The Island of Doves (7 page)

“Belonged to my mother,” she said, staring Susannah hard in the eye. “Try to take them, and I’ll show you the wrong end, if you get my meaning.”

Susannah blinked at the woman, took in the dirt and sorrow that lined her face, and nodded. The engines clanked and thundered as they cranked up, and she plunged into the darkness, her hands empty.

Mackinac Island, Michigan Territory
1835

M
agdelaine Fonteneau dipped her paddle in Lake Huron, the net of writhing whitefish cold at her feet, as her canoe skimmed through the icy water back toward Mackinac Island. Behind a long smudge of clouds in the western sky, the sun cast a pale glow across the strait and the two peninsulas, Upper and Lower Michigan, that widened like mirror images to the north and south. Beyond them, the big lake opened its maw.

Four weeks earlier, before the thaw, she had tied her canoe to her sled dog Ani’s harness and walked alongside him as he dragged it over the still-frozen stretch of lake to nearby Bois Blanc Island, where Magdelaine kept a large maple sugar camp. She claimed to be checking the progress of the syrup, but this was only the most recent in a list of excuses for making herself scarce all winter long.

Magdelaine was avoiding her son and trying with all her might to avoid, finally, going to see the house that he had built for her on Mackinac’s southeastern shore, overlooking the harbor she had been paddling in and out of her entire life. Jean-Henri, his chest puffed with pride, had announced that he would build the house for his mother as a gift. She should have a place to rest, he said, though at forty-six she was hardly an old woman. He wanted her to live in comfort and enjoy the fruits of her labor.

The gesture made Magdelaine wonder if her son knew her at all. If he did, he would know that she had no use for a big house, with bone china and feather beds. She slept well in her cabin at the sugar camp but even better in the tent she had traveled with for two decades along the fur trade route in the Michigan territory, and slept best of all under the open sky when the bats pitched up out of the trees into the pink dusk and her fire roared beside her. She feared nothing then, when everything was within sight and she was alone. Beneath her broadcloth skirt, she kept a long knife tied to her ankle, and she was well known for her ability to draw it with the speed of a hawk and plunge it wherever she had to: into the belly of a hungry wolf, confused and nosing around her camp; into the chest of a man who had it coming.

The lake was quiet this evening, keeping its secrets to itself. Ani stood at attention in the bow of the canoe as she paddled, his muzzle following the arcs of the diving gulls. Evenings like these were rare, now that steamboats from the East could travel to this region, fueled by wood cut along the way from the dense forests. Every few days one of the vessels slid into Mackinac’s harbor and cast its enormous shadow on the beach, where Odawa families still came and went with the seasons, building their lodges at the water’s edge.

They came to collect “gifts” to compensate them for the lands in Upper and Lower Michigan they had agreed to give up to the American government. Meanwhile, the French families, some mixed with Odawa blood back many generations, stayed all year in small cabins. The newest arrivals to the island were Presbyterians from the East, who kept cows and chickens and well-manicured gardens around their wood-frame houses. The old and the new—birch-bark canoe and hulking steamboat, Indian lodge and farmhouse porch—sat alongside one another, showing how much had changed on the island in her lifetime.

Magdelaine was not opposed to progress. She herself had taken a steamboat to Detroit and was enchanted by the speed and comfort of the journey. But she missed the quiet of old Mackinac, and she suspected Ani did too. The dog glanced back at her and the sun glinted off the beads of water in his wiry fur. He dropped his tongue, a request, and she pulled one of the fish from the net and tossed it to his end of the canoe.

She approached the harbor and fought to keep her eyes on the shoreline. Magdelaine had argued against the house until she could see that her son would not back down. Then she relented, asking only that he show restraint and remember that what she loved most in the world was the island itself, its bluffs like cresting waves, the craggy limestone façades crowned with lush green cedar. Magdelaine wanted to die on this island, but out in the open air—not choking in a bed with velvet curtains.

Ani shifted back and forth on his paws, eager to run to his pen and reunite with his brothers. Something white and hulking loomed up on the shore, and it filled Magdelaine with dread as she dragged her canoe out of the shallow water and up onto dry sand. Her thoughts cast about, trying to distract her from the matter at hand. There was plenty to do on the island now that spring was here, and of course she was eager to look for the mail and see whether she had received another letter from Father Adler.

