“I am sorry to disturb you,” Manon said, the French language still feeling odd on her tongue. “Your tenant found me gathering herbs in the forest, at the edge of your lands. I assured him that you would not object to my presence, but he preferred to hear it from you directly.”
“The young lady speaks the truth, Rocher,” Alexandre said to the farmer. “She is welcome anywhere on my lands and is not to be harassed, is that understood?”
“Yes, seigneur,” the man said with a bow. “Forgive the intrusion. Can’t be too careful, you know.” The man cast a knowing look in Manon’s direction. Yes, because my people are the dangerous ones. You have that much to fear from a woman half your size alone in the woods?
“Quite,” Alexandre said. “You have other things to attend to, Rocher. Have a pleasant evening.”
The farmer shook his head at the sight of Dame Lefebvre embracing a native girl, and bowed his way from the house.
“I’m sorry to have bothered you,” Manon said, her tone still formal. “I must return home.”
“Nonsense.” Nicole took Manon’s hand and led her to the table where the rest of the family sat. “You’ll stay for supper.”
“I cannot,” Manon said, patting Nicole’s hand. Now that Nicole was Madame Lefebvre, her hand was free of the calluses earned from a hard day’s work. It pained her to refuse the hospitality of the woman who had been so kind to her, but she would not be able to sit still while Tawendeh was ill. “There is a fever in the Huron village. My brother is among the ill. It can become serious so quickly.”
Nicole responded with the quizzical furrow of her brow at the mention of the word brother.
“Adoptive brother,” Manon explained. She was an orphaned only child when she’d first met Nicole some nine years prior. Her aging grandmother had been less and less able to keep track of her young granddaughter, so Manon roamed unchecked. Her favorite thing to do was to wander into the woods and follow the brown-haired French angel who lived in the run-down cabin near the Huron village. She had never spoken to this lovely creature with her foreign clothes and creamy skin, but love-starved Manon could only imagine she was as lovely and sweet as she looked. When Manon happened upon Nicole’s husband, grievously injured by a Huron arrow that was meant for a stag, Manon found the angel and dragged her to the dying man. In the end, they were too late. Nicole adopted Manon and they were inseparable for the three years that followed.
“You’ll be in want of supplies if the fever spreads. We’ll send you with all we have.” Nicole transformed at once. She was no longer just a loving mother and dutiful wife, she was a commander. The women of the house set to work gathering anything that could be of use when treating the ill: blankets, clean rags, and more food than Manon could hope to carry in four treks to the village.
Manon forced herself to keep from fidgeting as she waited for Nicole and her mother to assemble the supplies. She could be of no use, nor could she refuse the food and supplies her people needed. She stood and observed the family as they bustled about on her behalf rather than sitting down to their own supper. Nicole’s parents had only spent a few weeks in Manon’s company. They seemed to have a vague recollection of her, and welcomed her into their home. The chatter of immaculately dressed children only served to make the small farmhouse seem all the more welcoming.
“Your family has grown,” Manon said, to break the awkward silence.
“Without question,” Nicole said with a laugh as she folded a thick woolen blanket. She indicated a beautiful girl of eight with golden-brown curls. “You remember Hélène, of course, and Frédéric. Sabine was born shortly after you left and Cécile and Roland arrived early last year.”
Hélène was the child from Nicole’s first husband, born only a few months after Manon had come into Nicole’s care. She had stood by Nicole’s side when the dark-haired, sturdy boy called Frédéric, the very image of his father with dark hair and flawless ivory skin, entered the world. He greeted Manon with wide eyes and a head cocked sideways with unspoken questions. An imp, just like Tawendeh. The toddling twins, blond and mischievous, were too absorbed in playing with their wooden horses on the dining room floor to notice the guest. Shy Sabine clung to her mother’s skirts and looked at Manon with curiosity, weakly returning the native girl’s gracious smile.
“What lovely children,” Manon said in earnest. “You have been blessed.”
