Chapter 8
The brides’ spirits were high as they walked into the village that afternoon.
They gaped and pointed at the marvels all around them: bright orange lilies, paler than the hawkweed they knew at home but more brilliant for their size and height; yellow marguerites with furry brown centres that resembled small sunflowers; stalks topped by tiny clusters of white flowers perfect for an elf’s bouquet; tall grasses sprouting violets.
Bees looped around the flowers in coy circles as some of the brides tried to stop and pick what they could.
Sister Gagnon scolded them all for dallying.
Marthe held Rose’s and Lou’s hands and swung them back and forth as they traipsed through the meadow and across a little creek.
She felt oddly seasick from walking on the land, as if she had been so long at sea that she could not stand straight.
They skipped ahead and then stopped, waiting for the dizziness to overtake them, then fell to the ground laughing.
It was the first day of their new lives and they had everything that they needed: sunshine, friendship, and a generous fifty-livre dowry from the king.
Behind them élisabeth paused to examine the ground every few steps. She had seemed so anxious to be allowed to visit Ville-Marie, Marthe couldn’t understand why she was dawdling now.
“What are you doing?” she asked. élisabeth looked up at her, her brows furrowed.
“Checking her footprints.” élisabeth nodded in the direction of Jeanne Roy. “To see if toadstools sprout where she treads.”
Marthe bent over. She did not see any fungus.
“Do you hear that?” élisabeth whispered.
Marthe tilted her head. There was a piercing hum of what might have been a bird or a cricket, or some kind of otherworldly creature calling out to them.
élisabeth crossed herself and slipped her hands into her pockets, pulling her rosary from one, her holy water vessel from the other. She held them tightly in her fists.
“Can you believe the heat of the day?” Marthe smiled, more as a means to distract élisabeth than a desire to discuss the weather.
“I do believe the sailors’ tales of eyelashes turning to icicles and toes freezing black were exaggerations meant to frighten us rather than a true reflection of what this island is like. ”
“This heat can’t last. A storm must surely come,” élisabeth murmured.
“Perhaps. Or perhaps the summers here will be glorious, and the winters mild. Did you see the size of the crops? Everything is so tall.”
Her sister did not reply. She squinted into the distance to where Jeanne Roy was leaning over to pick wildflowers.
When she moved on, élisabeth silently followed to inspect the ground.
Marthe knew she should keep an eye on her, but enchanted by the delights of the day, she ran to catch up with her friends instead.
They did not meet their first Canadian until they reached a dirt track that Sister Brodeur said bore the grand name of Rue Saint-Paul.
A middle-aged man with his chemise open at the neck and a pipe in his mouth lifted his hat and crossed the road to speak to Sister Gagnon.
The procession slowed to a halt, which gave Marthe a chance to peer down the road and up a little side street.
The roads were earthen, in some places packed hard from use.
The few houses in the village had pigs rooting around in the front gardens.
Farther down Rue Saint-Paul she could see several figures dressed in black.
Jesuit or Récollet priests? Or perhaps like Father de Sancy, from the order of Saint-Sulpice?
Marthe had learned the Sulpicians were not just clerics but also the lords of Montréal Island, controlling everything as far as the eye could see.
A pair of nuns in a slightly different habit from Sister Gagnon’s also stopped to talk, and Marthe heard Sister Brodeur explain that these were Ursulines, not to be confused with the Hospitalières, who ran the H?tel Dieu and cared for both the bodies and souls of the needy.
She was amazed at the many religious orders and was thinking that élisabeth could be right about the sanctity of the island, when Lou nudged her.
“Look! A dog pulling a cart.”
There was all manner of conveyances on the road: two-wheeled, four-wheeled, some with a place for a carter to sit, others so small they were only fit to move a few goods.
All but one was pulled by an ox or a cow; the smallest, filled to the brim with hay, was being led by a mongrel, though the dog was distracted by a feathered lump of carrion he’d discovered in the street, causing his master to strike him with a stick as the cart veered off its path.
