Shadowbrook (70 page)

The men did not rush to obey her. Maybe Little George doing what he was bid was the last time she would be heeded in this house.

Lorene’s heart pounded and her body trembled. She did not think her legs would hold her if she tried to move, but she knew she had to make the effort. One step, then two. She walked forward, toward her unconscious son and his dead
assailant, still issuing orders in that soft, sure voice that betrayed none of her turmoil. “Corn Broom Hannah and Runsabout, you’ll help me with the master. We won’t try to move him until Sally Robin comes, just make him comfortable. Kitchen Hannah, we’ll need hot water to deal with his wound. Clemency, what are you waiting for? I told you, get that child out of here.”

Taba hadn’t moved. Lorene had no doubt of what the girl’s intentions had been. She even knew why. That was perhaps the only part of what had happened here this evening she was sure she understood. “Clemency, do as I say. The child’s all but lost her wits.”

A third step. A fourth. Lorene did not turn around to see if the slaves were doing what they were told. She had reached her son and she knelt beside him and lifted his head onto her lap. Such a sweet baby, he’d been. Who would believe, knowing the man he’d grown to be, that she had so rejoiced in his survival? Her dear boy. At least that’s what he’d been then. With one hand she pressed the edges of John’s wound tightly together, and with the other used the skirt of her pink and white calico frock to begin sopping up the blood.

Clemency came in and bent down and gathered Taba into her arms and Lorene allowed herself a small, soundless sigh of relief. It would be fine now. As long as she had the Washerwoman on her side the others would surely follow. Clemency, Lorene knew, was the keeper of their souls.

Jeremiah and Six-Finger Sam came into the room and began dealing with the body. Lorene watched them, saying nothing, her thoughts a jumble of questions without answers. Hamish Stewart, almost a quarter century after he’d spent three weeks with them dead in her house, dead in her house at the hands of a Patent slave. Dear Lord, why? What had brought him here in the first place? What possible quarrel could he have with John? “Runsabout, those papers by the fireplace. Get them for me.”

The girl did as she was told. Lorene looked up and smiled when she took the papers from Runsabout’s hands, pleased by the slave’s unquestioning obedience. Her heart was beating less furiously now. John was flushed and feverish, but he too was breathing easier and the bleeding had stopped. He would live and Sally Robin would know what to do for his arm. No more questions. Everything would be fine.

TUESDAY, AUGUST 19, 1757
MONTRÉAL

“SO,
MA
SOEUR,
you have waited a long time for me, I am told.”

“Not so long,
mon Général.
Four days only.”

Nicole sat with her hands folded in her lap. Her veil was thrown back as it was worn inside the monastery. Mother Abbess had said she was not to cover her face. “You are, for these few days—a week perhaps, however long it is until you return to us—dispensed from your vows, Soeur Stephane. You will wear your habit because it will protect you, but you are,
en effet,
no longer …” She stopped, as if she could not bear to speak The abbess had already explained that while she was away from the monastery Nicole’s vow of enclosure would exist only in her heart. “Père Antoine says you must …” Finally Marie Marie Rose found the strength to ask the question that most tormented her. “
Ma petite,
after you do this thing that is, I am absolutely certain, the will of God, you will return to us?”

“Bien sûr, ma Mère!”
Nicole had been astounded. “I have sworn. I would never break my word to Almighty God, or to you. Never.
Jamais, jamais, jamais.
”

“Jamais,”
the abbess repeated Then, for the first time, she touched Nicole’s cheek.

The little nun looked lost in her own thoughts. Montcalm cleared his throat to gain her attention. “The Grey Nuns have been treating you well?”

“
Oui, mon Général.
They have been entirely too kind.” The sisters of Notre Dame had a home for foundlings and the destitute in the Hôpital Général of Montréal. It was a short walk from this grand house where for the past four days, since the marquis de Montcalm’s return to the city, she had sat and waited for him to find time to see her. It had been arranged—by Père Antoine, she presumed, since he had arranged everything else—that the Grey Nuns would give her hospitality as long as she was in Montréal. The room they gave her was one reserved for visits from their benefactors, who, they assured her, were the finest families in New France. It was no doubt so. The guest room of the Grey Nuns had a featherbed, and numerous quilts piled high on a shelf within arm’s reach. It was summer, she did not need the quilts, but she had slept under one each night. Just to remember how it felt.
Mon Dieu,
I am a wretched sinner. When I am back in my cloister I will beg for permission to take the discipline every night.

