Piau

by Bruce Murray

  Out of politeness, Samuel repeated his answer in French to include Jeanne and Isabelle in the conversation. For the remainder of his visit, he conversed in French, describing his life in England and how different it was from the colonies. He confided that he preferred the peace and beauty of the New World. Jeanne thought it charming of him to say so. It certainly made a favourable impression on all the ladies present.

  After a pleasant stay, Samuel rose from his chair and bid them all adieu, promising to return another day. It was only later that I discovered I had missed his visit.

  Chapter 19

  Benjamin was circumspect when he was informed of young Mangeant’s visit. He listened patiently as his sisters enthusiastically related the details. Isabelle was more measured in her observations of Samuel. She, of course, was comparing the lieutenant to Benjamin. And on that score there was no comparison. Jeanne and I looked for any signs of disapproval in Benjamin’s reaction to their stories, but there were none. Could it have been he sensed that the son was not the father? I knew better. My cousin was not one to wear his heart on his sleeve. Despite his sensibilities, he was a cautious man and infinitely guarded with those he could not read easily.

  However, he did not object to the young man’s visits. They seemed to brighten the mood of the household. He confided to me that he had some concerns about the special attention Samuel was affording his sister Elizabeth. He was certain she was totally smitten with the young officer. Given that he would be leaving in a few months and therefore no intimate relationship could be permitted between the two, it was wise to intervene, even if it only meant closely chaperoning the couple. The guarantee in all this was the young man was joining his regiment in Boston at summer’s end.

  Before we could discover the outcome of the story between Elizabeth and Lieutenant Samuel Mangeant, we returned to our life at Melanson Village. The denouement of the story was revealed later in the summer, though, by René when he arrived at Annapolis to collect his rent from his tenants in the lower town. He seemed to want to blame himself for not knowing what was happening in what he called the romantic affair of his daughter Elizabeth and Mangeant’s son.

  “Can you believe I was totally ignorant of their affair? Benjamin had kept me uninformed. My brood has grown so large I barely have time to remember who they all are. I blame myself. And Mangeant was so enraged by the relationship, declaring Elizabeth totally unsuitable for his son. Can you imagine? He denigrated the Acadian people, saying there was not a single Acadian girl worthy of his young offspring. Such a match, he ranted, would ruin his son’s career in the British army. It pains me to even recount the story. My goodness, what a disaster!”

  “Calm yourself, René,” I interjected. “Surely it could not have been that serious.”

  He continued. “Apparently their relationship progressed innocently enough, always within the watchful eyes of Marie Josephe, Benjamin, and Madame Thibideau, the housekeeper. However, what was not known was that when they were together they were passing each other secret love notes. And not just a few. It was later revealed that Elizabeth was secretly escaping the Manor House after everyone had gone to bed. Can you envision such a thing? I don’t know how she managed such a ruse.

  “Well, I can say now that her reputation is ruined and Samuel Mangeant survives this affair with only a strong rebuke; he gets the chance for a fresh start in New England, free of scandal, and his honour remains intact. He has had his way with my daughter, and he is permitted to shirk his responsibility in this sordid business. Shame on him! Shame on me!”

  “Perhaps Elizabeth should come and stay with us until this whole affair has blown over,” suggested my grandmother sympathetically. “Time heals all, even scandal. And I have witnessed plenty of those in my lifetime. Reputations are always rehabilitated.”

  “You are so kind and understanding, Madame Marie. Perhaps this is a solution to our problem. God knows, Elizabeth deserves the same chance for forgiveness as the cad with whom she cavorted!”

  “It’s settled, then,” my mother chimed in. “We will find ways to help her forget this young gentleman, and her poor broken heart will heal in no time.”

  “So be it. I will return to Grand Pré this very day, and my daughter and I will sail back to Melanson Village in time for the harvest. Thank you all for your support. I will not forget your kindness, I assure you.”

  And so it was that Elizabeth LeBlanc came to live with us. She could barely be faulted for her actions. One cannot always control the workings of the heart, especially a fifteen-year-old one. Samuel Mangeant appeared to be an honourable young man, albeit self-possessed. Truth be told, Elizabeth lacked a proper role model growing up without her mother. And Samuel had no role model at all, at least not in his father. Who can say for certain whether their love was pure or not? In any case, their paths would cross again under far worse circumstances.

  Nothing could prepare us for what we saw when Elizabeth arrived at Melanson Village with René and her brother Benjamin. She was so thin and frail she could barely step out of her father’s boat without assistance. She looked as if something had drawn the spirit from her body. My family was immediately aware of the magnitude of the task ahead. It would not be easy to cure Elizabeth of her broken heart.

  My mother was the first to embrace her, kissing her on both cheeks. She expressed no words of comfort, knowing that words could not alleviate the poor girl’s sorrow. The scene resembled a funeral, not a welcome, but we were determined as a family to resurrect this girl’s life from the ashes.

