Promised to the Crown

by Aimie K. Runyan

  Be brave, Nicole told herself. The men seem no different from those at home. Smile. Seem friendly. They will come to you. She took a deep breath and placed the cup on the table. She stepped out of the shadows and affixed a smile that she hoped appeared sincere. Within moments, a gangly man in his twenties bowed before her.

  “Alphonse Quentin,” the man said by way of introduction.

  “Nicole Deschamps,” she replied, pleased that no warble of her voice betrayed her nerves.

  “Your hair is the color of warm chestnuts,” he said, staring at his feet.

  “I—I thank you?” Nicole stammered. Was that meant to be a compliment?

  “I grow some of the finest oats to be seen in the settlement,” the man said, appearing to summon some confidence.

  “That’s . . . wonderful for you,” Nicole said.

  “My dear Mademoiselle Deschamps.” Sister Mathilde swooped in, taking Nicole by the arm. “I have need of you. I’m sure Monsieur Quentin will forgive me.”

  Quentin nodded, but his face betrayed his disappointment. Though he might not forgive Sister Mathilde’s intrusion, he would never dare to voice it.

  A few yards away, the old woman leaned into Nicole. “Alphonse Quentin is a good man, but a simple one. A girl with any schooling at all would be wasted on him. I’ve a much better plan for you.”

  Nicole found herself standing before a man who looked about as happy to attend a social event as he would his own hanging. He stood a good six inches taller than Nicole and cut a striking figure. His features looked chiseled from marble, but the fringe of jet-black curls that framed his face did marvels to soften his statuesque visage. Nicole could tell his stormy gray eyes were assessing her, but his conclusions remained a mystery.

  “Monsieur Alexandre Lefebvre, may I present Mademoiselle Nicole Deschamps of Rouen,” Sister Mathilde said, pushing Nicole forward. “I thought you two should get better acquainted.”

  Monsieur Lefebvre nodded. Sister Mathilde whisked away to another part of the hall, leaving Nicole alone with the man. She looked to her friends, but saw no polite means of escape.

  “Good evening,” Nicole said, after an awkward moment.

  “Good evening,” Lefebvre echoed, arching his brow.

  Was I too bold in speaking first? Nicole looked at her shoes, praying the floor would swallow her whole.

  “So you are from Rouen,” Lefebvre said. “I assume your father has passed. That seems the usual tale.”

  “Very near Rouen, monsieur,” Nicole said. “But my father lives. He has a farm outside of the city.”

  Lefebvre paused with his mug of cider half raised to his lips. “Indeed. Then how did he allow you to come here?”

  “Our land was depleted. I had no dowry.” Nicole willed that words of her family would not trigger the tears that seemed forever pressing behind her eyes. “I preferred to leave than to be a burden.”

  “He would have done better to keep you in France.” Lefebvre’s voice, for reasons unknown to Nicole, seemed laced with acid.

  “You do not like New France, then?” Nicole wondered what on earth could inspire such venom.

  “It is no place for women,” Lefebvre said. “A desolate place. The King is a fool for risking your lives to build his colonies.”

  “If I may be so bold,” Nicole asked, “why are you here, monsieur, if you find this place distasteful?” She grew weary of this man’s scornful tone. Hard enough to accept her new life, without a stranger telling her that she’d made a dreadful mistake.

  “The lot of a second son, mademoiselle,” Lefebvre replied. He offered a barely perceivable nod and left without another word.

  Though she had no particular reason to heed this stranger, Nicole felt somehow wounded by his slight. She admitted an appreciation for Lefebvre’s poise and comportment. He seemed more refined than the men in the Norman countryside, and made Nicole feel somehow backward and crude.

  Quite the introduction to society, Nicole thought. A simpleton and a man too presumptuous and arrogant by half. Why can’t I find a man with Jean’s sweetness and quick wit? Jean’s boyish face and brown curls flashed in her memory, and she knew she could not depend upon herself to keep the tears at bay.

  She sought out her cloak and left the reception, hoping no one noticed her departure. The bitter wind blew, as always, but the snowfall was light and Nicole could see the convent from the town hall even through the falling snow.

