Promised to the Crown

Kierkegaard

PART 1

1667

Louis XIV’s colony in Canada needs women.

Surrounded by the British, the King needs to tie his settlers to the land with farms, wives, and children to defend in the event their enemies should invade.

The King’s ministers devised a plan by which young, strong women of good character would be sent at the King’s expense to wed the soldiers, farmers, artisans, and fur trappers who populated the colony.

History would remember them as the King’s Daughters and the Daughters of New France.

C

HAPTER

1

Rose

June 1667, The Salpêtrière Charity Hospital, Paris

One, two, three strokes up . . . Rinse. One, two, three strokes down. Rinse. Move three inches to the right....

Rose Barré scoured the floor on her hands and knees, her once fine hands now raw, cracked, and bleeding, as she tried to rid the small room of the stench. The battle was futile. One painfully clean dormitory cell would not mask the stink of filth and disease that permeated the dozens of other cells surrounding it. The fetid smell of mold, piss, and unwashed flesh hit Rose in the face each morning as she opened her eyes and kept her from her sleep at night, despite all the promises that she would grow used to it. This was one of Rose’s bad days, where, no matter what she did, she could not stop scrubbing, even though her officière had forbidden the endless scouring. No matter how Rose tried to reason with herself, she could never get the room clean enough to sate the urge. She wiped her black, matted curls from her forehead with the back of her hand and moved the brush three inches to the right.

The church bells rang not far from Rose’s room, causing her to look up from the soapy scrub marks. She tossed her brush in the bucket of murky water with more vigor than necessary. I’m going to be late. Missing a lesson would not be worth the resultant reprimand, no matter how much Rose longed to continue her attack on the perpetually grimy floor. She looked down at the water stains on the knees of her dingy canvas apron. Oh well, I haven’t another. I’ll bear the disapproving eyes of the Sisters as I always do.

Before she reached the door to the classroom, Rose heard voices raised in argument coming from Sister Vérité’s rooms. She scuttled past the open door on her way to the catechism room with every attempt at silence. She laid her hand on the classroom’s door handle when Sister Vérité called her name. She froze. Curse my luck! Rose groaned quietly. Rose turned back and entered the well-ordered apartment that served as Sister Vérité’s office and living quarters, leaving the musty hallway behind. The familiar rooms smelled of candle wax and book dust, not unpleasant for a room in the Salpêtrière. As she entered, Rose saw Sister Charité, the Supérieure herself, seated behind the large walnut desk.

Hello, Sister, Rose stammered.

She realized that raised voice had been Vérité’s; the younger officière had dared to argue with the Supérieure. Rose felt a cold stone growing in the hollow of her stomach as she took the proffered chair.

Sister Vérité and I were just discussing you, my child, Sister Charité said.

Rose felt the rock in her stomach grow larger still.

Me, Sister? Rose asked. Given the immense scope of the Supérieure’s duties, Rose figured her goings-on were as significant to the head of the massive establishment as the scurrying of ants.

Yes, my dear, the Supérieure said, looking Rose over. You know that your skills and talents, your education, have not gone unnoticed by Sister Vérité. Therefore, you have not gone unnoticed by me. The question, child, is where your talents are best spent.

Sister Vérité’s preference for Rose was no surprise. From her arrival at the charity hospital three years prior, the Sister earmarked her as a "bijou," a gem. Rose learned this meant that she was being groomed to be an officière herself one day. Sister Vérité’s kindness in those early days, Rose was certain, was the only thing that kept her heart from breaking. She had shadowed the young woman ever since. More recently, she’d taken on the unofficial role of assistant. They’re here to make me a sous-officière, Rose concluded, but was relieved only momentarily. My appointment wouldn’t make Vérité displeased. Surely, one as young and inexperienced as I wouldn’t be asked to serve in La Force to work with the lunatics and thieves. The stone turned to bile that threatened to escape its confines as she pondered the possibility. Life in the dormitories felt like purgatory, but from what Rose understood from the stories, the hospital prison was hell itself.

Sister Charité shifted position in her seat, seemingly adjusting her thoughts as well. "You are, without question, of great use to us here. Sister Vérité vehemently supports taking you on as an officière. I have no doubt you would serve us admirably in that capacity. The King, however, needs young women to go to New France as brides for his settlers there. In his wisdom, His Majesty has ordered us to send some of our best, that they might marry and end their reliance on the Royal treasury and solve His Majesty’s colonial woes in one gesture. I think you would be an ideal choice. You are young, you are strong and healthy—a good worker, too."

