“I’m afraid I must attend to some other business. Thank you very much for your trouble.” Alexandre stood, brushing a few tiny crumbs from his front.
“It was a pleasure, monsieur.” Her tone conveyed a great many sentiments, pleasure being the least of them.
“Now that you’ve learned what a talented cook we have in Mademoiselle Deschamps, I hope you’ll come visit us with the other gentlemen on Thursdays, Monsieur Lefebvre,” Sister Mathilde chimed in. It was rare she involved herself—at least directly—in the courtships that transpired under her roof. Nicole shot her a glance and wished she’d continue her pattern.
Alexandre looked at Nicole, his expression unreadable. Annoyance? Boredom? Even fear, perhaps?
“I’m afraid I’m very busy, Sister. I’m not sure I can spare the time.”
“What a shame, monsieur. Very well though, thank you for your troubles.” Sister Mathilde offered him a hopeful smile. “We hope to see you soon.”
He nodded farewell to the nun and made no gesture toward Nicole.
“I wish you wouldn’t, Sister,” Nicole said when she was certain Alexandre was out of earshot.
“My dear, Alexandre Lefebvre is a good man. He just needs some persuading.” She resumed her place in her favorite chair and motioned for Nicole to join her.
“Sister, he doesn’t care for me. You have to see that.” Nicole sat back and folded her fingers. Her mending wasn’t within reach and her hands were foreign to the lack of occupation.
“Don’t cast him aside yet, my girl. He’s a prize worth catching.” The Sister opened her book as a signal that the conversation was closed for now. Nicole fetched her mending from across the room and worked as the pious woman studied by the afternoon sunlight that peered in through the window.
You’re a wise woman, Sister, but you need to recognize a hopeless cause when you see one. Alexandre Lefebvre would sooner court you than pay me any mind.
Alexandre Lefebvre was not among the visitors that Thursday, but Luc Jarvais was in attendance, as Rose had predicted.
“These are for you, mademoiselle.” Luc handed Nicole a bouquet of young wildflowers that had only just begun to bloom.
“Thank you, Monsieur Jarvais,” Nicole said. “These must be the first of the season.”
“Indeed, the first to appear on my fields this year.”
Nicole looked down at the bouquet, little more than a bundle of stems, tied with a fine yellow ribbon.
“Please, Monsieur Jarvais,” Nicole said, remembering her manners. “Would you care to have a seat in the front room?”
“Thank you, mademoiselle.” Luc followed Nicole into the adjacent room, looking around the cozy surroundings as he took the chair Nicole offered him.
“These are lovely, Monsieur Jarvais.” Nicole accepted a vase from Rose and arranged the bouquet on the mantelpiece. “Thank you again.”
“Say nothing of it, Mademoiselle Deschamps,” Luc said. “They seem particularly fine this year.”
“I would imagine,” Nicole said. The subject of wildflowers exhausted, she racked her brain to find another topic of conversation. Luc seemed fascinated with the scarred wooden floors, or something on the tip of his boot. Nicole opened her mouth to make a comment, but a loud crash and a muffled curse from the kitchen cut her off.
Rose emerged from the kitchen a moment later, carrying a small tray loaded with cider and butter cake. She set the tray on the table nearest Nicole and left the room more stealthily than she had arrived.
Luc accepted the cider and a slice of the tender cake, but paid little attention to the refreshments.
“I’m glad you’re well,” he said at length. “I was worried you might catch cold after your spill.”
“Thank you, monsieur,” Nicole said, fiddling with a crease in her apron. “I am quite well. I was able to change and warm myself before chill set in.”
“I am glad to hear it,” Luc said, with a smile that did not conceal his nerves. He took a sip of cider. To his credit, he controlled the shaking of his hands with a degree of success.
“Have you been in service long, monsieur?” Nicole asked to break the silence.
“Five years,” Luc said. “Three here, two back home in Tours.”
The silence weighed on the room, but Luc found the courage to speak again.
“Mademoiselle Deschamps, I must confess that I did come to inquire after more than your health.” He spoke the words with such haste that it took Nicole a moment to decipher his meaning.
