“Dufossé froze because he was drunk,” Élisabeth explained. “Jeanne Roy has done no ill to anyone.”
The widow gave both sisters a withering look. “That’s not even her name. She’s Lady Angélique de La-Dee-Da. She cast that spell on your neighbour, and if she’s not stopped, she’ll go after our children.”
“Please, Maman,” Marthe grabbed the widow’s arm. “I beg you. We need Jeanne’s skill. She trained in Paris with the man-midwives. We need her.”
“For goodness’ sake!” The widow shrugged Marthe’s arm away. “Look for yourself. You will soon hear her admit all manner of horrors.” The widow pulled Élisabeth towards the crack in the palisades and Marthe could not help but follow. Tentatively, they took it in turns to press their eyes to the peephole.
“Can you see her?” the widow asked.
“Not well.” Still Élisabeth did not pull away. Marthe leaned her head against the wall, feeling sick. She wished she could sit down. The thought of what washappening in the middle of the fort’s compound was too much to bear. The ache in her back had grown much worse and had spread to her belly. She heard the sound of a whip and a strangled gasp of pain that was so close she could feel it on her own flesh. She grabbed her stomach with both hands.
“What did the witch say?” Barbe Poulin glinted.
“The priest is still asking about Satan,” Élisabeth replied. “Jeanne has not spoken.”
There was another crack and Marthe felt the whip bite into her belly again. She doubled over. She could not prevent a moan from escaping her lips. She had to get away from the sounds of the whip on flesh. She stumbled away from the fort, clutching her belly in her hands. She staggered back across the Little River to the commons and saw that the other brides had disappeared. They could not bear the sounds of Jeanne’s torture either. They would have gone home to pray. She did not blame them.
Marthe reached the safety of the bakery and shut the door, breathing steadily through her nose. The pain eased. She straightened her shoulders and turned to see Verger rounding the corner from the workroom, flour dusted on his face and his beard.
“How now,wife?” he asked. She cut him with a look. He had been sulking more of late, asking pointed questions, now even seeming to query their marriage vows. Barbe Poulin’s malice had made it to his ears.
“I am well,” she grimaced. Suddenly, the pain was upon her again. She gripped her belly and cried out. Verger was instantly by her side, all trace of anger melted.
“Marthe? Are you well? Is the child coming?”
“No,” she grunted, looking at the floor. “It is a bit of bad fish that turns my stomach, is all.”
“I shall run and fetch Maman Poulin, she will know what to do.”
“Do not… call her… mother.” Marthe’s words were strangled and raw.
“Come and lie down, chérie, and I will fetch Barbe—”
The pain eased and Marthe stood up straight again. “Do not instruct me! You’re barely more than a boy the way you carry on, following after her apron strings as if she hadanyclaim to good sense or judgement.”
Verger dropped his outstretched hand and his back stiffened. He shouted back, “If I am barely more than a boy, it is because you forbade me to act as a man! How do you think I feel, not being able to challenge Lafredière for fear of ruining us? Then you ask your brother-in-law to be your champion? How am I to feel?”
Verger wiped his hand across his forehead, leaving a streak of flour on his brow. Marthe glowered. He was no more use than a cart with one wheel. She could feel her temper rising.
“Why do you think you could take on the governor of Montréal when you could not take on the widow Poulin? You have done nothing to ensure she marries and leaves our house. You are ignorant of how she spreads rumours about me around town. You are ignorant of her scheme to sell liquor to the natives. You are an ignorant boy who does nothing and says nothing and I wish… I wish I had never married you!”
Something shifted inside her and suddenly water rushed from between Marthe’s legs. She grabbed her belly as Verger sprung forward.
“Marthe, chérie—”
“Oh, leave me in peace,” Marthe sobbed, pushed him away. “I have just wet myself, for pity’s sake!”
The door flew open and Barbe Poulin barrelled in. The widow took in the sight of the water on the floor and a triumphant smile spread across her face.
“I knew it,” Barbe Poulin jeered. “Your child comes and you are not yet eight months married. You sly whore.”
“Maman Poulin, please. Marthe missed the chamber pot,” Verger started, then recoiled when she rounded on him.
“You fool! The waters mean the child is coming. Just look at the size of her belly! She’s well past her term. Count on your fingers, boy. That bastard is not yours.”
Verger’s jaw dropped. His hands dangling by his side, uncertain what to do. While he hesitated, the widow turned to Marthe, a vicious glint in her eye.
“You came into this house, pretending to be a maid, and married this blameless man. I will tell Father de Sancy! I will see you whipped in the pillory for this!”
