Promised to the Crown

by Aimie K. Runyan

  CHAPTER 14

  Rose

  October 1668

  “The—the fat b-brown cow yumped . . .” Manon stuttered.

  “Jumped,” Rose corrected.

  “J-jumped,” Manon repeated. “Jumped.” The girl’s satiny brown brow furrowed, branding the word and its corresponding sound into her memory through brute force of will. She sat slouched over the scarred wooden table in the convent’s common room, appearing oblivious to all the other occupants of the room as well as the crackling of the fire and the swirling snow that painted ice flowers on the windowpanes. Nicole usually gave Manon her French lessons, but a headache kept her in bed that afternoon. Rose suspected the inconvenience of selling the homestead and dealing with Luc’s affairs were the root cause.

  “Very good, my darling girl. You’re making wonderful progress.” Rose rubbed Manon’s back as she arched over the book, concentrating as though the pages contained the great mysteries of the universe and not a compilation of children’s rhymes.

  “Not fast enough.” Manon spoke as much to the book as to her tutor. The frustration of an eight-year-old is a powerful thing.

  “Dearest, several weeks ago you didn’t speak a syllable of French. You’re coming along better than any of us could have dreamed. Don’t be so hard on yourself.” Rose scratched the small square of skin between Manon’s shoulder blades, causing the girl to purr like a kitten.

  “I am stupid,” Manon said, pronouncing each word with deliberation.

  “No you aren’t, and no one who knows you thinks that either, my dear. I worried that the people in England thought the same of me when Papa took me to London and I couldn’t order my own supper. I was just about your age, maybe a year older.” Rose chuckled as she remembered the fire of her indignation at the waiter’s gentle scoff—a fury unmatched by anyone over the age of ten. How dare he laugh at her? The stupid man was much older than she and didn’t know a word of French. She imagined that Manon must feel the same when people smiled at her lilting pronunciation that Rose found more beautiful than the most cultured Parisian accent. Rose hoped the girl wouldn’t lose it entirely. But she knew that speaking as the settlers did was in Manon’s best interest.

  “Where is Eng-land?” Manon asked.

  Rose took advantage of the distraction to give Manon a break from the text. She opened the Sisters’ atlas, so old it contained no reference to the land on which they stood, and she turned to the outdated world map.

  “Here is France, where I’m from. I was born in Paris, just here.” Rose pointed to the large, scripted words that dominated the center of the country. “London is there.”

  “That isn’t far,” Manon said, measuring the distance with her fingers. “Only this far away.”

  Rose stifled her chuckle at some cost, covering her efforts with a cough. “It’s actually quite a distance, dear. The real distance wouldn’t fit on the page. That’s why we have maps, so we have at least some idea of where countries are in relation to one another.”

  “That is smart,” Manon said, studying the map. “My people don’t have maps. This way is better.” If Rose had been a less observant woman, the dark cloud that passed over Manon’s face would have gone unnoticed.

  “Did someone you know get lost?” Rose asked.

  “My papa,” Manon said, not taking her eyes from the atlas. “He was hunting. He never came home.”

  “I’m so sorry, my darling,” Rose said, her voice hushed. Losing her father at an older age than Manon’s had been an impossible lot to bear. This small girl had lost all the people who had cared most in less than a year. Manon’s attachment to Nicole made all the more sense to Rose.

  “This is Rouen,” Rose said, indicating the large town in the northwest. “Nicole was born on a farm just outside of it.”

  “It must be a lovely place,” Manon said.

  Rose had visited Rouen three or four times in her youth, but the town had made little impression after a childhood bathed in the splendors of Paris. “Why do you say so, my dear?”

  “Because she’s a lovely person. She must come from a lovely place.” Manon’s sweet, girlish logic brought stinging tears to the corners of Rose’s eyes.

  “Quite right,” Rose said, clearing her throat. “Let’s take a break and do some needlework, shall we?”