“Amply,” Alexandre agreed, taking his place by his father-in-law’s side at the table as the women continued gathering. He reintroduced the Deschamps family without the slightest indication that her arrival caused him displeasure. Not that he would ever voice it.
Nicole’s parents, two younger sisters, and little brother had come to the colony nearly six years before when Manon was still a ward of the Lefebvres. Not long after the Deschamps arrived, Manon realized Nicole’s original family had usurped her place in Nicole’s life. Claudine and Emmanuelle would take Manon’s place in her heart. Alexandre, Manon was sure, thought to please his wife by moving her family to the New World, thereby easing her homesickness and worry for their well-being. In so doing, however, he cut out Manon’s place in their family and replaced it with Nicole’s own sisters. Perhaps it wasn’t by happenstance, either. Manon’s presence with the leading woman in their small society already caused stares from the rest of the settlement. The elder Deschamps had clearly endured hard labor. Their faces showed the signs of too many days in the sun. Still, both looked plump and hardy, thanks to the bounty of their new land. They wore plainer clothes than the Lefebvres, but still fit in better in the settlement than Manon in her deerskin robes and moccasins.
Claudine Deschamps surpassed her sisters in looks, though perhaps not in grace. She was seventeen—almost exactly Manon’s age, with dark brown hair and eyes that shone. Emmanuelle was almost sixteen and stouter than her sisters, but her hazel eyes that contrasted with her mahogany hair merited a second look from the young men of her acquaintance.
“You’ve been well then, my dear?” Nicole asked as she placed a massive loaf of bread in a basket with a jug of soup.
“Yes.” Manon paused to look at the perfectly roasted venison on the plate that Madame Deschamps placed at the table, praying none could hear the rumbling of her stomach. New World foods cooked in the French tradition; foreign and familiar, all at once. “I’ve been trying to learn the methods my people use for treating illness. That’s why I came. I was gathering herbs, for a remedy, for my little brother. I wouldn’t have ventured so close to your lands otherwise.”
“You’re welcome to gather all the herbs you need here, darling,” Nicole said with a glance toward her husband.
“Of course,” Alexandre acknowledged, “though I would avoid Rocher. He had an unfortunate encounter with an Indian man a year or two back and is a tad leery, as you surely noticed.”
“I’ll bear that in mind,” Manon said, keeping her less charitable thoughts to herself. Nicole flitted about the kitchen gathering more things to place in the basket. I’ll be lucky to make it home before daybreak carrying such a burden. Please do hurry. The images of Tawendeh growing weaker and more feverish plagued her, but she would not shame herself by appearing ungrateful.
“You’re sure you can’t stay?” Nicole’s eyes looked pleading as she scanned the room for anything else she could send along in the overflowing basket.
Claudine took a seat across the table from her brother-in-law and cleared her throat too loudly for it to be anything but a hint to her sister to sit down to the family meal. Nicole could not see that her younger sister was staring intently at the back of her head, seething impatience. Manon’s view was unobstructed.
“I wish I could, truly, but I must tend to my brother and the others. And I wouldn’t wish to intrude on a family meal.”
“Manon, your visit is not an intrusion. Please promise you’ll come see me?” Nicole took Manon’s hands in hers, gripping as though to prevent her from slipping away a second time.
The though
t of walking through the settlement, dressed in her deerskins, and knocking on the door of one of the finest houses New France could boast caused her empty stomach to churn. “I cannot promise, but our paths may cross again.”
“I hope so, sweet girl.” Nicole’s eyes shone as she took Manon in her arms for a long embrace. Manon accepted the overladen basket that Nicole thrust at her and thanked her and Madame Deschamps extravagantly. It was enough food to feed her family for at least two weeks and one fewer worry for her as she nursed Tawendeh back to health.
Darkness had set in, though the waxing moon cast plenty of light to see Manon home. A fine carriage could not pass the rough paths to the Huron settlement; only a rugged wagon could make the journey. Nor would Manon accept the loan of a horse, so she set off toward home on foot. The faces of Nicole’s abundant family flashed in her memory one by one. Nicole’s darling children, proud husband, loving parents, and lovely sisters. You’ve filled my place admirably, Maman. Nicole. I hope, truly, that you’ve been happy.
