Duty to the Crown

Book 2: Daughters of New France

by Aimie K. Runyan

Genres: Coming of Age; Cultural Heritage; Historical Fiction

Synopsis

Set amid the promise and challenge of the first Canadian colonies, Aimie K. Runyan's vividly rendered novel provides a fascinating portrait of the women who would become the founding mothers of New France.

In 1677, an invisible wall separates settlers in New France from their Huron neighbors. Yet whether in the fledgling city of Quebec or within one of the native tribes, every woman's fate depends on the man she chooses—or is obligated—to marry.

Although Claudine Deschamps and Gabrielle Giroux both live within the settlement, their prospects are very different. French-born Claudine has followed her older sister across the Atlantic hoping to attract a wealthy husband through her beauty and connections. Gabrielle, orphan daughter of the town drunkard, is forced into a loveless union by a cruel law that requires her to marry by her sixteenth birthday. And Manon Lefebvre, born in the Huron village and later adopted by settlers, has faced the prejudices of both societies and is convinced she can no longer be accepted in either. Drawn into unexpected friendship through their loves, losses, and dreams of home and family, all three women will have to call on their bravery and resilience to succeed in this new world . . .

Release date: October 25, 2016

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 352

Sample

May 1677, Outside the Quebec Settlement

Only for her little brother would she venture onto the white man’s land—especially this white man’s land. The air had not yet lost the cruel bite of winter, and Manon longed for the warmth of her longhouse. She had several miles left to trek and medicine to brew before she could rest. Young Tawendeh was ill with fever, along with half the village. Most were not grievously ill, but it was enough for concern. She had seen fever turn from mild to lethal in an hour, so she took no risks. Her remedies were the best chance for a quick recovery, though she feared few would accept her help until they were too far gone.

The path through the forest was far more arduous than if she skirted its perimeter, but the cover of the trees protected her from view. The scent of pine danced in her nose and perfumed her skin. Manon considered it the smell of her home and her people. She cursed the feeble light of the dusk hour when the towering evergreens blocked much of the weak spring sun. When true night fell, she would be able to track her path by the stars, but only if she could see them free from the overhanging limbs. She did not fear the night or the animals that lived by moonlight. A child of the forest, she knew the most dangerous creatures lived not in trees, but in the growing town to the southeast of her village.

“What have we here?”

Manon froze at the sound of the raspy male voice.

“A bit far from home, aren’t you?” he continued.

She turned, very slowly, not wanting to give the man any reason to strike. Alone in the forest, he would face no consequences if he attacked her.

“Stupid thing,” he drawled. “You don’t understand a word I’m saying, do you?”

“I am just passing through, monsieur,” she spoke softly, but in perfect French. She did not allow the tremor in her heart to reach her voice. She would not let this dirty farmer know she feared him.

“This is my land.” The man, hunched and weary from a day’s labor, straightened to his full height. “You’re trespassing here.”

This is not your land, you foul creature. Nor any man’s. Manon kept the thought to herself; it would only spark his temper.

“I mean no harm, monsieur.” The courtesy tasted bitter on her tongue, but she sensed his considerable self-importance. “I am going home. This is merely the shortest route without cutting through your fields.”

“I don’t care for trespassers,” the man insisted. “What’s in your bag?”

“Nothing of interest, monsieur.” Manon spoke the truth. White men had little use for plants they couldn’t eat.

“Let me see in your bag, you little savage.” The large man’s stench nearly overpowered her as he stepped close and grabbed her wrist, snatching the deerskin pouch with his free hand. “Nothing but weeds. Are you trying to cast some kind of spell, witch?”

“No, monsieur.” She fought harder to swallow back her fear. A whisper of the word witchcraft could see her dangling from the gallows. “I am simply gathering herbs to heal fever.”

The man spat without releasing her wrist. “You were stealing those weeds off my land. I could see you hanged.”

He wasn’t lying. She paused for a brief moment to consider whether she could inflict enough damage on the brute of a man to enable her escape. He took a step closer.

“Don’t be upset,” he said, caressing her cheek with a dirty finger and moving closer still. Close enough that she could smell his rancid, whiskey-laced breath. “You’re too pretty for the hangman’s rope. We might be able to work something out.”

Anger flashed in her eyes. This grimy man spoke as if she were the dirt beneath his feet, and he was going to force her to tell her full identity. Something she’d sworn never to do.

