Chapter Seven
“My word! Whatever you’re cooking for dinner, Lucie, don’t save any for me,” Sophie wrinkled her nose in distaste. “It smells awful.”
Isabelle couldn’t argue with that.
The cook shook her head and chuckled.
“There’s rye bread in the oven, but I just put it in to bake. Soon its smell will fill the kitchen, and we’ll see whether or not you’ll want your supper. What you smell isn’t something to eat.” She wiped her hands on her apron. “The countess’s new saddle arrived late Friday, but she doesn’t like the color of the leather. According to her, it’s too light and doesn’t match the reins. Hector asked me to boil walnut hulls and husks to make a stain to darken it. The tannins are what give it that unpleasant smell.”
Isabelle moved closer to look into the bubbling cauldron.
“Don’t come too close, Madame Isabelle,” Lucie warned stepping between her and the small, black iron pot. “This will stain anything it touches.”
“Is it permanent?” she asked, an idea seeding itself in the back of her mind.
“Not on everything, no, but on wool and leather, yes. I used it a couple of years ago to dye the wool you wanted. By diluting the mixture, you can achieve lighter tones. If it gets on your skin, it doesn’t wash off, but it fades in time.”
Wrapping her hands in her apron, Lucie took the cast-iron pot from the hearth and carried it toward the outside door. A scullery maid ran to open it for her.
“I’ll let it sit and cool awhile longer. You,” she yelled at the boy putting wood in the wood box near the fireplace. “Go to the stable and tell Hector his dye will be ready to use by nightfall.”
Isabelle watched the child scurry out of the room. She turned to the cook. “Where’s Murielle?”
“She’s in the dining room putting away the silver they used last night—counting each piece to make sure there aren’t any missing. No one is to be trusted these days.”
“Thank you. Will you pack a picnic basket for us from the leftovers of last night’s meal? Since the weather’s cleared, Murielle, Sophie, and I will picnic in the meadow.”
Less than an hour later, Isabelle stepped out of the barn just as Murielle and Sophie came through the kitchen door with a blanket and the picnic basket. She smiled and walked over to them.
“What were you doing in there?” Sophie asked.
“I thought I saw a cat go into the shed. I wouldn’t want her kittens trampled by the cows. You know how anxious they get when they need milking.” She reached for the basket. “The sun is shining, and the temperature is milder than usual for April. Where shall we have our picnic?” Isabelle lowered her voice. “We’ll need some privacy.”
“Why don’t we go across the field to the hill where we played as children?” Sophie offered. “We can see all of Caen from there and no one can come upon us unseen.”
Isabelle nodded. “That will do.”
The three of them left the castle grounds through the field gate, stopping here and there to admire the beautiful wildflowers growing plentifully in the field. Isabelle reached down to pluck the violets and field pansies, flowers similar to those Guy had given her long ago. When they reached the hilltop, Murielle spread a large blanket on the grass, and they sat down.
“I’ll miss you both terribly,” Sophie said, choking on her words, “but I’ll miss this most of all.” She indicated the scenery around her. “It’s the only home I’ve ever known.”
Isabelle smiled, her eyes filling with tears once more.
“People change, but the land stays the same. It’ll be here long after we’re both gone.”
There was a wistfulness in her voice she couldn’t disguise. She couldn’t bear that monster children, knowing he’d probably murder those ahead of his own offspring to get closer to the throne. No. Like Sophie she would leave Caen and this life for good, but not as permanently as she’d thought she would. She had a plan. It was risky and might not work, but she had to try. If it failed, there was always the millpond.
“Murielle, will you stay here at Caen with Isabelle?” Sophie asked, her words pulling Isabelle out of her reverie. “She’ll need you more than ever, especially if the chevalier’s children have his temperament.”
Murielle should her head. “I would stay if the new governor allowed it, but the countess has already told me my services won’t be needed. With you gone little one, it will break my heart to leave Madame Isabelle.” She pursed her lips. “The chevalier is a disgusting lecher. Every time he steps foot here, one of the maids suffers from his attentions. I do not envy you your future husband.”
