“Grandbois is an adventurer, not a farmer. I convinced him to take a plot of land next to mine when we were decommissioned from the regiment. We built cabins, but they are only truly fit for animals. The floors are earthen, and the roofs are made of thatch. Last winter there were nights I thought I would freeze to death it was so cold. In the spring I set about as fast as I could to build myself a proper house. Grandbois did not. Jeanne is living in that old cabin.”
The air coming off the river was damp, and Élisabeth’s hands were white with cold. She wished they had bought some wool in the village before setting out, for she would need to knit a pair of mittens almost immediately. She wondered what spells Jeanne Roy intended to employ to keep herself warm until springtime.
“I would like to see her as soon as possible,” Élisabeth said finally. “First light tomorrow, if I may.”
“That’s a fine idea. I will come too and see if there is any service I might perform for her.”
“No,” Élisabeth said, glancing over her shoulder at him. “I should go on my own. She will speak more freely to me, as a woman, and I shall determine whether she bears any resentment against Grandbois for leaving her in such harsh circumstances.”
“That’s an even better idea.” She heard nothing but the sound of thepaddles in the water for several minutes, then Francoeur spoke again. “We are a good match, Lili. We work well together.”
She felt a stab of guilt. If Jeanne Roy could not cure her, Francoeur’s contentment would quickly desert him. She dipped her paddle into the river, thinking of how to respond.
“I was not accustomed to anyone but Marthe calling me Lili until we came here. It was her childhood name for me. She could not say Élisabeth.” She lifted her arm to take another stroke and a splash of cold water soaked her sleeve. “How did you come by your regimental name?”
“I am told I have a sincere heart.”
She turned back to glance at him, to see if he was teasing. His face was solemn. “I expect you will now want me to call you by your Christian name.”
“No. Call me Francoeur.” There was a note of bitterness to his voice. “I do not even remember who the boy called Joseph Deschamps was.”
“Truly? You cannot tell me anything of your life before you joined the regiment?”
“We’re nearing our côte.” He ignored her question and pointed to a house just visible from the water. Smoke curled from the chimney and a dull glow came from behind the shutters. “That house belongs to a man called Dufossé. He’s a curmudgeon, though I grant him allowances. His wife had a child that died soon after it was born. I’m sure a healthy son will soothe his ill temper.”
“Did his wife survive her ordeal?”
“Yes, she is quite well. Though a quiet mouse. You will meet her soon enough. One day you will have children the same age, I don’t doubt.” At the mention of the duty she owed her husband, the demon Marcosi slithered through her bowels, curling in a ball in the pit of her stomach. “Our house will be the next we see, then a short ways after is Jeanne’s cabin.”
They passed another stretch of unbroken forest. Dusk had descended on them; whatever sunshine had filtered through the clouds in the afternoon was long gone and they continued the last part of the journey in near darkness.When they reached the shore of their own ribbon of land, Francoeur beached the canoe. Once she had stepped out, he walked through to the bow and hauled the craft out of the water behind him.
“I had hoped to show you in daylight,” he said as he emptied the canoe of its goods. “There’s the house. Do you see? Next to it is the old cabin. I use it as a barn now for the cow and the chickens. The pig has already been slaughtered, though. I ran out of feed at the first frost.”
She squinted to see the house in the pale starlight. It was built of square pine logs that dovetailed together, with a high sloping roof and neatly whitewashed walls. It was solid and handsome, the type of home where a farmer’s wife might plant an apple tree out front and gather the windfalls every autumn to sweeten pork and watch her children climb its branches. But no farmer’s wife would let her children sleep under its leaves, Élisabeth reminded herself, for any child that slumbers beneath an apple tree is likely to be stolen away by fairies.
Élisabeth shivered and made the sign of the cross.
“They look like giant’s fingers.”
“What?”
“The trees. They’re so bony and bare. They look like giant’s fingers reaching towards us.”
He studied her for a moment. “They’re just trees. You will see in the morning how many I’ve already cleared to plant our wheat.”
She wrapped her arms around herself. “I don’t believe…” She paused, then shook her head and started again. “I don’t believe I have ever been so far from other folk in all my life.”
He stared at her again, then beckoned. “Come, I will show you inside. You will see how comfortable it is.”
He heaved Élisabeth’s trunk onto his shoulders and led her up the path. When they reached the house, he opened the door, and she noted the scent of freshly cut pine. Inside, he set her trunk down and reached for a flint to light a crow’s beak lamp. The wick sputtered to life illuminating the whole room.
“I built that table, and those two chairs. You’ll see the hearth opens on both sides, so that it heats the whole room. We can add another chimney on the far wall as our family grows. Over there is where we will sleep.”
There was a straw pallet on the floor, a cherrywood cradle by its side. Élisabeth blanched.
Her purpose in Francoeur’s home could not be plainer.
She felt a twist inside her and rubbed her chest so that Marcosi might loosen his grip on her heart.
