"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.
I shudder.
Glancing around at the other women, I wonder if they are experiencing the same fears as I. Sure enough, angular cheekbones jut out beneath gaunt, pale faces and hollow eyes stare ahead in terror. We must look like skeletons to these men, not healthy women ready to urge an entire colony into prosperity. I wonder how they can view us as alluring in such a state as this.
Further along the path, noblemen bow with dignity and brandish their silk tricorne hats. Still, I cannot rid myself of the thought that we are being paraded along like a string of sickly lambs led to the slaughter.
"Make haste girls!" Madame Gauthier shouts.
Our directress is accompanied by Jean Talon, a pudgy, middle-aged man with a curly raven-black wig perched awkwardly upon his head and a rosy though somewhat stern face. His features boast severe irregularity, as he has an elongated nose that seems to dwarf a miniature pair of red lips.
Jean Talon was given the coveted title of intendant of New France by King Louis and is the man who met us on the dock. He greeted us with a long-winded speech about our importance as the mothers of this new place and how the French kingdom will forever be indebted to us for our collective sacrifice.
Madame Gauthier bids us to enter a converted stable house. Though it appears entirely unassuming—the perfume of freshly baked bread and warm bouillon sweeps through the entryway.
I pause, standing back momentarily in order to inspect my temporary home. There is a barn next to the building, signalled by the clucking of hens. I have never lived on a farm before, and it should be interesting to do so, even for just a short time.
"Mademoiselle Lorraine Leblanc! Your husband will not appreciate a tardy wife. Stop dawdling, or I will have to further reprimand you." My directress presses her sun-burnt lips together thinly. "Tardiness shall leave you without bread or wine tonight."
At my side, Celeste casts an exasperated look. But I am too tired to disobey Madame Gauthier's orders.
I hike up my skirts and trudge through the mud, dodging a horse-drawn cart as I trail the others into the building.
"How can she continue to speak to us as if we are children?" Celeste spits vehemently as we stumble indoors. "If we are old enough to marry, are we not old enough to gain some measure of independence?"
"I do not know." I shrug my shoulders half-heartedly. My thoughts wander back to Ami, and I swallow my tears.
Sometimes, I feel as though this entire journey has been nothing but a long-winded nightmare, and that tomorrow I will wake in my tiny Paris apartment, my sisters gossiping about the baker's son, and my brothers squabbling over something they will soon forget.
How I would love to turn back time and become the wife of a kind, humble blacksmith or shopkeeper. Perhaps I could remain an unmarried spinster, and spend my days safely tucked away with my siblings and parents, or take my holy vows in a quaint French convent. Spending time in solitude and prayer, perhaps even furthering my education, sounds wonderful to me.
Momentarily, I consider pleading with Madame Gauthier to take up my vows and return to Paris on the next boat. I can reason with her that marriage is not meant for me and that in this wilderness, I realized God is calling me to Him. I could spend the rest of my days locked in a convent, safe from the rest of the world.
I attempt to release this nostalgia, along with my fear, and shadow the other women up the stairs.
Our temporary home is luxurious compared to our previous lives aboard the ship.
A spacious kitchen and community room are on the ground floor, and upstairs there are dozens of straw pallets lining the walls. There are hearths in every room, providing warmth and rescue from the expected wintry nights.
I try not to think of our upcoming duties, but rest knowing that we are to be safe and cared for while the inevitable awaits us.
♔♔♔
AFTER SAYING OUR CUSTOMARY PRAYERS and settling into our new, temporary home, we partake in a meagre meal of dried horse meat, spiced wine, and fresh bread. Apart from the fresh bread, the supper is not much different from the food we ate on the ship, but at least I am no longer prone to seasickness and can retain some nourishment.
We take turns bathing in a few narrow wooden tubs, keeping our linen chemises as we do so. Soon, the tubs fill with brown, dirt-ridden water. By the time I have finished scrubbing the filth from behind my ears and between my toes, I peel off my chemise beneath the privacy of a sheet, toss it into a washing bucket, and replace it with a clean white garment. When I am done, I marvel at the cleanliness of my skin, hair and clothes—wondering how I survived being in such dirty conditions on the voyage.
