The French Innkeeper's Daughter

by Diane C. McPhail

Genres: Women's Fiction; Siblings; Historical Fiction

Synopsis

Exiled from her home in rural, 18th century France, a resilient young woman journeys through the forests of Normandy, to the oppressive poverty of pre-Revolutionary Paris, and ultimately to her destiny as one of the founding mothers of Louisiana.

True Grit meets Les Misérables in this epic journey of survival, social inequality, and a woman discovering her own power for readers of Isola by Allegra Goodman and The Queen of the Night by Alexander Chee.

France, 1718: Three years after Louis XIV’s death, the country is still reeling from the Sun King’s costly wars and reckless extravagance. While ordinary citizens struggle to survive, the wealthy are able to purchase noble titles that grant them power and privilege. In the wrong hands, that power can be a terrible thing, as Azélie and her older sister Nicole discover when their family’s roadside inn becomes the property of a corrupt judge.

After a harrowing encounter with the judge’s loathsome son, Azélie’s only option is to flee. Then a chance meeting with highway robber Jules Charavany leads the two to make their way to Paris. Azélie launders clothes on the banks of the Seine while Jules finds work on the docks, and a friendship borne of necessity evolves into a deeper bond. But when Jules is wrongly arrested, Azélie finds herself caught up in a scheme to arrest young women on trumped-up charges and exile them to the struggling colonies along the Gulf Coast.

Chained aboard the ship La Mutine, a pregnant Azélie finds kinship with the other women during the perilous ocean crossing. The survivors will witness the birth of a new city, New Orleans. And though her new life will be rich in challenge and reward, Azélie’s ties to her homeland and her family will remain, echoing through the future in unpredictable ways, even centuries later.

Release date: September 29, 2026

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 288

Sample

The Inn, St. Servais, 1968–1969

Some days appear like any other, yet hold secrets capable of altering life in unsuspected ways. The difference was hard to detect as the minutes clicked by, much like the clicking of Solange’s heels as she and Laurent followed the agent around the corner to the entrance of the old inn. The damp cobblestones echoed their footsteps, as these stones had surely echoed the steps of passing villagers through untold comings and goings, century after century. Who might those villagers have been, Solange wondered, those endless unknown people? What urgent or mundane errands had led them along this street? Who of them might have been hurrying toward some joyful event: a birth, a marriage, a rendezvous with a would-be lover, a new home to unlock, an old friend to greet? Who might have trodden these stones to face some tragedy: a child’s dire injury, a parent’s impending death, a husband’s drunken ire, the unexpected blow of a murderer?

“How old did you say this structure is?” Solange asked, eyeing the timeworn buildings that lined the cobblestone street.

“Perhaps five hundred years or so.”

Solange halted. “Five hundred years? That is what you said? And at the same time, you are saying this place is livable?”

“You’ll see shortly, madame,” the notaire said as he stopped. “Here we are, Dr. Auclair.”

Solange was caught off guard. This was it? How could this building possibly be an inn? This façade had nothing to distinguish it from any other house on the street—except a wide gate of old planks, with peeling gray paint, designed perhaps to give entry to a car from the street? A garage, she assumed. And to one side, a peculiar set of wide stone steps that led not to a door, but to a window. How utterly bizarre!

“What were you saying, Laurent? About our reasons for considering this place?”

“Proximity to the village where I grew up. And to my father, who can use my assistance now as he gets older. And the history, of course. This inn has always fascinated me. I grew up coming here with Papa when he paid medical visits to the old gentleman who lived here before. That was after it closed as a weavery. Lots of history here. The specifications certainly seem adequate to raise a family comfortably and to establish my medical office in the adjoining wing. That’s the aspect I must be certain of.”

“But it’s so old, Laurent. I’m afraid …” How could this city girl manage to balance her simultaneous hope and anxiety?

The notaire tugged a jangling ring of old keys from his pocket. He singled out a worn brass skeleton key and inserted it into the heavy lock near the center of the door. What a strange place for a lock, Solange thought. As he twisted the key, a smaller door, which she had not noticed, almost hidden in the center of the larger plank structure, clicked and swung open with a noisy creak. The notaire held open this seemingly insignificant entrance and stepped back to give her passage. Laurent offered a hand to assist her over the foot-high threshold.

