11

Thunder grumbled over the river as Tristan assisted his clearly petrified new wife up the steps to the gallery of Charles Levasseur’s vacant cabin. At some level he was saddened by his old friend’s absence, but he could only be glad that Marc-Antoine had arranged for the cabin to be made available for him and Geneviève. He could imagine Bienville’s ire at being informed that one of his precious Pélican brides had been stolen out from under his nose by “Monsieur Nothing,” as Bienville liked to call Tristan. But once the marriage was consummated, there would be nothing he could do about it.

Tristan had every intention of claiming his bride in every sense of the word before he left for Alabama territory. He had weighed all the consequences and prepared for all eventualities. If he should die while on the trip, Geneviève would be well cared for, and should he have the blessed good fortune to sire another child, so much the better.

He smiled, thinking of Marc-Antoine’s incredulous reaction to the information that his presence was required as witness to his brother’s last-minute nuptials.

“I wanted you to marry!” he had shouted, flinging his hands in the air as he was wont to do when excited. “In fact, the whole thing is entirely my idea! But to do it less than twelve hours before we depart for a two-month journey—this is insanity. And I can’t believe Geneviève Gaillain would consent—” Marc-Antoine stopped, frowning. “What have you done to her? Is she drunk?”

Tristan burst out laughing. “I don’t think so. But if she is, I don’t care. I want her, Marc-Antoine.” Sobering, he sank into a chair in Marc-Antoine’s room, and repeated softly, “I want her.”

Marc-Antoine stared at him for a moment, then finally shook his head. “All right, then, I suppose we’d best write your will. You’ll want to leave her cared for, in case neither of us comes back.”

Now Tristan stopped with a hand on Levasseur’s front door and looked at Geneviève. His wife. Lips pressed together tightly, she was staring at her hands linked together across her stomach.

“I’m sorry I can’t take you to your own house tonight. Tomorrow you’ll go back to the L’Anglois family, stay there until I come back, and then I’ll take you to my—our cabin down at the Mobile bluff.” He waited for her to answer, but all he got was a flash of her eyes and a quick nod before she looked at her hands again. He sighed. “Geneviève, please, look at me.”

Her long eyelashes fluttered, then lifted. He could imagine what was going on in her head. The blue-green eyes were glassy.

He touched her face. “It isn’t too late to change your mind. According to the church, an unconsummated marriage can be annulled.”

“No!” Blood fired into her pale cheeks. “I mean, I won’t change my mind.” Her chin lifted, and she gave him a trembling smile. “This is my choice too, Tristan.”

Oddly encouraged, he bent to kiss her cheek. But she turned her face under his hand, and her lips met his, cool and innocent, then parted on a gasp, and he was all undone, pulled into teaching his wife how to kiss on his deceased friend’s front gallery.

Somehow he got them inside the door, shut it behind them, and located Levasseur’s bedroom. He would forever be grateful to interfering Madame L’Anglois, for sometime during the simple supper they had enjoyed at the tavern, the hostess had come in and fluffed the mattress, covered it with a new blanket, and left a fragrant pile of Geneviève’s personal belongings on a small table in the corner.

Much later, while rain sluiced down upon the thatched roof, he paused to cup her face and make sure one more time before he was beyond the bounds of control. “I don’t want to . . . hurt you,” he whispered. Then swallowed, incurably honest. “Sometimes, I think, it—”

“I don’t care,” she whispered back. “I trust you.”

After that, he made her his wife in truth as well as words.

Sometime in the middle of the night, he woke and loved her again, overwhelmed that this beautiful woman had given herself to him. The rain had stopped, and the moon through the window shone carelessly upon his bride, allowing him to study the porcelain whiteness of her skin, so fair against his own swarthiness. He didn’t know how he was going to leave her in just a few short hours.

He found himself praying for her, something that had never occurred to him when he slept with Sholani. Truthfully, it had been a very long time since he’d felt the presence of his Creator, but there was something about Geneviève that reached a deep spiritual well within him. He knew that he would never be the same after this night.