The room filled with a heavy silence as the Sisters waited for some response from Rose, who stared downward at her splotched apron.

I leave the choice to you, Sister Charité said. I suggest you consider your options carefully. I will expect your answer in the morning.

Sister Charité gave her officière a pointed glare and left the room with her usual efficiency. New France? Rose’s hands shook at the very prospect. All she knew was that it was a cold, lonely place, far to the west. Only the bravest of men attempted the voyage, and fewer chose to make a life there. Could the good Sister, who preached to the inmates about the virtues of femininity and the place of women in the home, be serious about sending her—and others—to the colony?

Vérité looked at her charge with pleading eyes. Sister Charité would not wish me to sway your decision, Rose, but I must speak. You cannot think to leave. Not for some desolate patch of wilderness that the King has taken a fancy to.

Truly, Sister, I do not know what to think. Rose, who had never in the course of her life been given leave to make her own decisions, now had less than twenty-four hours to decide her own fate.

You are needed here, Rose, Sister Vérité said. The children admire and love you. You have purpose here, helping the poor of Paris. Stay and be an example to them. What awaits you in New France? Bitter cold? A man, gone half-savage, who expects you to keep his shack? Child after child until bearing children kills you? Is that what you want?

Rose looked at her mentor. Vérité’s eyes shone with terror. Rose thought of a husband. One to treat her each night as her uncle had. Callous. Uncaring. Cruel. Rose had no desire to relive the torture she had endured at his hands.

Vérité smiled at Rose, taking the girl’s hand in her own. "The Salpêtrière isn’t paradise, but it is safe. Now, hurry along to class."

Rose’s prayers and responses to the questions on her catechism that afternoon were distracted at best. If Sister Jeanne, normally a stickler for attentiveness, noticed Rose’s comportment, she said nothing. The lenience made more sense when Rose remembered that Sister Charité had mentioned others would go to New France as well. The officières would certainly know who the candidates were. There are no secrets in a place like this. Not ones anyone can keep for long.

After catechism came supper, an ample bowl of hearty beef soup and crusty bread, a substantial degree better than the usual fare. It still tasted as pleasant as soot in Rose’s mouth that night. Excused from her evening duties, Rose returned to her room after supper and paced the floors, still dingy for all her toils. A fatigue, much deeper than she had ever felt, washed over her. She felt crippled by the enormity of the decision. She thumbed through her prayer book, but knew it would give her no solace that night. She looked at her ratty mattress, but knew sleep would not come. She opted for the hard wire bristles of her scrub brush instead.

Even three long years weren’t enough for Rose to adjust to the cesspool that was her prison. Her heart still broke with each injustice. All it took was a letter from a well-connected member of society to the right people, and a woman was imprisoned in this charity hospital for the rest of her days. A girl who refused to marry a man a quarter century her senior, another who took a profession as a secretary without her father’s blessing, women branded as mad by husbands who wished to be rid of them. Most common were the countless orphans, like Rose, whose families simply couldn’t be bothered with their care. These were Rose’s companions now, so very unlike the ones her beloved father had envisioned for her.

As she scrubbed, Rose remembered her father’s face, lined with kindness. A successful merchant, he’d lost his life over a hand of vingt-et-un with a disgruntled client when Rose was barely twelve years old. Her mother died giving birth to her, and Rose was sent to live with her aunt and uncle on their estate outside of Paris. A palace of crystal chandeliers, gilded furniture, and gardens manicured to the point they no longer resembled anything from nature. For two and a half happy years Rose’s aunt doted upon her niece and Rose reveled in spoiling her young cousins. Then her uncle took notice of Rose’s developing breasts and soft red lips.

Too frequently, Rose remembered that first evening when she gently shut the door to the nursery and released a grateful sigh that the day was coming to a close. She had just finished tucking in little Luce after three stories and a promise of more tomorrow, and Rose was ready to find her own bed.

Tired, my dear? asked Uncle Grégoire, approaching his niece from a spot in the shadows farther down the hall.

Rose gasped, not having heard her uncle approach, and not used to his presence in this wing of the house. His children, while necessary for the protection of the estate, were of little interest to him in many respects. You gave me a start, Uncle! cried Rose. Yes, yes, I am tired. The children were particularly energetic today.

Grégoire clucked his tongue in disapproval. You work too hard, my dear. You were not brought here to be a servant, you know.

Of course, Uncle. But I enjoy the children immensely.

