Chapter 26
Marthe strode along Rue Saint-Paul, her breath billowing out of her mouth as if she were on fire. It was the coldest she had ever been in her life, yet she knew that with one long scream the bonfire within her could warm the village to the heat of a summer’s day.
“My eyelashes are stuck together,” élisabeth complained.
Marthe pulled her shawl more tightly over her ears. She could not bring herself to agree with her sister, even though she could feel her own lashes sticking with every blink.
“Did you hear me? My eyelashes have frozen together. And I think my toes might turn black.”
“It’s really not that far to the merchant’s stores.”
In the month since élisabeth had come to stay, Marthe had grown accustomed to stepping out into the cold air to cool her rage.
She liked how winter gripped her by the shoulders and shook her, taking both her breath and her thoughts away.
Marthe could not understand why her anger and tears were still so close to the surface, but it was only by storming down the freezing road in a quick march that she felt soothed.
She had not told élisabeth about the governor’s attack.
She’d thought she might, but her sister had quickly fallen under the widow’s spell, and Barbe Poulin was too set on stoking her fears about the daily dangers of New France: rough labourers, fast-flowing rivers, open flames, freezing fingers and toes, natives (especially the Iroquois), werewolves, the Devil, witches of course, Protestants determined to sneak into the colony, as well as all other manner of heretics and sinners.
Marthe had learned to sort wheat from chaff, and she knew that almost everything the widow said was useless husk; very rarely was there a grain that could be trusted in her words.
She wanted to confide in her sister about the very real thing that Governor de Lafredière had done but knew élisabeth was preoccupied with other worries.
“Maman Poulin says she knows of a miller whose apprentice turned into a loup garou. Can you believe it, Marthe? The miller met the werewolf one night and slashed its ear with his knife. The next morning his apprentice came to work with a bloody ear. That was how he knew it was one and the same man.”
Marthe tucked her mittened hands into her armpits. She had heard the story, and many more, often enough. She did not answer.
“Do you think… do you think I should be concerned about that happening to me? I don’t mean about being attacked with a knife. Marcosi would kill anyone who tried to touch me. I mean about becoming a werewolf. Because Maman Poulin said—”
“I can’t bear that you call her Maman. She is not our mother. She’s not even Verger’s mother. She’s the former baker’s wife who refuses to leave my house.”
élisabeth paused for a moment, letting a puff of frozen breath escape her mouth. “Don’t be so hard on Maman Poulin. Think what it would be like if Verger died. Wouldn’t you want to stay in your home rather than hand it over to a stranger?”
Her defence of the widow acted as dry kindling on a flame. “We have the largest oven in Ville-Marie behind our house,” Marthe snapped. “It’s the only home where a baker could live. It is not the only home where a baker’s widow could live. Especially when she could remarry at any time.”
She pushed the door to Le Moyne’s shop open and stormed inside, élisabeth right on her heel. Madame Le Moyne nodded from the far side of the room.
“Perhaps Maman Poulin hopes to fall in love before she marries again,” élisabeth murmured.
Marthe snorted. “You are a goose, Lili. If Verger should die, I would carefully consider my choices and marry whichever man does not have his mother—or any other woman—already living in his house.”
She paused by the iron stove Le Moyne kept burning ostentatiously in the centre of the shop, a symbol of luxury Marthe could never afford. She gritted her teeth and strode over to the shopkeeper.
“Do you have any wool? I am in need of warmer socks,” Marthe asked, scanning the shelves of linen and bedding.
“It’s not cheap to come by,” Madame Le Moyne warned her. Marthe shot a glance at her sister, who was warming her hands by the iron stove.
“I know. We were warned about these terrible winters, but some of us were determined to come, regardless of what it cost us in comfort.”
The shopkeeper offered her commiserations and a small bag of unwashed fleece for as good a price as she could manage, given the time of year and the fact there would be no more of it until the springtime when the few sheep on the island were sheared.
Marthe talked her down a dernier or two but could not get her to budge further.
Madame Le Moyne seemed content with the sale and showed her appreciation by adding a tidbit of gossip in for the price.
“Did you hear about the woman who keeps house for Governor de Lafredière?” she asked. The shopkeeper’s expression was a mixture of sorrow and a smirk.
“No.” Marthe lifted her chin, bracing herself.
“She has left the fort and is staying at Folleville’s.
I don’t know what she’s thinking, running away like that.
It’s not as if her husband doesn’t know where she is.
He could go claim her at any time.” Madame Le Moyne lowered her voice.
“And as bad as it is at the fort, you know Anne Lamarque de Folleville won’t let her stay without earning her keep.
Soon enough she’ll be forced to earn her living on her back. ”
Marthe tried to smile and managed only a grimace. She could not remember the grip of Lafredière’s hands around her neck. It was his bulging eye, the sound of the brandy decanter smashing on the floor, and the servant’s haggard face she could not forget.
“Apparently the Sulpicians have caught wind of it and are furious,” Madame Le Moyne continued. “It’s all anyone can talk about.”
“Pray, forgive me,” Marthe mumbled, grabbing her wool and rushing for the door. The servant often came to Marthe in her nightmares; she did not want to think about what must have happened to convince her to finally flee. élisabeth followed several paces behind as they scurried back to the bakery.
“Blessed Virgin, shut the door!” Barbe Poulin cried as they came in.
Marthe hovered by the entrance, wondering if it would be best to take another turn around the village before facing the widow.
élisabeth rushed straight towards her, placing a kiss on each of her cheeks.