When he lay still again, with her curled against him, he stroked her back, smiling at her deep, contented sigh.

Suddenly his fingers paused upon a ridge of raised flesh striped across her shoulder blades. He moved his hand down and found another, then a third thicker than the first two. “Geneviève.”

“Yes,” she said drowsily. “It’s me.”

He moved away from her, turning her so that the moonlight fell upon her back. He wanted to retch. “Who did this?”

She lay very still, her face turned away from him. After a long moment she said, “It doesn’t matter.”

“It does matter. I will kill him. Who did this?”

Moving one muscle at a time, she sat up, drawing the blanket up to cover herself. She hung her head so that her long, beautiful curly hair, which he had released from its braid, rippled about her face, shielding her expression even in the bright moonlight. “I don’t know his name.”

She had been a virgin. Nothing made sense. What could she have done to earn a whipping that would leave such violent scars? He couldn’t force her to tell him anything, but perhaps, if he were patient, in time she would trust him with the truth.

So he bent to plant kisses along the scars until she threw her arms around his neck and pulled him back down to the bed.

“I don’t want you to go,” she said.

“I know.” He laughed softly. “It seemed like a good idea at the time. But my brother is right. If we don’t intervene, the British will continue to stir one Indian clan against the other until they destroy each other. And that will leave us vulnerable to invasion from the east. I don’t understand why Louis doesn’t send more troops here, but—”

“Would he do that? I thought this was a peaceful settlement.”

Her question struck him as odd, but he supposed women weren’t taught to understand the colonization process. “Marc-Antoine is in a better position to know the plans of Bienville, Pontchartrain, and—by extension—the King himself. But generally speaking, there must be military support and protection for a settlement to prosper.” He sighed, twining a lock of her hair round his finger. “The difficulty comes in balancing friendly overtures to the natives and response to aggression.”

“That sounds very . . . complicated. What good will your presence on this trip do?”

“I’ll be along mainly as a guide. Marc-Antoine is very good at his job as a diplomat and translator, and your Father Mathieu seems to be a man of reason. But the others will need to be watched carefully, lest misunderstandings arise and conflicts escalate. If we can diplomatically convince the more warlike Indians to ally themselves and stop the slave trafficking, our troop deficits won’t be so dangerous.”

She was silent for a moment. “Why do you think the Crown has been so reluctant to provide support for us here?”

Her anxious tone tugged at his heart, making him long to reassure her. “Cherie, there is nothing to worry about.” He kissed her softly, and then more urgently. “I will come back to you, and we will live on our little plantation away from all this political maneuvering. You can meet my friend Deerfoot and his family and bake all the bread and cakes you want.”

“Deerfoot?”

“One of Bienville’s runners. When we first arrived at the Mobile River, we were all stationed at Massacre Island until Iberville could determine where the fort and settlement should be built. The Pascagoula clan there were friendly to us. Deerfoot in particular helped me with the native languages, and we often went fishing together. My wife, Sholani, was his relative.” He stopped. He had told himself not to mention Sholani. Not tonight, when his union with Geneviève was still so fragile and new.

But she put her hand on his chest, over his thumping heart. “I’m so sorry you lost her.”

Some piece of his broken spirit fell back into place. “I remember the good times so that I can survive the bad times.” His fingers traced the ridges on her back. “Perhaps you can do that too.”

Her voice cooled a little. “Perhaps.”

He was silent. She didn’t want to name her enemies, but neither would she forget them. Because he understood that, and because they had so little time, he comforted them both by holding her close until her breathing became regular and she relaxed in his arms.

He didn’t sleep after that, as his thoughts revolved in an endless cycle of awestruck wonder at his good fortune in finding two such women in one lifetime, of mental preparation for the coming negotiations, of bone-chilling fear for the real possibility of disaster.

God, he prayed at last, just as the first rays of dawn chased away the moonlight, since I have to leave her, would you watch over her until I return? Would you grant me wisdom and courage for the task ahead? And would you help me to understand your purposes as Father Mathieu seems to do?

