Lorraine
MY HUSBAND IS wrapped in a peaceful sleep, his heavy arm draped around my slight shoulders, securing me in the crook of his arm, his large hand placed upon my swollen belly like a shield.
His eyelids are fixed shut, his wide chest rising and falling with every calm breath. Delicately etched lines travel across his face, underneath his eyes, tugging at the corners of his noble-looking nose.
A slight movement in the heavy velvet curtains prompted by the wind produces a glimmer of light, traversing across my husband's face.
All at once, I want to take him in my arms and kiss him, but am repulsed by the malignant secret that lies beneath his soft, now shut, caramel brown eyes.
Even though we have been married now for months, I still find it strange, living with a man I hadn't met just a year ago.
Though when we were first wed, I had not known the pleasure of marriage, now our beings have combined to become one: our souls and lives tangling to serve one grand purpose.
Persistent sleep pools in my own weary eyes, but my racing thoughts refuse to allow me the liberty of succumbing to the sweetness of slumber.
The letter I discovered has been nagging at my mind, a painful reminder of my fears and insecurities about Emma and Michel.
I have attempted to detangle the pain woven into the flesh of my stomach with prayer, but to no avail.
To make matters worse, it appears the worry has gnawed at my body, causing decay and aches in my bones and unparalleled discomfort.
Should I not trust him? Michel told me he loved me, that I should not worry about his deceased wife.
My husband is so easy to trust when he is asleep, his beautiful, soft face as still and serene as a newborn baby.
What if Emma isn't dead at all? What if Michel has been lying to me this entire time? And, if she is alive, where is she now?
I clench my hands on the woven patchwork quilt, burying my hair in my lap as I muffle my unspoken cries.
Perhaps I am delusional to have believed that Michel could love me, a young beggar girl, while he is a Doctor from one of the wealthiest families in Paris. He is educated, and deliberate in his actions, whereas I am none of these things. He has never known the groan of an empty stomach or the skeleton-thin, gaping walls of a Paris tenement. He has never known the fear of childbirth that now pesters me like a curse in the dim of the morning and the still of the night.
I cannot fathom the possibility of my husband, the man to whom I have given my whole being, my entire soul, is hiding something important from me, his wife, and the expectant mother of his child.
Regardless of whether I am a suitable wife, he has married me, and so he owes me his steadfast loyalty.
I squirm from Michel's brawny arms, prying myself from him.I bristle at the upheaval of his warmth, which had been permeating my flesh as I pretended to sleep.
I step into my riding cloak and boots, throwing my long golden hair back and massaging the nagging exhaustion from my weary, sleepless eyes and sore temples.
Though Michel had Abigail make the riding cloak for me, it still falls down past my ankles.
I clutch a hand to my belly, gazing at my reflection in the mirror.
A swollen, rounded bulge has spread beneath the linen fabric, evidence of the child growing within me.
When Michel informed me of my pregnancy, I had been enthralled with joy.
Now, I fear for the future.
If Emma is to return, what is to become of me? Will I be replaced and forgotten, cast out on the streets with my child? Will Nono misremember my existence? Or worse: will they will send me back to Paris, a disgrace in the face of the Church and the King and his court?
I imagine myself walking the streets as a fallen woman.
My dream of joining a convent is reignited, but only for a moment. The country would turn against me, seeing my failure in the New World as overt treason.
I climb down the stairs, not wanting to rouse Abigail or Nono from their cots.
I do not know where I am going, but I know I must clear my head.
The stale air in the house is almost suffocating, to where when the rush of cool morning air brushes against my cheeks, I gasp a sigh of relief.
My breath forms a cloud resembling smoke.
The sky is dark, polluted with malicious rain clouds and remaining swirls of night.
The sun has climbed back up to the sky, and the moon has found its abode in a company of fading stars.
It is cold for a spring dawn, but I relish the chill that rouses my senses to clarity.
Cold air runs through me, beckoning my soul and my sanity back to God, back to creation.
Will I ever belong?
Stumbling across marshy farmland and patches of snow resistant to melt, I find the river.
Spring is dormant, glazed over with glistening ice and snow, but, a trickle of water runs listlessly atop the pebbles, recovering its vigour after a lengthy winter.
The fading moon illuminates the surface of the tiny stream.
I hesitate before stepping forward and gazing at my cloak-clad form faltering in the faint reflection it bares.
My eyes disappear into their sockets, and despite being on the verge of giving life to another, I appear rather ghastly and skeletal.
I squeeze my eyes shut and hear the faintest whispering of a current below my feet. My lip trembles, and I cover my face with my hands. I sob as I did when I was a little child, my heart aching from the pain of nothing and everything all at once, collapsing to my quaking knees.
Once again, when I am in the throes of despair and agony, I call out to God, searching for Him as I have done so many times before.
What have I done wrong? Why hasn't Michel told me the truth about Emma? Why do I feel alone? Dear God, it appears whenever I find happiness; it is mercilessly robbed from me. Why haven't you listened to my fervent prayers? Or, along with my life in Paris, have you remained there too?
I listen to my trembling breath.
I have always found peace in my faith and my prayers, but somehow I feel as though I have blamed God for my misfortunes ever since I arrived in New France.
I know I am wrong to do so, but something which has grown dear to me has been torn away. My hope for my marriage with Michel, my security, my dreams.
After a few shattered moments, my eyes flutter open. I am surrounded by darkness, but a hazy figure on the other side of the creek pins my attention.
The figure approaches, and from the blanketed world emerges a Native woman with bronzed skin. Her dark eyes are transfixed upon me.