Let their mother and the servants attend to them, my dear. Grégoire was now standing only inches from Rose, and his proximity was beginning to make her nervous. She would have taken a step back, but she was all but pinned to the nursery door. Rose looked at her uncle, not knowing what to say by way of a response.

You’re not a chatty girl, remarked Grégoire, running a finger down his niece’s flushed cheek. I like that. You please me a great deal, you know. His fingertip reached its objective . . . the swell of her lower lip.

I do? muttered Rose, covertly looking for a way to escape. She saw none.

Oh yes, said Grégoire. I don’t want you wasting your energies on the children. I will keep you as my pet. Do you understand? Your aunt must never know.

Before she could answer that she, in fact, did not understand what her uncle wanted from her, his mouth was upon hers. Trapped, Rose had no choice but to press herself against the door. His right hand moved from her hair to the front of her dress, grabbing the soft swell of her breast, causing Rose to whine in displeasure.

To your room, now, he commanded, pulling away from her and grabbing her arm, forcing her to follow.

Once in the small bedchamber, he divested himself of most of his clothes and began to yank her dress from her shivering frame. He shoved her to the bed and tears rolled down her cheeks as he took her roughly, without consideration for her innocence.

Good girl, he said, throwing his clothes back on before Aunt Martine noticed his absence. You will wait up for me each night unless I give you leave otherwise. Do you understand?

Yes, Uncle, she said, wiping the tears from her face.

You will come to enjoy it, little pet. He cast a glance at the bloodstains on her bed. Now see to your sheets before your aunt notices the mess.

And so it continued for six months. Uncle Grégoire did not miss an evening, and despite his assertion to the contrary, she never came to enjoy his unwanted attentions. Each month, Rose feared she would miss her course and she would be utterly ruined. Worse, Rose began to worry her uncle would never tire of her and continue his nightly visits forever. She longed to tell her aunt, but didn’t want to break her heart when she learned what a monster her husband was. She knew she was ruined for marriage, but she hoped that if the whole disgusting affair stayed secret she might remain a sort of spinster aunt who cared for the children and eventually their own children.

That was until one night when, without preamble, Rose’s bedroom door was flung open just as her uncle was dressing to leave.

You little whore. Aunt Martine looked with hate, not at her half-naked husband, but at Rose, who lay trembling, trying to forget his embraces.

The next morning Rose was taken from her bed with nothing but her oldest dress and most basic belongings in tow. With one word from her aunt, she was now a ward of the state and a prisoner of the Salpêtrière. Stripped of all she ever knew and loved, she was terrified of this new hell in which she found herself.

Rose was abandoned, screaming, at the gates of the Salpêtrière. The fear gripped her like the cold fingers of death. She was certain she wouldn’t live out the night, so she wasn’t afraid that her screams would earn her a beating. Seeing the dawn light through her cell window proved a disappointment that morning and many afterward.

Rose thought of her father often. Sometimes she indulged in the fantasy that he was miraculously returned to life. She imagined his face as he saw her on her knees scrubbing the floor in a tattered dress. When he learned where she was, what his brother had done to her, there would be another duel, this time with a far more satisfactory outcome. In her childhood, she was given every whim of her heart, coddled and loved by him and a long string of overindulgent governesses. He loved to tell Rose how much she looked like his beloved, lamented wife. So far as Rose knew, he never loved another woman. She treasured the thought like a precious jewel. Like the emerald brooch of her mother’s that now her aunt surely kept for herself.

Before her confinement, Rose had been only vaguely aware of the charity hospital’s existence. The vast, imposing compound of moldy brick and human stink had terrified her, as it did most children. As the sheltered daughter of the bourgeoisie, Rose had only rarely visited the sector of Paris where the specter of the Salpêtrière loomed over the surrounding streets. She didn’t realize, then, how fortunate that made her.

She had assumed that, like many institutions of its kind, the Church had the running of the Salpêtrière, but Rose learned with surprise that the staff was a secular one. Adopting the title Sister and abandoning given names for religious monikers was only ceremonial. Despite the lack of official ties to the Church, the members of the staff were all deeply religious. They espoused the virtues of routine and constant occupation. Prayer, study, chores, meals. No idleness to tempt the weak souls in their charge. She overheard the officières use the term more than once. Are we really weak? Or merely inconvenient?

Can I truly stay in such a place? Her grip on the brush was painful, but she gave it no heed.

Vérité was right; in the hospital, Rose’s life had purpose. The children, the staff—they needed her, appreciated her, treated her well. But what awaited her in the Salpêtrière? A larger room? A salary? One day a month to escape into Paris under the watchful eye of a chaperone?

