’d covered her skin from head to toe with a diluted version of the walnut stain, using the darker version on her hair. Isabelle had donned the stable boy’s clothing she’d taken from the clothes line. Murielle had tied her straight shoulder length hair into a queue, a style worn by many young men, and then had placed Pierre’s slouch hat on her head to hide most of her face.

  “Here, look at me,” Murielle ordered, reaching into a small bag she pulled out of her pocket. “It’s a combination of dirt from the stable yard and ashes.” She rubbed the mixture into her face, hands, and clothes. “It’ll masque your scent. You can’t be too clean, or someone will question your disguise.”

  Nodding, Isabelle slipped her feet into her old riding boots. They were good ones, not what a boy in her position would wear, but she couldn’t go barefoot on the ship. Guy had explained how slivers from oiled wood often became infected, and she couldn’t take a chance on getting sick. While she’d never had a problem on short jaunts afloat, the ocean would be much rougher. She hoped she could avoid seasickness, too.

  After Murielle placed Isabelle’s dress in the armoire with the others, she straightened the bed. She collected the hair and rags and put them in a cloth bag in the bottom of her knitting basket, currently overflowing with skeins of dark brown yarn to explain her stained fingers.