The Trousseau’s Secret - Chapter One
Chapter One
France, 1663
The chickadees mocked my grief, as did the brilliant blue summer sky. I stood there, my stocking-clad toes curled over the crumbling grey stone of the front step, staring down at the letter.
“What’s this, Louise?” The gruff voice of my brother, Phillipe, lit a spark of fury in the midst of my anguish, as he was the one responsible for this—he had to be. No one else wanted rid of a burden as my brother wanted free of me. He snatched the paper, scanning the news, a grin spreading through his beard, making me certain in my assumption. The bastard had gone and banished me to a life in New France, far across the ocean.
“Well, it’s done then.” He folded the paper and placed it in his breast pocket. “I reckon you’ll be better off than most, considering you can read and write. The advertisement said they value women with intellectual assets.”
It took everything in me not to growl at him, to beat my hands against his chest. I did not want to leave—especially to a desolate colony in the New World—but I knew to fight against him would be futile. He was a man of esteem in our small village and held an air of self-importance. Even the smallest slight could stir the dark rage inside him. He was much like Père had been, quick to erupt when challenged. Men looked up to him and women feared him. Phillipe grabbed my arm, pinching the flesh, likely to leave another bruise.
“Don’t think about trying to flee,” he said, drawing me close, his beard prickling my cheek. “This is a King’s assignment. Dowry, trousseau, and passage all paid for. You’ll marry and bear children. Meant to bolster the population over there in New France. You were lucky to be picked, but that was probably to do with my influence, if you want the truth of it.”
I swallowed hard, trying to reconcile with a life apart from everything I had ever known. I had been born in this house and sat with Maman as the tumor took her last breath. The patchwork quilt that now swaddled my niece upstairs had been made by great Grand-mère, lovingly put away after each babe for another generation. It was meant for me next, as part of my trousseau, the wooden chest where I had laid aside items for my own family, despite my brother’s refusal to put forth a dowry. I had held on to a dwindling hope that one of the village men might marry me on affection alone, but I did not possess the beauty, being too skinny and overly tall. Still, to be sent away, discarded like chaff that blew across the wheat field, stung far worse than spinsterhood.
“As you wish,” I spat, jerking my arm away from him. At least I would be free of Phillipe in the New World. I brushed off my apron, holding my head up with false dignity as I turned back to the house. There was work to be done, regardless of my future. I stepped back into the kitchen, shaking my head at the inquisitive gaze of the kitchen maid, Pauline. She was my only friend, but I was too close to tears to share the news just yet. Instead, I went back to kneading dough, the heel of my palm working the sticky lump until it was smooth.
“Careful now, Louise.” Pauline came over to rescue the evening bread. “You’ll make it tougher than your brother’s thick head,” she said, trying to coax me into a smile. I sighed heavily, letting her lift the mass into a bowl and cover it with a checkered cloth.
“He’s sending me to New France,” I blurted out, my throat growing thick at having to say the words. “To be married to one of the men there.”
“Ah, non, ma chérie,” Pauline crooned, coming over to take me in an embrace. A cloud of flour dust blew up between us, making me smile. It was the spirit of Maman, I thought, not wanting to miss out on the hug. Though it had already been five years since she passed, I often found her in the small things, even as I toiled under my brother’s watch. I let go of Pauline, crossing myself as I let the thought of my dear mother drift away to address the matter at hand.
“It’s a King’s assignment,” I said, echoing Phillipe’s words. “The letter said I shall be collected tomorrow morning, and to bring a bundle of warm, practical clothing.”
“Tomorrow?” Pauline’s face fell in dismay. We both turned back to the counter, me to wash and peel potatoes, her to pluck the chicken to roast. “But that’s hardly enough time.”
I shrugged, swallowing the lump in my throat. “Perhaps it will be nice there.”
Pauline gave me a sidelong glance, saying nothing. I scraped the potato with deft hands, removing the knots and quartering it before reaching for another. We had both heard the stories of winters so cold that men froze and starved; those that managed to survive until spring had been under near constant attack from the Natives that had first inhabited the land. The soil was rough and untamed, requiring never-ceasing back-breaking labour. Many that ventured to New France in search of the promise of land and prosperity, had returned a mere year later in defeat. Thus, this was the King’s plan, I surmised. To snatch unattached women from their homes to create the illusion that his new pet colony, was, in fact, worthwhile. Because women, of course, had no say in the matter, no voice to refuse.
I ate dinner alone in my bedchamber, taking an extra portion of chicken in silent rebellion. Pauline had packed me a parcel of biscuits, cheese, and an apple for the morning travel, tucked behind the beans in the larder. She bade me a tearful farewell, promising to take care of Maman’s resting place in the town cemetery. I shed no tears, a rage hardening in my chest at having everything stripped away in one strike.
I finished eating quickly, sure that Phillipe’s wife would find me soon after they ate to help wash and bed the children. I stripped my cot of the blanket, laying it diagonal to use as a cover in which to bundle my possessions. Then, I took stock of my things.
My clothing fit easily, as I didn’t have much outside of my daily wear. I fished my wool stockings out from the back of my wardrobe, wishing I had another pair. I had one spare dress, an apron that had belonged to Maman, a pair of gloves, and a long sweater that served as a coat when I went out to feed the livestock on chilly mornings. The other warmer items—a proper winter coat, hat, and boots were all communal and belonged to the house. Though it was summer, they still hung by the front door and would be missed if I dared to pack them. I would have to make do, I decided, hoping that my new husband would be generous enough to supplement my wardrobe.
I lay awake for much of the night, my mind refusing to rest. I watched the shadow of the willow tree dance across my wall in the moonlight, wondering. It was not all bad, I had decided. I did not possess extraordinary talent, nor have the glamour of a Parisian mistress. But that seemed as if it would be for naught in the New World. Instead, I was sturdy and used to hard work, and did not want for much. Perhaps I could make the best of this, after all.
Still, I rose before first light, my hands shaking as I dressed. I peeked in on the children, crossing myself and whispering a prayer that Maman would watch over them. Then, taking my food for the journey and tucking it into my bundle of clothing, I sat on the front step to wait, not wanting to hear when the house stirred awake.
The door behind me creaked open, and I scowled as a large frame came to sit beside me. Why couldn’t he leave well enough alone? He was either here to ensure that I really did leave, or to smoother me in false well-wishes, a reminder that I had no choice but to obey his heed. I turned my face away, relieved to see the dust of a wagon approaching in the distance. It was time, then.
“I want you to have this, sister.” He placed a book on top of my bundle, the corner lifted in a familiar curl. “It can be a gift, for your new husband.” He stood, hesitating a moment before I heard the door slap shut. I looked over at our family Bible, heavy and cumbersome on top of my meagre belongings. I flipped open to the page which listed our history, the births and deaths carefully filled out by the local priest. I let my finger settle on Maman, then down to myself. Louise Jeanne Durand. It was some consolation, I supposed, that I had a place here once.
The wagon slowed to a halt a few paces away, the driver beckoning with an impatient wave. A lone woman sat on the bench; the hood of her cloak pulled tight. Without a backward glance, I gathered my things, tucking the Bible awkwardly into the bundle.
“Bonjour,” I greeted the other woman, sitting across from her. Her eyes flicked up to me, one green, one brown. My heart skidded to a halt as I realized who I was travelling with—Marie-Claire Richard, the village outcast, with eyes that were said to be between this universe and the next. She was not allowed to enter the church, declared a blaspheme even as a young child.
I looked back to the house then, the wagon jerking as it started down the path. There was no shadow in the window, no hand to wave farewell. I, too, felt between this world and the next, this life fading rapidly behind me.