“Mademoiselle Barré ended our engagement for reasons that had nothing to do with me. There is no reason I should not pay court to another,” Peltier said, no sympathy in his voice.
“She deserved . . . deserves . . . more courtesy,” Nicole said. “You let pride and injured feelings get in the way of finding out why she chose to end the engagement.”
“You display admirable loyalty to your friend.” Peltier shifted his gaze from Nicole to Rose and back again. “My apologies. I should have asked you in private.”
“Indeed you should have,” Nicole said, attempting to control her rage. “Nonetheless, my answer remains the same. I have no desire to know you better. Good day, monsieur.”
Nicole turned her back on Peltier and returned her attention to the soft wool blanket that took shape in her hands—hands that shook with satisfaction after serving the dreadful man a bit of his own bitter medicine.
The echo of Peltier’s angry footsteps resonated through the convent.
“Thank you,” Rose said, at last.
“It was, most assuredly, my pleasure,” Nicole said.
“Can you tell me what you two are playing at?” Sister Mathilde approached the mantel, making no attempt to lower her voice, drawing stares from the other young ladies who had just bid farewell to their suitors.
“What do you mean, Sister?” Rose set the garland aside.
“The pair of you came here to marry—and came at the King’s expense, I will remind you. Yet you treat this sacred duty without reverence. I know your intentions, Rose, but I won’t have you turning others from the King’s instructions. I expect more from you as well, Mademoiselle Deschamps. Promised or not, you had no right to treat an honorable proposal with contempt. The pair of you set the example for the prospective brides in this convent, for good or evil.”
“Yes, Sister,” Nicole said. “It’s just that Monsieur Peltier . . .”
“Is a conceited popinjay, I know. He’s not my first choice for any of you. But all you need do was rebuke him kindly and hint that someone else has captured your interest. That would have caused him no insult. Casting him off on your friend’s account makes you appear spiteful.”
“Yes, Sister,” Nicole said, eyes downcast. “I understand.”
“Good. This is not the society of Paris you are used to, Mademoiselle Barré. The loan of a few sticks of firewood can mean the difference between life and death on a homestead in the winter. You cannot afford to lose friends—or make enemies—here.”
Oh, I am sure I’ve already made my share of enemies, Sister. When the town learned that I was depriving the town of another wife—another prospective mother, most of them made up their minds about me. The veil will protect me from their scorn—and a good deal more.
CHAPTER 9
Nicole
May 1668
The evening before her wedding, Nicole lay alone in her room, listening to the sounds of a quiet house. The scratching of mice. The purring of the striped black-and-gray house cat, Chaton, too old and too spoiled by Sister Éléonore to hunt them. The soft snores and murmured prayers of the Sisters that traveled through the walls. Silence could be deafening. Nicole reasoned with herself, pulling the blanket to her chin. She ought to sleep, to be the picture of health and happiness at the church the next day. Nicole had excused herself from the common room, unable to focus on her knitting, but now she wondered if she would have done better to stay up until she was well and truly exhausted. Rose padded into the room a half hour after Nicole had begged her leave.
“Have I made a mistake?” Nicole asked from under her covers.
“For heaven’s sake!” Rose cried. “I thought you were asleep! I just jumped a mile inside my skin!”
“I’m sorry, Rose,” Nicole said, sitting up. “I just can’t sleep.”
“Excited?” Rose asked.
“Nervous,” Nicole said. “Scared.”
“Of course you are,” Rose said. “You’re getting married.”
“To a man I’ve known for less than two months,” Nicole added. “Am I a fool to be rushing into this so fast?”
“I have to admit, I thought the courtship might last a month or two longer than it did,” Rose said. “But we’ve seen faster courtships here. It’s not like France where couples can be engaged for months and months. You have the rest of your lives to get acquainted. He’s a good man, Nicole. The Sisters vouch for him.”
“I know he is,” Nicole said.
“And that’s all that matters,” Rose concluded. “Sonnets and ballads don’t put food on the table. So get some sleep. You’ll think more clearly in the morning.”