A long, beaded dress swirls about her ankles. She is as tall as Celeste, her long, ebony hair hanging in two braids and swinging all the way to her hips.
A small bundle clings to her back, and when I peer closer, I can decipher an infant cocooned inside of it.
I wipe my eyes and force myself to my feet. For a few eternal moments, we stare at each other.
Regardless of the fact that I am a foreigner abiding in her motherland and that affliction plagues her people, we are bound by one universal truth.
We are women.
I incline my head in acknowledgement.
For a fleeting second, she holds my gaze as if to tell me she sees me.
A booming sound in the distance sings across the forest, and she evaporates into a canopy of leaves as if she was only a vision hallucinated by my anguished hysteria.
I spin around only to find myself face to face with a young Frenchman I have never seen before, with a long, crooked nose and a set of blackened, rotten teeth.
"What are you doing here?" He belches, his warm breath hitting my face.
"I - I was strolling," I reply, my hands falling to my sides.
"Strolling? This isn't le Louvre, Mademoiselle. A young, respectable Frenchwoman should not be walking in the woods alone at the break of dawn. There are uncivilized savages in these parts, who would love to find a young girl alone without a Frenchman to protect her. Or, if the English found you, they would be heartless, abusing a good Catholic Frenchwoman."
I consider his words disgraceful, in assuming that I am a poor, defenceless woman, and that all Natives are vengeful savages.
"I am fine, Monsieur."
A spring of questions rushes from him as if he is a schoolmaster interrogating me for an infraction. "Are you one of les filles du roi? Where is your directress? Why have you wandered so far from the dormitories?"
"Non, I do not live at the dormitory, nor do I have a directress. I am a married woman."
His eyes wander, and he glimpses the swell of my stomach and nods, though his expression is still uncertain.
He pinches the bridge of his nose, frowning. "What kind of man would permit his wife to walk outside at dawn, all on her lonesome? Who is your husband?"
"Docteur Michel Lefèvre."
"Le Docteur? Well, such a man would be displeased to find his wife in such a compromising situation. S'il vous plaît Madame, I will escort you home."
Despite my adamant protestations, le voyageur insists on walking me home. We march in an uncomfortable silence, with him promenading ahead of me, expecting me to trail along behind him like an obedient child.
I feel anger gnashing at me, but I ignore my objections and decide that my energy is best spent elsewhere.
Finally, the house comes into view. The sun is peeking behind the rooftop, and a plume of smoke creeps into the sky from the chimney.
The drapes are drawn, and Michel and Nono are still asleep. The voyageur knocks on the door, proceeding to bring his hands back down to stroke his black moustache.
Michel opens the door, his dark hair a tangled mess of curls atop his head, his eyes wide of confusion, his linen shirt folded over the small buttons.
His dress is wrinkled and his cravat crooked, as if he has just changed in a hurry.
"Eh-em, Docteur, I found your wife, wandering by the creek."
Michel stares at me in confusion, and his lips curve upwards into a grin, as if he cannot believe what he is hearing. When he gains his composure, he straightens and nods.
"Oui. I believe my wife must have been taking a morning walk, merci, for your attention."
When Michel and I return inside, I dread even looking at him. I know I must tell him the truth regarding the letter, but I am also afraid of the answer he will give me.
So, I pretend to busy myself with daily chores: preparing a morning meal of oatmeal for Nono, and sweeping the parlour.
Unfortunately, my plan doesn't work.
"What were you doing, Lorraine?" Michel questions, his brows arched in curiosity.
He slips a finger beneath my chin, but I shake his hand away adamantly, forcing my attention towards mixing oatmeal in a bowl. "Why are you preparing breakfast? It is far too early. Come back to bed, get some rest. You'll overexert yourself."
"I awoke quite early this morning, and I went for a stroll, like you said, before the sun came up. Of course, I remembered that walking is a splendid exercise for the development of the child, and I was simply taking your advice. And, it is almost six o'clock. Nono will be awake before long, and I don't want to pull Antoinette from her slumber." I realize I am rambling and gaze up to gauge Michel's reaction.
He is smiling, not recognizing my anxiety.
"I - I must wake Nono." I attempt.
I turn to walk away, but Michel catches my arm abruptly, laughing jovially, swinging me back around. "But dawn has not broken. Surely you will let the poor boy sleep for a little while more. And since I do not have to leave until noon, you wouldn't object to spending some time indulging your husband?"
Still not sensing my resistance, he embraces me from behind, flattening my cheek with his lips.
"Please! Leave me alone!" I cry, bursting away from his grasp. "I do not want to speak with you. Go upstairs and leave me be!"
Remorse quells his affection, and he takes a step back, apologetic—his dark eyes rounded with shock. "I-I am sorry, Lorraine. God willing, I did not hurt you."
He acts as though he has no impression of why I am upset. The hurt in his own eyes pains me, and I turn away, picking up my skirts with my hands. "You did not hurt me, at least not in the way you think."
Michel follows me, and I have to sprint to escape his presence, almost catching my heel on the hem of my nightgown.
"Lorraine!" Michel calls. "Do not run, you will injure yourself and the child!"
He reaches me. Halting my pace, I am forced to face him at the top of the stairs.
"I love you, my dear wife. If something is wrong, tell me. There is nothing you could say that we couldn't mend with one another."
I feel tears threaten to slip down my cheeks and I clear my throat.
"Michel," I pause, both hesitating and gathering my courage, "I found the letter."
He stares at me.
Is he going to continue to pretend that he doesn't know of what I speak?
"I do not understand... What is it you are trying to tell me?"
"I found the letter from your wife, Emma Durand."