Shadowbrook (47 page)

Up on the hill it was said that the Poor Clares had a postulant, so they were six wise virgins these days. Or maybe not so wise. The damp was seeping into his bones. It was hard to imagine living walled into this hovel, forever separated from a big roaring fire, or a roast of beef turning on a spit, or even a glass of decent Burgundy.
“Veni sponsa Christi …”
Come, bride of Christ, accept the crown that has been prepared for you.

Today Nicole took the habit. She had imagined that as a bride she would wear flowers in her hair.
Quent will wait in the Frolic Ground and I will come down the stairs of the big house, wearing a gown of lawn and lace sashed with ribbons, and there will be flowers in my hair.
There were few flowers in bloom in Québec in April. Soeur Marie Françoise, the keeper of the tiny garden behind the monastery walls. She had scoured the small square of earth and managed to find only three snowdrops and a few greening twigs. These she had woven together with some twine for Nicole’s hair.

“What do you ask?” Père Antoine asked.

“Mon Père,
I beg you for the love of God to admit me to the Second Seraphic Order, that I may do penance, amend my life, and serve God feithfully unto death.”

Nicole wore the simple gray Poor Clare robe with the wide sleeves and the knotted white cord at the waist. As a postulant she had been given black felt slippers, now she was barefoot That first day with Quent, when he threw her into the stream to stop her hysterics, she’d told him she wanted to be barefoot. Instead, later, when they were at Shadowbrook, he had given her moccasins of soft white leather, and put them on her feet with his own hands. His fingers had traveled up the calves of her legs and touched her knees and then …
Madame Hale will open the door of the house and I will step onto the great front verandah, then walk past the chestnut tree with the wooden bench circling the trunk Quent will be waiting for me in the Frolic Ground. He will smile and put out his hand. I will take it.”

Soeur Marie Joseph stepped from her choir stall and bowed deeply toward the altar and the tabernacle that contained the Sacred Host, then took her position at the cantor’s lectern.
“O quam pulchra est
… “she sang in her dear and lovely voice. How beautiful it is to choose to be forever virgin, a sacrifice of praise.

Thank God she did not have to chant with her sisters. Nicole’s throat was closed and her mouth was dry. Because I am so happy, she told herself. I am filled with joy because today I give myself entirely to le bon Dieu. From now on she was no longer a postulant whose vocation was being tested, but a novice, a nun in training.
In the Frolic Ground everyone will cheer when the wedding ceremony ends. Then my great red bear of a husband—called Uko Nyakwai by the Indians and my dearest darling by me—will kiss his bride. How insistent are the lips of my beloved, how sure when he takes what is rightly his.

Mère Marie Rose left her choir stall. Nicole bent her head. The abbess removed the crown of flowers and little Soeur Marie Angelique brought the scissors. They were long and very sharp, with oversize handles that had once been painted bright blue but were now chipped and faded. Mère Marie Rose took them in her right hand, with her left lifted a hank of Nicole’s black hair, and cut it as close to the scalp as possible. Angelique held open a small drawstring bag to receive
Nicole’s curls. Two days before, when it was certain Nicole would remain in the monastery, the gray Quaker dress she’d worn when she entered had been cut up to be used for cleaning rags. A small piece had been kept aside and given to Nicole to stitch a
suaire à cheveux,
as the nuns called it, a shroud for her hair. Later, at the festive recreation period that would celebrate her new status, Nicole would throw the
suaire à cheveux
and its contents onto the fire.

The abbess snipped from forehead to nape of the neck and crosswise from ear to ear. Her scissors missed nothing. Nicole thought she must look like a lamb after shearing. Or perhaps the funny little hairless dog Grandmère always carried around in a bag. Soeur Celeste came forward and offered the abbess two folded squares of white linen. Mère Rose took the one on top and gathered the fabric in her hands and fitted it to the new nun. The wimple covered Nicole’s head and neck and most of her forehead, allowing only her face to show. The abbess laced it tightly in the back
“Quia concupivit Rex speciem tuam,”
Soeur Joseph sang. Thy beauty now is all for the King’s delight.