Our cots are small and pressed against one another, but soft and also clean—yet another favourable improvement from our lives aboard the ship.
I find my resting place by the window, overlooking the barn and a thicket of dark, minty green trees. The sky is cloaked by dusk, clouds growing omnious against the unsettling moonlight.
I say my prayers over again, though we are not required to do so, muttering phrases of comfort and divine consolation beneath my breath. However lost I feel, my faith wraps me in a quieting kind of peace when I am reminded of the unconditional love extended to me by Jesus Christ's death and resurrection. He loves us and that love washes our sins clean, Maman would say, and that is enough. I pray for wisdom and peace, asking Him to guide me in my courtships and help me select a kind and godly man.
Midnight passes silently.
Most of the women succumb to the powerful attraction of sleep before any meaningful conversation can take place. However, insomnia shackles me to my cocoon of self-reflection. Thoughts which had not entered my mind throughout the voyage suddenly bombard me in surprising number.
We had been told that the men were forbidden from any hunting trips or fur trade expeditions for at least a few months—that upon our expected arrival, they would give us their full attention, courting us at will and then, as Jean Talon had explained it, we would marry and produce children.
I cannot imagine myself as a mother, or a wife. Though I am eighteen and no longer a child, I still feel far from the duties of womanhood.
If only Maman were here to counsel me.
I close my eyes, imagining her settled in the parlour, complaining about how she is always on her feet, never able to enjoy a single moment's rest. Commoners such as my family produce many children, up to ten or twelve, and my parents were no exception. Most of the time, she was waddling around our tenement at an impressive speed, or clutching her swollen, rounded stomach with one hand and wielding a kitchen spoon with the other.
The realization suddenly dawns on me I will have children here, in New France.
A feeling of terror settles in my stomach.
I had always imagined myself marrying a Parisian artisan or labourer and staying with Maman to care for my children. She would care for my children when I was exhausted from a day of caring for the household and she would teach me how to properly bounce a baby upon my knee while mixing dough in a pot. She would show me the ways her mother taught her, and her mother before her, and how to calm a baby with colic. She would have instructed me in the duties of a wife—on how to fill a home with love and how to please a husband.
Now that I am here without her, who can I trust to guide me?
I will never leave you nor forsake you. The words upend the chaos of my mind as light shatters darkness, stilling me immediately and inexplicably.
I feel tears pour down my face as I remember where I heard them from. My mother had been teaching us the words of God and His promise to remain with those who seek Him to the end of the age. Recalling them makes me feel as though I am safe within His hands, no matter what the perils of this New World may be.
♔♔♔
SUNLIGHT POURS into the dormitory, slowly beckoning us to awaken and meet the challenges of the day.
I attire myself in my best dress: a pale blue shift. The sleeves of the dress are full with delicate lace cuffs, an extravagance Madame Gauthier had us sew together with the help of the needles and thread the king gave us as a kind of wedding present.
Sarah Cousteau giggles as she arranges my hair into ringlets coiled deeply into my scalp. From her usually unpleasant and mean-spirited character, I worry she might try to stab me with her fingernails. Clearly, her excitement has not expired, for she continues to gossip about the men she saw watching us upon our arrival.
"Many of them are voyageurs," she explains enthusiastically. "they trade with the Indians and wear their furs. How brave and strong they must be, to bargain with savages like that."
She refers to the Iroquois and other Native people we have been told to fear, none of whom I saw when we docked or made our way into town.
I wonder if I will ever meet any of the Natives and if they will be as intimidating as everyone says they are. There are many accounts of them in The Relations which say they are dangerous, though Father told us that the narratives were ridiculously exaggerated.
"I will be happy if my intended is a strong voyageur." Louise Bernard says to herself, smiling.
I cast a glance towards Celeste, who is staring vacantly into the space ahead of her, a book propped open on her knees.
"A voyageur leaves for months at a time. How will you manage an entire farm and children by yourself?" Sarah demands skeptically. "Besides, I have heard rumours that the men here have improper relations with the Indian women, siring scores of half-breed children. How any of them could even consider marrying those creatures—"
She digs a pin into my scalp. I cringe, both from the physical pain and the malice lacing through her words.