Isabelle frowned. “I didn’t realize he was a frequent visitor here,” she said. “He claims he will be spending most of his time at court.”
“That will be a blessing for you. For the past year, he came once a month on business for the king. Following your husband’s death, he was here every fortnight.” Murielle reached out to touch her hand. “I wish with all my heart that I could spare you this marriage, but we must all obey the king. I will miss you.”
“And I you—both of you.”
Isabelle swallowed the lump in her throat. If the chevalier had been here that often, he could’ve poisoned her father. So many theories, so many questions, and yet no answers. No proof of any kind!
She leaned over and took her cousin’s hands in hers.
“As much as you love Normandy, New France is beautiful, too. Guy Poirier was at Prime this morning; I told him everything.”
“Everything?” interrupted Murielle.
“Well, everything relating to Sophie. He has no reason to know what will happen to me.” Isabelle focused on her cousin once more. “His mother sails with you on Friday. Do you remember her? She used to feed us sugar cookies when we played at the viscount’s home with Anne. They’ll get you safely to Ville-Marie and help you claim the land. Since you have a year to choose a husband, you can stay with them until you do.”
Seeing the confused look on Murielle’s face, Isabelle repeated what Guy had told her.
“I can’t take what’s yours,” Sophie insisted.
“It isn’t mine,” Isabelle said, shaking her head. “It belongs to the Widow Gaudier, and that’s you. You have the documents to prove it. I went through my strongbox last night searching for mine, and while my baptismal certificate was there, my marriage license, contract, and letters I’d saved from Pierre weren’t.” She swiped at her eyes. She would not cry again. “While I can’t prove I was ever married to Pierre, I know he would want his land claimed. If you like, Guy will buy it from you, but you can keep the house.”
“It seems so unfair.” Sophie frowned. “Why would the king do this to us?”
“No one said life in service to the king was fair, but I’m not sure that everything that has happened is all of his doing. I’m convinced plans were put in place even before Pierre came back to France and that he was an unwilling pawn in their scheme. It takes weeks to create a gown like the one I wore last night, and months to arrange diplomatic missions. I believe whoever conspired against Pierre has a hand in this, too. I just don’t know what the end game is. For what it’s worth, my path was chosen for me at birth. You’ll start a wonderful new life in a new world, one that’s fresh and clean. I’ll remain here. The land will sustain me, just as it’s always done.” Isabelle sighed, the lie bitter in her mouth.
“Do you really think New France will be as beautiful as it is here?” Sophie asked, her voice filled with hope.
“I do. Before he went to stand before the lit de justice, Pierre told me all about the colony.” Isabelle reached for her cousin’s hand. “It’s a wonderful green place in spring and summer, a mosaic of red, gold, and orange in autumn, and in winter, there is so much snow, it buries everything under a blanket of white. There are majestic mountains, huge forests, and fertile valleys. The rivers are full of fish, and there are rare and unusual plants the like of which you’ve never seen. Imagine, the maple trees are tapped in the spring to collect buckets of sap which is boiled into a delicious liquid or made into hard, sweet cakes. The syrup and sugar are used to sweeten gruel and teas as well as other foods. In early spring they pour it over snow and make taffy for the children.”
“I’ve heard some of the farmers here tried to do it, but the trees aren’t as prolific, and they get very little syrup for the amount of sap they boil,” Murielle added. “Perhaps I should go to New France when I leave here. I may be too old to bear children, but I could care for them. Even the lesser nobility can use trained servants.”
“Do come,” Sophie said, looking happier than she had in days. “You can live with me.” She turned back to Isabelle. “Did he mention anything else?”
“He did. He told me about the most unusual animals. The beaver, plentiful and a favorite with trappers, lives in the water in dams he builds with trees he chops down by chewing the trunks. He uses his large flat tail to slap the water and warn others of danger.” Sophie laughed encouraging Isabelle to continue. “There’s another animal about the size of a cat with markings around its face resembling a mask over its eyes and a striped, bushy tail. Pierre called it a raton laveur because it washes its food. There are all sorts of birds as well—some small and beautifully colored with fine singing voices. Others, ugly and three times larger than geese, are excellent to eat. And the woodpeckers can be as big as a man’s forearm. Pierre and I were planning to move there when his business with the king was over.”
