“Would you consider—would you consent to join me, to be my wife?” Gilbert raised his eyes to hers, the crease between his eyes grown deep as he waited for her response.
Elisabeth appraised the man before her. He seemed humble, hardworking, and honest. His qualities reminded her of her father, all the more so because he had no qualifications of which her mother would approve.
Elisabeth cast a quick glance at Jacques Piaget, who stood with some of the other men and kept an eye on Elisabeth. Jacques had already cleared his land; his farm was an enviable success. He had money and servants. He was the respectable choice.
Gilbert had not settled, and his future was far less certain. But Gilbert did not seek to find a bride who would rub his feet after a long day of toil; he wanted to share his life with her. He showed her respect. Piaget could assure a full stomach and physical comforts, but Gilbert offered the chance to create something more. She knew which man her mother would have picked for her, and which her father would have persuaded her to take. The decision was not a complicated one.
“Monsieur Beaumont, nothing could make me happier.”
Gilbert’s eyes shone. For a few seconds, he seemed unable to find his voice. Then, in a bold gesture, he took her hand and laced his fingers through hers.
“I hoped you would agree to be married in two weeks’ time,” Gilbert said. “I want you as my wife before the year ends. I hope that is not too soon for you, my Elisabeth.” His voice trembled with restrained emotion, but she also detected a note of pride as he tested the familiarity of her given name on his tongue.
“The sooner the better, Gilbert,” Elisabeth replied with a smile. “I don’t need months to know my heart. Name the day, and you will find me at the church.”
She longed to smooth the wayward lock of hair from his forehead, but did not dare.
Gilbert kissed her hand, pleasure radiating from his gentle features. “Monday the seventh.”
“You have a bargain, monsieur.”
“The first of us to marry,” Nicole exclaimed that evening as they climbed into bed, her voice laced with dreaminess. “Are you excited, Elisabeth?”
“I’m the oldest of the lot. It’s only fair that I wed first,” Elisabeth said, tossing a pillow at Nicole’s head. “And yes, I am excited.”
“I’m surprised you picked so quickly,” Rose said. “Monsieur Piaget was hurt.”
“I know.” Elisabeth’s countenance fell for a few seconds as she remembered the unpleasant scene that followed when she announced her proposal to him. “But he wasn’t what I was looking for. Nor was I well suited for him, though he doesn’t see it yet.”
“Perhaps not,” Nicole said. “But he was handsome and well off.”
“And utterly boring.” Elisabeth pulled the covers up to her chin and giggled. “Not for me. Gilbert may look somewhat plainer than Monsieur Piaget, and has less money, but he is a good man. With the bakery, I’ll prove a far bigger service to him than I would to Monsieur Piaget. I don’t know the first thing about life on a farm.”
“I think it’s lucky you found one another,” Nicole said. “You seem well matched.”
“I agree,” Elisabeth said. “I hadn’t even the audacity to hope that I might find a baker in need of a wife. Especially one who wants me to help run the shop the way he does. Not many men would welcome a wife as a business partner.”
“He’s tasted your cakes and pastries,” Rose said, grabbing the spare pillow from Nicole and lobbing it back at Elisabeth. “He’s not missing taste buds, nor is he a fool. You credit him with too much selflessness.”
The girls erupted in giggles loud enough to elicit a knock on the door from one of the Sisters.
“Apologies! We’re going to bed now!” Elisabeth called back in a loud whisper.
For several minutes the girls tried to quiet their giggles, but each time one sequestered her laughter, another would start, causing the third to erupt again.
“But seriously, Elisabeth,” Nicole asked when she controlled herself in earnest. “You’ve known him only a few weeks. How do you know he’s the right choice?”
“I don’t,” Elisabeth said, now solemn. “But I don’t think there is such a thing as a right or a wrong choice in matters like these. Just better or worse. I could marry Jacques Piaget tomorrow, be well looked after, have a measure of comfort, and find a reasonable happiness. He could have been a good choice, but I think a future with Gilbert offers more, which makes him a better choice.”