“Do you want a nip of brandy to warm you up, Lili?”
There was a firkin on the table, fat-bellied and full of trouble, as well as several smaller bottles. In the widow’s hand was a funnel. She looked up at them expectantly.
“What are you doing?” élisabeth asked, then quickly added, “Why are you only filling the bottles halfway?”
“I’m leaving room for water.”
“Whatever for?” Marthe scowled. The room was filled with the sharp smell of eau-de-vie. Barbe Poulin looked like she was set to challenge Folleville’s tavern business with the amount of liquor before her.
“I am going into the fur trade.” The widow smiled like a satisfied cat.
“What?” Marthe gasped.
Maman Poulin placed the funnel into one of the bottles and filled it halfway up with brandy. “You heard me. I am going to trade brandy for furs.”
“But that was… I wanted to trade furs!” Marthe was finding it hard to breathe. “Only, I did not know what to trade… or who to trade with…”
“Is that allowed, Maman?” élisabeth asked doubtfully. “The Sulpicians have threatened to excommunicate anyone who sells liquor to the natives.”
“The governor of Montréal himself has given me licence to do it.” The widow bustled to the other side of the table and reached for a pitcher of water.
“He—what?” Marthe thought she might faint. The child inside her kicked and she staggered towards the doorframe. “When? When did you speak with him?”
“You heard him yourself,” Barbe said, her tongue jutting out of her mouth as she set about her task. “At the tavern some months back. He quite clearly stated that we should not mind everything the church says. And he is the king’s representative here.”
“Well, if the governor has given you permission, I suppose it cannot be sin—” élisabeth began.
“He said no such thing!” Marthe braced herself against the wall and rubbed her belly to soothe the kicks. “He gave you no licence.”
Barbe Poulin pretended she had not heard Marthe.
“At any rate, I can’t afford more than the one firkin just now.
I’ll have to make it last if I’m going to get enough furs to turn a nice profit.
The savages won’t know any better if it’s half river water.
” She put down the pitcher. “Tell me, how was Le Moyne’s? ”
“Marthe paid a hefty price for the wool and I doubt she’ll get more than one pair of socks out of it,” élisabeth said, shaking her head.
“You should have waited until spring. I did warn you,” the widow told Marthe.
“What would you have me do about my feet?” Marthe glowered. “They’re always cold.” She wanted to ask whom the widow intended to trade with, and where she had purchased so much brandy. She also wanted to tell the Sulpicians what the widow was planning.
“Cold feet means you’re having a girl,” Barbe Poulin announced. “Verger will be so disappointed.”
“Cold feet means that it’s winter!” Marthe boiled with frustration. The widow’s gaze fell upon her again, pointedly lingering over her large bump. Marthe stopped rubbing her sides and crossed her arms over her belly.
“Maman Poulin, did you hear about the governor’s servant?” élisabeth sat down in a chair at the table. “She has left his service and is staying at Folleville’s.”
“I did not hear that. How did I not hear that?” Maman Poulin raised her eyebrows.
“Madame Le Moyne said that Anne Lamarque will demand that she earn her keep through whoring,” élisabeth said. “The Sulpicians are said to be ready to step in.”
The widow crossed herself. “There is no greater sin for a woman. None at all.” She pursed her lips in concentration then she reached for a loaf of bread.
“What are you doing?” Marthe asked. She dreaded the prospect of Barbe Poulin interfering—and doubted the governor’s servant cared about falling into sin, given the type of men she had fled.
“I’m going to Folleville’s, of course.” The widow made a pious little click with her tongue against her teeth.
“We do not get to Heaven on prayers alone. Our actions count equally, and saving another’s soul is worth a hundred indulgences.
” The widow tied a scarf around her neck.
“And if I can’t persuade that poor wretch to return to her husband, I might at least be able to tell Father de Sancy what I know of Anne Lamarque’s vile business.
Oh! I can’t wait to see the look on her face!
Come with me, Lili, we do God’s work today. ”
“Don’t go,” Marthe said plaintively to her sister. “I have the wool to card and spin. We could do it together, in front of the fire, like we did in Saint-Philbert…”
Her voice trailed off. She did not want élisabeth to cross paths with the priest again, lest he fix another devilish notion in her head, another weed that would sprout and spread, impossible to root out.
And maybe, if they had more time alone just the two of them, she might confide in her about the governor’s attack.
Maybe if the widow were not nearby, élisabeth would listen. Marthe might win her sister back.
“Stay in by the fire when there’s a woman on the edge of ruination and priests set to rain God’s judgement down upon her?” Barbe Poulin clicked her tongue again, indicating what she thought of Marthe’s ideas.
élisabeth looked from Marthe to the widow. She clasped her hands in front of her and began to twist them. “I won’t be gone an hour,” she said finally, pulling her mittens back on. “It is the right thing to do. I can help you with the wool when I return.”
The bonfire inside Marthe roared back to life, sending sparks into the air. Once again, élisabeth had chosen to drink poison rather than nectar. Once again, Marthe had lost.
“Suit yourself,” she said coldly and stormed across the hallway to her side of the house, her heavy belly slowing her gait.
She would not share her secret with her sister.
She would see the servant’s face in her nightmares again.
The anger inside her would grow, filling every inch of her small frame.
She wished with all her heart that there was a door to her room rather than just a burlap curtain. She wanted to hear the satisfying slam of wood, rather than the muted swish of fabric, as she flopped down into her bed.