She made her way across the hallway and saw her sister and Francoeur in the widow’s salon.
“Good day.” Francoeur was formal, standing by the door, fidgeting. “We’ve come for my wife’s trunk.”
Marthe knew he must be waiting for Lajeunesse to return with Jeanne Roy. Élisabeth sat at the table, wan and morose.
“Where’s Barbe?” Marthe muttered.
“Asleep,” Élisabeth said. “When she saw we were not customers she went back to bed.”
Good, Marthe thought. She deserves her sore head. But there was no doubt the widow could hear them well enough on the other side of her curtain.
At that moment, Rose and Lou rushed in with Jambon at their side.
“Is it true?” Rose began, taking off her coat and hanging it on a peg. “Our innkeeper said there was a fight at Folleville’s last night. He meant it as a boast that his inn is a better sort of establishment, but I am certain it must have bedbugs for I could not stop scratching all night long. And then he told us that the fight was between the governor andyou, Francoeur! Imagine how shocked we were to hear that man was loose in the village. Jambon made us go straight to the tavern to hear what had happened, but we found you had already left! We have been chasing you all over town.”
“Lafredière?” Marthe’s hands froze on her stomach. She turned to Francoeur. “I thought you said it was safe.”
“Don’t worry. The governor spent the night in the pillory and the intendant’s guards will take him to Québec this morning.”
Élisabeth gave Marthe a rueful look. “I’m sorry I did not know what he did to you,” she mumbled.
Marthe looked away. It was far too late for her sister’s comfort now. She had sat by the widow’s side for almost three months, listening as Barbe Poulin cackled and dreamed up ever more frightening creatures to terrify them both: drooling goblins, giant Iroquois werewolves, yellow-toothed witches. Not once had her sister been curious about the real danger the women of Ville-Marie faced.
Rose prattled so long about the night’s events that no one heard the door open. All of a sudden Lajeunesse peered around the corner with a toothy grin. Then he stepped back to reveal the prize he had delivered.
Jeanne Roy’s cheeks were bright and rosy from the cold. Hertwilight-coloured velvet dress could be seen beneath the native shawl on her shoulders. As she walked into the widow’s salon, the rich fabric rustled and the room was filled with the scent of pine needles and woodsmoke, and the crispness of a winter’s day.
“Madame, you are a sight for sore eyes,” Francoeur said. He exhaled like he might crumple with relief. Rose and Lou swept into reverent curtseys and Marthe rose to take the native shawl that was wrapped around Jeanne’s shoulders. Only Élisabeth remained seated.
“I am sorry to have interrupted your visit to La Prairie,” Francoeur continued.
Jeanne Roy nodded graciously. “It is no matter. I am happy to assist.” She looked at Élisabeth. Before Jeanne could speak, Barbe Poulin came bustling into the room. Marthe knew that she had not been able to resist the temptation of greeting their guest. The widow looked Jeanne up and down with an appraising eye.
“Good day. I’m the old baker’s widow,” she said. “You may call me Maman Poulin. I’ve lived in this village long enough to have everyone call me mother.”
“I never knew my mother,” Jeanne Roy remarked. “I am not in need of one now.”
The widow opened her mouth and then closed it, as if she could not think of what to say.
“You do not know the excitement we have had, Jeanne,” Lou cut in. “The governor of Montréal has been banished. He was choking girls and doing other stuff besides. And Lili found a man frozen on top of her woodpile. He was dead, of course.” Lou shivered and danced on the tips of her toes, unaware of the danger she was stirring.
“It was a terrible accident,” Marthe said hurriedly.
“It was witchcraft,” Barbe Poulin said at the same time. “I will not forget it for the rest of my days. Blue and stiff as a board. The man’s eyes locked on the place where the witch who killed him stood to cast her spell.”
Jeanne Roy’s nostrils flared. She looked at Francoeur and then back at thewomen. “Excuse me, I have business with my neighbour,” she said coldly. “Is there somewhere we might speak alone?”
“Come with me,” Marthe said, beckoning Jeanne and Francoeur across the hallway. When she realized Élisabeth had not followed them into Verger’s workroom, she dashed back and motioned to her. “Lili, you must come too.”
Francoeur and Jeanne Roy had their heads together when she returned with her sister.
“You are certain there is no other option?” Francoeur said.
“None that I, nor any other student of medicine, knows of.” Jeanne Roy’s eyes were flat and steady. “I have my tools. If you are ready, we can do it now.”
“Tools?” Élisabeth asked.
“Élisabeth, I have sent for Jeanne Roy so that she might help you with your melancholy. I fear you are in need of help. She has brought her lancet. She is going to bleed you.”
