Sailing

Elisabeth sets sail from France, heading for New France.

1664

 

Sailing

 

The ship creaked tentatively in the wind. I watched the choppy grey waves break in front of the ship’s wooden hull, and the thought of falling into the iron water chilled me. I wrapped my shawl tighter around my slim body.

I felt so tiny, like a black speck, in this mass of powerful ocean. I was helpless against it. The only thing saving me from drowning was the rigid strength of the ship, L’Antilope Calme.

The sailors were laughing and singing behind me, but they left me alone. I did not care for their roughness and their crude way of saying things, and had made that clear my first night on the ship. A wave of homesickness washed over me, but I stodgily stared straight ahead.

I had lived in a large, comfortable house, about a quarter of a mile out from Caen, in Basse Normandie. The house had once been a farmhouse, but it had been added onto, until it was a delightful mixture of the old styles with the new. Papa had bought it when he married Mama, along with the fields adjourning it and the sweeping back yard that led to the woods. Mama had loved it. She loved the old part of the house, and the new, and the tiny unused barn that stood halfway down the backyard.

I remembered that Mama had kept an herb garden, a vegetable garden and a flower garden. Papa always said she had a green finger. Mama had nurtured the yellow vine that grew up the southern wall, and soon it was a blooming green vine, snaking up the wall with tendrils spurting out at random. In spring, small yellow flowers bloomed, that released a sweet, heavenly scent.

Papa was a merchant, and walked into Caen every day. He had a sharp eye, and one day he made his fortune on a tiny ship from Spain. After that, Papa stayed at the house all day, and men came to see him in his study. Mama would bring him his meals. She would make them herself, using the fresh herbs and vegetables from the garden, and in autumn she would go out into the woods and collect the nuts and mushrooms and berries. In autumn, everything was bottled and pickled and stored for winter, and Mama would spend all day in the kitchen.

She also had to look after two children. My older brother, Jean, was born two days after Christmas Day, and Mama said he was trouble. He cried all night, and only stopped when she rocked him. When he learnt how to crawl and walk, he would disappear around the house. In summer, Mama would spread a blanket under the hawthorn tree, and he would sit on it in the shade and play while Mama worked in the garden.

Three years later, I was born. Papa said I was the tiniest baby he had ever seen, and that the doctor thought I wouldn’t live. Contrary to his expectations, I thrived on Mama’s love and attention.

My childhood was enchanted. The house was old and beautiful, and the garden was a world on its own. And there was always Mama, kind and, to my six-year-old eyes, beautiful. She had long blonde hair, and a smile that spread to her eyes in a very slow and delightful way. Papa spent all his time in the study, but occasionally he would spend the day in the garden with Mama. Those days were always full of sunlight and Mama’s laugh. Papa had a way of making everything funny, until Mama was holding onto her sides from laughing.

But one day in August, Mama did not work in the garden or the kitchen. She was in her and Papa’s chamber, and so was the doctor. When the doctor left, Jean and I stood gravely by Mama’s bed. She was asleep, and her face was flushed. Papa was standing next to us, his arms around us. The curtains had been pulled shut, and a candle lit. It spread a little light on Mama’s pink face, and I remember her eyes moving under her eyelids, wildly searching, I thought.

“Papa, what’s wrong with Mama?” Jean had asked. He was fifteen, almost a young man, and was Papa’s height. I was ten, shorter then both of them.

“She has a fever. But the doctor thinks she has a high chance of surviving. Don’t worry, Jean.” Papa had comforted.

The next day, the doctor came again. He checked Mama, and then spent an hour closeted in Papa’s study. Jean and I sat in the garden, under the hawthorn tree. The garden was still growing abundantly, although its mistress was nowhere to be seen.

“I miss Mama,” I had said.

“Don’t be silly. Mama’s just inside the house,” Jean had retorted. He looked away, and then back at me. “I’m sorry Elisabeth. I miss Mama too. But we can’t do anything to help her.” we sat in silence in the tree’s shade, where Jean had sat as a baby, and where I had sat as a baby.

“I’m going to bring Mama some flowers,” I finally declared. Jean helped me collect a bouquet of bright summer flowers, which we put in the chipped blue vase. I carried them up the stairs to Mama and Papa’s chamber. Mama’s eyes were closed, and she was muttering in her sleep. I put the flowers on the table next to her bed, and paused for a second. A wet rag was on her forehead, and her blonde hair was pulled back from her face.

I wringed out the wet rag, placed it into the basin of cold water, and put it back across Mama’s forehead. Her eyes opened, and she looked at me.

“Ah, Elisabeth,” she said, her throat dry. “Ma fille chérie. How nice the flowers smell.” she sniffed, and I opened my mouth to respond, but she had slipped back into her delirium. After that, I would put fresh flowers in the vase every day, just in case she could smell them.

During the third day of Mama’s fever, I walked past her chamber door. I heard crying, and I stopped. Papa was sitting on the bed, staring at Mama, who was lying very still and calm. He was crying, soft quiet sobs. Gently, he stroked her blonde hair and pale face. I retreated quickly.

That afternoon, Papa led Jean and I into the kitchen. We sat down, and he paced up and down. The kitchen smelt of the daisies we had put on the windowsill, but Papa seemed oblivious to the soothing scent.

“Jean and Elisabeth,” he began. “Both of you know that Mama has been very ill for the past three days. Well, the doctor, Monsieur Martin, has been letting blood and trying his best to save Mama. But he says that tonight-” Papa’s breath caught in his throat. “-tonight could be her last night.” Jean and I both froze. I felt as if the world had stopped spinning. How could Mama go? The house, the garden, the kitchen, the wilted daises on the windowsill all depended on her. How could home be home without Mama?

Papa sat next to us, and we all shared in our grief together. Then each of us went in to see Mama. The pink flush had returned to her cheeks, and sweat dribbled off her face. I stood next to her, and watched her slim, kind face slowly disappear under waves of heat. Jean and Papa stood next to me, and we watched as the most important woman in our lives slipped away from us. I felt tears streak down my face, leaving little lines down my cheeks.