Were those small liberties enough?

Rose imagined that Vérité was also right about what awaited her in New France: harsh conditions, certainly . . . but perhaps a family of her own as well.

Papa had been wonderful, but he alone did not constitute a family. In the years before she lived with her uncle, Rose had always pictured herself with a large brood of children, to make up for her own lack of brothers and sisters. That would never happen without a husband, though the thought sickened her. It would never happen in the Salpêtrière.

In her logical mind she knew that not all men were such demons, but she could not separate the marriage act from the memory of her uncle’s careless, often painful, fumbling. Though her governesses and nannies had never discussed the topic with her, she’d had a vague idea of what happened between a husband and wife. She imagined it was a gentle, loving act of submission where the woman entrusted her body, soul, and heart to the man of her choice. Her uncle had shown her it was a brutish, animal act that she had no interest in ever repeating. The rough hands, putrid breath, his complete disregard for her pleas to stop . . . She could live happily never letting another man come so close to her ever again.

* * *

All too soon, dawn’s weak sunlight peeked into the minuscule window of Rose’s cell, stripes of light painting her scrubbed floor. Rose would have to meet with Sister Charité soon, yet still she had no answer. She made up her mind, and changed it, a dozen times over the course of the sleepless night.

As she walked the long corridor to Sister Charité’s office, Rose prayed the answer would come to her.

Do I go? Risk the bitter cold? The savages? Starve in a strange land?

Do I stay here and wither in this rancid building? Scour the floors and say my prayers?

What exactly would I pray for?

No answers came. When she reached her destination, she knocked on the open door to announce her presence.

Come in, Rose. Sister Charité did not look up from her document, but motioned to an empty seat opposite her massive desk. Rose, never having visited the room before, took in the sparse furnishings, noticing that every object had some purpose. The Sister did not appreciate decoration or unnecessary trappings. Despite the Spartan nature of the room, the gently crackling fire created a welcoming ambiance, its warmth driving back the unseasonably cool weather.

What is your decision, my child? The Sister sat back in her chair, giving Rose her full attention.

Rose looked at her hands, willing herself to speak. A stack of books on the Sister’s desk, the top volume askew by a matter of a fraction of an inch, drew her attention. She itched to straighten it, but didn’t dare. After a moment she sputtered, I don’t think I can go, Sister.

Then you are a fool. Rose felt Sister Charité’s brown eyes searching her soul and casting judgment. Disappointment mingled with the lines of experience on the old woman’s face.

Excuse me, Sister? Rose looked up from her hands, eyes wide, glancing away from the book.

You heard me, child, Sister Charité said. You’re a fool. What’s worse, you’re a fool with a good brain and an education—that’s the worst kind of fool to suffer.

Sister. It’s just so far . . . Rose began.

Yes, it is, Sister Charité said. "And it’s cold. And the men are not as civilized as in Paris, if indeed any man can truly be called ‘civilized.’ A rough life, to be sure. Vérité most likely convinced you of this, despite my orders.

"However, it is a life, Rose. I have seen you are miserable here. Some women thrive on confinement and discipline. Some women stay here of their own free will because they need our guidance. Yet our regulations only serve to stifle a girl like you."

I’m not unhappy here, Sister. Truly. I love the children—helping them with their lessons. I like being useful to Sister Vérité. Do not touch the book. Rose gripped her hands, as though in prayer, against the compulsion.

Of course, Sister Charité said. Who does not wish to live a useful life? But there are uses for you in the New World as well, my dear. More than you can take on alone, I am certain. But then, you would have your own children to guide and teach.

I don’t wish to marry, Sister. Rose forced herself to look directly at Sister Charité as she spoke the words aloud at last. Looking at Sister Charité, focusing on the woman’s honest face, kept the image of her uncle, the stink of stale whiskey, and the nights of endless torture from resurfacing. Her interwoven fingers went white.

* * *

For weeks she tried to plead with him to stop. He merely covered her mouth with an unwashed hand that reeked of tobacco and his own filth and took her anyway. He was at least a measure gentler on the nights she didn’t protest. After a few weeks, she couldn’t even summon tears. She would lie back, close her eyes, and pray that he wouldn’t make her pregnant. Pray he would tire of her and that somehow she might be able to go on with life as she had before. But it could never be. She was forever changed. Broken.

