À ma nièce, Geneviève.
À ma soeur, Danielle, et à mon frère, Alain.
À Robert.

Part One
 
Exile

I
 
Village of Skibbereen, South of Ireland
May 1847

“A Fhionnuala!”

She turned her head toward the voice and saw that her father was calling her. His large frame stood out against the blue-grey storm-laden sky. Her stomach suddenly knotted up. She was afraid that he would give her more bad news. She could still see the little body of her brother Kevin, wrapped up in a white sheet, his eyes closed and his mouth pale and firm, like the rag doll that belonged to Felicity, the Mayor’s daughter. Her mother held Kevin to her and rocked him, singing a monotonous melody with meaningless words. Her father put his head in his hands, crying without tears, his mouth so wide that she thought at first he was laughing. Afterwards, he came out of the house and made a little box with ill-fitting boards. He placed the box down on the kitchen table and laid the lifeless body of the baby in it, while her mother prayed in silence, her eyes closed in grief.

“A Fhionnuala!”

Putting down the tiny cart she had made with a few branches and dry twigs, she ran toward her father. He was still too far away for her to make out the expression on his face. She stopped for a moment to catch her breath. Fields of potatoes stretched as far as the eye could see. The leaves were blackish and shriveled. Her father had explained to her that the potato crops were decimated by a disease; she no longer remembered the name. This was why she often had a stomach ache, a gnawing pain that never let up. Sometimes, a huge sailboat from England tied up in the port of Skibbereen. All the residents rushed to the quay and jostled with each other to grab the food which the gaunt and dirty dockers barely had time to carry onto dry land. Her father returned to the house once with a black eye. He had been attacked by a neighbour, Mr. Fitzpatrick, over a bag of flour. She found it hard to understand that this was the same Mr. Fitzpatrick who let her pinch apples from his orchard without raising an eyebrow and gave her sticky cinnamon sweets which he kept in his pocket.

Fionnuala started to run again and got closer and closer to her father. To her great relief, she saw that he was smiling. He took her in his arms and lifted her from the ground. She was small in stature and light as a feather, even for a girleen of seven. Her father’s grey eyes blended with the sky and his red hair seemed to emblazon his head.

“Conas a tá tú, a chailín? How are you, my girl?”

Her father always spoke to her in Irish, refusing to speak English, the language of the enemy, as he called it, even though he had been forced to learn English at school.

“Tá ocras orm. I’m hungry.”

He put her back down on the dusty ground. His face had turned serious.

“Táimid chun turas fada a dhéanamh, a Fhionnuala. We’re going to go on a long journey Fionnuala. Ní bheidh ocras ort a thuilleadh. You will never be hungry again.”

Fionnuala looked up in awe at this giant with the red hair. Go on a long journey, never be hungry again… Had her father suddenly become a magician like the one she had seen at the village fair, who pulled scarves out of his hat?

A few days beforehand, Ian O’Brennan and his wife, Maureen, had been visited by Thomas Flanagan, an Irish immigration agent who passed himself off as an official representative of the British government. In truth, this little man with a bulging belly and chubby cheeks, who seemed unaffected by the famine, was working for himself and took advantage of his compatriots’ misery by selling them hope of a better future. Flanagan settled down at a wobbly wooden table, having first checked to see if the chair was clean before sitting down, and started to speak in English with an affected accent which made Maureen smile to herself. Fionnuala retreated to a corner, chewing on a rag to stave off her hunger. She heard her brothers Arthur and Seán yelling and chasing each other outside. Her eldest sister, Amanda, who had copper red hair and grey eyes like their father, set a cup of steaming tea down in front of him. Helena, the twin of the dead child, Kevin, slept in a wooden box placed against the wall.

The man spoke quickly. Fionnuala only understood the odd word: voyage, ocean, Canada. Her mother, hands on her round belly, seemed to be hanging onto every word. Her father stared at him intently and then turned toward the window as if he already imagined himself elsewhere, far from Skibbereen, from misery and hunger which had been rampant for months. Flanagan continued to hold forth, describing with grand gestures the comfort of the Rodena, the sailing ship that would take them to a better world. The voyage would last no more than three weeks, he said. The food would be plentiful and the berths comfortable. In Canada, lands were vast and rich; they could be obtained for next to nothing. Thousands of their compatriots had undertaken the Atlantic crossing and now lived happy and fulfilled lives.

