Page 7 of The Winter Husband
Marie shivered as she walked toward the convent chapel, but not from the lack of a cloak.
“Etta, take me back,” Marie blurted to the woman by her side. “I’ve changed my mind about this marriage. I’ll stay in the jail cell. No—I’ll take the veil.”
Etta, bless her, had the grace not to laugh. Marie had warmed to this former King’s Daughter the moment she’d met her, when two city guards had pulled Marie free of her jail cell and escorted her to the door of Etta’s upper-town home. Marietta—please call me Etta—had swung open the door, welcomed her with a floury kiss on both cheeks, and then lifted a toddler from her hip to deposit the giggling bundle into Marie’s arms.
“Ma petite, Marie,” Etta crooned in her pretty accent. “It’s natural for a woman to get dizzy when she’s only minutes away from speaking vows.”
“This is a terrible mistake.”
“How so? You will marry a man who will be one of the largest landowners in all of New France.”
“Oh, Etta. I don’t care about his land.”
“You’re getting the land, along with Captain Girard,” Etta persisted, “and that’s not for nothing.”
“Yes, but…” Marie struggled to think up an answer that wasn’t a lie. Etta didn’t know Lucas had promised to send Marie back to Paris in the spring…or this marriage would be in name only. Lucas had insisted on keeping all the arrangements a secret in order to protect his closest friends from Talon’s ire, if their scheme was ever discovered. “I know you’ve vouched for the captain’s character, Etta, but I can’t help but wonder. You really only know him as a charming guest in your home—”
“I never called him ‘charming.’” Etta pursed her lips. “I called him a very good guest. Because he ate whatever I gave him, made his own bed, tended his own fire, and never tempted Philippe into that shameful tavern in the lower town where a certain kind of woman plies her wares.”
“That doesn’t mean he didn’t go off to that tavern on his own.” Marie was sure Etta believed her own words, but men were crafty creatures. “It doesn’t mean Lucas didn’t gamble, or hasn’t cursed and whored and fought and lied—”
“He’s an officer, Marie, not a common soldier.”
“The only difference between a soldier and an officer is the color of their epaulets.”
An inquisitive look sharpened Etta’s velvet-black eyes, but Marie turned away from the unspoken question. Etta had already wheedled from her the better part of the sorry tale of her crimes…but there were some details Marie would never confess.
“Ma petite, you are mangling your bouquet.”
Marie glanced down at her bridal bouquet, an arrangement of maple leaves and loops of colorful ribbons, haphazardly assembled because there weren’t any hothouses in the settlement, and no wildflowers blooming in the late-autumn fields. The bouquet, like this impending marriage, bore no resemblance to the real thing.
“In my opinion,” Etta said as she tilted her head, “I think something else is making you quiver at the thought of your marriage.”
No, no, no.Marie looked away, willing Etta not to probe further, and certainly not aboutthat.
“It’s natural to be curious.” Etta leaned into Marie’s side. “What beautiful eyes Lucas has, yes? And shoulders that stretch from east to west. You’ll never be cold in bed.”
“Marietta, please.”
“Am I not speaking truth? Lucas is a rough kind but, I tell you, there’s not a man in this country who isn’t. Lucas is wise and thoughtful. I’m sure he’ll be the same between the linens—”
“Stop.”
Etta’s laugh rang in the vaulted hall, but the pretty sound only made Marie’s spirits shrivel. Etta was a happy wife, a mother of five children, gloriously swollen with a sixth. From what Marie had witnessed, Philippe worshiped her.
“Be easy, my dear girl.” Etta squeezed her elbow. “You must keep faith.”
“It’s not a matter of faith. I’ll never fall in love.”
Etta gasped and made a swift sign of the cross. “Careful. Say such things and God will put you to the test.”
God already had.
Marie knew she would never, ever be as adored as Etta.
Rounding a corner, she glimpsed a cluster of couples gathered at the door of the chapel ahead, including the pretty brunette from Madame Bourdon’s salon. Clutching the deerskin sleeve of her fiancé, the young woman gave Marie a nervous smile just as a colossus separated from the crowd.
A twig from her bouquet bit into her palm. He looked even bigger now than when she’d bartered with him, but he wasn’t in uniform anymore. Striding toward her in his fine woolens, he could be mistaken for a neighborhood squire, or a country gentleman, someone who might have enjoyed a glass of wine in the parlor with her father, back when she was a motherless child living at home.
