Daughters of the King (Completed)

08 | Courtships

"Love makes mutes of those who habitually speak most fluently." — Madeleine de Scudery, 1607-1701

1664, Quebec City, New France

Lorraine

AN ENDLESS STREAM OF DRAB GREY GOWNS and sullen faces trudges through the settlement. I am suffocated amid them, just another daughter among many. Exhaustion grips me, and my throat aches for freshwater—dehydration threatening to eradicate my already limited strength. We have not enjoyed a proper meal for months, so I yearn for the taste of my mother's hearty bouillon and a slice of freshly baked barley bread. Even a drink of wine could suffice.

I inhale deeply and feel the same fresh air expand in my lungs that I have heard about so often in France.

New France is beautiful but still very unusual for me. Trees and farmland stretch out beyond the settlement like a patchwork quilt and the sweet scents of morning honeydew and freshly cut lumber mingle to create a pleasant aroma. Sunlight filters through overhanging boughs of evergreen, maple and birch trees to paint shadows on our weathered faces and frames. However lustrously the sun shines, it is as cold as a snow-capped mountain. I wrap my arms around my waist and huddle close to Colette and Celeste, my teeth chattering as we limp side by side up towards the city.

And what a city it is.

I see several crude log cabins and larger buildings perhaps designated as storehouses and taverns and wonder how they will provide adequate shelter for us come wintertime. Thicketed trees encroach upon every such structure, dwarfing the insignificant dwellings in their simple grandeur—a reminder that God's intricate handiwork far surpasses the buildings of men.

As far as I can see, the roads are not yet paved—odd considering the king's obsession with his vast collections of faraway lands.

Along the dirt roads, people chatter amongst themselves—mostly men, their eyes alight with a multitude of varying expressions. They part for us like the Red Sea, pausing as we pass and marvelling at us with sun-browned smiles.

Our male onlookers are so close that as we cross the threshold between dock and settlement, our billowing skirts graze them. The merchants bow like reeds, extending their feathered hats to us as if paying tribute to a grand procession. Some of the less refined men take advantage of our vulnerability—gripping wool, linen, and satin with ensnarled fingers and prodding at us boorishly, as though they are inspecting farm animals to purchase.

Celeste slaps away the hand of one such man as he presses a palm to my waist—sobering him with a blood-curdling sneer.

"Touch one of us again and I will slice you with one of my sewing needles!" She shouts, gesturing violently to the trousseau containing her belongings tucked beneath her arm. The man's eyes widen to the size of apples and he moves away.

Despite the grave situation and my terror at being assaulted, laughter springs forth from me.

Celeste grins sheepishly as we both grapple with the absurdity of the situation.

As we continue our march to the dormitories, my thoughts become darker. Have courtesy and dignity escaped these men along with everything else they left behind in France? Are we to be treated as common prostitutes rather than wards of the king? Perhaps rules of morality and decency do not exist in this land. If so, will my husband prove as coarse as the men surrounding us? Will he mistreat me as these men do? What if he is among them?

The terrifying thought sinks in my chest as I attempt to eschew it.

I crane my neck, my gaze sweeping frantically across the ocean of weathered male faces. Rotten teeth, overgrown facial hair and insatiable gazes swim before me.