Gilbert saw this in Pascal when he took him in. An eye for talent, just like Papa. Her heart swelled each night when he boasted that there had been no miscalculations in the orders, nor any wasted flour. More than one farmer had come in from the far reaches of the settlement to praise Pascal to Elisabeth and Gilbert. The answer was always the same: “We would expect nothing less from a Beaumont.”
Elisabeth set a platter of her favorite millefeuilles in the case and reached for the broom to tidy before the dinner rush when the bell at the door sounded. Father Cloutier stood in the entry, looking as friendly as a wolf snarling over a hunk of discarded meat.
“You meddlesome whore of Babylon, how did you manage it?” he demanded by way of greeting.
“Gabrielle, go on upstairs and start supper, sweetheart,” Elisabeth asked, squeezing the girl’s shoulder. She leaned in to whisper, “I’ll be up before too much longer, don’t worry.”
The girl obeyed without hesitation, and Elisabeth waited until she heard the door latch at the top of the stairs before she looked back to the priest.
“Now, how may I help you, Father?” Elisabeth asked, treating him with the same sugary condescension she had used with the roughhewn sailors on the crossing.
“Don’t play innocent with me, you witch,” Cloutier said, his face purple with rage. Please God don’t let the despicable man have an apoplexy here. I don’t want his wretched ghost spoiling my pastry cream.
“I’m afraid you’ll have to tell me what you mean, Father,” Elisabeth said, not abandoning her pretense. She swept the floor as though he were no more than a farm boy, unworthy of her full attention.
“I’m being sent back to France. To some backwater in the south,” he spat. “And don’t act like you aren’t responsible for it.”
“Father, I am but the wife of a humble baker,” Elisabeth said, careful not to claim the title for herself, though at some personal cost. “How do you imagine I have the influence to make such a thing happen?”
“I don’t pretend to know your conniving ways,” he said, still standing only a few paces inside the door, speaking loud enough for the passersby to hear. “All I know is that you are to blame for this. You’re an independent, evil woman and you will pay for your sins.”
“I have no doubt of that,” Elisabeth said. “We all will on the day of judgment, as you remind us each week. But I assure you that I had no knowledge of your transfer before now. Though I cannot say that I am sorry to see you go.”
“You will still refer to me as ‘Father,’ you impertinent hussy,” he thundered. “Do you not know I am a man of God? You dare speak to me in such a way? Have you no shame?”
“Indeed I do. But though you are a man of God, I believe you are also a man. And a flawed one at that. You have taken it upon yourself to attempt to ruin my family, though we intended no insult on you. At the end of the day, Father, I would rather be held accountable for my sins than yours. I pray you will think on that before you treat anyone in your new parish as callously as you have treated all of us.”
“Do not believe that you will get away with this, you harlot,” the priest said, his tone now low and threatening. “You have no idea who you are meddling with.”
“Oh, I think I do,” Elisabeth said, gripping the broom until her knuckles glistened white. “I think you’re a small-minded man with more ambition than good sense who has been shunted from post to post for the past three decades because no one can stand to have you at the pulpit for long. Have I got the measure of it, Father?”
“I pray that the man who replaces me will continue to watch over you and work to purge this good settlement of your evil influence,” he pronounced. “I pray that he will be a true man of God.”
“As do I, Father, though I think you and I have very different ideas of what that looks like. Now I will bid you good day.” Elisabeth pointed to the door with her broom, using every ounce of her restraint not to fling it at his head. And when the new man comes, and I know he is a true man of God, I will take him—by his hair if necessary—to consecrate the land where my Adèle is buried. She will not be denied her eternal rest because of you.
As the priest spun with a flourish he smacked into Gilbert’s broad chest. The priest offered no greeting or apology, but slithered past him onto the street, making his angry path back to the church.
“What was that all about?” Gilbert asked, his brow arched.
“What else could it be?” Elisabeth answered, grasping his face and bringing him in for a kiss. “We’ve won.”
Elisabeth tucked little Pierre into his cradle, and escaped for a few moments of solitude into her empty kitchen. Pascal and Gabrielle slept, secure in the knowledge that both were in their rightful home. Gilbert spent his hour below stairs preparing what he could for the following morning. Rather than retire to the bliss of her soft mattress, she put the kettle to the fire and prepared a cup of herbal tea.
She sipped the bitter brew and willed herself to put aside the venom that rose so quickly to the surface when she recalled the memories of her mother. She pulled from the vault of her memories the few pleasant thoughts she’d kept hidden, shadowed darker and darker since her father’s death.
The first doll she remembered. A cloth doll with a sweet face that Anne was always happy to provide with new frocks that matched Elisabeth’s. The time that Anne took Elisabeth to the opera when she was twelve years old, allowing her daughter her first dress that was cut for a young woman and not a girl—Elisabeth long considered that the day she’d become a woman. And the coffee. A silly thing, but something they loved.
For several days, Elisabeth toyed with the notion, but she brought herself to take out a sheaf of paper, quill, and ink from Gilbert’s small desk, where he kept the bakery’s books. Though Elisabeth was still slow in forming her letters, the calm of the night allowed her the full concentration she needed for the task.
