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Madame Brunet (LingeringDesire & CharmSnake)

Her feet stepped from the worn grey stones of the street to the withered grey boards of the pier, jutting out from the damp grey shore, reaching over the vast grey sea spread out beneath the heavy grey sky. Indifferently, the bleak ship awaited the last of its cargo as its crew worked the deck and climbed the rigging, preparing to set sail. At her side, her sister kept up the solemn pall pace set by the trailing priest. A mere thirty yards remained. Two full days of jostled carriage had brought them here. It had been a tiring journey already, yet it was only about to commence. The priest would deliver the cargo and be rid of them once and for all.

It had taken six years for the republic to come to this conclusion. The politics of Paris may have been strangulating of its own accord, but the twisted mess of a fallen aristocracy had weaved a web so intricate that even the most diligent could not gather the wherewithal to sort out such details as her and her sister. Her family had never seen the revolution coming. Life had been a privileged shelter until they were swept up in the wave of persecution. Remanded to the care of the Catholic Church, the siblings were placed in the orphanage, a state of arrest. Stripped of all the luxuries of the noble life, many months passed without a word of her parents until one day they were escorted to the tower for a visit. She had no idea that it was an act of compassion to allow the family to be together one final time. Mother and Father did not let on. Perhaps they did not know themselves. Two weeks later, on a bitter winter morning, the girls were taken to the public square to witness the guillotine. Le Duc de Rouen and his wife - her father and mother - were abruptly no more.

She was a young girl then. She was a young woman now. Soon after the death of her parents, she was separated from her sister and placed in the convent, only recently reunited as the younger came of age. Suitors were not allowed, if not by the church, then surely by the republic. Noblesse ancienne which was once her right, now worked against her. The absence of noblesse uterine within the boundaries of Normandy had been argued and rejected. The republic would take no chances of a claim to an heir. She was one of a handful, perhaps a dozen or so, that needed to disappear. After six years, les politiques in Paris had finally come to a decision, sweeping them under the rug. The church, cozying up to the new regime, had obliged, setting up an exile to the savage woods of Québec.

Perhaps a simple exile could have been palatable, but the details were unprecedented. Old New France had been thirty years lost to the British, but Paris still had economic ties to the fish, furs and lumber. French cultural dominance in the region was under threat from an influx of Irish displaced from Britain, seeking a Catholic haven overseas. The Irish arrived as families starting farms and businesses while many of the French still hunted and trapped in the woods, mixing with the natives. An incentive program had been derived to encourage these French woodsmen to settle on the land. The cargo on the ship was such incentive.

The threesome reached the boat and turned to face the gangwalk. Le Jugement swayed gently as the murky waves lapped at her sides. It may have chilled her further to know that the ship was regularly commissioned to transport convicts away to places far flung such as Africa and the Caribbean. At the top of the walk the first mate handed two other girls over to one of the crew who led them away, cargo previously laden. Absently he waved her and her sister forward up the creaky wooden planks. The priest nodded but did not follow, his duty fulfilled, his hands washed of them. Wrapped in her peasantly muslin and burlap, she led her sister up the gangwalk. At the top, the first mate unrolled a parchment and read it without raising his eyes.

"De Rouen? Deux?" he queried. "Les derniers."

Behind her were the stone walls of Brest and the certain shores of home. Ahead was the churning barren infinity of the Atlantic Ocean. On Wednesday, April 1st, 1795, le Jugement departed Brittany for the new world.
 
Marie Vignette Jacquelyn de Rouen, moved along besides her older sister Marie Helene Anastasie de Rouen shivering with fear. Jacquelyn hadn't a clue what was going on, she knew she was being transported to Canada, but that was the extent of her knowledge. Ana knew how very ill she was and took great care to steady her, grasping her arm and pulling her along. Bleary eyes the female moved along the streets, everything was hitting so suddenly.

Lifting a thin, pale hand she dried her eyes and attempted to erase the vision of her parents death. Stumbling along, pulling her shawl tighter around her body she followed her sisters hold. The docks held the rickety looking vessel she'd be boarding. Up ahead another set of females moved out of sight along the top deck. Her stomach lurched, her feet hesitated. The priest gave her a gentle shove as Ana pulled, off she went. They were the last of the group boarding. Her pale face glanced back along the last home she'd had, gone... same as her parents.

Jacquelyn steeled her jaw and focused her attention on the first mate. A soft answer was given of yes and both sisters nodded. Their small quarters were clean but nothing more. She laid down and closed her eyes, trying in vain to work the pain further from the surface.

It took a week and things went from bad to worse. A few of her friends had jumped ship and now the girls were forbade from being on the top deck. Ana was now sick, she was no better. Her stomach churned and lurched as the boat wretched back and forth, to and fro. It was all too much. Placing her palm on her sisters forehead she grew more worried. Two other girls had succumbed the same way, their bodies tossed to the ocean as a burial.

Calling out to the crew she moved swiftly along the various corridors and hallways of the ship. In French she greeted the men, face pink and lungs swiftly pulling in air. "Help, my sister.... she needs a doctor... fresh air... medicine, please." The men were kind but it was captains orders, they even took her to the captain and let her beg her case. It was of no use. Jacquelyn was forced to sit idly by and watch as her sister passed.

With her passing the last of her strength was drained from her. Jacquelyn grew more sickly, thinner, withdrawn. She slept most of the day, ate infrequently and kept none of it down. Her slight stature and appearance was even more apparent the closer the boat came to reaching it's port. Clarisse, a close friend of the family took up residence in the room with her, caring for the sickly female.

"You will make it through to the new land, you are strong and always have been. Remember at Ana's coming of age party, the d'Ambroise brothers confused the two of you." When the brunette did not respond, the other continued. "I still remembered the look on his face when you slapped him.. the brute, he deserved it." Still nothing, the female resigned to silence.

Silence, it was what ultimately filled the small quarters. Even after a short jaunt on land. Though while on land she had gained weight and began to feel better. Healing had finally come it seemed and she began talking to Clarisse. Short lived their respite for Clarisse was one of the first group to be removed from the vessel. Jacqueline was left alone, the only other females she knew on the ship were a former rival, Simone and another female she'd seen rotating in her social circle just before they were captured, Josette, a hearty female. Thick of waist and high in spirits and a full year younger than Jacqueline.

The schedule was for the ship to dock on the 24th but due to a small delay due to weather le Jugement docked at Pointe Lebel on Sunday, April 26, 1795. Jacqueline stood stoically as the ship lurched against the weathered dock. The smell of fish was overwhelming and caused her stomach to force itself empty several times before she was guided off the vessel with the possessions she carried wrapped in her sisters shawl. A spare dress, an apron, her nightgown and her sisters spare dress. She wore the cleaner muslin one along with her boots, coat and shawl over her head to hold back the still biting winds of early spring.