  “Very well,” Manon said, sighing as she closed her book. As challenging as the book work was for Manon, it held her interest much more than domestic tasks.

  Rose pulled Manon’s small sampler from the basket and gave her directions on how to proceed with the design. Forming the letters stitch by stitch, Rose reasoned, would help etch them into Manon’s memory.

  “And how are the studies coming, my dear?” Sister Mathilde asked, taking a seat near the student and pupil.

  “Brilliantly,” Rose answered, smiling at Manon.

  The Sister flipped through the texts and asked Manon the occasional question, observed her progress in the needlework, and looked over the samples of her attempts at handwriting. “Manon, dear. Why don’t you go ask Sister Anne for something to eat? You’ve been working very hard. Tell her I sent you.”

  With no further prompting, Manon dashed in the direction of the convent kitchen.

  “My dear Mademoiselle Barré, you have made tremendous progress with our young pupil. I had not thought your education plan to be as ambitious as it seems to be. In just a few weeks she has more ability than many in the colony. At least in terms of reading and writing.”

  “And you shall have my skills at your disposal, Sister,” Rose said. “You told me I had to wait six months before you would speak to Mother Marie. It’s been that and more. I’m still determined to take orders.”

  “And what of young Lefebvre?” Sister Mathilde asked. “I thought the two of you were becoming friendly. Whatever happened?”

  “He has gone to the Antilles, Sister,” Rose said. “And has no plans to return, according to his uncle.”

  “That is a shame, my dear.” Sister Mathilde arranged Manon’s papers in a neat pile, unable to let her hands rest idle. “But since you found one agreeable young man, I am sure you can find another.”

  “No, Sister,” Rose said. “If you will not speak to the Reverend Mother for me, I will do it myself.”

  “Very well, child.” Sister Mathilde folded her hands and looked into Rose’s eyes. “I have business with her tomorrow and will speak to her then. I hope you are prepared for this life. There are many sacrifices you will be called to make.”

  “I know, Sister, but I have only one way to find out.”

  Two days later, Rose waited in the dark corridor outside Reverend Mother Marie de l’Incarnation’s small office. Rose jiggled her foot to no beat or rhythm, unable to shake the feeling that she was a petulant child awaiting punishment from the headmistress. Memories of her meeting with Sister Charité swam through her brain. If anything, the cold iron in the pit of her stomach weighed even heavier this time.

  Sister Mathilde opened the door and motioned for Rose to enter, then left the young woman alone with the head of the Ursuline order.

  Wordlessly, Mother Marie motioned to a severe-looking chair that seemed created to keep visits brief. Mother Marie was somewhat of a legend. Rose heard the Sisters speak of her in whispered tones. She was the founder of the Ursuline order. A true pioneer. Rose could imagine what the settlement was like when Mother Marie first arrived. It must seem as bustling as Paris to her now.

  Mother Marie was a slip of a woman with a face lined with the experience of a founding mother of a country. No shaded cloisters and grand cathedrals for many years. Though she was slight, Rose could see why Mother Marie inspired such reverence in her Ursulines. The serenity of her spirit, her presence, was enough to startle Rose into silence. She took her rosary from her apron pocket for comfort. It was a plain wooden affair, nothing like the elegant creations in silver, gold, and precious stones that her aunt Martine carried to Mass. Rose rubbed the smooth beads with her thumb and fo
refinger, focusing on the texture to calm her breathing.

  “So, you wish to join our order.” Mother Marie’s voice was strong for a woman approaching seventy years of age. Her face was lined with experiences, sorrowful and joyful, but there seemed a peace about her that Rose envied.

  “Yes, Reverend Mother,” Rose said, looking down at her folded hands as she spoke.

  “Sister Mathilde spoke very highly of you.” With her smallest finger, Mother Marie traced a pattern, unseen to Rose, on the small wooden desk that separated the women. “She says you read Latin?”

  “Yes, Reverend Mother,” Rose said. “And Greek. And French, of course.”

