Chapter 21
The soldier wiped his runny nose on his sleeve, then gestured towards a wooden house across from the old barracks.
Marthe gripped her basket in her hand as she stepped through the fort’s main gate.
With the Iroquois truce bringing security to the village and the troops of the Carignan-Salières now decommissioned, the fort was falling into disrepair.
The handful of men left behind seemed the sort to have been forgotten in the refuse pit, without enough sense to find their way out.
Marthe brushed past the sickly soldier and made her way across the compound to Governor de Lafredière’s door.
She had given up waiting for him to visit the bakery.
She could not stand the idle torment of wondering when he might come and what advice he might give her.
She had decided to take matters into her own hands.
It had not taken her long to realize that her husband’s stores of flour were fixed and meagre, and with just a little more of the precious grain Verger could increase their living by baking more bread.
She hoped that with so few soldiers left, she might appeal to Hannibal Flotte de Lafredière to give them a few sacks of the fort’s flour.
She rapped on the front door and then pinched her cheeks to redden them.
She had put on a clean skirt and laced her stays as tightly as she could, forcing her breasts up and over the top of her bodice.
It was the best she could do with her waist already starting to thicken.
Ever since she had felt the tiny butterfly wings start to flap inside her womb, her shape had started to change.
She was overjoyed to see evidence of the child growing inside her—though perhaps too fast?
When she had confessed her news to Barbe Poulin, the widow had not seemed pleased.
Within a week she had started tapping the side of her nose, muttering that Marthe was putting on weight far too quickly.
Marthe wished she’d kept her condition to herself. Perhaps that was why she did not tell the widow or her husband where she was going when she left for the fort.
The iron hinges groaned, as a mean-faced servant, her thick eyebrows knit into a scowl, pulled back the door. “What do you want?”
Marthe smiled brightly.
“Good day, I am the baker’s wife, Marthe Jossard.
I have come to offer the governor a basket of our finest loaves and some buttered taffy, as it will soon be the Feast of Saint Catherine.
” Marthe flashed the servant her dimples.
She had sweated over the taffy the night before, telling Verger she was delirious with cravings for the sweet treat.
In truth, for a measure of molasses, she was betting she could advance her family’s standing.
“Saint Catherine’s Day is not for weeks.” The servant reached her hand out. “But I’ll take it.”
“May I come in? I should like to give it to the governor myself.”
The woman stood solidly in the doorway, gazing at Marthe. “I wouldn’t, if I were you.”
“Please. I’ll only stay a moment.”
The servant’s mouth drooped, weighted down with whatever regrets her thirty-some years had brought her. Marthe was embarrassed, suddenly, to be standing before her, bright-eyed and well-groomed.
“Suit yourself,” the servant muttered.
She stood back to let Marthe pass. “My lord,” she called out sarcastically. “You have a visitor.”
She took Marthe’s cloak and led her into a large room where the governor lounged on a settee.
Two men sat opposite him. The salon was filled with more items of furniture than Marthe had ever seen in her life.
Paintings and mirrors hung from the walls, as well as a gilded crucifix.
There were several stuffed chairs, elaborately embroidered, as well as the upholstered settee where Lafredière reclined.
Marthe marvelled that he had brought such luxuries with him from France, and imagined the chairs were so comfortable she would be content to sit in one all day long.
“It is definitely a weapon,” one of the men said. “The way the old priest described it.”
“Well of course it’s a weapon, you dunce. But what does it do?” The governor looked up and noticed Marthe standing by the door.
“You have a visitor,” the servant repeated more loudly.
“So I see.” The governor’s voice flashed with irritation and Marthe thought he might snap at them both. Instead he rose and flicked his fingers at the men. The gesture was enough to make them stand. “Find out who Chamberlen is. Someone will have heard of him.”
As the men filed past, one of them leered at Marthe. She was astonished when the servant cuffed him on the arm and muttered for him to mind himself. Marthe clutched her basket of bread tighter as Lafredière approached.
“Good day, pretty wife. What a pleasure to see you again.”
Marthe stared at the governor of Montréal.
He was not wearing his wig, and his eye patch was askew.