Her blue eyes formed tears, but they did not fall. At 21 years of age she was not sure of what was to happen. There was no way for her to know what was to come. She thought perhaps she was sent here to care for the elderly or work in an orphanage on behalf of the church. However a line of men stood nervously by. Standing on her toes she could barely make them out as dark shadows along the dusky boardwalk.

Josette stood nervously by, talking low. "Do you think those men are meant to be our transportation or our husbands?"

Jacqueline stared blankly at the girl that stood sandwiched between herself and Simone. She wanted to feel something other than empty. However, allowing herself to feel meant opening up to pain again. "I'm not sure." She glanced down at them again, "I'm praying transportation."

Simone ignored her soft voice, "I'm hoping they are here for us. Why shouldn't we move on, we deserve to." She stuck her pert little nose into the air so she could look down onto the others as her name was called. "Some more than others."

Jacqueline bit her tongue, she knew that Simone was bitter since she was engaged to marry. The male was captured and put to death. Because of this she felt she was entitled to a lot of things. There was nothing that Jacqueline felt anyone deserved more than another. To be forced upon a man as his wife was something she couldn't comprehend, it was beyond her. Sinking back to her natural height she sighed, Josette was called. With instinct guiding her, she pulled Josette into a hug before releasing her and watching her move along, the planks creaking slightly under her weight.

Shifting she felt as though the wind would carry her away. Her head was dizzy, her stomach lurching, and her emotions high. Her name was called, she stepped forward and blindly asked. "What is happening?" Her blue eyes inquired of the first mate.
 
The cold damp wind blustered intermittently. The sharp gusts cut the eardrums and only relented long enough to allow the rotten fish odor to continuously re-envelop the pier. Pointe Lebel stood on the south bank of the Rivière Manicouagan where it joined flow with the mighty St Lawrence. It's shop-lined streets resembled any three blocks of Europe, but when the cobbles abruptly ended, a few rows of various wood houses and cabins stood on the edge of unending green wilderness. Dominating the skyline was the church steeple, a block behind the port front, with its large gold cross and intricate stained glass of the Virgin Mary and child. Many of the houses may have been ramshackle but no expense had been spared for the place of worship.

Le Jugement bellied up to the pier and the gangwalk was extended. The three remaining girls were called to the deck to wait as the non-living cargo was unloaded. Two crewmen hauled sacks down the gangwalk and deposited them on the pier. Three more men busied themselves hoisting a crate from the hold with tackle and pulley. As the crate rose, swinging gingerly in the wind, the captain descended the plank to the pier to meet with two priests. They shook hands and engaged in conversation. It was difficult to make out the words due to the distance and the coarse Québec accents but at one point the priest that did all the talking clearly asked, "Seulement trois?" as he spotted the girls on deck over the captain's shoulder. The captain replied with something that sounded like "Cinq et mort." The captain was easier to understand as he lacked the crude local dialect, although his back was turned. The priest that did not talk seemed to wear a disinterested scowl through the whole affair.

The conversation concluded with a handshake before the priest looked over a small parchment, nodded and handed over a small sack of monies. The captain poured the coins into his palm and was satisfied. Then the priests walked back towards the church. The crew had carefully swung the crate on the yardarm over the dock and began to lower it towards a horse team and dray cart that had arrived. After a few minutes the priests returned with three men in tow. They were generally scruffy looking, two of them especially so. The short one with the dark tangly beard chatted with the priest a moment. Then the priest sent his untalkative partner up the gangway. At the top, he eyed the girls.

"Plessis?" he called Josette's family name tersely and bade her follow. His accent was horribly different. Down on the pier the bearded one, dressed in woodsman's clothes, a dirty wool scarf wrapped around his ears against the wind and muddy boots, nodded his approval. The talking priest chatted with Josette for a couple of minutes. She nodded begrudgingly and when the conversation ended the woodsman offered his arm, she took it and they strode towards the chapel.

The next man was fairly clean cut with a long linen coat. His silvery hair told his older age. The irritable quiet priest was sent back up to the deck.

"De Rouen?" he prompted. The R was pronounced extremely badly.

"What is happening?"

"Come," he commanded in English. It was then obvious that he was not only completely un-French, but also not fond of the language or the people who spoke it in any way. Jacquelyn was not going to get an answer.

"Go one then," Simone pouted at being left behind.

Jacquelyn could only follow the priest's broad back as she trepidly edged her way down the plank. His heavy steps shook the boards forcing her to grip the ropes tightly or tumble into the drink.

On the pier, the silver haired man eyed her up and down. He seemed disappointed. He had deep set eyes and was not unhandsome. He looked to the talkative priest.

"She is not well," he appraised her.

"It's been a long voyage overseas," reasoned the priest. "Her legs on land will make a big difference."

The third man stood nearby and grimaced slightly at the sight of her. He was round with wind burned cheeks and half of his teeth were missing.

"Is she even seven stone? Six?" the man inquired. He even reached out and lifted her shawl to examine her sickly figure. He shook his head. "I'm sorry. I'd like to see another."

"There is only one other."

The unfriendly priest led her back on deck and without a word motioned for Simone. She picked up her skirt hem and snootily walked past the pale rejected Jacquelyn, down to the pier where she gave her hand to the distinguished gent and the new couple continued down the street to the church.

The dentally challenged man was the only one left on the pier and Jacquelyn was the only one left on the boat. One and one was very simple math. The man chatted with the priest for several minutes shaking his head several times. Finally, he walked off dejectedly. Two crates were now safely placed on the dray and a third was being hoisted.

The talkative priest came aboard. His expression was consoling as he took her gently by the shoulders.

"I am father Arsenault," He introduced. "Please, my child. Come be fed and get warm." His voice was deep and soothing. With his caring arm around her, he took her down the gangway. The contemptuous priest scowled as they passed.

"She is sick, Finnegan," he told him. The Irish Father Finnegan followed them to the church.

Most of the buildings in town were wooden, but the church was carefully cut stone. Five steps led to the front doors. Simone and her new husband descended them to an awaiting horse and buggy. Looking down her nose at her scrawny defeated rival, she fixed her hair as an excuse to display her wedding band. It was modest but was nonetheless pure silver.

As the newlyweds rode off on the buggy, four horses pulled the dray cart with the crates of cargo in the opposite direction. Jacquelyn was hardly so claimed.
 
Hearing the rough command Jacquelyn followed, her lips buttoned together tightly as she moved along the planks of graying wood. Her soft eyes moved back toward Simone briefly before facing front ad watching her step. Grasping for dear life at the ropes she moved after the man, her wobbly legs barely keeping her up. The solidity of the ground beneath her was a comfort, the silver haired man was handsome, well dressed and unfriendly toward her.

Staring at the ground she felt like a cow being selected for certain qualities. Standing there her stomach pitched and she fought back heaving the thin broth up she had for lunch. They discussed her as though she wasn't there or was deaf of their conversation. Small of stature and thin of body she had always been poked fun of, especially since most french women were tall and quite elegant in body. When his hand snaked out and snatched her shawl, his eyes moving over the body she held together beneath the thin dress, she wanted to slap him but instead clasped harder at the hem of her skirts.