An entrance, just wide enough for a horse-drawn coach, tunneled through the building itself and opened out onto a wide, weedy courtyard. The afternoon light lay like a pathway that led, in a broad slant of gold, over the tall grass, to an ancient oak that spread its limbs over the back stables. Solange blinked her eyes against the light, catching her breath at the sight.

As Laurent arranged another log onto the burning embers, Solange came, shivering, through the back entry. Beneath her heavy wool shawl, her arms were loaded, creating a bulge larger than the protrusion of her pregnancy. She threw the shawl aside on the wooden bench in the hall.

“There you are!” she said, shifting her grip on four bottles of wine, two in each hand. “Dinner is almost ready.”

“Delicious from the aroma of it. And I’m hungry,” he said, coming behind her into the warm kitchen. “Here, give those to me. What a load. Why so much wine? Are we expecting guests?” He took the bottles from her and set them on the counter, leaned in to give her a quick kiss.

“No guests. It’s just a chore to go around outside to the cellar entrance in the cold, so I brought up extra. I can put them out in the back storage to keep them chilled.”

“The cellar entrance,” he mused. “That crazy cellar entrance! How have I not paid attention to that? Well, we need an interior stairway. Of course!” He slapped his hand on the table, rattling dishes and flatware. “I’ll speak to Matthias tomorrow. It should be simple enough to remove this inner-entry wall to open the way straight down to the cellar. Come look.”

Laurent pulled her into the hallway. She could tell he was feeling a bit guilty. His mind had been focused on completing the medical office.

“This whole area was once outdoors,” he said. “Of course. The kitchen was separate and this entryway didn’t exist.” He touched the various walls, as if surprised to find them there. “All this was added some centuries ago.” He took her by the shoulders. “I’m sorry, Solange. We didn’t really need any work here, so I never paid attention. Where is my brain?”

Solange laughed and dashed back to the kitchen in time to save the vegetables from burning.

Laurent came behind her at the stove. “So I can save you from the stack of firewood, but not the wine cellar?”

Solange laughed as his embrace caused her a slight spill of red beets. “Ah, well,” she said, turning away with the filled dishes. “If that’s the worst thing we face, I’m a fortunate woman.” She was laughing. “Indeed, so much could be worse.”

She had no idea.

In the competent hands of Matthias and his men, the thick plaster wall between the entry and the cellar steps began to disappear. Dismantling the plaster required great care, since they had already taken up residence in the house and Solange was pregnant. In spite of canvas hung to block and contain the debris, the air was heavy with grit. Solange had difficulty cooking in the adjacent kitchen. The couple ate frequently at the home of his parents in St. Éloi, only miles away. Fortunately, the dust settled on the lower floor and did not disturb their sleeping quarters upstairs, complete now with the adjoining nursery for the baby.

“Approximately how much longer?” Laurent asked Matthias one day. “I see progress. You’re getting nearer the bottom of that obstructing wall.”

“Only a few more feet and we’re there. This wall is extraordinarily thick. Unnecessarily so. Quite strange, actually. Even for a building so old.” He took another sip of his beer and laughed. “Added for some odd reason well after the main building, but heavy with age, nonetheless. Over three hundred years, I’d guess.”

“Matthias!” one of the crew cried out. “Come now! Right now!”

Laurent and Matthias both turned.

“Something structural?” Laurent asked.

“No idea.” Matthias vaulted over the remaining wall, nearly hitting his worker. “What gives?”

The man did not speak, but pointed low on the fracturing wall.

Matthias leaned in. “Damn!” His head disappeared behind the remaining wall.

“What is it?” Laurent sprinted outside and around through the cellar door. No vaulting over for him on that crowded landing. The men moved aside to make room for him.

No one spoke.

Laurent studied the wall’s deconstruction. His breath came deep.

“Keep going,” he said to Matthias. “But take extreme caution.”

“Take care now!” Matthias commanded. “We can’t afford damage.”

The men hung back while Matthias reached for a sharp tool and began tapping at the plaster. No one spoke.

Inch by inch, the mysterious object revealed itself. It emerged slowly, in minute segments, until Matthias could grab the curved end and wrench it free amid the rattle of falling plaster.

A stunned silence enveloped the men as Matthias held up the strange yellowed article.

“Well, now. That’s quite a bone.” He paused, then turned to Laurent. “You know, a few centuries ago, it was common practice for builders to put animal bones in plaster to strengthen it. I can’t say I ever encountered one like this, though.” He handed it off to the doctor.