Marie Rose’s hand trembled slightly when she added the white veil and pinned it in place over the wimple. I am a foolish old woman, she thought, not worthy to be an abbess of the Poor Clares. But you have chosen me,
mon Dieu,
and you have chosen this child as well. And you have given to me the task of making her a saint so that many souls may be saved. I swear to you I will not fail.

“Vent sponsa Christi,”
the nuns chanted. Come bride of Christ, accept the crown that has been prepared for you. The abbess put both her hands on the shoulders of the new novice. “From this day forward, you will be known as Soeur Marie Stephane,” the abbess said. Nicole had been named for the Church’s first martyr, the man who soon after the Crucifixion had been stoned to death for proclaiming Jesus Christ the Messiah, the Promised One, the Son of God. St. Stephane had a very high place in heaven, the Church taught, because he had suffered so intensely for the glory of the Faith.

Mère Rose helped the new nun to her feet and led her to the door to the public chapel. She unlocked it and opened it wide.
“Vous pouvez aller si vous voulez,”
the abbess said.
“Vous êtes libre.”
You can go if you wish. You are free.

Nicole turned to face the congregation. In the ordinary way of things she would have had family and friends come to see her make this most solemn commitment. If she were in France, perhaps, and if Maman had lived and poor Papa—There was a man in the back of the public chapel. A black robe. She had never seen him before, but Nicole addressed her words to him simply because he was there. “I, Nicole Marie Francine Winifred Anne Crane, make this decision freely, with no coercion and for no reason other than the love of Almighty God.” It was so long since she had spoken all the names that had been given to her at baptism and Confirmation she had almost forgotten them. No matter. She did
not have to remember them any longer. “From this day forward I am Soeur Marie Stephane.”

Philippe could tell the girl was beautiful even though much of her face was covered by the wimple and the veil. And she looked … what? Not radiant exactly. Determined.
Alors,
it would take a strong will indeed to voluntarily lock yourself up in this barren place.

Nicole turned back to Mère Marie Rose, who had lowered her black veil over her face. The new nun knelt and the abbess put out both hands. Nicole lay hers on them. “I swear by Almighty God that henceforth you will be my mother and I will be your child. I will obey you in all things, unhesitatingly and with all my heart and soul. I swear this
au nom du Père, et du Fils, et du Sant-Esprit,”
she added. A solemn promise made in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit.

The abbess made a large sign of the cross in the air over Nicole’s head. “Come inside, my daughter,” she said softly. “Your beauty now is all for the King’s delight.”

An hour later the rain had stopped. There was a thin sliver of blue in the gray sky, even a few sunbeams, when Philippe made his way aboard the small boat that had at last arrived. The man who owned it sailed regularly between Québec and Pointe-Lévis. “Sorry to keep you waiting, monsieur. But we have had much to contend with today.”

Philippe had never had good sea legs. The crossing to Canada from France had been hell, nine weeks of extraordinary penance. This journey would take less than an hour, but already he felt the nausea beginning in his belly and a bitter taste rising in his mouth. “The weather, you mean?”

“Not the storm alone. Word is that the English are sending a fleet to intercept our shipping. We must be careful not to sail anywhere near where they may be.”

“But surely Britain and France are not at war.” The letter behind the angel with the folded wings had promised some six thousand troops in the late spring when the river was entirely navigable. If there were English ships in these waters, they were here for the purpose of intercepting those troops. But no one was supposed to know about the soldiers being sent to Québec.

The sailor was busy casting off the lines that tethered the boat to the dock. “We are not at war with the English yet, but the way they’re all talking we may as well be.”

“Then this is to be a dangerous journey?”

“To Pointe-Lévis? No, I wouldn’t think so. Supposed to be a Mi’kmaq waiting to guide you the rest of the way to Fort Beauséjour. As to the danger …” The old seaman shrugged. “In this life who can say anything for sure, eh? But perhaps your black robe will protect you. Almighty God looks after Jesuits, no?” The sailor
crossed himself ostentatiously. “Better find somewhere to lash those things you brought with you. Looks like the rain’s coming back. Maybe even a real blow.”