  “What on earth are you doing out here?” a male voice yelled.

  Nicole turned to see Lefebvre, who must have left the gathering just before she did, untying his massive sorrel horse. Lefebvre’s eyes blazed with intensity as though she had done him a great offense.

  “Going home, monsieur.” Nicole pulled her cloak tighter but did not slow her pace.

  “You should know better than to go out in a storm alone,” Lefebvre said. “This is not France; the winter here is not to be taken lightly.”

  “Thank you for your concern, monsieur, but I think I can find my way fifty yards in light snow,” Nicole replied.

  “Don’t trifle with the weather, girl,” Lefebvre said. “A light snow can turn into a blizzard in moments.”

  Nicole bit back a reply and set out toward the convent. Though tempted to engage the infuriating man in a shouting match, she held her tongue and left him behind. She reached the convent without incident, but sought the warmth of the fire as soon as she crossed the threshold. She wondered if she would ever adjust to the perpetual cold.

  She took the least austere of the chairs and pulled it close to the crackling flames, enjoying the warmth as she watched the figures in the blaze. It was a game she had played with her mother as a girl. Some people looked for sheep or rabbits in the wispy clouds, but she sought out the kittens frolicking in the dancing fire.

  But her plans of a solitary end to her evening ended when Sister Mathilde entered the room to see which woman had returned so early.

  “You are back already, child?” Sister Mathilde claimed the seat by the roaring fire next to Nicole’s, a cup of warm cider in hand for each of them.

  “I have enjoyed my share of company, Sister.” Nicole sat back down on the spindly chair in front of the fireplace. “I see you came back early as well.”

  “The younger women of my order can supervise once things are underway,” Sister Mathilde said, savoring a sip from her cup. “I weary too easily now, to spend the late hours away from my convent. I noticed Alexandre Lefebvre showed you his usual charm.”

  “You saw?” Nicole was embarrassed that the conversation had not been more private.

  The Sister nodded. “I hoped you might soften him a bit. Poor man.”

  Sister Mathilde looked into her cup. She seemed tempted to say more, but kept her thoughts to herself.

  “Do not be discouraged, my dear,” Sister Mathilde said. “Some women find their matches almost at once, others take time. You seem one of the latter variety. Nothing wrong with that. You’ll be tempted before long.”

  “I hope you’re right, Sister.” Nicole looked back at the fire and sipped the warm cider. Something that tastes of home, at least.

  “Tell me, child, are you unhappy here?” Sister Mathilde asked.

  “No, Sister, not exactly.” It was the truth. Nicole didn’t dislike anything about the colony in particular—except, perhaps, the cold. “I miss my family a great deal, though.”

  “As a good girl should,” Sister Mathilde said. “Just remember, your place is here and you must make the best of it. You will find contentment here, my dear, and perhaps even happiness, but you must allow yourself to find it.”

  In other words, Nicole thought, chin up and eyes forward.

  CHAPTER 4

  Elisabeth

  October 1667

  Flour . . . sugar . . . yeast . . . salt . . .

  Elisabeth gathered the ingredients for bread, along with eight bowls and plenty of clean cloths. Dawn had just broken, and her lesson wasn’t for hours, but he
r impatience kept her from idling in the warmth of her bed. Today was her first day as a teacher and she was determined to get things right. Sister Mathilde stressed that the most coveted quality of a wife was her usefulness, and Elisabeth knew that baking bread would soon become a part of the life of all her shipmates. Good bread meant good health, and Elisabeth could not bear the idea of not imparting some of her knowledge to the women who had become her dearest friends. Six of her shipmates and even two of the Sisters agreed—eagerly—to take lessons when Elisabeth volunteered.

  People do care what I do, Maman. People care about what I have to say.

  The recipe she taught today would be a simple one, so preparing ingredients was the work of minutes. Kindling the oven to the proper temperature was another matter. Sister Éléonore had started the task for their breakfast, but the fire wasn’t ready to bake bread. A few more sticks of firewood and a good blast from the bellows set things on the right course. The convent’s bread oven was in the interior of the house, much to Elisabeth’s delight. It posed a fire risk, to be sure, but it saved the inconvenience of going outside to bake bread in the snow. Her shipmates who married homesteaders would certainly know that pleasure soon enough.