Silence followed the speech from the immigration agent. His cheeks were flushed as if he had forgotten to breathe between each sentence. Ian glanced at Maureen, who smiled back faintly. Her black hair highlighted the pearly whiteness of her skin; a ray of hope shone from her blue eyes that were underlined by mauve shadows. After a while, Ian turned toward Flanagan and said to him in Irish:

“Cé mhéad? How much?”

Flanagan cracked a saccharine smile.

“Three pounds per traveler.”

Ian made a mental calculation. Three pounds per person, and there were seven of them, without counting the unborn baby. That added up to more than twenty pounds.

“Tá tú as do mheabhair! You’re mad!”

Maureen placed a hand on her husband’s arm, urging him to remain calm. The agent shrugged his shoulders, unruffled. The total amount was very reasonable, he explained, his lips curled into a smile intended to be reassuring. Ship captains had considerably raised the cost of transport. Places were disappearing as fast as the scarce produce that England shipped to her colony at extravagantly inflated prices. There were only twenty berths left on the Rodena, which could take no more than two hundred and fifty passengers. Sucking her thumb, Fionnuala looked at the immigration agent’s mouth which opened and closed like the frogs her brothers caught in the pond behind their house. Ian shook his head, outraged, and got up, pointing out the shabby furniture and empty bread bin. How could they raise such an amount when they did not even have the means to buy a loaf of bread and were more than six months in arrears on the ground rent?

Flanagan chuckled smugly. He explained that the landlords were trapped. With the imposition of the English Poor Laws, each owner was required to subsidize tenants whose annual rent was lower than four pounds. He was convinced that their landlord would be delighted to rid himself of such pennyless tenants and repossess their land. Ian looked at him, trying to understand. For the first time, he spoke in halting English:

“You mean… Our landlord would agree to pay for our voyage!”

Flanagan’s smile broadened.

“Exactly!”

Ian glanced at his wife, who nodded in agreement. The immigration agent, sensing that he had captured the couple’s attention, advised them to pay a visit to their landlord at the earliest opportunity. Their sole choice was to obtain the money for the voyage or stay in Ireland and starve to death.

Flanagan got up, knees cracking. He would return in two days. The passage, plus his ten per cent commission, would have to be paid in one lump sum.

“Ten per cent? What for?” cried Ian.

“My fee. Do you think I work for nothing?” retorted Flanagan, indignant.

In fact, the immigration agent was already guaranteed a percentage by the captain of the Rodena for each passenger that he booked, but as a father with five mouths to feed, a maid and a valet to pay, he felt entitled… He took a pipe from his pocket, lit it and left, leaving a swirl of smoke wafting in his wake. The door creaked on its hinges and remained slightly ajar. A ray of sunshine glimmered on the clay floor and dazzled on the jade pendant that Maureen wore around her neck. She turned toward her husband.

“A Iain, cad a dhéanfaidh tú? Ian, what are you going to do?”

He stared at the ray of light, his face serious. Helena started to whimper. Maureen got up, her hand resting on her abdomen, and headed with heavy steps toward the wooden box. She took the eight-month old infant into her arms and consoled her by whispering sweet words in Irish. Fionnuala watched her father worriedly: he seemed angry and she did not know if they would make this great voyage.

That same day, Ian saddled his horse to visit Bernard Crombie, the English landlord who had bought the lands from his father, Manus O’Brennan. He glowered, thinking of his father. It had been five years to the day since they had uttered a word to each other, a feat considering that they lived just a couple of houses apart. When, by chance, they did come across one another in the street or the general store, they exchanged defiant looks. Ian had never forgiven his father for having sold the family estate to Lord Crombie. The O’Brennan family had lived in Skibbereen for six generations and their lands had always been passed down from father to son. How could Manus have sacrificed the interests of his own children for the benefit of an English lord who did not speak a word of Irish and who, adding insult to injury, was Protestant? Manus had brushed off his son’s arguments, claiming that he was selling his lands at the opportune time; he foresaw that in a few years they would not be worth a shilling. No one, his sons above all, wanted to believe him. Ireland was still bountiful, thanks to potato farming. The easy to cultivate tuber adapted well to the country’s temperate climate and had attracted a good number of immigrants. The Irish population had doubled in the span of forty years, growing from four to eight million. You would have to be disgruntled, or in the depths of despair, to predict the demise of this windfall… But Manus was adamant: “By putting all our eggs in one basket, it will end up bursting” he would say to whomever would listen. Or else: “One day, when I’m six feet under and you receive your share of the inheritance, you will be on your knees to thank me for showing such wisdom!”