He didn’t know what else to ask. So he rose and dressed, then stood looking at Geneviève for several precious moments. He didn’t dare kiss her for fear that he wouldn’t leave at all, so he backed away, closed the bedroom door behind him, and quietly left the cabin.

He had few illusions that a God as big and inscrutable as the one the Catholic Church championed had any interest in a ragged Canadian mapmaker. But with the welfare of Geneviève Gaillain unexpectedly in his hands, he wasn’t willing to take any chances.

From Levasseur’s cabin he walked the short distance to the riverfront, where he was to meet Marc-Antoine and the others at daybreak. He found Father Mathieu, dressed in his usual black robe cinched at the waist with a plain hempen cord, the bald spot at the top of his head covered by a black cap, and sturdy leather sandals on his feet, rocking on his heels at the top of the bluff. The priest hailed Tristan with twinkling eyes, then pointed down at the landing below, where Marc-Antoine supervised the loading of two pirogues commandeered for the trip. Crates of clothing and household items set aside as gifts for the Indian chiefs had been wrapped in waterproofed tarps, as had packs of dried foodstuffs that the personnel would eat when hunting and fishing proved unsuccessful.

Trying to look nonchalant, Tristan scrambled down the sandy bluff, which the rain had left soggy and soft, and landed with a thump of boots at the bottom.

Marc-Antoine, standing amidships of the near pirogue, looked around and whistled between his teeth, grinning. “Good morning, brother. You’re here bright and early. How fares your lovely bride?”

“Asleep and likely to stay that way until we’re well upriver.”

“Worn out, poor girl, I daresay.” He ducked, laughing, as Tristan picked up a canvas bag of sugar and flung it at him.

“Jealousy is unattractive in an officer,” Tristan said mildly. He looked around at the sound of voices on the bluff above, and frowned. “What’s Dufresne doing here?”

“Don’t know.” Marc-Antoine squinted into the half light over Tristan’s shoulder. “Let’s go see.” Leaving the packing to a couple of young cadets in the second pirogue, he leaped lightly onto the beach.

The two of them climbed the bluff, Marc-Antoine making it to the top just ahead of Tristan. He vaulted up the last few feet and caught his brother just as Dufresne pulled a roll of parchment out of his coat and opened it with an obnoxious flourish in Marc-Antoine’s face.

Dufresne eyed Tristan, his lips curled as if he’d just eaten a bad persimmon. “I want to check your supplies against this manifest from La Salle,” he said with his nasal Continental drawl. “Where are they?”

Marc-Antoine jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “Already in the boats. La Salle checked it himself last night, so I know he didn’t send you. Give me that.” He tweaked the parchment out of Dufresne’s grasp and scanned it. “This is somebody’s shopping list. La Salle wouldn’t tell you what we took, so you came to see for yourself.” He grinned at Dufresne. “Didn’t you?”

Dufresne bristled. “What if I did? I’m detached to Bienville, not La Salle, and it’s my job to keep the commander informed.”

“And yourself in the process.” Marc-Antoine flicked the parchment at Dufresne, who grabbed it, startled. “Take your scaly self back to headquarters and spy on someone else. I’ve got work to do.” He turned to Father Mathieu. “Are all your goods onboard, Father?”

“Yes, I—”

“Wait.” Dufresne interrupted the priest with a chopping motion of the parchment. “Father Mathieu, you take too much upon yourself. Father Henri says you have superseded his authority on many occasions of late, and he insists that you back off. Is it true that you performed a marriage ceremony yesterday without his permission?”

Father Mathieu glanced at Tristan. “I did perform the wedding of Monsieur Lanier and Mademoiselle Gaillain. But I don’t see that Brother Henri has any say in the duties I take on as chaplain.”

Dufresne’s complexion rivaled the color of his hair. “But as Father Henri is pastor of the Louisiane parish, duly commissioned by the bishop, protocol requires that you request permission from him before ministering to civilians.”