That night, Papa sat up with Mama. Jean and I wanted to, but Papa ordered us to bed. The next morning it was raining. I peered out my window, and everything seemed grey and cold. I heard Papa come into my chamber. He looked as if he had been on the rack all night. He had, the emotional rack, and one look at his tear-stained face gave me the answer.

“Oh, Papa, how will we bear it?” I whispered later on, in his arms.

“We will bear it because Mama will have wanted us to. You must be brave, my little Elisabeth.” Papa had answered.

Mama’s body had been straight and cold, but a little smile was on her lips, as if, in the final moments of pain, she had been delivered from the tortures of the fever. Papa said that he would have to arrange Mama’s funeral.

We buried Mama in the shady plot in the Caen Churchyard. Willows hung over her grave, and I thought Mama would have liked how close she was to the fields and the flowers.

The house was different without Mama. Papa spent longer hours in his study, and I was in charge of running the house. A few months after Mama’s death, Papa hired a maid. She was short and thin and nice, but she could never replace Mama. Her name was Marie, and she would totter around in the kitchen and clean the house. I looked after the garden. It was peaceful work, and I understood why Mama loved it. The summer days passed slowly, and soon Jean came to spend most of the day with me. He would help in the garden, and we would talk.

“France is so crowded. I feel like I can hardly breathe with all these people,” Jean once said to me. “I read about New France in Canada. It is empty of all people, apart from the Indians and the French. There is so much space, that they are asking for more settlers. C’est merveilleux!”

“New France would be very hard to live in.” I answered.

“Why do you say that?”

“Well, the winters are hard, and I have heard that the Indians sometimes attack us. I would want to stay in sunny France then go across the ocean to a freezing wasteland.”

“Wasteland? It is no wasteland. Yes the winters are hard and the Indians do attack, but that is only if you leave the safety of the town. And think of the forests, the lakes, the mountains!”

After that conversation, it was hardly a surprise when, three years later, a few months after Jean’s eighteenth birthday, he announced his intention to move to New France. Papa had taken him outside and they had talked for half an hour. But when Jean came back in, he was smiling widely.

He bought a ticket for five livres for a ride to New France on a ship. It left from Brest, so Jean would have to travel for two days in a carriage. One day we packed his chest in his bedroom.

It was raining, and droplets poured down the windows and splashed in the courtyard. Jean had one of the biggest chambers after Papa, and his was the most comfortable. He had left the curtains open, but lit several candles, so it seemed, almost, cozy.

Jean was sitting in a chair next to the windows, but I was kneeling next to his trunk. It was a big sturdy one, with copper clasps. Papa had bought it especially for him.

I lay Jean’s clothes on his bed. He had a grey, woolen shirt, and another softer, white one, with lace on the cuffs. Next to them I put his rough, homespun trousers, and his nicer store bought ones. Jean was polishing his boots, so I got out his socks. I had knitted him another pair, from strong wool. They would keep his feet warm in winter. I pulled out a vest and a jacket, and then his cloak.

When everything was laid out, I began making little bags of herbs. I would grab a tiny white bag, put a handful of dried rosemary or mint in, and then sew the bag up. Jean watched me warily.

“I don’t want to smell like a rose garden, Elisabeth,” he reminded me.

“Don’t worry. It’ll keep your clothes smelling nice.” I answered. Warm candlelight and the cold gray light from outside played on Jean’s face, mixing in shallow pools on his handsome features. I had always thought that he had a strong, determined face.

I began packing his clothes, laying them in layers, placing a little bag of herbs in each layer. Jean and I laughed and chatted in the soft mixture of warmth and cold. When I had finished with his clothes, Jean handed me a few books. On one of them the cover was made from soft leather dyed crimson, with a silver lock. It was beautiful. I stroked it gently.

“Where did you get this book from?” I asked Jean.

“Papa gave it to me.” he answered. I closed the chest door, and it slammed shut with an eerie finalness. Jean stood on one side, and I on the other. We stared at each other, and I noticed little features on Jean’s face that I hadn’t seen before. He had Mama’s high cheekbones, and her thin face.

“I have a good-bye present for you,” I said. “Let me go get it.” I ran to my room, and returned with my present behind my back. Gently, I held out my hand, palm facing up. Resting in the middle of my palm was a necklace. The chain was made from a rough leather, and, hanging from it, a hawthorn nut. In it I had engraved ‘J.R.’ my letters were jagged and spikey, and the necklace was very crude, but Jean smiled. He took it from me.

“Is the nut from our tree?” he asked. I nodded. Jean slipped it over his head, and the nut rested well below his shirt. He tucked it in.

“Oui, Jean. I made it myself. I know it is not as beautiful as Papa’s, but I wanted to give you something that I had made. Aimez-vous? ” I explained. Jean smiled at me.

“It’s perfect,” we hugged, and I felt the nut press against me.

The next morning, I woke up early, before the sun had risen. It looked like it would rain again, as the grey clouds banded together. Jean was sitting at the kitchen table, a bowel of hot porridge in front of him. Papa was sitting across from him. They both looked up as I entered, and I sat next to Jean. His chest was in the corner.

We were all silent. No one knew what to say. Jean’s leaving had arrived so quickly, so soon, I did not know what to say. I would never see Jean ever again. Papa started coughing into his handkerchief.

“Are you alright?” I asked. He looked up at me.

“Oui, Elisabeth. Je suis bien,” he answered.

Jean’s leaving happened rapidly. Suddenly he was standing by the front door, and a carriage was pulling up in between sheets of rain. The chest was next to him, and Papa was about to cry but wasn’t, and I was crying. The driver took Jean’s chest, which contained all the clothes I had so carefully folded the day before, and tucked bags of herbs in between them.

Papa shook Jean’s hand and they hugged. I heard Papa say something, and Jean give an answer. Then I hugged him, and, underneath his shirt, I felt the nut.

“Goodbye Elisabeth,” Jean said.

“Enjoy New France. I hope it is everything you wish, and, Jean, vous allez me manquer.” I said. We pulled apart, and I watched Jean disappear into the carriage, the driver’s harsh yell, and the sound of the horse’s hooves pulling away on the cobblestones.

