Wild Rose (29 page)

Sophie, lost in the newly formed group, was unsure what to do. She turned then, still smiling, and began the walk she had been avoiding back to
grand-mère
and the buggy and another cold Sunday lunch in the dining room, the walls’ dark paneling giving off a surly gleam in the poor light from the velvet-draped windows. For some reason grandmother loved the room, Sophie could only guess because it reminded her of her first home in her grandparents’ seigneurial mansion, long gone to damp and rot, or fire, or to
l’anglais
Robert Harrison who had bought the
seigneury
when grandmother was still a child. Sophie hadn’t gone three steps, the chatter of the Hippolyte and Beauchamp females trailing brightly behind her, when she felt a light tap on her shoulder.

It was Pierre Hippolyte, not bowing, looking frankly – too frankly – into her face, so that for an instant, her breath caught so that she touched her throat with her fingertips as if to free it.

“You dropped this, I think,” he said. It was a woman’s pale kid glove, although not Sophie’s, and she indicated this by lifting the two of her own that she held between her clasped hands, mutely showing him. He held up the one he had found, grinned – her heart jumping at those white teeth and light-flashing eyes –
as if he had just had a marvellous idea, and keeping his gaze on her face, tossed the found glove over his shoulder. It landed a short distance away on the grass. She laughed aloud, then covered her mouth with one hand before dropping it

“May I walk with you to your house?” Confused, she looked around at her grandfather, who was still lost in his conversation with Monsieur Hippolyte, now joined by
monsieur le docteur
and M. Beauchamp.

“You will miss your ride home,” she said, wanting to, but uncertain as to whether she could agree to this or not.

“I can walk,” he said, slapping his hand against his thigh as if to indicate the muscles, which she inadvertently found herself gazing at until she realized the impropriety – an instant, that was all – and looked quickly back up to his face. He was more than a head taller than her, not as tall as her grandfather, but taller than his own short, thickset father. His hair, blacker than her own, had a slight curl in it, a lock fell onto his forehead, partly covering his eye, and he tossed his head to throw it back. She clutched her embroidered reticule, her gloves, and the missal in both hands, trying not to look into his face, so he wouldn’t know how his unconscious gesture had affected her.

She saw then over Pierre’s shoulder that grandfather had finished his conversation with the farmers and was coming to where she and Pierre stood facing each other. Seeing her expression, Pierre glanced backwards and whispered, hurriedly, to Sophie, “Meet me here at the church as soon as you can after
le déjeuner,”
then straightening, smiling at her, just as grandfather arrived who, touching Sophie’s forearm with his carefully groomed, pale hand, said cheerfully to Pierre, “Well, young man. Time to go home for
le repas,”
both dismissing him and making clear that he gave no credence to the young peoples’ conversation, though neither was he angry. Pierre nodded, took Sophie’s hand, made something approaching a bow over it, that caused her blush and smile secretly.

“Next Sunday,” he dared to say as he bowed, and in grandfather’s presence, but so softly he probably hadn’t heard; she couldn’t quite believe he had said it.

At the buggy grandmother sat staring straight ahead, annoyed. Grandfather ignored her, helping Sophie up and climbing in himself, taking the reins, starting the horse. As their buggy fell into the line of buggies leaving the churchyard, Sophie wanted to look back, to see Pierre again, but she didn’t dare:
Grand-mère
would be watching. If it were not for grandmother, she and her grandfather would probably walk to and from church as so many of the parishioners were inclined to do, if only because they lived nearby and it was a nuisance to hitch the buggy. As they passed, Sophie watched them wistfully, seeing school friends linking arms, groups of interesting young men laughing together, their jocularity loud, adults calling cheerfully back and forth across the road where each family group walked. Children, as always, played noisy tag, ignoring the half-hearted admonishments of their elders, dodging in and out among them, and little girls scowled and complained to their mothers when their boots were muddied or their skirts splattered by the boys.

Home they would go, Sophie thought, where the mothers would set down their babies and put on their aprons, the fathers would light their pipes and relax into their rocking chairs on the porch or next to the hearth, and any farm chores not yet done would be attended to by the older children while the younger ones played, and the older girls helped cook the big meal. She sat patiently, not moving, thinking of this, that she knew about only because some of her friends from the convent lived in this way, and from her few visits to the Hippolytes with her grandfather. She suddenly remembered that he had greeted them today as “
mes cousins.”
Was he only being extra-friendly? She supposed that was it.

How she wished to be allowed to get down from the buggy and walk among the families, but grandmother was not like most
Canadiens
and set a standard for Sophie, quite different from that of everyone else in the village, that grew more unbearable – it was stifling – to Sophie every year. But already, they were drawing toward the back of their lot at the edge of the village where the small barn that housed their horse sat, the wide door open. She thought, as grandfather helped his wife down from the buggy, and she waited patiently for him to help her, stifling her urge to jump down herself,
I am not a child anymore
, and then, in a surfeit of impatience and irritation:
I will meet Pierre Hippolyte.

The idea swelled, took form, grew into firmness and solidity. After lunch grandmother would nap or read her prayer book, grandfather might go out to visit the notary, M. Chouinard, or he might spend the afternoon with his books in the study, or perhaps
le docteur
would drop in to see him, and she would be sentenced to her room and the study of religious books, lately it was Thomas à Kempis’s
Imitation of Christ
, until dinner was called, to be followed by the trip back to the church for Benediction. She would not stand for it; she would go out, and hang the consequences, although her chest trembled a little at the thought of her own daring.

At last lunch ended, no one having said anything of import about anything, except for grandfather making some mention to grandmother about the Ménard boy who had disappeared, and found again finally only by the note he sent back to his terrified parents that he was on a train for the West and did not plan to come back. Their mutual disapproval wafted down the table, no comment being necessary. Grandfather rose at last glancing directly at Sophie as she and grandmother rose simultaneously, grandmother’s black silk gown rustling, Sophie’s softer dimity dress barely whispering.