“Why does no one have a horse?” Marthe asked Sister Brodeur. The young nun was being pestered with other questions too.
“Is this all there is? There do not seem to be many homes,” said Francoise.
“Where are the shops?” Thérèse asked.
“Why is there no proper church?” Apolline frowned.
“There are now as many as fifty houses,” Sister Brodeur explained, taking the questions in her stride.
“Each artisan has his shingle outside his home so you may know his trade. Few have horses, though I’m sure that will change as our colony grows.
Our Lady’s church will be built right up that street.
Until then, we use the chapel. All things take time. ”
“How many artisans are there?” Marthe asked.
“Easily two dozen.” The young nun smiled, though Marthe was not encouraged by this.
Of two dozen men likely only half of that number were in want of a wife, or of a marriageable age.
She would not wed an old man unless he was already rich.
She needed a husband with strength enough to meet her ambitions.
“Come along,” she heard the older nun call to them. Sister Gagnon made sweeping motions with her hands, as if to usher them forward. “I’ve just been warned there’s been plenty of drinking and fighting at the fur fair today. Let’s move on.”
As if the nun had called him forth with her words, a man with long whiskers started lumbering towards the girls.
Sister Gagnon puffed out her chest, creating a barrier between the men and her ducklings, while two more long-beards appeared from one of the side streets.
The men staggered towards the brides, staring as if it were more shocking to see a girl in a clean skirt than a black bear on Rue Saint-Paul.
“You there!” the first man called as he loped alongside them. “You’re a pretty one.” His head turned, taking in the procession. “As are you. Even more so. And you as well.”
The smell of brandy and sweat was so overpowering that Marthe was forced to hold her breath. She thought of what her papa might say about the two men lurching towards them. Not fit to breed, better to wring their necks.
“Step back,” Sister Gagnon ordered a man in a yellowing hessian shirt. “These girls-for-marrying are intended for demobilized members of the regiment, not coureurs de bois who spend all day in Folleville’s tavern.”
“Sister, I will have a fortune soon. I’m going upcountry and will come back with enough furs to fill a barque.
” His beard was so thick and his hair so bushy he looked like a wild animal.
Marthe wondered if he were one of the wolves Michel the cabin boy had talked about.
Beyond them, down by the river, she could see a crowd larger and more boisterous than a Shrovetide carnival.
Packs of wolves.
“If those girls are going to hear Mass, we will as well,” another slurred as he spoke. “Will you stop us from taking communion?”
Sister Gagnon did not reply, only quickened her pace, the men trailing after them into the chapel. She held out a protective arm as she ushered the girls into the empty pews near the front, giving élisabeth a sharp look as she slid in next to Marthe.
“I should never have agreed to this,” she said.
The chapel filled up quickly. More men came to line the walls of the stone room, a half dozen of them panting from having just run to join the service. One clutched a bouquet of hastily plucked wildflowers in his hand, another tucked a bottle of brandy into his waistcoat.
“Get ready,” Lou whispered, wiggling her bottom to further provoke the suitors.
“They’re going to dance around us like a maypole when we’re done our prayers.
” Several of the girls sniggered and Sister Gagnon shot them a fierce look.
Beside them, Apolline’s stern expression mirrored the nun’s disapproval.
While they waited for the service to begin, the brides pestered the nuns for information about the village.
Sister Gagnon would not be deterred from her prayers, but Sister Brodeur whispered a few tight-lipped replies to Apolline, and the eldest Parisian relayed what she knew down the pew so that Marthe learned that the fur fair was at its height in August, otherwise the village was very quiet.
The Sulpicians had only taken over as the seigneurs of the island a few years ago, and the priests all lived together in a seminary next door.
Marthe didn’t care about the fur traders and provincial clerics.
They were not eligible for marriage and so were of no use to her.
She looked around the chapel, wondering if her future husband could be among the congregation.