Then Papa and I were alone. I could hear Marie in the kitchen, and light spilled from the door into the hallway. I went up to my chamber, and stood by the windows, peering through the raindrops. Now there were only two.

 

Over the next year, Papa’s cough got worse. Some nights he could hardly breathe, and I would sit with him in his chamber, reading to him. One day he coughed blood, and then we got the doctor. The doctor said that Papa had two or three years to live, if he spent time outdoors and stopped working. Then the doctor bled him. He said he would come two weeks to bleed Papa.

After that, during spring, summer and autumn, Papa would spend the time outside with me. We would talk, and during that time I learnt much about Papa. In winter, we would sit in his study and we would read and talk and sometimes play a game of cards.

“I thought cards was a rough game for men,” I argued.

“You are a good player,” he would reply. But every night I would hear Papa coughing and gasping, and I took to sleeping in his room, on a little mattress with a blanket beside his bed. Papa would complain that it was bad for my health.

“I play cards with you, so I sleep in your room.” I said. After the first year, the coughing got worse. The doctor said that there was something wrong with Papa’s lungs. He gave me a little bottle of medicine to give him each night. The stuff tasted vile, and Papa hated it, but he dutifully had a teaspoon of it each night.

Marie would only make soups and stews, light things to ease Papa’s throat, and he spent more and more time in his bed. I would open the window on good days, so the fresh air could blow through, and we would play cards. Sometimes we read. Mostly, Papa slept and I watched.

The garden was neglected. Some days I managed to get out and look after it, but mostly I didn’t, and Marie didn’t care about the garden. She just got used to walking into Caen every day to buy food.

On All Saint’s Day, Papa managed to leave bed. We couldn’t walk into church, so instead I spread a blanket under the hawthorn tree and we sat down together. We talked about Mama, and prayed for her soul.

“I hope she is happy,” I mentioned at one point. Papa laughed, a soft, rough laugh before ending in a fit of coughing. When he stopped, Papa said, “Your Mama had a way of making the saddest things happy. I remember, before she had Jean she gave birth to a stillborn baby. I was so sad, for the little baby and for Mama. She was ill for two days. But when she recovered, she cried a little bit, and then she laughed.

“ ‘What is so funny?’ I asked. ‘There is a nest in the tree near my window, and I saw a mama bird feeding its babies worms from its mouth, and I thought, “How good I do not have to do that to my babies!” ’ She replied. So you see, Elisabeth, that even in the pain of death, she was still making laughter. Your Mama was a creature of happiness.” It was nice hearing of Papa talk so happily. Occasionally he would cough, but mostly we were all right. It was a beautiful day, with the sun shinning on the old house. The vine on the southern wall had bloomed, and even the neglected garden was making a comeback. I smoothed my skirt, and tugged my bodice down.

“I hope Jean is happy in New France,” I said. We had received one letter from him, saying that he had arrived safely in Montréal. He wrote of the scenery and his travels, and of how happy he was.

“So do I. But I suppose I will never see my son ever again,” Papa said. He sighed, and I glanced at his face. Several new lines crossed it, from stress and pain, but he smiled when he saw me. “At least I still have my beautiful daughter,” he added.

The third year was hard for Papa. His cough was worse, and he could no longer leave his bed. The doctor would bleed him, but it only seemed to make him weaker. He rarely talked. I would offer cards, a book to read, but he would shake his head and turn on his side.

One dark day in December, after supper, I was sitting in Papa’s chamber. He was asleep, and a candle was on his bedside table. I was reading a book from Papa’s library. Not many other girls of my age could read and write, but Papa had said that he wanted me literate. He used to joke it was because he wanted me as his accountant when he grew old and feeble.

That evening, as I turned a page, I heard Papa say something. I put down my book and leaned towards him. His eyes had opened.

“Elisabeth,” he said. His hand moved towards me, and I took it. It was slim and light, so light it worried me. “My most darling daughter. I am sorry that I am leaving you like this. I did not mean to be sick. I wanted to stay with you until you married, and be a good papa. But I will not live out this year. Now listen. I love you, so much, and so did your Mama. You are only seventeen, but you will do great things. Remember, Elisabeth that in any moment of doubt, follow your heart. Je t’aime, ma fille chérie.”

“I love you too, and you are the best papa I could ever have asked for.” I said. He smiled, gave a sign, and closed his eyes. I knew then that my Papa had joined Mama. I cried by his bedside until, driven by exhaustion, I went to bed. In the morning, I stayed in my chamber. It was sunny, and I watched the gently light fall on the snow. It sparkled, and I felt it indecent that everything could look so happy when my Papa was dead.

I walked into Caen and went to the church. I spoke to Father Durand through the metal grille, and I told him about how sad I was and how lonely, now that I was alone in the world. Then I remembered that I was an orphan, and I started crying again. Father Durand watched me through the metal grille, as the light played over it, making shadows on his face. Father handed me a handkerchief, and I wiped my eyes.

“Mademoiselle Richard,” Father began. “I know it is hard for you, being so alone in this world. But always remember that the good Lord Jesus Christ is with you, and that he dwells in your heart. May I also add that you are not entirely alone. You have a brother, non?”

“Oui, Father, I do. But he lives in New France,” I said.

“May the Lord give you strength, Mademoiselle,” Father smiled. “Follow your mind and your heart.” I thanked him and left.

It was lightly snowing, and I tucked my cloak closer. I was wearing my woolen skirt and chemise with the thick bodice, but the cold seemed to creep under my skirt. When I reached home, Marie was waiting for me in the hallway. She handed me a letter, and I pulled out a pin and silt the top of the envelope. The paper was thick and creamy, but the handwriting was thin and black. It read:

 

Chére Elisabeth,

 

I received news of the death of your father (and my dear brother) only this morning. I am deeply grieved, for he was a good older brother to me, and, no doubt, a good father to you.

I live only a day of hard riding away, and will be joining you as soon as I can. I hope my messenger is quick, and the letter arrives before me. In your father’s will he named me as the benefactor of the house, the fields and the result of his works. For you, he left your mother’s jewelry box. I am, also, your guardian, and will be in charge of your welfare. I should be able to secure you a good marriage.

