Chapter 13
A few days after Marthe’s wedding, élisabeth stole away from the nuns’ farmhouse and down to the river alone.
It was creeping towards the end of August and yet the heat on the island had not yet broken.
The midday sun left her wilting, so she slipped into the river to cool her feet, as well as her mind.
Her skirts were quickly drenched. She could not be bothered to hold them up and her hem greeted the river as if it were dying of thirst, drinking up the water so rapidly that her skirts became part of the stream, flowing in the current, until she wondered if it might not be easier to let their weight drag her under than to try and fix all that had gone wrong.
Marthe was married and would never leave Montréal Island, even if they could afford the passage back to France.
Her hope that Rémy would still be waiting for her weakened by the day.
And she had failed to make her plea to the powerful witch.
All the while, her curse worsened, the spasms in her stomach ever sharper, the feeling of her limbs wanting to coil and lurch stronger, the risk of blasphemy always at the tip of her tongue.
élisabeth was about to fall backwards and let the river take her when she caught sight of a breathless Rose, running through the woods towards the shore.
“What are you doing?” Rose panted, her cheeks red from exertion. “It is not safe!”
“I am perfectly well,” élisabeth lied.
“Do come out of the river, Lili. Sister Gagnon said the men will be here shortly. There will only be a half dozen or so this afternoon so not enough for all of us, but enough to get started. They may only let the older girls meet them, which I think is unfair, given Marthe is already married and she’s only just sixteen.
I hardly see why I should have to wait for Apolline to sniff around first. Do hurry, or we might miss our chance. ”
The thoughts of the bachelors descending on the nuns’ farmhouse made the demon turn twice in élisabeth’s stomach. She did not want to marry any of these strangers; she wanted Rémy.
“Go ahead. I’ll be along in a moment.”
Rose looked torn, as if she wanted to haul élisabeth from the river, but the lure of the impending visitors was too strong. She turned and rushed back through the woods.
élisabeth slowly waded out of the water, her skirts growing heavier as the river grew shallower.
She could not bring herself to wring the water from her clothes; she picked up her shoes and dragged herself back to the farmhouse.
She was out of time. It was almost September.
The nuns had cloistered the brides for as long as they could to prepare them for their new lives, but today they would start to meet their husbands and leave Pointe-Saint-Charles.
She had to summon the courage and the right words to beg Jeanne Roy for help.
As she walked through the kitchen door, she was greeted by a wall of giddy froth. Sister Gagnon was standing by the fire with a wooden spoon in her hand, looking as if she might like to smack someone with it.
“Quiet down now. Remember: no cursing, no belching, no scratching or picking your skin. They’ve come to choose a wife, not an old sow.”
“I thought it was us girls who made the choice,” one of the brides said.
Sister Gagnon took out a handkerchief from her sleeve and wiped her brow. “It hardly matters whether you’re the pig sent to market or the farmer’s wife there to buy it. In the rush to meet and marry I’m not sure who will be choosing whom, or indeed how much thought will go into anyone’s decision.”
This prompted a frenzied debate. A circle formed around Rose as she explained, bright-eyed, how she would test each of the men in turn with a series of questions that would reveal his true character. élisabeth took the opportunity to approach the nun.
“Sister Gagnon, must everyone marry before winter? Or… or could we stay here with you if we don’t find a suitable match?”
The nun pursed her lips. Lou had clearly said something rude because the brides were bent double laughing and Francoise had dropped a spoonful of soup on the floor.
“Get a cloth and clean it up before someone treads in it!” Sister Gagnon looked back at élisabeth as if she had forgotten she was there.
“Heavens no, you can’t stay here. My ears will be ringing for months, even if every last one of you is betrothed by the end of the day.
Claire, stop throwing salt into the fire.
It might ward off evil, but we’ll run out before next spring when the ships come back. ”
The nun marched over to the pack of girls and clapped her hands.
“I’m going to divide you into two groups.
If I set the full gaggle on the poor souls coming this afternoon, they’ll think twice about marrying at all.
” She raised her hand and sliced through the herd.
“The girls on my left will meet the members of the regiment coming today, the girls on my right will wait for the next batch.”
There was a flurry of dancing as brides wove in and out of each other’s way to align themselves with their preferred group.