“As you know, young women are not in abundance in this part of the world,” he began with determination.
“With the exception of this house, you are quite right,” agreed Nicole.
“I have wanted to start a family for some time now,” Luc continued, rising to pace the room but never making eye contact with Nicole. “Until now, I thought I might have to return home to find a suitable wife. The truth is that I care for the settlement a good deal . . . that is . . . Mademoiselle Deschamps . . . if you would be willing . . . would you consider . . . becoming my wife?”
“Monsieur Jarvais, I . . .” Nicole could not find the words to articulate her thoughts.
Rose gave up any pretense of subtle eavesdropping and poked her head through the door that connected to the kitchen. With pleading eyes, she urged Nicole to answer the poor man, one way or the other.
“I know this is quite sudden,” Luc said.
“Indeed it is,” Nicole agreed, finding her voice, and scowling at Rose behind the suitor’s back. Rose retreated to the kitchen.
“We have only spent a few moments in one another’s company,” Nicole said.
“I know I must seem rash, imprudent even,” Luc said, having found his confidence. “I hope I haven’t offended you, but I wanted to declare my intentions now, before another claims your affections. Your position as a ward of the King marks you as a respectable young lady. My position assures you that I can provide for you and our family. I know this is a hurried business, but I hope you will find it in your heart to say yes.”
Nicole took a moment to consider the man before her. He was a kind and serious man, but little better than a stranger. Few brides in the colony could say otherwise about their grooms, though most had the advantage of knowing their husbands for at least a few months before they married.
Despite this, Nicole could not find it within herself to refuse.
“Yes,” she answered after she found her voice. “I will be your wife.”
Luc gave an audible sigh of relief and knelt before his bride, taking her hands in his.
“Mademoiselle Deschamps . . . my dear Nicole, if I may. I promise I will do everything in my power to make you happy.”
He placed a gentle kiss on her knuckles.
Nicole gazed into his eyes and saw no malice, just goodness of heart and kindness of spirit. She knew his promise was sincere and hoped she would manage to do the same for him. He would endeavor to take care of her. Perhaps even come to love her, someday. No one in her acquaintance could boast of any more.
CHAPTER 7
Elisabeth
April 1668
The smell of yeast, flour, water, and salt transforming into the staff of life never left the timbers of the Beaumont Bakery. Elisabeth rested her swollen ankles while the last loaves of bread rose in the oven. Five months pregnant, she was already bulging and uncomfortable. Little Pierre or Adèle was expected in late summer, much to the expectant parents’ delight.
Though she tired easily, Elisabeth refused to give up her duties in the bakery. She trained Gilbert that arguing was futile, and she guessed that he went along in order to obtain a stronger position for the later months of her pregnancy, when he would have to insist that she rest.
“Thank you,” Gilbert said when he saw his wife using the chair he had placed near the oven for her.
“My pleasure.” Elisabeth offered a fatigued smile as she kneaded dough from her seat. “I think this baby of ours may turn out to be a giant.�
��
“Just big and strong, sweetheart,” Gilbert said as he stroked Elisabeth’s fair hair.
She returned the caress, and, since there was no one visible through the window, offered him a less-than-chaste kiss.
“I hope so, too. I love you, Gilbert.”
“Affectionate today,” he said, taking another kiss while there was peace. “Not that I’m complaining.”
“Careful now,” she said, seeing the shadow of movement outside. “No need to expose ourselves to public ridicule.”
“Nothing more ridiculous than loving one’s wife.” He smeared flour on her nose with a boyish grin as he turned to the opening door.
“Good afternoon, Monsieur Levoisier. What can we get for you today?”
Elisabeth smirked at her husband’s buoyant greeting from behind her hand as she wiped her nose.
“Good afternoon, Monsieur and Madame Beaumont,” Levoisier said. “Nothing today, but I have a letter for Madame Beaumont that came in on the ship last Tuesday. From France.”
Levoisier produced the letter with a self-satisfied smile. Had they not known his kindly nature, they might have thought him a tad too pompous. In truth, he was proud to spread happiness by bringing news to people separated from their families.