Relief that he wanted another swept through her, however her eyes landed on the other and she feared her relief would be short lived. Simone ran off as though she was a prize to be had, Jacquelyn couldn't help but hope the man survived her snobbish and almost cruel ways. Having been used to the best of everything, Jacquelyn couldn't help but hope the female would finally be put in her place, maybe as a maid or even a servant of some sort. Though it seemed petty, she knew the hell she and Ana had been put through at the hands of Simone and her circle of horrible's.

Going to the edge she watched as the man spoke with the priest, she hoped to be free of him and it seemed her wish came true, her prayers answered she breathed in a hearty lung of air. Only this caused her to cough, the smell of fish hung thick in the air. She watched the man walk off, shoulders slumped. Though she wasn't sure why he should be so unhappy, when he was the one that tossed her aside. Almost startling when hands rested on her shoulders, the voice was comforting and kind. As were his eyes and his expression.

With a soft nod she held tight to her bundle and was guided off to land once more. The trio made their way to the church where a thrilled Simone came pouring from the door. The sparkle of her ring was not lost on Jacquelyn, but she connected her gaze to the ground once more. The Irish man bustled ahead of them, in a rush it seemed to be done with them, or was it just her. Once the newlyweds were gone she paused to spew her guts on the sidewalk before reaching the steps. The sounds of her retching must have hurried on the other as she seemed to be alone.

A lone nun rushed out and helped her inside. "Poor sweet child," the woman cooed holding her to her breast as she guided her inside. "Feverish..." She heard the woman mutter. Jacquelyn couldn't help but think of this woman as motherly. She wasn't sure what happened but she was tucked into a bed and washed down. The clack of knitting needles was what woke her up. A smiling woman, the same as before except without her habit , held a steaming cup to her lips and forced down a few soothing drops of tea.

Jacquelyn sat up and took the cup between her thin pale fingers. Sipping the sweet contents she sighed. The woman offered her a slice of bread before she rushed off in a hurry. Looking about the room she knew she was in the infirmary, she felt much better. Even strong enough to venture out of bed to visit the chamber pot. She did so, then sat on the edge of the bed. The woman returned and clucked her tongue at her. "Come, join us for a meal if you are feeling stronger. It appears your color has returned."

Smiling Jacquelyn rose, she slipped on her warm sock and thick soled boots. Dinner was an easy meal of stew and bread, peppermint scented tea was the drink. As the women went off to pray, so did she. Moving to the main sanctuary she knelt in a pew with her head buried over her clasped hands. Her words poured from her heart. She prayed for the souls of her parents and sister, she prayed for Josette and lastly, herself. She prayed for health and that whatever her fate would be, she accept it with an open heart and joy. To make the best of her freedom was a good thing. She sat in the wooden pew thinking of home and praying for blessings. Perhaps being rejected was good, it could mean she was meant to serve within the walls of the church.

She could hope, right. The nun approached with her bundle of things, a soft smile on her lips. "God be with you in life my dear." She said softly then turned and moved swiftly from the room.

"Thank you," She whispered after her, unsure of what this meant. To be handed her belongings must mean she was to be heading off in a new direction. She slumped forward, fervently praying , eyes clenched tightly closed and hands clasped around a handkerchief given her by the nun. She feared her future and what it held if she were sent from the church, but she remembered her promise and it calmed her nerves slightly, though she remained in her prayerful state.
 
"Curse that Pepin, wasting my morning like that," he thought as he pulled his canoe out of the water and onto the bank. He had told the shifty trapper that he had business in town, business that had been put off for two days, but Pepin had business too, business that was important to Pepin, not at all unimportant to himself but secondary to what awaited in town. To complicate matters, Pepin did not need to know the nature of what he was being made late for. It was none of Pepin's business and he was growing tired of Pepin's act. He picked up his small pack from the canoe, slung it over his back and shouldered into the wind towards the church.

He was now in his mid-thirties and one could not trap in the woods alone forever. He was making changes in his life that had taken root the previous summer. Removing his hat as the wind gusted he ascended the chapel steps and pushed open the door. He stood an imposing six-foot-four and a well-worn fur-lined overcoat hung from his broad shoulders. A thin line from jowl to jowl formed a mouth that did not smile. Wispy brown hair hung over his eyebrows and ears.

Father Arsenault responded to the creak of the front door made his way to greet him.

"Monsieur Brunet," he said warmly. "I was not sure that you would arrive today."

"I was here two days ago and there was no boat," Brunet answered. "And yesterday as well. If I'd have known this would happen, I would not have had business this morning."

"Well there is someone here for you," said Arsenault. "Please," he gestured to follow down the aisle. They approached Jacquelyn.

Brunet looked down at the pathetic creature, bundled in the pew. His expression did not waver. Extending a hand, he lifted her chin and looked into her eyes.

"Malade?" he asked to no one in particular as he continued to appraise her. His accent was as coarse as the others', perhaps moreso.

"Seasick and lack of appetite," Arsenault informed, "but she will gain strength quickly with firm ground beneath her feet."

Here cheeks were hollow and her fair hair quite disheveled, but the lack of jaundicing in her eyes lent creedence to the priest's assessment. He took her hand.

"Stand up."

A reasonable depiction of Brunet.
 
Hearing the door creak open her fervent prayers ceased, though she kept her head down as she heard voices conversing behind her. Her hands shook slightly as she attempted to calm, the pack sitting at her side in the pew was a bit blurry as her eyes filled with tears suddenly. The fear of an unknown man marrying her was heart breaking, couldn't she be left to find a husband through normal means? Perhaps Josette and Simone were happy about it, she could try but with it being forced upon her like this she felt suddenly trapped.

Lifting the rag to her face she dried her eyes and cleared her throat, her stomach was in knots again as the footfalls ended at her side. Swallowing hard she lifted her head to glance forward, not yet at the priest and his companion. Though the man saw fit to show her the way and grasped her chin is his large hands, he stared into her eyes as if searching for something. Clear blue eyes stared up at him, fear filling them slightly though she tried to remain brave.


"No, I am not sick," She whispered shaking her head free from his grip. Though her stomach tumbled and rumbled. She felt it retch and pressed a hand to it, the stew fighting to come up. It seemed he didn't mind her pulling free from him as he now took her hand. Biting her lip she moved to her feet, one hand gripping his larger, stronger and the other the back of the pew before her. She stood on her shaky legs. He towered above her but she steadied herself and stood and her full height. A tiny bit above 5 feet but not nearly reaching the 5'1" mark.

"Where are you taking me?" She asked him plainly, her eyes moving from this man to the priest that brought her from the ship to here. She secured her jaw in a act of bravery, though she was scared witless. This large man was taking her somewhere. Be open and joyful, she thought, her own words coming back to bite her swiftly. She attempted a smile, lifting the hand not in his to smooth back some of her unruly hair. Why hadn't she thought to clean up a bit, but then looking at him it didn't seem he'd taken much of an effort either.
 