“I regret that you have been kept waiting, nonetheless. Now, Soeur Stephane, what have you brought me that was so urgent it could not be put in the hands of anyone else?” His aide had tried a number of times to take whatever it was she wanted to give the marquis, but the little nun was adamant.

The aide had reported her exact words. “I have sworn to Almighty God, monsieur. From my hand to that of Monsieur le Général.”

Now that it was no longer necessary Nicole was embarrassed by her obstinacy. “I apologize, Monsieur le Général, but—”

Montcalm waved aside her words. “I understand,
ma Soeur.
You are a soldier under orders, no? And your
Général
is indeed the most high command to which we must all answer.”

He had some charm, this man of war. But then, they always did. Papa had been charming as well. Before the barbarities of the battle and after it. It was only during battle that he, that all these soldiers, gave in to their animal nature. And how the crowds cheered them for it. The marquis de Montcalm had returned to Montréal in triumph. The entire populace stood in the street to welcome him with shouts of approval. Women threw flowers at his feet. As for the bloodshed and the desolation … War was always the same.

Nicole reached into the deep pocket of her brown habit and withdrew a narrow tube of black oilcloth no longer than the span of her two hands, and as thick as three of her fingers. It had been pinned inside so there was no danger of it being lost. Nicole had no idea what it was, only that she was charged to literally guard it with her life.
For the sake of a million souls, Soeur Stephane. For the glory of Almighty God and Holy Church and our Seraphic Order.
Of what value the life of one young woman compared to such a vast responsibility? None.

“I present you this on behalf of Père Antoine Rubin de Montaigne, the Delegate to New France of the Minister General of the Order of Friars Minor. Père Antoine begs to inform His Excellency that what is contained herein is of the utmost importance to the defense of New France.” Every word exactly as she had been instructed. Nicole breathed a silent prayer of thanksgiving. The important part of this trial was over. She would deal with the many wounds to her conscience once she was back in her monastery.

“So, the defense of the whole empire? Nothing less? That is surely a heavy charge for such a young nun.” Montcalm started to untie the ribbons that secured both ends of the tube of oilcloth.

“Not as heavy as yours, Monsieur le Général. I will pray every day for your success. And that this war might soon end.” Nicole stood up. “If you will excuse me, it is time I returned to—”

“Sit down,
ma soeur.
I insist. I must show you at least some hospitality in return for your patience. And for your bringing me something so important it bears on the defense of all New France.” The marquis rang the bell on his desk.

A footman appeared, so quickly she knew he had been waiting right outside the door. Nicole had no choice but to sit down.

“Bring some wine,” Montcalm instructed. “And some of the biscuits we had yesterday. And some of those sugared almonds.
Vitement, s’il vous plait
We have kept the little nun waiting with no refreshments. She will wonder if we are all peasants here in Mont—”

“Monsieur le Général, please, I assure you, nothing is necessary. I must return to the Grey Nuns. They are expecting me.”

“Of course. I will send you in my private carriage. And you will bring the good sisters some gifts as well. Two extra bottles of wine,” Montcalm told the footman. “The Lafite of 1749. And biscuits and almonds for the Grey Nuns as well as for us.
Vite, vite!
What are you waiting for?”

The presence of the little nun calmed him. It was absurd. She was probably the age of his youngest daughter. But there was something about her. Something … Montcalm searched for the word. Gracious, he decided. She has a natural grace. And
mon Dieu,
I have seen little enough of grace these past days.

The house Montcalm had chosen as his headquarters overlooked the Champ-de-Mars. Today no soldiers drilled there. The parade ground was fidl of Indians, the Potawatomi and Nipissing and Ottawa and Huron who had been with him at Fort William Henry. And whatever captives remained. Some of the savages had ignored the bargain he’d offered before they left the killing ground they had made of his battlefield of honor.