  Unable to resist the temptation of being alone in a proper kitchen for the first time in months, she set to work. Millefeuilles, Elisabeth decided, noticing the quantity of excellent cream. No man with a mouth can resist them. Thursday afternoon was the designated time for the gentlemen of the colony, and she had no doubt the pastries would sate grateful appetites. Almost without thought, she mixed the ingredients and set the dough in the coldest part of the cellar where it would rest before she rolled it out and baked it in sheets.

  Elisabeth luxuriated in swirling the cream mixture together. This was the heart of the millefeuille. In the bakery she had time for neither careless haste nor leisure, so it was only on the rare occasions when she had the time to develop a recipe in the family kitchen that she had the chance to enjoy her craft.

  Without warning, her mother’s face entered her thoughts. She had to slow her hand and steady her breath, or risk turning the cream into butter as she stirred. Over the years she had to learn to calm her temper where her mother was concerned. Pastry dough, in particular, required gentle handling, so it served as a useful tool for cooling her anger. Nothing that ever escaped Anne Martin’s mouth is worth ruining one batch of pastry or one loaf of bread.

  It was three years before that Elisabeth taught herself this recipe . . . sneaking in some baking time before her mother awoke just before mid-morning. It was one of the horrid days when her mother insisted she stay home to practice some loathsome domestic skill. Sewing and a social call that day.

  Anne was convinced that one of the silver-haired, dour-faced women would convince Elisabeth to give up her hours at the bakery, though her own nagging could not do it. Once every month or so it was the same: A woman has no place running a business if she has the means to do otherwise.

  “Her sister is a countess, Elisabeth! Imagine that. You cannot think she’d give you poor advice,” Anne would say. Elisabeth held her tongue, knowing no amount of time would help her mother to understand that she was not as impressed by rank as she. No sister of a countess, aunt of a duke, or cousin to a foreign prince made any progress.

  The tedious lecture then led to a stern reprimand about the sheaves of wheat Elisabeth had embroidered on her brown linen jacket. If there was one thing Anne couldn’t stand, it was anything that attached her to the working classes. Including me. Including Papa.

  When her father came home, the day was forgotten. He praised the embroidery as being fit for a baker and all but drooled on the table in praise of her pastries. So it always was on those days. As soon as her papa crossed the threshold, all the bitterness and frustration of the day evaporated, and she was herself again.

  Elisabeth summoned Pierre’s face from her memory to replace Anne’s and she felt the tension ease from her shoulders. She looked down at the same brown jacket, now threadbare, and smiled at the little sheaves of wheat as she fetched the pastry dough from the cellar. With movements as deft as a dancer’s she rolled the pastry into thin sheets and placed them in the scorching oven. Within moments, the scent of butter laced with sugar filled the air. Elisabeth sat, stealing a few minutes’ rest before the girls arrived for their course, and breathed in the aroma. Thank God that some things never change.

  Not long after, her pupils assembled around the scarred oaken worktable and looked to Elisabeth expectantly. They’re waiting for me, she realized. Say something! Elisabeth felt the words stick in her throat like dry bread. Rose and Nicole awaited instruction eagerly, some of the others less interested—one gazing out the kitchen window with a martyred expression as though she’d been waiting a month for Elisabeth to open her mouth.

  “Be-begin by putting all the flour in the bottom of the bowl,” Elisabeth said. As though by magic, eight women did as she commanded. Elisabeth tucked her shaking hands in her apron pockets. Her father’s voice entered her head as she continued the lesson. If there is one thing you know, girl, it’s how to bake a loaf of bread. You have no reason at all to doubt yourself in private, so don’t sell yourself short and do so in public.