While waiting for this day to arrive, Manus turned his four sons against him with a done deed: he went ahead and sold his lands whether they liked it or not. Disbelief was followed by anger. Their father had gone mad. Their mother, Lorna, had tried to intercede on their behalf but she was a nervous and submissive woman and she had little influence on her husband’s decisions. Even Abbot Callaghan, who went to great lengths to visit Manus trying to make him listen to reason, returned empty handed. Poor Abbot Callaghan had quoted an extract from one of the two letters of St. Paul to Timothy: “The father who does not tend to the needs of his own family denies his own faith and becomes worse than an unbeliever.” Magnus O’Brennan had listened to the Abbot’s appeals without blinking an eye, and then had said:

“Déanann sparán trom croí éatrom.”

“A heavy purse makes a light heart”, Abbot Callaghan repeated to the four brothers gathered in the presbytery to learn the results of his efforts in pleading their case. The brothers exchanged a sombre look. Either Manus had lost his head or the devil had taken possession of his soul. Why else would he put the lure of profit before the well-being of his own family? That night, the four brothers drowned their pain and anger at the Clover Leaf, the only pub in the area. Upon returning home, Ian tripped and hit his head against a tree in front of the house. He stormed into the barn, seized hold of a hatchet and felled the tree.

Lord Crombie divided his land into little patches which he rented to the immigrants and farmers of Skibbereen. Ian resigned himself to becoming a tenant of land that should have come to him by right. Since the modest profits from the potato crop yields were insufficienct to cover the rent, Ian got himself into debt and could no longer make the interest payments. Maureen begged him to ask his father for money to pay off his debts but, blinded by pride and resentment, Ian stubbornly refused. His younger brother, Nathan, had been hired as a sailor on an ocean-going sailing ship and lost his life in a shipwreck. His other two brothers found work as agricultural labourers and earned just about enough to meagerly feed their families. But the real nightmare began in the deadly year 1845 when mildew made its appearance. The disease spread like wildfire and decimated up to one third of the potato crop. The following year, convinced that such misfortune could not befall them a second time, the farmers stubbornly persisted in sowing potatoes again. The losses were even greater, and soon there was nothing left to eat. There was a famine. Manus had been right: putting all their eggs in one basket was ruinous. Small tenants like Ian were the first victims of the blight. More and more people fell by the wayside and died of hunger. Cholera and typhus made their appearance. Having volunteered to care for the ill, Ian’s mother contracted typhoid fever and died in atrocious agony after a few days. Manus did not shed a tear at her interment, not out of indifference, but because he had been right and the fullfilment of his prediction had brought nothing but misery to his family.

~

Ian stroked his horse’s head. The poor animal was so emaciated that its flanks were visible under the livery. Maureen laid her hand on Ian’s.

“Bí go deas leis an Tiarna Crombie. Be nice to Lord Crombie.”

Ian turned toward her and smiled at her.

“Ná bí buartha, a chroí! Don’t worry, my dear.”

He put his foot in the stirrup and mounted. Fionnuala came out of the house and ran to catch up with him.

“A Dhaidí! Daddy!”

When Ian turned to his daughter, he noticed her forehead was wrinkled with worry.

“Cad a tá mí-chearr leat, a chailín? What’s wrong, my little girl?”

Fionnuala stopped level with him and tilted her head back to look up at him. He was perched so high that he appeared as huge as King Arthur in her sister Amanda’s bedtime stories.

“A Dhaidí, tóg leat mé! Daddy, take me with you!”

He wanted to refuse but Fionnuala looked so earnest that he did not have the heart to do so. He stretched out an arm. She held on tightly and felt herself being whisked up into the air with his amazing strength. Her father was also suffering from deprivation. She often saw him giving away his share of a crust of brown bread or porridge, which Maureen sometimes managed to buy at the general store after having queued up for hours. Somehow he had maintained his remarkable energy.

Fionnuala landed on the saddle behind her father and clung to his back. The horse set off again. She let herself be lulled by the trotting, the reassuring smell of the hay and sweat that surrounded her in a protective halo and by the sweetness of the May breeze. Her heart leaped for joy and she squealed. Ian started to laugh. They continued on their way for a few miles. The horse’s hooves whipped up a fine dust. Arid field followed arid field endlessly until Lord Crombie’s house appeared at the brow of a verdant hill. Ian brought his mount to a standstill. It was there, in this immense house built on the backs of the starving Irish, that his future and that of his family would play out.