Dear Maman,
I take pen in hand to wish you well, from the depths of my heart. We did not part well. We have not always been friends. I want to tell you, while we have time on this earth, that I forgive you for your moments of callousness. I know you wanted me for greater things, even though they were so very far from the things that I myself wanted, or indeed will ever want, from life. You didn’t understand me, you probably still don’t, but you are not the first mother to do so. You will not be the last.
You have a grandchild. A beautiful boy, named Pierre for Papa. It is my dearest wish that he will grow to be a fine young man like his namesake. I know you didn’t appreciate Papa as well as he deserved, but I am now able to see that he did not give you your due, either. Neither have I. You are resourceful. You are ambitious. While those qualities drove you and I apart, they are part of who you are, and I should have tried harder to find the virtue in them.
You had great plans for me. I see that now. You wanted a grand life for me, and I have found it, Maman. It might not be the life you pictured, but it is as grand a life as I could have dared to hope for. I have a good, hardworking husband, a healthy son, and friends dearer to me than the sisters I never had.
In your last letter, you said you no longer had a daughter. I hope, truly, that you reconsider, for there is never a day when a daughter does not need her mother. I will welcome your letter with a glad heart as I would welcome your person with open arms.
Your loving daughter,
Elisabeth Beaumont
It wasn’t for Anne’s sake that Elisabeth wrote the letter, but for her own. She needed a release from her mother’s specter, but disowning her mother with the same disregard as Anne had shown her would not free her. Her loving father had told her on more than one occasion that forgiveness was a mighty weapon when wielded with love and compassion. It was only now that Elisabeth had the strength to welcome her mother back into her life. If Anne ignored the invitation, that was her own affair, but Elisabeth had done what she could to mend the rift.
Still hearing Gilbert below, Elisabeth did not see any
point in seeking out her bed. She found her sewing kit and her crisp white handkerchief. She had some lovely pink thread and began to watch as the delicate flowers took shape on the white background. The more she stitched, the more it seemed there was a bare space for another bloom.
CHAPTER 32
Rose
February 1672
“I really, really, really hate Latin,” Claudine announced, laying her head on the wooden desk in defeat. “I’ll never wrap my head around the stuff. I told you I wouldn’t.” True to her word, Rose welcomed them for four hours every afternoon for their studies. Henri had converted a small room into a classroom, allowing the girls to escape from their home for a few hours and Rose to stay within earshot of the baby.
“That simply isn’t true, my dear,” Rose said, patting the girl’s back. “You’ve already made progress. A month ago you couldn’t read a syllable of Latin, and now you’re able to conjugate verbs and make out simple poems. You are making progress.”
Their curriculum was an evolving thing as Rose endeavored to follow in the Ursulines’ footsteps and played to her pupils’ strengths and weaknesses. Since the sisters opposed each other in their talents, Rose found that every lesson pleased one Deschamps girl as much as it dismayed the other.
Claudine raised her head and gave a baleful look Emmanuelle-ward. “Not as fast as she is.”
“Emmanuelle, what do you love above all things?” Rose asked, turning to the studious child, who just then looked up from her text. Her leg, still sore months after the accident, was propped up on a cushion while she studied.
“Study,” Emmanuelle said. “Reading. Languages. All of it.”
“And what do you do in your spare time?” Rose asked, standing to her full height and smoothing her dress.
“I read,” Emmanuelle said, placing her book aside and making eye contact with Rose as though she were answering questions for an examination. “Latin and Greek from our text sometimes. Mostly French because it’s what Monsieur Lefebvre has in his library to lend me.”
“And, Claudine, what do you do in your spare time?” Rose asked, turning to the older sister.
“I sew and embroider,” Claudine answered, sitting up straight. “I enjoy doing fancy work.”
“As do I,” Rose said with a smile. “So, Claudine, is it so surprising that your sister should excel in Latin and you in needlework when you devote so many extra hours to those pursuits?”
“I suppose not,” Claudine admitted. “But Latin is so terribly dull. I’ll never use it in my life, I know.”
“Wouldn’t you like to understand the prayers in church?” Rose asked, sitting down at her own desk so she could sit at the girls’ level.
“I don’t see why,” Claudine said. “God understands them, so what difference does it make if I do?”
“You sound more like your brother-in-law every day,” Rose said.
“Good. I hope to be just like him,” Claudine said. Rose wasn’t quite sure if she should smile or shake her head. Alexandre’s irreverence and bitter jibes were tolerated because of his status and his ability to know when to hold his tongue—neither virtue had Claudine yet attained. Goodness knew Nicole’s sweet temper was needed to balance out his acerbic tongue. No matter how unsuited she had felt for life in the upper crusts of society, he needed her unique blend of gentleness and social cunning to maintain his standing. Rose could tell her friend derived as much satisfaction from her role as Elisabeth did from running her bakery. She had envied them their place, many times, but now she had her teaching and her family to which she could devote herself.
“Darling, what is it you want from life?” Rose asked, taking Claudine’s hands in her own.
