“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 unlesshe 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 afterthem 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 hestopped 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 Françoise to pass it on.”
“Who is he?” Marthe wanted to know.
Françoise 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.
“Actinggovernor, 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.