Mother Onatah looked up from her young son, who was still drenched in sweat and mumbling incoherently despite the cold cloths she applied to his forehead and face.
“No change.” Manon’s words were not a question.
Mother Onatah acknowledged them with a grim nod. Though the fever had yet to take a death grip on the boy, they both knew not to treat any fever with frivolity. Yarrow tea, sooner rather than later.
Manon added the herbs to her mortar to make a thick paste to boil into a pungent tisane. Too weak to protest, Tawendeh swallowed the potent, bitter brew and reclined back into his mother’s embrace.
“What can we do now, Skenandoa?” Mother Onatah’s black eyes glimmered with the unshed tears of her concern.
“We wait.” The response was cruelly honest, but she would not give her adoptive mother false hope.
Mother Onatah had welcomed the frightened twelve-year-old girl as her own when Manon returned without warning from the French settlement. Onatah had stood before the council, claimed the girl as a daughter, and given her the name Skenandoa—deer—owing to her long limbs, graceful gait, and skittish nature. She was thus made an official member of Big Turtle clan, but Manon learned quickly that the Huron distrusted her French ways and her education as much as the French distrusted her brown skin and accented speech.
Still, Mother Onatah had given her a home, and it was better than no place at all. As the older woman ministered to her son, Manon scanned the house for an occupation. The small longhouse was in disarray. Manon had been gone for hours and Tawendeh commanded all his mother’s attention. She began by organizing the pouches of dried herbs she’d strewn about that afternoon when she discovered her stores had run low. I’ll not make that mistake again. I’ll gather herbs every week during the growing season for the rest of my days. My carelessness could have cost Tawendeh his life. Chastising herself, she added more kindling to the fire and urged the flame higher in case more yarrow tea was needed.
“He’s sleeping,” Mother Onatah whispered to her. “You ought to do the same.”
“I couldn’t sleep, Mother. Not while things are unsettled.”
“Then go for a walk and come back ready for rest. I’ll have need of you in the morning.”
“Very well.” She didn’t bother trying to persuade Mother Onatah to take a turn at sleeping herself. While Tawendeh was in danger, neither would sleep until her body forced her into repose.
Manon stood outside the longhouse, breathing in the midnight air—crisp, but mingled with the woodsy tang of chimney smoke. The light of the waxing moon bathed the village, preventing Heno, the chief’s son, from taking her by surprise.
“There you are, my beauty,” Heno said, emerging from the wood. His name meant thunder in their language, no doubt the Chief’s attempt to inspire confidence in their allies and fear in their enemies. Thus far, the strategy had proven effective, for his son grew strong and tall—the perfect hunter-warrior.
“Good evening, my brave hunter,” she said, offering the handsome young man a kiss as she took him in her arms.
“How is young Tawendeh?” he asked, pulling back slightly from the embrace and tucking a loose strand of her hair behind her ear.
“Improving,” she said. “Mother Onatah ordered me to get some air while she tends him.”
“I’m glad she did,” he said, closing the gap between them and leaving a trail of soft kisses on her face, careful not to disturb the bruise.
“The white man?” he asked, tracing the edge of her puffy cheek with his finger.
She nodded. He growled softly in response. “How are the others?” Manon asked, resting her cheek against his broad chest to hide the injury and change the subject. She wouldn’t let the stinking French farmer ruin her time with Heno.
“Fifteen more have fallen ill. No one has died yet, but a few of the elderly and one of the children look close.” He spoke as though reporting back to the council about a scouting expedition or a hunt. He has to detach himself, or else it would be too painful.
“If only they would let me . . .” Manon began.
“I have spoken to anyone who will listen. They will come around. They’ll have to.” Heno ran his fingers down the thick braid of black hair that extended down past her lower back, and gripped her even closer.
