Promised to the Crown

by Aimie K. Runyan

  “Breathe deeply,” Sister Mathilde said. “Just keep breathing through your nose. There you are, dear—you’re doing wonderfully.”

  Rose was unsure of how to aid Sister Mathilde but endeavored to fill the role of makeshift midwife as well as she could. She fetched objects and followed orders with an almost comical speed. Even so, she wished she could anticipate the needs of both patient and midwife. Oh Lord, my governesses taught me all the wrong things. I might be able to conjugate verbs in Latin and know how low to curtsy to a Prince of Sweden, but now all of that is as useful as a satin parasol in a blizzard.

  “Rose, the strips!” Sister Mathilde cried an hour later. “And the shears! Quickly!”

  A fearful amount of blood gushed from Gislène, along with a baby girl. Sister Mathilde tied the baby’s cord with a strip of sheet and cut it with the efficiency of a Paris surgeon.

  She thrust the howling newborn at Rose, with orders to clean the baby, turning her attention back to Gislène at once.

  Rose had never touched an infant so young and fragile, but had no time for fear to overtake her. With gentle movements, Rose cleaned the baby and swaddled her tight in the blanket Nicole had made for the expected infant weeks before. She is a sweet little thing, Rose admitted to herself. Even if she doesn’t look like much yet.

  Joseph had drifted off to sleep in the rigid chair, but woke with a start when the baby’s cry echoed through the cabin.

  “A healthy girl, monsieur,” Rose said, passing the baby off to her father with a quick kiss to the infant’s forehead, and returned to Sister Mathilde’s side.

  “Your stomach is still hard, Gislène,” Sister Mathilde said after massaging her patient’s abdomen. “There may be another child. That would explain the early arrival.”

  How can she endure it again? So soon? Rose continued to fetch and follow orders in between silent prayers that the exhausted woman would survive the ordeal. I am sure I would not. Could not. Cannot.

  A half hour later Gislène’s cries again echoed throughout the cabin. Though Sister Mathilde kept a serene countenance, Rose saw a trembling in the hands that were usually as steady as anchors. Once more, the nun passed over a child covered in muck—a boy this time. Rose wiped and cleaned the child, but he remained limp.

  “Sister, something isn’t—” Rose began.

  “Do what you can, girl,” Sister Mathilde said. The nun looked up from her patient to Rose for only the briefest of moments, but her expression spoke volumes. This child won’t survive.

  Rose cleaned and swaddled the boy, who never opened his eyes. After a few moments he let out a weak rasp and was gone from the world. Not knowing what to do, she held him close to her breast and swayed with him as she would with a living child. She prayed it would somehow give his soul some comfort, even if it was too late for his body.

  Sister Mathilde, still tending to Gislène, exhaled, her shoulders dropping in relief. Rose noticed the worrisome amount of blood, but saw that the pool wasn’t growing larger. We almost lost her, too. It’s a wonder any of us pull through.

  “The boy?” Sister Mathilde asked, standing, stiff from her stint on the hard stool and walking over to Rose, who still cradled the baby in her arms.

  “I am so very sorry—” Rose whispered.

  “There was nothing to be done,” the Sister assured her, taking the child and examining his face. “He was never strong enough. Sometimes there are miracles, but today was not that day, I’m afraid. I’ll tell the mother. You tidy things as best as you can.”

  Gislène’s shoulders shook with violent sobs as Sister Mathilde relayed the news. Joseph stared at the floor in disbelief.

  “My son is dead,” Joseph said in a hollow voice.

  “But your daughter is alive,” Sister Mathilde declared, “and she will need all the love and care you can give. She may be strong, but she is small, and winter is hard upon us. Do not dwell on your sorrows to the neglect of your blessings.”

  “She is a pretty thing,” Joseph said, handing the swaddled baby to her mother.

  “She’s beautiful,” Gislène agreed, wiping tears from her puffy cheeks.

  “Let’s call her Nathalie, for your maman,” Joseph suggested as he rubbed a finger against the baby’s downy cheek.

  “She would have liked that,” Gislène said.