Also arriving with me will be my wife, Tante Anne. She will set the house in order, although it shall not, I think, be with us long. My house is good, and your father left some debts we have to settle.

I hope you are well,

 

Oncle René

 

Marie and I cleaned the house, especially the guest bedroom. Marie cleaned the bed sheets and curtains, and I dusted all the furniture and spread new rushes on the floor, sprinkling rosemary in with them.

The next day, at lunch, I heard Marie calling from the hall.

“Mademoiselle Richard! They have arrived! Ils sont arrivés!” she called. Their carriage was pulling into the courtyard, and I watched as the two, chestnut brown horses tossed the heads in the cold and neighed, their breath freezing into clouds in the air.

Marie and I went out to greet them. Marie helped bring in their bags, but I wasn’t allowed to. Tante Anne climbed out first. She was short and round like a hen, and her hair was a dark copper, twisted up into a bun. She smiled at me, and her black eyes sparkled. Behind her was Oncle René. He was tall and thin, with a long thin nose and light blue eyes. I remember that Papa used to call them ‘les opposés correspondants’.

“Bonjour Elisabeth,” Oncle René said stiffly, nodding his head. I curtsied.

“Bonjour Oncle René,” I answered. Tante Anne hugged me, a deep, warm, enveloping hug.

“Bonjour Elisabeth,” she said. She held me back. “You have grown so much since I last saw you as a baby! You were so cute then, but now you are beautiful. You look so much like your mama. I hope you have been getting on fine. Will Marie mind if I take over the kitchen? I am particularly proud of my soupe à l'oignon cuit.” Tante Anne said it all in one breath it seemed, so I just nodded.

“Bonjour Tante Anne,” I said.

Oncle René sniffed when he saw the guest room, but Tante Anne said it was perfect. I liked Tante Anne better then Oncle René, and after Marie’s lunch, she asked me to show her the garden. It was winter, so everything was harvested and gone, and the garden was just a patch of black soil. The snow had melted, so it looked even worse. I blushed and said that she would not want to see it.

“Oh, Elisabeth, do not be silly. Do you think my garden looks any better? Non! And besides, I want to talk to you. Now, hurry and grab our cloaks.” Tante ordered.

We went out into the garden, and walked around. Tante expected the soil, rubbing it through her hands.

“You have good nutritious soil,” Tante admired. We had a long garden, which led down to the woods. During spring, deer’s would jump out of the wood to eat the bluebells and tulips.

“What did you wish to speak with me about?” I asked. Tante sighed and looked at me.

“As you know, your Oncle René is your guardian. You are seventeen, and René sees that as marriage age. I was married at seventeen, after all. He was talking with me about it in the carriage, and he has already found a suitable suitor. Do you know Monsieur de la Fontaine? He needs a wife for his son, and René deems him a good husband. You remind me of your mother, Elisabeth, and she was very bold and free-minded. I remember her and your papa had been courting for a year, and he didn’t seem likely to ask her to marry him. So your mama asked him. No women had ever done it. Of course, it never got out of the family, but still, it was your mama who asked the question.

“Now, I assume that you don’t have any marriage plans? I thought so. But, if René has it his way, you will be married by eighteen. I remember your father telling me that your brother, Jean, is in New France?”

“Tante Anne, are you asking me to go to New France?” I asked.

“Do you have any other family in France? I don’t think so. New France is your only option, unless you wish to marry Monsieur de la Fontaine. René would not mind if you wanted to go to New France to stay with your brother. It would be less expensive then providing a dowry. Of course, maybe you wish to marry?”

“I admit, I have no desire to marry. And I do rely on my heart.” I said. Tante Anne smiled.

“Some would call you silly, but I think you are very wise. But Elisabeth, could you live in New France? There is nothing left for you in France. René will sell the house, and we will go back to our house in Saint-Lô.”

“I think New France is the best place for me.” I said slowly. “And Father Durand advised me about New France too.”

“Bon choix, ma niéce. I talk to René about getting you a ticket. You have made a good choice. Monsieur de la Fontaine has big ears, does he not?”

 

The next day, just after lunch, Oncle René called me into the study. It was Papa’s, but he had taken it over. I knocked on the door and entered when he called. The walls were shelves covered in books, apart from the book wall. A fireplace was there, and a mirror. Mirrors were a luxury, and this one was big enough to show my face and shoulders. The edges were carved wood, with a pattern of trees and vines growing up the sides, and branches and leaves and birds at the top. At the bottom were flowers and grasses and a rabbit. The big desk was in front of the fireplace. I stood in front of Oncle René.

“Elisabeth, last night Anne and I were talking. She said that you wanted to go to New France to stay with your brother. Is this true?” Oncle asked.

“Yes,” I answered.

“I am your guardian, and your father left it up to me to look after you. Of course, if you leave the country, my powers of assisting you would, really, disappear. So, I ill do everything I can to make your travel to New France as relaxing and as comfortable as possible.” Oncle said.

“Merci Oncle René,”

“You would travel by ship to get to New France, and I was looking for a ship that was travelling to New France.” he pulled out a map of France, and motioned me to stand next to him.

“Was there one leaving from Brest?” I asked. Oncle raised his eyebrows.

“Non. Anyways, the first ship leaving for New France leaves from Dieppe. You would travel by carriage to Dieppe, and then take the ship to New France. I would pay for your ticket, and pay for a private cabin on the ship. Does that please you, Elisabeth?”

“Very much, Oncle,” I said.

“I will finish making arrangements. Laissez se il vous plaît. And please shut the door on your way out.” Oncle ordered.

 

In the last week of December, Oncle René told me that he had made all the arrangements for my trip to New France. I was leaving in four days.

Tante Anne and I packed my chest. I reminded me of when I packed with Jean, except this time there was no Jean. Tante Anne brought a huge wooden chest into my room one morning. On the cover, the initials ‘C.T.’ were emblazoned in copper.

“It was your mama’s chest once,” Tante Anne explained. “Her maiden name was Tasse.”