The little boat was rocking back and forth. Philippe maintained a white-knuckled grip on the rail that topped the bulwark. To make his way across the deck seemed impossible. Lord, I know Monsieur le Provincial speaks with Your voice. Since he is sending me to Pointe-Lévis and then to l’Acadie, it is truly Your will that I go.

The Acadians live under nominal English rule, the Provincial had told him, but they are true to the Faith, and in their way, true to King Louis. You will reinforce those directions of their hearts, my son. You will strengthen them in resistance to heresy and heretical allegiance.

Philipe gribbed the rail. I wish always to follow the instructions of my superior, Lord, but I do not know how I am to do such wonders as he commands.
Eh bien,
I am content to wait and find out. Only grant that I do not disgrace myself on the journey. He’d no sooner made the prayer when he had to lean over the side and vomit.

MONDAY, MAY 10, 1755
FORT CUMBERLAND, ON THE BORDER BETWEEN MARYLAND AND THE OHIO COUNTRY

“We meet again, Colonel Washington.”

“So we do, Mr. Hale.”

“Quent.”

“Ah yes, you prefer that. Excuse me, I’d forgotten.”

Both men were more interested in their surroundings than in each other. What they were looking at was a miracle of sorts. A huge clearing surrounded a vast fortified enclosure fenced by God knew how many felled oaks and murdered chestnuts. There were ramparts, barracks, magazines, walls pierced with loopholes just large enough for a single musket, and ten embrasures fitted with small cannon. Wills Creek, one of the first English trading posts of the Ohio Country, had become Fort Cumberland, marshaling place for the force being assembled under the command of Major General Edward Braddock of His Majesty’s Coldstream Guards.

“A bit different than when you last saw it, I warrant.” There was pride in Washington’s voice.

“A bit,” Quent agreed. “And not what I expected. I heard that both Braddock’s regiments arrived shy at least two hundred men.”

That didn’t seem likely, judging from the bustle around them. A river of redcoats flowed through a heaving mass of provincial militia wearing the uniforms
of Pennsylvania, Virginia, and Maryland and the different forms of transport that would carry them into battle. A group of young men dressed in the workaday outfits they wore on the farms and in the towns was assembled on the parade ground. They were the latest colonial recruits to become members of the Forty-fourth and Forty-eighth Foot, the pair of regiments Braddock had brought to the New World. A redcoat whose face dripped sweat beneath his bearskin was drilling them in marching order.

“Both regiments were light back in March when they landed,” Washington agreed. “But they were permitted to subscribe American colonists to bring them up to strength.”

“It appears they did well.” It wasn’t what Quent would have expected. There had been plenty of talk about the colonists doing their duty as Britons before the troops actually arrived, but American boys were never anxious to subject themselves to the rigid discipline of the British army in which absolute adherence to orders was demanded, and severe whippings and sometimes death followed any infraction of the rules. That sort of unthinking obedience didn’t seem to be in the native character. “Useful that these lads were feeling so patriotic,” Quent said.

The tall Virginian didn’t answer right away. He appeared intent on the exercises on the parade ground. Still lusting for glory, aren’t you, Quent thought, despite that disaster on Great Meadows.

“Soon as he arrived the General met with Mr. Franklin of Philadelphia,” Washington said finally. “Mr. Franklin took things in hand and there’s been no end of volunteers since.”

Quent grinned. “So that story’s true, is it?” Word was that Franklin had printed a shower of broadsides saying that if men and materiel were offered, the pay would be handsome. If they were not, London had authorized hordes of redcoats to descend on Pennsylvania—and probably the other colonies—and take what they wanted. Dozens of meetings were organized where Franklin’s warnings were proclaimed and the alarm raised. It had been easy to rally the necessary volunteers and supplies after that.