He had not much use for the church, but he did for a wife and native women could be difficult to live with. She rose to a shaky stance with the aid of the pew, coming up to his mid chest. Her clothes hung loose from her exceedingly slight frame. He thought it pertinent to not feel her ribs in the presence of a priest, but he could tell how emaciated she was by her bony wrist and despite her protests of being ill, he could tell that she had an uneasy stomach. Her fingers were clean and soft and had done very little manual work in her life. She would have much to learn but she would learn well.

"Where are you taking me?"

The question was ignored. Brunet drew in a breath and turned to Father Arsenault. She would need some fattening up but she would do.

"All right," he nodded.

Arsenault looked at her assuredly, persuasively. "Please, come," he said and led the two of them to the altar. He turned to Brunet.

"Do you have a ring?" he asked.

Brunet shook his head, caught off guard. He hadn't thought of a ring.

"That's all right," the priest said before stepping over to a small bureau and fetching a handful of small steel bands. "I think this one will fit," he selected and handed it to the groom.

Brunet turned to his fiancée and took her hand. His expression had still not changed, a mysterious cold intensity behind a rigid brow.

"Do you, Marc-André Brunet take this Marie Vignette Jacquelyn de Rouen, to have and to hold, for better or for worse, in sickness and in health, to love honor and cherish, until death do you part, amen?"

"Je fais."

"Do you, Marie Vignette Jacquelyn de Rouen take this Marc-André Brunet, to have and to hold ..."

The church door creaked open once more. It was the toothless man that had earlier rejected scrawny Jacquelyn.

"Father? I have reconsidered," he announced. "Where is she?"

Brunet's head snapped round and he scowled at the unwelcome guest with a furrowed brow.

"Well that is unfortunate, Monsieur Tremblay," said Arsenault. "Another has claimed her."

"What do you mean?" asked Tremblay. "I was here first."

"You were not here two days ago," Brunet shrugged.

"Tabernac!" Tremblay cursed.

"Pardon your language in this house, sir," Arsenault admonished him firmly.

"The vows are not finish? She is not married yet."

"Excuse me?" Arsenault asked the couple and walked past to talk with Tremblay. The woodsman spoke in heated whispers, obviously disappointed. The conversation ended with the priest taking him kindly by the elbow and showing him out. He returned to the altar.

"Now where were we?" he asked himself. "Ah, yes. Do you, Marie Vignette Jacquelyn de Rouen take this Marc-André Brunet, to have and to hold, for better or for worse, in sickness and in health, to love honor and obey, until death do you part, amen?"

Brunet looked down at her, his expression completely cold and unflinching.
 
Jacquelyn hated being ignored, but the business of men far outweighed hers. At least this was the way she was raised and she held true to this. The soft, kind words of the priest reached her and she moved of her own accord to the altar. Stopping only briefly to place her pack on the front pew. The audacity of him showing up with no ring spoke volumes of how he felt about her, at least in her mind. He was only in need of someone to lie with. Her lower lip trembled when they turned away. Why would the Lord spare her only to be put in such a predicament, she wondered.

Her eyes flitted over his shaven face, the hard set of his jaw and the coldness in his eyes, she attempted a smile. Soft and sweet, it caressed her lips as she stood there beside this man in front of god and the priest. His voice was deep, deeper than she remembered her fathers being. then again her father was a gentleman, a noble of the land and a kind tenderhearted soul.

The man said he'd have her.

The ceremony continued but was interrupted. The toothless male from before coming in the church. Jacquelyn cringed and moved closer to the male she was now linked with. The man that would now be her husband, Marc-Andre Brunet. She watched the man from earlier curse and carry on, she wasn't good enough for him earlier, what had changed? Possibly the reminder of his cold bed and empty stove. Turning she stared down at him now, dismissing him silently.

She was more pleased to be this man's wife then to be saddled to the other. She tilted her head slightly to look at her new husband, would he be kind to her, good to her and gentle with her. Jacquelyn hoped so, for she would soon find out upon their arrival to his home. She shuffled her feet slightly and glanced down at the hideous burlap dress she wore, it was rumpled and ill fitting. She surmised it must have been Ana's.

Biting her lip she turned to face him as the priest returned. Her gentle smile now caressed her face easily. The vows were spoken and she listened, with her upbringing it would not be hard, she thought. "Je fais," She concurred, relieved that the toothless man would not have her after all.
 
Brunet slipped the ring on Jacquelyn's very slender finger.

"I now pronounce you Monsier et Madame Brunet."

It was done.

Father Arsenault then led them to the small bureau and returned the unused rings to the drawer. On the desk top was a sheet of parchment. The priest dipped a quill into an inkwell and began to handwrite the certificate. At the bottom he noted the date of their wedding, 26me Avril, 1795.

For the first time, Brunet's demeanor betrayed a discomfort, an uneasiness as Arsenault handed him the quill. With a determined fist he set to the task of scribing an awkward scrawl in the space at the bottom of the paper.

MA Brunet

It was as if his signature was the only thing that he was capable of writing and he seemed relieved when it was complete and he could pass the quill on to his wife. Leaving her to sign he opened his pack, produced another fur-lined coat and draped it about her shoulders. It was too big but it would be plenty warm and was now the most expensive thing that she owned.

"God bless you, children," Arsenault said with astute sincerity. "Please return as often as you like. The Lord's house is your house," and he saw them out.

Brunet still felt a bit sweaty from the journey down, but paddling back home upstream would be much harder. He took Jacquelyn by the hand and led her past the end of the cobbles, along the cart ruts of the dirt road to the river bank.

"Hurry," he urged her. "We have a way to go before it gets too dark."

A woman removing clothes from a laundry line stopped to stare in pity of the sickly bride. A fisherman dragging a net from the water's edge also could not help a sideways glance. Her new husband led her on unwavering. His stride was long and impatient. A half dozen canoes lay strewn on the bank. Tremblay stood next to Brunet's boat.

"André. André!" he called. "You know this is not right."

"Nothing is not right," Brunet said coldly as he pushed his canoe into the water. Steadying the end with one hand, he helped Jacquelyn in with the other.

"André!" Tremblay continued. "If you wanted her you should have been here this morning!" he spat through the gaps in his teeth.

"You should have been here on Friday," reasoned Brunet as he tossed his pack into the boat.

"André!" Tremblay became exasperated. "How long have we known each other? You will regret this!"

Brunet climbed into the canoe, picked up his oar and raised it to Tremblay. Placing the blade end to the toothless trapper's chest he pushed off gently and the boat drifted back into the current.

"Salut," Brunet bid him and dipped the oar into the water to steer. He had paid his twenty guineas, taken the oath and had even signed the damned paper. It was a done deal.

He turned the boat upstream and started paddling. It was late afternoon and somewhere behind the overcast grey the sun was beginning to set. She sat at the front of the boat facing him as his strong body began to rhythmicly paddle. Tremblay grew smaller and smaller on the bank.
 
