Page 19 of The Winter Husband
Lucas had a lover.
No. That made no sense. If Lucas had a lover, why would he have bothered to marry her?
With a sudden yelp, the slim figure flew down the porch stairs. That high-pitched sound and the churning petticoats stirred a memory in Marie, a remembrance of an orphans’ outing on a summer afternoon, light dappling through the trees of the Tuileries, racing through the paths with—
“Cecile!”
Cecile flung herself into her arms. Her laugh reverberated through Marie’s memory. She dug her fingers into her friend’s knitted shawl. Was she dreaming? The scent of crushed grass and violets rose from Cecile’s hair. Suddenly, Marie was nine years old again, torn from her father’s deathbed, bundled away into her great-uncle’s carriage, given over to the care of a stranger in an imposing black habit…and shaking with fear until she heard a small voice beckoning.I’m Cecile.Fair hair bound in a blue ribbon.If you want, you can have the bed next to mine.
Marie struggled out of Cecile’s grip. Yes, those were Cecile’s deep brown eyes, Cecile’s cinnamon freckles, Cecile’s laughing mouth.
“It’s you,” Marie blurted. “It’s really you!”
Cecile swiped tears from her cheeks. “I didn’t think I’d ever see you again.”
“But how can this be?” It made no sense they’d find each other across continents, after so much time. “How did you know I’d be at this cabin, or even in the settlements?”
“Your husband sent a message to me.” Cecile planted her hands on Marie’s shoulders. “He’d said you’d arrived from Paris and would soon be living upriver from Trois-Rivières. He asked if I could get the cabin in order for you.” Cecile glanced at Lucas as he swept by, hauling a burlap sack. “Didn’t he tell you all this?”
Marie shook her head, frowning at her husband’s retreating back as he headed toward the porch to deposit another burden. An entire day in the canoe, and he’d said nothing? Had he just forgotten to tell her? She watched him descend from the porch and head toward the canoe again, his head bowed, his long legs eating up the distance between the cabin and shore.
He didn’t catch her eye.
Confusion made a muddle of her thoughts.
“Perhaps,” Cecile ventured, “your husband wasn’t sure if his message would reach me in time, or if I would be home, or if I could even come.” An eleven or twelve-year-old boy sidled shyly next to Cecile, burrowing under her arm. “Fortunately, Etienne—my stepson—paddled me the whole way here, following the map your husband gave us. Even if there had been ice on the river, I vow I would have walked the distance, Marie. I’ve been waiting here since yesterday, just dying to see you again.”
“This is too good to be true.” Marie pressed a hand against her mouth. “So much has happened, Cecile, so much…”
“You’re exhausted.” Cecile pressed her cheek against Marie’s and then reared back. “And so cold! Etienne, help Captain Girard unload, would you?” The boy sped off toward the canoe. “My heart’s delight, that boy. I don’t know what I’d do without him.”
Cecile led her to the cabin, urging her up the three porch stairs and through the door into a room that smelled of wood smoke and pine. They hung their shawls on pegs and headed for a large stone hearth. Marie basked in the warmth as Cecile chattered about how she’d worried that snow would delay Marie’s arrival, about how lucky Marie was that the winter had held off for so long. Marie watched her, still stunned, trying to reconcile the demure girl she once knew with this woman in wool wielding iron pokers and shifting swivel-arms about.
“But here I am chattering on and on,” Cecile said as she speared a poker into a caddy of other fireplace tools. “I’m so often alone I’ve forgotten how to be among company. Sit at the table, this is done.”
Marie did as she bade, dropping into a chair. “It’s so strange to see you cooking.”
“Yes…well. It’s easy to cook in a hearth like that.” Cecile set off across the room toward a hutch full of plates. “I haven’t visited much of the settlement outside Quebec and Trois-Rivières, but this is the largest cabin I’ve seen. That fireplace is a dream, and this cabin is a palace.”
Marie’s gaze had been locked on her friend as if she was an illusion that would soon disappear, but now Marie took a moment to take in the entirety of the room. The walls were made of raw stone, the pitched ceiling of sawn boards. The dining table and ladder-back chairs were smooth, well-sanded, and serviceable. Two lightly broken-in armchairs stood on either side of the hearth. While in Quebec, she hadn’t been able to envision the cabin she and Lucas would live in, but if she could have dreamed it up, it would be just like this: strong and solid but skinned of all flourishes.
She counted two rooms, no more. With a flutter of unease, she looked away from the door on the far side, the one that must lead to the bedroom.
“It’s much cleaner now than it was yesterday.” Balancing dishes, linens, and cutlery, Cecile returned to the table. “When I arrived, it was such a bachelor’s home. Boxes of ammunition all about, twists of tobacco on the table, wood shavings in every corner, dirty boots scattered, and about an inch of mud on the floor by the door. But the furniture is charming, isn’t it? And this hearth is big enough to warm the whole room, despite the height of the ceiling.”
Marie struggled to see the cabin through Cecile’s eyes, not through her own worries.
“I want to hear everything that’s happened.” Cecile set pewter spoons for two places. “But first: have you any news of Genny?”
“I do.” Marie wondered if the rumors so rampant in Quebec had filtered down to Cecile’s settlement. “When was the last time you saw her?”
“A year ago, when we both arrived here from Paris.” Cecile pushed a spoon and linen napkin across the table to her. “Last I heard, she married a man who abandoned her for the wilderness. Please tell me she’s all right.”
“Bring the bowls and have a seat. This may take a while.”
Marie began the tale, going into the kind of detail she hadn’t offered up to Lucas. Cecile didn’t even pick up her spoon. Her friend leaned closer, her elbows sliding upon the table, reminding Marie with a pang of how they used to whisper to each other across the space that separated their orphanage beds. Her heart squeezed. How innocent they’d been, not realizing those were the best of days, the happiest of times.
“She’s in the wilderness with her husband now, which was what she wanted most,” Marie finished, finally answering Cecile’s original question. “The authorities will never find her, thank heavens.”