Laurent’s fingers trembled as he ran them over its surface, rotating the bone one way and another. “This is no animal,” he said. “This is a mandible, or part of one, broken at the symphysis.”

“That some creature I never heard of?”

“No, Matthias. This is human. A jaw with teeth.” Laurent’s voice was ragged. “I’ll call the police.”

“Whoa, now!” Matthias took hold of Laurent’s arm to hold him back. “Hold on, Dr. Auclair. There is nothing for us to do.” He dropped his hand. “Everyone and everything connected to this bone is lost in time. Centuries ago.”

“I don’t care how long ago, Matthias. This was murder. It had to be. Why else would human bones be concealed in a wall?” Laurent held the jawbone as if it might come alive in his hands. “We’re calling the police. I could never rest in this house if we don’t report it.”

“It’s possible you might not ever live in this house if you do,” Matthias said. “Best you stop and think a minute, Doctor. Whoever committed this centuries-old crime is also gone a good three hundred years. You call in the police, Dr. Auclair”—Matthias twisted his head and slapped his gloves across his palm—“they’ll stop this project in its tracks. Forget having anything completed by the time your baby’s born. Or for months after. Maybe even years. They’ll start making you tear out the other walls, ones you’ve already reconstructed, replastered, to make sure no other bodies are hidden here. That is the law. They’ll shut us down, Dr. Auclair—well past your baby’s birth. If they should find more, you’d never live here.”

“What?” Laurent exclaimed.

“At best, you wouldn’t be settled here a year from now.” Matthias paused and took a deep breath. “We might wind up being required to tear this whole place down if more bones were found. It’s been known to happen with ancient inns. Do you understand what I’m telling you?”

“These are someone’s bones, Matthias. This was a human being. A person, like you or like me.”

“Yes, sir. That is true. There will be a few more bones, you can be sure. That bone wasn’t there to strengthen the plaster. We’ll let you know what we find.” He turned to the men, who nodded reluctantly. “No one but us needs to know this.” Matthias hesitated again, surveying his men. “You see, Doctor, failure to report this is a criminal offense. If anyone other than us ever knows, including your wife, we could wind up in prison.” He wiped his forehead. “If this were anywhere near recent, we’d have had the police here already. And we’d be tearing this place down, if need be. But this crime is centuries old. There is no way to identify who this was, let alone who murdered and concealed them. We’d be preventing you from living here, for no good reason that I can see. But the choice is yours, sir.”

Yes, the choice was his. Laurent turned away, his gut wrenched with uncertainty and guilt, knowing there was nothing to do in regard to that bone, too many centuries passed, knowing he could never let Solange know. And the baby due in just months.

“We’ll see to it that any bones we find are properly disposed of.” Matthias spoke to the doctor’s slumped back. “We’ll assemble and bury them properly. Of that, I assure you, sir.”

As he walked outside for a few minutes in the sun before his next patient arrived, Laurent bent down to kiss the baby’s head. Solange knelt on the grass by the flower bed she was preparing. Laying her trowel down, she rose to put her arms around her husband.

“You were right about this old inn, Laurent.” She tightened her embrace, then leaned back. “I can’t imagine being anywhere else.”

“That’s a comfort!” He felt the guilt of her innocence regarding its dire history.

“I’m sure. Since you worked so hard to convince me.” She leaned down and picked up little Louise from the blanket spread on the grass. “I’m wanting to plant everywhere.” She handed him the baby and danced backward in front of them. “Just look at all this space. And beauty. And more coming.” She waved her arms in all directions. Then stopped and kissed him.

“What are you up to, sweetheart?” He held her at arm’s length. “You becoming a gardener, now that you’ve adjusted to the countryside?”

“Indeed, I am. And you’ll have to introduce me to all the plants of the region. I’m loving this place, Laurent.”

He knew I would, she thought, even before he brought me here. He loves the simplicity of the country, the roadside village, and he wanted to rescue me from the raging currents of the city. Thank goodness, he had.

She picked up her trowel and leaned across to nuzzle baby Louise as she rested in his arms.

“Do you think I can plant around that oak tree? Is it too shady?”