Mercifully, sleep did come, but she was up with the sun the next morning and preparing for her departure from the convent. Nicole realized she had seen Luc only six—perhaps seven—times since his proposal. Many men in the settlement didn’t wish to see their intended overmuch and expose their flaws and risk a broken engagement. There were too many competitors for the brides for a man to assume that any engagement was safe until the ring was placed on the lady’s finger. Nicole sighed, thinking that perhaps Luc was hiding something. Something serious. She had to keep her mind from racing to terrible scenarios.
Things are so different in France. Nicole focused on keeping her breathing deep and even as she finished packing her trunk. Jean Galet had come to visit at every chance. He hid nothing from Nicole, so far as she knew, and she felt no need to conceal anything from him. The earnestness in his eyes inspired Nicole’s confidence. Perhaps too much. Stop this! Luc’s a good man and you are going to the church in less than an hour to pledge yourself to him. Casting the doubt from her mind, she dressed in a soft yellow gown that had been Nicole’s mother’s best dress until her daughter left France. Nicole longed for her mother and her words of wisdom on her wedding day. She imagined her mother at her side, folding the odd petticoat and placing it in the trunk, helping her daughter as she had done on the morning she left for the ship in Dieppe.
That day, a year before, long before dawn on the morning Nicole had left to gather with the other King’s wards at the cathedral, Nicole had packed her clothes, just as she did now. Bernadette had padded into her daughter’s bedroom without a knock.
“I’m sorry, Maman, did I wake you?” Nicole had asked as she placed a tattered petticoat in her valise.
“No, chèrie. I couldn’t sleep,” Bernadette answered, taking a kerchief from the bed and folding it into a crisp square.
“Neither could I.” Nicole hadn’t mentioned the nightmares to her mother, though her sleep had been troubled for weeks.
“The voyage will make you sleep again,” Bernadette had said. “The house is emptying so fast, Nicole. Your papa and I filled it, but one by one you have to leave us.”
Nicole placed a hand on her mother’s back to comfort her. To Nicole’s great relief, her mother did not break down in tears, but managed to calm her ragged breaths. Bernadette reached her cracked, calloused hands into the pocket of her stained apron and pulled out her pearl brooch. A simple circle of yellowed pearls set in gold.
A few months prior, Bernadette had entrusted Nicole to take them to a jeweler to sell them. The spiteful troll of a man declared the pearls to be false and the brooch worth just three gold livres. He insisted the price was generous. Such a small sum hardly seemed enough to merit parting with her mother’s favorite possession. Though Bernadette’s dresses were ragged and a pearl brooch would only look ridiculous at the tattered collars, Nicole could not accept the man’s offer.
“It isn’t worth anything,” Bernadette said, pressing the jewel into her daughter’s hand, “but I want you to have it. It will still be pretty to wear when you’re married. A little keepsake to help you remember your old maman.”
“I could never forget you, Maman,” Nicole said with tears in her eyes.
“I wish I could be there for your wedding, my darling girl.” Bernadette had cupped her daughter’s face in her hands. Though she had tried not to show her fav
oritism, Nicole knew she had always been her mother’s sweetheart. For twelve years, she was the baby of the family, doted on by her parents and two older brothers, Christophe and Baptiste. Claudine’s arrival was a shock to the entire village, that had long assumed Bernadette was not to be blessed with a large family. Emmanuelle and George’s births were just as stunning.
She took her mother in her arms and held her close, as Bernadette had done to her as a child. The two women cried, but regained their composure without much delay. Tears would make nothing easier.
Now, on the morning of her wedding, Nicole pinned the pearl brooch to her collar and banished the painful thoughts of her family. She would be a cheerful bride.
Nicole left the room and made her way down the stairs to where her friends awaited the bride’s descent. Sister Mathilde smiled and nodded approval. In moments, the entourage whisked Nicole away to the church where Luc and the rest of the congregation were waiting.