I just hope they will accept my help before it’s too late. There was nothing to be done, though. Any attempt to persuade them would only make them more wary.
“I need you,” she breathed between kisses.
“With pleasure, my beauty.” He pulled out of her embrace and led her to their favorite clearing, the place they had met for the past two years when the weather was fine. On colder nights they coupled in whatever warm corner they could find.
Though the night air bit and dew covered the grass, Heno’s warm, muscled body drew her mind from the chill.
His mouth was ardent. His hands moved over her body with the confidence of an established lover. The man who taught her the art of love, despite all her misgivings in the early days. Adjusting to the ways of the Huron, where people viewed adolescent exploration as innocent and natural, took a while to accept after three years of Catholic indoctrination.
Manon lay in his arms for minutes—perhaps even hours—sated and impervious to the cold.
“I want to make a child with you,” Heno said, breathing in her ear.
“Please don’t start this again. I beg you. Not tonight,” she said. “I can’t bear to argue.”
“If you have my child, Father will be forced to let us marry,” Heno reasoned.
“He needn’t do any such thing. And if he refuses, I’d be alone, with a child to raise.” Her grip on his arm grew tighter and she had to keep herself from digging her nails into his flesh. Few raised ire in her as much as their chief.
Heno perched up on his elbows, taking her chin with his thumb and forefinger, forcing her to look into the depths of his serious black eyes. “I’d never let that happen, Skenandoa.”
“You’re the son of our chief. You’ll do exactly as you’re bid.” She brushed his hand away. “You’re the prince of your people, no freer to do as you please than a prince of France.”
“I can’t imagine the prince of a great country not being free to do precisely what he likes.” Heno’s jaw grew taut as it often did when she mentioned the French.
“Listen when your father speaks,” she said. “His decisions have nothing to do with his happiness, but rather the welfare of his people.” And that means seeing you married to a sweet, obedient girl who cares for nothing more than the traditions of our people and securing your lineage.
“That almost sounded like a compliment,” Heno said.
“Whatever the issues I might take with your father, self-interest is not one of them,” Manon said. “Though I will never care for the man who cast out his sister for taking me in.”
“I wouldn’t say Onatah is cast out,” Heno said. “She still lives with her tribe.”
“Marginalized, because she showed me kindness,” Manon said. Heno sighed deeply, whether frustrated by her logic or his father’s irrational fear of outside influence, Manon knew not.
“I will have you for my wife, my beauty.” He took her chin again, this time kissing her, claiming her mouth with his.
“Nothing would make me happier, my brave hunter,” Manon said as he pulled away.
For a moment she indulged in her favorite fantasy: a life where the tribe accepted her as Heno’s wife. A pillar of her community. A healer. A mother. She allowed herself to consider it only rarely; in her heart she knew it would never happen. But as she lay in Heno’s arms, optimism flowed through her veins, nourishing her body like manna.
“I love you, Heno,” she whispered, cupping his face and kissing his lips, savoring his taste like she would her last meal. “For now, just love me and let the future settle itself.”
“Always, my beauty.” He shifted to reclaim his position atop her, but Manon placed her hand on his chest. She gently pushed him to his back and straddled him, claiming her pleasure as the midnight wind stung her skin. For a few moments, she was neither Huron nor French. She was free of everything except her love for the beautiful man beneath her.
CHAPTER 2
Claudine
One of Alexandre’s stipulations of Claudine and Emmanuelle’s staying in town was that they would obey Nicole as readily as they would their own mother. Had it not been for her brother-in-law’s decree, Claudine would never have agreed to wake moments after the cock’s crow to take supplies to the Huron village with her two sisters and their longtime friend Gabrielle Giroux. She wanted to scoff at the idea of traipsing through the woods with blankets and food to people who had not requested and who would not welcome their interference. But she stilled her tongue. Even if it meant enduring a morning in the woods, it wasn’t worth risking Nicole’s—or worse, Alexandre’s—ire.
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