“Sister, I wonder if I might be excused to look for Jeanne—”
“Why are you so wet?” Sister Gagnon looked closely at Élisabeth’s skirts. “Go upstairs and change. They will be here soon.”
“Where is Jeanne Roy?” Élisabeth asked again, but Rose had already grabbed her hand and pulled her up the stairs.
“Let’s get you sorted,” Rose said. “Maybe today we will both be lucky and find someone as handsome as Marthe’s husband.” Élisabeth frowned at the thought of the man who had stolen her sister away. “Now, what else do you have to put on?”
“I haven’t anything,” she said. The witch had not returned her clothing. After laundering Jeanne Roy’s velvet dress and satin petticoats, the nuns tutted that they were entirely inappropriate for work on the farm and said she must continue to wear Élisabeth’s borrowed skirt.
“It does not matter,” Rose reassured her. “With those blue eyes and your fair skin, I shouldn’t wonder that you will draw much attention today.” Still, she bent down to brush some of the dirt and pine needles from Élisabeth’s hem.
“I don’t want anyone’s attention,” she murmured, folding her arms over her chest.
They heard Lou shriek from the kitchen. “They’re on the path! They’re coming!”
“Wait!” Rose shouted as she flung herself down the stairs. “Wait for me!”
The sound of the front door opening and boots stomping on the floor echoed up to the dormitory. She was out of time. Where was Jeanne Roy? Élisabeth clasped her hands together.I have greatly sinned.Squeeze, glide to prayer position and past, squeeze again.Through my fault, through my fault, my mostgrievous fault.She gripped the banister and clenched her teeth as she descended the stairs. She did not care about the bachelors. She had to find the witch.
She stepped into the common room to find the soldiers scattered in small groups, with Sister Gagnon and the brides standing squarely in the middle. Most of the men were dressed in their regimental uniforms: light brown serge coats with grey trim, the buckles shining on their freshly polished boots. The nun stood with her hands on her hips, like a bull facing down a butcher, and it was Rose who clucked around making introductions.
“I am Marie-Rose, this is my dearest friend, Marie-Louise. We grew up in the Salpêtrière in Paris. So did Apolline, though she is much, much older—”
Apolline strode towards a pair at the hearth before Rose could say another word about her age. Rose linked arms with Lou and approached two men who were as mismatched in height as they were themselves. They stared at them as if they were performers at a travelling fair about to start juggling or singing or haggling over the cost of a caramel apple. Élisabeth pushed past them, looking for the witch.
Jeanne Roy was nowhere in sight.
She must be in the garden, Élisabeth reasoned. Perhaps discussing herbs and native wildflowers with Sister Crolo. Élisabeth took a discreet step backwards, hoping Sister Gagnon would not notice her leaving. She put her hands out behind her to feel for the safety of the stone wall.
She took another step backwards and touched wool, not stone.
She whipped round. “I beg your pardon,” she gasped when she realized that she had backed into one of the Carignan soldiers—and that she had laid her hands upon his bottom.
His companion guffawed. “I did not imagine the girls-for-marrying would be quite so bold, eh, Francoeur?”
The man she had touched gave his friend an impatient look.
“Please forgive us,” he said in a deep voice. “We are in your way. We should not have been hiding in the corner.”
“No, it is my fault.” She dropped into a curtsey to hide her reddening cheeks. She lifted her head. The soldier was tall and broad-shouldered with a neatly trimmed beard. His hair was neither distinctively brown nor blond, more the muddled colour of wet sand on a beach.
“I apologize,” Élisabeth said. “I am not seeking a husband, I should not even be here. Forgive me. I will take my leave of you—”
“You don’t intend to marry?” the soldier interrupted. He looked her up and down, his eyes landing on her wet skirts, and the muddy puddle forming at her feet. A flicker of confusion and amusement crossed his face.
“Why should she want to marry?” his friend interrupted. He was shorter and scrawnier, with black hair braided into a tail in the native style. “Marriage is a prison of shrewing wives and mewling children. The forests are pure freedom. I will be happier when I’ve gone upcountry with the Algonquin, and you would be too.”
“Enough, Grandbois.” The one called Francoeur gave his friend another sharp look. Then he turned back to Élisabeth. “Let us begin again. How was your journey? I understand your ship came in from Dieppe not three weeks ago.”
“It was frightful, actually.” Élisabeth’s eyes darted around the common room, looking for an escape. A lively group had formed around Rose and Lou; the other brides and bachelors seemed not to be able to resist the pull of the more boisterous party.
“But if you do not intend to marry, why would you make the frightful journey?” the man persisted.
“I mean to return to France. At least, I did…” Élisabeth replied, barely looking at him as she judged whether Sister Gagnon would notice if she fled from the room.
“And make another frightful journey back?”
A swish of blue caught Élisabeth’s eye. Jeanne Roy swept into the room, like a wicked fairy late for the christening. All eyes turned towards her, the men and women equally dumbstruck. Her velvet dress, now impeccably clean, wasthe colour of twilight, the fabric swishing smoothly against her petticoats as she moved. The other brides in their drab homespun could never muster such a rich sound. Gold embroidery picked out the boning in the bodice and drew attention to the witch’s slender waist. The brides in the room were silent, and the men, who could not have known that Jeanne Roy was a witch, stood straighter, their eyes keener and their ears flattened like hunting dogs obeying a command.
