Celeste
"MY SWEETEST ANGEL, what would you like to break our fast? Perhaps un croissant, un café, or une pomme?" Jacques appeals lovingly, with a brief squeeze of my hand. "You deserve the grandest feast in the world, after all."
Lying in his arms, I feel safe from the ghosts of my past.
Now that I am a married woman, I understand perfectly what poets and novelists describe as pure love. The feeling of being held and cherished by the one you love most in the world is an indescribable but remarkable feeling. Possessing the knowledge that they will be yours forever and you will be theirs is magical. Whatever troubles we may face in this life, we will face together. There is nothing like it.
Jacques's eyes graze mine, sending shivers up my spine.
I do not know if I will ever tire of my husband's playful smile, his boyish jokes or his expressive green eyes.
"And later, some mousse with fraises?" He continues, disregarding my reverie.
I have rarely tasted anything close to what he is describing, except for once, when André indulged me in du chocolat, an expensive delicacy only served at court and the finest restaurants in Paris. He had purchased it for me after one of father's violent tirades.
Remembering the anecdote, I realize how little I have thought of my old friend André since I fell in love with my husband. But the love I share with Jacques is far superior to anything I may have felt for André.
"Jacques, you know you are not a wealthy nobleman. Even if we were in Paris, we would surely be left on the streets, begging for scraps of bread," I tease, running my hands along the remarkable contours of his face.
I doubt I will ever grow tired of Jacques's beautiful face, either.
His laughing green eyes always seem to captivate and trap me spellbound, no matter how many times I look into them, much like a favourite song or book.
He returns my affectionate touch with an overpowering kiss, leaving me out of breath and longing for another.
I want to enjoy our time together, though I cannot banish the image of the wretched slave owner Alan Bouchard from my memory. Imani's warning remains inseparable from my thoughts, and I worry ceaselessly that one day the slave owner will disturb our newfound domestic tranquility. Besides, Imani has to endure a painstaking voyage to reach her family—and I may never know how she fares.
Jacques pulls my attention back to him by tickling the base of my neck. "I know, but we are in love, are we not? Who says we aren't strolling hand in hand in île Saint-Louis? Or, eating pine nut candies cross from la Seine? You know what they say, the French are the most romantic people in the world. Consider the poets Marot, Labé and Scève. They and countless others have created love and romance out of thin air. So we also can make a romance for ourselves here amid this colony."
I am more surprised by Jacques every hour I know him. He is intelligent and educated despite his rank, and could have been one of the great poets or intellectuals he speaks of.
"Oh Jacques," I sigh, as he cradles my head in his chest.
I feel a peculiar combination of comfort and nostalgia encompass my innermost feeling for a moment.
I remember strolling by the Seine with Papa. It was when I was still small and rather optimistic, when Papa's absences lasted for no longer than a day or two, and his disappointments expressed only in hurtful remarks. He would return with gifts and a lack of money, but as he was before he left, cheerful and quick to promise things I knew would never be fulfilled.
"Are you displeased with me, Madame Deschamps?" Jacques wiggles his eyebrows jokingly, noticing my sudden silence.
"Quite the opposite, Monsieur Deschamps," I whisper, pulling his face towards me so that his rough lips linger inches from my own. I forget everything else I have ever known, savouring only the taste of his mouth upon mine as our souls become one.
♔♔♔
LITTLE BY LITTLE, the bird makes its nest. The French proverb remains anchored in my mind as my sweet husband and I make our life together. We locate our abode, a quaint home on the shores of a small lake, so that we may have access to water. The cabin is surrounded by the great expanse of forest, so that we might have firewood at our disposal. It is constructed of logs and held together by sand, lime, and water.
We build a small farm behind the crudely constructed cabin, with a few chickens and an old mare Jacques found alone in the market. Though neither Jacques nor I know the first thing about running a farm, we become determined to plant some squash and watermelon seeds.