II
 
Two years later
Chemin du Roy, Quebec
June 12^th 1849

Sitting on the seat of her buggy, Emma Portelance held the reins firmly because of the numerous potholes in which the wheels often stuck. She feared one of the wheels would break. The roads were nearly impassable. One certainly cannot rely on the roads committee to put them right! she said to herself, dissatisfied. She was a buxom woman with a round and jovial face, but her dark eyes could see through someone at a glance. Her large feminine-looking hat, trimmed with ribbons, contrasted oddly with the fitted coat she wore while travelling. She was returning home from a weekly visit to her tenant farmer, Isidore Dolbeau, a big fellow whose weather-beaten face and garrulous, belligerent manner remained untamed by age or hard work. He had never stomached that Lord Portelance had bequeathed his domain to a woman, even though she was his eldest daughter. Although his wife repeated to him over and again that the eldest son of the family, which comprised five daughters, was a priest, Mr. Dolbeau would not budge an inch: “Each to his own trade and me to mine”, he had the habit of saying about everything. Emma refrained from correcting him: “You do your work and I’ll do mine.”

Each week Emma travelled to the domain, a few miles from the village of La Chevrotière to discuss with Mr. Dolbeau the buying of equipment, the price of grain, the birthing of an animal, or repairs to be carried out. On each visit, he reminded her that a woman’s place was not at the head of a seigneury. This time, she was there to verify the account books in which each transaction was to be carefully recorded.

“Your father, Sir Portelance, God rest his soul, was wont to say: If the work was well done, I do not see why I would waste my time doing it a second time!”

Mrs. Portelance was about to reply dryly, then remembered the advice Eugénie had given her before leaving: “Above all, remain calm! Do not take his comments at face value, no matter how disagreeable he may be. Control yourself. Do not forget that you are the owner.” She took a deep breath and looked squarely at the farmer.

“Mister Dolbeau, I have no intention of doing the work in your stead, I simply want to verify the accounts.”

She added with kindly wit:

“To err is human.”

The farmer grumbled an incomprehensible phrase and went into the house, leaving Emma standing on the veranda, without inviting her in or offering her something to drink. Holding back her exasperation and suddenly feeling the fatigue of the trip, Emma decided to sit down on a rocking chair facing the fields. The sight of the poplars swaying in the June breeze and the air filled with the scent of hay and grass restored her good humour. Her land stretched as far as the river. She was filled with a sort of serenity that resembled happiness. Life could be sweet sometimes, when each of its scattered components suddenly formed a harmonious whole, without conflict, qualms or regrets.

The clicking of Mr. Dolbeau’s shoes on the veranda floor cut short her daydreaming. He was carrying a large ledger in his arms. He gave it to her without so much as a word and set out for the stables, claiming he needed to watch over a mare that was giving birth. Mrs. Portelance resisted making a critical comment and settled the book on her knees. She opened it and started to examine each entry in minute detail. After a while, the door of the house opened with a creak. A slim, bright-eyed woman with a face wrinkled like the bark of a tree came out, a glass in her hand.

“You could do with some refreshment, Ma’am Portelance. It’s nice to be nearing the end of spring; the sun is beating down hard.”

Emma took the glass gratefully.

“Thank you, Madam Dolbeau.”

She sniffed the amber liquid. It was cider, one of the region’s best. She drank a sip of it with pleasure. The two women exchanged a look of mutual support. Then Mrs. Dolbeau went back into the house while Emma resumed examining the ledger. After an hour’s work, failing to find a single error, she had to admit to herself that, in spite of his grouchy character and gruff manners, Mr. Dolbeau was an honest man and her father had had every reason to trust him. The farmer’s sardonic tone of voice made her shudder in spite of herself.

“So, Ma’am Portelance, I wager that you have found plenty of errors?”

Emma did her best to maintain a dignified expression:

“Everything was perfect, Mister Dolbeau.”

The farmer barely suppressed a gloating smirk.

“As the late Sir Portelance, your father, used to say, if the work was well done…”

Mrs. Portelance stood up to cut his lecture short.

“Excuse me, I must leave, I have quite a long journey ahead of me. See you next week.”