Gilbert thanked him with a few coins and a bun.
Elisabeth longed to be able to read the letter herself, but handed it to her husband.
To Elisabeth Martin, New France:
I am ashamed that any child of mine, raised with care and devotion, would so easily disregard my wishes. M. Delacroix told me of your departure a week after you set to sea, far too late for me to intervene. I was a fool to ever permit your association with that family. I was wrought with worry until he told me of your whereabouts, and then I find that you heartlessly abandoned me. You destroyed any chance for an alliance with the Moraud family. I am now forced to live as an impoverished dowager aunt with my brother Roland and his family. The embarrassment is too much to bear.
You are an ungrateful child, and solely responsible for my current state. I cannot believe that you are so quick to forget all I have done for you. I will never speak your name again. It is just as well a vast ocean separates us, as I no longer have a daughter.
Anne Martin, as dictated to Roland Clément
“Pay it no mind, sweetheart,” Gilbert said, handing Elisabeth the letter.
Knowing her husband as she did, Elisabeth could read the look in his eyes: I wish the post had come when she was out or asleep and I could have burned the letter before she knew it existed.
“How very much like my mother.” Elisabeth punched the ball of dough and tossed the letter into the oven, hoping its acerbic words wouldn’t sour the bread.
Gilbert took his wife in his arms and rested his chin atop her head, stroking her hair the way she liked. “She doesn’t matter.”
“No, though I’m not surprised that she feels the way she does,” Elisabeth said. “What surprises me is that she went to the trouble of dictating a letter to tell me so—and paying the post. Mother prided herself on never lowering herself to such gestures. It seems unusually petty.”
“Petty is a good word. . . .” Gilbert held Elisabeth close, then released her, lest the neighbors see and laugh at the folly of a couple in love. “Your mother would not approve of our marriage, would she?”
“No,” Elisabeth answered without hesitation. “She would not. Our marriage gains her no advantage in society. Though you are the best of husbands, she would not have permitted this union. But Papa would have loved you, Gilbert.”
“I wish I could have known him,” Gilbert said, rubbing a finger across her cheekbone. “So much I could have learned from him.”
“Maman has always been such a bitter woman.” She breathed a sigh of annoyance as she returned to her labors.
“She’s an ocean away,” Gilbert said, caressing her from behind.
Her muscles, sore from the expansion and the foreign movement inside her, as well as her day of toil, melted like pastry dough left to soften by the oven.
Gilbert smiled. “Just you worry about growing us a healthy baby and banish all her bitterness from your heart, my love.”
“I’ll do my best.” Elisabeth closed her eyes. He truly is the best man I have ever known, she thought. Papa, how I wish your marriage had been as happy.
In the following week, Elisabeth tried to take her husband’s advice, but it was not an easy task.
Questions plagued her at every moment.
Why did Mother bother writing? Why is she so embarrassed to stay with Uncle Roland, a man of such good standing in society that Mother would not take her baker husband and plain daughter to visit him? Why did Jacques Moraud break off an engagement that was advantageous to him, despite my refusing Denis?
These questions, and others, flitted through Elisabeth’s brain as she kneaded balls of dough, despite her efforts to keep her mind on her work.
“Bailiff Duval, good afternoon,” Gilbert said, causing Elisabeth to look up from the tray of dinner buns she was shaping for the ovens. The tall man with his impressive gut was charged with carrying messages from the courts, along with other clerical duties, and was very pleased with himself for the important job.
“Afternoon, Beaumont,” Duval said, not charmed as others by Gilbert’s convivial nature. “I’ve come to speak with Madame Beaumont.”
“What business could you possibly have with my wife?” Gilbert stepped around to the front of the counter.
“Just a few questions, Beaumont.” Duval stood tall, as though trying to impress Gilbert with his stature, both physical and social.
“It’s all right, Gilbert,” Elisabeth said, placing a calming hand on her husband’s bicep. “I’m happy to answer the bailiff’s questions, as long as he doesn’t mind me taking a seat.”