“Now, Solange, ask me to set a broken arm of the first kid who climbs that tree and falls, but do not ask me where to plant.” He shifted the baby from one arm to the other and picked up the hoe leaning against the trunk.

Solange reached for the shovel, paused a minute, jabbed the tip of it across a high root. “That’s strange,” she said.

“What?” His face took on an expression she could not quite fathom.

“That sort of mound there. It’s different from the rest of the soil here.” She poked at it again. “Someone must have tried to plant something and failed, I’d guess. Maybe that’s not a good idea, after all.”

Laurent turned, studied her face a moment.

“What?” she said.

“Nothing,” he said, and cleared his throat. “I’m just looking at how beautiful you are in this golden light.” He kissed her again. “Actually, I think Matthias buried a load of decaying wood from that plastered wall we removed. I told him just to bury it somewhere out here. That’s probably it under the oak.” He brushed a bit of debris from her hair. “It will smooth over soon enough, absorb right into the earth. But it’s probably not a good spot to plant, regardless.”

Baby Louise began to fret. Solange took her from her husband’s arm, which then he put around her, holding them both in a strong embrace. As they turned toward the old inn, their shadows stretched out in a line toward the door.

St. Servais, 1719

The glow of the afternoon sun cut its habitual path across the open courtyard, but failed to lessen the lingering chill of the late fall air. Bright rays cut stark bars of light and shadow through a line of trees at the edge of the small field. Azélie and her older sister, Nicole, swung their arms and laughed, racing heedlessly from the courtyard, through the wide rear opening of the stables, and out into the open pasture beyond.

“Silly goose! You give me back my kerchief!” Loose hair flying, Azélie ran, tripping after Nicole.

“Silly goose, yourself,” Nicole taunted back, flicking the scarf like a small whip. “You should never’ve taken it off. Don’t you know better by now?”

“Watch where you step!” Azélie stretched for the scarf and missed. “Don’t you get my kerchief in any horse muck out here!”

“Watch you don’t get yourself in it, sister!”

In a clear space across the grass, Nicole tumbled onto the warm earth, with Azélie rolling over her, tickling her sides. They laughed with abandon, relishing a break from their chores at the inn, the Auberge de La Croix Blanche, where they helped Maman keep house, swept and mopped, retrieved and washed the chamber pots of a morning, kept wood replenished and a fire going in the kitchen, laid the tableware—whatever task their parents deemed needed. Almost grown now, Azélie, and Nicole, a year older, worked diligently to assist Maman, who was always morose and downcast these days.

“We’d better get back. Maman will be aggravated with us,” said Nicole.

Azélie noted movement. Subtle, but there. In her peripheral vision, one of the barred shadows widened over them. A strange immobility pervaded her, but her giggles had not failed altogether when she felt Nicole go stiff beneath her. Rigid, silent. Across them the jarring shadow retreated. Azélie stared at her sister in alarm, tracked her apprehensive gaze in the direction of the stable. In the obscure partial shade towered a man, his upper body masked by the overhanging gloom of the stall. What was visible were his fine red breeches, and his bare, open hand stroking downward to his crotch.

The man stole out of the dimness into the afternoon light, his outstretched fingers creeping over his groin. Azélie recognized the despicable face of Claude Aguillon, the younger—false gentry of the lowest rank. Realizing himself noticed, Aguillon emitted a harsh, rasping laugh, if such that sound could be called.

Azélie rolled away and struggled to stand. She grasped for Nicole’s hand, at the same time working frantically with the other to straighten her skirt. The sisters clung to one another and fought for balance as they scrambled up from the earth.

With a lazy step, Aguillon slouched toward them. He did not speak, but never took his eyes off Nicole. Nor did Azélie take her eyes from him. A cold dread constricted her breath as Azélie stared up at him, frozen by his blemished, contemptuous smirk and the riding crop in his hand.

That grin is no disguise for his deficits, Azélie thought disparagingly. Not even those absurdly fine clothes. Nudging closer to Nicole, she gripped her sister’s hand. This man’s extravagance was, she noted as she had on previous occasions, posh beyond his father’s purchased aristocracy. Those fine red breeches, the brown woolen coat, hanging unbuttoned with its elaborately embroidered cuffs. His sunken chest was hardly disguised.

Aguillon walked toward them, his riding crop flicking his leg. “Well, now, mesdemoiselles. You two look as lovely as the afternoon itself,” he said, picking a thumbnail at his crooked front teeth.