“So be it, Ma’am Portelance. Goodbye.”

He touched the rim of his straw hat with the tip of his index finger. Mrs. Portelance gave her empty glass back to his wife, who was standing in the doorway.

“Thank you again, Madam Dolbeau. That helped me swallow the pill…”

The tenant farmer’s wife could not help smiling. Emma Portelance made her way to her buggy. The horse had been tethered to the fence. Sensing Mr. Dolbeau’s scathing stare behind her, she gripped the reins and climbed onto the seat while labouring under the effort. As delicious as it was, Eugénie’s cooking was making her gain weight. She would need an iron will to resist her sugar pie! She clicked her tongue, shook the reins and the horse took off. She was in a hurry to return home.

III
 
Skibbereen
May 1847

Maureen was busy spreading out freshly-washed clothes on the yellow grass, counting on the sun to whiten them. It had been a long time since she could afford soap. Little Helena was sleeping in the wood box that Maureen had put beside her, in the shade of a linden tree. Rising to her feet with difficulty, she noticed her husband and Fionnuala coming back along the road. She closed her eyes and started praying. She did not like to pray to ask for favours, but God had tested them so much for so long that it did not seem unreasonable to hope for some of His mercy. She opened her eyes. Ian got down from his mount, took Fionnuala in his arms and set her on the ground, his face inscrutable. Fionnuala saw a butterfly and ran off to catch it.

Ian stopped a few feet from his wife, rummaged in a trouser pocket and took out three notes. Bernard Crombie had agreed to give him only three pounds. However much Ian had explained to him that this amount would pay for no more than one passage on the Rodena, and that he could never leave without his family, the landlord was unmoved: Ian should consider himself lucky to receive three pounds instead of a bailiff’s eviction notice for all the arrears he owed. Ian reached out to support his wife who was on the verge of fainting. She crumbled to the ground near the box where Helena was still sleeping and started to cry, her throat scorched by big despairing sobs. After a short time, she calmed down. Her cheeks soaked with tears, she opened her pendant and offered it to her husband. It was a pretty jewel in the shape of a shamrock that her mother, Ada, had given her on her death bed. Maureen insisted: it was their only chance.

It was at this particular moment that Ian made a decision, probably the most difficult one he had had to make in his entire life. He reclasped the pendant around his wife’s neck.

~

Wearing an old straw hat full of holes, Manus O’Brennan held his Percheron by the bridle and helped it pull the plough fitted with a plinth. He was straight as an oak and his energy was astonishing for a seventy-nine year old. He was so absorbed in his work that he did not see his son straight away, but turned his head instinctively. Ian was standing before him, in the amber light of that beautiful late afternoon, his arms crossed on his emaciated chest. The two men remained standing face to face, not letting any emotion show. After a long while, Manus spoke:

“Ba mhaith leat imeacht? You want to leave?”

Ian was not surprised that his father knew about his intention to leave Ireland. Rumours spread quickly in Skibbereen. Manus handed the bridle to his son and headed toward his house, a wooden shack that he had never fixed up in spite of the earnings from the sale of his lands. He had kept this plot alone and stubbornly persisted in planting potatoes as if he were trying to tempt destiny, thereby losing his wife and children’s respect. Ian watched him walk away without understanding what the old man had gotten into his head.

After waiting more than fifteen minutes, Ian was about to return home when he saw the door open. His father came down the steps and approached him. His eyes, the same grey as his son’s, appeared to stare at some point on the horizon, as if Ian were not there. He stopped abreast of him, dug into a pocket of his dusty trousers and took out a wad of notes.

“Daichead punt. Forty pounds. Your share of the inheritance.”

Manus would have liked to say to his son, don’t go away, don’t leave Ireland, everything will return to how it was before, this nightmare will come to an end, and our homelands will give us back the bread and hope that we have lost. But he did not have a way with words. He took the reins again and set back to work. It was the last time Ian saw his father.

~

Thomas Flanagan returned two days later as promised. Fionnuala saw him arrive in a stylish carriage pulled by two horses. His footman helped him alight by placing a plank on the step so that the immigration agent would not soil his freshly polished shoes which gleamed in the sun.

Flanagan counted each note on the kitchen table, laying each one on top of the other in a very neat pile. Then, with the air of a cat that had just swallowed a mouse, he carefully placed the money in a coffer and wished them a good trip.

