“And cheese doesn’t bruise when you pinch it.”
There was a burst of laughter before Lou spoke again. “Now that I think on it, it’s probably best to line them up based on strength, not height. I intend to get one with arms like tree trunks.” She paused, then added, “And a firm backside to match.”
All the girls giggled until Apolline broke in. “Don’t be vulgar, Louise. I intend to choose my husband solely on his occupation and ability to earn a good living. And I expect you will all do the same.”
They groaned, even those who couldn’t have known Apolline for more than an hour. Marthe joined in, laughing and shaking her head. Though privately she wondered why the brides protested. How else would one choose a husband, except by judging what he could earn? She sneaked a glance at her sister.
Élisabeth would choose for love, of course.
Marthe sighed.
The girls continued to tell tales of how best to choose a cheese, by pinching or sniffing, then turned to rating various professions. Was a stonemason equal to a blacksmith in the New World, where there was so much to be built? Did a joiner outrank a clog maker? Could girls such as them aim as high as a merchant or a silversmith?
Marthe joined in, pleased to share her thoughts. From their encouraging smiles, these girls seemed to think her as much an authority as an archbishop on such matters. She returned their smiles with her own. She had little experience of friendship in Saint-Philbert—her life had been full enough with her sister and two older brothers—but now, in the near darkness of the lower deck she felt lighthearted.
“We’re not likely to be allowed to marry a merchant,” a girl with bony wrists and fingers said to the group. She made a gesture like a knife on a cutting board with her hands as she spoke. “I was told we can only choose between craftsmen and farmers.”
“I’d prefer a farmer,” Lou decided. She made a show of flexing her arm, which made the other girls laugh.
“A hardworking artisan can earn up to six hundred livres a year,” Apolline informed them. “A habitant farmer could probably match that. Of course, if you end up saddled with an idle man…”
There was less laughter as the group considered her words. An idle man could ruin a girl. And there were worse sins than idleness besides.
“What about you?” Rose turned to Marthe. “Are you in the market for a farmer or an artisan?”
“Well,” she hesitated for a moment. She could not remember the last time she had been asked what she wished for. Despite Élisabeth’s urgent talk about leaving for Ville-Marie, she had been silent on what they would do when they arrived. “I am a farmer’s daughter. So I know what it is to live that life—”
“You shall make a good farmer’s wife, then.”
“I intend to stay in town,” Marthe said firmly. “I have had my fill of reaping grain and shearing sheep. I want to marry a smith or a cooper. Or any craftsman, really.”
Marthe did not want to confess to these Parisians what it had been like to be a farmer’s daughter, how despite Papa’s never-ending work—the planting, weeding, scything, threshing, and gleaning, year on year until he was near-crippled by the labour—they had always felt the pinch of hunger. After the tithe and the taille had been paid, after the seigneur had taken his due, what was left to the tenant farmer? The yield from the Jossards’ plot could barely feed them all when the boys were alive. Marthe wondered if life in Ville-Marie would see her fortunes change. She imagined fine shops in a row, and pointing at everything from copper pots to silk ribbons and telling the shopkeeper to put it on her account. That was the life she wanted. No broken nails and mud-soaked hems. No opening the door to the hapless village barber and watching him fumble and bumble with his tools as Papa coughed blood into his kerchief. Marthe took a breath to stifle her anger. No, she would not be a farmer’s wife. There was safety in silver and being able to pay for the kind of physicians who could only be found in town.
“The blacksmith where I’m from does very well for himself,” the girl with the bony wrists said. “His family had beef every Sunday.”
Apolline came closer to their bunk. “Of course, the real money is in tanning—if you can bear to put up with the smell of the hides and the tools to cure them.”
“She meanspiss,” Lou sniggered, and then broke into a guffaw at Apolline’s curdled expression. “Though this leaky dungeon smells no worse than a tannery.”
Rose turned back to the Jossard sisters. “And you, Lili? What sort of man do you want to marry?”
Élisabeth was on her feet in an instant, her movement brittle. “You talk of husbands, as if we will survive the journey. Did you not hear what that priest said? There is a witch aboard this ship.”
“Don’t pay the curé too much mind,” said one of the brides. “Priests are more tormented by witches than those most at risk from their curses.”
“And thank the Holy Virgin that the clergy is so vigilant.” Élisabeth looked as if she were twisted into a knot and could not breathe. The brides gaped at her. “Do not ask me whom I shall marry. For unless we say our prayers every hour from this day forth, we will very likely never arrive.”
Élisabeth crossed herself and walked away into the murk. Marthe sat very still, flushed with embarrassment. Just as she was making friends for the first time in her life, Élisabeth’s behaviour would see them mocked or shunned once again. Marthe could not let it happen.
“The truth is, my sister would rather be a nun than a wife,” Marthe said loudly enough for all to hear. To her relief, Lou laughed, and the rest joined in. Marthe took a deep breath, willing herself not to stare down the passageway in the direction Élisabeth had fled.
The others might think her sister overly pious, or a fearmonger, or worse. Only Marthe knew the true cause of Élisabeth’s protest.
She glanced in the direction her sister had disappeared, then turned back to the other brides, nodding at something she had not heard. She cocked her head sweetly at Rose and was reassured when the Parisian smiled back. Perhaps they would not blame her for Élisabeth’s sins.
For there was one thing Marthe understood from all that had befallen them. She would not make the same mistake as her sister.
She would never fall in love.