After he left each night, she imagined barring the door against him. She imagined confessing the whole affair to Aunt Martine. She imagined begging the priest for help. In her mind, each attempt to win her freedom from her uncle’s cruelty always resulted in a beating or her public disgrace. Worse, the insufferable pity of a priest in her uncle’s employ who would tell her that suffering was a woman’s lot in life and that she could learn the valuable lesson of forbearance and self-effacement from her ordeal. In the end, her tenure in the Salpêtrière had confirmed her worst suspicions.

* * *

It is the idea of marriage that bothers you, not the reality of it, my girl, Sister Charité said.

I don’t think that’s true, Sister, Rose replied.

Sister Charité’s eyes flashed in surprise at the severity of Rose’s tone. Rose was almost equally shocked, not having felt much conviction in her own opinions these past three years.

Go to the colony, girl, Sister Charité said. You may not find happiness in marriage, but I can promise you, without equivocation, that you will not find it here.

Rose took in a deep breath and looked the older woman in the eye as an equal. She means what she says. She thinks this stinking prison will kill me—sooner rather than later. And I can’t find anything in my heart that tells me she’s mistaken.

If I must, Rose said, and with the deft movement of one hand, straightened the off-kilter book.

Finally some sense, Sister Charité said, glancing away from the book and back to Rose. You will leave Paris for Rouen in two weeks. There, you will meet the rest of the girls who will travel with you to New France. From Rouen, you will go to the port in Dieppe to meet your ship. Several of our girls are going. I want you to keep a special eye on Geneviève and Vivienne for me. They are very young and will be grateful for your attentions.

With pleasure, Sister. Rose knew the girls from their catechism classes. Geneviève and Vivienne were orphans as well, only a few months into their sojourn at the Salpêtrière. Both seemed sweet natured and eager to learn, though neither were gifted scholars. They never looked particularly happy, and Rose was glad Sister Charité had selected them. They were the pale, slight type of girl that, all too often, slipped from life in the middle of a chilly night in the dank prison.

Very good. I trust you will make sure these last two weeks are profitable ones, said Sister Charité by way of dismissal.

Rose walked slowly back to her dormitory. She hoped that Sister Charité was right, and that a useful life awaited her in New France. Rose enjoyed her duties at the Salpêtrière, but the officières could replace her. The putrid edifice would continue to rot beneath the feet of its inmates whether Rose taught catechism or not. In fact, there was only one person Rose would truly miss. Without realizing where her steps had led her, Rose found herself in front of Vérité’s apartment.

Rose opened the door when bid to the sight of Vérité at her desk, bathed in the light of early morning, poring over her record book. Taking notes on the behavior and progress of her charges, as Rose had helped her to do countless times.

How can I disappoint her? Maybe even break her heart? Rose’s breath caught in her throat. The decision is made and I must not waver. I am not a coward.

I am going, she announced, instead of giving a proper greeting. She kept her gaze on Vérité, not wanting to show hesitation.

Stupid girl, Sister Vérité said. You will die a martyr to this New France. You will wish you had never left. I can promise you that.

I’m sorry you feel so, Sister. Rose felt a pain in her chest to see the flash of anger in Vérité’s eyes.

I am not your sister anymore, am I? Call me Pauline if you must speak to me at all. Vérité attempted to keep her tone stoic, but Rose could hear an unmistakable quiver in the undertones.

Pauline. The name felt strange on Rose’s tongue. You will always be a sister to me. She reached for Vérité’s hand, but the Sister rebuked her.

Then how can you leave me? Something in Vérité’s countenance escaped Rose’s understanding, but she grasped the accusation of betrayal in Vérité’s voice all too well.

Your friendship has meant more to me than anything, Sister Vérité said. Your arrival here brightened my life, yet you cast my friendship aside. You cast me aside. You cast aside your very life.

I will find death sooner or later, Pauline, Rose said. Who can say whether it will come any sooner in New France than in the Salpêtrière? Either way, I cannot stay.

Do what you will. Vérité stood and opened the door of the pleasant apartment to the gloomy hallway beyond. The choice was yours, and you made it.

I do not leave for two weeks, Sister Vérité, said Rose, reprising the title for the sake of a few young girls within earshot. We needn’t say good-bye—not yet.

You’re already gone, was Vérité’s farewell.

* * *

Indeed, for the next two weeks, Rose lived like a shadow in Vérité’s presence—there, but never noticed or acknowledged.

Please speak to me! Rose wanted to shout as she assisted the silent Vérité in her duties. She knew it would accomplish nothing, so she held her tongue. Worse, she feared any attempt to break the silence might cause Vérité further grief.

On the day the three girls left for Rouen, Sister Charité stood beside the carriage in the weak spring sunlight and presented each one with a rosary and a benediction.