With the help of Amanda and the boys, Ian finished stacking their paltry possessions onto the cart: clothes, moth-eaten blankets, pots misshapen from use and the old violin that he had gotten from his father. He helped his wife settle down and laid little Helena on her lap. Then it was Fionnuala’s turn. She insisted on climbing onto the cart herself. Arthur and Sean were the last to embark, shrieking with excitement at the prospect of the trip. Ian sat on the driver’s seat with Amanda and the cart set off. Ian looked around only once. The grey cabin stood out against the blue sky. The sea below, heaving on the rocks, was whitened by the foam.

IV
 
Chemin du Roy, Quebec
June 12^th 1849

The young girl walked slowly along the dusty road, holding a chipped cup in her hand, her frail silhouette sagging under the heat. She stopped from time to time, trying to catch her breath. The blinding June sun whitened the road before her. Her feet were very sore. Suddenly, she saw a dark spot appear at the end of the lane. The spot grew larger, and she thought she could see a horse pulling a carriage, but the shimmering heat rising from the road prevented her from making out the driver’s features. She put a hand over her eyes to shield them from the light. She noticed ribbons fluttering in the breeze, and then realized they were attached to a large brimmed hat. Hope caused her to nearly lose her balance. Her heart started to pound. Could it be her? Oh, my God, let it be her!

“Amanda… Amanda!”

Her throat was so choked that no sound came out of her mouth. She hurried toward the carriage, tripped on a stone and rolled into the middle of the road, her cup dropping and shattering on impact.

Lost in her thoughts, Emma Portelance noticed at the last moment a little figure flopped on the road. She abruptly pulled on the reins and managed to halt the buggy, avoiding her by a hair’s breadth. Emma jumped to the ground, her hat askew, and ran to the lifeless form. It was a little girl; she could not have been more than eight or nine years old. She was lying on her back and blood trickled from a nostril; her face and clothes were covered in dust. Emma pulled a handkerchief from her sleeve and gently wiped the child’s face.

“Poor little one… Are you hurt?”

The girl was so dazed that she heard the voice as in a dream. She opened her eyes and saw a lady with a strange hat perched on her head, like a tower from a print she had seen in The Country Companion. The lady looked at her worriedly.

“Are you sore anywhere? Can you move?”

The little girl lifted herself up on her elbows, supported by the lady. Then, she tried to stand up and let out a cry of pain.

“ Ow, my foot!”

Emma looked at the child out of the corner of her eye. At least she was not mute…

“The right foot or the left?” she enquired.

The child pointed to her right foot. Emma leaned over, took off her dirty and worn-out clog and noticed that the foot was red and swollen.

“I don’t think that it’s broken. It’s probably a sprain.”

Emma stood back up, still supporting the little girl.

“What is your name?”

The child raised her marine blue eyes toward the lady without uttering a word.

“Where do you live?”

She kept silent. Emma tried to smile.

“You surely have a name. Everyone has one. I myself am called Emma Portelance.”

The child continued to look at her, mute. Emma stifled a sigh. It was beginning to be late; she did not want Eugénie to worry. She tried another approach.

“Tell me where your parents live and I will drive you home. They must not be far from here.”

The girl did not reply. Emma glanced around but no house was in sight.

“Well, you don’t live alone!” she exclaimed.

She noticed the cup lying in pieces on the side of the road.

“Is that cup yours? I’m afraid it will no longer be of much use…”

Still no reply. Emma felt a growing impatience but tried to be reasonable: Come now, she is only a child. She is still in shock. Seeing that she would not get anything out of the girl for the moment, she made a decision.

“I shall take you to my home. You will be examined by Doctor Lanthier, a good friend. But, I warn you: I shall take you to your parents as soon as I know who they are.”

The child maintained the same obstinate silence. Emma looked at her more closely. Her hair was tangled and full of twigs; she was wearing coarse linen so dirty and worn out that the colour could no longer be distinguished. Her rib cage could be seen sticking out from beneath her torn blouse. A feeling of pity gripped her: Evidently, this child had not been well treated. She reached out and lifted her up into her arms.

“Hang on to my neck tightly,” she said to her.

The little girl did not have to be begged. She snuggled into the lady’s voluptuous chest, closed her eyes and let herself be filled with the scent of bread and violets.

