Authors: D.A. Woodward
She noticed that Armand had loosened his own attire…she looked to him now, and found him free of supercilious posturing, and like herself, quietly amused—or at the very least, charmed—by the sincerity of their hosts.
In a sudden tumult of confusion, five towheaded children of various ages, bounded from the field, chasing one another in and around the barnyard in playful abandon.
Louise watched, enchanted by their fun, and impressed that the mother did not reproach her children for behaving disapprovingly in front of the important personages. Instead, with the youngest pulling on her skirts, and several others vying for attention, she merely swung him to her hip, and cheerfully asked her female guests back to the house.
Louise stared at the woman’s dull auburn hair, home spun clothing, bare feet, and in that moment wished, for all the world, that she could be her; to have both the adoration of a large family, and the freedom and courage to say, “take me as I am.”
“My name is Annette, Madame,” she said warmly, placing the little one on the floor of the house, while shooing the rest out of doors with the men. Fetching two sturdy, wooden chairs, she bade them sit.
Glancing around the room, Louise could see that the overall design of the house was less fortified than the massive fieldstone-and-mortar, Breton-like homes she had seen nearer to Montreal, where she had learned, to her horror, that slits were concealed behind thick shutters, to guard against raids by Agnier Indians.
In this abode, the room in which she sat served as both kitchen and master bedroom, with a separate loft for children. It had whitewashed walls and roughcast features, and a huge chimney piece consisting of an open fire and flagstone hearth, which was completely outfitted with hooks for pots and pans, firedogs, a great cauldron, stock pots, a shovel, stew and dripping pans, pie dishes, gridirons, a demijohn, and utensils. On a ledge hung a set of flatirons, candlesticks, and a tin lamp. Louise noticed a trough, two or three coffers, a water carrier, wardrobe, and spinning wheel, and next to her, many wooden seats were positioned around a large table.
Though many of these items were in place, the table was laden with pastry and flour, which appeared to share equal parts with the floor; hand-fashioned toys and clothes were here and there, while in two chairs nearest the wall, an aged couple sat, displaying little more than vague interest at the sight of unannounced company.
The cry of an infant drew her attention to the other side of the room, where a large canopy draped the huge, red, bolster-covered bed, and beside it, a small Beaudet or cradle containing the source of vocal discontent. Immediately, the woman, Annette, rushed to his side, and as she spoke, began to instinctively nurse him, while pacing to and fro in slippers consisting of hollowed-out pieces of wood.
She made no apologies for the state of her home, nor did she offer more than water for refreshment.
“My parents, Madame,” she said, straightforwardly, with a hearty smile, gesturing to the elderly couple, who now grinned and nodded in silent greeting, while each remained seated—he engaged in fixing a small stool; his wife, in darning a sock.
“We will supper soon. If you would like to rest or…freshen yourself, you can use the upstairs loft...it has more privacy than the men need. Our family can stay in one of the outdoor shelters.”
Louise thanked her, admittedly tired, and, with Marie’s support, began the climb up the ladder - made difficult by their long skirts - to the upper level.
Marie wrinkled her nose in displeasure at the dishevelled condition of the room with three medium sized cots grouped in the centre, alongside a makeshift wooden wardrobe and partition.
“But, you cannot sleep here, Madame!” Marie gasped in disbelief, assuming to share her mistress’ alarm.
“Nonsense,” Louise replied unexpectedly, lying back upon the hay-filled mattress. “Suit yourself if you wish to stand.” And with that, she rolled on her side and promptly drifted off, leaving the confused girl to commiserate alone.
Chapter 6
Sometime later, Louise was stirred by the frenetic sound of activity rising to her aerie chamber. “Dinner is to be served, Madame,” came the sulky tone of Marie, as she sat up, ravenous, groggy, and consequently unconcerned about her appearance, and made her way down the ladder.
The first image she lit upon was the incongruous sight of Armand and Felippe, standing politely behind their chairs, whilst over-anxious children and adults, some seated elbow to elbow, others with bowls on their laps. They said their grace, and delved into their meal with salient relish; the need for decorum unobserved. A few of the younger children began jostling and throwing food, others screamed for attention, while their mother, patiently and unaffectedly, passed around portions.
The mortified and bewildered look on Felippe’s face could not be matched had he been flung into a den of starving lions, but though amusing, she knew it would not be seemly to display jocularity.
All was fine until, moments after they were seated, she made the mistake of catching an errant youngster in the act of snatching a chicken leg from Felippe’s plate, much to his obvious displeasure.
Straining to compose herself, she looked to see if it had been noticed by anyone other than Felippe, and lit upon the puerile grin of Armand. The instant their eyes met, she found it impossible to withhold her humour, and, to the surprise of those assembled, burst into laughter. It had been many years since they had a shared such an unabashed moment of good spirit; she found the experience cathartic, engendering closeness more intimate than an embrace.
Felippe, unable to find humour in any aspect of the proceedings, failed to elicit anything short of distaste and annoyance, as he set to his food with a vigilant eye.
By the end of the meal, some sense of quiet had been restored, but the mood was short lived.
“Madame and Monsieur,” said George, as he and several of the older children helped shift the table and chairs to the walls, “I sent my son, Jean, to our neighbours, the Giguerres, to see if they would like to join in a little party for our guests...”
He could have saved his breath, for, seconds after the words left his lips the door opened to a lively, though slightly more refined, couple, and their older children.
Unlike Annette, the Madame and her daughters were outfitted in linen dresses to mid-calf and plain bonnets; a style as simple as it was pretty, while Monsieur Giguerre and his sons were clad in work clothes, with woollen undergarments—barely covered—the latter worn to absorb perspiration, during year round activity.