Tristan stepped between the aide-major and the priest. “Dufresne, you are ridiculous. What possible difference could it make to you who performed my wedding ceremony?”

“It—I—it is the principle of the thing!” Dufresne blustered. “Ridiculous, am I? That wedding was illegal, and you have ruined that young woman. Who will want her, now that—”

Tristan’s fist connected with Dufresne’s jaw, sending him flailing backward to tumble, cursing, head-over-heels down the bluff. Tristan leaned over the edge of the bluff to watch, shaking out his bruised knuckles, while Marc-Antoine shouted with laughter.

Father Mathieu gave a sigh of irritation before following Dufresne at a safer, more decorous pace. “Tristan,” he called over his shoulder, “please collect yourself while I check on the poor fellow.”

“Yes, Tristan,” his brother mocked, “you have exploded all over the lot of us. What demon has prompted you to such violence? Oh, wait, I know—it is lack of sleep. Nothing a good nap won’t put to rights.”

Ignoring him, Tristan watched Dufresne crash to a halt against one of the boats and lie there dazed until one of the cadets reached to give him a hand to his feet. The aide-major stood there with mud streaking his hair and face, one epaulet dangling off his shoulder, holes ripped in both knees of his fancy breeches, mouth opening and closing like a river bass.

Satisfied, Tristan turned and gave his brother a sour smile. “I’ve been wanting to do that.”

Geneviève woke up when a mannerless rooster announced daylight. She opened her eyes and stretched, yawning, then sat up, looking around for Tristan. The only remaining evidence of his presence was the mussed bedding and the fact that her clothing lay in an untidy heap on the floor just inside the bedroom door. She pressed the heels of her hands to her temples as floods of sensation washed from her toes to the roots of her hair and back again.

Married. Taken as a woman. Abandoned.

Her elbows went to her updrawn knees, and her hands slid to cover her face. She hunched, trembling, afraid to move lest she retch. Dear Lord, what had she done?

Several ragged breaths later, she began to calm, and the nausea faded. Another deep breath, slower this time, and she took her hands from her eyes. Clenching them against her abdomen, she looked around the room. She was in Charles Levasseur’s cabin, one of the larger houses in the settlement. The thatching of the roof had rotted in places, allowing last night’s heavy rain to penetrate and leave wet patches on the floor. Fortunately, the ceiling above the bed remained intact, else she and Tristan would have had a miserable wedding night.

She closed her eyes as if that would shut out the overpowering intimacies of the past hours, but her husband’s scent remained all around her, in the bedding, no doubt in her own hair and skin. He might be a hundred miles away and she would still be able to feel the brush of his beard against her face, the tenderness of his lips on hers, the strength of his back when she flattened her palms against it.

This would never do. He was gone. He had left while she slept, without kissing her, without saying goodbye, as if she were a courtesan that he had bought for the night. There was every possibility he would never return. So she must piece herself back together. She must go on as if her world had not once more turned on its head, as if she had not deliberately removed any chance of marrying a safe young Canadian soldier and producing little Catholic babies to be raised in accordance with the True Church of Louis XIV.

Bienville was going to have her arrested, if she didn’t get out of bed, get dressed, and preempt him.

So she did that. Ten minutes later she picked up the comb that someone—presumably Madame L’Anglois—had left on the corner table and started combing the snarls out of her hair. When she had finally managed to tame it in a braid, she made her way slowly, with wobbly knees, through the cabin’s front room and out onto the gallery.

The sudden glare of sunlight had her squinting and shielding her eyes with her hand, but as her eyes adjusted, she saw that a woman sat on the front steps of the house across the street. Ysabeau Bonnet, she realized, recognizing the faded yellow dress and red-gold curls. She looked a bit dejected, chin in hand, elbow resting on her knee, but at least she didn’t seem to be openly crying.

Geneviève sighed. She had no time to waste. But she should at least stop to speak to the girl. “Ysabeau?” she called as she crossed the street. “Are you all right?”

Ysabeau sat up. “Geneviève? What were you doing in Monsieur Levasseur’s cabin?”

