“What do you mean?”
A wave of anger crossed the woman’s face. “You’re one of the stupidest girls I’ve ever seen, with your basket of taffy, preening around in front of that man. Get away from here!”
“I didn’t preen—”
“Take my advice. Say nothing about this and go on with your business. No one has to know you were here.”
“I will do no such thing. I will tell the Sulpicians what he’s done.”
The servant shook her head. “Then you are a greater fool than I thought. He’ll ruin you for speaking out. Do you want to see his men sent round your bakery every other day, checking your prices and peering into every sack of flour for mites and mice? And that would be the least of his revenge. Last year a habitant objected to some of the governor’s soldiers stomping through his fields, ruining the crops as they hunted on his land. Lafredière saw the poor man hung from a wooden horse with sixty-pound weights on his limbs, just for complaining.”
Marthe gaped at the servant, wordless and horrified. What had she done? She had wanted to help make her family’s fortune, not take away the little they had. Hannibal Flotte de Lafredière was the governor of Montréal. A nobleman with an estate to return to in France. She was an orphan barred from ever returning to her village in Normandy.
As Marthe ran away from the fort, tears streamed down her cheeks. She was an idiot for believing she could make something of her life. How had she been so stupid? Her hands trembled as she crossed the bridge over the Little River.
But how could she blame herself? It was her sister’s fault for lying with Rémy. If Élisabeth had not been so naive, she would not have had cause to drag them both to a place utterly forsaken by God. Élisabeth was a fool, and Marthe would never forgive her.
Except—had Marthe not just made the very same mistake? She had turned to a wealthy man to secure her future. And if she said nothing, then she wouldbe no better than Élisabeth, wringing her hands and wishing for a cure for her misery.
No. Marthe would not fall fearful, like her sister had done. She would tell someone. She would see the governor punished.
Now, more than wanting to get rich, she wanted to get even.
22
At first light Élisabeth got up and dressed. By the grace of the newly built, solid wooden floors, she padded silently across the room and slipped outside before her husband awoke. The air was crisp and the woods silent, but for birdsong and the river lapping against the shore. She could see where Francoeur had cleared some trees, but still felt surrounded by menacing giants, as if a maple or oak might bend down and grab her with a rough limb.
She pushed the lower branches away from her face as she stole through the woods. She had listened carefully to Francoeur’s description of the côte and knew Jeanne Roy’s home would be along the forest path to the east. Though the settlers talked of bears and the Iroquois with equal dread, she told herself that Marcosi the wolf could rip the flesh off anything that tried to attack her, be it man, bear, or tree. Before long, the cabin appeared. It was made entirely of birch with a tangle of thatched branches and moss for its roof. Clay and sod had been stuffed into the gaps between the logs; smoke rose from a makeshift chimney. Élisabeth stopped. It was a fairy-tale witch’s hut, something her mother might have warned her about. She approached with caution and knocked on the door.
After a moment Jeanne Roy appeared. She raised her eyebrows when she saw Élisabeth.
“You.”
The witch’s hair fell loose down her back; it did not look as if she had combed it in the two months since they had last met. Her velvet dress was covered in dirt and twigs and herbs, as if she had been rolling in the autumn leaves. Despite this, the arch of her eyebrow and the set of her jaw told Élisabeth that Jeanne Roy had lost none of her pride.
“I have come to pay my respects to you.” Élisabeth bowed her head and sunk into a deep curtsey.
“All the way from Ville-Marie?”
“No, from next door. I married your neighbour, Francoeur.”
The witch looked at her with such curiosity that Élisabeth felt as if she were a frog trapped in a wishing well, while an inquisitive child poked her with sticks.
“He said he was going off to be married. He did not say to whom. Come in.”
The cabin was small and warm, like an animal’s den. On the walls were more furs than Élisabeth had ever seen in her life; beaver, certainly, but also other creatures she recognized as marten, mink, and perhaps weasel. Two stools squatted in front of a stone fireplace held loosely together with wattle and daub. A black cauldron hung from a hook over the flame. There was no other furniture save a long table placed against the back wall. Upon it was a mess of branches and dried herbs and a very thick book. On top sat Jeanne Roy’s strange doll, staring at them with dead eyes. Élisabeth avoided looking at it and stared instead at the feeble hearth.
“How will you keep warm, if it’s as cold as they say it will be in the winter?”
“I have been invited to stay with a friend.” Jeanne Roy sat down on one of the stools, gesturing for her to do the same. “Though I expect I will be able to manage for some weeks yet. I do love the cold.”
“Which friend?” Élisabeth knew Jeanne Roy had barely spoken to any of the other brides.
“My friend Wari. She’s Agnier, but she lives in the Jesuit mission village across the river at La Prairie. When the ice and snow set in, she will come to fetch me.”
“She’s what?” Élisabeth balked.
“Agnier is the French name for her people. I believe others call them the Mohawk.”
