“Is it true the Sulpicians have rules about who can drink, and when?”
The widow’s head shook. “Oh, Anne Lamarque complains, but it’s nothing to the rules bakers must follow. Not only must we vie with the fort to get enough flour, but our prices are fixed. If the harvest is bad, the profit is very mean.”
Marthe’s heart started to sink. She dropped her eyes to her skirt. It had once been Élisabeth’s and had not weathered the sea journey well. “What about fur, Maman Poulin? Would it be better for Verger to trade in furs?”
The widow gave her a sharp look. “Barely married a week and you want your husband to give up his craft?”
“No, I mean, just a little on the side. The three-year men at the nuns’ farmhouse all talked of how they might put a hand in the trade, to earn a little extra. And the governor just now said there were easier ways to make a fortune—”
“And what do you think you have to offer the savages in return?” Maman Poulin demanded. “Take care with your big ideas, little mistress, or people will talk. And you’ll be the one the charivari mob drags through the streets.”
Startled, Marthe bobbed a curtsey and thanked the widow for her advice. But she could not shake the idea that one day soon the governor might come to the bakery. She tucked it into her bodice and kept it close to her heart. She longed for his advice, although she wondered what it might cost her.
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 wifethere 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 Françoise 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, takingÉlisabeth 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.