Though I have never enjoyed artistry, I try to make our home comfortable. I spend a fortnight making it as beautiful as possible, with the few resources we have, hanging waxed papers upon the window frames to seal the interior of the cottage from the bitter cold winds, and placing animal pelts from Jacques's various travels upon the ground to insulate the limited amount of heat we may enjoy.
I never could have imagined myself becoming a domestic wife. Alas, I have grown fond of the menial tasks, however tedious they can prove to be.
Each night, we relish in the presence of one another, huddling beneath a heavy woven blanket on the dirt floor and conversing about the most trivial things, including our hopes, dreams, and aspirations.
Jacques teaches me how to hunt. We eat fish caught in the river, and the meat of deers and squirrels found in the forest.
I write for pleasure, creating clever tales and riddles I share with Jacques, which he tells me he enjoys. When we lack paper, so he listens as I spin a web with my storytelling. Jacques sings old French songs and calming lullabies till my thoughts ebb away into the careless oblivion of sleep. He quotes from many of the Renaissance poets he admires, and I am astounded by his knowledge, wondering where he could have learned so much.
In the morning, we are pulled to consciousness by the tickling of the ice-cold sunlight against our cheeks, filtering through the sandpaper clad windows, and Jacques chases me outside barefoot until the frost bites our toes and gnaws on the tender soles of our feet.
The dream continues for three fortnights, or perhaps four. It is not until our irresponsible bliss and lack of finances prompts Jacques and I discuss his prospects as a coureur de bois or voyageur. With much hesitation, we decided he is to depart to the interior, the vast unknown, and trade some European goods with the Natives for fur.
"May I accompany you?" I beg him one evening, gazing up into his eyes and mustering the most sincere and pleading expression I can, even batting my lashes flirtatiously, which makes him chuckle.
"Mon ange," Jacques sighs, brushing my hair around my ear with his calloused fingers, "I wish I could bring you along. Alas, the voyage is far too dangerous. I would spend all my time worrying after you and your safety, rather than accomplishing what needs to be done. Besides, your beauty would distract me, as well as the other men with me. I would have to fight, sword and armour, to keep your hopeful suitors at bay. Perhaps the English or Spanish would take you as a war prize and I would never see the likes of you again."
"Do not tease me. I can wear a heavy coat and cover my hair," I urge desperately, though I know he jokes, "I cannot bear being here alone without you for so long. Besides, you have told me I am just as strong as you are."
"Celeste," he chuckles, though his eyes tell me he would very much like me to come with him, "I know you are eager. But the fur trade is not yet a woman's work. Why don't you accompany me next year? By then, I will have mastered the trade myself and I can teach you."
We seal our agreement with a kiss.
♔♔♔
LATER THAT EVENING, I gaze wistfully across the room at Jacques as he falls asleep.
I lean against the doorframe, my shoulders hunched with exhaustion, and my eyes weary with sleep.
I have packed the snowshoes, dried and salted deer meat, the jacket, the extra blouse, and the brown sack of items for trading upon my trousseau—the same one I was given when I first embarked to be a daughter.
I approach to peel open the sack, revealing some gleaming bottles of brandy and tobacco.
My heart sinks.
I know that as a coureur de bois; it is a necessity for Jacques to trade goods with the Natives, but I have begged and pleaded with him to replace the illicit products for some wool perhaps, or seeds or anything else.
Whenever my eyes trace those bottles, my mind returns to the slave Papa was to the drink.
Despite my earlier fears about his dependency, Jacques has never let the drink hinder his better judgement. Though he may enjoy a drink of ale or two after a day of attempting to prepare the farm, he doesn't become violent or tempered as my father once had.
Still, I have qualms about supplying others with such products. Would it not be wrong to introduce the Natives to something capable of such evil?
I heave a sigh and slip onto our makeshift mattress, folding myself against Jacques's muscular chest and memorizing the soothing melody of his breath.
♔♔♔
A COMMANDING SHOUT pierces the night.
