Page 8 of The Autumn Wife
“The men in the search party,” Cecile continued, “told my husband’s creditors that there were multiple witnesses who swore my husband had died in the wilderness.” She made an effort to look pained, but she’d never been a good pretender, even in her orphanage’s annual nativity play. “So here I am, without a husband, three months without a home, without income…and with a son to support.”
“Oh, what trouble men cause in their sinfulness.” The Reverend Mother clucked her tongue. “Mycondolences for your loss, my dear, whether he abandoned you or has met his Maker. Where have you been staying since you were evicted?”
“Etienne and I found refuge with my former schoolmate, Marie”—darling Marie, Cecile would be friendless without her—"and her husband, Captain Lucas Girard, in theirseigneurieupstream from here.”
“Ah, yes, I am acquainted with them. Lovely family. Generous contributors to our congregation, as well as the building fund for that chapel.”
“The Girards have been gracious hosts,” Cecile added, “but I cannot impose upon their generosity forever. I have no family here, Etienne’s father has no family here, and, alas, we know nothing about Etienne’s Huron mother’s family. So, I’ve come here today”—she scraped up all the hope and courage she could muster—“to ask if you could secure my son a placement in a monastery residential school in Montreal.”
The Reverend Mother tossed more pods into the basket, her brows rising.
“He’s a bright boy,” Cecile insisted. “I’ve taught him some Latin, how to read and write, a little geography, and quite a bit of mathematics—”
“Mathematics? Goodness.” The nun paused in her picking to rub a temple. “A devilishly difficult discipline. I get the worst headaches trying to deal with the convent’s accounts. Who taught you that?”
“Sister Helene, back in my orphanage in Paris. She saw me fiddling with multiplication one day and set out to teach me more.”
“An unusual education”—the nun glanced over Cecile’s yellow dress, and the kerchief around her shoulders twined with embroidered vines—“for any King’s Girl—even for abijou, if I’m guessing correctly.”
Ah, so she finally noticed. Cecile dropped her gaze for modesty’s sake, but hope rippled through her. This conversation was going just as she’d planned. Cecile had worn her best dress in the hopes Mother Superior would recognize her as one of the better-educated of the King’s Girls, abijou.That could be worked to her advantage when Cecile asked for a second favor, a more outrageous one than a seat in a monastery school for Etienne.
The nun tossed a few more bean pods into the basket and put her empty hands on her hips. “Cecile, have you considered writing to your husband’s family in France to see if they’ll take in your stepson?”
She shook her head with more vehemence than was wise. “For reasons I’ve never really understood, my husband was disowned long before he came to these settlements.” That was truth, but the real reason Cecile didn’t write to France should be obvious to this nun. Etienne had been bornhere. He was a child of this land, where his mother’s people and the people of other local tribes outnumbered the French by enormous numbers. She would never ship herdarling off to a foreign place where he would never encounter another boy like himself—and pay the price of being different.
“Etienne is the son of my heart, Mother.” She raised her chin. “I’m his only family now.”
The nun nodded, brows drawn, and turned to weave her way deeper into the garden. Cecile followed, eyes on the low garden beds bursting with sorrel, yarrow not yet in flower, chamomile in seed, as well as parsley, chervil, and hyssop. The scent of mint rose up as she scuffed across some untamed vines. The nun paused only when they reached the far end of the garden, where a bramble of berry bushes glistened in the sun.
The nun finally said, with a sigh, “I must confess, Madame Tremblay, your request is a difficult one.”
Cecile clutched the basket of beans close.
“This congregation of mine—” the nun waved a hand toward the main building “—has been controversial since I first founded it in that old stable at the edge of the woods. My sisters are not cloistered like nuns in every other convent. This has been…a point of contention between me, the bishop, and the local religious orders.” The nun thrust an arm into a space in the blackberry thicket, heedless of thorns. “Because of the controversy, I fear I don’t carry much influence with the Jesuits or the FranciscanRécolletswho run the schools for boys in Montreal.”
Cecile’s spirits dipped.
“I suggest you pray very hard.” The nun winced, elbow-deep in the brambles, as a thorn found its mark. “All I can do for you is to request, for your son, an interview with the brothers. After that, acceptance is up to Etienne.”
“Oh, Mother.” A weight tumbled off her shoulders. “I can ask no more than that. Thank you—”
“Thank me if I succeed,” the Reverend Mother interrupted, “and only if I succeed.” She pulled her arm from the brambles and held out a plump blackberry. “Try this, my dear. That maple candy failed to bring color back to your cheeks.”
Cecile popped the berry in her mouth as tears came to her eyes, and not only because of the sharp-sour taste.
The nun laughed at her expression. “That’s why wild blackberries of this country need to be baked with honey, in a pie or a crumble. They’re so tart they make your eyes water. Now…” The nun plunged her arm back into the brambles. “We have a tentative plan for your son. But what of you, my dear? Will you hire yourself out? With your education, you’re certainly qualified to be a governess, but there isn’t much of a demand for that, even among the wealthiest merchants in Montreal.”
Despite her elation for Etienne, a new worry scurried under Cecile’s skin. She’d thought long and hard about this and had come to the conclusion that there was only one solution for her. A desperate solution that would allow her to stay close to Etienneand also offer sanctuary since, sooner or later—inevitably—her crimes would be found out.
“I have an idea, Mother,” she said on the edge of a breath, “but it requires your approval.”
“My dear,” the nun said, “surely you’ve guessed by now that if it’s within my power, I’m sure to grant your prayer.”
“Very well.” Cecile bent her head and forced out the words she had no choice but to speak. “I want to become a nun.”
CHAPTER FIVE
On his first day at the building site, Theo set out to destroy the south wall of the chapel. With more joy than he’d put into any labor for years, he swung an iron-headed mallet until the impact of the hammer on the mortared stone shuddered up his arms and sent chips flying. As he pulled the mallet back, the mason who faced him swung at the same wall even harder. One of the erupting shards struck Theo just below the rolled-up sleeve of his mason’s smock, scoring his forearm. Theo ignored the twinge and hurled the mallet around for another blow.