“Sophie, come with me.” Startled, she opened her mouth to speak, would have turned to grandmother for an explanation, but already the woman was going out the door that led into the kitchen as if she knew very well what grandfather’s summons was about, and grandfather was standing back at the door into the hall, one arm stretched gallantly, palm open toward her to indicate she was to go through first.

In his study seated across his heavy mahogany desk from him, her knees trembled; she bunched her skirt over them to hide the shaking. All sorts of awful possibilities flitted through her brain,
the worst that he was about to marry her off to some old man she had never even met.
I will run away
, she told herself, but to go where? Only Montréal and the homes of her brothers came to mind. She had no one else and nowhere else to go.

“You are eighteen now,” he said, “Soon to be nineteen years, I believe.” She held herself motionless. “You have no vocation…” he lifted his eyes to hers at this as if to make sure. Mutely, she gave a quick shake, no. “And there seems to be nothing you want particularly to do, is there?” She had dropped her eyes to her neatly-clasped hands resting on her lap and didn’t respond. It was hard to breathe. She wanted…she wanted… She did not know precisely what it was she wanted, but with such a profound yearning that mostly she dared not think of it. He waited, but nothing came into her mind to say. “You must marry then,” he said, and sighed. She wondered, was his sigh because of the difficulties he would have to deal with? Or was it – could it be – some sort of regret? Through her shame that she was now discovered to be so useless, and fear of what he would propose, a finger of anger began to stir.

“I want…” she said, trying desperately to think of something to ward off whatever he was about to say.

“Yes?”

“I want…to visit my brothers in Montréal.” He had raised his thick white eyebrows and gazed over her head at the ecclesiastical books in Latin on the shelves behind her. She had never seen anyone take one of those books off the shelf, except for Antoinette, who dusted them carefully, holding each as if it were the Monstrance itself. In the silence she became even more aware of how the thick wood of the door, the wall paneling fronted by bookshelves and glass-fronted cases containing mysterious objects she had never been given the chance to study, served to mute all other sound in or out of the house. It is like a tomb, she thought, and the shaft of anger pierced again, that fate had brought her this. She vowed again: She
would
meet Pierre Hippolyte.

“We can consider that, I suppose,” he said at last. “But I have other business to discuss.”

She waited. “I have had several expressions of interest in you as a potential…wife.” Not one young man had spoken to her or even looked in her direction, and yet “several” wanted to marry her? Or did this mean only that the young men’s parents thought she would be a good choice for their sons, having a prosperous family behind her, and grandmother’s seigneurial background providing a rise in social status for members of the
bourgeoisie
and
habitants
alike?
But I am too young!
she wanted to shout.
I don’t want to marry yet!
She swallowed, keeping her eyes down.

“Who?” Her tone was surly, her eyes fixed on the polished edge of his giant desk. He cleared his throat, as if suddenly embarrassed by his mission. A long hesitation, then he said, “André Chouinard, (she knew him a bit; his father often visited grandfather), Mathieu Grandmaison (she had never heard of him), Jacques Allard.” Oh yes, his father had a lot of land scattered about the parish. Him, she might have seen once or twice, where exactly she could not recall. Without softening her tone, she asked, “Whom have you chosen?”

Surprised by her ungraciousness, he said, “Sophie, you must look at me.” Reluctantly, she raised her eyes to meet his. “I thought you would be pleased to establish your own home,” his tone mild. She hadn’t thought of such a thing, only of the man he would choose to be her husband, only of the tyranny of marriage to someone she didn’t love, didn’t even know, when she was herself bursting with pure desire despite having no idea for what. “We might choose together,” he offered. “They would all make excellent husbands for you, I believe. No …difficulties…taint any of them, and all are…gentlemen.” What did she care for gentlemen? In fact, they were all members of the
bourgeoisie
; none of them would be gentlemen in grandmother’s eyes.
Poof
, she thought, in her consternation daring to dismiss grandmother.

“But, I don’t want to marry – yet.” It disconcerted her to hear how childish she sounded now. He tapped his fingers on his desk, considering, gazing into the shadows behind her.

“You
are
young,” he said. “I know that, yet your grandmother…” He fell silent, then took in a long breath through his nostrils, still not looking at her. “I want to make sure you are safe,” he said, “Should anything…happen to me.” Sophie couldn’t imagine what he meant; she wanted to ask, but was suddenly afraid.

“Grandfather,” she began, but he interrupted, smiling pleasantly at her as if there had been no earlier dip into some other subject which neither of them wanted to approach. He said, heartily, “We must make plans. The most suitable young men will marry elsewhere if we don’t make our arrangements. I want the best for you, of course, among those who are marriageable.” She didn’t answer. “We make our choice, do the…ah…business, and then we wait.”

“How long do I have?”

“Your grandmother tells me that first we invite the suitors and their families so we might meet them. We make our choice, then your suitor and you would meet now and then… A year, I think, would be about right.” They sat in silence, not looking at each other. “You must prepare your
trousseau, n’est-ce pas?”
His attempt at jocularity passed Sophie by. In a year, unless she took some steps of her own – and what would they be – she would be a married woman. It was too shocking; she thought for a moment that she might faint, black pinpricks swarmed before her eyes, her breath was coming too quickly. She whispered, “May I go, grandfather? I need…to think about this.”

“Yes, yes, go, of course, go.” She started to rise, the dizziness assailing her, slowing her. “I hope you haven’t any foolish ideas about choosing your own husband,” he said, his voice wavering between firmness and humour. “Your choice must be from these three.”