“You don’t believe each man is destined for one woman? In true love?” Nicole asked, with the mock dreaminess returning to her voice.
“That’s the question of a girl whose maman told her too many fairy stories as a child.” Elisabeth’s laugh was biting.
A snort of derision came from Rose as well.
“And I suppose your maman never told you any?” Nicole retorted.
“My mother had no time for stories or games,” Elisabeth said. “Perhaps that’s why I chose Gilbert. One of the reasons, anyway.”
“What do you mean?” Rose asked, turning to her side.
“Gilbert seems the type who will play with our children. He’s quick to laughter. He has a soft heart. That’s what I want, for myself and for my family. Children deserve kindness. They have time enough to learn the world’s rough nature when they’re older.”
“True, but the truth may come as a ruder shock when learned too late. Don’t shelter them,” Rose advised.
Elisabeth nodded. Rose’s years in the Salpêtrière doubtless provided a harsh education.
“No. You’re right,” Elisabeth said. “Kindness is one thing, but I’m not the sort for fairy stories either. I suppose I have that in common with my mother.”
“Than I wager you have a better chance of happiness than most,” Rose said, ending the conversation.
Today I become Madame Beaumont. A luckier woman there never was. As a sign of appreciation for her teaching, the nuns gave Elisabeth a length of fine brown wool and white linen. The others helped her fashion a lovely jacket, skirt, and fichu for her to wear for her wedding, but Elisabeth insisted on embroidering the collar herself. Sheaves of wheat, once more, to honor her father and her new husband.
How I wish you could see me, Papa, Elisabeth thought as Rose braided her hair. And you too, Maman, if you would hold your tongue. Elisabeth pushed Anne from her mind. She would not allow the thought of her mother to poison her wedding day.
“I’m so glad you won’t be going far,” Nicole said. “Though it will be lonely here without you.”
“I’ll visit as often as I can,” Elisabeth promised. She knew the visits would not be frequent, but the prospect of busy days ahead pleased her to no end. She despised being idle—yet another inheritance from her father.
“Sister Anne said she’d stay behind and make sure all the last-minute details for the supper are seen to,” Rose said. The girls had insisted that they host a small dinner for Elisabeth and Gilbert. When she heard of the plan, Elisabeth took over planning out the menu herself. She allowed the others to do much of the cooking, but prepared the cake and breads herself. She could not offer Gilbert a proper gift, but she could at least make this gesture.
At last Elisabeth stood at the door of the church with Rose and Nicole. She took a deep breath as she entered, feeling keenly the absence of her father’s arm at her right side. At the altar, Gilbert took her hand, and a peace settled over her. He is why I came here. I have found my place.
“Dearly beloved . . .” the priest began, and continued on with the words that priests had spoken before such couples since time immemorial. Elisabeth looked into her soon-to-be husband’s eyes with no reservations. I hope I will make you as happy as you’ve made me. The thought of children running around the bakery on their sturdy little legs brought a smile to her face that she was sure the small congregation found ridiculous for a bride.
With the union blessed and notarized, the couple returned to the convent for the meal.
“The almond cake is amazing, sweetheart,” Gilbert praised his bride. “I imagine these would do very well in the shop near Easter time.”
“My thought as well,” Elisabeth said. “And the butter pastries at Christmas.”
Gilbert nodded agreement. Elisabeth cast him an appreciative smile. He would take her advice to heart, at least in the matters of the bakery.
“Discussing business on your wedding day,” Rose said, clucking her tongue. “If it isn’t a sin, it ought to be.” She softened the rebuke with a wink, which caused Elisabeth to giggle as she hadn’t done in years.
“I do believe the happy couple would like to find their way home,” Nicole said.
Elisabeth noticed the cue came from the painfully obvious way Gilbert eyed the door.
Sister Mathilde presented them with a hamper of food and a soft baby blanket. “To a happy and productive union, my dears,” she said, and her smile, not a frequent feature of her face, let Elisabeth know she approved of the match. It meant more than Elisabeth realized it would.