"If he turns out to be a brute, then I will not have to see him often." Louise explains happily.
We share a look and let our laughter fill the dormitory.
"Oh Lorraine, you are so beautiful." A girl named Marguerite coos, her voice shrill and hollow as wood.
"Lorraine is the prettiest among us. She could certainly have any man she wants." Élisabeth agrees, though her eyebrows gather together in disdain. "The king himself would be happy to take a woman as handsome as Lorraine."
"You girls must remember that the men are not choosing you for your beauty or your charm. They would prefer a good, quiet, hard-working wife." Madame Gauthier says from behind us, propping her enormous hands on her hips. "Besides, Lorraine has grown too thin. The men will choose the more... well-endowed women first as they are best suited to survive the winter."
We watch as Madame Gauthier walks away just as quickly as she came.
"How is she supposed to know what a man desires? She is an old maid." Louise whispers beneath her breath, causing a few other girls to chuckle.
I chastise her, though I cannot blame her for poking fun at the directress. Though Jeanne Gauthier is a sour woman, I secretly pity her for her perpetually miserable mood and her disagreeable temper. She must have had very little joy in this life to so easily pain others.
We emerge from our chambers and follow a nun called Sister Marie Guyart.
She is a stately woman, though not as severe as Madame Gauthier. Pious and famously devout, she calls herself Marie de l'Incarnation and believes her place in the New World is her vocation. She was once married, but after her husband died, she sent her son to school and took the veil at a French convent. Now, she presides over the education of both French and Native girls and is to supervise courtship between the settlers and les filles du roi.
She has brought with her seven Native girls, all dressed in French attire, their glossy black hair parted and swept into long braids down their backs. Some wear gowns with lace frills and full sleeves, while others are adorned in more simple linen dresses. All of them wear sullen expressions, their eyes dull and haunted.
One of the Native girls, perhaps a few years older than I, looks at me. When we make eye contact, I break my stare, blushing.
Like my father, I wonder about the blood-curdling tales of savagery told of the New France Natives by sailors and Jesuits in France. Could it be possible that these stories are fabricated to scandalize and propagate untruths?
I observe the Native girl and notice that her brown eyes are saddened and her lips down-turned.
Why is she staying at the convent with Marie de l'Incarnation? Where have her parents gone? Perhaps she is an orphan, though that is unlikely. While there are many orphans in Paris because of bad living conditions, the New World has plenty of food and fresh air, leading to longer lives.
"Bonjour, what is your name?" I ask shyly as she lingers close to me.
She hesitates for a moment but then speaks in a voice the sound of flowing honey. "Mine is Kahwihta."
I am about to remark on the beauty of her name when Marie de l'Incarnation responds with the voice as sharp as polished daggers. "Non, your name is now Madeleine. If you are to remain in my care, you never use that heathen name again, do you understand?"
A pang of sadness strikes me as Kahwihta drops her gaze to Marie de l'Incarnation's slippers—her brows creasing in anger. "Oui, Sœur."
"Madeline will remain in the dormitory to assist with simple tasks while the girls attend their interviews. The pious sœur says that it will do her good to become acquainted to French girls and accustom herself to their way of life," Madame Gauthier explains succinctly, directing Kahwihta to stand near the window.
Perhaps alarmed by the announcement, none of the other girls speak. Sarah appears unnerved, especially since she has admitted to being utterly terrified by the Natives of the colony.
After a moment's silence, I direct a smile towards Kahwihta. "It will be nice to have a new friend in the dormitory."
She smiles back, though not without some hesitancy.
"Come along, girls." Madame Gauthier claps her hands together to secure our attention. Her gaze holds the Native girls in contempt, her pointed features bristling because of some unwarranted fear.
Still disturbed by Marie de l'Incarnation's words, I heed Madame Gauthier's orders. When we trot down to the courtyard, there is already a sprawling line of men forming. When they turn their heads to look at us, they tip their hats and offer greetings.