“I don’t think so.” Manon broke his grasp on her wrist and stepped backward. “This land is not yours. It belongs to Seigneur Lefebvre.” She spat his name like a curse. The lord of these lands had once been her protector, but she hated using his name to earn her freedom all the same.

Before she could react, one of the farmer’s massive hands slammed into her cheek, and stars dotted her vision.

“How dare you,” Manon growled. “I know the seigneur. I was known as Manon Lefebvre to your people. The seigneur would not appreciate your behavior toward me. But please, continue, if you wish to lose every inch of your lands.”

Manon saw a shimmer of fear in the farmer’s eyes.

“Likely tale, you brown trollop,” he said, voice wavering. “How do I know you aren’t lying?”

“Madame Lefebvre’s parents live less than a mile from here,” Manon said. “They will vouch for me and my right to be here. I’m sure they’ll welcome the intrusion over a bag of weeds that means nothing to any of you.”

“You’re lying,” the man pressed. “Trying to trick me.”

Her hunter’s instincts forced her heart to slow and her breathing to steady. If he fought, she would defend herself, but killing—or even injuring—a white man would cost her life.

He had to go with her to the Deschamps’ house.

“Monsieur, I speak the truth,” she said, returning to a respectful tone. “The Deschamps can assure you that the seigneur has no objection to my presence here.”

The man hesitated. Anyone might know the landholder’s name, but his wife’s family was not of the first circles.

“Fine, then. Lead the way, if you know it so well.”

She started west, toward the cultivated fields. Her moccasins made a slap-slap-slapping noise on the hardened earth. She moved quickly, but not fast enough to give the farmer cause to think she would run. He trudged along a few paces behind her, breathing labored from the exertion.

Hurry up, you great moose! I need to get home.

Less than ten minutes later, Manon knocked on the door of the small but inviting farmhouse. Though visitors here were scarce, the flickering of the fire and the smell of good food radiated the kind spirit of its mistress.

An old woman answered the door. She no longer stood as straight as she once had, but moved with efficiency. No spark of recognition lit the woman’s eyes as she looked with a furrowed brow at the unknown girl.

“Manon!” The cry came from behind the woman. It was the first time anyone had called her by her French name in ages, and it fell hard on her ears.

Familiar chestnut hair and soft eyes came into view. It had been five years since Manon last saw Nicole Lefebvre, the woman she once considered her mother. The years had been kind to Nicole, leaving only a few lines of experience around her eyes and a bit more fullness to her hips. Nicole dressed in fine fabrics, perfectly cut and tailored, as one would expect from a woman of status, even in her small community.

“Hello” was all she could utter as Nicole took her in her arms. She felt a few decorous tears fall from Nicole’s cheek onto her own as they embraced.

“Look at how you’ve grown, my sweet girl! You’re practically a woman,” Nicole said, then seeing the red handprint on her cheek, she cradled Manon’s face in her hands to inspect the injury. “What’s happened to you?”

“A misunderstanding,” she answered. The red print would soon be a bruise, but would fade in time. Nothing to worry over, especially with Tawendeh’s condition apt to deteriorate the longer she was away. Manon did not say that the Huron people had long considered her a woman. She had learned years before that the French had the luxury of long childhoods.

“Welcome, Manon,” said a commanding voice from the dining area.

Alexandre Lefebvre, her onetime foster father, entered the living area and bowed, very slightly, in her direction. Manon offered him a barely perceptible nod, like a queen acknowledging a stableboy. The farmer shifted his weight from one foot to the other, his considerable size causing the floorboards to creak, calling attention back to himself.

“I am sorry to disturb you,” Manon said, the French language still feeling odd on her tongue. “Your tenant found me gathering herbs in the forest, at the edge of your lands. I assured him that you would not object to my presence, but he preferred to hear it from you directly.”

“The young lady speaks the truth, Rocher,” Alexandre said to the farmer. “She is welcome anywhere on my lands and is not to be harassed, is that understood?”

“Yes, Seigneur,” the man said with a bow. “Forgive the intrusion. Can’t be too careful, you know.” The man cast a spiteful look in Manon’s direction. Yes, because my people are the dangerous ones. You have that much to fear from a woman half your size alone in the woods?

“Quite,” Alexandre said. “You have other things to attend to, Rocher. Have a pleasant evening.”

The farmer shook his head at the sight of Dame Lefebvre embracing a native girl, and bowed his way from the house.