Go and do your duty, my daughters, Sister Charité said as she opened the door to the carriage. Know that my prayers and good wishes go with you.

Rose forced a weak smile for the formidable woman. She waited for Vivienne and Geneviève to take their seats before claiming her own. Rose hesitated as she climbed onto the step of the carriage and onto the worn leather seats. The last carriage she’d traveled in, more than three years before, had been far grander, but brought her to the place of her nightmares. Please God that this rattletrap take me to a brighter future.

Wait! Vérité called from behind them.

Rose turned to see her friend rushing from the doors, gasping from the exertion of her run.

When Vérité reached Rose she removed her necklace, a small silver medallion depicting St. Agnes, and clasped it around her neck. Then she took Rose’s face in her hands and kissed her cheeks.

I am so sorry . . . these past weeks . . . I just couldn’t . . . Vérité struggled.

Rose silenced her friend with a hearty embrace.

Please don’t forget me, Rose. Vérité did not bother to restrain her tears.

Never, was all Rose could manage.

Rose forced herself to board the carriage and watched as Vérité . . . Pauline . . . grew smaller and smaller in the distance. She watched until she could no longer see the face of the one person who had truly loved her these past three years.

Once out of sight, as much as it pained her, Rose forced herself to turn around and look forward.

C

HAPTER

2

Elisabeth

August 1667, On the Atlantic Ocean

Hell isn’t fire; it’s a frozen abyss. The streets of Paris would be stifling this time of year, Elisabeth Martin thought with a pang of regret. I’ll never be properly warm again, will I? She looked out over the vast gray ocean, her wheat-blond hair blowing loose in the wind, and longed to feel the sun on her shoulders as she wandered the narrow avenues of the Saint-Sulpice district arm in arm with her father, Pierre. The crew said it was colder than usual for summer, but at least the bone-chilling rain had given way to fog. She could only imagine what winter would be like on the open sea.

To summon warmth on the fog-blanketed ship deck, she tried recalling one of the many fine afternoons in that same Parisian sun that she spent with her father, when they closed his bakery for an hour or two to scout their competition. They judged a baker first by his inventory. Was his supply overflowing at noon? Gone by ten in the morning?

A good baker makes what the people want, Pierre repeated to his daughter almost daily, and enough of it, too. But not so much that it goes to waste. No matter what they preach in the churches, there’s no greater sin in my book, girl.

Next, they assessed the creativity of his offerings. Did he sell only baguettes and buns, or did he venture into pastries and cakes? At last, they would taste.

Truth be told, the tasting was their main objective.

From the age of fourteen, Elisabeth worked in the bakery as her father’s equal partner. She inherited his work ethic, and he freely admitted her technique and creativity surpassed his own. Were Elisabeth a boy, she might have become a preeminent Parisian pastry chef. As a girl, she could work in her father’s shop, but no more. He raged at the injustice on her behalf, but she loved the days at her father’s side too much to fret over the missed chance at renown.

Now, after a month at sea, Elisabeth had become so inured to the cold that she could barely summon the memory of the Parisian summer sun. The salty spray that seeped into her bones reminded her of the chilly late-winter day when Elisabeth stood next to her mother in the cemetery, her own large frame towering over the diminutive woman, and watched the grave diggers lower her father into the cold dirt.

Though the stale air of the hold held no enticements for Elisabeth, the chill of the ocean breeze soon chased her below decks. There, girls huddled in various states of illness from the constant rocking of the ship. Those well enough to fight through the nausea nursed those who were not.

A lone girl, Nicole, lay on the edge of her bunk, head over the side and buried in a bucket as she heaved. Nothing remained for her queasy stomach to expel, which Elisabeth knew made the experience even worse. No one attended her, so Elisabeth climbed into the bunk to sit behind Nicole and hold her chestnut mane away from her face.

Thank you, the girl muttered between gagging spells.

Don’t you worry. Just try to relax and breathe. Elisabeth spoke in soft tones and rubbed the girl’s back. It was the only relief she could offer.

Eventually, Nicole lay back on her bed. The heaves no longer racked her body, but the girl still shivered violently. Elisabeth covered Nicole’s shaking frame with the blanket from her own bed.

Nicole nodded gratefully but did not attempt to speak.

Not knowing what else to do, Elisabeth went to the ship’s kitchens. The crew didn’t appear to appreciate passengers milling about during a squall and did not seem happy about the intrusion. Elisabeth could not walk into a kitchen without making an