Marthe could tell he was not wholly surprised. “Melancholy,” he said, and stroked his bushy beard. “I knew that she found our life on the farm difficult. She was often… distressed, I think, by being so far away from you. I had hoped this time with you would have soothed her nerves.”
“I’m afraid that dreadful widow has upset her nerves even more. Barbe Poulin has thrown Ville-Marie into the grip of a witch hunt.” Marthe’s temper flared momentarily, thinking of the poison that had been poured into all their ears. “Jeanne says the only cure is to open Lili’s vein with a lancet or a fleam.” She shook her head mournfully. “Bloodletting.”
Francoeur nodded, a tight military movement. “Good. Bloodletting is not such a burden to bear. If it cures her of the sadness in her soul, then we shall try it immediately.”
“Oh, Francoeur. You do not know. Our father… we tried to bleed him to cure his fever.” How could she explain to Francoeur how appalling their father’s end had been? She looked at the floor. “I cannot imagine Lili would ever let a lancet near her.”
The hessian curtain separating the rooms moved and Verger appeared, his face crumpled with sleep. He looked shocked to see Francoeur in his workroom.
“Welcome back, brother.” His face was neutral as he put his arm around Marthe’s shoulder. “I hope you have made a safe journey.”
“It was a success,” Francoeur said.
Marthe shook Verger off, stepping out of his reach.
“Why then, you are my wife’s saviour,” Verger said, his voice both flat and forlorn, his arm left hanging by his side. “The saviour of Ville-Marie.”
“I’m no saviour,” Francoeur said sharply. Then he took a breath. “It is not very late in the day. I will ask Jambon or Lajeunesse to take a skiff across the Saint-Laurent to fetch Jeanne Roy. We will see her before we return home to our côte.”
“No!” Marthe cried. “You mustn’t bring Jeanne to Ville-Marie!”
“Whyever not?” Francoeur looked puzzled. Marthe glanced back and forth at each of them. What could she say? They had found no book of spells, no magic wand in Jeanne’s cabin. But every one of the brides on theSaint-Jean-Baptisteknew what she was: a cunning woman, an enchantress, a sea serpent in female form. With confession on the tip of Élisabeth’s tongue, if Jeannereturned to the village now, the flint would surely strike the steel and she would be named as the witch they were hungry to set aflame.
“Lili will not want to be bled” was all Marthe could think to say.
Francoeur gave her a patient smile. “If Élisabeth is unwell, as you say she is, then we must look for a cure. I will send for Jeanne straightaway.”
Marthe could not return his smile.
31
Her husband’s face was drawn and serious when he emerged from his conversation with Marthe. Élisabeth wished she knew what her sister had told him. Marthe would not have spilled her secrets; she was too quick to deny Élisabeth’s suffering to tell Francoeur she was possessed. But what had they discussed? Élisabeth watched as her husband pulled his men to one side and spoke to them quietly. Within moments Lajeunesse had taken his coat from the peg and slipped out of the bakery. Francoeur refused the drink Maman Poulin offered him, and stood up stiffly, almost rudely, to announce that they must be on their way or they would be without rooms for the night.
Élisabeth and Francoeur walked side by side down Rue Saint-Paul. Jambon turned left to take Lou and Rose to the inn a few streets away from the river; Francoeur explained that there was nowhere left for them to stay for the night but Folleville’s. As he spoke, she noticed that his shirt was worn at the neck and determined she would make him a new one. She would use what was left of her dowry to get some serge from Le Moyne’s and stitch him as fine a shirt as he had ever worn. She would not settle for buttons made of bone; she would show him how she felt with buttons wrapped in silk.
She imagined him unbuttoning his new shirt to reveal his bare chest andfelt the stirring of lust. She shook herself to loosen the demon’s grip on her mind.
“Francoeur,” she said abruptly. “What did you discuss with Marthe?”
“I explained that our petition was only a modest success.”
“But why tell her—”
He pulled open the door to the tavern. The room was full, voices were high and bright, and faces pleated with laughter. In the corner, a boy with wispy hairs on his chin smacked a pair of spoons between his hand and his knee as an older man cranked a bow across a fiddle.
“I too would like to hear about your petition.” She was aware she sounded petulant, even jealous, as he steered her towards a table.
“I will tell you all,” he said, looking over his shoulder towards the bar. “Though I felt I should take a moment to reassure Marthe privately that she is safe. The governor has been recalled. He cannot hurt her again.”
“Why would—? Hurt her?” At once Élisabeth realized what she should have known for months. All the parts of the riddle were now clear: the governor had attacked one of the wives, Francoeur had leapt to the woman’s defence, Marthe had been sullen and angry all winter.
How had she not known? Why had Marthe not confided in her?
She felt a spasm of despair. Marcosi had prevented her from seeing what should have been plain. The unholy spirit had blinded her to her sister’s pain. She thought for a moment of all the hours she’d spent in the widow’s company, and how hard Maman Poulin was on Marthe.
Through my fault, through my fault, my most grievous fault.
“There’s Anne Lamarque,” Francoeur said, rising to his feet. “Stay here while I see about a room.” He strode towards the bar, spent a moment in conversation with the innkeeper, then followed her upstairs.