“I’m sorry to have bothered you,” Manon said, her tone still formal. “I must return home.”

“Nonsense.” Nicole took Manon’s hand and led her to the table where the rest of the family sat. “You’ll stay for supper.”

“I cannot,” Manon said, patting Nicole’s hand. Now that Nicole was Madame Lefebvre, her hand was free of the calluses earned from a hard day’s work. It pained her to refuse the hospitality of the woman who had been so kind to her, but she would not be able to sit still while Tawendeh was ill. “There is a fever in the Huron village. My brother is among the ill. It can become serious so quickly.”

Nicole responded with the quizzical furrow of her brow at the mention of the word brother.

“Adoptive brother,” Manon explained. She was an orphaned only child when she’d first met Nicole some nine years prior. Her aging grandmother had been less and less able to keep track of her young granddaughter, so Manon roamed unchecked. Her favorite thing to do was to wander into the woods and follow the brown-haired French angel who lived in the run-down cabin near the Huron village. She had never spoken to this lovely creature with her foreign clothes and creamy skin, but love-starved Manon could only imagine she was as charming and sweet as she looked. When Manon happened upon Nicole’s husband, gravely injured by a Huron arrow that was meant for a stag, Manon found the angel and dragged her to the dying man. In the end, they were too late. Nicole adopted Manon and they were inseparable for the three years that followed.

“You’ll be in want of supplies if the fever spreads. We’ll send you with all we have.” Nicole transformed at once. She was no longer just a loving mother and dutiful wife; she was a leader. The women of the house set to work gathering anything that could be of use when treating the ill: blankets, clean rags, and more food than Manon could hope to carry in four treks to the village.

Manon forced herself to keep from fidgeting as she waited for Nicole and her mother to assemble the bounty. She could be of no use, nor could she refuse the food and supplies her people needed. She stood and observed the family as they bustled about on her behalf rather than sitting down to their own supper. Nicole’s parents had only spent a few weeks in Manon’s company. They seemed to have a vague recollection of her and welcomed her into their home. The chatter of immaculately dressed children only served to make the small farmhouse seem all the more convivial.

“Your family has grown,” Manon said, to break her awkward silence.

“Without question,” Nicole said with a laugh as she folded a thick woolen blanket. She indicated a beautiful girl of eight with golden-brown curls. “You remember Hélène, of course, and Frédéric. Sabine was born shortly after you left, and Cécile and Roland arrived early last year.”

Hélène was the child from Nicole’s first husband, born only a few months after Manon had come into Nicole’s care. She had stood by Nicole’s side when the sturdy boy called Frédéric, the very image of his father with dark hair and flawless ivory skin, entered the world. He greeted Manon with wide eyes and a head cocked sideways with unspoken questions. An imp, just like Tawendeh. The toddling twins, blond and mischievous, were too absorbed in playing with their wooden horses on the dining room floor to notice the guest. Shy Sabine clung to her mother’s skirts and looked at Manon with curiosity, weakly returning her gracious smile.

“What lovely children,” Manon said in earnest. “You have been blessed.”

“Amply,” Alexandre agreed, taking his place at the table by his father-in-law’s side as the women continued gathering. He reintroduced the Deschamps family without the slightest indication that Manon’s arrival caused him displeasure. Not that he would ever voice it.

Nicole’s parents, two younger sisters, and little brother had come to the colony nearly six years before when Manon was still a ward of the Lefebvres. Alexandre, Manon was sure, thought to please his wife by moving her family to the New World, thereby easing her homesickness and worry for their well-being. In so doing, however, he cut out Manon’s place in their family and replaced it with Nicole’s own sisters. Perhaps it wasn’t by happenstance, either. Manon’s presence with the leading woman in their small society already caused stares from the rest of the settlement. The elder Deschamps had clearly endured hard labor. Their faces showed the signs of too many days in the sun. Still, both looked plump and hardy, thanks to the bounty of their new land. They wore plainer clothes than the Lefebvres, but still fit in better in the settlement than Manon in her deerskin robes and moccasins.

Claudine Deschamps surpassed her sisters in looks, though perhaps not in grace. She was seventeen—almost exactly Manon’s age, with dark brown hair and eyes that shone. Emmanuelle was almost sixteen and stouter than her sisters, but her hazel eyes that contrasted with her mahogany hair merited a second look from the young men of her acquaintance.

“You’ve been well, then, my dear?” Nicole asked as she placed a massive loaf of bread in a basket with a jug of soup.