  “Most unusual.” Mother Marie assessed the young woman before her. “She says you have been quite successful with the education of one of the young native girls as well. Already learning their language. You would be an asset to us, but you were sent here to marry. We need wives in this colony even more than we need teachers to spread the word of God.”

  “Yes, Reverend Mother,” Rose said. “But I cannot marry.”

  “I am sure you could find a young man in this colony to tempt you,” said Mother Marie, echoing Sister Mathilde’s words. “There are plenty to be had.”

  “Let me speak plainer, Reverend Mother,” Rose said. “I will not marry.”

  “Marriage is a duty placed upon you by the King himself, a duty you accepted voluntarily, I would remind you.” Mother Marie’s eyes fixed on Rose, perhaps noticing a troublesome speck of defiance in the young woman’s character. “This order has no need of those who are derelict in their duty.”

  “By no means, Reverend Mother,” Rose said. “But I see that my duty has changed. I wish to serve my country and my king by teaching the new wives and girls rather than taking a husband of my own. I take those responsibilities to heart, I assure you, Reverend Mother.”

  Rose kept the calm in her voice, but did not avert her eyes as she longed to do.

  “That’s better,” said Mother Marie. “And something I can well understand. The postulate period is one year. During that time you will live with the Sisters, pray, and study. After that, Sister Mathilde will report to me if she feels you are ready to enter the novitiate.”

  “Very well, Reverend Mother,” Rose said.

  “Sister Mathilde also says you wish to teach the native girls, and have been working with Sister Hortense as a sort of assistant. I agree this is an excellent use of your talents, and I wish you to continue learning their language. I want it to be the main concentration of your studies, even beyond Church doctrine,” Mother Marie said. “It will serve you even better in your teaching, for we will rarely venture beyond the basic catechism with these young ladies. I trust you know your catechism well enough.”

  Rose nodded; she couldn’t have spent three years in the Salpêtrière without knowing it as well as her own name.

  “Excellent. I am pleased to have your skills at our disposal, my dear. You may go now and get to work.”

  “Yes, Reverend Mother.” Rose offered a small curtsy as she stood. “And thank you.”

  “A pleasure, my daughter,” Mother Marie said. “May God bless you on your path.”

  The first thing Rose learned as a teacher with an entire class of her own was that despite the bite in the October air, the Huron girls had far more success sitting and listening while outdoors for their lesson. The walls of the convent confined them, made them restless. Rose kept things very simple for their first session. She taught them two prayers, and explained their meaning in halting Wendat. Manon supplied her with a missing word, causing one girl with a long face and rather pointy nose to hurl an insult for which Rose needed no translation.

  “Young lady, you will not speak in that way to a member of this class. Nor should you speak to anyone in such a manner.” Rose’s Wendat, though imperfect, was able to convey her message without any confusion. The offending child turned stone-faced for the remainder of the lesson, refusing to participate or respond for the entire hour.

  Wonderful. Another Huron child who’ll have no love for the French. Exactly what the Sisters asked me to do.

  Rose didn’t display her frustration to the children, but dismissed them with a forced smile and a genuine wish to see them back the next week. She did not anticipate Manon’s detractor would be among them.

  “Very well done, my dear,” Sister Mathilde said, joining Rose in the courtyard as she collected her texts.

  “Oh, I don’t think it was any great success, Sister,” Rose said.

  “On the contrary, the girls seemed very attentive.” Sister Mathilde opened the door for Rose, and pointed the way to the small room that served as her office.

  “I fear the one girl—the one with the pointy nose—won’t be back,” Rose said, taking a seat opposite the Sister’s plain pine desk.

  “Don’t you worry,” Sister Mathilde said. “Our young Sarah, as we call her, will be back. Her mother is happy for the reprieve.”

  Rose didn’t quite succeed in stifling her laugh. “I can imagine so. I didn’t know we had given them French names.”

  “They would have been only too happy to tell you, if you had asked,” Sister Mathilde said, leaning against the back of her rigid chair. “Allow me to offer you a piece of advice: Never hesitate to ask a question of your pupils. They will think more of you for taking an interest in them.”