Jacquelyn flexed the finger as he placed the steel band on it. Then in turn she placed one on his, a large round thing she could fit three of her fingers in. Her blue eyes held his as the priest announced them as married. She expected more fanfare or a kiss, something from her husband to show he was pleased, but nothing came.

Taking the quill she smiled and signed her name with a flourish. Mlle M. V. J. de Rouen, now to be known as Mme Brunet, though she needn't sign it that way. As soon as the quill left her hands a pleasant warmth, and heaviness, was placed on her shoulders. Looking down it was way too big but she knew it was meant to keep her warm. Giving her husband a brilliant smile she nodded to the priest and was pulled away by the hand.

Turning she waved to the kind priest, her hand was given a hard tug. His words caused her to pause, they had a WAY to go? With a hustle to her step she scurried behind her husband, her pack in one hand, her boots catching on the cobblestone and then she began tripping over the ruts. She couldn't walk as fast as he and felt as though he was dragging her most of the time.

A dark figure along the row of dinghy's and called out to him. Jacquelyn moved closer, avoiding the gaze of the villagers and of the toothless man that wanted her for his own. With ease he placed the boat into the water and steadied it. Her hand grasped his, tossing her pack in first and then lifting her skirts to climb into the boat as he spoke with the other man.

With wide eyes, her mouth hidden in the fur lined coat. His broad shouldered body maneuvered the boat with ease. She clung to the sides, her fingers wrapped tightly along the top edge of the boat. She tried not staring at him so hard, her legs were clamped tight together and feet planted firmly along the bottom of the boat. Often she'd turn her head to see where it was they were going, even turning in her seat... only to have him correct her as the boat rocked.

Blushing she said nothing but straightened her position. Inside she was a bundle of nerves. Tonight she'd be sharing a bed with this man and tomorrow, a life. Her skin trembled beneath the warmth of the coat. The rocking of the boat caused her stomach to lurch, she closed her eyes to steady herself. After all she wasn't sure if it was her sickness or her nerves causing the queasiness.

Silently she watched him. Looking so menacing and large across from her, she found herself wondering if he would be a gentle lover. With the color added to her cheeks from her thoughts she turned her face to look at the shore they'd left behind before turning a bit to look at the direction they were going. "How much further?" She asked softly. Not that she was anxious, her stomach was a bit shaky still and being on dry land was much better. One hand moved to wrap over her stomach, she looked a bit green around the gills. "I-I don't feel so well Andre..."
 
"I-I don't feel so well Andre..."

"Then you should sit still," he advised her, keeping his eyes on the river bank beyond as he paddled. They had been on the water for what seemed nearly an hour. His strokes were determined and steady. His breathing was heavy but controlled and a sweat was working up on his brow and under his arms.

The river had been narrowing for some time. A point of land jutting out was passed on the north bank and another approached on to the south before the waters broadened again. The current would be easier to paddle against at the river's widest. Brunet estimated about two hours of useful daylight left.

Pausing to pass the oar from his right side to his left he looked down at his wife and realizing that she was not well, sighed in relent. "If you are going to be sick, do it now over the side, and I will steady the boat."
 
Jacquelyn bit her lip, she only wanted to know when their travel would be over so she could relax. Her nerves were wound tight and her stomach heaved. Tears welled in her eyes, but didn't fall. She didn't understand what his thoughts about her might be and she didn't want to get sick in front of him.

Nodding she didn't wait, she couldn't stop her stomach from up heaving the contents. Water was not her forte. She leaned over the side and spilt her guts. The water washed it away. she dipped her hand into the cool water and brought up a palmful to rinse her mouth before placing the cool hand against her brow. "Thank you."

It wasn't long before they were on their way again. Sinking down in her coat she regained her clench on the sides of the boat once again. She sat as still as she could, her pale face peeking out at him from the collar. Her wide blue eyes blinking at him. Her stomach was settled, for now. Silently she regarded him, maybe he wasn't all bad.
 
As she leaned over the side he shifted his weight onto one knee to compensate. Out it came in two convulsive heaves interrupted by a fit of cough. She washed her mouth from the river surface with a hand trembed from the shock of the purge and eased herself back into her seated position.

Once she was settled, he braced the oar across the gunwales and reached for his pack. Carefully on one knee he stepped forward, balanced one hand on the oar and placed the pack behind her. The he picked up the paddle, held it over her shoulder and prodded the pack into position.

"You can lie back on that," he said.

The oar dipped back into the water and André's shoulders and chest resumed the rhythmic paddling, propelling them upstream. The river rounded the bend and widened again. The sound of falls could be heard in the distance and every direction seemed to be cut off by land. He steered the canoe towards the right, into a calm cove. As they got closer a lamp light on a post flickered on the shore. The paddling became easier in the gentler current. Time passed, perhaps another half hour and the sounds of the falls faded into a muffle to the west.

Brunet slowed and manoeuvred the canoe parallel to the bank. The old weathered lamp post stood next to a trail that disappeared into the trees and up the hill. Sticking the oar into the mud, he pulled the hull into a gentle bump with the firm ground, steadied it and stepped out. His boot sank into the squishy grass and he hauled his pack out and onto his back. It wasn't that heavy. He was used to carrying much more. Once he was set, he leaned down and held out his hand for his wife.
 
Relieved, she settled down on the pack he offered her. Sure it wasn't THAT comfortable but it was better than the hard bench. She closed her eyes and felt the boat continue its rocking. Her stomach was still a touch uneasy but she ignored it, trying to think of everything but the movement. Thankfully he seemed to notice her queasiness and left her alone.

It seemed as no sooner than her eyes closed the sound of water falling a distance down was heard. Eyes opening wide she sat up slightly. Her blue eyes searched his in the failing light, he wouldn't endanger her or himself. She calmed instantly. He made her feel safe, she knew this from the moment he protected her from that other man... Tremblay? She shook her head and settled back on her makeshift cushion once more as the boat seemed to settle out.

Turning her head to watch where they were going, she saw what appeared to be a lantern swinging from a post a distance away. Vaguely she wondered if this was their final destination, the light was still far off it seemed, so she turned her head to face upwards. The trees created a canopy above them, secluding them from the rest of the world. Her breath made no change above her lips, she no longer felt the boat rocking as before. Instead it was as though they were sliding along the surface.

Her blue eyes moved over him as he paddled, he was strong and she loved watching him move. The boat moved slower and she noticed sitting up slowly and clinging to the edges. He moved them to the shore with a soft bump, the dark woods had a worn path next to the light, she tried to peer past him and into the dark but it was of no use. His hand jutted out and she stood uncertainly in the boat before wobbling and sliding her hand into his. Hers shook, his was steady.

The ground was solid under her feet, her hand stayed in his. "Home now?" She asked softly, Her own pack tucked neatly under her arm as she smiled up at him. Home, it sounded nicer than she first thought the word would, but it rolled easily off her tongue.
 
"Home now?"