At the altar, Luc looked nervous but dignified in his best uniform. Nicole reminded herself to breathe and focused her attention on placing one foot in front of the other, necessary since she did not have her father’s sturdy arm to steady her.
Luc beamed at the sight of her. She was not the most elegant bride in the colony, but in that moment, those gathered would have thought Nicole Deschamps the most beautiful bride in creation if they took the groom’s expression as their measure.
In only moments, they were husband and wife.
The newlyweds and their small band of well-wishers celebrated the union with a hearty meal, thanks to Rose’s efforts. The majority of the guests left gifts to help Nicole set up housekeeping in Luc’s modest farmhouse. Embroidered pillowcases and table linens would give the cabin a feminine touch, while cast-iron pots and good knives would help in her daily chores. A kind neighbor had even given them several fine chickens to use for eggs and meat in the coming years.
Rose offered Nicole a warm scarf and several blankets she had knit from soft wool, while Elisabeth gifted the couple a gorgeous blue-and-yellow star-patterned quilt along with a massive hamper of baked goods. Sister Mathilde pressed a prayer book into Nicole’s hands along with another hamper filled with good food, and offered her customary blessing for a happy and productive marriage.
As they left, Luc’s wagon strained under the weight of the generous gifts from friends and neighbors. Nicole watched as the convent shrank and then disappeared from view. She knew that she was a welcome guest there at any time, but never again would she call it home.
Nicole watched the abundant trees and rocky hills whirr past as their faithful plow horse trudged them along the ill-kept road—or path, more accurately—that led to the farm. It was beautiful land, even if it did appear so much more savage than the manicured hills of Normandy. Luc’s homestead lay an hour from the settlement when the weather was fine and the roads clear. Luc held a one-hundred-acre farm, with the expectation that he would live on the land and make a living from its produce. Many men who were granted a tenancy ended up forfeiting the land because the growing season proved so short and other pursuits, like trapping furs, were more profitable. However, Luc did not have that option.
As an officer of the King’s army, he was expected to set an example. Farming was the surest way for the King to keep hold of his settlements. Luc had been a part of the Chambly company in the Carignan-Salières regiment. From what little he’d shared with Nicole, they’d spent three years building forts, liaising with the natives, and protecting the settlers from invasion when talks weren’t successful. Now that his term was up, he had been presented with two choices: return to France, or marry and help settle their fledgling nation. He told Nicole repeatedly that she had made the decision a very easy one for him.
“Here we are,” Luc announced as they crossed onto his land. “This is all ours.”
Nicole surveyed the land, but made no reaction. There were large patches bereft of trees and bramble that looked ready to cultivate. The thick-rooted vegetation of the north still claimed much more of the land than he’d been able to clear.
Nicole took Luc’s hand as he helped her down from the wagon. She dared not look at his face, else the tears welling up in her eyes would spill over and betray her anger.
She stood just past the threshold, and listened as the wind whistled through gaps in the timbers. Rusted pots, strategically placed around the room, collected water from the roof that succeeded in keeping out rain only when the weather was fine. The draft in May made the hairs on her arms prickle in the chill. In November it would be unbearable. The skeleton house would provide no relief from the summer sun, nor would it keep the rodents from her pantry . . . when there was one.
Nicole circled the cabin once as Luc emptied the wagon of the wedding gifts. The cabin was the size of the convent’s common room, with no walls to divide the living areas from one another. There was a rickety bed in one corner with a patched, thin quilt. The kitchen was an open fireplace next to a roughhewn table that would have to hold office as Nicole’s work area as well as dining table. Two dining chairs, and two in the middle of the room. Three small windows with cloudy glass, and a floor that creaked like an arthritic old woman with every step trod upon it.
Nicole removed the worn bedding and replaced it with Elisabeth’s fine quilt and the Sisters’ embroidered linens. The extravagance made the cabin seem all the dingier for the effort. I left Maman and Papa for this? Will this be any better than life as a maid in a fine house? The fear and regret rose from the pit of her stomach to her throat with a lurch as though she were in a carriage driven by an ill-mannered horse.