“I wish you could come with me now,” Sophie exclaimed. Her brow creased, and her mouth tightened. “Did he say anything about the savages?”
“Only that he’d made friends with some of the Huron and Montagnais, even with a few Mohawks, occasionally even dressing as they do to hunt or travel through the forests. Of course, not all the tribes have signed peace treaties with France. Some are more dangerous than others, but he believed they were doing the same as any man would if his way of life was threatened. The missionaries have tried to convert them, but they’ve had little success. Unfortunately, war is the way of the world. Someone always wants what someone else has.” She shook her head. “I’m hungry; let’s see what Lucie has packed for us.”
Half an hour later, Isabelle, an uneaten apple in her hand, stared at the château in the distance. Papa, Mama, and Pierre were all buried here. Who would tend their graves once she, Sophie, and Murielle were gone?
Papa’s words came back to her—follow your heart. Her heart was with Sophie and Guy. She needed to go to New France. If her plan worked, Isabelle de Caen would die, but she, nameless and homeless, would survive. No one must ever know the truth. What she was contemplating was treason, and while she didn’t want to lose her head, she couldn’t stay here, marry the chevalier, and watch innocent people die because of it.
* * *
It was late Wednesday evening when Isabelle bid goodnight to Sophie and locked herself in her bedroom. She thought of the small crock under her bed—the one she’d stolen from the shed on Sunday. It would either mean her death or her salvation. She’d know which within twenty-four hours. Sophie’s ship sailed at daybreak Friday. Tomorrow morning, Isabelle would take her to the ship and bid her adieu—temporarily, she hoped.
The poor girl had cried herself into a tizzy tonight and Murielle had sedated her. The stablemen would be up to get the trunks shortly, but before they did, Isabelle had a few things to add to them. She stared down at the key in her hand and the footlocker Guy had brought her. She’d spent the last twenty-four hours perfecting the plan for her escape. There were dangers and pitfalls to be sure, but the more she thought about it, the more convinced she was it would work.
As much as it hurt her to do it, Isabelle left all the personal correspondence and the rest of Pierre’s clothes in the small chest. She emptied her large trunk, opened the secret compartment in the bottom and put in a few of her mother’s jewels she wanted to keep, half the money Guy had given her as well as the money she’d had before, and Pierre’s papers. She repacked the trunk adding the mittens and slippers from Pierre’s chest and a few of her mother’s household items she’d requested for Sophie but intended to keep for herself if all went well. The best of her clothing had been packed for her cousin, but Isabelle removed her fur lined cape Papa had given her from the items she was supposed to take to Paris and added it to the trunk for New France. Three trunks would accompany Sophie to the ship tomorrow. Two would go below and stay there until she arrived in New France. The third, bulging at the seams, contained more than she would need for the journey.
The garments from the Queen would remain at Caen when Isabelle fled—all except one dress she’d packed at the bottom of one of Sophie’s larger trunks. Isabelle de Caen couldn’t very well vanish naked. The de Caen Emeralds and most of her jewels would stay here as well. She would have no need for them, and since the Emeralds were well-known, having them would paint a bull’s eye on her. Pulling out her small satchel, she added two chemises, one to wear to bed, a sleeping bonnet, a petticoat, stockings, an old brush and comb, and her black wool dress. She crammed in a thin shawl and a sunbonnet that all but covered her face, and the pair of solid shoes she’d purchased from the shoemaker on Monday. She searched for an extra pair of shoe ribbons, but couldn’t find any. She looked down at the pitiful valise. It would have to do.
* * *
Guy paced the deck of L’Aigle Doré, ignoring the stiffness in his leg and the disquiet eating at him. He’d boarded the refitted warship Wednesday afternoon, watching as the men laded the last of the cargo Jean Talon had requested him to oversee aboard the vessel as well as his own goods and animals. A day or two aboard the ship before it sailed would give the stock time to acclimatize and get used to the rolling deck. Animals got seasick, just as humans did, some worse than others, but proper pens and cages as well as fresh air, good food, and plenty of fresh water went a long way toward increasing their comfort. He’d checked each crate, pen, cage, and container stored below ensuring everything was in order.