"Not yet," he shook his head as he dragged the canoe ashore. Then he stood it on its end, placed the paddle into a set of hooks along the gunwale and lifted the whole thing onto his shoulders.

"That way," he nodded her ahead along the path. He followed her up the hill. The grade was a bit steep but not terribly so, yet he anticipated that it would be a bit difficult for her. He had to keep enough distance behind her so that the bow of the canoe didn't strike her. The footing was muddy from the spring thaw and would likely continue to be for another month. "Quickly," he urged.

About a hundred and fifty yards up the path, the climb became much less steep. The smell of wood burning filled the air and soon there was a small clearing with two cabins across from one another. Both had dark smoke rising from their chimneys. The smaller ramshackle one on the left had two pieces of iron forming a cross over the door. The one on the right was larger with a porch and two full rooms. Brunet ignored the church and made his way to the store. He leaned the boat against the porch, opened the front door to the ringing of a bell and let Jacquelyn in.

"Bonjour, Monsieur Brunet," greeted the proprietor as he entered through a creaky doorway to the right. He was a large round man with healthy cheeks and receding grey hair. He wore an apron around his wide girth. The cabin was warm and smelled of pea soup and ham. There was a counter and behind it was a wall of stocked shelves with small wooden boxes, trinkets, and many many jars of preserved foods. Through the doorway came the voices of children and housework.

"No post today," he informed, as if Brunet ever received mail. His attention shifted to Jacquelyn. "Bonjour Madame," he said forthrightly.

"Ma femme," André obliged. There was a pause and then finally relenting, he introduced them. "Jacquelyn. Marcel Boisvert."

"Bienvenue, Madame," the shopkeeper greeted her.

Madame Boisvert peered in through the doorway and stopped short at the sight of brunet's new bride. Like her husband, she was of stout frame. Her black hair was streaked with grey and was pulled back. She could not keep the expression of pity from her face.

"One jar plum. Quart of whiskey. Some salt," Brunet recited. Boisvert retrieved the items from the shelves and placed them on the counter.

"Is that everything?"

"Shot. Quarante," Brunet added. Boisvert opened a lock box and placed a small wooden carton of ammunition on the counter. André placed his pack on the floor and pulled out a similar empty box to exchange.

"Half guinea for the shot, quarter for the whiskey and quarter again for the plum and salt," he shopkeeper tallied. Brunet reached deep inside his coat for the coin, placed the payment on the counter and tucked the goods into his pack. The pellets rattled in their little box.

"Merci," Boisvert picked up the coin.

"Must be going," said Brunet. "It's getting dark."

As he turned to leave, the shopkeeper's wife shook her head in dismay. Before the door shut her voice could be heard just above a whisper.

"The poor dear, she will never make it."
 
She bit her lip when he stated that home was not to be seen yet. She watched him, her hands lifting to help him, it was a pathetic attempt and one he seemed to overlook. She probably could have stayed in the canoe and he wouldn't have noticed the addition of her slight weight. Her head turned toward the path he pointed out with a bob of his head. Gathering her skirts she began to move.

the path was muddy, each step she took forward she was slipping back a bit. She gripped at trees and anything else to keep her upright. She was trying and hoped he could see it. With tears burning her eyes she pushed ahead, glad he'd let her go first so he couldn't see the frustration burning in her blue orbs.

When the steepness fell away she breathed a sigh of relief. this was short lived as Andre passed her and pushed on toward the store. she followed him to the porch, then passed him through the door, "Thank you." Her cheeks blushed red as she moved into the store, the keeper ignoring her for the moment. her wide gaze took in everything. The tins and jars that lined the shelves all around them.

Being addressed her eyes met the keepers and she dipped into a curtsey, "Bon jour." Her voice was soft and sweet. Her smile wide and friendly as her husband relented in telling the man who she even was. Refusing to pout or show her disapproval she maintained her smile though she worried inside. Would this man be faithful to her and show her the respect of a true wife. The thoughts were dismissed as she spied the keepers wife. The look on her face was enough to cause the girl to pull back and hide.Not that there was a place to do so.

The items he called for seemed different, some were familiar and she wondered how he knew what they needed. She looked over the contents and wondered if after she was home if he would come back out for things she'd need. Following him out she let the tears fall after the doors shut. Keeping her head low she didn't notice how much darker it now was. It was a good thing in that it hid her tears from his sight, at least she hoped.

He hitched the canoe once more and she followed, at least until the new path was revealed and then she moved ahead of him. The ground sloped downward and in the dark caught her off guard. "Oh.." she said as she slid a bit, her hands reaching out and blindly grabbing at a branch. The willowy branch kept her upright until she stepped forward to which she slid downward on her ass and landing in the bushes. She didn't panic, in fact Jacquelyn was determined to prove her survival and remained quiet. she heard the water rushing by a few hundred yards away. "Andre?" She said breathlessly.

Using his hand she allowed him to guide her to her feet and then pushed the mud from her backside before following him to the water's edge where he once again steadied the boat. She stepped in more assuredly this time. At least she was confident that he thought she couldn't walk on land as much as she could maintain her food aboard the smallest of vessels. She sat stoically on her side of the canoe, fingers white knuckling the sides again.
 
It had become much darker during the time that they had spent inside the store. Brunet remounted the canoe onto his shoulders and the two continued on and into the woods. As the path descended Jacquelyn lost her footing in the mud and while clinging to a thin branch had taken a tumble into the brush.

"André?"

He stepped carefully towards her, balancing the canoe on his shoulders, he let the bow rest in the bushes as he held out a hand. The warm musk of his sweat escaped his coat.

"Come on now," he said coldly. "It's just a little mud. The path is easy."

She straightened herself out and wiped her bottom as he stood up and assumed the lead. Careful not to swat her with the canoe, he turned and walked ahead.

Near the bottom was another of Boisvert's lanterns marking the bank. He heaved the boat over and into the water with a splosh. Then he placed his pack in and steadied the canoe as Jacquelyn climbed aboard.

To the west the sky was dim and grey and the treeline made a black silhouette. To the east the sky was almost pitch now. The moon only made a faint glow in the clouds to the south. Before climbing in himself, André dug into his pack and produced a lantern. Then with a match from within his coat, struck upon the gunwale, he lit it, adjusted the wick and placed it in a holding bracket in the bow. They disembarked.

The water was calmer on this side of the falls. Their cascading sounds faded into the dusk as he paddled onward. A raven crawed somewhere in the trees. A wolf howled in the distance. Brunet's paddle rhythmically dipped in and out of the river.

The cloud was too thick for stars. The wind had abated considerably. What was left of it played with Jacquelyn's hair. The light of the lamp behind her created a halo effect of her errant blonde locks. André paddled on, periodically changing from his left to his right and back to his left. The lantern was only bright enough to light a few yards around the bow of the boat and was only useful to help in coming ashore or to be spotted from afar should they find trouble.