  The news of her affair with Samuel Mangeant had not followed Elizabeth to Annapolis. Her shame was unknown outside our immediate circle, which gave her some comfort. So, too, did knowing she was in the warm embrace of a loving and forgiving family. The story of her relationship with the favourite’s son soon evaporated into the autumn air. The evidence of it, however, could not be so easily erased. One could see it in her mournful eyes and in her feeble body. Two days into her stay with us, she developed a fever and was forced to take to her bed. Benjamin and René were extremely concerned for her well-being, but all that could be accomplished was done by the women of the household. Around-the-clock nursing could not halt or lessen the burning inside her body and soul.

  Benjamin refused to leave her side until the fever had subsided. It did not. Jeanne suggested that a priest be called. Charles sailed to Annapolis for Father Breslay that same day. Once the priest had administered the last rites, my grandmother demanded that everyone leave the sickroom. We reluctantly followed her orders. She remained with Elizabeth overnight in the annex, with no one else permitted to enter. All we could do was pray. Few of us were able to sleep during the night, so we kept a vigil. How infinite those hours seem when one is waiting for death to call!

  Early the following morning, the door to the annex slowly opened. Grandmama entered the main room of the Manor House looking frightfully exhausted. The room was filled with expectant faces.

  She uttered only one sentence. “The fever has broken.”

  We all heaved a sigh of relief. Grandmama made her way tentatively to the large chair in front of the fireplace and collapsed into it. She did not speak a single word for the rest of the day. What took place behind that closed door in our home that night remains a mystery. No one ever questioned my grandmother’s special healing powers. They seemed to grow ever stronger as she aged.

  Elizabeth remained with us for the winter. Her health improved but she never again regained the radiance and innocence of her youth. The beauty she once possessed was eclipsed by the sorrow in her soul. In the spring, she returned to Grand Pré and the life she had always known. Regrettably, she never married.

  Chapter 20

  The next year, 1736, saw the birth of our fourth daughter, Theotiste, and the commemoration of my grandmother’s ninetieth birthday. Both were joyous celebrations. The coincidence of these events was that the new child was to grow
up inheriting more of Grandmama’s characteristics than any other.

  Soon after this celebration, however, we were quickly plunged into a time of mourning. The summer of 1737 witnessed the old woman’s passing. My grandmother, Madame Marie Dugas Melanson, had been the matriarch of the Melanson clan for over seventy years and was the last of her generation to survive in Acadia. She had been among the first to be born in the French colony and had lived to experience most of its early history. Although I grieved when Grandmama died, I was comforted by the fact that I had held on to her as long as possible. She passed on to me her strong sense of survival, her uncompromising will to live. And it has always been my belief that one may cease to breathe but one never ceases to exist. So it has been for my grandmother.

  My grandmother’s funeral was the largest event ever organized at Annapolis. Over a thousand mourners attended the mass for Grandmama, coming from all over Acadia. The mourners included English settlers from the town, Major Cosby and his regiment, and the lieutenant-governor’s militiamen. Armstrong himself graced us with his presence at the memorial held at Chapelle St. Jean Baptiste. There were those who imagined that Armstrong had come to show his respect for a formidable adversary. I believe he jumped at the opportunity to demonstrate his superior position amongst so many colonists, many of whom had never seen him before.

  There was an unusual feeling of unity, a harmony of spirit, that existed that day we laid my grandmother to rest. Never had there been such an occasion when French and English alike came together to celebrate the life of a respected member of their community. Unfortunately, there would never be another.

  Life is a balancing act between joy and sadness. If one lives from moment to moment, one is merely tolerating what has been and what is likely to happen. Survival, however, requires a memory of both the good times and bad to propel one safely onward. Anticipation is foreseeing what lies ahead. Living in the moment has been a struggle for me throughout my existence. Being able to anticipate what is likely to occur, on the other hand, has ensured my survival and that of many of those I have loved. The one thing I did not foresee, however, was Benjamin’s death.

  The dreadful news arrived in the early summer of 1739. Charles and his wife had been visiting his wife’s parents, as was their custom. We had chosen not to make our annual trip to visit Benjamin because Jeanne was close to giving birth to our daughter Agnes. Every year, for the past ten years, we had sailed to Grand Pré, but not that year. Why had fate manipulated the course of events so I was unable to be there to prevent what I later came to realize was preventable? His death at the age of twenty-eight was an inconceivable, devastating tragedy. My cousin had had such a promising life ahead of him. I was paralyzed by a grief that was beyond my endurance.

  Isabelle had arrived earlier in the summer to assist Jeanne in caring for the children. This also was the first summer she had not visited Benjamin. They had become very close over the years, and she showed she was willing to wait until he decided that they were destined to be together. However strong their relationship had become since she had decided to marry him when she was still a girl, Benjamin always treated her like a younger sister. Her patience knew no bounds, and she was prepared to accept any affection he was willing to send in her direction.

  Isabelle descended into anguish on hearing the terrible news. Jeanne and Mother, despite having to deal with their own sadness, were compelled to enforce some control over Isabelle’s hysteria. Her wailing was heart-wrenching as it echoed across the settlement, alerting all the Melansons that tragedy was in the air.