  Sister Mathilde gave the new parents instructions on caring for the fragile child and her recovering mother. Dawn crested over the eastern mountains as Joseph carted the women home to the convent.

  The warmth of the sitting room fire felt as welcoming as anything Rose had ever known. Once properly warm, she started to feel the effects of the evening’s efforts. Rose stumbled up the stairs to seek the refuge of her bed, still shivering from more than the vicious winter chill.

  “How is the baby?” Nicole asked as Rose changed into her nightgown.

  “Mother and daughter are well,” Rose answered, without mentioning the son that was lost.

  The tenor of her voice betrayed her weariness and desire to cut their usual chatter short.

  Rose remembered the pale Laurier son as he took his first and last breaths in her arms. She thought of Vivienne, who had died in her arms only months before.

  Vérité was right. Rose toyed with her mentor’s silver medallion that hung from her neck as her thoughts pounded in her brain. This place brings nothing but death. I will die here, surely as Vivienne and that poor baby did.

  Try as she might, Rose could not banish Gislène Laurier’s anguish from her mind.

  “Rose, I brought you some breakfast.” Nicole knocked on the bedroom door at mid-morning and entered without waiting for an answer. She carried a tray laden with the most inviting foods from the convent kitchen.

  Rose stirred, but had not yet summoned the fortitude to rise.

  “Thank you.” Rose sat up and wiped the sleep from her eyes. “How thoughtful.”

  “You earned a lazy morning, after last night,” Nicole said. “I’m happy to do it.”

  Rose ate the toast and moved the rest of the food on her plate, nibbling out of politeness.

  “Are you unwell?” Nicole asked. “Did you catch a chill last night?”

  “No, no. I’m fine,” Rose said, without making eye contact. “Just tired.”

  “No doubt,” Nicole said. “You had a long night.”

  “Indeed,” Rose said.

  “What did Madame Laurier name the baby?”

  “She named the little girl Nathalie.” Rose took a small bite of toast and gazed out the window, then back to the sweet brown-eyed girl who knew that Rose was concealing something. “I’m not sure what they will call the little boy. He didn’t survive.”

  “Oh, how awful,” Nicole said. “Those poor people.”

  Rose nodded. “He died in my arms.”

  Nicole embraced her friend but offered no words of comfort. Rose abandoned any pretext of calm, and let the tears flow on Nicole’s shoulder. That poor baby, born into the world just to die moments later. What was the point of all that poor woman’s suffering?

  Rose wasn’t sure how long she wept in Nicole’s arms, but at length, the tears subsided and she pulled back from the embrace.

  “Thank you,” Rose said. “You’re a dear friend.”

  “Don’t mention it,” Nicole said. “You’d do the same for me.”

  “I just don’t know if I can go through with it all,” Rose said, smoothing out her quilt. “She had such pain . . . and then the baby died. . . .”

  “That’s why the task falls to women,” Nicole said. “We’re strong enough to handle it.”

  “I hope you’re right,” Rose said. “I have my doubts.”

  “Things go wrong, but there’s no reason to dwell on them,” Nicole said. “I’m sure you’ll have a legion of healthy babies before long.”

  Rose wanted to smile at her friend’s assurances, but could not force her lips to comply. I am not made for this life, yet I must carve one for myself from this frozen rock even so.


  CHAPTER 6

  Nicole

  March 1668

  It may not be spring yet, but I can certainly pretend it today. Nicole leaped at the chance to escape the confines of the convent to fetch some supplies for Sister Mathilde in town. Basket in tow and her chin pointed upward to absorb the fledgling sun, Nicole walked, enjoying the warmth on her face like the kisses of a long-absent lover.

  She was shaken from her reverie when the toe of her boot caught the edge of a rock, pitching her forward into a pool of mud. Before she finished gathering her wits and the contents of her basket, she felt a steady hand at her elbow, helping her rise from the quagmire.

  “Oh, thank you!” Nicole looked up to see to whom the helpful hand belonged. She found herself looking into the face of a tall man in uniform—a man of rank, but young. His features were soft and boyish, and his curly brown hair gave him an air of youth. Jean, how is it you came to be here? She silenced the question a heartbeat before it escaped her mouth. Jean Galet was married and back in France. This man could not be him. A moment’s study revealed that this man stood taller than Jean, had a leaner frame, and the features of a man rather than a boy.