  Rose felt herself shrink into the chair. Such a careless mistake.

  “Don’t fret on it. I imagine the girls could easily see your eagerness to begin the lesson. That has its virtues as well. But perhaps next week, spend a quarter of an hour getting to learn a bit more about the girls. Every scrap of information they share is a key to their minds and their hearts.”

  “Of course, Sister. They seem like sweet girls.”

  “They are,” Sister Mathilde agreed. “Some of them remarkably so, especially our little Manon. She reminds me so much of my own daughter.”

  Rose stared openly at her superior, her mouth agape.

  “I see I’ve stunned you.” There was a glimmer of mischief in the old woman’s eyes as she delighted in Rose’s flabbergasted silence. “Remember, though we sisters are forbidden from marrying or having children once we’ve taken orders, there is nothing to prevent a widow from taking the veil.”

  “So your husband died?” Rose wished to retract the obvious question as soon as it left her lips.

  “Yes. Our parents arranged our marriage when we were just eighteen. His father was a merchant, my father an even more successful one. I was a wife for two years before a fever claimed him. Just long enough for him to give me my little Rachel.”

  “And where is she now?” Rose imagined the girl must be grown by now. The thought of Sister Mathilde as a grandmother seemed somehow aberrant.

  “For four years she was the light of my life, but she was never a healthy child. A simple cold claimed her from me, despite my efforts to keep her well. For many years I had a very hard time accepting that it was God’s will. I confess it’s still a point of contention between us.” Though Sister Mathilde addressed Rose, her eyes glossed over as though looking back on her own past.

  “So you entered the convent to escape your grief?” Rose asked.

  “You think kindly of me. No. I entered to escape another arranged marriage. I also confess I was not fond of the first attempt. I pleaded with my father to let me take orders, and in the end, I had enough sisters for him to marry off that I was of little consequence.”

  Rose laced her fingers, not knowing how to respond to the information.

  “But I must tell you, I have found great happiness in my order. Great satisfaction in teaching, prayer, and most of all bringing a measure of comfort to the women of this colony.”

  “I’m sure of that, Sister,” Rose said. “There isn’t a woman in our settlement who isn’t grateful for your presence.”

  “Make no mistake, my girl. For as much as I have come to love my order, I would trade it all for one more day wi
th my own daughter.” Sister Mathilde’s voice wavered almost imperceptibly. “Now hurry along and prepare your lesson for next week. And remember what I’ve told you.”

  Rose climbed the stairs, her thoughts churning. Sister Mathilde as a wife and mother did not register with the stately woman of God that she knew. The image of a young Mathilde with a baby at her breast seemed an unholy juxtaposition to the life she led now. But she’d survived marriage. She’d survived childbirth. She had carved a new life for herself out of the wreckage of the first, and seemed content with her choices.

  Perhaps I could be as strong as the good Sister and accept the life I agreed to. But perhaps I’ll be better off on this new path....

  Rose pushed the doubt from the pit of her stomach and settled into her task. Right or wrong, she knew that every path led to the same ultimate destination.

  CHAPTER 15

  Elisabeth

  October 1668

  Since Adèle had been born, the hardest part of the day was the lull between the lunch and dinner rush. Months ago, it was a welcome respite, now it was an abyss of awkward silence. Elisabeth avoided it by escaping to the convent or scrubbing every surface in the bakery or the home above stairs until they were inhospitably clean. She’d opted for the latter that day, and was pleased when she realized the hour demanded that she attend to her customers. Elisabeth hurried down to the shop to help Gilbert. He acknowledged her arrival with a nod and they busied themselves with customers for several hours. Welcoming smiles were offered, pleasantries exchanged. Elisabeth wondered if the customers noticed her insincerity, and Gilbert’s, too. For the sake of the business, she hoped not.

  “Supper?” Elisabeth asked when the last customer exited the shop.