It had been months since she had had any word from him, a year since the unfortunate business with the second Miss Dove.
Dear Madame Fonteneau
, his letter from Charlestown, Massachusetts, had said when he wrote to her for the first time five years ago.
The church has become aware of your grace and devotion, of your good works and service. It is with those traits in mind that I must call on you for help. I want to know whether you might consider offering refuge to a young woman who must escape a troubled situation . . .

Magdelaine was chilled to the bone, her hands numb, but it was a pleasant, familiar feeling, her physical connection to dozens of winters giving way to spring, to mud, to sap pooling in tin pails that would boil to syrup after a long day over a fire. She felt her son was trying to take away the comfort of these things she had always known, since long before he was born. Ani barked and raced up the beach, leaving her alone. When she could avoid it no longer, Magdelaine raised her eyes.

The house stood two stories high, white clapboard with glass windows and
four
brick chimneys that jutted rudely into the path of the diving ospreys who built their nests on the bluffs. The hipped roof would hold against any storm the lakes could brew, and the house promised heat all year long and kitchen enough to cook for a whole army. A long stone path led from the beach to the front door. It was a sturdy slab of oak with iron hinges. Lanterns mounted on either side of the door were lit, wastefully, for the evening sun still shone brightly, gleaming off the white paint. Next door was her beloved Ste. Anne’s, little more than a cabin beside a fenced-in yard of gravestones.

Jean-Henri smiled at her from the porch of the new house, his arms outstretched. His dark hair stood out against the white paint, and though he wore a coat and collar in the French style, his nose was the same as hers, the same as her Odawa mother’s: wide and flat and brown from the sun, even in March.

She held his gaze for a long moment, then turned on her heel and strode back to her canoe. With her knee, she shoved its nose back toward the water and splashed in after it, hoisting herself roughly over the side. The canoe pitched back and forth, nearly tipping over, but Magdelaine hardly noticed as she paddled hard with her anger’s rhythm. Behind her she could hear Ani barking in confusion on the beach. Her shoulders burned as she moved through the icy lake, back toward her camp on Bois Blanc. The water peeled away from her vessel like an animal’s skin.

“Mother—wait!”

Magdelaine didn’t stop paddling or even look back to where Jean-Henri stood, calling to her from the beach, the garish empty house behind him. She could hear him scramble, his steps uncertain and sliding on the beach, and although she didn’t turn around to look, she knew the sand must be flying up behind him as he moved down the shore toward his own canoe. She imagined him pushing it into the water and leaping over the side, his paddle moving before he sat down. Magdelaine was strong for a woman, but she was no match for a young man of twenty-six. The distance between their canoes shortened, until he no longer had to yell to be heard.

“Mother, please. Wait.”

“Let me be,” she replied, panting. She lifted her paddle, held it across her lap for a moment, and took a few long breaths. Icy lake water dripped down her shins.

“You haven’t even seen the inside.” Jean-Henri was crestfallen. He seemed incapable of understanding why the house upset her.

Magdelaine shook her head and began to paddle again, ignoring the pain. Jean-Henri sighed. With little effort he increased his speed and stopped her canoe by pulling out ahead, then turning his boat sideways. His mother turned to the right to avoid him.

“Do you really want to tire yourself out this way?” he shouted. “You can’t outpaddle me—I learned my technique from you. And my stubbornness.”

Magdelaine ignored him and skimmed silently through the water, just missing the bow of his canoe. He sighed again, then turned and caught up with her. They paddled alongside one another for several minutes, the waves splashing rhythmically against the birch bark. Magdelaine’s heart pounded with her exertion and she was afraid her muscles would give out, but Jean-Henri was right—she
was
stubborn—and she wouldn’t let him make her stop if it killed her. Bois Blanc moved slowly toward them. It was pristine and undeveloped in the way Mackinac had been a long time ago. The cedar and maple and white pine seemed impenetrable, growing right down to the shore.

When Magdelaine’s boat scraped bottom she threw her legs into the water and yanked it toward the shore. But she was exhausted. Her knees buckled and she pitched forward, nearly falling into the water. Jean-Henri had leapt out of his own canoe just in time and caught her in his arms. Together they moved up the beach to dry sand. He sat Magdelaine down, then went back to the water and pulled both canoes out of the waves. Back beside his mother he heaved himself down onto the sand. They both panted, shivering.