  “Of course, mademoiselle,” the young officer said. “I hope you are unhurt.”

  “Only my pride is injured. Thank you again, monsieur. . . .” Nicole willed, in vain, for the blush to leave her cheeks.

  “Pardon me,” the officer said with a bow. “It’s Jarvais, Luc Jarvais.”

  “I am pleased to meet you,” Nicole said, trying not to wince as cold mud slid down the inside of her boot. “I am Nicole Deschamps.”

  “At your service, mademoiselle,” Luc said, kindness emanating from his voice. “May I accompany you somewhere?”

  “Unfortunately, I must return home.” Nicole looked down at her mud-coated dress. “I am not fit to be seen in company, though it is a shame to waste a fine day.”

  “Indeed it is,” Luc remarked. “Will you at least allow me to escort you home?”

  “Thank you, yes.” Given the circumstances, Nicole doubted the Sisters would object to her walking with him unaccompanied.

  “Are you newly arrived to the colony?” Luc asked.

  “Relatively. I arrived last fall, though at times it seems like I’ve been here for years.”

  Indeed, the streets of the settlement town had become more familiar to Nicole than the bustling streets of Rouen.

  “I know what you mean. I’ve been here for almost three years and haven’t seen my family since.”

  Nicole noted a slight trace of sadness in his voice.

  “You are homesick, too,” she observed.

  “At times,” Luc said. “I remember, at first, I thought myself truly alone in the world. I can promise you it does get easier, though. I still pine for home, and especially for my youngest sister, Babette, but it’s not as unbearable as it was.”

  “Is she much younger than you?” Nicole asked.

  “Four years my junior, though she will always be a tiny girl to me.”

  “I suppose time does not stand still for the people we love any more than it does for us.” Nicole considered her siblings and how changed they might seem if she ever saw them again.

  The thought of her sisters Claudine and Emmanuelle married, or her baby brother Georges a landowner, sent a pang to her heart.

  “It is a shame,” he said. “How comforting it would be if it could all stay the same. Not very interesting, however.”

  “Indeed,” Nicole agreed, with a smile.

  “But my service is nearly complete. I’ll have leave to return home soon, if I choose.”

  Nicole felt a twinge of regret in her chest. You’ve only just met this man. Why should you care that he’s going home, aside from the fact you wish you could be going yourself?

  Just then, they arrived at the door to the convent. Luc left Nicole with a deep bow and a polite brush of his lips on the back of her hand.

  As Nicole shut the door behind her, she heard Rose set aside her mending to see who had escorted Nicole home.

  “Well done!” Rose teased.

  “I hope my dress isn’t ruined.” Nicole looked down at the garment in dismay.

  “Not that, you goose!” Rose said. “The handsome young officer! Here I thought you were just out for some fresh air and flour for Sister Mathilde.”

  “And so I was,” Nicole said, exasperated. She did her best to remove her boots without getting any more mud on the floor than necessary.

  “You’re going to leave me here all alone, aren’t you?” The merry glint had not left Rose’s eyes. “For some handsome soldier who comes, banner flying, to rescue you from the muck.”

  “I must admit, it was a romantic morning,” Nicole mocked. “A mud-bog rescue is definitely a choice first encounter with a prospective suitor.”

  “So you say.” The false nonchalance in Rose’s voice grated in Nicole’s nerves.

  “Honestly, he pulled me from a mud puddle and walked me home. He showed no affinity, at least none that I noticed. Now be a lamb and come help me out of this mess.”

  “No doubt he’ll come calling Thursday,” Rose said, feigning disdain as they climbed the stairs.

  “He did ask if he could,” Nicole admitted, shucking off her muddy skirt.

  “And the Thursday after, and the one after that, until you say yes,” Rose predicted, gathering the soiled clothes for the washtub.

  “Unlikely. He’s nearly released from service. He can go home if he chooses.” Nicole rubbed her cold legs with a dry cloth.

  “I bet you could persuade him to stay. Do you think he’s handsome?” Rose asked.