They had gone on perhaps another three-quarter hour, when Brunet followed the east bank and slowed to catch a bearing. He paddled on a few more minutes and then when he spotted the dead tree stump in the dim lantern light, pointed the boat towards shore. It nudged the ground gently as it had done before and Brunet reached out for a picket that had been driven into the bank. Grasping it firmly he pulled the boat against the shore and stepped out. It was another soggy, grassy bank and again his feet began to sink in. He held out his hand to help out his wife and then handed her the lantern. Throwing his pack onto his back he lifted the boat onto his shoulders and motioned for Jacquelyn to lead the way.

The path was less trodden but still easy to follow. It was less steep than the other. Twenty yards ahead a small wood shack appeared in the lamp light. It was about eight feet by fourteen with a single slant roof and an iron chimney. There was no door on the wall facing the river, only stacks of firewood. The door was on the other side. Brunet leaned the canoe against the wall, took a key from his coat and opened the door.

He took the lantern from her and placed it next to another unlit on the rickety table in the center of the house. There were two chairs. A single foggy window pane situated itself next to the door to their left. Stacked beneath it was kindling for the fire. The floor was hard packed dirt. A cast iron stove sat in the far corner to the left. Ashes smouldered from the morning's fire inside. A couple of shelves on the wall next to the stove held various beaten tin cups, spoons and other utensils and rags. On the floor were two large pots and a third filled with drinking water and ladle. In the near corner sat a battered old wash basin. On the floor at the base of the wall beneath the shelves was small wooden trap door lined by stone indicating a tiny pantry probably no more than two or three feet deep. Two wires ran from the back wall to the front wall. These had two purposes. The first was to hang laundry indoors when the weather was poor. The second was to divide the room whenever necessary as demonstrated by the blanket draped over the right side wire giving the bed privacy. The bed itself was a low wooden box filled with straw and covered with sheets and blankets. There were pegs in the wall to the right as you walked in to hang coats. Leaning up against the back wall was a large pair of snowshoes. Next to them on the floor was a wooden crate with clothes thrown in it, and a basket of dirty laundry ready for the wash. At the foot of the bed was another wooden crate, this one empty. In the front right corner was the pot with its lid on. A couple of rags hung next to it on a hook. Brunet shut the door and lowered the bar. Above it, his rifle was mounted.

He put his pack on the ground and retrieved the goods that had been purchased at the store. The bottle of whiskey went on the table. The rest went on one of the shelves. He drew himself a chair, sat and sighed.

"That is yours," he gestured towards the empty crate at the foot of the bed. "Put your things there. Then get us each a cup of water and grab some kindling and restoke the fire."

He had done a lot of paddling that day and was fatigued. It was time to find out what kind of a wife he had.
 
She knew very well it was JUST mud, it wasn't as though she'd began crying over it. Dirty fingers moved over her face gently drying her eyes again as they once again took off in the near darkness toward what she hoped was their final stop and home. The lantern cast an eerie glow over the water, all mixed together to set a very unsettling mood. The shadows on her new husbands face were deepened by the lantern being blocked by her small body.

Silently Jacquelyn sat and waited for this to all be over. She didn't understand why the man couldn't talk to her, make her feel welcome. Didn't he want a wife in the first place? It was why she was here, correct? She sighed softly, a forlorn sound that left her throat as she stared out to the side of the boat as the newlyweds made their way home.

Not seeing what he saw, she was only left to wonder about where there path was or their stop might be. Each animal sound had her pulling her coat tighter about her thin form. It seemed only a moment and Andre was out of the boat and reaching for her. Taking his hand she was catapulted to land and a lantern shoved in her direction. The large hoop at the top, the handle was easily grasped by her small hand. The path, though sloppy, wasn't steep . Quickly, followed by her husband, they made their way to the home they now shared.

Jacquelyn's jaw dropped, this wasn't a home... it was a room. He took the lantern and unlocked the door. Following him inside she stood and glanced about. There was no floor, only dirt. Dirt everywhere and coating everything. A stove sat in the corner, dirty and filled with ashes, she shivered. The wind was gone but she was still cold. She wanted to cry at the state of everything. She'd grown up in a large stone home with glorious finery and elegance only to be deposited here in this... filth.

Her eyes stopped at her husband unpacking the purchased goods. He gave his instructions, indignation flared for a moment. She was more tired than he. Her foot scuffed at the dirt for a moment as she weighed her options and chose to obey. Moving forward her mud stained ass on full display in Ana's dress she reached out a thin hand and retrieved two tin cups. Giving them a once over she was satisfied that nothing was on them before she was kneeling and filling the two with ladles of cool water.

Placing them on the table she moved to the window and the bits of kindling there. Grasping a few pieces she moved toward the stove. the smoldering ashes glowing faintly. All she needed to do was push the kindling in and blow a bit? She'd seen the servants do it a few times and had done it once in the convent. The heat caused her hand to shake, it dipped dangerously low to the ash knowing he watched her every move. A mouse, the size of her big toe scurried from under the stove. She shrieked, hit her hand on the hot metal and dropped the kindling.

In an attempt to recover she blew on the ashes too hard, the ricocheted off the back and the loose stuff hit her face and impaired her lungs. She hacked and coughed to clear them, running for the water, she sipped and removed them from her mouth before swallowing. She made a face, BUT the fire took. With a sigh she moved to unpack her things. "May I wash for bed... I'm quite dirty and tired." She bit her lip and didn't look him in the eye, nerves.
 
Brunet took a swallow of water from his cup and watched her tend the fire. She opened the stove door and reached in with the kindling but something spooked her and she let out a startled gasp. The tiny grey rodent shot across the floor and disappeared behind the bed. Frantically, Jacquelyn tried to recover the situation by blowing on the ashes only to create a hot cloud of suffocation. Coughing a spattering staccato, she finally calmed and reached for her tin cup on the table, a patchy grey powder on her nose, cheek and in her bangs. She was a comedy and on the inside he had a chuckle to himself even if his face revealed nothing.

"May I wash for bed... I'm quite dirty and tired."

"Bed?" Brunet replied with a query of his own. "What about dinner? I'm hungry, aren't you?" He took another swallow of his water. The cup was half empty now. "Let me see your hand." He reached out and took it in his leathery paw. Turning it over, a small welt on the back was beginning to whiten. "It will be fine. You will have a blister. If it is painful in the morning you can poke it," he said. "In the future just use the iron to stir the ashes," he instructed with a nod to a twisted metal rod with a blackened hook end that rested against the wall behind the stove. The corner of his mouth may have turned upward in either humour or condescension. Finishing his water, he took the whiskey bottle, lifted the seal with a pip sound and filled his cup.

"Put your things away and wash, and then make us dinner," he said. "In the pantry, jar of rabbit meat, another jar with cabbage and carrot. Use a potato."

He sipped his drink and sighed.
 
His voice questioned her, hadn't she suffered enough already today. The boat rides, marriage, and now all of this. "No, I'm still queasy." She said softly. His request was simple and yet she scoffed a bit. Her hand was fine and he wasn't supposed to see. Her eyes flicked over him in slight annoyance as he grasped her hand. Her eyes followed his gaze, why hadn't he mentioned it in the beginning. She took her hand back.

