could give him, a fiery circle of devotion inside of which, if she held steady, she might protect him from harm.
They were nearly all of them married now. The fever had forced a number of postponements but still, throughout August, there was a steady stream of marriages at the small, unadorned chapel inside Fort Louis. Aboard ship, Marie-Françoise had urged her intimates to coyness. By holding themselves aloof, the well-made girls would demonstrate to the cream of the colony’s bachelors that they were worthy of their consideration. It was only the least desirable of the girls who had any reason to hurry.
The girls had nodded solemnly then, but none had heeded her advice. Even the beautiful Jeanne Deshays had succumbed to courtship within a matter of weeks. Her husband was judged something of a catch, a high-ranking officer with a meaty face and considerable influence. Elisabeth, herself three days wed, had attended her marriage. Jeanne, still weak from her illness, had recited her vows like a shopping list.
Once the formalities were complete, there had been celebrations at the house of Jean Alexandre, the master joiner. Most of the men of the garrison attended, and he had promised he would come. For more than two hours she watched the door, light-headed with the lack of him and the boom and crack of the evening storm. When at last he entered the cabin, wet with rain and already engaged in conversation with several of his fellow officers, her heart flew from her chest.
‘Do you mean the short one with the squint? I hear her pots last the longest,’ Anne Negrette asked her then, but she did not answer. Her breath came quickly and her spit tasted strange in her mouth. He did not cross the room towards her. With the others he paid his respects to the newly-weds, clapping the groom on the shoulder and saying something that made him laugh. The savagery of her jealousy then caused her ears to sing. For a shameful moment she hated them all, the bride and groom, the men with their faces foolish with drink, the shirt that lay against his chest, the finger and thumb that cupped his jaw, the sheen of rain upon his forehead. She looked away, then, and her apprehension caught like a bone in her throat. He was so substantial in his separateness, so complete. He looked exactly as he had before they were married.
It was late when at last she persuaded him to leave. The storm had passed and the white moon was bandaged in gauzy cloud. She had held his hand with both of hers and he had kissed her, covering her mouth with his and pressing her up against the splintery boards of the cabin. The freshly washed darkness was soft and fleshy, alive with the shriek of cicadas and the throaty calls of frogs. She had not resisted him. The recollection of it caused her skin to flush. They might so easily have been discovered. There might have been snakes or alligators or poisonous scorpions in the long grass. Her feet had been bare, her shoes kicked off in the darkness. When they were spent, they had leaned against the cabin, their heads together and their fingers entwined, and listened to the men’s laughter and the sawed-out fiddle strains of the gavotte until the fever came upon them again and they ran home together, the taste of each other sharp upon their tongues. Early the next morning, when dawn came, she had returned for her shoes. When she found them, they were soaking wet and frosted all over with the glistening trails of slugs.
Occasionally she wondered if any of the chickens felt as she did. Perhaps little Renée Gilbert, whose husband was a cannoneer almost twice her height. There was something in the set of her mouth when she gazed up at him that Elisabeth recognised. She thought sometimes that she would like to say something to her, but she never did. It was better to hug it close, where she could keep it safe.
Besides, she never saw Renée alone. Though they lived with their husbands and were burdened with the duties and
They were nearly all of them married now. The fever had forced a number of postponements but still, throughout August, there was a steady stream of marriages at the small, unadorned chapel inside Fort Louis. Aboard ship, Marie-Françoise had urged her intimates to coyness. By holding themselves aloof, the well-made girls would demonstrate to the cream of the colony’s bachelors that they were worthy of their consideration. It was only the least desirable of the girls who had any reason to hurry.
The girls had nodded solemnly then, but none had heeded her advice. Even the beautiful Jeanne Deshays had succumbed to courtship within a matter of weeks. Her husband was judged something of a catch, a high-ranking officer with a meaty face and considerable influence. Elisabeth, herself three days wed, had attended her marriage. Jeanne, still weak from her illness, had recited her vows like a shopping list.
Once the formalities were complete, there had been celebrations at the house of Jean Alexandre, the master joiner. Most of the men of the garrison attended, and he had promised he would come. For more than two hours she watched the door, light-headed with the lack of him and the boom and crack of the evening storm. When at last he entered the cabin, wet with rain and already engaged in conversation with several of his fellow officers, her heart flew from her chest.
‘Do you mean the short one with the squint? I hear her pots last the longest,’ Anne Negrette asked her then, but she did not answer. Her breath came quickly and her spit tasted strange in her mouth. He did not cross the room towards her. With the others he paid his respects to the newly-weds, clapping the groom on the shoulder and saying something that made him laugh. The savagery of her jealousy then caused her ears to sing. For a shameful moment she hated them all, the bride and groom, the men with their faces foolish with drink, the shirt that lay against his chest, the finger and thumb that cupped his jaw, the sheen of rain upon his forehead. She looked away, then, and her apprehension caught like a bone in her throat. He was so substantial in his separateness, so complete. He looked exactly as he had before they were married.
It was late when at last she persuaded him to leave. The storm had passed and the white moon was bandaged in gauzy cloud. She had held his hand with both of hers and he had kissed her, covering her mouth with his and pressing her up against the splintery boards of the cabin. The freshly washed darkness was soft and fleshy, alive with the shriek of cicadas and the throaty calls of frogs. She had not resisted him. The recollection of it caused her skin to flush. They might so easily have been discovered. There might have been snakes or alligators or poisonous scorpions in the long grass. Her feet had been bare, her shoes kicked off in the darkness. When they were spent, they had leaned against the cabin, their heads together and their fingers entwined, and listened to the men’s laughter and the sawed-out fiddle strains of the gavotte until the fever came upon them again and they ran home together, the taste of each other sharp upon their tongues. Early the next morning, when dawn came, she had returned for her shoes. When she found them, they were soaking wet and frosted all over with the glistening trails of slugs.
Occasionally she wondered if any of the chickens felt as she did. Perhaps little Renée Gilbert, whose husband was a cannoneer almost twice her height. There was something in the set of her mouth when she gazed up at him that Elisabeth recognised. She thought sometimes that she would like to say something to her, but she never did. It was better to hug it close, where she could keep it safe.
Besides, she never saw Renée alone. Though they lived with their husbands and were burdened with the duties and
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