“It’s a long story. I’ll tell you later.” Restraining a wince, Geneviève sat down on the step above Ysabeau and hugged her knees. “Why are you out here alone so early in the morning? Where are the Lemays?”

“Monsieur Lemay has gone to the powderworks. I came out to feed the chickens because the boys are arguing over some stupid toy, and Angela is in bed, claiming she’s having labor pains. She’s been having them every morning for the last week. I think she’s faking, since they always seem to miraculously clear up by lunch.” Ysabeau clenched her small fists as she glanced at Geneviève. “I’ve had all I can stand of this family. I’m going to marry Monsieur Connard today.”

“Ysette, please don’t do anything rash.” The irony of her plea took Geneviève to the bounds of self-control, but with a supreme effort she managed to keep a straight face. “Have you even spoken to Monsieur Connard for more than five minutes?”

“He came to see me as soon as they released him from the guardhouse yesterday. He is—he is quite good-looking, if one squints a bit. And he wagered a hundred livres for me, Geneviève! That’s a lot of money—isn’t it?” She looked uncertain, but before Geneviève could answer, she stood up, smacking her hands together. “Anyway, he is as good as any of these backwoods Canadians, so I should take him before he changes his mind.” She jumped to the ground and marched off in the direction of the fort.

“Ysabeau! Please don’t do this!” Geneviève went after her, but since the girl refused to even look at her again, she gave up and stopped at the corner of the street. She watched Ysabeau disappear behind the house at the end of the next block. There was no one to whom she could go for counsel. Father Mathieu was gone with Tristan—

A singularly unproductive thought. Plans. She must make plans. Tristan had agreed she should support herself with her bread-baking, so perhaps she should talk to Monsieur Burelle about that.

Squaring her shoulders, she set off for the tavern. Tristan was gone, but there was hope for a secure life here, for herself and Aimée. He had himself encouraged her to remember the good times in order to survive the bad times.

She thought about the note Cavalier had placed in her Bible, just before he left her with Father Mathieu. Worried that she might find herself in as precarious a situation as the one she’d escaped, he’d warned her to be very careful to whom she revealed her faith. Cavalier only asked her to make what observations she could, put them in a short letter, and send them through an Indian woman named Nika to the Huguenot pastor in Carolina.

Geneviève had of course eagerly agreed. After all, Cavalier had saved her life, and she owed him everything.

But her perspective was so different since she had come to Louisiane, lived here among its inhabitants, married Tristan Lanier. Her bitterness and fear—the rage she had felt toward the King and all he stood for—all that had blurred into the daily rhythms of making a new home. When Tristan began to explain last night the complicated political inter-workings among French, British, and Indian powers, she had almost stopped him. The less she knew, the less she must be obliged to divulge to Cavalier.

Thoughts aboil, she was almost at the end of the block when an ear-splitting scream issued from an open window behind her. She stopped in her tracks. Ysabeau had said the little boys, aged three and five if she remembered correctly, were at home by themselves except for their mother, who was about to give birth any day now. Should she go directly for help? Surgeon-Major Barraud, even if he weren’t a useless drunk, was already on his way upriver with Father Mathieu and the Lanier brothers. Sister Marie Grissot had been named midwife. She was a sweet woman, but notably slow and easily flustered.

Reluctantly Geneviève turned around and headed up the brick pathway to the Lemays’ two-story house. It was small and rough compared to Continental standards, but it was one of the largest and most luxurious in the settlement. Powdermaker Xavier Lemay possessed a skill critical to both military and civilian life, and he was evidently well compensated.

She mounted the steps to the gallery and hesitated at the front door, which stood open. Two little boys with curly dark hair and big brown eyes perched at the foot of the stairs, the younger one with his thumb in his mouth and the elder glaring at her truculently, both grubby fists clutching a wooden toy trailing a string.

“Good morning,” she said, trying to sound cheerful. “Is that your mama upstairs? She seems to be having some difficulty.”

“Mama’s havin’ the baby,” the little one said around his thumb.