I took out my clothes from my wardrobe and lay them on the bed. I had two other chemises, my warm white one and the other one with soft lace at the cuffs, and two skirts that matched: a woolen fawn skirt, and another one of a darker, soft indigo colour, and two straight-necked bodices. Next to that I lay my boots, my thick cloak, my coiffe, bonnet, taffeta handkerchief, pair of stockings, pair of gloves, ribbon, four shoelaces, three clean linen shifts and white thread. Tante Anne examined each of them carefully.

“Your papa was a sensible man. All your clothes are warm and in good service. You have everything you need for a life in New France. But I think I will add something.” Tante disappeared into her bedroom and came back with a shawl. It was huge and thick, and a light, sky blue colour. A crimson pattern of leaves and birds were sewn into it. I fingered the shawl in my hands, and let it run through my fingers in a river of blue and red.

“Oh, merci beaucoup Tante Anne! It is beautiful,” I said quietly. Tante was smiling, and a well of love rose up in me. Papa might not be here, but Tante Anne was nearly as good.

“I’m glad you like it Elisabeth. Your papa told me that he gave Jean a revoir présente, and since he is not here, I thought I would give you something. I told René he has to give you something too, so expect a little thing from him. Now we must pack your chest. I will run and get some dried herbs from the kitchen, and some bags and a needle. Elisabeth, if you can start folding your clothes.” Tante bustled from the room, and I obeyed her instructions.

We began packing my clothes, folding them in layers with little herb bags in between. The smell reminded me of Jean and that day, three years ago, that I felt my eyes watering.

“Elisabeth, what is wrong?” Tante asked suddenly, noticing me.

“It’s just, this all reminds me of Jean. It’s nothing, Tante.” I said, wiping my eyes.

“Nothing? Why, Elisabeth, it is all right to be a little human sometimes. Come here, ma nièce. Of course you are going to be emotional, after all you and Jean were brother and sister. But just think, Elisabeth, soon you will be with Jean again, in Montréal. Oh, my Elisabeth, it’s all right. Séchez vos larmes.” Tante comforted. I wiped my eyes on my handkerchief and sniffed.

“Merci, Tante Anne,” I said. “Let’s continue with the packing.”

We finished packing, and Tante Anne closed and locked the chest. I sat on it, stroking the varnished wood with my fingertips. It was smooth, and the golden-brown wood shone in the lights. Tante Anne must have polished it before she brought it down from the attic.

“Why did Mama need a chest? I thought she lived in Caen before she married Papa.” I asked. Tante smiled.

“Your mama didn’t live in Caen. Hasn’t your papa told you the story? No? Well then, I’ll tell it. When your papa was young, he lived in Saint-Lô with René and his parents. They lived right in the middle of town, because their papa, your grandpapa was a blacksmith. When your papa was fourteen, he was sent to Nantes to study at the school there. When he was eighteen, he left and returned to Caen. But his papa wanted him to become a blacksmith, and your papa didn’t want that. So he left Caen and went to Bourges, far to the south of Caen.

“He worked under a merchant, who taught him les ficelles du métier. The merchant’s sister (who had married a sailor) lived in La Rochelle, and they had had one child: a girl. While your father was working with the merchant, the niece came up to visit him one day. She met your papa, and they got to know each other. But after two months, she had to go back to La Rochelle.

“Your papa never forgot about the merchant’s niece. So, he asked the merchant if he could have a month’s leave. Your papa had worked hard, so the merchant agreed. He took a carriage up to La Rochelle, and booked into an inn. He wandered around the town, trying to find the niece. After a day, he met her on the street. She was surprised to see him, and happy. But she had bad news. Her papa, the sailor, had died at sea, and her mama was going back to England. The niece had to go with her.

“Your papa was distraught. They were leaving in three weeks. He was twenty, and the niece was sixteen. He had no idea what to do. They spent time together, and the niece came up with the idea to ask her uncle, the merchant, if she might stay with him. Her mama agreed, and the niece moved down to Bourges. With her she brought her chest that had her initials in the cover.

“They courted for a year, and, as you know, your mama asked him to marry her. They married, and the merchant set up your papa in Caen. I haven’t bored you, have I, Elisabeth?” Tante said.

“Oh, no Tante.” I answered. “To think, I haven’t even left Caen!”

The next day, the maid, Marie, shook me awake before the sun had risen. It had snowed again during the night, and snow lay on the ground and my windowsill. I pulled myself out of my bed, and took the candle of Marie.

“Merci,” I said. Marie nodded and left me to dress. I went to the window and looked out. The steel was cold against my hands and I pressed my nose against the glass. The tree outside my window was coated in snow. It must have snowed quite a bit.

I pulled on my linen shift, and then the hateful corset. I didn’t want to call back Marie to tie the laces, so I did it myself. It wasn’t as tight as it should be, but it would surface. Then I pulled on my woolen grey chemise, and the matching grey skirt. After that I tugged on the bodice with the straight neckline. I sat down on my bed and pulled on my white hemp stockings, and then my black boots.

I snuck into Papa’s study, which was empty. It smelt of Oncle René’s tobacco. The room was dark, and I put my candle down on the fireplace’s mantel. I stood in front of the mirror, and let my hair out of its night braid. I brushed it out, and it fell in golden waves down my back. I had Mama’s hair. It reached to my belly button, and I turned my head slowly to watch it catch the light.

“Don’t be vain, Elisabeth,” a deep voice said. I whirled around. Oncle René stood in the doorway. A candle was in his hand, and I dropped my brush. I felt a blush rising in my cheeks.

“You may finish doing your hair. But remember that ‘all that glitters is not gold’.” Oncle René said. He retreated, closing the door after him. I waited until I heard his footsteps on the stairs back up to the guest room, and then I picked up my brush. Hastily, I did my hair up in a chignon.

I went into the big, warm kitchen, where Marie was standing in front of the stovetop. The smell of cooking bread drifted through the kitchen, and I smelt it eagerly. Tante Anne came in, and sat opposite me.

“Bonjour Elisabeth! What a beautiful morning, non?” she asked. “Marie, what is for breakfast?”