The general rose from his chair and walked to the window, peering down at the activity below. Nicole watched him. He was not as tall as Papa had been, and his belly was round and stuck out too far. Not as impressive in his uniform as Papa had been in his. What would the marquis think if he knew she was the daughter of an English officer?

“Do you know what it is they are doing out there,
ma Soeur?
”

“I am told that on your instructions the government of New France is paying ransom to the Indians for the English captives. So that they may be retumed to their homes.”

“
Oui.
You are told correctly,
ma Soeur.
”

“It is a wonderful act of Christian charity,
mon Général.
You will be given a great reward in heaven.”

“It is a pitifid gesture,” Montcalm whispered. “An attempt to salve my conscience for what I must do in this barbaric place where my allies are savages without whom I cannot do my duty to my king.”

Nicole did not think she must comment. He was looking out the window and he did not seem to speak to her. His French, she noted, had the lilt of Provence about it. Grandmère had once had a cook from that part of France. She too spoke in that singsong way, ending each word with what Nicole thought of as a little upturned breath. But the dishes that came from her kitchen …
A confit de canard
to which had been added cloves and garlic, and a thin bread topped with onions and tiny salted fish. Nicole sighed. More
culpas
to confess when she was again in Québec. Memories of such food were not appropriate for a Poor Clare.

Montcalm turned away from the bustle on the Champs-de-Mars. Nothing to be gained by watching. Or reproaching himself still further. Attend to the little nun. “So where is that footman with our
goûter?
Ah, he arrives just as I mention him. Excellent. Leave everything. I will serve the good sister myself.”

The servant set the tray on a gilt side table and left the room. The general busied himself with pouring wine into two small goblets of exquisite crystal. “It is from my private cellar,
ma Soeur.
I cannot say from my very own vineyards. At Candiac—that is my home in Provence—I have magnificent olives and almonds, but not great grapes. Our soil and our climate are not the friends of wine that one finds in Bordeaux. Try this,
ma Soeur.
You will enjoy it, I’m sure.”

She could not refuse the wine the marquis de Montcalm had himself poured for her. One sip only. A little one. Then she would find a way to dispose of what was left. A small penance, because—
Mon Dieu.
How long since she had tasted such a wine. “It is truly delicious, Monsieur le Général. Truly.”

“Yes, it is. These almonds, as well. We grow them at Candiac, then we send them to Montargis to be sugar-coated. Do you know them?”

“When I was a girl, my Grandmère” … No, she must not speak of such things. She had made her choices. “The abbess of my monastery, Mère Marie Rose, she is from a place not far from Montargis. She entered the Poor Clares there. Before she came to Québec to make our foundation. Do you know our monastery, Monsieur le Général? We are very small and poor, but—”

“I am told you are very holy women, you Poor Clares.” Montcalm’s mood suddenly changed. He almost whispered the next words. “I require your prayers, Soeur Stephane.”

“We pray for our brave soldiers every day, Monsieur le Général. You can rely on that.”

“And for me personally. Will you be my personal emissary to
le bon Dieu, ma Soeur?
”

“Absolument, mon Général.”

“Bon.”
Montcalm returned to his desk. He shot another quick glance toward the parade ground where the conclusion to the filthy business that had ended the battle of Fort William Henry was taking place. At least as much of a conclusion as he could arrange. He could not restore to life dead women and children, or unarmed soldiers massacred in cold blood after he had given his word they would depart unharmed. “The prayers of a Poor Clare. I shall sleep better for knowing I have them. Now, you have not finished your wine,
ma Soeur.
Come, we will drink a toast.
Vive le roi. Vive la France.
”

She could not refuse to drink a toast to the king and to France. Nicole drained her glass.

“Now, let me see what you have brought me.” Montcalm sounded again like a commander-in-chief. He opened the tube of oilcloth and spread the paper it contained on his desk and leaned forward, studying it. After some moments he reached for a magnifying glass. “Then I will myself take you in a carriage back to the convent of the good Grey Sisters. And we will bring them two bottles of this excellent Bordeaux as well as some of—”