The Giguerre family, in greater awe of the guests than their friends, seemed to punctuate every sentence with an unwieldy curtsey or an exaggerated bow.
George warmed to his role as host, immediately, organising the festivities. “Michel”, he hollered good-naturedly to one of his little dark-haired children, “fetch Grampere his fiddle.”
The old man, crooked with arthritis, lumbered to a stool. Louise wondered how the man could manage to walk, let alone play. But once he had the instrument in hand, he transformed, to her astonishment, into a nimble-fingered musician, filling the air with vivacity and merriment.
Annette, having pressed a younger daughter into child care duties, now offered Louise and the women a cup of red wine, and passed a home-made spruce drink to the men.
Though well-schooled in the art of slow-paced dancing, Louise watched the swirling, fleet steps of the participants, in eager anticipation of a chance to teach this exciting, unrestrained approach to dance.
Chatting with Madame Giguerre, she saw Felippe cringe as he tasted his drink, stifle a yawn, and then whisper something into Armand’s ear. A moment later, he strode to Louise, leaving her to wonder, briefly, if he was going to ask her to dance.
“I am going back onboard, my dear. There are a number of issues I wish to discuss with the Captain, regarding the trip tomorrow,” he whispered, adding more quietly, “I’m very sorry to have brought you into all of this, my dear...It was entirely unforeseeable. I will discuss with the Captain the possibility of making Montreal tomorrow, without a stop.”
She tightened her lip, to keep from smiling at his grave expression. “As you wish”, she offered pleasantly.
He turned heel and motioned for Robert, his indispensable valet, to accompany him out of doors, dodging the nimble-footed revellers into the comfort of a summer evening. Louise felt
warmth spread along her limbs as Annette refilled her cup, and at the start of a reel, began, unconsciously, to tap her foot.
Georges, dancing with his eldest daughter on the dance floor, noticed her loosening spirit, and impetuously broke with his partner.
“You would like to dance, Madame?” he enquired, breathlessly. She saw that Armand was being similarly summoned, from the far side of the room.
“If you could teach me,” she laughed. “I must warn you, I may not be a good student!”
Marie, whose drink had only served to accentuate her sullen mood, now took the opportunity to seek permission from her mistress to remove herself from, what she considered, undignified amusements, and retire to the upstairs loft.
“Of course, Marie...” Louise replied gaily, as Georges unceremoniously swung her round the crowded room, bumping legs and shoulders with most of the participants.
She noticed Armand escorted on a similar course with Georges’ pretty, dark-haired daughter, and as she watched, felt a momentary twinge of jealousy.
Toward the end of the reel, the music took an unexpected turn in tempo, and Louise, trying desperately to keep up, found herself at the end of one rotation, spinning uncontrollably from his
arms, and landing in an awaiting chair along the far side of the room. In her slightly inebriated state, the liveliness and exhaustion sent her into a fit of giggles.
Armand, fearing she had hurt herself, hastened to her side.
“I am fine,” she responded cheerfully, her head reeling. She rubbed her side, and straightened her gown. “But, I must say,” she continued, waving a delicate handkerchief about her face, “it is very warm.”
“Would you like to take some air, Madame? I would be happy to escort you.”
He seemed so concerned, so willing to be helpful. Feeling the effects of both heat and intoxication, she lowered her guard to the danger of acceptance.
“Yes, thank you”, she replied, with a slight slur. He carefully led her past the seemingly oblivious revellers, and through the open door.
The moon was partially obscured by traces of cloud in the darkened sky, and although a warm breeze stirred the air, it seemed to carry with it the promise of moisture.
Not long after they began to walk, Louise felt her head clear somewhat, and noticed the lanterns on board ship gently swaying to the rhythm of the water, not five hundred feet away. Voices of men drifted up from the river, competing, now and then, with the errant sound of a farm animal and vociferous merrymaking spilling out of windows.
It was only then she realised that, other than the odd person stepping out for a moment, they were alone.
“Shall we take this path?” he ventured, leading her away from the out buildings to the back of the house.
Away from the light, she could barely discern his features, and although there was something fearful in the all-pervasive gloom which seemed to encompass them, she followed unquestioningly; rambling, with a nearly imperceptible wobble, along the narrow trail, through clumps of tall grasses. The path ended at a low stone fence, overhung with fruit trees, on the edge of a meadow.
He faced her now, gazing down upon her through an unseen face, with only waves of hair and broad shoulders in full view.
“Louise,” he said urgently, “forgive me for taking this liberty, but I knew I must speak with you.”
She turned away and leaned her head against the tree, in an attempt to banish the power of his nearness. She had played into his hands, once again.
“Since we set off on this journey, I have thought of nothing but when I might have the opportunity to explain myself to you, to make you aware of my deepest apologies.”
She could hear him move toward the fence, shifting the grass with his feet in nervous agitation.
“There is little time for recrimination or dwelling upon our past...nothing can change what has gone before.” The torture in his voice trailed off, with the visitation of remembered anguish. “I have given the matter of my conduct, much thought since we were last...alone...I see, now, it was unfair of me to set myself upon you as I did, to expect you to feel the same. Perhaps...it was my own foolish vanity...a...need to prove I was...worthy. I wish I could say that it did not matter, that it was nothing more than a weakness of the flesh, but that would not be true.”
She could see his silhouette as he stood by the side of the fence. He dropped his head, running his fingers through his hair in impassioned frustration. When he chose to speak, his voice was caressing and low.