Sneak Peek! Manitoba Canadian Historical Mystery ~ Discarded by Nancy M Bell

 

To find out more about Nancy's books please click on the cover above. Discarded is scheduled for release in September of 2023.

Happy to report Discarded is almost ready. It's been an interesting journey and the more I read and researched the more I realized how much the British have to apologize for with regards to the high handed arrogant way they ran roughshod over the peoples already living in the areas the British colonized. However, this is not the place for political discussions. Just let's leave it at this: Louis Riel was a good man who stood up for his people. We should celebrate him, not villainize him as they did in my elementary school History class.

Discarded, the title, refers to the women who were married to the men who came to settle in Rupert's Land in an arrangment called 'la facon du pays' (according to the custom of the country). Without the help of these First Nations and Metis women many of these men would not have survived the harsh conditions. However, when the settlement grew larger the English and Scots brought women from Britain to Rupert's Land who they married in churches as the Catholic and Presbyterian clergy did not recognize the arrangements of la facon du pays. The women who had sustained the first arrivals were cast out and left to fend for themselves and their children by the men now married to 'more suitable wives'. 

Here is a snippet of the first chapter.

Chapter One

“Marguerite, you must go to him. Etienne needs medicine, the fever is eating him up,” Marie Anne urged her sister.

The younger woman shook her head, wringing out a cloth in cold water to soothe her child. “How can I? The English woman, she is there now, I doubt Miles will even speak to me.”

“He must, Etienne is his son!” Marie-Anne insisted.

“No longer.” The words were bitter. “He has disowned the bebe and me, discarded us like so much offal. Now that his fancy English lady has arrived.”

“Still, Marguerite, you must go and ask. I will come with you. Together we will convince your Miles to either send the British doctor or give us money for the medicine.” Anne Marie pulled the dripping cloth from Marguerite’s hand and threw it on the pounded earth floor. “Look at him! You cannot just let him die. If you won’t go yourself, I will go in your stead.”

Marie-Anne whirled around, grabbing two thin shawls from the back of a chair, and wrapping them around her shoulders. She planted her hands on her hips and glared at her sister. “Are you coming?”

“Yes, oui, of course. I know you are right. It is just my pride that stops me. For how long was I his wife in every sense of the word? If not for me, and you, and others like us, those soft Englishmen would never have survived their first winter. It was our relatives who brought them buffalo and other provisions to see them through, and us who cared for them, chopped wood, carried the water, bore their children…” Marguerite broke off, her throat closing in frustration and sorrow for all that they’d lost. Angrily, she swiped the moisture from her cheeks and straightened her back. “Come, we go. Alexandre! Come watch your brother while I go to your father to ask for help.”

The older boy poked the dying fire one more time before crossing the small room. He picked the sodden cloth up from the floor and wrung it out. After rinsing it with some water from the bucket by the bed, he wiped his little brother’s face.

“Maman, he’s burning up.” Alex looked up at her. “Will Papa come and take him to the doctor? Why hasn’t he come to see us lately?”

“Your papa will not be coming, nor will he take Etienne to the doctor. The best we can hope for is that he will send the doctor or at least make provision for the apothecary to give me some medicine for him. I have tried the best I can with the willow bark, but it isn’t enough.”

“Will Eitienne die like Elizabeth?” Alex glanced at the empty cradle still sitting by the hearth.

“Not if I can help it,” Anne Marie promised. She took Marguerite’s arm and pulled her toward the door. “Put this on against the cold.” She thrust a Hudson’s Bay blanket into the other woman’s arms.

“Oui, yes, we must go. You are right.” Marguerite wrapped the woolen blanket tightly around her, and after one last look at her children, followed her sister out into the bitter wind blowing down the Red River, howling around the eaves of the small buildings and sending snow flying into their faces.

Alex’s last words echoed in Marguerite’s head as she shouldered her way against the wind. “Tell Papa I miss him.” She snorted, as if Miles cared about them anymore. Even little Elizabeth, dead at six months of age, hadn’t moved him to contribute to her burial. It was the English woman’s fault. She was the one who turned Miles against them. Charlotte Windfield, what sort of name was Charlotte anyway? Grief stabbed her for a moment, not Windfield anymore, oh no. Miles married her in the church two weeks ago. So now she was Charlotte Ashmore. Lady Ashmore.

“Marguerite, come on, hurry up.” Anne Marie looked over her shoulder and waited for her sister to catch up.

“Sorry, the wind is stealing my breath.”

“Here, take my arm. It’s only a little way more. Surely Miles will ask us in and let us get warm before we go on.”

The walk from the Metis community to the more substantial homes of the British and Scottish population was a long one on a good day, for the two women walking into the teeth of the northwest wind it seemed interminable. Marguerite pulled Anne Marie to a halt in the lee of the church.

“A moment, I need to catch my breath,” she said, also needing to strengthen her resolve not to do damage to either Lord Ashmore, her erstwhile husband, or the English woman now ensconced in the fancy house just up the street.

“A moment, then. But we mustn’t waste time. Come.” Anne Marie grasped her arm and towed her sister out of the lee of the building into the wind once more.

Marguerite led the way up the path to the front door, pausing before the two steps up to the porch to take a deep breath and straighten the blanket around her shoulders. Head held high, she mounted the steps and rapped loudly on the door. Anne Marie hovered at her side; shoulders hunched against the wind.

“Yes?” Lord Ashmore’s man servant opened the door.

“I need to speak with Miles. Immediately.” Marguerite blinked in light spilling over the man’s shoulder.

“I’m afraid that is impossible. You should know better than to come here where you are not welcome.” He made disapproving noises with his tongue and made to shut the door, his strong London East End accent making it difficult for her to understand him.

“No!” Anne Marie thrust forward and stuck her foot in the door. “A child’s life is at stake. We must speak with Lord Ashmore.”

“Who is it, Gregory?” Light footsteps and the clicking of heels on the polished wooden floor proceeded the voice.

“Nothing for you to worry about, m’am.” He moved to block the woman’s view of the porch.

“I need to speak with Miles,” Marguerite shouted. “His son is very ill.”

“Oh!” Charlotte Ashmore topped in her tracks and took a step back. “My husband has no son. I’m afraid you are mistaken. Now leave this place immediately.”

“I assure you Miles does have a son, two of them in fact, and a dead infant daughter. Now let me speak to him,” Marguerite insisted. 

Until next month, stay well, stay happy.

Nancy