“No she ain’t, stupid,” said the older one. “Ysabeau said it wouldn’t be for another few days.”

Another scream pierced the air, perhaps amplified by the uncarpeted hardwood floor and stairs. Both children looked frightened.

“Let me check on your mama, boys. No, stay here. I’ll be right back.” She hiked her skirt to leap lightly over them and hurried up the stairs. At the landing she stopped to listen and followed the gasps of pain coming from one of the two bedrooms. “Angela? I’m coming. Are you having the—” Unable to finish, she halted in the doorway to suck in a breath, then rushed to the bed, where poor Angela, blown up to whale-like proportions, writhed in pain with her bedgown wadded about her waist. Geneviève took the woman’s hand and winced at the strength of that vise-like grip. “How long have you been like this?”

“The pains have been coming—off and on—all night,” Angela gasped between her teeth. “Ysabeau—so hateful, I can’t stand it anymore. Geneviève, please get Sister Gris. She’ll know what to do—she delivered the Canelles’ baby.”

“Yes, of course. Can I do anything for you before I go?”

“Where are Serge and Émile?”

“Downstairs playing. I’ll watch out for them.”

“Thank you.” Angela’s head twisted back and forth on the bolster. “Could I have some water? I’m so thirsty.”

Geneviève ran back down the stairs, giving the little boys a reassuring pat on the head as she passed, and ducked into the kitchen. Fortunately she found a pitcher of clean water on a table and poured a little into a pewter cup. She took it upstairs to the uncomfortable young mother, then dashed back down the stairs.

She stopped long enough to reassure the boys that she would be right back, that they should stay in the salon and play quietly. Then she hurried outside, down the gallery steps, and along the rue de Ruessavel toward the nursing sisters’ little house on the next block. She knocked on the front door, shouting, “Sister Gris!” Without waiting for an answer, she opened it and found Dames Grissot and Linant blinking at her over a breakfast of eggs and hominy. Both were in habits without veils.

“Geneviève!” Sister Linant set down her tea cup with a thump. “What’s the matter, child?”

Geneviève addressed Sister Gris. “It’s Angela—she’s having her baby, and it doesn’t look good. She’s been in pain for more than a day—I told her I’d come for you. Please, Sister—”

“Of course.” Sister Gris rose, pushing away from the table. She looked at her friend. “Forgive me for leaving you with the dishes.”

“Go ahead, don’t worry. But, Marie, you need your wimple.”

“Oh, yes.” Distracted, Sister Gris put her hand to her wiry gray locks. “I’ll be right back,” she said to Geneviève and hurried through the doorway into the second room. Within a few minutes she returned, wearing the distinctive gray headgear of her order, albeit slightly askew, and she and Geneviève were on their way back to the Lemay house.

Geneviève could hear Angela’s screaming groans from two blocks away. The two little boys must be terrified. Dear Father in heaven, help us know what to do.

She and Sister Gris looked at one another, then simultaneously started running. The nun, gasping for breath, tried gamely to keep up with Geneviève’s lighter step and reached the Lemays’ front door not far behind. Geneviève grabbed her arm and all but pulled her up the stairs, then left the nun to care for Angela while she hurried back to the ground floor. She looked all over the house, but the two little boys had vanished.

“Oh, no. What now?” she muttered, walking out to the front gallery. Where could they have gone? Anxiously she looked up and down the street. If I were a frightened little boy, where would I go?

Levasseur’s cabin across the street caught her eye. Was she going to blush in shame every time she looked at the place for the rest of her life? There was no shame, she reminded herself, in a bride having marital relations with her lawful wedded husband.

Her eyes widened, and she put her hand to her flat stomach. What if she had become enceinte during that short night with Tristan? Could it happen that fast? What if she were left to bear a child alone and raise it on whatever she could make, baking for Monsieur Burelle?

Geneviève! she scolded herself. Don’t ask for trouble. You must find those children! Pulling in her careening emotions, she tried to think.

