“The governor of Montréal himself has given me licence to do it.” The widow bustled to the other side of the table and reached for a pitcher of water.
“He—what?” Marthe thought she might faint. The child inside her kicked and she staggered towards the doorframe. “When? When did you speak with him?”
“You heard him yourself,” Barbe said, her tongue jutting out of her mouth as she set about her task. “At the tavern some months back. He quite clearly stated that we should not mind everything the church says. And heisthe king’s representative here.”
“Well, if the governor has given you permission, I suppose it cannot be sin—” Élisabeth began.
“He said no such thing!” Marthe braced herself against the wall and rubbed her belly to soothe the kicks. “He gave you no licence.”
Barbe Poulin pretended she had not heard Marthe. “At any rate, I can’t afford more than the one firkin just now. I’ll have to make it last if I’m going to get enough furs to turn a nice profit. The savages won’t know any better if it’s half river water.” She put down the pitcher. “Tell me, how was Le Moyne’s?”
“Marthe paid a hefty price for the wool and I doubt she’ll get more than one pair of socks out of it,” Élisabeth said, shaking her head.
“You should have waited until spring. I did warn you,” the widow told Marthe.
“What would you have me do about my feet?” Marthe glowered. “They’re always cold.” She wanted to ask whom the widow intended to trade with, andwhere she had purchased so much brandy. She also wanted to tell the Sulpicians what the widow was planning.
“Cold feet means you’re having a girl,” Barbe Poulin announced. “Verger will be so disappointed.”
“Cold feet means that it’s winter!” Marthe boiled with frustration. The widow’s gaze fell upon her again, pointedly lingering over her large bump. Marthe stopped rubbing her sides and crossed her arms over her belly.
“Maman Poulin, did you hear about the governor’s servant?” Élisabeth sat down in a chair at the table. “She has left his service and is staying at Folleville’s.”
“I did not hear that. How did I not hear that?” Maman Poulin raised her eyebrows.
“Madame Le Moyne said that Anne Lamarque will demand that she earn her keep through whoring,” Élisabeth said. “The Sulpicians are said to be ready to step in.”
The widow crossed herself. “There is no greater sin for a woman. None at all.” She pursed her lips in concentration then she reached for a loaf of bread.
“What are you doing?” Marthe asked. She dreaded the prospect of Barbe Poulin interfering—and doubted the governor’s servant cared about falling into sin, given the type of men she had fled.
“I’m going to Folleville’s, of course.” The widow made a pious little click with her tongue against her teeth. “We do not get to Heaven on prayers alone. Our actions count equally, and saving another’s soul is worth a hundred indulgences.” The widow tied a scarf around her neck. “And if I can’t persuade that poor wretch to return to her husband, I might at least be able to tell Father de Sancy what I know of Anne Lamarque’s vile business. Oh! I can’t wait to see the look on her face! Come with me, Lili, we do God’s work today.”
“Don’t go,” Marthe said plaintively to her sister. “I have the wool to card and spin. We could do it together, in front of the fire, like we did in Saint-Philbert…”
Her voice trailed off. She did not want Élisabeth to cross paths with thepriest again, lest he fix another devilish notion in her head, another weed that would sprout and spread, impossible to root out. And maybe, if they had more time alone just the two of them, she might confide in her about the governor’s attack. Maybe if the widow were not nearby, Élisabeth would listen. Marthe might win her sister back.
“Stay in by the fire when there’s a woman on the edge of ruination and priests set to rain God’s judgement down upon her?” Barbe Poulin clicked her tongue again, indicating what she thought of Marthe’s ideas.
Élisabeth looked from Marthe to the widow. She clasped her hands in front of her and began to twist them. “I won’t be gone an hour,” she said finally, pulling her mittens back on. “It is the right thing to do. I can help you with the wool when I return.”
The bonfire inside Marthe roared back to life, sending sparks into the air. Once again, Élisabeth had chosen to drink poison rather than nectar. Once again, Marthe had lost.
“Suit yourself,” she said coldly and stormed across the hallway to her side of the house, her heavy belly slowing her gait. She would not share her secret with her sister. She would see the servant’s face in her nightmares again. The anger inside her would grow, filling every inch of her small frame.
She wished with all her heart that there was a door to her room rather than just a burlap curtain. She wanted to hear the satisfying slam of wood, rather than the muted swish of fabric, as she flopped down into her bed.
27
There wasn’t another soul on Rue Saint-Paul. Élisabeth and Maman Poulin bowed their heads against the cold, linking arms to move as one down the street. Élisabeth clutched the lapels of her coat tighter as they hurried past the Sulpicians’ seminary, the grey stone dwelling that bore down upon the little village. She was starting to regret having followed the widow outside. She preferred joining her by the fire, listening to her talk as she knit. No one knit faster than Maman Poulin. She could produce a whole stocking in a single evening, the click-click of her needles keeping pace with her opinions. Élisabeth was soothed by the constant activity. The demon Marcosi did not trouble her excessively in Maman Poulin’s presence. He slumbered, wings wrapped around his fur-covered body, only one ear cocked and alert. He no longer leapt against her rib cage, trying to break her bones in his bid for release. And for that reason alone, for the calm she felt when Maman Poulin was nearby, Élisabeth would accompany the widow to Folleville’s, or out into the frosty night, or wherever she wanted to go.
She pulled the tavern door open, and they were struck by a wave of warmth and pipe smoke. Even in the middle of the day, in a town of only a thousand settlers, Folleville’s was busy. It was newly built, but the scent of fresh timbercould not mask the smell of sweat that hung in the air. Élisabeth had been to the tavern a handful of times since she had come to stay at the bakery, and on each outing it did not fail to both captivate and alarm her: the noise of pewter mugs slamming down on the wooden tables, the sweet strains of a fiddle matched by the beat of a pair of spoons, the laughter of fallen women in dark corners.
Someone shouted, “Shut the door!” and Élisabeth did as she was bid. Maman Poulin barrelled towards the bar, licking her lips.
“Good day,” Anne Lamarque greeted them from behind her counter. Maman Poulin laid the loaf of bread upside down on the counter: a sign of bad luck meant to put the innkeeper on notice.
“The crumb on this new loaf is as fine as any Verger has ever baked. I could not let you miss out,” Maman Poulin said pushing the bread towards Anne Lamarque.
