“Mademoiselle Roy and I have come to an agreement,” he said defensively. “She needs a home, and it will do me no harm to have a hunting licence.”
Francoeur turned to Jeanne Roy, his eyes lingering on her velvet dress. “My lady, I am sorry to tell you that you will be disappointed with your part of the arrangement.”
The witch gave him a withering look. “Do not be fooled by my appearance. I am quite dogged when I need to be.” She turned stiffly to Élisabeth. “Thank you. I appreciate your help.”
“It was n-nothing.” Élisabeth stammered, then blurted out the next words before she could think. “B-but might you grant me a wish in return?”
“Grant you a wish?”
“Yes, a wish,” Élisabeth said, suddenly uncertain whether she should have risked her question. She clasped her hands together. “Only, I have helped with the letter twice now and lent you a skirt.”
“I suppose I may grant you a favour,” Jeanne Roy said. “What is it you desire?”
Élisabeth took a deep breath. These were the words she had longed to hear. But she would not—could not—speak now. Not in front of the others. She dropped her voice. “I will seek you out when you are alone.”
Jeanne nodded curtly. “Very well,” she said.
Élisabeth felt her heart lift. It was done. The witch had promised to grant her wish.
And as everyone knew, a witch’s pledge can never be broken.
14
The second thing that surprised Marthe about her marriage was that coupling with her husband was not as onerous as she thought it might be. She knew that it would be one of her duties and, at the beginning, had set about it like any other chore. From whispers on board the ship she knew it would hurt, and from how Élisabeth carried on about Rémy she knew it would be tiresome. She had braced herself the first night, lying with her hands by her sides and her eyes fixed on the ceiling. She found, though, that Verger’s kisses were tender and his arms strong, and when he pulled her on top of him she found she did not mind what they did together in the dim corner of the workroom. It was certainly more pleasurable than sweeping floors or scrubbing hardened lumps of dough from his clothes. She checked her heart, curious as to how she felt about this turn of events, and decided that she would never experience the crippling exhaustion oftrue love, as Élisabeth put it, but the unexpected comfort she found in Verger’s arms at night was not unwelcome.
She knew others suffered a far worse fate.
The bakery was a gathering point for the village and every morning Maman Poulin waited as their customers brought their money and their worries to her door, anxious to relieve them of both. One day, a week or two after Marthe wasmarried, a barrel-chested man with a thick beard and ruddy cheeks barged into the bakery. His wife wafted in behind him, almost colourless by comparison.
Maman Poulin greeted them rigidly.
“Good day, Dufossé, good day, Hélène. I have not seen you in Ville-Marie for many months.”
The man bared his teeth when he spoke. “We don’t like to be in town when the fur fair’s on, but this one”—he jerked his thumb in his wife’s direction—“insisted we see about a midwife, as she’s so near to dropping her piglet.”
“That must have been an arduous journey for you, Hélène,” Maman Poulin said, eyeing the woman’s round belly. “But you know there’s nolicencedmidwife in Ville-Marie. You’re best off staying at home and getting a neighbour to help you. Have you any neighbours yet in Côte Saint-François?”
The pale woman stared at the ground as her husband answered.
“Of course we have neighbours,” Dufossé said. “There’s not as many folk as when we lived in Québec, but soon there won’t be a plot of land left on this island that hasn’t been claimed. Not that any of these soldiers add to the quality of the habitant stock. Just last week we paid a visit to our neighbour to the east. He was building his house with not a scrap of clothing on his body. Like a savage! Cock dangling free for anyone to see.”
“How disappointing,” Maman Poulin commiserated. “We are here to make the savages French, not have Frenchmen turn savage. Still, when this heat breaks, we’ll having nothing but snow for six months. I expect he’ll keep his clothes on then.”
As the widow and the farmer exchanged concerns over the weather and the natives, Marthe caught the young wife’s eye. “Is it your first child?” she asked.
Hélène nodded but seemed to have nothing more to say.
Marthe stepped back awkwardly and touched the edge of one of the bread baskets on the hutch the way Maman Poulin said she should. Directing the customer’s eye to the best loaves, the white ones that cost a few sols more.
“How long have you been in Canada?” Marthe tried again, putting on a pleasant shopkeeper voice.
“A few years,” Hélène whispered, reaching a tentative hand towards one of Verger’s white loaves. No sooner had she pointed towards a large white miche than her husband reached across the room and cuffed her on the back of the head.
“Who do you think you are, the Queen of Spain?”
The woman stiffened, barely blinking from being struck. Her husband grinned at Marthe as if nothing had happened. His teeth were long and yellow. “We’ll take the small one, there.”
A faint hue appeared on the woman’s cheeks. She did not meet Marthe’s eye as she took the loaf, clutching it to her chest as she shuffled out the door. When they had gone, Maman Poulin shook her head and gave Marthe a begrudging look.