Rose edged herself towards those on the left, then beckoned frantically for Lou to join her.
Lou forcibly swapped places with tiny Thérèse, who chirped her disapproval and tried to push her way back in.
“Come, élisabeth, you are with this group,” Sister Gagnon ordered, taking élisabeth by the arm and escorting her to the centre of the girls who were to be presented that afternoon. “With your younger sister already married we must make a special effort to find a husband for you.”
At the mention of marriage élisabeth felt a squeeze in her gut. She slipped her hand into her pocket to touch her rosary.
“Sister, I wonder if I might be excused to look for Jeanne—”
“Why are you so wet?” Sister Gagnon looked closely at élisabeth’s skirts. “Go upstairs and change. They will be here soon.”
“Where is Jeanne Roy?” élisabeth asked again, but Rose had already grabbed her hand and pulled her up the stairs.
“Let’s get you sorted,” Rose said. “Maybe today we will both be lucky and find someone as handsome as Marthe’s husband.” élisabeth frowned at the thought of the man who had stolen her sister away. “Now, what else do you have to put on?”
“I haven’t anything,” she said. The witch had not returned her clothing. After laundering Jeanne Roy’s velvet dress and satin petticoats, the nuns tutted that they were entirely inappropriate for work on the farm and said she must continue to wear élisabeth’s borrowed skirt.
“It does not matter,” Rose reassured her. “With those blue eyes and your fair skin, I shouldn’t wonder that you will draw much attention today.” Still, she bent down to brush some of the dirt and pine needles from élisabeth’s hem.
“I don’t want anyone’s attention,” she murmured, folding her arms over her chest.
They heard Lou shriek from the kitchen. “They’re on the path! They’re coming!”
“Wait!” Rose shouted as she flung herself down the stairs. “Wait for me!”
The sound of the front door opening and boots stomping on the floor echoed up to the dormitory.
She was out of time. Where was Jeanne Roy?
élisabeth clasped her hands together. I have greatly sinned.
Squeeze, glide to prayer position and past, squeeze again.
Through my fault, through my fault, my most grievous fault.
She gripped the banister and clenched her teeth as she descended the stairs.
She did not care about the bachelors. She had to find the witch.
She stepped into the common room to find the soldiers scattered in small groups, with Sister Gagnon and the brides standing squarely in the middle.
Most of the men were dressed in their regimental uniforms: light brown serge coats with grey trim, the buckles shining on their freshly polished boots.
The nun stood with her hands on her hips, like a bull facing down a butcher, and it was Rose who clucked around making introductions.
“I am Marie-Rose, this is my dearest friend, Marie-Louise. We grew up in the Salpêtrière in Paris. So did Apolline, though she is much, much older—”
Apolline strode towards a pair at the hearth before Rose could say another word about her age.
Rose linked arms with Lou and approached two men who were as mismatched in height as they were themselves.
They stared at them as if they were performers at a travelling fair about to start juggling or singing or haggling over the cost of a caramel apple.
élisabeth pushed past them, looking for the witch.
Jeanne Roy was nowhere in sight.
She must be in the garden, élisabeth reasoned. Perhaps discussing herbs and native wildflowers with Sister Crolo. élisabeth took a discreet step backwards, hoping Sister Gagnon would not notice her leaving. She put her hands out behind her to feel for the safety of the stone wall.
She took another step backwards and touched wool, not stone.
She whipped round. “I beg your pardon,” she gasped when she realized that she had backed into one of the Carignan soldiers—and that she had laid her hands upon his bottom.
His companion guffawed. “I did not imagine the girls-for-marrying would be quite so bold, eh, Francoeur?”
The man she had touched gave his friend an impatient look.
“Please forgive us,” he said in a deep voice. “We are in your way. We should not have been hiding in the corner.”
“No, it is my fault.” She dropped into a curtsey to hide her reddening cheeks. She lifted her head. The soldier was tall and broad-shouldered with a neatly trimmed beard. His hair was neither distinctively brown nor blond, more the muddled colour of wet sand on a beach.
“I apologize,” élisabeth said. “I am not seeking a husband, I should not even be here. Forgive me. I will take my leave of you—”