He’d spent most of Tuesday in Paris, hoping to learn for himself what had happened to Pierre. Unfortunately, it was just as the count had said in his note. The tavern where he’d met his fate didn’t exist. In its stead, a shoemaker, a dressmaker, a milliner, and a tailor shared the premises, and by all accounts, the little group had been there for years. People had entered steadily while he’d watched, and curious to see inside, he’d gone in and purchased a shawl for his mother. Despite what his eyes saw, his gut remained unsettled. Something was wrong, but he didn’t for the life of him know what.
This morning, he’d risen at dawn and now awaited the coach bringing Sophie to the ship, hoping Isabelle would accompany her. The week, the last he would ever spend in France, had brought him one disappointment after another, but the worst blow had been inflicted on Sunday when he’d returned from Caen. No wonder Isabelle had looked so desolate when he’d spoken with her, but why hadn’t she told him herself?
Upon his arrival, his mother had been quick to inform him that the upcoming marriage of Isabelle de Caen and the Chevalier d’Angrignon had been announced in church that morning and would take place in Paris within a fortnight. The after-church gossip had been full of censure, but no one would openly oppose it since the news had been delivered as an edict from the king. Poor Isabelle. If Louis had decided she was to marry d’Angrignon, nothing could be done to prevent it.
The fact that Isabelle would be remaining at Caen, a place where her father had suspected she would be in danger, worried him, but what could he do? He would be thousands of miles away. He could only pray her new husband, despite his hatred for the man, would keep her safe.
The sound of horses’ hooves on the planking near the dock drew his attention. He glanced up to see a carriage stop at the end of the pier where the ship was moored. The first mate, expecting the coach, ordered the seamen to help the stevedores load the baggage into the aft hold. Apparently, Madame Gaudier, a woman chosen by the great Colbert himself, would replace Sister Francis and chaperone and care for the young women aboard the ship. Sadly, the nun had fallen seriously ill, and her prognosis wasn’t good. He frowned. There seemed to be a lot of this unusual illness in France these days. Maman’s comments about poisons came back to him.
While Guy had known Sophie was sailing with them, he hadn’t expected her to oversee the new brides. Would she even know how to care for them? Perhaps he could enlist his mother to help her. Having something to keep her occupied would help the voyage be less tedious. All he could do was pray that no one aboard the ship would come down with the strange illness, if that’s what it was, and that they would have a smoother sailing than he’d had on the way over.
Captain Étier, a military officer with naval experience, who’d simply expected to take a refitted warship to her next assignment, had been relieved when a replacement for the chaperone had been found so quickly, even more so when Guy had added that he knew the lady. The last thing that man wanted to do was deal with nervous, frightened women.
Guy was certain the captain wasn’t happy having any female passengers aboard his vessel. Since this ship and its crew were on a vital mission for the king, he’d accepted the slight detour and the fact that one of his passengers technically outranked him. As a former lieutenant with the regiment in New France, Guy was tasked with ensuring each of the new recruits was fully trained before they reached their final destination. Their lives depended on it.
The driver assisted a woman from the carriage, and his heart soared. The gown was too rich for it to be anyone but Isabelle. He walked as quickly as his limp would allow down the gangplank and approached the coach. The woman in purple silk looked up at him and although the resemblance was incredible, her chocolate brown eyes told him she wasn’t the woman he wanted. Why had he never noticed the similarity between the cousins? Seeing her, day in, day out, would be a knife thrust to his heart. Could he marry her as Isabelle had suggested and not dishonor her by dreaming he was in another woman’s arms?
Ashamed of himself and his wayward thoughts, he approached Sophie and bowed.
“Madame Gaudier. I’m Guy Poirier, an old friend of Pierre’s. Do you remember me, even just a little?”