Emma carried the child effortlessly to her buggy. Poor little one, she is as light as a feather, she said to herself while seating her. Then she took a blanket which she wedged under the child’s injured foot to cushion it from any bumps in the road. She in turn climbed into the buggy and let out an “mmhph” while landing on the seat. The buggy started off again. After a short while, the little girl looked up at the driver.

“My name is Fanette.”

“Fanette. That’s a pretty first name. I guess you have a surname to go with that?”

Fanette turned her head away and said nothing.

~

It had been a good hour since the buggy had left Chemin du Roy and trundled down Chemin Foulon. The sun was starting to set on the horizon, casting coppery sparkles on the river. Fanette had fallen asleep, her head resting on the right shoulder of Mrs. Portelance who moved as little as possible so as not to wake her. She finally saw Quebec’s buttresses standing out against the sky streaked with grey clouds. A wave of joy overcame her, as it did each time she returned to her city after a visit to the seigneury. She may have been born in Portelance and spent most of her childhood there, but it was Quebec that had conquered her heart with its ramparts, its churches, its tortuous roads and even the ruins of the Saint Louis castle which dominated the river like an old monarch refusing to abdicate.

The buggy entered the town through Hope Gate and turned onto Côte Dambourgès View. Sous le Cap Street stood out in the distance, dominated by the cliff. Narrow and with a hard-packed surface, Sous le Cap was bordered by well-kept wooden and modest brick houses. Clothes lines hung from one house to the next and garments of every colour were drying in the dwindling evening breeze. Some children were playing ball, raising a cloud of dust. A dog barked as Mrs. Portelance’s buggy rolled past, but Fanette slept soundly as only young children can. The buggy passed the house of the shoe shop owner, Mr. Lavoie. Its façade was covered with wooden shoe models to attract clientele. We must buy her some decent shoes, thought Emma. The buggy finally stopped in front of a charming three-storey house with long windows adorned with lace drapes. It was not until the buggy was brought to a halt that Fanette woke up. She yawned so widely it made Emma laugh.

“You slept like a dormouse”, she said in her strong voice.

Fanette curled up on the seat, slightly scared, and Emma noticed it.

“There is no need to be afraid. I have a booming voice but I would never harm a fly…”

Fanette did not reply but seemed reassured by these words. Mrs. Portelance dismounted, took out a bunch of keys from her pocket, and headed toward a gateway barred by a railing. She opened it with one of the keys, pushed it against the brick wall, then got back into the buggy and turned it onto the hard-packed surface alley which led to an interior yard and a shed which also served as a stable. The door leading to the garden opened and a frail woman came out onto the doorstep, carrying a lantern that illuminated her keen-eyed, intelligent-looking face.

“Thanks be to God! There you are, I was beginning to worry.”

Emma muttered:

“I was delayed.”

“You did not argue with Mister Dolbeau again?”

It was then that Eugénie saw a little dark figure huddled on the buggy seat. She approached and noticed a small dirty face with big eyes. She turned toward Emma, astonished.

“What…”

“Her name is Fanette. I almost hit her on Chemin du Roy, near the village of La Chevrotière. We will have to send for Doctor Lanthier.”

Accustomed to Emma’s slightly brusque manners, Eugénie did not take offence.

“I hope the doctor is at home.”

She went back into the house to look for a shawl and a lantern, leaving the kitchen door open. Mrs. Portelance took Fanette in her arms, wrapping her in the blanket so she would not catch cold. The weather had become cooler. She carried her light load to the house.

Eugénie walked briskly along Sous le Cap Street holding the lantern out in front of her. Huge barrels were leaning against the walls here and there, and lights shone in the windows of the houses crammed one against the other. The doctor lived on St. Paul Street, a few minutes’ walk from Emma Portelance’s house. Eugénie turned into Demi Lune Alley.

~

Fanette was laid on the sofa in the sewing room. Sitting on a stool, Doctor Henri Lanthier placed her injured foot on a cushion and palpated it softly. Luckily he was at home when Eugénie knocked on his door.

Emma and Eugénie were standing near the sofa, anxiously watching the doctor’s ministrations. Fanette stifled a cry of pain. The doctor raised his head, displacing his gold-rimmed glasses. He had the soft and slightly vague look of the short-sighted.

“I do not see any fracture. She has a simple sprain or twist. I shall need some clean cloths and a bowl filled with warm water.”

Eugénie was about to step out, but Emma stopped her.

“Never mind. I will go.”

