Part I
 
The woman in blue

II
Nine years earlier
Near the village of La Chevrotière
March 15^th 1849

Amanda slowly regained consciousness. First she saw the moon, veiled by clouds. A few stars twinkled far away. A freezing cold wind blew through the trees. Where am I? She tried to move but her limbs were numb with the cold. She felt a searing pain in her right side, near her lung, then turned her head slowly and thought she saw a large dark stain in the snow. She realized it was probably blood. Her blood.

A gust of wind blew powdered snow about her and seemed to bring her back to her latest memories. She remembered Mr. Bruneau, the tinkling of bells, the dull sound of the horses’ hooves on the snowy road, the flickering light of the carriage lamps. A dark rider emerged in front of the car. Mr. Bruneau’s horse brusquely arched its back. Moonlight briefly revealed his face. Jacques Cloutier. Mr. Bruneau seized his pistol.

“What do you want?”

“Your money.”

“I already told you that I don’t have any.”

Then a gunshot rang out. The two men lunged at each other. Events unfolded as in a nightmare. Amanda jumped on the sleigh, found the pistol half hidden in the snow and tried to aim at Jacques Cloutier but decided instead to shoot into the air to separate the two men. Mr. Bruneau dashed off down the road like a deer being chased by a pack of wolves. Jacques caught him, brandishing his knife. She saw the blade sink into the inert body many times. She unconsciously ran in the other direction, her throat and chest ablaze. She branched onto another fork in the road. A light flickered in the distance. Then she hit something and fell in a heap onto the snowy sod. Time stood still. When she opened her eyes, she saw a face bent over hers. Jacques Cloutier… Moonlight flickered on his knife’s blade. The blade plunged. Then, nothing. Darkness enveloped her like a shroud.

A howl roused Amanda from her torpor. Another howl rang out, making her blood run cold. Wolves. The howling seemed to be getting closer. Amanda gained control of her mind bit by bit. I need to get out of here. She tried to get up but it was as if an invisible hand was impeding any movement. She thought she detected some furtive rustling not far from her. Make an effort!… Get up!… She managed to turn over onto her side. A sharp pain seared through her. She breathed with difficulty. Some sort of whistling emanated from her throat. Howls could be heard again. Fear galvanised her. She got on her knees, leaning on branches of a shrub, and managed to stand up. She was so paralyzed by the cold, she could barely stay upright. She looked around her to find her bearings. To her left, she saw stealthy shadows bordering the screen of pine trees whose branches stretched out as far as the eye could see. A pack of about five wolves was heading her way. Get out of here… quick… A white field stretched out before her as far as she could see. She tried to take a first step, then another. Her feet were frigid and she couldn’t feel them any longer. The snow scrunched beneath her feet. The excruciating stabbing pain in her right side persisted. Suddenly she thought she saw a light flicker on the horizon, the same light she had seen before tripping and losing consciousness. Hopefully it’s a house… She heard almost human sounding shrieks and instinctively turned round: the pack of wolves was closing in. The hope of finding a house and fear of the wolves made her pick up a little speed. Just then, a shadow stood before her. The black silhouette of a man of great stature stood out against the sky. The moon was once again hidden behind clouds and she couldn’t make out his facial features, but she was knew it was him. She slumped onto the snow. My Lord have pity on me, she murmured before once again sinking into dreamless darkness.

IV
The village of La Chevrotière
March 18^th 1849

Amanda came round. She was no longer cold and felt no pain as if her body was resting on clouds. This is what it must be like to die, she said to herself. Her eyes were closed but she sensed a vivid light. Then she heard a footfall. It’s him… She slowly opened her eyes, saw a shadow emerge in front of her against the light. Jacques Cloutier… She closed her eyelids again, frozen with fear. My God, let it be over…

“Amanda…”

She opened her eyes again, fearing she would make out the dark angular face of Jacques Cloutier bent over hers. A man with a round jovial face was standing a few feet from her. The sun shone through the window behind him. He smiled at her, visibly relieved.

“You slept three days straight. You’d fever. You were even delirious. Doctor Boudreault was afraid we’d lose ya.”

She recognized Pierre Girard, a young farmer whose smallholding was about a half-mile from the Cloutier’s farm. Surprise and relief rendered her speechless. It was this farmer who had shown compassion when she and her sister Fanette had attempted to flee the Cloutier’s farm but were found by the Cloutier father near Sainte Anne River, the preceding year. There was unassuming goodness in this man, reminding her of someone. She tried to remember recent events but her thoughts were somewhat shrouded in mist. As if he guessed her questions, the farmer continued:

“I found you in the woods not far from us. I brought you here by sledge.”