She craned her neck to the chapel door and saw to her surprise a gentleman walking down the aisle.
He swept towards them in a red satin justaucorps stitched with gold brocade.
His coat flared at the knees in a way that showed off his calves; Marthe thought he looked like a leopard on the prowl, his stockings were so sleek.
A sword hung from the baldric on his shoulder and around his neck was enough lace to trim a dozen good aprons.
His right eye was covered by a black patch.
“Congratulations on your beauties, Sister,” he said to Sister Gagnon as he stopped by their pew. “They are even more gracious than the girls-for-marrying last year. I hope I may be presented to them later? To welcome them to Ville-Marie properly?”
The nun’s body stiffened as she muttered a reply. The gentleman threw back his head and laughed, the curls of his wig shaking. Then he glided down the aisle and took his seat in the front of the chapel.
“What did she say?” Marthe leaned over élisabeth to tap Rose’s arm. “I could not hear Sister Gagnon.”
“I don’t know. I’m waiting for Francoise to pass it on.”
“Who is he?” Marthe wanted to know.
Francoise whispered into Lou’s ear, who did not wait to pass it onto Rose, instead blurting out what she’d been told so that the whole row could hear. “Sister Gagnon said, ‘Governor, you may meet them only after they are safely married.’ ”
“He’s the governor?” Marthe stretched forward to catch sight of the man. She took in his clothes, his wig, the scent of perfume that filled the air. She had never been so close to someone so wealthy.
“Acting governor, Sister Gagnon just said.” Rose’s ear was still cocked to the murmured conversation beside her.
“Still,” Marthe exhaled, as she nudged élisabeth. “What do you think Papa would say about us being presented to the governor of Montréal?”
“Hush, we’re about to start,” élisabeth said.
Marthe dug her elbow into her sister’s side. élisabeth was exceptionally tiresome today: her feet could not stay still, and her knees jiggled like a calf’s foot jelly. Marthe glared at her and then pointedly turned away.
Behind her she could see Jeanne Roy rise and walk across the nave to sit next to two women. Marthe leaned back to get a better view. Her eyes widened when she realized they were natives.
“Lili, look,” she whispered.
They were dressed in plain tunics, their hair uncovered.
But, other than the light cinnamon colour of their skin, they did not look very different from anyone else.
Marthe felt almost disappointed. From the stories she’d heard, she had expected something more exhilarating.
One even wore a small wooden cross at her neck, not unlike Marthe’s own.
“How do you imagine the witch can speak the native tongue?” élisabeth asked, watching the two women squeeze together to make room for Jeanne Roy. “It must be some kind of spell that allows her to understand them.”
“Perhaps they’re speaking French.”
“French!”
“Don’t sound so surprised,” Rose said. “Sister Brodeur says that some priests can speak native languages fluently. It stands to reason that those women might speak French.”
“Stop staring,” élisabeth said. “The witch will see.” She crossed herself and squeezed her hands together. “This chapel is too small.” Her knees did not stop bouncing as she spoke.
“Sit still, Lili.” Marthe placed her hand on élisabeth’s knee to calm her.
Her sister’s trembles were turning into convulsions and Marthe was forced to tear her eyes away from the native women.
Goodness knows what the congregation would make of élisabeth, shaking from head to toe and talking of mushrooms and witchcraft.
Marthe faced forward and prayed that her sister would settle down before she once again ruined their chances of making a good impression.
No sooner had Marthe fixed her eyes on the back of the governor’s head, than he turned around.
She quickly looked away. She studied her hand on élisabeth’s leg. She picked a piece of straw from the cuff of her chemise. She forgot all about Jeanne Roy and the native women. When she dared to look up again, she was shocked to see that the governor was still staring at her.
With his one good eye, he winked.
She dropped her eyes. She could not believe it. The governor of Montréal had just winked at her. What should she do? A wave of determination crashed over Marthe. She would make the most of the chance that had presented itself. She raised her head and looked straight at the governor.
She smiled back.