Marthe laid her head down on her knees. If it was true, and the child was coming, she did not need to fear the whip, for she was as good as dead. The child was too early; he would die and take her with him to Heaven. She wished, as she had a thousand times before, that she was rich enough to send for the best man-midwives in all of Europe, as the fashionable ladies did.
“Whipping is too good for a common hedge-whore like you.” The widow’s voice pierced her thoughts. “I’ll see you and your bastard cast out of Ville-Marie for good! I’ll see you sent back to France—”
And then came the sound of Marthe’s salvation.
“Shut your mouth, you old toad! How dare you say such a thing to my sister?”
36
Élisabeth stared at her sister slumped against the doorframe. She recognized the scene. In her memory, the doorframe was wider, the woman older. Her clogs had come off, and she could see the dirt ground into the bottom of her feet. Beyond her, a boy running down the lane, coming back with the neighbour’s wife, scattering the chickens in the yard. But they were too late. The first baby was stuck, and the other’s passage was blocked. The neighbour knelt down and put her hand over the woman’s eyes.Your mother tried her best, she had said,she just couldn’t birth them both.
She couldn’t birth them both.
Marthe’s head lay on her knees. Her eyes were drifting into the distance, looking for the path to Heaven.
Just like Maman.
Barbe Poulin tutted. “Don’t be sharp with me, Lili. Marthe’s child is coming. Five or six weeks too soon, by my count, and she’s far too large for it to be Verger’s child. If I say she’s a common hedge-whore, it’s because she is!”
Élisabeth could not restrain herself. She lunged forward—a demon with wings—and slapped Barbe Poulin’s face. The widow stumbled backwards.
“She’s carryingtwins! That is why she is so large.”
“Do you think me stupid?” The widow’s hand flew to her cheek. “If Marthe were carrying more than one child, the coin I put under her pillow would have turned black.” The widow swivelled to find a willing ear. “Verger, cast your wife into the street! You’ll be landed with another man’s bastard if you do not.”
“Verger, do not listen to her. Our mother died birthing twins. Marthe is large because she is carrying two babies. Do not drink that old serpent’s poison.”
The widow Poulin’s face twisted with fury. She drew her hand back as if to hit Élisabeth but then changed her mind and turned to land the blow on Marthe. Before she could strike, Verger grabbed her hand and held it firmly.
“It’s past time for you to leave,” he said evenly. “Get out of this house.”
He released her and she staggered backwards. Verger dropped to his knees. “Marthe? Chérie, do not despair, by God and Saint Anne, I swear you will come through your ordeal.”
Marthe did not raise her head from her knees. “Lili is right. This is how Maman died.”
Verger turned to Élisabeth. “What can we do?”
“We need a midwife. Marthe cannot do this alone.” Élisabeth took a deep breath. “We need Jeanne Roy.”
“That witch is halfway to Hell,” the widow sneered from the corner of the room.
Élisabeth bared her fangs in Barbe Poulin’s direction and the widow shrank. “Verger, lock Poulin in the outhouse so she cannot thwart us. I will run and see if I can get into the fort to speak with Jeanne.” Élisabeth crouched down and took Marthe’s hand in hers. “Can you hold on?”
Her sister’s face was flushed and her jaw clenched. Élisabeth took the grimace as a sign of determination and leapt up. She grabbed a loaf from the counter and checked her cloth satchel. The ragdoll’s unravelling eyes stared at her from within. She had all she needed to free Jeanne.
She burst out of the house and ran across the little bridge towards the fort. The bells had stopped ringing; Father de Sancy and the executioner must havefinished their grim task. At the gate stood a thin man, not much older than a boy, in a stained doublet. Élisabeth recognized the executioner’s teenage son. She waved the bread in his face.
“Let me pass,” Élisabeth said. “I’ve come with the prisoner’s food.”
The boy stood back. “She’s in here,” he said, gesturing to a building next to them. Élisabeth stepped past him and opened the door. The room was dark, the air thick with the smell of blood. A few shards of light spilled through the cracks in the log walls to reveal a figure on the dirt floor.
“Jeanne?”
Élisabeth blinked, trying to adjust to the dim light. Jeanne was lying on her side, her hair matted around her face. Her chemise was filthy and torn. Élisabeth recoiled when she saw the back was shredded and covered in dried blood, the lash of the whip having ripped right through the linen.
“I brought you some bread,” she said feebly, crouching down and putting the loaf on the ground.
Jeanne Roy’s head was twisted at an awkward angle, her legs splayed out as if she had been dumped and did not have the strength to move. Élisabeth could see her ankles were bruised and swollen. She squatted next to Jeanne.