“Your are having my parmesan French toast with roasted tomatoes.” Marie said.

“Ah, Marie, you are a wonderful chef! Even better then me. How are you Elisabeth?”

“Bien, Tante Anne,” I answered. “Where is Oncle René?”

“Oh, he went back to sleep. But I will make sure he is awake for your leaving. Ah, breakfast!” Tante Anne said as Marie set a plate in front of her. Two parmesan French toasts were on it, with the roasted tomatoes set on top. I ate it hungrily, and when I finished Marie said, “Did you like it, Mademoiselle Richard?”

“It was beautiful. I’ll miss your cooking in New France.” I said. Marie smiled. I heard someone move in the hallway. Oncle René walked into the kitchen and yawned, and sat next to his wife.

“The carriage should be arriving in ten minutes.” Oncle said. “I have something for you Elisabeth, just in case.” he pushed a little bag across the table. I opened it, and twenty livres fell out.

“Oh, Oncle, merci beaucoup!” I said. He smiled gruffly, and called out, “A cup of tea please, Marie!” she set the kettle on, and clattered about getting out the cup and the tealeaves.

I heard carriage wheels rattle on the courtyard, and my heart froze. A man’s voice ran out, and I heard horses neigh.

“They’re here,” I said dully. Tante Anne reached across the table and took my hand in hers.

“It’s okay. Here, René will get your chest. I’ll grab your cloak,” she ordered. They both left, and I took a sip from Oncle’s tea. When I heard them enter the hall, I left the kitchen. Tante gave me my cloak, and Oncle put down my chest. I slipped it on, tying it firmly around my throat. The driver knocked on the door, and Oncle opened it. The cold breeze blew in, and I tugged my cloak tighter.

The driver was short and thin, with a thick black beard.

“I will take the chest,” he barked, picking it up. His head barely showed over the wooden top, and I watched him struggle as he carried it out to the carriage. The snow was whirling down and lying in tiny bundles of white, like lambs.

“Well, Elisabeth, it is time to say au revoir.” Oncle René said stiffly. “I hope you enjoy New France.”

“Merci, Oncle. Thank you for everything you have done.” I answered. We hugged, but I withdraw quickly. Hugging Oncle was like hugging an iceberg.

“Ah, ma chérie Elisabeth, how sad to say good-bye so soon! You remind me so much of your mama, and that is a true compliment. You will enjoy New France �"I know it. Send my love and well wishes to Jean. I will miss you, Elisabeth. It’s been so wonderful to see you.” Tante Anne smiled. “Rester en bonne santé et des souhaits.” she added.

“I love you, Tante. Thank you so much,” I said. I felt tears welling in my eyes, and I wiped them quickly on my chemise’s sleeve. Tucking my cloak tighter around me, I stepped outside. Tante and Oncle stood in the doorway, waiting. I walked across the courtyard, over the light icing of snow that covered the rough cobbles, where the carriage was waiting. My chest was tied to the top, and the short driver sitting at the front, the reins slack in his hands.

I opened the carriage door, and used the little steps to climb up into the carriage. The seats were made from plush, with two little windows with curtains. I pulled the stairs up into the carriage and tucked them under a seat, and then closed the door. Peering out of the window, I could see Tante standing in the doorway, watching.

Slowly, I sat down, resting against the plush. I hear the driver give a rough shout, and the horses neigh in the cold wind. The sound of their hooves on the cobblestones was relaxing, and I tugged one of the curtains closed. Through the other one I watched my house. It slowly disappeared in a mist-like cloud of wind and snow. I felt like crying, but the driver would hear, and I didn’t want to seem weak.

Instead I watched as Caen disappeared in the same way as my house.

 

At six, the driver stopped the carriage at a tiny inn. We were in Rouen, and the snow had stopped, but it was still windy and cold. I tucked my cloak tighter around my slim figure, and stepped out into the wind. The inn was three stories, and charmingly named ‘Le Coq Cocorico’. I pushed open the doors, where the scent of soup warmed me to the bone. I saw the innkeeper, a short thickly man, heading towards me.

“Ah, bonjour mademoiselle! Would you like to stay the night? Oui? Splendide! The meal for tonight is our cream of mushroom soup with homemade bread. Délicieux. I will show you to your room. Would you like fresh water to wash in? Of course, mademoiselle. Just follow me this way, up to your room. Money? Four livres for a bed and food. No need to pay now! I can take it in the morning. Your room is just here, to the left. Come down whenever you are ready. Merci, mademoiselle.” the innkeeper said, in a deep voice. I was rather stunned by the heavy flow of words, and opened my door.

The chamber was small, with a bed against the north wall, below a window. A tiny basin and a jug of cold water sat on the short dresser. I washed my face and hands and patted them dry.

The innkeeper, whose name I later learnt as Monsieur Martin, showed me a small wooden table in the corner, by the windows. It was away from the smoking and drinking of the men, and I thanked him.

“No need mademoiselle. Would you like a bowel of mussel chowder with bread? I’ll bring it over as soon as I can.” Monsieur Martin said. He bustled away. I felt rather brave sitting in an inn alone, no man with me apart from the driver. Imagine if Oncle René and Tante Anne could see me! Oncle would have a heart attack.

The mussel chowder tasted beautiful, and I sopped up the remaining chowder using my slice of homemade bread. I retired to my chamber early, and asked Monsieur Martin if I might be woken at six.

 

After my hasty breakfast, I paid Monsieur Martin my due of four livres. I spent the day rattling around in the carriage, and when the road became smoother, I penned a letter to Tante Anne. I hardly knew what to write, so told her about my travels so far. It seemed to me very boring, and hallway through writing it I ripped it up and threw it out the carriage window.

Nearing late afternoon, we arrived in Dieppe. It was a seaside town, and I stared out my window at the port and the ships. The inns and houses opposite from them seemed very cute and country, and I watched as we neared one that had a sign outside it. On the sign was written ‘L'Auberge du Port’ with a picture of a sailing ship with a crimson sail beneath it.

I climbed out of the carriage, and the salty breeze blowing off the Channel whipped my skirt around my slim figure. I looked up to the driver, who, with the sun slowly sinking behind him, was silhouetted.