“Yes.” Manon paused to look at the perfectly roasted venison on the platter Madame Deschamps placed on the table, praying none could hear the rumbling of her stomach. New World foods cooked in the French tradition; foreign and familiar, all at once. “I’ve been trying to learn the methods my people use for treating illness. That’s why I came. I was gathering herbs for a remedy for my little brother. I wouldn’t have ventured so close to your lands otherwise.”

“You’re welcome to gather all the herbs you need here, darling,” Nicole said with a glance toward her husband.

“Of course,” Alexandre acknowledged, “though I would avoid Rocher. He had an unfortunate encounter with an Indian man a year or two back and is a tad leery, as you surely noticed.”

“I’ll bear that in mind,” Manon said, keeping her less charitable thoughts to herself. Nicole flitted about the kitchen gathering more things to place in the basket. I’ll be lucky to make it home before daybreak carrying such a burden. Please do hurry. The images of Tawendeh growing weaker and more feverish plagued her, but she would not shame herself by appearing ungrateful.

“You’re sure you can’t stay?” Nicole’s eyes looked pleading as she scanned the room for anything else she could send along in the overflowing basket.

Claudine took a seat across the table from her brother-in-law and cleared her throat too loudly for it to be anything but a hint to her sister to sit down to the family meal. Nicole could not see that her younger sister was staring intently at the back of her head, seething impatience. Manon’s view was unobstructed.

“I wish I could, truly, but I must tend to my brother and the others. And I wouldn’t wish to intrude on a family meal.”

“Manon, your visit is not an intrusion. Please promise you’ll come see me?” Nicole took Manon’s hands in hers, gripping as if to prevent her from slipping away a second time.

The thought of walking through the settlement, dressed in her deerskins, and knocking on the door of one of the finest houses in New France caused her empty stomach to churn. “I cannot promise, but our paths may cross again.”

“I hope so, sweet girl.” Nicole’s eyes shone as she took Manon in her arms for a long embrace. Manon accepted the overladen basket that Nicole thrust at her and thanked her and Madame Deschamps extravagantly. It was enough food to feed her family for at least two weeks and one fewer worry for her as she nursed Tawendeh back to health.

Darkness had set in, though the waxing moon cast plenty of light to see Manon home. A fine carriage could not pass the rough paths to the Huron settlement; only a rugged wagon could make the journey. Nor would Manon accept the loan of a horse, so she set off toward home on foot. The faces of Nicole’s abundant family flashed in her memory one by one. Nicole’s darling children, proud husband, loving parents, and charming sisters. You’ve filled my place admirably, Maman . . . Nicole . . . I hope, truly, that you’ve been happy.

Mother Onatah looked up from her young son, who was still drenched in sweat and mumbling incoherently despite the cold cloths she applied to his forehead and face.

“No change.” Manon’s words were not a question.

Mother Onatah acknowledged them with a grim nod. Though the fever had yet to take a death grip on the boy, they both knew not to treat any fever with frivolity. Yarrow tea, sooner rather than later.

Manon added the herbs to her mortar to make a thick paste to boil into a pungent tisane. Too weak to protest, Tawendeh swallowed the potent, bitter brew and reclined back into his mother’s embrace.

“What can we do now, Skenandoa?” Mother Onatah’s black eyes glimmered with the unshed tears of her concern.

“We wait.” The response was cruelly honest, but she would not give her adoptive mother false hope.

Mother Onatah had welcomed the frightened twelve-year-old girl as her own when Manon returned without warning from the French settlement. Onatah had stood before the council, claimed the girl as a daughter, and given her the name Skenandoa—deer—owing to her long limbs, graceful gait, and skittish nature. She was thus made an official member of Big Turtle clan once more, but Manon learned quickly that the Huron distrusted her French ways and her education as much as the French distrusted her brown skin and accented speech.

Still, Mother Onatah had given her a home, and it was better than no place at all. As the older woman ministered to her son, Manon scanned the house for an occupation. The small longhouse was in disarray. Manon had been gone for hours, and Tawendeh commanded all his mother’s attention. She began by organizing the pouches of dried herbs she’d strewn about that afternoon when she discovered her stores had run low. I’ll not make that mistake again. I’ll gather herbs every week during the growing season for the rest of my days. My carelessness could have cost Tawendeh his life. Chastising herself, she added more kindling to the fire and urged the flame higher in case more yarrow tea was needed.