  I remember nothing of the trip from Annapolis to Grand Pré. We set sail the day the dreadful news arrived. Charles didn’t ask what course of action I was about to take; he was in complete control of the situation for my sake. He knew how profound my relationship with Benjamin had been, that we had been closer than brothers. Mother often said we shared the same spirit. She was correct. Half of me died the day I was told of Benjamin’s death. That part of me has never been reawakened.

  I found the entire community at Minas in a state of shock. Curiously, no one spoke of the cause of his death. Endless condolences were offered to the family, but no one inquired why Benjamin was no longer with us. His body had already been laid to rest in the churchyard following a hurried funeral.

  Elizabeth and Marie Josephe were distraught. They were unwilling to discuss any events surrounding Benjamin’s untimely death. A veil of mystery and fear descended upon the Manor House and the community. In our community deaths were treated as a normal part of life. This was different.

  René, as expected, wallowed in remorse. He regretted that he had never been a good father to Benjamin. Selfishness was his excuse. I wondered how this man, who had exhibited so much promise when he was young, had become so deluded and self-centred. It was futile to seek René’s assistance in trying to investigate his son’s death. I became the lone searcher for answers.

  Benjamin’s sisters insisted I stay in their brother’s private quarters. They thought Benjamin would have wanted that. I intuitively believed their offer had a greater meaning than they stated, and gladly accepted. That evening, I entered into Benjamin’s world with an immense sadness but with an expectation I might find some clues to my cousin’s untimely death.

  As I scrutinized the room, I felt that Benjamin’s spirit had not yet departed this sanctuary, this private place once occupied by Uncle Pierre. It was obvious nothing had been moved. Books and papers were lying about the room. I noticed the ancestral Bible in an honoured place on the table beside the large bed. On Benjamin’s work desk were papers of various kinds that gave evidence of his business and trade dealings. On closer inspection, however, I noticed that one drawer, below the desktop, was slightly ajar. It beckoned to me to open it. As I gently pulled on its handle the drawer opened wide, revealing a leather-bound volume. It was well worn, and I could see no lettering on its cover. I peered at it, wondering what mysteries it held. I was not prepared for what I was to discover within its pages. This was Benjamin’s private journal.

  Chapter 21

  I sat on the bed and began to thumb through Benjamin’s journal. The winter entries were routine and filled with personal observations about dealings he had with his neighbours. He regularly mentioned his concerns about Elizabeth’s dark moods and monitored her good days and bad. With the change of seasons, however, the tone in his writing dramatically changed — not to one of hope, which is customary when spring arrives, but to one of darkness and foreboding. I began to read attentively.

  JOURNAL OF BENJAMIN LEBLANC, 1739

  April 11, 1739

  Today I met with a delegation of farmers who are at their wits’ end over Mangeant’s persistent bad treatment. They allege that the magistrate is questioning their ownership of their farms based on the lack of proper documentation. He has told them that this jeopardizes their children’s right to inherit. It angers me to think that a proof is necessary. Most of these families have worked this land for generations. They say he uses condescending and aggressive language with them on his regular visits to their farms. They feel helpless because he invariably reinforces his position of power by emphasizing his close relationship with Lieutenant-Governor Armstrong, a man they only know by reputation. Although Uncle Alexandre is officially the tax collector, the favourite has taken that on as well. Furthermore, the farmers sense they are being watched at all times, and this fills them with unease. I emphasized to them that Mangeant is a fear monger, and that if they stand their ground without causing offence there is little he can do to retaliate without a justifiable reason. They, however, have always looked to me for counsel and, as they see it, protection. Therefore, I shall do my duty and discuss the situation with the magistrate.

  April 12, 1739

  I visited Mangeant today at his home. Madame Mangeant was very gracious and offered me tea while I waited for her husband. She spoke only a few words of welcome in French and
left me alone. I glanced around their Great Room and noticed there was evidence of comfort and style in this house that Bernard Gaudet built. It was decorated in the English style, which was not surprising. The Mangeants had lived at the Annapolis garrison for many years and were exposed to more things British in that time than anything French or Acadian. I realized that the Manor House was, in stark contrast, decorated in the style of the old French regime. For the first time it dawned on me that I had not changed a single thing at the Manor House since Grandfather died, except for the addition of a considerable number of volumes to the book collection.

  Mangeant kept me waiting for a long period, perhaps to give him the advantage in this ongoing power game he is playing with me. He appeared in the doorway of his study wearing an English waistcoat. I was not invited to join him in his private quarters. He joined me in the Great Room, and after engaging in simple courtesies, he sat on the chair opposite me with a look of anticipation and false politeness.

  I wasted no time in expressing my concerns about his treatment of my Acadian neighbours, hoping he might consider tempering his behaviour in order to keep the peace.

  He remained silent as I spoke, but I was aware that the blood was slowly bringing colour to his cheeks. I sensed that the changing demeanour was evidence of a controlled rage. He stiffened in his chair, and his boots rigidly came together in an “at attention” stance.

  At the end of my plea, there was a brief silence. Suddenly he began to bellow his disapproval. He chastised me for presuming to give him advice, stating he was living in Grand Pré as an official representative of the British governor at Annapolis.