“Merci monsieur!” I called out. “Can you take my chest up to my room?”

“Oui,” the driver replied. I entered L’Auberge du Port, where the almost female equivalent of Monsieur Martin greeted me. I wondered if all innkeepers looked the same.

“Bonjour mademoiselle. A bed and food? Five livres! Here, Louise will take you to your chamber.” the innkeeper said in a rush. The tavern was full, and I longed for the peacefulness of Le Coq Cocorico.

Louise led me to my chamber, bigger then my last one, and a window facing the port. I washed my face and hands with the clean water and soap, and then descended into the tavern. The innkeeper, seeing me hesitate by the stairs, scurried over.

“Food? You would like somewhere peaceful, non? Follow me.” the innkeeper led me to a corner, facing the southern garden. It was empty, and I thanked her. She smiled, and a few minutes later returned with wild mushroom potage. It was good, and I cleansed my palate with a hunk of tangy cheese. Louise, returning to pick up my plates, hovered slightly for a moment.

“Mademoiselle, if you do not mind my asking, are you accompanied by any man?” she asked quietly.

“Non. I am travelling to New France.” I answered.

“Oh! New France! You are brave. My sister, Catherine, went to New France with her husband. He is a carpenter, a Monsieur Forêt. I think he is in Montréal. You might look him up if you go.”

“I will try,” Louise, happy, hustled away with my empty plates. I left to my chamber, but slept with the window open that night. The light ocean breeze drifted through my window, and my last waking thoughts were of the swelling waves and the lightly bobbing ships.

 

The next morning, I walked along the port to where the ship, L’Antilope Calme, was docked. The captain was standing out on the deck, hands on hips, staring out at the blue ocean. It was a sunny day, with a light wind just picking up. I put my hand over my eyes, and called out, “Captain Perrin!” he turned and looked at me.

“I will be down shortly!” he answered. I waited, and soon he came out of the ship and stood next to me. The great wooden beast stood tall over us, a shadow falling over Captain Perrin and I. Captain Perrin was tall and lanky, with a crinkly ginger beard that flowed over his chest. I could see several beads woven into the beard, and my interest in him increased. I had never met a man with beads in his beard.

“What can I do for you, mademoiselle…” Captain Perrin asked.

“Richard. I was wondering when I might bring my chest aboard?” I questioned.

“You may bring your chest aboard as soon as you wish. We are leaving at the turn of the tide. Any other questions, Mademoiselle Richard?” his light blue eyes shone over his beard, and I felt as if we were friends.

“I have no other questions Captain Perrin. Merci, et au revoir.” I returned to my inn, where the question of moving my chest from my inn chamber to the ship formed in my mind. Undeterred, I went out into the street, where I saw a pair of young sturdy boys, maybe fifteen.

“May I have the assistance of you two for a moment?” I asked. “I will pay you each two livres.” the boys, tempted by the offer of money, readily agreed. I explained my situation, and they happily carried my chest to the deck of L’Antilope Calme. Several other people, none whom I recognized, were milling about on the deck, Captain Perrin moving about them. When he saw me he moved over.

“Mademoiselle Richard! Welcome back! I see you have your chest. I will ask some sailors to move it down to your cabin.” Captain Perrin fussed. He whistled, and a burly sailor marched over. Picking my chest up as easily as if it were a kitten, I followed the sailor and Captain Perrin down to my cabin. At the door, Captain Perrin stopped. In his hand was a lantern.

“Mademoiselle, always keep your flame enclosed in a lantern, or we will roast in your beds.” he warned. “I hope you enjoy your cabin. Good day.” he left, and the sailor pushed my cabin door open. I thanked him, and closed the door after him.

My cabin was tiny, with barely enough room to fit in the double bed. I squeezed my chest in at the foot of the bed and, with the cabin nearly full, set about making it homier. I unpacked the beautiful shawl Tante Anne gave me and hung it on a hook on the wall. I lit the candle in the lantern, and placed it on my chest, giving my cabin yellow warmth.

Nearing noon, I went up to the deck of the ship. Sailors were moving about, along with people. There were a few other men and women sailing to New France whom I left alone, but I watched the pack of filles de roi make their way below deck.

I had heard about filles de roi. They were sponsored by the king to go to New France and marry the settlers, so New France might be populated. Papa had once told me that New France had only a third of marriage women. They were mostly country girls, but some were from the orphanages in Paris. I wondered where they slept. There could not be enough cabins to fit all eleven of them.

I retreated back to my cabin. It was hard walking around on the ship, below or beneath, because of its constant rolling motion. I thought back to sunny days in Caen, with the light playing on the old stonewalls, flickering and ever changing.

For dinner, we were served slices of lemon and pear, biscuits and corned beef. I ate all of it. I had heard two sailors joking about how soon the lemon and pear would be gone, and that was normally when teeth started falling out.

After my dinner, as I was walking back to my cabin, I felt an arm on my wrist. It was a sailor, drunk. I could smell the whiskey on his breath.

“Coming for a ride, puppet?” he leered, his disgusting breath washing over my face.

“Non,” I replied haughtily, turning on my heel. But it seemed even in his drunken state he realized a woman revolted with his presence.

“Picky are you? You would only be an old mattress.” he sneered. I reddened. My hand reached out and, before I knew it, I had delivered him a good hard slap across his cheek.

“I can talk with men but not fools.” I continued on to my cabin, slamming the door behind me. I spent the rest of my evening alone.

 

The next morning bells waked me. Every half-hour the bells ring. I sat down with my ink and paper and worked out that if there were twelve waking hours in a day, and every half-hour a bell rung, twenty-four bells would ring.

I went up to the deck today and stood by the edge. Fog and a light drizzle had replaced the sun of yesterday, and everything seemed grey. I saw Captain Perrin come up onto deck and pace about.

“Captain!” I called out. “How is the tide?”

“Perfect. We are leaving as soon as the sailors get organized. I wish they were as compliant about waking early as you are.” he answered.