The men seem to be mainly commoners, many of them sporting familiar fashions as the men I have seen in Paris. A select few appear to be officers and gentlemen—plucked from the ranks of nobility. When I consider that one of these men could be my future husband, my cheeks combust with heat and I lower my face to the ground, too in shock to observe them longer.
"Lorraine Leblanc?" I have not heard my family name used since we left Paris, and I startle when it is called. Jean Talon and Sister Marie Guyart beckon me and I promenade towards them, feeling like a spectacle once again.
I am led into the room with a fireplace, and Jean Talon pulls out a chair at the table so that I may sit comfortably.
When a man has been escorted into the room, the courting process begins.
"Bonjour, my name is Amaury Dujardin. I would very much like to express my interest in you, Mademoiselle Leblanc. You are most... lovely." The man has ruddy, pitted cheeks, and a breath that reeks of alcohol and tobacco. He is balding, and I feel myself internally gag at the supposition that he is older than my father.
I fold my hands on my lap and blow out a breath, my nerves tightening and my heart racing.
"Have you built a house on the land you own?" I begin with a standard question: one they instructed us to ask the men upon interviewing them. If a man does not yet possess a home, Jean Talon says it will be impossible for him to care for his new wife.
"Not yet," Monsieur Dujardin admits, fidgeting in his seat.
"Are you religious, Monsieur Dujardin?" I ask, attempting to avoid his gaze at all costs.
"Oui, oui, of course! I observe Mass on Sundays, that is."
"Do you drink heavily?"
Amaury Dujardin blanches, his eyes traversing between Jean Talon and Sister Marie Guyart. "Well, occasionally."
When stern Sister Marie Guyart holds his gaze, he pales, drawing all the colours out of his face, like a piece of fruit being squeezed.
"Not to say I don't drink. I do—I drink. More than the average man." He stammers, the colour returning to his face, "But, a man has to enjoy himself. Without a wife, it can be very lonely on the settlement, particularly during the long, cold winters. Although, I can promise that when we marry, I won't need to anymore. And of course, if you do not want your husband to drink, I will sacrifice this vice for you."
I suppose he wants to come across as romantic, but the admission is far more off-putting than alluring.
"Why do you want to marry, Monsieur Dujardin?"
"I want a wife who will supply me with an abundance of sons, so I can have help to work the farm." He chuckles, wiping his sweaty brow with a cloth from his blouse. "And of course the company of a woman as charming as yourself would make the winters far more bearable."
"Merci, Monsieur Dujardin. I appreciate your offer." I shoot Jean Talon a signal showing my disapproval. He ushers the man away, beckoning to the next one.
The next man smooths his hands upon his breeches and settles into the wooden chair across from me.
He is unusually lanky and thin. His legs lay awkwardly sprawled out in front of him, poking at the table, as if he is not sure where to put them. His appearance is average and well-groomed, his features lie evenly spaced, and his teeth are mostly intact. He is pleasing to look at as well as young, and I smile, praying that this interview goes better than the last one.
Perhaps he is the man I am to marry.
"Bonjour, Monsieur, what is your name?" I ask, trying to suppress an all-consuming blush.
"Euh..." He glances up at Jean Talon for reassurance, who is stroking his black moustache nervously.
When the Intendant nods, the man clears his throat to continue.
I notice a line of sweat congregating upon his upper lip.
"Mademoiselle Leblanc asked you a question, Monsieur." Jean Talon presses.
"Euh... C-Comtois," he stammers finally, his cheeks dripping with beads of sweat, "Comtois."
He refuses to meet my gaze, and he fidgets with his handkerchief, his voice quiet as if he doesn't want to be heard.
"Is... that your family name?" I prod, my gaze wavering.
"I - I... non, I mean, oui." He squeezes his eyes shut, balking.
"Oh," I offer a weak smile, trying my best to approach the nervous man with a soft and considerate tone, "please don't be nervous, Monsieur Comtois. I am nervous as well, but you needn't fear me."
He says nothing, staring down at his knees.
"Where are you from?" I attempt.
"I l-live in New France." He frowns as if he has not understood the question, his cheeks bright red.
His voice is so quiet that I can barely hear him.
