“Élisabeth Jossard!”
The tenor of the widow’s voice made Élisabeth fear she was about to catch a slap. She looked up and saw the widow trundle towards them, her bosom jiggling as she ran. When she caught up she pulled Élisabeth away by the elbow.
“What are you doing? Throwing yourself after that man like a wolf on a rabbit! When I said you shouldn’t let him get away, I did not mean for you to chase him through the streets.”
“I wasn’t—”
“I do understand.” The widow took in the figure of Francoeur standing just out of earshot, his hands clasped behind his back. “You can’t leave clean laundry on the line for too long, lest the wind carry it off. But, Lili, let the man come to you, for pity’s sake.”
“No, Maman, you misunderstand. I do not want to marry him—”
“There’s no need to play coy now. Half the village has seen you run after him. The other half will know about it by tomorrow. I would say you’ve made your decision.”
Maman Poulin pushed Élisabeth towards Francoeur and took an exaggerated step backwards, though Élisabeth had no doubt she could still hear perfectly well.
“Lili has something to say to you,” she encouraged.
The wind ruffled the pine trees, and a raven cawed, once, twice. A sign a change was coming, or an ill omen. If it were the latter, then there was nothing she could do but pray. If it were the former, well. Everyone else seemed to understand what she must do. It was only Élisabeth—poor, lovelorn Lili—who was too stupid to understand. A spinster could not travel around the island, looking for months on end for the strip of land where Jeanne Roy had settled. A spinster could not charge into the tavern, lay a shiny écu on the table and call for the best rider in the land to bring the witch to her. A spinster would sit in the congregation’s farmhouse, outstaying her welcome, bearing reproachful looks from the nuns and their hired hands as the cabbage and turnips ran low in the winter months. She would waste her best years waiting for the chance to happen upon the missing sorceress in the market at Ville-Marie. She needed to marry Francoeur to get to Jeanne Roy, but she would need Jeanne Roy’s magic to make a marriage to Francoeur work.
She looked at the sandy-haired soldier. She judged him to be five to seven years older than she was. Old enough to marry, young enough not to be set in his ways. He was not small and lithe like Rémy. He had arms like tree trunks, as Lou would say. Élisabeth looked at the tight fit of his doublet against his chest. She could not deny he was strong. Francoeur would make a good husband.
But she would make a terrible wife. A wolf with gryphon wings lived inside her. She was barren. By marrying Francoeur, she would ruin his life.
Unless the witch could cure her.
The raven cawed again, mocking her dilemma.What will you do? What will you do?For all the brides’ talk of choices, she had none. She clasped her hands together and began the squeeze and prayer.
“Élisabeth?” His hodgepodge hazel eyes filled with concern, and something inside her relented, just a little. She took a deep breath and spoke softly, so that Maman Poulin could not hear.
“The truth is… I am afraid.”
He reached forward and took her hands in his, squeezing gently so that she could not rub them together anymore.
“There are many things in this world to fear,” he said softly. “I promise you that I am not one of them.”
She looked up at him. “So. We shall be married?”
Francoeur nodded, a flicker of amusement on his lips. “If that is your desire, then yes. I accept your proposal.”
Élisabeth’s heart lifted and sank at the same time, a tipsy dance. It was decided. She would never marry Rémy. She would never return to France. She would wed this habitant and hope the witch could cure her so that she did not make both of their lives a misery.
In the pine trees, the raven cawed.
And in her belly the demon waited, an ember that would set the whole forest on fire.
19
On the day of Élisabeth’s wedding, theSaint-Jean-Baptistegirls came down to the river to tie garlands onto Francoeur’s canoe. There were few flowers so late in the season, and the ruby and gold leaves that had garlanded the autumn weddings in an aura of riches lay rotting on the ground. The brides made do with late sneezeweed and goldenrod and tickseed, tucking the sunny buds into the gunwales of the canoe.
“Oh my lover, come to see me, in my chambers, ho!
Oh my lover, came to see me, Papa beat him so.”
“Françoise!” Apolline snapped. “Keep your smutty verses to yourself. If anyone hears we shall be mistaken for whores.”
“Who would care if I sing a sea shanty?” Françoise threw a stalk of yellow tickseed into the boat. “We’re all married women now. We can do as we please.”
“I’m not married yet,” young Claire piped up.