As he got closer she could see a cluster of puckered flesh where his eye had once been.
She hesitated. Without his wig and gold-brocade coat he seemed just like any other man.
She checked herself and curtseyed, remembering her purpose.
He was a nobleman and she had come to advance herself.
“I have come to offer you a basket to celebrate Saint Catherine’s Day,” she said.
“How delicious.” Without looking at the bread and taffy, he handed the basket to the servant. “Bring us some brandy.” He took Marthe by the arm and escorted her towards the chairs. The door shut with a conspicuous click.
Marthe sat in one of the stuffed chairs and noticed it was not quite as comfortable as she had imagined. She was gazing around the room when she heard the crash of pewter on the other side of the door.
“My servant is clumsy,” Lafredière said. “Lazy too.” He leaned towards her. “What do you think? Should I get rid of her?” He winked mischievously.
Marthe was taken aback. The governor of Montréal was asking her advice? She paused, choosing her words carefully.
“Perhaps the work is too much for one person. Could you not hire someone else to help her?”
“You are clever,” he purred, although she could not think how her comment could be deemed especially intelligent. “I grant that she may have more work now, with the Panis having run away.”
“Your slaves… ran away?”
“You had not heard?” He sounded surprised.
“No, my lord. I am not one to trade in gossip like a fort’s trumpet.” She thought about Barbe Poulin—she was not inclined to call her Maman ever again—blaring everyone’s business all over the Place Royale.
The governor leaned sideways on the settee, looping his long legs over one arm. His manner was so informal that Marthe felt uncomfortably prim, sitting upright in the chair opposite him.
“But you are the baker’s wife. The women of Ville-Marie like to gather in your home, I’m told. If you had not heard of their disappearance, then perhaps my subjects are not discussing me behind my back.”
“I… I had not heard anything.”
He eyed her again, then swung his legs off the arm of the settee and leaned towards her.
“Let’s talk no more of it. The slaves were only children and not good for much. Easily replaceable for a few hundred livres. Though I will have to wait until summer when fresh ones come in with the furs. And that is tedious.” His voice dropped, forcing her to lean closer to hear what he said next.
“This country is an icy Hell from November to April. Once the rivers freeze, we are locked in, without supplies. No spices, no slaves. None of the comforts of life.”
Marthe hesitated. She could not think what to say to this man, so rich he could buy another of God’s creatures to wait on him.
She realized he was no longer looking at her eyes, but at her swelling bosom.
She began to doubt the wisdom of trying to tighten her stays.
She leaned back in her chair and his attention shifted to her face.
“Perhaps if your woman is overwhelmed by her work, you might consider our bakehouse providing you with your daily bread?”
The governor laughed out loud. “Well played, pretty wife. I had forgotten that you are on this earth to earn your fortune. For a moment I thought you were paying me the compliments of the coming feast day.” He pouted at her, and she squirmed.
“My lord, forgive me. I do want to earn my fortune, I do. But our stores of flour are running low. I… I was thinking perhaps if the fort has any surplus grain, you might have it milled for our use.”
She eyed him warily, waiting for his reaction. He smiled and patted the settee.
“How interesting. Why don’t you come over here, so that we may negotiate the terms of your request.”
Marthe looked over her shoulder. The servant had not returned with the brandy.
She wasn’t sure if it was proper for her to sit so close to the governor.
In fact, even though she was married, she was not certain she should be sitting alone in a room with him at all.
When she had imagined her visit, she pictured more members of the household being present.
Lafredière seemed to sense her indecision. “I won’t bite,” he said.
She thought of the little bag of coins she knew her husband kept hidden behind the hearth and thought how it might fatten if he could only bake more bread. She rose and moved closer to the governor. Lafredière left his hand on the seat between them.
“So you want more flour so that your husband may work harder. Yet you do not realize how easy it is for you, as a woman, to earn a fortune yourself.” His lips were only inches from Marthe’s ear. She put her hand to her cap and started to smooth the rough cloth as she spoke.
“My lord, I should have thought that it is only right that my husband, being so young and strong, would be the one to earn—”