The little boys she’d known in France had been fond of climbing, fighting, and hiding. Here in the middle of the settlement, the biggest trees had been cut down for lumber, even had the boys been tall enough to climb them. Frowning, she went back inside. Maybe she had missed something.

She looked at the empty staircase again, wincing in sympathy as another guttural groan found its way down the stairs. She walked over and sat down on the next-to-bottom step where Serge and Émile had been playing with the wooden spinning toy earlier. As Angela’s cries faded to whimpering, she heard something else, possibly a faint giggle . . . from below? She stood up and peeked around the banister, which Xavier had sanded and polished to a buttery smoothness. The space beneath the stairs had been walled in to form a closet with a small door. Smiling, she pulled the latch.

And there they were, huddled side-by-side in the dark like a couple of puppies, Émile with his thumb in his mouth and Serge scowling like a pirate.

Serge scooted backward. “We ain’t coming out.”

But Émile started crying. “I want Mama.”

“Shut up, you little baby.” Serge gave his brother a patronizing look. “Mama don’t want us no more, now that she’s getting a new one. We got to take care of ourself.”

Geneviève’s already bruised heart broke in two. She sat down in the closet doorway and propped her elbows on her knees. “Your mama was very worried when she couldn’t find you. As soon as the baby comes, I’m to bring you in to meet him.” She fixed Serge with a stern look. “You mustn’t frighten your brother. Did your mama stop loving you when he came into the family?”

Serge’s feathery brows came together as he considered her question. “I guess not.” He shrugged.

“Of course she didn’t.” Geneviève leaned forward and touched her nose to his. “Your little brother will need you two big boys to watch out for him. That’s a big responsibility.”

“Mama said it might be a girl.” Oceans of scorn dripped from the word.

She laughed and sat back. “Then she’ll need you even more. Come, let me fix you something to eat.”

The thumb popped out of Émile’s mouth. “Eat?”

“Yes, my little rooster. What would you like for lunch?” She got to her feet, then reached for Émile’s hand.

Within a short space of time, she had settled the little boys in their cubby with bowls of gruel and left them to run up the stairs to check on Angela and Sister Gris.

The scene she walked in on was one of chaos and sweat and blood and noise. Angela sat up against the beautiful carved headboard of her bed, groaning, knees apart, straining to deliver a child who seemed to be as reluctant to enter the room as Geneviève, who gripped the doorframe with both hands, thinking that all she had to do was retrace her steps, walk out the front door, and pretend she’d never heard Angela Lemay’s cries for help.

You are no coward, she reminded herself, embarrassed that she could even think of running away. Straightening her spine, she let go of the doorframe. “Sister Gris, how may I help?”

The nun looked over her shoulder. Wimple askew, her round face nearly as red and wet with perspiration as her patient’s, she leaned over Angela, holding her hand. “Come get her other hand. This baby has been too long in the birth canal. We have to make him come, or she’s going to—”

“Yes of course.” Geneviève darted to the other side of the bed. “Angela, take my hand. I’ll help you.”

But her friend had slumped against the stained bolster behind her back. Tipping her head back, she let out a sobbing moan that seemed to come from her toes. “I can’t. I’m too tired.”

“You have to. You want this baby, don’t you?”

“Of course I do. But he’s—just like Xavier. Stubborn.” A weak giggle told Geneviève that the fight was not yet over.

She gripped Angela’s hand hard and exchanged glances with Sister Gris. “Then you’ve got to push again. Wait till the pain comes again, then—”

“Pain? Why, this is—” She lurched off the backboard and shrieked, “—nothing!”

Geneviève felt the bones of her hand crunch together, and the next few minutes seemed to last for days as Angela pushed and panted and screamed and pushed again, until at last a little dark-crowned head appeared. She and Sister Gris assisted as best they could, though Geneviève felt that it was little enough. The pain of birth—God had said it must be so. The Bible predicted that a woman’s desire would be for her husband, and the product of their union must result in agony as well as ecstasy.

She had seen and experienced that paradoxical truth this very day.

Our God, we are only women. Help us trust you to keep us in what you give us to bear.