Gilbert’s shop lay only minutes away by carriage, in the heart of the small settlement. Elisabeth had never seen her future home, nor ever been alone in Gilbert’s company.
“Here we are, my darling,” Gilbert announced as he pulled the horses to a stop. He had arranged for a neighbor to see to the horses, and Elisabeth’s things had been sent over earlier, so the couple entered their marital home together.
The building was simple, and made of wood, not stone. The ground floor housed the bakery, the living quarters above stairs. The smell of baking bread never quite left the air. Just like Papa’s shop.
Elisabeth surveyed the shop and saw the signs of success: few remaining loaves of day-old bread, a floor showing signs of gentle wear from a steady flow of customers, and a clean, well-ordered working area at the back.
“I know it isn’t much. . . .” Gilbert interpreted her silence as disapproval.
“It’s perfect,” Elisabeth breathed. And it was. Small, and simple, but theirs.
Gilbert took Elisabeth in his arms, and took her mouth with his. She did not know how to react to the strange sensations at first, but at last allowed herself to relax in her husband’s embrace.
I am home at last.
CHAPTER 5
Rose
November 1667
Rose stood before the looking glass in despair. Thursday had come, and again she was forced to go downstairs with the rest of her companions to visit with gentlemen callers. Every week her dress grew shabbier. Every week, she had to feign interest in the prattle of young men who sought her hand. As she descended the stairs, she thought of Sister Charité, her duty to the Crown—to marry and bear children—but none of it served to raise her spirits.
You knew what they expected of you and it does no good to let your feelings get in the way of doing your duty. You’ve not been all that successful in making good on your promises as it is. Rose may have failed in her duty to Vivienne, but at least she’d had a letter to let her know Geneviève was engaged and would marry soon. Rose allowed herself to take a small measure of solace in that, at least.
Now go and be charming, Rose told herself. Or at the very least, don’t embarrass yourself.
“My dear Mademoiselle Barré,” Rémy Peltier greeted Rose as she entered the common room. “How wonderful to see you again.”
He hadn’t missed a visit in three weeks, and she hadn’t expected him to miss this one. “Welcome, Monsieur Peltier.” Rose’s attempt at a convivial smile went only as deep as her lips. “I trust you are well.”
“Indeed,” Peltier said. “Never better.”
Rose winced at his contrived buoyancy.
“I’m glad to hear it,” Rose said, picking at a loose thread on her sleeve. She could think of nothing else to say. He is going to think me a simpleton. But perhaps that’s what he’s after anyway.
For a few moments, the silence sat heavy on the pair. Say something, you dolt. But it was Peltier who broke the silence.
“I’m pleased to tell you, my homestead is nearly ready to live on,” Peltier said. “My home will be built in four or five months, as soon as the ground has thawed.”
“You must be glad for more comfortable accommodations, monsieur,” Rose said, continuing her assault on the wayward thread. What a stupid thing to say.
“Yes,” Peltier agreed, “but I hope I will not have to live there alone for long. I had hoped . . . Mademoiselle Barré, I was hoping you would be so kind as to marry me.”
A hole now appeared at her sleeve and she clasped her hands to avoid making further damage. You knew this was coming. Peltier had singled her out, and the time had come for him to declare himself. Rose had seen more than one suitor disappointed by waiting too long to make his intentions clear. Why can’t I have Elisabeth’s conviction? Or at least her decisiveness.
“Monsieur, I . . .” Rose paused. She could think of no rational reasons for accepting or refusing this man. He looked at her, expectant and hopeful.
His manners may be a bit stiff, but he is a good man. Can I do better? Could I share my life with him? Try though she might, she found no ready answers to her questions.
“I know these things happen quickly here,” Peltier said, with a gentle smile. “If you need more time, I can wait. It would have to be several months before we marry, in any case.”