He hesitated, clearly ill-at-ease, but he persisted:

“You were in a bad way. There was blood everywhere.”

The memory of a knife piercing her flesh flooded back. Amanda raised herself on her elbows, feeling a panic attack.

“Help me… I can’t… can’t… go back there.”

The farmer moved a step closer to her, troubled by her pain. When he had first set eyes on Amanda, barely visible by moonlight, pale as a sheet and huddled up on the reddish snow, he was sure she was dead. Wolves were howling nearby. He leaned over her and realized she was still breathing. There was a black stain under the right-hand side of her chest. He had gently lifted the young girl and laid her on the sledge, trying not to hurt her. She had moaned softly but her eyes were tightly shut as if she were asleep. When he entered the house, carrying the unfortunate creature in his arms, Aurélie almost fainted.

“My goodness! Poor girl! For the love of God, what happened to her?”

The young couple had carried Amanda into the bed belonging to their eldest son, Benjamin; Pierre had gone to fetch Doctor Boudreault who administered a willow decoction and examined her wound, in disbelief. In all his life as a country doctor, he had seen fractures, wounds caused by falls or hoof kicks, fevers of all kinds and rheumatism attacks, but he had never treated such a wound. He had asked Pierre to leave the room and sent Aurélie to fetch hot water and clean cloths. Before leaving, the doctor had stated that the wound was fairly deep but it had probably not cut any vital organ. Amanda had been lucky in her misfortune. Pierre had noticed the doctor’s embarrassment without comprehending the cause.

“You will stay with us until you have regained your strength,” the young farmer said to Amanda.

She fell back on the bed, noticeably relieved. He lingered a while. For an instant, curiosity got the better of his compassion.

“How did you get such a wound?” he asked.

Her body stiffened; she was sick to her stomach. I shouldn’t breathe a word. Not a soul should know. She recalled the incessant howling in the forest during her panic-stricken chase.

“A wolf. It wasn’ far away.”

Wolves… He had definitely heard them when he had hauled poor Amanda into his sledge. He shook his head, uncertain.

“Winter was harsh, ‘already ‘eard of a pack of wolves attackin’ a human bein’.”

She didn’t answer. Her face was transfixed with fear. He awkwardly patted his thighs.

“Should get more sleep now.”

He left the room, gently closing the door behind him. She stretched again and closed her eyes, feeling a happy heat pervade her limbs little by little. Sleep… This word cradled a gentleness to which she was not accustomed. She let sleep envelop her.

˜

The sound of voices awoke her. It was evening but she had no inkling what time or day it was. The voices seemed to be coming from above but she heard them distinctly.

“We can’t keep ‘er forever…”

“She’s still weak.”

“There’s no space for ‘er ‘ere. Benjamin wriggles like an earthworm, I can’t sleep with ‘im. Éphrem ‘n Jeannot have to sleep in the attic ‘n they were freezin’ las’ nigh’. And then there’s the baby we’re expectin’.”

The rest of the conversation was lost in a child’s screaming.

“Benjamin! I told ya’ hundred times not to come near the cooker!”

Amanda managed to sit up and scan the room. She found herself in a small, humbly furnished bedroom which felt reassuringly peaceful: a chest at the foot of the bed, a nightstand holding a terracotta pitcher, two other little iron beds placed in one corner, covered in a brightly coloured quilt. An old horse on castors with chipped paint had been forgotten on the floor near an empty cradle. She knew it was a child’s room. She felt a sharp pain above her sides, searched blindly in the dark and noticed a dressing had been wrapped around her chest, below her bosom. She made an involuntary movement which caused a sudden pain in her right side. Her wound… She was careful not to move again, and the pain subsided. Someone knocked at the door and it opened. A friendly young woman came into the bedroom, carrying a steaming bowl. Her stomach was rounded, her step slightly heavy, and she bore the fresh complexion and stoutness of a healthy, well-fed person. Little Benjamin was standing at the half-open door, his thumb in his mouth, his cheeks tear-stained. Aurélie turned to her son.

“Benjamin, ‘tis time for bed.”

“I wan’ ‘story first.”

“Go on up. I’ll be with ya in a minute.”

The child headed off reluctantly. Aurélie approached the bed.

“I should think you’re getting better. You’ll be back on your feet in no time.”

