Page 6 of The Autumn Wife
“A master mason?” The nun clutched the wooden cross to stop its swinging. “Saints alive, I have scoured the settlement looking for masons. My own overseer just quit, lured away by the bishop in the upper city of Quebec, who promised him a grander project. Who do you work for?”
“I don’t work as a mason.” He tightened his jaw, trying to find a way to tell this nun the truth without lowering himself in the lady’s eyes. “The man who holds my papers”—of indentured servitude—“prefers I clear timber and stumps from his land. He has no interest in stone buildings.”
“What a terrible waste of talent.” The Reverend Mother gestured toward the building site. “What’s your opinion of our chapel, then? Be honest.”
Considering the gulf between his appearance and his claims, he shouldn’t take umbrage that the nun would test his knowledge about construction. But it always struck him like a mallet how little trust he now commanded. “The footprint is solid,” he began, “and your overseer has kept it well organized. But there are stones in the south-facing wall that are set on the wrong side of the grain. And two of the furnaces over there—the lime ricks—have sputtered out. Theyshould be burning limestone continually so there’s a steady supply for the mortar.”
In the wake of his words, he sensed a shift in the lovely Madame Tremblay’s attention. He stood a little straighter.
“Goodness, a prayer is sent up and then answered in the most unexpected way.” With a swift hand, Mother Superior made the sign of the cross. “Sir, tell me who holds your papers.”
“Monsieur Rivard.” He couldn’t say that name without swallowing a surge of bile. “He has a landholding a half day’s canoe ride downstream.”
“Would he hire you out, do you think?”
“I…”Doubt it.“I don’t know.”
“Well, then, I ask you: Would you like to work on the building site for my chapel? I’m in need of an overseer.”
An overseer.
The world went fuzzy, shivered, and doubled. He could almost feel the smooth handle of a trowel sliding into his palm, the jolt of a shovel against limestone, the creak of wooden scaffolding under his feet. His chest swelled, filling with that most dangerous sensation—a bubbling stew of hope, anticipation, and expectation.
He struggled to press it down, deflate it. He was not his own man, and his master would sooner whip him than give up the labor of his strong back. But one flit of a glance at the woman by his side—one catchof her bright-amber gaze uplifted—and all struggles ceased.
So much had been stolen from him. Freedom, friends, family.
This nun offered a chance to seize back some respect.
“Yes,” he blurted. “I’d be happy to work for you.”
CHAPTER FOUR
Cecile stood motionless as Mother Superior related details of the chapel project to the soon-to-be-hired, dangerously strong laborer. No, not a common laborer, but amaster masonjust as he’d told Etienne. The proof became apparent the more he spoke. Gesturing here and there, he talked about stones, and wall construction, and building safety. He held the Reverend Mother’s fascinated attention and tugged at Cecile’s own. But Monsieur Martin’s metamorphosis from a strongman laborer into a master craftsman, though astounding, wasn’t any of her concern. Etienne’s accident had interrupted her plans, but she’d come to this convent for a purpose too important to delay any longer.
At a pause in the conversation, Cecile leaned in. “Reverend Mother—”
“A moment, my dear.” The nun held up a finger. “Sir, by the time you finish your errands in Montreal, I’ll have written the letter to Monsieur Rivard for you to pick up. Deliver the letter to your master yourself and urge him to let you come to our building site as soon as possible.”
The mason dipped his head in assent.
“Now, Madame Tremblay.” The nun turned to Cecile. “We have an appointment, do we not?”
Cecile nodded.
“Unfortunately, I have little time. I returned here from France only a week ago, my desk is overflowing with unreconciled accounts and unanswered correspondence, and soon I’ll be off to Quebec once again, likely to fight with the bishop. I believe we should put off our conversation for a few weeks until—”
“Please, Mother.” Cecile’s ribs squeezed. “I’ve come all the way from Trois-Rivières to see you. I promise I shall be brief.”
The nun’s ample chest rose and fell but her eyes softened. “I suppose, like my namesake Saint Martha, I shouldn’t be so consumed by worldly worries.” She glanced at her ink-stained fingers then, with a shrug, swiveled in a twist of gray serge. “Come, madame, let’s talk in the garden.”
Cecile’s pulse leapt with renewed hope. “Wait here, Etienne.” She ignored her son’s huff as he hurled himself onto the bench. Cecile passed the soon-to-be overseer, summoning enough courage tosay as a parting gesture, “Your wound has stopped bleeding, sir. Do try to keep it clean.”
Cecile trotted away faster than she probably should, turning at the corner of the building in time to catch up with the nun. Behind the convent schoolhouse, the Reverend Mother stopped just outside a rough fence that encircled a garden, the stalks of corn visible over the edge.
“Here.” Mother Superior took two reed-woven baskets from a pile and held one out to Cecile. “I planned to do this later in the afternoon when the heat has waned, but we can talk as we gather.”
Cecile slid the handle over her arm as she followed the nun through the gate, the fecund aroma of soil filling her head. They walked through the clusters of maize, twined with bean tendrils, the ground beneath covered with sprawling squash. The Three Sisters, as the local tribes dubbed them, were being grown in the native way. Nostalgia for her own garden seeped through her. Unlike this well-tended space, her garden had likely long gone weed-choked and wild in the hands of her husband’s creditors.