As Pierre’s widow she deserved every bit of respect he himself did, and although he knew she was an imposter, he could never reveal that secret. While Sophie smiled, he could see the ravages of sorrow on her pale face, a face so like Isabelle’s. Her eyes and nose were red from crying. Going to New France because you wanted to, was one thing. Being forced to go someplace where you’d be completely alone, was another.
“Good morning, Sieur, I do remember you. Anne and I were very close, and she spoke of you long after you’d left the vicomte’s home for school. You were her hero as you are now mine. I don’t know how I’ll ever be able to thank you for your kindness. Izzy,” she called into the carriage, using the pet name she’d given Isabelle years ago. “Look who’s here, just as you said he would be.”
Guy’s heart soared.
Isabelle stepped out of the carriage, rendering him speechless. Why had he thought Sophie resembled her? This woman was magnificent, vibrant, and full of life. She glowed, reducing the other to a mere shadow.
The men unloading carriages and wagons nearby stopped in their tracks, their mouths gaping open at the sight. Gone was the despondent woman from Sunday, replaced by a beauty who would turn heads at court. No man who saw her today would ever forget her. Never before had he envied and despised a man at the same time as much as he did the chevalier right this minute.
While the dark wine color might be appropriate, the gown she wore didn’t befit a woman in mourning, but he couldn’t deny how well it suited her. A small velour cape covered her shoulders, exposing most of the burgundy and silver striped silk shimmering in the sunlight. Cut very low at the bodice, it revealed her milk white bosom, marred only by the garnet necklace she wore. Unlike Sophie’s pale face, her cheeks had been rouged, her lips stained, and her eyes made larger and brighter somehow. A feathered, burgundy bonnet sat atop her long hair arranged in ringlets.
“Good morning, my lady,” Guy said, stepping closer to her and bowing. “You both look lovely, truly the brightest flowers on the wharf today. Allow me to offer my good wishes for your upcoming nuptials.”
Isabelle nodded. “Thank you. I would’ve preferred more time, but the king’s orders must be obeyed.”
Had he seen anger flash in her eyes?
At the abrupt order from the first mate, the men returned to their labor, secretly casting glances at the women as they worked. The first mate came over to the trio to be introduced. Reluctantly, Guy did the honors.
“Monsieur Martin, may I present Madame Sophie Gaudier who’ll be sailing with us, and Dame Isabelle de Caen, fiancée to the Chevalier D’Angrignon, the future Countess de Caen. Ladies, Monsieur Lucien Martin is first mate on L’Aigle Doré; he’s second-in-command to Captain Étier.”
“Enchanté, Mesdames.” He removed his hat and bowed deeply. “Madame Gaudier, welcome to L’Aigle Doré. We’re very grateful you could join us on this voyage. Hopefully, the trip will be a pleasant one for you. We’ve made many modifications to the ship to ensure your comfort. If there’s anything you need, please let me know.”
Guy watched Isabelle step forward and hold out her gloved hand. The man took it and placed a chaste kiss on it. Jealousy flashed through him even at this innocent gesture.
He pictured the future awaiting the woman he’d always love, imagined her at the chevalier’s mercies, and clenched his fists. He would like nothing better than to run the chevalier through, kidnap Isabelle, and vanish with her, but to do so would be to commit treason himself. Isabelle giggled softly and brought him back to the moment.
“The pleasure is ours, sir. I’m certain Sophie will be safe in your capable hands. Could we have a tour of the ship? I know she’ll get to see it during the voyage, but I won’t.” She pouted and batted her eyelashes. “Do say it’s possible. I don’t want to leave Sophie any sooner than I have to.”
“While I would love to give you a tour, madame, I can’t,” Monsieur Martin said, smiling and shaking his head. “My duties require me to stay at my post and supervise the provisioning. The ship must carry enough to see us to New France. Perhaps my lord would do the honors?”
“Oh, Guy, do say you will,” Isabelle begged, her now bare hand on his arm.
He could feel her heat through the thin linen of his shirt, imprinting itself on his skin.
“It would be my pleasure,” he answered, grateful he sounded normal, not as off-kilter as he felt, grateful for the opportunity to spend a bit more time with her.