“He’s sleeping,” Mother Onatah whispered to her. “You ought to do the same.”

“I couldn’t sleep, Mother. Not while he’s so unwell.”

“Then go for a walk and come back ready for rest. I’ll have need of you in the morning.”

“Very well.” She didn’t bother trying to persuade Mother Onatah to take a turn at sleeping herself. While Tawendeh was in danger, neither would sleep until her body forced her into repose.

Manon stood outside the longhouse, breathing in the midnight air—crisp, but mingled with the woodsy tang of chimney smoke. The light of the waxing moon bathed the village, preventing Heno, the chief’s son, from taking her by surprise.

“There you are, my beauty,” Heno said, emerging from the wood. His name meant thunder in their language, no doubt the Chief’s attempt to inspire confidence in their allies and fear in their enemies. Thus far, the strategy had proven effective, for his son grew strong and tall—the perfect hunter-warrior.

“Good evening, my brave hunter,” she said, offering the handsome young man a kiss as she took him in her arms.

“How is young Tawendeh?” he asked, pulling back slightly from the embrace and tucking a loose strand of her hair behind her ear.

“Improving,” she said. “Mother Onatah ordered me to get some air while she tends him.”

“I’m glad she did,” he said, closing the gap between them and leaving a trail of soft kisses on her face, careful not to disturb the bruise.

“The white man?” he asked, tracing the edge of her puffy cheek with his finger.

She nodded. He growled softly in response. “How are the others?” Manon asked, resting her cheek against his broad chest to hide the injury and change the subject. She wouldn’t let the stinking French farmer ruin her time with Heno.

“Fifteen more have fallen ill. No one has died yet, but a few of the elderly and one of the children look close.” He spoke as though reporting back to the council about a scouting expedition or a hunt. He has to detach himself, or else it would be too painful.

“If only they would let me . . .” Manon began.

“I have spoken to anyone who will listen. They will come around. They’ll have to.” Heno ran his fingers down the thick braid of black hair that extended down past her lower back, and gripped her closer still.

I just hope they will accept my help before it’s too late. There was nothing to be done, however. Any attempt to persuade them would only make them more wary.

“I need you,” she breathed between kisses.

“With pleasure, my beauty.” He pulled out of her embrace and led her to their favorite clearing, the place they had met for the past two years when the weather was fine. On colder nights they coupled in whatever warm corner they could find.

Though the night air bit their flesh and dew covered the grass, Heno’s warm, muscled body drew her mind from the chill.

His mouth was ardent. His hands moved over her body with the confidence of an established lover. The man who taught her the art of love, despite all her misgivings in the early days. Adjusting to the ways of the Huron, where people viewed adolescent exploration as innocent and natural, took a while to accept after three years of Catholic indoctrination.

Manon lay in his arms for minutes—perhaps even hours—sated and impervious to the cold.

“I want to make a child with you,” Heno said, breathing in her ear.

“Please don’t start this again. I beg you. Not tonight,” she said. “I can’t bear to argue.”

“If you have my child, Father will be forced to let us marry,” Heno reasoned.

“He needn’t do any such thing. And if he refuses, I’d be alone, with a child to raise.” Her grip on his arm grew tighter and she had to keep herself from digging her nails into his flesh. Few raised ire in her as much as their chief.

Heno perched up on his elbows, taking her chin with his thumb and forefinger, forcing her to look into the depths of his serious black eyes. “I’d never let that happen, Skenandoa.”

“You’re the son of our chief. You’ll do exactly as you’re bid.” She brushed his hand away. “You’re the prince of your people, no freer to do as you please than a prince of France.”

“I can’t imagine the prince of a great country not being free to do precisely what he likes.” Heno’s jaw grew taut as it often did when she mentioned the French.

“Listen when your father speaks,” she said. “His decisions have nothing to do with his happiness, but rather the welfare of his people.” And that means seeing you married to a sweet, obedient girl who cares for nothing more than the traditions of our people and securing your lineage.

“That almost sounded like a compliment,” Heno said.

“Whatever the issues I might take with your father, self-interest is not one of them,” Manon said. “Though I will never care for the man who cast out his sister for taking me in.”

“I wouldn’t say Onatah is cast out,” Heno said. “She still lives with her tribe.”

“And is all but forsaken by them. Because she showed me kindness,” Manon said.

Heno sighed deeply, whether frustrated by her logic or his father’s irrational fear of outside influence, Manon knew not.