“Remember your first and only duties in New France are to take a husband and mother as many children as God sees fit to populate these new lands.” Sister Charité spoke the words before she left the Salpêtrière and she’d heard a dozen variants since her arrival. It does not matter how you feel; you must do your duty. He’s as good a man as you can hope to expect here.
“I appreciate your consideration, but it won’t be necessary,” Rose said. “I accept, monsieur.”
Even as she said them, Rose wondered how the words found their way to her lips. At least you made a decision.
He smiled. “I am so pleased. We can have the contract drawn in the new year and marry just before Lent. I am sorry my home prevents us marrying earlier.”
“Do not worry, monsieur,” Rose said. “In the grand scheme of things, four months is very little time.”
By the time the first of December’s storms shook the convent, four girls remained in residence with the Sisters. The rest of the residents had been plucked by eager suitors, who wished to be married before Advent. The parlor was the only comfortable room in the house that night; it was too much trouble to keep all the house fires lit. The parlor air was thick with the smell of burning logs.
Rose sat, enjoying the warmth of the fire as she embroidered a dress collar, when a banging at the door shattered the pleasant quiet.
Sister Mathilde opened the door, revealing a half-frozen man.
“My wife,” he panted. “She’s gone into labor. The baby is coming too early and I don’t know what to do.”
“Why have you not gone for the doctor, Monsieur Laurier?” Sister Mathilde asked, her tone scathing.
“You were closer, and I was afraid the roads might not be passable.” Joseph Laurier stood in the doorway, shaking from cold and fear. He seemed willing to accept the nun’s abuse if doing so might win assistance for his wife.
“Gather sheets, blankets, and firewood,” Sister Mathilde barked. “Rose, you’ll come with me.”
Why me? What use can I be? Rose wanted to open her mouth, to shout to Sister Mathilde that she had no useful training, but no words emerged from her mouth. One of the Sisters loaded Rose’s arms with a pile of clean sheets. Another came with an assortment of infant clothes. Taking a breath, she fetched her market basket for the linens. I guess it doesn’t matter if I can help or not; I suppose I’m going to.
She made her way to Joseph Laurier’s horse and cart, w
here a line of freezing girls and nuns loaded a giant heap of firewood into the open cart bed. Sister Mathilde was already seated in the cart, with a case on her lap. Rose assumed the case contained medical supplies.
The moment the last stick of wood was thrown into the cart, Joseph Laurier jumped in the driver’s seat and whipped his horse into movement. Rose held on with a death grip as the rickety carriage rattled at a breakneck pace over treacherous, wintry roads. Relief radiated from her as Joseph halted the horse before a precarious-looking wooden house on a lonely bit of farmland far outside the settlement.
The Laurier home offered little protection from the biting winter wind. Pretty, young Gislène Laurier huddled in the bed, alternately shivering with cold and sweating from the efforts of her labor. Rose began to shake. God, she’s in agony. I couldn’t bear it.
“Rose, listen to me,” Sister Mathilde scolded. Rose had not heard the Sister’s first command, so she forced herself back into the present. “Rose, boil water on the fire and rip a sheet into strips. When the water boils, use it to clean my shears and then dry them in the cleanest cloth you can find. And you, put wood on that fire and keep it roaring hot. No baby would survive that chill,” Sister Mathilde snapped at Joseph as she scrubbed her hands and arms as far as the elbows.
Sister Mathilde took Gislène’s fragile hand and stroked her brow. The nun’s orders to the expectant mother sounded gentler than those she issued to Rose, and far kinder still than the ones she snapped at the nervous father.
After kindling the fire, Joseph found himself without an occupation, and took to pacing in clumpy boots from one end of the minuscule one-room house to the other.
“For the love of all the saints and my poor nerves, Joseph Laurier.” Sister Mathilde kept her volume down, but laced her words with the venom of irritation. “Calm yourself or leave this house so the child can be born in peace.”
Joseph sat in a rough-hewn chair at the dining table, too nervous to take offense at the woman’s orders. He barely managed to keep his hands from fidgeting as the sounds of his wife’s struggles filled the room.
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