Azélie grabbed Nicole and pulled her away.

“Edgy, are you now?” He laughed. “No need. Nothing to fear, m’ladies. In truth, I bring you something to desire.” Again, that snort, the thin fingers contracting over his crotch. “Something you may well wish to have again.” He pointed the crop at Azélie. “And again.”

Nicole flicked Azélie’s kerchief at her, this time in warning. Together they bolted toward the kitchen door.

“Scampering away, are you?” He swiveled to watch them. “Well, tell your father his master is here to check on the progress of that wall to block my wine stash from the inn. I’d better damn well see some progress on it.” He slapped his riding crop against his thigh. “Guess I’ll tie my own horse up, since you good-for-nothings don’t seem willing to do your due. Well, good for … yes, good for one thing at least.” His high-pitched laugh tailed them into the kitchen.

“Who’s that out there tying his own horse?” Maman demanded. “A guest? What’s the matter with you two?”

“It’s the younger Aguillon, Maman,” said Azélie.

Maman raised an eyebrow and wrinkled her nose.

“He wants to investigate Papa’s progress on that stupid wall to isolate the wine cellar.”

“That utter imposter!” Maman turned, wiping her hands on her apron. “Let him tie his own horse, then. He’s no guest. Here, stir this pot while I find your father.”

Aguillon entered at the back door of the inn. From the hallway, Azélie and Nicole heard rising voices as he argued with their father over the construction of the narrow wall intended to prevent guests of the inn from trespassing into the wine cellar below. Such was the younger Aguillon’s foolish solution to a problem that did not even exist. The progress was slow, and the wall was unnecessary—except in his mind. Even his greedy father had no interest in it. But the son of that man who had stolen all their property had strange whims and an impossible temper.

Nicole’s grip on her sister’s shoulder tightened at Aguillon’s insulting tone of voice toward their father.

“Why the hell is this no higher, you idiot?” said Aguillon. “It’s hardly started. Any guest can step right over this minor hump and take their pick of my wine in the cellar below.”

“Monsieur, no one seems inclined to do that. Such problems have not often confronted us, sir.” He paused. “If ever.”

“They are now never to confront you, do you understand? Never is the word! I won’t have my good wine at risk of thievery.”

“The wine you keep here, sir, with all due respect, is not the best there is.”

“It’s damn well good enough for a roadside inn. And I expect the best of it available for me when I come to inspect this place for my father.”

“Yes, sir.” Papa’s voice seemed grim and, at the same time, dismissive.

Azélie and Nicole clung to one another as they heard a shuffle of feet and the whack of Aguillon’s crop slammed against the wall.

“Who’s doing this work, anyway?”

Azélie cringed at the derision.

“I am in charge.” Their father sounded defiant.

“You! You’re in charge? Or you’re doing the work?”

“I’m quite capable, I assure you, and I’m not paying good money for something I can do quite competently myself.”

“Not anymore, old man.” Did they hear him shove their father? “I’ve got a crew who can finish this in one day.”

“I don’t want outside workers in my inn!”

“It’s not your inn, old man! Or have you forgotten that it’s my father who owns it now?”

Again, a thudding alarmed the girls. Azélie sensed the dull blow, for she knew Aguillon pushed her father against the wall. A sickness came over her at such utter disrespect.

“You can expect them tomorrow before the sun rises. This job’ll be finished before the sun sets! I’m off to see to it right now.”

The entry was silent for some minutes. The girls leaned out to the edge of the threshold, trying to catch a glimpse of their father. Just as they looked back at one another in puzzlement, he turned and entered the hallway, where they scrambled to appear just to be passing through.

“What are you girls doing here?” His manner was hard as the newly dried plaster. “What are you doing here?” he repeated, eyes narrowed, without giving them time to respond. “Have you been listening?”

When the girls failed to answer, he said, “So you heard the utter insolence of that—that–” He stopped himself, threw up his hands as if in defeat.

Azélie started toward him, but he held out his hands to stop her.

“Go get your chores done. Now. Both of you.”

He turned his back and walked toward the outer door, while Maman came from the kitchen, appearing puzzled that nothing seemed quite as it should.

“What’s wrong with you girls? Why aren’t you at your chores? Are you keeping your father from finishing this wall? Get out of your papa’s way. And why are you headed outsid. . .