“I will have you for my wife, my beauty.” He took her chin again, this time kissing her, claiming her mouth with his.

“Nothing would make me happier, my brave hunter,” Manon said as he pulled away.

For a moment she indulged in her favorite fantasy: a life where the tribe accepted her as Heno’s wife. A pillar of her community. A healer. A mother. She allowed herself to consider it only rarely; in her heart she knew it would never happen. But as she lay in Heno’s arms, optimism flowed through her veins, nourishing her body like manna.

“I love you, Heno,” she whispered, cupping his face and kissing his lips, savoring his taste like she would her last meal. “For now, just love me and let the future settle itself.”

“Always, my beauty.” He shifted to reclaim his position atop her, but Manon placed her hand on his chest. She gently pushed him to his back and straddled him, claiming her pleasure as the midnight wind stung her skin. She would have to pull away before he was satisfied and help him find his release in other ways, bathe carefully with herbs, and drink tea brewed from the papoose root as a precaution. For a few moments, however, none of that mattered. She was neither Huron nor French. She was free of everything except her love for the beautiful man beneath her.

May 1677

One of Alexandre’s stipulations of Claudine and Emmanuelle’s staying in town was that they would obey Nicole as readily as they would their own mother. Had it not been for her brother-in-law’s decree, Claudine would never have agreed to wake moments after the cock’s crow to take supplies to the Huron village with her two sisters and their longtime friend Gabrielle Giroux. She wanted to scoff at the idea of traipsing through the woods with blankets and food to people who had not requested and who would not welcome their interference. But she stilled her tongue. Even if it meant enduring a morning in the woods, it wasn’t worth risking Nicole’s—or worse, Alexandre’s—ire.

“Will one of the servants be driving the carriage?” Emmanuelle asked Nicole, who had come to ensure the girls were up and preparing for the day. Emmanuelle wasn’t overly fond of horses since an unfortunate accident when she first came to the colony resulted in a seriously injured leg and the loss of a much-needed horse.

“Pascal Giroux will drive us in the wagon he uses for deliveries,” Nicole replied, looking over Claudine’s trunk for worn clothing to add to their stockpile for the village. “It can maneuver better on the narrow roads than anything we have. He offered since Gabrielle had asked to come along.”

The two young Girouxes were both wards and apprentices of Elisabeth and Gilbert Beaumont, who ran the most successful bakery in the colony. Nicole and Elisabeth, along with their fellow shipmate Rose, had forged a friendship on their three-month voyage to the colony that social convention would not tarnish. An attachment between the wife of a landowner and a simple baker might have been unthinkable in France, but thankfully such lines were far less rigid in the new world.

“We’ll be down for breakfast shortly.” Emmanuelle smiled at Nicole, who left the room with a satisfied nod and a couple of worn chemises in hand. Always sister’s pet.

“Why in Christendom do we have to go out all that way to haul blankets and broth to people we don’t even know? Didn’t we provide her with enough last night? Can’t Nicole send someone if she thinks it’s necessary to empty the house for them?” Claudine asked to no one in particular.

“Because Manon meant a great deal to Nicole, and she wants to help if she can.”

Claudine rolled her eyes and bit her tongue. Emmanuelle always had a response for everything, and it was usually what Nicole and Alexandre wanted to hear. Worse, Emmanuelle offered her explanations as if she were explaining a simple sum to a befuddled child. Maddening.

Breakfast was a harried affair; Alexandre eating leisurely while Nicole chided the girls to eat quickly so they could get underway. There was an unspoken censure in Alexandre’s eyes, but he rarely contradicted his wife. She was so often the model of propriety and restraint that he must have felt obliged to overlook her few eccentricities. In particular, her affection for the Huron girl that Claudine sensed he never fully understood.

As they left the settlement, the houses and stone buildings gave way to trees, and the wide, well-maintained roads gave way to narrow, rocky paths. Emmanuelle and Gabrielle chatted as they often did, but Nicole kept her eyes fixed to the path as though she, and not Pascal, were driving the wagon. Claudine looked at the endless evergreens and wondered why she had ever thought this would be some magical fairy kingdom where she would never be in want of diversion and handsome suitors. In her years in the settlement, she had yet to reconcile the shattered dreams of her twelve-year-old self, though she was now a young woman approaching eighteen.

Claudine, having devoured the few letters Nicole had sent home, leaped at the chance to come to th