"Oh... non, I mean where were you born? In France? Where does your family hail from?"
"You are v-very... pretty. Thank you for... the... uh, t-the opportunity." He mumbles, squirming in his chair.
This exhausting process continues until I have dispensed the last of my strength.
When I am allowed to have a break, I hurry outdoors and lean against the wall of the dormitory. A cool breeze brushes against my skin, and I squeeze my eyes shut, letting the wind tug at the hem of my gown.
I lift my eyes to the sky, wondering once again why I ever agreed to this journey.
"Salut!"
A little girl with cornflower yellow hair and a lopsided smile captures my attention. She beams up at me, clutching a doll to her chest.
I am startled to see a child in the colony, living amongst hordes of men.
"You are the most beautiful daughter here," the girl squeals. "I want to look like you someday!"
I cannot form an appropriate response, so I laugh.
She reminds me of one of my youngest siblings, her voice shrill and her eyes bright, still savouring the bliss of childhood.
"Is it true that les filles du roi are real princesses?" She inquires innocently, twirling a piece of hair around her stubby index finger.
"That is just an expression." I reply, stifling a laugh, "They brought us to New France to increase... well, help with the settlement, and the king decided that the expression suited us." I explain.
"That sounds wonderful!" The girl gushes. "Have you met the king? What is he like? Papa has met him and says that he is a fascinating man. They were friends, you know. Perhaps if you know the king, you also know my papa?"
"I have never met the king. But I have heard much about him." I smile, remembering my beloved younger siblings as I converse with the young girl. "Perhaps you can tell me more about our beloved king."
Before my new friend can tell me of our monarch, a dignified man with dark hair appears beside us. He is very tall, with his shoulders angling forward in a gentle and endearing slouch. I assume he is the young girl's papa, but he looks nothing like her with his olive complexion, dark brows and tall figure.
When he notices his daughter is speaking with a stranger, his dark eyes crease with concern. "Cammi, make haste. We must return home."
"Papa, I do not want to leave," Cammi pouts, setting her hands on her hips, "I want to stay in town for much longer. Besides, I have met a new friend and I want to tell her about the king."
"Not now, Cammi." The man says, clutching the girl's chubby hand, "I must return to collect my medical supplies. One daughter has fallen ill."
He pauses, turning to me, "Are you one of les filles du roi?"
I nod, curtsying. "And you are the dormitory physician?"
"Oui. I apologize if my daughter startled you. I have had little time to look after her or her brother, because of my trade. The children stay with the nuns at the convent when I am too busy to care for them." The man explains swiftly, pulling Cammi away. "Good day to you."
I consider both the loneliness and the exhausting interviews of the next months. Perhaps if I can care for this physician's children when he is unable, I can enjoy the time between my arrival and my marriage more. "I could take care of them for you if you had need. I do not think that I will do much of anything else these next few months, and so they could stay here as often as you would like."
When he hesitates, I swiftly add with candour, "I had many young siblings in Paris, and my family often required me to look after them. I know how to care for children."
"I am grateful for the proposition, Mademoiselle..."
"Leblanc. Lorraine Leblanc."
He rakes his hand through his dark hair quickly. "Well, merci Mademoiselle Leblanc. But you will be occupied during your stay with your interviews. I cannot imagine asking for your help while you are here as one of the king's wards."
Disappointment fills my chest. Perhaps if I helped care for the doctor's children, I would have less to endure the humiliating interviews and courtships. I would still assist the king by caring for some of the only children in the colony. I tell the physician this in honesty, but his curt response wounds me.
"I hardly think that would be appropriate," The physician squares his shoulders tersely, "I do not know who you are, and I do not want my children being cared for by a young girl, one from the lower ranks of society. I would prefer to enlist the help of a noblewoman if it is all the same to you."
Shocked, I straighten my shoulders to meet his dark gaze. "I doubt you will find a noblewoman here in New France."
"I could hire a governess, which I have been in the process of doing. I do not mean any disrespect, but the help of a young illiterate ward seems rather futile." The lines etched into his forehead deepen.
Scalding humiliation swells within my chest.
I march into the dormitory without another word.