  Step-by-step, the ladies followed Elisabeth’s instruction for making a loaf of plain bread with white flour. The mixtures came together with more than passable results as she inspected the dough that rested under warm damp cloths near, but not too near, the fire. She would have them come back in an hour or so to shape the loaves. Nothing so elaborate as her favorite baguettes from home, but a nice oblong cob shape would be serviceable for their families. She disliked making her loaves round if they were of any real size—too difficult to cut and tear into smaller chunks for dunking in soups and stews. Given some flour and yeast, these women and their families will not starve. And I’ve helped them.

  “Ladies, tonight we will dine like queens of France,” Elisabeth said with pride. “We’ll set the loaves baking in a few hours. Now hurry and spruce yourselves up. Your beaux will soon be here, and they will want to hear of your culinary prowess, no doubt.”

  At four that afternoon, just before the sun set into another long autumn night, a dozen suitors swarmed to the boardinghouse to visit the King’s wards. Elisabeth smiled at the fine waistcoats and justaucorps the men wore in hopes of impressing potential brides. She scanned the eager faces in search of a certain broad-featured gentleman with large brown eyes. She placed her pastries, cut with precision and drizzled with caramel, on the large table that dominated the room.

  Soon, Gilbert Beaumont’s tall frame appeared toward the back of the crowd. Elisabeth ignored the flutter in her stomach at the sight of the sturdy man with his serious brown eyes. They had met at the reception, and Elisabeth found herself looking forward to his visits with more enthusiasm than she dared to show. Smile, Anne’s voice commanded. Young men like cheerful young ladies. Though it pained Elisabeth, the conjured advice was sound.

  “Mademoiselle Martin, how wonderful to see you.” Gilbert bowed to Elisabeth in greeting as they met toward the edge of the room.

  The nine other young women sat in their preferred spots, with one or more suitors vying for each lady’s attention. Another small group of men waited, with a remarkable guise of patience, for a chair to open up near the lady of his choice. The waiting men filled the time conversing about crops and hunting.

  As they crossed to some vacant chairs, Elisabeth saw Jacques Piaget, an established farmer, hoping to attract her attention. His expression betrayed no lost affection for Gilbert Beaumont.

  If only Maman could see me, Elisabeth thought as she offered Gilbert one of her pastries and a mug of spruce beer. All those years she lamented of me ever finding a husband, and here I have my pick. Parisian men may prefer petite beauties, but New World men want solid wives who aren’t afraid of work.

  “Delectable, Mademoiselle Martin,” Gilbert said after swallowing a bite of the flaky pastry. “You have g
reat talent.”

  “My father taught me well.” Elisabeth sampled her efforts thoughtfully. “I had to make do with a caramel sauce, as it seems chocolate hasn’t made its way to New France.”

  “And more’s the pity. I care for it myself,” Gilbert said. “I studied as an apprentice baker in Bayeux, as I’m sure I have told you.”

  “Indeed, Monsieur Beaumont.” Elisabeth smiled behind her mug. “Perhaps as often as three times now.”

  The smart suitors mentioned their skills at every opportunity. Those with talent managed to do so without appearing boastful. Elisabeth had to admit that Gilbert knew her weakness and used it to his advantage.

  “What I haven’t said before is that my fondest wish is to start my own bakery,” Gilbert said. “I have repaid the three years of service for my crossing and have no love for farming, so I’ve saved enough to open a small bakery here in town.”

  “How wonderful,” Elisabeth said. At once her mind started formulating the needed inventory and organizing the stockroom. Slow down, she told herself. He may see the business as his own. He may wish to see you at the counter, charming the customers, not in front of his ovens. He may not be as forward thinking as Papa.

  “I understand there are only four bakers here; I’m sure they will appreciate another to ease the demand.” Elisabeth chose her comment with care, hoping it would show her interest in the business without seeming too eager.

  “You’re right, Mademoiselle Martin, as always,” Gilbert said. “More to the point, though I’m a solid baker, I have nothing like your gift. I hoped you would join me in my efforts. I have no doubt we could forge a successful . . . business . . . together.”

  Elisabeth hid her smile behind her mug. There was a dash of her papa’s humility in Gilbert that she loved.

  “Perhaps you are right, Monsieur Beaumont.” Elisabeth’s heart thudded against her rib cage. He’s going to ask. I’ve known him three weeks, and he’s going to ask.