“Don’t fret. You have plenty of time left to fix it.” Marthe was combing her honey-coloured hair with her fingers, releasing the braids she had only just made to pass the time.
“Watch your mouth,” Françoise said. She was lying on the bottom bunk opposite, her legs in the air, her feet pressed against the top bunk to steady herself against the rolling and tilting of the ship. Her skirts fell to her waist, revealing white thighs. “If I hear another word about how much longer we have on this infernal boat, I’ll give you a good thrashing.”
Lou jumped heavily down from the top bunk. “I can’t stand this closeness a moment more. I’m going up on deck.”
“It’s not our turn yet,” Thérèse told her. “The starboard girls are still up top.”
The thought of the starboard girls made them settle. The tragic starboard girls. Each cluster of brides was named for where they slept: the starboard girls, the stern girls, even the goatherd girls for those with the bad luck to be sleeping nearest the livestock. Only a dozen had signed up to travel as far as Ville-Marie, and so they were known as Montréalistes, after the island on which the missionary village had been founded. As the weeks wore on other brides destined for Ville-Marie swapped their bunks so that they could be closer to Marthe’s group. There was a plain girl with pockmarked cheeks from Orléans, a blonde from Crécy whose buck teeth made her look like a worried rabbit when she frowned, and young Claire, just thirteen and spoiled by everyone. The Montréalistes knew it was only by God’s grace that they were not among the unfortunates sleeping on the starboard side of the ship. A fortnight ago, ship’s fever had ripped through those bunks, and several of the girls had died. At the ceremony where they were committed to the sea, every passenger prayed they would not succumb to the same fate.
“God bless the starboard girls,” Lou murmured, making the sign of the cross as she sat down next to Françoise. There was a rare moment of silence, then Apolline spoke up.
“Itisa pity the captain himself is not eligible for marriage.” Several of the girls nodded in agreement. The captain had performed the last rites for the dead brides with such sincerity that a small cult had developed around the man, with Apolline its most fervent devotee.
“I cannot believe the priest did not give those poor souls their last rites—”
“Hush, Lou, keep your voice down,” Claire whispered. As a fellow Norman, she too had been subject to Father de Sancy’s inquisition. She looked over her shoulder into the murky light. “We’re better off, now that he’s locked himself in his cabin.”
The girls from Normandy had been twice as careful to scuttle away when they saw him coming, sometimes forsaking an entire day’s fresh air to avoid theold man and his interrogations. The outbreak of ship’s fever had been a blessing for them, for the priest had taken to his cabin underneath the quarterdeck and not been seen since.
“Talk of something else,” Rose demanded. “What will you do with your bonus from the king, Marthe? Tell me, so that I might think what to do with mine.”
“You will not seemebirthing twelve children for a pension of a few hundred livres,” Thérèse said, flitting around the deck like a trapped bird. “You cannot spend it if you’re dead. No, thank you. I won’t risk childbirth more than seven or eight times.”
“Maybe you will desire your husband so greatly you will not be able to stop at eight,” Lou said, smirking.
“I agree with Thérèse,” Marthe said. “A dozen is too many. There were four in our family. It seems the right size.”
“Our mother birthed six of us,” Élisabeth corrected her, appearing out of the darkness. Unlike the other Montréalistes, she did not spend her days huddled in the bunks, knitting and sharing stories with the others. She kept to herself, a wraith floating around the edges of the ship.
“I know that,” Marthe said in a low voice. “But Rose has bid us to talk of something cheerful. Do not speak of stillborn babes.”
Élisabeth leaned against the bunk post, staring into the shadows. She had dark circles under her eyes, no longer the pretty farmer’s daughter who had turned every head in Saint-Philbert. Marthe remembered once, walking by the women gathered at the well in the village square, overhearing those child-worn wives complain about Élisabeth’s pretty face. She hadn’t understood then whyit would only bring her trouble, and how the wives professed more concern than jealousy,because the girl doesn’t have a mother, after all. What was so special about her sister’s features? It was only later that Marthe began to see what the young men in Saint-Philbert saw, that Élisabeth’s violet eyes sparkled in her face like jewels in a coronet, stealing all the attention from her surroundingfeatures: the dark lashes; the long fox’s nose with the dusting of freckles; the soft lips.
Marthe tucked a lock of her own churned-honey hair under her cap and looked away. Even now, Élisabeth’s sunken eyes would likely attract more attention than Marthe’s own pale grey pair.
The ship rocked to one side again and Françoise grabbed the slop bucket to vomit. “When it’s our turn on deck, please push me overboard.” She flopped onto her back and stared up at the top bunk. “I think I’d rather drown than retch again.” There was a spattering of laughter from the others.
“Here, take some mint leaves,” said Rose. “I have a few sprigs left.”
“What’s the use when I’ll only be sick again in an hour?”
“That’s why I won’t change my chemise until we arrive,” said Thérèse. “I want to save my clean shirt for when we step off the ship and are swarmed by suitors.”
They were murmuring in agreement when Marthe heard the clumping of shoes on the staircase. The starboard girls were returning to their bunks.
“Your turn, Montréalistes,” one said.
“It’s about time,” Lou exclaimed, then stopped and crossed herself. “I mean, thank you,” she called after them. She sprang up. “Let’s go.”
Marthe looked for her sister but Élisabeth had slipped away. Lou put her arm around her waist and Marthe allowed herself to be pulled up the stairs.
There was little space to walk around on the main deck amid the crew pulling on sails and coiling ropes. The girls stuck close to the railings, gazing out at the sea swells, larger today than they had been for some time.
“I feel like dancing,” Lou said, kicking her legs in the air. Soon she and Rose were circling around a small corner of the deck, dancing the gavotte or shaking off their fleas; from their jerky movements it was not clear which. Marthe was set to join them when she spotted her sister emerge from below.
“Over here!” Marthe waved. Élisabeth did not respond, instead taking up a position towards the stern of the ship and staring out blankly at the wide ocean.She clung to the ship’s railing with bony white knuckles. Marthe frowned and left the Parisians to join her sister.
“Lili, come and dance with us.”
