Élisabeth raised her head and peered through the withering pea stalks at Lou. She could not say what time of day it was; she had a suspicion she had not yet eaten. The demon took up too much space in her belly for her to feel hunger. She grimaced and sat back on her heels.
“Is it time?”
“Yes.”
She looked down at her hands caked with soil. The dirt under her fingernails would never come out. She rubbed her hands together to remove the worst of it and quickly ran through the squeeze and prayer. She stopped when she saw Lou giving her an odd look.
“Dirt on my hands,” she muttered.
As she opened the back door to the farmhouse the noise of high-spirited girls billowed towards them. They walked into the kitchen and saw half a dozen of the brides crowded around a deck of cards, some seated on the long benches, the younger ones sitting directly on the table. She made her way to the stone sink and poured well water over her hands. As she had predicted, the brides could not be rushed into marriage by the first of September. They were enjoying their season of courtship altogether too much.
“I had a stack of five at one point,” Thérèse bragged as she shuffled the deck.
“So? I had at least six. You can’t walk out the door without tripping over another one,” Françoise replied, steadily sharpening a pencil with a paring knife.
“That engagé doesn’t count.”
“I’mnotcounting him, more’s the pity. With that firm backside he’ll be snapped up when his term of service is done.” Françoise clicked her fingers to make her point and there were giggles all round.
“Shall I deal you in?” Thérèse asked, looking up at Élisabeth.
“No,” Élisabeth shook her head. “We are going into the village to see Marthe before Apolline’s wedding starts.”
“Shame. The winner gets your Francoeur.”
“What?” Élisabeth forgot to protest that he wasn’therFrancoeur. “Has he proposed to someone else?”
One of the younger brides rolled her eyes. “Not yet, but he will. This game will decide who gets him.”
“What do you mean?”
“Do you expect him to pine for you?” Françoise smirked. “It’s been a month since he proposed. I’m minded to add him to my own pile to consider.”
“Ignore them,” Rose told her. She was standing by the door with Lou, her cloak around her shoulders. “It’s just a game.” Élisabeth crossed the kitchen to collect her shawl.
“It’s ten men for every girl, remember, and we hold all the cards,” Thérèse called out.
Rose patted her shoulder. “If you have an interest in Francoeur, just tell us and we’ll make sure he’s not one of the men they are playing for.”
“I do not,” Élisabeth said coldly. She rammed her fist into her pocket and felt for her beads. She would recite her rosary on the walk into town. She had not been wayward to reject the soldier, no matter what the nun had said. And she had done no wrong in walking to the clifftop with Rémy.
She had been a handfasted bride.
Hadn’t she?
17
The autumn wind was brisk enough to send the shingle on the outside wall clacking back and forth, and all day Marthe was not certain if customers were opening the door and coming into the shop or if the wind was merely toying with her. She swept her broomstick across the bakery floor, leaving a small pile of flour in the corner. She did not like the wind. A gale had been howling the night her brother Nicolas had disappeared. It had been the same time of year, when the night comes early and the harvest is in. Their elder brother, Jean-Jacques, had paced across the cottage’s stone floor, saying out loud what none of them knew to be true, that Nicolas was a sensible lad and he would return home from the tavern with nothing but a sore head and a tall tale. Élisabeth, then sixteen, had bent over the fire, adding so many sprigs of thyme to the tripe stew that she ruined the only meat they would have all week. Finally, Papa had sent for the soothsayer. The old woman arrived with a grimace, shaking her head about having been called out into the night’s fury. She led them into their vegetable garden and plunged a pair of silver scissors into the earth, balancing a sieve on top of the handle. The instrument careened in the wind, but she persisted with the charm, calling out to Saint Pierre and Saint Paul, asking them if Nicolas still lived.Turn, if yes! If no, stay still.
The sieve had spun round on the scissors, giving them all false hope.
A fresh clatter caused Marthe to drop her broomstick. Was it the wind, or was there someone at the door? She was still hoping the governor would come by the bakery. The longer he stayed away, the more consequential she imagined his visit would be. She hoped she had made a good impression, enough that he might offer them some small patronage—using his power to require that the fort purchase its bread from Verger, for instance. But more than that, Marthe dreamed that the governor would stride into the humble bakehouse and reward her with the secret of how to trade furs with the natives. The secret of how to grow rich.
She tucked her broomstick behind the door to ward off evil and took a seat on Verger’s workbench. Her husband was asleep, having shuffled off after the night’s bake, placing a kiss on the nape of her neck as he went through to their quarters. Maman Poulin was in her salon, preoccupied with some scheme that she had not shared and that Marthe dared not enquire about lest she be told off for prying. The widow could be testy at times.
Marthe looked around the empty room and felt uncertain of what she should do next. She wondered what Rose and Lou were doing on their farms, and if they had moments of loneliness too. Her thoughts were drawn back to Nicolas, his unkempt hair, his easy laugh. In the end they had found his body by throwing a communion wafer into the river Orne, the magic of the Eucharist revealing where her brother had drowned. If he had not died, would any of their subsequent troubles have come to pass? Marthe wished she could have paid for a Mass for his soul. When she grew rich, she would buy for prayers for them all.
A gust of wind blew the bakehouse door open. Marthe leapt to her feet and tucked a strand of hair under her cap.