“It needs some work,” Luc said, looking down at his feet as he placed Nicole’s trunk at the foot of his—their—bed.
Nicole had no reply, but summoned every ounce of her energy to restrain her tears as she smoothed the bedcovers.
“You’re displeased,” Luc said. It was not a question.
“You said you had a house,” Nicole said, wrapping her shawl tighter around her shoulders rather than discarding it as she crossed to the kitchen table.
“And so I do. I’ve been spending my time clearing land so we’ll have a harvest this fall. It’s more important than the house.” Luc stared at his feet, his hands on the back of one of the two chairs in the room.
“You told me the land was cleared and that you had a comfortable home.” Nicole’s voice remained calm, measured, as she organized the contents of Sister Mathilde’s hamper, hoping the mice would stay away. She made a mental note to ask what few neighbors there were if there were any spare barn cats to be had.
“Nicole . . . I knew that I couldn’t wait to have this place ready if I wanted to marry you.” Luc took a seat in his chair and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “In a year, you’d be married to someone else. Expecting his child. I couldn’t bear the thought of it.”
“You never thought to tell me the truth?” Nicole kept her voice low. She was beyond shouting. “You never thought that I might be willing to wait for you?”
“I couldn’t chance it.” Luc did not look up at his wife, but seemed to study the calluses on his hands.
“But you can risk me.” Nicole closed the lid of the hamper and tucked it in a corner. “Do you think this place will hold in winter?”
“I plan to shore it up before then.”
“Between planting your first crop and clearing more of the land?” Nicole sat next to her husband, clutching the armrests until her knuckles went white.
“Something like that.” Luc glanced up at Nicole, but did not make eye contact. I hope this means you know how wrong you were.
As she looked at her new husband, Nicole noticed the fine lines under his eyes. The grayish tone to his skin that could only come from night after night of too little rest. She cast her eyes around the cabin a second time. She had seen that it was poorly built. She saw that it was terribly small. She had not, at first glance, noticed that every surface was scrubbed clean. She had not seen the vase of wil
dflowers on the solid wooden table. She had not noticed that the chair on which she sat was new, purchased for her to match his own. He’d had less than two months to make the homestead livable and his attempt was admirable given those time constraints. His fellow soldiers must have helped him throw together the cabin at little more than a moment’s notice. A generous donation of their time and resources—all so he could marry me.
Though the chair would not find welcome amid the décor of Versailles, it was well made. Possibly the most expensive item in the room. It had to have cost him more than he earned in a month, but he had saved the money to provide her with a small measure of comfort. She looked at the handsome chair, then at her husband. In that chair she would spend countless hours knitting or reading after a long day’s toil. There she would comfort her babies. Were she a lucky woman, there she would seek respite from the physical torments of advanced age.
Nicole reached over and grasped Luc’s hand, took a tentative breath, and pressed her mouth to his. His eyes shone at the bold gesture, and he enveloped her in his arms, strengthened from clearing the land of myriad trees and shrubs, and pulled her onto his lap.
She looked up at Luc’s features, a curious blend of a chiseled nose and curved jaw. She wondered how she had ever seen anything of the boy, Jean Galet, in him. There was none of the boyish charm she had seen in Jean’s face; instead, she saw the face of a man who knew work. God knows, the company of a man will mean more than that of a boy in this place.
“It needs work, but fortunately, you have me to help with it,” Nicole said, offering another slow kiss.
“A greater blessing I’ve never had,” Luc said. “I thought I’d be alone the rest of my days.”
“In a desolate place such as this, not such a far-fetched idea,” Nicole said, laying her head against his chest, closing her eyes against the unpleasant thought of such a good man spending his life alone. She pushed it from her mind and ran her hand up his chest. He perfumed the air with the scent of clean man flesh, pine trees, and good Marseilles soap. He must have saved a bar from home. Nicole lamented leaving the soft soaps from home behind. The rough bars forged with animal fat and potash left her with a slimy coating like a frog’s. “I hope I’ll make you happy.”
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