“You are,” Jean-Henri began, his breath rough and his eyes wild, “the most
infuriating
woman I have ever known. I don’t know how my father put up with you.” He rested his elbows on his knees and rubbed his temples.

“I thank the Lord your father isn’t here to see what you have done with his money.”

“Mother, it’s
your
money. You earned the bulk of it long after he was in the ground. He hasn’t deserved the credit for many, many years.”

“Ungrateful boy,” she muttered, shaking her head. She had only continued what her husband, Henri, had begun: maintaining relationships with hunters and traders in Lower Michigan, using the advantage of her mother’s Odawa blood and language to earn their trust. Yes, Magdelaine was good at it, but only because she had had no other choice as a widow with a son to care for. She glanced at the sky; it was later than she had thought. They would have to paddle back soon if they were going to make it to Mackinac before dark, though she remembered she still had the fish in her canoe if her pride compelled her to stay at the camp and order her son out of her sight. She wished she had whistled for Ani to come back with her to keep her company.

“If it’s my money, then all the more reason I have to say I don’t want that ugly house.”

“It’s a good house, Mother. A beautiful house.”

Magdelaine nodded. “For someone else, maybe. Not for me.” Disappointment clouded Jean-Henri’s face. She could see that he had been eager to reveal his work to her, eager to gain her approval. It was all he wanted of her, but somehow she found she could never give it. There was a wall between them, a wall she herself had built long ago, and it kept her from feeling the things a mother should feel: tenderness, love. If she kept her distance, she would be safe from those things, and safe from the sorrow of losing them.

“Mother,” Jean-Henri said, taking Magdelaine’s hands into his own. A misting rain began to fall, and she felt it seeping through her hair to her scalp. “Please, for me, just come take a look at it. See what I wanted to do for you. And if you still feel that you cannot live there, well, we will do whatever you please with it and you can stay on at the cabin or this camp. I only want you to be happy, nothing more.”

This last statement prompted a skeptical glance from Magdelaine.

“Truly, Mother.”

She sighed. “What in the world ever made you think a house like that would make me happy?”

“Since I imagined you would be glad about the house, I wanted you to think the idea for it was mine alone. But in truth, it was Father Adler who first suggested it.”

At this Magdelaine straightened. “Father Adler? But why?”

Jean-Henri looked out at the lake, afraid to meet her gaze. “It was after the first Miss Dove turned back at Detroit. And after the second Miss Dove was . . . discovered.” Magdelaine closed her eyes. “I think he was concerned that you might give up helping him.”

“
Trying
to help him, you mean. I’ve yet to succeed.”

“You must not blame yourself. There was nothing you could have done to change things for those women.”

Magdelaine did not disagree, and yet she felt the weight of her guilt like a yoke on her shoulders. She and Father Adler had exchanged many letters to prepare for the women to come to the island. She had suggested the routes they might take and how they might travel safely and avoid contact with nosy passengers. As far as she knew, the priest had followed all her instructions, but still she could not guarantee the safety of these women whose lives meant so much to him. Yet he hadn’t blamed Magdelaine for the losses. He knew she was devout, he said. He knew that she had suffered and that through her good works she would find redemption. Magdelaine doubted whether that redemption would come to pass, but she knew she had to keep trying. “But how will a house make any difference?”

“He worries about you, Mother. As do I. Both of us would like to see you enjoy some peace, some rest.”

“In my old age.”

“Just the opposite. You are healthy and strong—no one disputes this! But while you can enjoy it, slow down. Let us give you some ease. The trading cabin is too small for a woman of your station.”

“That cabin suits me just fine. It’s only too small because my son plans to live with me forever!”

Jean-Henri looked a little wounded by this remark. She knew he had had his heart broken in Montreal, after he failed to gain a toehold in banking the way that she had hoped—and she had written to every one of her connections to be sure he would have ample opportunity. Magdelaine supposed he became a great deal less attractive to the woman who was to be his wife when he proved he could not become a success, but that was five years in the past. He always had been a sensitive boy, quick to cry or cower, and it seemed he was stuck now in his sadness, unable to set it free.