I am jolted awake, and Jacques peels off the woven blanket and leaps up, muttering a series of curses.
"What?" I blurt, terror coursing through me. "What was that?"
"I do not know. Perhaps the English, but all I know is that noise wasn't one of my comrades." He pulls on his breeches and eases into his blouse, buttoning it up the length of his chest.
I rush to peer out the window, behind the sheet of paper, to regard a trio of men, attired in blue velvet cassocks, and bandoliers hanging off their shoulders, all embroidered with the symbolic fleur-de-lis hovering outside the door.
I wave Jacques over, and he cranes his neck above my shoulder. I watch as his eyes widen with surprised shock.
"Who are they?" I inquire beneath my drawn breath as he grasps my forearm with his hand.
"Maréchaussée," he mutters.
The word registers, and I am reminded of my hearing about them. They are called archers, responsible for carrying out justice under the king throughout the new colony, though often described as erratic and violent with a lack of direct supervision from the French court.
The lantern catches us for a fraction of a moment, and Jacques drops the makeshift curtain.
He pulls me into his side, either holding onto me for strength or as an attempt at protection.
"Monsieur Jacques Deschamps, you are wanted under the authority of New France Intendant Jean Talon for administering the illegal sale of alcohol and other items. If you do not allow us entry immediately, we will be forced to take further action."
The authoritative voice booms into the night.
Before either Jacques or I can respond to the man's words, the door is kicked in, and the three men swarm into the house, tracking mud across the animal pelts.
The men ignore him as they sweep through the room, their uniforms glinting.
Instinctively, from behind our bed at the other side of the one-roomed house, I pull the bottles of alcohol from the chest and stuffing them underneath my skirt.
"What are you hiding, little girl?" One guard confronts me, sneering.
The other guards wait, holding Jacques back as he struggles to break free of them.
"My husband is innocent." I force myself to be calm, holding the shudder within me. "You have made a mistake by detaining him. Release him, for you will find nothing here."
"C'est vrai?" Suddenly, the soldier grabs me and throws me to the ground, causing the bottles to clunk against the floor.
Jacques tries to tear himself away from the soldier's grip. The veins in his throat bulge.
"How dare you lay a hand to my wife?" He yells, his furious eyes scalding the archer who has assaulted me. "Do not touch her."
The archer shrugs, unimpressed by my husband's passion.
"I stand by my word." I whisper, tears slipping down my cheeks. "My husband is a good man."
The archer ignores me and kicks up my skirts, revealing the brownish bottles lying on the ground.
"I am sorry... it is my doing. I told him to bring the alcohol on his journey because I thought it might earn us some more money. W-we are poor, so the choice was made of necessity." I do not feel guilt for lying, as I know I would rather be imprisoned than let my husband be punished. If anyone deserves mercy, it is him.
Jacques relaxes under the hands of the soldiers, restraining him, shame stamping his features.
"You do not need to explain. We were tipped off about you, warned that the bastard of some street prostitute was going to cause us trouble from the beginning." The oldest looking soldier snorts at Jacques, "You may as well kiss your woman goodbye, while you accompany us to the prison."
"The prison? The largest penalty for such a crime cannot be anymore than paying some livres!" Jacques exclaims, positioning himself between me and the archers once they release him, "And this is the first offence I have committed!"
"Your imprisonment will benefit the safety of all New France inhabitants, including the girl," the eldest man shakes his head. "You are nothing more than a vagabond and your presence taints the reputation of our new colony."
"Perhaps, this will be a good thing," I whisper to Jacques in a hushed tone, "you won't have to sell illegal things to make money. We can trade other goods instead."
"You are right," Jacques replies quietly, planting a kiss on my cheek, "promise me you will wait for me. I should not be imprisoned for more than a few days."
My voice comes out stronger and more assured than I feel. "Of course. How could I not? Where else would I go? I will be right here, thinking of other stories to tell you upon your imminent return."