“Merci,” I said. I decided to go back to by cabin until we left. My shawl was damp, and I hung it from the peg in the wall to dry. Suddenly I felt a huge groan run through the ship, and then a feeling as if something was pushing us. I fell onto the bed. But then I jumped up, grabbed the beautiful shawl that Tante Anne gave me, and ran up to deck. I had to see France as it disappeared into the mist.

Pulling my shawl onto my shoulders, I stood by the edge. The port of Dieppe was shrinking slowly as the mist enclosed it. It looked like a pearl in a clam. I felt cold tears dribbling down my cheeks. Everything I had in life, everything that I had loved, was on those shores of France, the shores that were right now disappearing into the mist.    

A girl appeared next to me, and she too was crying. She was short with a full figure, and long curling blonde hair pulled into a chignon.

“Why are you crying?” she asked.

“Because I am leaving my home.” I answered.

“I am not leaving my home,” she said. “I never had one.” I was silent for a minute, and then I said, “My name is Elisabeth Richard. What is yours?”

“Laure le Roux. I am one of the filles de roi. That is a beautiful shawl. Where did you get it?” she reached out a hand and gently stroked the soft fabric.

“My tante gave it to me before I left.”

“It is beautiful. Do you have one of the private cabins?”

“Yes,”

“You are lucky! The filles de roi have to sleep in the Sainte-Barbe. All the canons roll around in there. Sainte Barbe was the patron saint of cannoniers you know. We have little curtains dividing us, but Madame Oulette gets the largest amount of space. Have you met her?” Laure asks.

“Non. You are the first person I have properly met apart from Captain Perrin.”

“Madame Oulette is dominating! But no doubt you will see her. I only just managed to escape her clutches. She said I was a fool to come up on deck, but I wanted to say good-bye to France.”

“What did you mean when you said that you had no home?” I asked.

“Well, I did have a home, but it is not one I wish to remember with care.” Laure answered. “I can tell you about it, but you must promise not to pity me. I hate it when I am pitied. It makes me feel so very small and insignificant.”

“I promise,”

“My papa is a farmer. He and my mama work the fields around Paris, along all the other peasants. I was used to hard work. Every day up before the sun, and going out into the heat doing backbreaking work! Mama had a crooked back, and it hurt her. On bad days she could barely walk.

“I had six siblings: four boys, two girls. I was the oldest. We all helped in the house or the fields. One day Mama got sick. We couldn’t afford a doctor, and soon Mama was dead. Papa got really bad after that. He started drinking, bottles of cheap alcohol that brought him no comfort. On his worse days, he would throw things at us children. Even Marie, who was only two, got a cup thrown her way when she cried too loud. Papa stopped working the fields, and soon we couldn’t pay our rent.

“Papa had heard that when you signed someone up to become a filles de roi, you were given ten livres for doing it. That made Papa’s heart jump! Imagine how much alcohol he could buy with ten livres.

“He signed me up, and a few weeks later I got a chest full of nice clothes. Everything in there is prettier then the clothes I’ve ever owed. Papa tried to take them from me to sell them, but I wouldn’t let him.

“Anyways, I left Émlie in charge. I don’t expect I’ll ever see any of them ever again. But why are you going to New France?” she asked suddenly.

“My parents are both dead. I am going to Montréal to live with my brother.” I answered.

“Laure la Roux! I should have thought you be up here, you naughty girl. Come below right away! Right away, I say. Oh! And bothering this nice woman!” Laure and I both turned. Marching across the deck was a thin woman, with masses of thick black hair. She had an air of authority about her, although her voice was loud and high. “You’ll have to excuse Laure,” she said privately to me.

“Oh, she wasn’t bothering me at all.” I said.

“No need to defend the guilty! I strictly told her not to come above, and what does she do? Come above! Mercy, Laure. You are worse then a toddler just learnt to walk. Back to the Sainte-Barbe for you. My apologies again, Mademoiselle.” the woman said. She led Laure away, and I watched the two of them disappear back into the wooden depths of the ship. I had met Madame Oulette.

Author's Note

Ignore grammar problems, what do you think of the plot and dialogue?

Reviews

[Michael Keyes]

First of all, I must apologise as I was only able to read up to when Jean left the farm. For what I did read, I made some notes:

You could certainly condense. Saying that "Mama had kept an herb garden, a vegetable garden and a flower garden" is I think unnecessarily long. Other examples of where I think you could condense:
."She was in her and Papa’s chamber, and so was the doctor"
.Using "I had said", "Jean had said", "Jean had retorted". (I have gone over writing of my own and spotted an overuse of "had". I gutted must of them in later edits)
."where Jean had sat as a baby, and where I had sat as a baby."

I think you overuse the coma. I found it difficult to read at pace when sentences were so broken up by comas. Also, I think your use of paragraphs is excessive. For instance, when you write of Jean buying his ticket to where Elisabeth is packing his clothes, I had difficulty telling if it was all one scene because of the multiple paragraphs.

I found the dialogue to be overly formal and wooden. When the Papa was telling his children that their mother might not last the night, I thought what he said to them was more akin to what a doctor would say to a concerned family. I don't think it feels natural for a loving father to speak to his children in such a way.

I think it reads like a series of statements. I don't know if you wanted to avoid a bias in the narrative (something I myself am wrangling with at the moment) but I found the flow emotionless.

I suggest not mixing French and English dialogue. I don't think it makes sense for two characters, whom French is their native language, to suddenly start speaking a different language to each other.
(I have written about German and Russian characters and, to keep things simple, have them all speak English when they are with their respective company. I only use different languages when the two groups mix as, in real life, they would not understand each other.

You also undermine and contradict yourself a couple of times. For instance,
"It is empty of all people, apart from the Indians and the French."
"...and Papa was about to cry but wasn’t..."
I don't think these lines make much sense.

Referring to your request to ignore grammar problems, I felt I could not focus on the dialogue or plot because of them. Apologies again for not reading the entire thing and if I seem too critical. I picked this story to read because I love historical fiction and, in particular, colonial history. It is a fascinating topic and I promise to finish your story when it's not so late at night. There is without a doubt an interesting plot here, just in need of better execution.