  “I have eyes, Rose,” Nicole said. “Anyone who did would believe he is.”

  “Would you say yes?” Rose asked, loosening Nicole’s corset.

  Nicole laughed. She agreed that Luc was a very suitable match, in many ways. As an officer, he would have both education and understanding. In France, his rank would almost certainly have ruined any chance for a match between them. But here, in New France . . . Nicole cast the thoughts aside as quickly as they came. He was going home, and a clumsy stumble and muck-covered skirts were no way to entice a gentleman into courtship.

  The next day, a warm and welcoming Wednesday, Nicole decided to help Rose with the massive pile of mending rather than risk falling into another mudhole.

  Mending was tedious work, but it occupied the hands, though not the mind. When a knock at the door interrupted the chore, Nicole rose to answer.

  “Monsieur Lefebvre.” Nicole was astonished to see him, of all men, at the door. He had never come to visit Nicole, or anyone else, during visiting hours, and she hadn’t expected him to. She had no affection for the man, but she did still remember his tirade on the rare occasions when she ventured into the snow alone. His chiseled chin and nose had etched their way into her memory; though she would have much rather Luc’s boyish face and sweet dimples take their place.

  “Yes,” Lefebvre said. “And you’re Mademoiselle Deschamps, if my memory serves.”

  He stood at least six inches taller than she and exuded wealth, education, and class far beyond her own. Nicole nodded, fearing her voice would falter. Stupid git, speak! Don’t let him know he intimidates you.

  “Monsieur Lefebvre, we ask gentlemen to call on Thursday evenings,” Sister Mathilde said as she approached the entryway. “However, we can make an exception just this once. Please come join us in the common room, where you can visit with Mademoiselle Deschamps in more comfort.”

  “Sister, I have not come courting.” Lefebvre’s tone bordered on the uncivil. “I am doing a favor, delivering a case of cider from the Ferrier farm. I had business nearby and Monsieur Ferrier asked me to save him the trip into town.”

  “Of course,” Sister Mathilde said. “Your man can take it to the kitchens. Please stay and have some cider along with a piece of Mademoiselle Deschamps’s excellent cake.” Stop forcing this, Sister. I beg you! Nicole bit her tongue to keep th
e words from escaping.

  “I have been out on errands all day; it might be nice to sit with a bit of refreshment,” he admitted.

  “Of course,” Nicole said, plastering on a smile. “Please make yourself at home while I fetch you some.”

  She hurried off to the kitchen to cut a slice of the butter cake that Elisabeth had coached her in making that morning at the bakery. Sister Éléonore passed her a mug of the good cider with a wink. Don’t get your hopes up, sweet lady. He has no more an eye for me than King Louis would have for a pockmarked tavern wench.

  She placed the food and drink before him at the long table in the common room, careful not to spill the drink or cause a clattering sound as the plate touched the table’s surface.

  “This looks lovely, thank you.” He sampled a small morsel of the cake, chewing slowly and thoughtfully. “Clearly, you’ve learned from your friend, Madame Beaumont.”

  “She’s a very patient teacher.” Nicole looked down at her hands. Anywhere but at his too-intense gray eyes.

  “And you, an able pupil.” He took a sip of the cider, looking her over as he drank. Assessing, as he had done at their last meeting.

  Why must you look at me as though you were looking for a second head? What have I done to make you act this way?

  “How are you finding our settlement, now that you’ve endured one of our winters?”

  The weather? Really, Monsieur Lefebvre? I bore you so completely? “I’m not sure if one can come to love the bitter cold, but the settlement is lovely.” Not the dismal picture you painted before.

  “I’m glad you’re adjusting well,” Alexandre said, playing with a bit of thread on his trousers.

  “Truly?” Nicole’s tone was wry. He had seemed content to send every last one of the King’s wards back on the next ship.

  “Of course. I wouldn’t have you miserable.” How gracious of you.

  They sat in uncomfortable silence for a few minutes as Alexandre finished his cake. At least he approves of me in some measure. She thought of her easy conversation with Luc Jarvais and longed to be on a stroll along the riverbank with him rather than cooped up in the convent’s common room with stodgy Alexandre Lefebvre.