For a moment, Bailiff Duval considered her words as though she was serious in her request to take a seat in her own shop. “Fine, fine,” he said.
“Ask your questions then,” Gilbert said, his patience gone.
“There has been some question as to whether your documents were in order when you arrived, Madame Beaumont,” the bailiff said. “The judge sent me to look at them, if you please.”
“I’ll get them,” Gilbert said before Elisabeth could stand.
He bounded upstairs and produced her affidavit of good comportment and the copy of her baptismal records.
“Very good.” Duval examined the sheaves of parchment. “And how old are you, Madame Beaumont?”
“As you can see on my baptismal record, I just turned twenty-six, monsieur,” Elisabeth answered.
“And you were how old when you left France, madame?” asked Duval.
“I had just turned twenty-five, monsieur,” she replied.
“Good, good.” Duval leaned against the counter, examining the documents. “Judge Arnaud will want to see these. I hope you don’t mind if I take them. The utmost care will be taken.”
“Of course,” Elisabeth said, puzzled by the request. “For as long as you have need of them.”
“Very well,” the bailiff said. “The judge will send me for you in a few days, I would expect. Good day, madame, monsieur.”
Gilbert nodded Duval wordlessly out of his shop.
“Self-righteous ass. What in the world is all this about?” Gilbert muttered, not realizing he had spoken aloud.
Elisabeth expelled a breath with a sigh. “The only thing that makes sense is that Mother has complained to someone who matters.”
“Does a widow in her situation have that much influence?” asked Gilbert. For a moment, Elisabeth envied her husband’s rural upbringing. He knew nothing of politics and position. He could not, as he had told Elisabeth so many times, imagine a mother that would put her own interests before her daughter’s. When the farmers arranged for their daughters, feelings might not be the first concern, but they weren’t the last. The picture both he and Nicole painted of the Norman countryside made Elisab
eth wonder if her beloved Paris actually was the haven she imagined it was.
“She was a Clément, and that still means something. Mother alone might not have much pull anymore, but Uncle Roland certainly does if she can persuade him to act.”
“Let us hope he has the sense to see her as the meddling shrew that she is and that he won’t aid her in this whole mess,” Gilbert said, kissing her brow.
“Not likely,” Elisabeth said, her expression grim. “He has no particular attachment to me, and will do anything to silence Mother. She can be—tenacious.”
“Let’s not borrow trouble just yet, sweetheart,” Gilbert said.
“Don’t you see?” Elisabeth said. “It’s already here. We must prepare ourselves. If Mother can cause trouble, she will. If the authorities here adhere to their laws as I’ve heard they do, they may very well send me back to France.”
“Not while I live and breathe,” Gilbert said, his eyes flashing. He grabbed the back of a nearby chair, his knuckles whitened by his angry clutch. “You’re mine and you aren’t going anywhere.”
“Let’s hope so, my sweet,” Elisabeth said. “For there’s nowhere else I’d rather be on this earth.”
Elisabeth let herself go limp in her husband’s embrace, taking deep breaths to slow her heart. She was happier with Gilbert than she had been in her life. She knew she had found her place and her purpose, but her mother would see her plucked from it in a moment, just for spite. She looked down at her swollen belly. Unquestionable proof that she was no longer a maid. Would Denis Moraud be persuaded to take her, despite the baby, if her marriage to Gilbert were nullified? Probably, dim-witted thing that he was, he could be persuaded by his father to do anything.
The baby. If she were expelled back to France, Anne would see the child cast aside like a bastard. She placed a hand on her abdomen as if to shield the growing child. But as Gilbert cradled her in his arms she knew the baby might well be the best defense she had to stay where she was. She was sent to the New World to make children and had shown herself equal to the task. She would have to leave Rose and Nicole behind as well. They were the dearest friends she’d ever had and she knew that finding their like in France would be miraculously lucky. I’ve sworn to protect you, my darling baby. I’ll do whatever it takes, but we need you to do your part and grow strong. We need you as much as you need us right now.
Promised to the Crown Page 8