Emma returned a few minutes later with immaculately white bandages on her arm and a basin. While Eugénie carefully washed the child’s injured foot, the doctor took a jar from his case and gently spoke to Fanette.

“This is an ointment made from pine bark which will reduce the inflammation.”

Doctor Lanthier covered her foot with the ointment and wrapped it in one of the cloths that Emma had fetched. Fanette suppressed a grimace.

“I have applied a very tight bandage to reduce the swelling. Redo it tomorrow. She should not walk on her foot for some time and should keep it raised when lying down.”

The two women nodded in unison. Having gently put Fanette’s foot back on the cushion, Doctor Lanthier got up and left the room followed by Emma, who closed the door behind her. He removed his glasses and cleaned them with a handkerchief.

“Where did you fish this one from? The Bon Pasteur Refuge?” he asked with a half-smile.

Doctor Lanthier knew of Emma’s propensity for bringing home children or young women in distress when the refuge was full or the misery too great. That was how she had taken in Eugénie ten years ago. Found by a nun in the street in winter, almost dead from the cold, Eugénie had been brought to the refuge but, short of beds, the refuge had asked Emma to take her in for a few days until a place became available. Eugénie was just twenty years old and even worse off than Fanette. She was fearfully thin and had not eaten for days. She had a high fever and deep chaps caused by frostbite. Emma had called Doctor Lanthier who made her drink a concoction of willow bark and treated her abrasions with ointment and clean bandages. Emma had watched over her tireslessly for a week. When Eugénie got better, she did not have the heart to return her to the Bon Pasteur Refuge and kept her on as her ward. Emma looked on her as her own daughter.

“For once, no,” replied Emma.

She explained that she had found Fanette on Chemin du Roy.

“I almost ran over her,” she said, still moved by the incident.

Thoughtfully, the doctor put his glasses back on.

“This little girl is malnourished, she has scabies and God knows what else… Wash her and burn all her clothes. Feed her only small portions for a few days.”

Emma’s face darkened.

“Poor child…”

“What will you do with her?”

She shook her head.

“I don’t know. She is as mute as a door post, and there is no way of knowing where she lives or who her parents are.”

Doctor Lanthier’s face also darkened. He saw much misery in his profession but was still unable to accustom himself to it.

“If you need me again, you know where to find me…”

Emma rose to see him out. The doctor stopped her with a wave of his hand.

“I know the way.”

He headed down the stairs and Emma returned to the sewing room.

Eugénie was sitting on a stool, watching over Fanette. She raised her eyes as Emma approached the sofa.

“The swelling has already gone down a little,” she murmured.

Emma glanced at the girl. She had fallen asleep again. A weak smile raised the right corner of her mouth, creating a small dimple.

That same evening, Emma and Eugénie gave Fanette a desperately needed bath. When Eugénie motioned to her to take off her blouse, the child recoiled as if she feared being hit. Eugénie looked at her thoughtfully. Abused children had this reflex.

“I do not want to hurt you,” she said gently.

Emma went to get a basin of hot water, wash cloths and soap while Eugénie undressed the child. The young woman immediately noticed some slightly swollen reddish marks on her back. She turned and glanced at Emma who had just put the basin down near the girleen.

“Take a quick look.”

Emma followed Eugénie’s pointing finger. She saw the marks and her cheeks turned crimson.

“Those wicked people will not make it to heaven.”

Eugénie brought out a white lace blouse that she slipped on Fanette once she had applied a camomile ointment to ease the itch caused by scabies. The little girl was already looking much better. Eugénie found the lass quite pretty, in spite of her tangled mop of hair and her skinny, matchstick arms. Her skin was soft and white where the scabies had not left little red bumps.

Eugénie and Emma had not yet reached the end of their troubles: they now had to untangle her shock of hair… Used to caring for the poverty stricken, Eugénie immediately noticed the tiny black bugs flitting about in Fanette’s hair. Lice. She took a fine tortoiseshell comb and with the patience of an angel, methodically combed, strand after strand, trying not to tug too much on the unruly hair. Fanette called out in Irish Gaelic:

“Ó, tá sé sin nimhneach! Oh, that’s sore!”

The two women exchanged surprised and amused glances. Eugénie spoke to Fanette.

“What did you say? What language were you speaking?”

Fanette clammed up again.

It was decided that Fanette would share Eugénie’s bed. Afterwards, they would see and in any case, Emma said, they should find her parents.