“A husband, a comfortable home in town,” Claudine answered without pause.
“Things most girls wish for, to be sure,” Rose said. “But do you think those things alone will bring you happiness? What of friendship?”
“Oh, I want lots of friends,” Claudine responded, her eyes wide and earnest. “A nice group of girls to trade stories with and who will tell me how pretty I look.”
Rose refrained from rolling her eyes, knowing Claudine would turn a deaf ear to everything she said if she did. “Remember, darling girl, admirers and friends are rarely the same thing.”
“So how goes progress with your young scholars, my love?” Henri asked that evening as they climbed into bed.
“Not too bad. Emmanuelle is as smart as a whip and eager to please. She reminds me so much of Manon.” A frown crossed Rose’s face at the thought of the sweet girl who seemed so very far away. She had spent more than a few hours sharing tears with Nicole over the departed girl. She prayed every night for Manon’s safety . . . and hoped that the child could find some measure of happiness among her people.
“And her rascal of a sister?”
“Just as you describe—a rascal,” Rose said. “I worry for her. She’s better suited for a Parisian ballroom than the wilderness.”
“Just like her auntie Rose?” Henri asked, wrapping his arm around her and kissing her forehead.
“Hardly,” Rose said. “These days it seems as though Paris might as well be as far away as the moon. To tell the truth, I would not wish it any closer.”
“You don’t long for the fine clothes? The elegant salons?” Henri asked, no trace of humor in his voice.
“No,” Rose said, the certainty in her voice shocking even herself. “There are days I miss being in a town, I admit freely. But I have learned some lessons our young Claudine is not yet able to. I have a loving husband. I have a strong son. I have two dear friends who mean more to me than a legion of two-faced courtiers . . . and if I am very lucky, in seven months or so, I may be blessed with a daughter as well.”
“You minx!” Henri said, sitting up in bed. “Is this how you tell me I’m going to be a father once more?”
“Ah, so it’s you who longs for the life of a courtier,” Rose said, sitting up nose to nose with Henri, her eyes flashing with glee. “Shall I make a formal declaration before our families so they might give us their blessing?”
“No need, my love,” Henri said, pulling her onto his lap. “My God, I am the luckiest man alive.” He pulled her face to his in a kiss that, less than two years prior, would have caused Rose to recoil in fear. Tonight, she was able to breathe, to embrace her husband, to love him as she had longed to do during all the months of cold and solitude of their early marriage.
“And I, the luckiest woman to ever draw breath, my darling,” Rose said, returning his kisses, breathing in his masculine scent—honest sweat and pine—as though it were a fine perfume.
She looked into his hazel-brown eyes and was unafraid. Could not bring herself to remember ever being so. She motioned for him to wait, but this time not to brace herself or steady her nerves. She only wished to revel in the freedom from the ghosts of her past.
EPILOGUE
Rose
March 1672
“She’s beautiful.” Rose swaddled the rosy infant girl and placed her in Nicole’s arms. Another daughter for New France. Nicole has done her duty. We all have.
“I think we’ll call her Sabine for one of Alexandre’s sisters that he was fond of. He’s been dropping hints for weeks now.”
Was fond of. Rose rubbed the back of her finger against the baby’s downy cheek. Alexandre’s sister was alive and well, but it seemed like everyone in the Old World was spoken of in the past tense. And so the Old World is for most of us. Dead and buried. Some of us with happy memories, others all too happy to be rid of the past.
“That’s a lovely name,” Elisabeth cooed. Rose could see the maternal lust tinged with heartbreak in her eyes. Despite another loss, Elisabeth would want to try for a baby again, and soon. Pierre wouldn’t be a baby much longer and would need brothers and sisters to tussle with on the bakery floor. Rose admired her perseverance and wondered if her heart were strong enough to bear such pain over and over again.
“Shall we invite Alexan
dre in to meet his daughter?” Madame Deschamps asked, taking a brush to Nicole’s sweaty mane. How quickly we try to erase all the signs of our hard work. We ought to let our husbands see how brutish this business is. They might have more sympathy for us.
“Just a few more moments. I’m not quite ready to share her yet.”
“Take all the time you need, dear. I’ll just go end his suffering. Do you mind if I tell him that he has a new daughter?” Nicole’s mother whisked away the soiled linens from the bed and passed them off to one of the maids who stood waiting in the hall. She’d quietly managed the birth with the efficiency of a Parisian surgeon. Rose marveled at the woman, beginning to stoop with age, who moved with the grace and dignity of someone far above her station.
“Of course. Thank you, Maman.”
“No thanks are needed. Ever.” Madame Deschamps kissed her daughter’s brow. Another granddaughter. A daughter married as well as she could ever hope to be. Two young daughters who stand to make great matches themselves with her help. I can’t imagine many women in New France could be much happier. Rose smiled at her friend’s mother as she left the room, wishing her own mother might have had the chance to attend her labors.
But it wasn’t to be. Nor was there any sense brooding on the matter.
“I’m so glad you were both here for me.” Nicole slid down in the bed, looking duly weary from her day’s work.
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