A glimmer of a smile flashes across his visage, but fades just as quickly as it appeared. I nod weakly, squeezing his hands before they are ripped away from my hold by the Maréchaussée.
I turn, weeping into the sleeve of my nightgown.
"Enough crying," One of the younger archers with softer features and a gentler voice says, "you need not worry, Madame. Your husband will certainly be returned to you within a few days. Such a crime is not so serious."
I muster a nod as Jacques is dragged out of the cabin. I want to fight back, but my better judgement and experience tell me that such a foolish move would only result in a harsher penalty for Jacques and subsequently a longer time apart.
Perhaps a few months ago, I would have been impulsive enough to swing my fists and scream aloud, but now I have learned to trade passion for reason. I watch as the lantern floats away into the night and listen as the booming voices become fragile echoes floating on the wind.
♔♔♔
A KNOCK ON the door startles me to consciousness. My breathing is fast and panicked, as if it is not my own, and my hands shake violently as I rid myself of the covers sticking to my sweaty body. I expect to see darkness, but daylight filters through the window. How was I able to fall asleep when Jacques' warm body is no longer nestled beside me?
The knocking becomes more urgent. I wonder if Jacques is already home, and yet so early. Perhaps the Maréchaussée investigated the charges laid against him and came up with nothing, or took mercy upon his guilty plea.
I wriggle into a long night robe, pulling my raven tresses to cascade down my back and smoothing out my skirt. I rush to the door and swing it open, not peeking behind the waxed paper curtain.
"Bonjour, mon bijou," a voice greets.
I gaze up through lowered lashes, but the image before me does not seem to be real.
Before me stands Alan Bouchard, his pitted cheeks bloated with a gruesome grin, his trimmed fingernails digging into my flesh.
Adrenaline kicks in, and I jerk my hand away from him, spinning around to race inside and slam the door shut behind me. Before I can escape, he forces me towards him, his hands ripping into the fabric of my robe. I scream between desperate, shallow breaths, but he clamps his filthy hand over my mouth.
I squirm until my heel is positioned at his ankle, and I kick him in the shin as hard as I can. When he releases me, I strike him across the face, my eyes stinging with tears.
"How dare you?" I hiss, backing away. "Who do you think you are? If anyone knew that you just struck me, one of the daughters, they would hang you!"
His eyes remain cold and hard, and a deep, rumbling laughter bubbles over, like stew cooking in a pot.
"Dearest Celeste Dubois. You have disgraced me, humiliated me when I offered you a proposal of marriage, only to elope with a penniless beggar far below your rank! Did you expect for a wealthy, respected man such as myself to take no for an answer? However, now that you are legally married in the eyes of the law and the Church, they shall force me to take you as a street prostitute: a concubine. You are no longer worth anything as a wife, and therefore you are not worth anything as a woman other than a man's plaything."
My heart beats like it is trying to escape from my chest. I want to pummel my fists into his stomach, to kick him, to fight him with all my might. But I am frozen. Frozen, like a woman without power or voice.
He forms the words as a question, but he doesn't intend to hear an answer. I open my mouth to defend myself, but he dismisses me with a sharp wave of the hand.
"And, I know you must have something to do with my slave girl's escape. I was the one who sent the archers to imprison your petty thief excuse of a husband. You shall give yourself to me at once, or he will be killed at my request."
"I would rather die than give myself to a monster. I am bound by spirit and by heart to my husband. I do not care what his rank is, nor do I care what you have to say about our marriage. I am a daughter of the king. I did what they expected of me, married a French settler under King Louis's command." I grimace, using my arms to shield his enormous form from me.
"Then I suppose you don't care if they shoot him dead under my command?"
"You will do no such thing," I spit, voicing my exact thoughts.
"You may believe that, but it doesn't make it true." He chuckles, his breath hot and reeking of alcohol upon my face.
He lunges to grab me, but I duck under his arm and race into the forest without looking back, while Alan Bouchard's evil laughter follows me as a bear stalks its prey.
I must find Jacques.