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.”