Jacqueline nodded slightly before ladling a bit of water in a pot and setting on the stove. She let it get warm before dipping the rag in she found to wash. Moving to the bed she stripped off her dirty things. In only her panties she unpacked her bag. Making quick work, washing her legs, hands and face she donned her night gown and reached under her gown and removed her panties. Attempting to keep the blush from her cheeks she dumped her clothing into the dirty laundry basket. Her eyes stayed down.

She dipped and pulled the handle on the pantry. Pulling out the items, she found a cold can of grease. On the stove she melted the grease while she cut up a bit of the cabbage and carrot, his asking of the potato had her cubing it up as well. the vegetables went into the pot, topped with the rabbit. She was attempting this. There were ingredients she'd never worked with before. Breads were her specialty. She found some of the ingredients in the pantry, but without yeast she made a unleavened bread, something flat that she cooked directly on the stove top alongside the hash like mixture.

Pulling down plates she set the table before plating it up for him. The cabbage was a bit crunchy, steamed but not thoroughly cooked. The carrots were overcooked and falling apart. Another failure but perhaps it was better than what he could have done. flipping the bread she was satisfied with it's doneness. placing it on the plate she smiled. "Dinner."
 
Brunet leaned back in his chair and slipped his suspenders off his shoulders as his wife warmed some water to scrub herself down. The liquor trickled down to warm his belly as his eyes followed her pixie frame across the room towards the bed. Transplanting her meager belongings into the box, she pulled off the dress revealing her body. She was so thin. Her underpants draped loose over her bottom. Her skin was pale. Working quickly, she wiped down her legs with the rag. What little flesh she had on her bum jiggled with the motion. She wiped from her narrow hips down to her bony knees. He sank further into his chair. She would fill out in due time, but for now he would enjoy her just the same. The fire was taking and the cabin was warming. She changed into her nightgown and he took another swallow of his drink.

She moved to the stove and began to cook the meal. While she tended that he lifted each foot in turn, peeled off his socks damp from sweat and walking in mud, and tossed them into the laundry. He watched her in silence with his toes pointed towards radiance of the stove. She moved with purpose. Oddly, everything semed to go into the pot almost at once, but whether she was doing anything right would ultimately be revealed by the taste. The stove top bread was a curious initiative. Why not? He could dip it in the stew and wipe his plate when he was done.

Dinner was served, just one plate for him. She stood across the table with a nervous smile.

"You need to eat too," he said before dipping his tin fork into the mixture and trying the first mouthful. It was a hot meal, but it was bland and the meat was on the tough side. Then he bit off a piece of the bread and chewed.

"Next time let the meat cook a while before adding the vegetables," he instructed. "And use salt. That's what it's for."

He dipped the bread into the stew and bit off another chunk. Chewing slowly and deliberately, he swallowed.

"The bread is good," he nodded. He refilled his cup from the whiskey bottle and sipped.

"The neighbors will say, 'that Brunet does not feed his wife'," he remarked sharply, peering up from beneath his stern brow. "Look at you. Sit. Eat," he ordered and expected her to comply.
 
Jacquelyn had felt his eyes on her, she blushed at the thoughts that might have been going through his head. Did he plan on taking her tonight, even if she was sick and tired? These are the things that ran through her head as she waited there for him to say something. Her large blue eyes watched him dip in and take a bite. Her smile was nervous, she honestly wished to please him. She wanted his praise.

She grasped a plate and dished out a small portion for herself and added a torn piece of the bread to it as well. Her back to him as he gave her advice on her cooking. She glanced over her shoulder and nodded. His instructions weren't cruel but rather helpful. In time she would learn what to do and how to much more. "Thank you."

Settling the plate next to her tin cup she lowered her gaze to him. She waited to see what he'd say about the bread. A soft smile slid across her lips at his praise, she knew it would taste good and it was sadly the only thing she was sure of. She jumped at the harshness of his words before sitting.

Lifting her fork she took a small bite, he was right, it was bland. But she was oddly hungry and ate every bite. Saving the bread until the end. "It would not be your fault if I didn't eat. My stomach is a bit upset still," She ate in silence after that, scared she'd say something wrong. When her food was finished she sat there unsure of what would happen next. Yawning softly she shivered and gazed at her husband, watching him as much as he'd watched her.

"Can I take your dishes and clean up... or would you rather me wait until tomorrow Andre?" She asked softly, her hand moving out toward him. She wanted to ask if he'd have her tonight, if he'd be gentle and if he'd hold her close afterwards to make her feel safe and secure. All were things she needed after the horrid reality of the last few years. She was terrified things would only become worse.
 
He wiped up the last bit of grease from his plate with the bread and finished eating.

"Can I take your dishes and clean up... or would you rather me wait until tomorrow Andre?"

"It needs to be clean," he answered flatly. "You don't want more mice to come around do you?"

Leaning back in his chair he finished off his second cup of whiskey and relaxed a moment before reaching down, unwrapping his boots and and peeling off his damp socks with a sigh of satisfaction. Refilling his cup he stretched his feet out towards the stove. Then his ears perked up. Someone was coming. There was a knock at the door.

"Qui est-ce?" barked Brunet.

"C'est moi. Tremblay."

"What do you want?" Brunet asked without getting up.

"Open up André. We need to talk."

"There is nothing to talk about."

"André, s'il vous plait. Be reasonable."

Brunet's shoulders slumped in relent. Tremblay knocked again. Brunet finally rose, turned and unlatched the door, opening it a crack.

"What?" he asked.

Tremblay's eyes peered in and around Brunet's imposing frame to the interior of the shack, eventually finding Jacquelyn's form with an expression of relief, perhaps that she was still clothed. His partially toothed mouth spoke to André but his eyes stayed glued to Jacqelyn.

"Can I come in?"

"No."

"Ah, you are having dinner. Pardon me," he pleaded obsequiously, still trying to peer past.
 
"I understand." She said softly and turned to reheat the water she'd bathed with. It seemed the easiest solution. The tub on a bench in the corner was where she placed all the dishes. Even after the knock at the door she continued gathering the dishes for washing. She heard the voice and it was of no interest to her. The toothless man, she recognized his voice. Hearing his slight grunt of exertion, she spied the man peering at her around the broadness of her husband.

It made her smile, the man was unbelievable. Following them there for what, her? She shuddered at the thought of making that trek alone in the dark. She pulled the pot that needed to be washed off the stove and added a bit of soap. The scrap of fabric in her hand made quick work of the grime that clung to the dishes and plates. She made quick work of the dishes as the men talked. Jacquelyn had no doubt the conversation was about herself.

She opened the window and dumped the soapy water onto the ground. She moved to the table and sat down waiting for him to be done talking so they could turn in. Rising she touched his arm, "Andre, do you need water to bathe in before I slip into bed?" She asked softly. Her blue eyes gazed up into his and avoided Tremblay at all cost.
 
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