Something about the dryness in her voice betrayed her pleasant manner. She doesn’t want me here! Amanda thought. Yet she still felt so weak! She pulled the blanket up around her as if to protect herself. Aurélie put the bowl down on the night stand along with a spoon which she removed from her apron pocket.

“Chicken broth. You’ve eaten nothing since me husband brought ya ‘ere.”

The young woman lingered.

“You rambled during your fever. Words in a strange language.”

Amanda didn’t answer. “Is binn béal ina thost. Silence is golden”, as her father used to say when she was young.

“Sometimes you spoke in French. At one point, you said “He killed him.”

“I don’t remember anythin’,” murmured Amanda.

Aurélie handed the soup bowl and spoon to Amanda, who suddenly realized she was famished. She clutched the bowl and gulped a mouthful without using the spoon. She burned her tongue a little but the heat did her good. Aurélie stood beside the bed, her hands on her round belly.

“A man was assassinated a few days ago. ‘tis the talk of the village. Someone called Jean Bruneau. ‘e were stabbed to death, they say.”

Jean Bruneau… The whole scene rushed back like a flurry of snow. He was dead. It was all her fault… The soup bowl slipped from her hands. Aurélie leaned toward her and caught it before it shattered on the floor.

“Ya gave me such a fright! Y’almost burned yourself…”

She wanted to help Amanda eat but the young woman refused any help. Her pallor was such that the farmer’s wife pitied her. She moved a chair over to the bed and sat down, leaning back into it. Aurélie was only six months pregnant but her stomach was so rotund Doctor Boudreault was convinced she would deliver twins. She took back the bowl and brought a spoonful of soup to Amanda’s lips, but the young woman kept her mouth firmly shut.

“Ya have to eat, Amanda. If not, you’ll ne’er get well.”

Amanda let herself be fed. Her body shuddered all over. Aurélie remembered a little wounded bird she had picked up on the road when she was young. It had a broken wing. She had carefully held it in the palm of her hand. The bird’s heart beat quickly but it didn’t try to fly away. She had brought it back to the farm and fed it a few grains of corn. It slowly opened and closed its beak. She found it dead a few days later.

Amanda finished the soup. She already felt better. One hand on her stomach, Aurélie stood up and took the bowl and spoon from her.

“Ya were lucky my Pierre found ya.”

Amanda nodded in silence. Aurélie glanced at her.

“Hear ya were attacked by a wolf.”

Amanda nodded again. Aurélie continued:

“I was bitten by a dog when I was young. The teeth marks are still here, look.”

Aurélie rolled up her sleeve and showed Amanda her palm.

“I helped Doctor Boudreault dress your wound. There were no bite marks.”

Amanda looked at her, speechless, her eyes wide with fear. Aurélie laid a hand on her arm. There was some gentleness to her voice.

“If it’s Jacques Cloutier who did tha’ to ya, you’ve got to report ‘im to ‘ police. ‘e’s dangerous.”

The farmer’s wife saw fear in the young girl’s eyes.

“My Pierre saw ‘im at dawn, ‘e was fishin’ upstream on Sainte Anne’s River. ‘e hared off when ‘e saw my ‘usband. The action of a guilty man.”

Amanda was tempted to tell her everything: her attempt to save Mr. Bruneau, the jammed rifle, her desperate flight, her terror at the sight of Cloutier’s threatening face bent over her… Fear stopped her. If ever Cloutier discovered she had betrayed him, he would track her down and kill her. Or worse, he would blame Fanette. She froze in fear at such a prospect. Fionnuala… She’d promised her she’d return to fetch her. Now, Jean Bruneau was dead, she was wounded and Jacques Cloutier was hiding out somewhere, his back against the wall, too close for comfort…

All she said was:

“I was attacked by a wolf. Please let me stay here.”

Aurélie observed the young girl with pleading eyes, so slender in the white nightdress she had lent her. Pity made her heavy-hearted. God knows poor Amanda had experienced her share of suffering. Pierre had told her in minute detail about the time Amanda had run away from the farm with her little sister, Fanette, and they were found, shivering with the cold beside the Sainte Anne River. Amanda claimed the Cloutier father was beating her and her sister, and they weren’t getting enough to eat. Seeing the “wee Irish lassies” at mass on Sunday, skinny as rakes and pale as sheets, she believed her. Let me stay here… Aurélie had helped Doctor Boudreault wash and dress the wound; it was impossible not to notice her rounded belly. The poor might was in the family way. Doctor Boudreault had noticed it but said nothing: just like his father before him, the country doctor had been practicing medicine for more than twenty years at La Chevrotière and had learned to be the pinnacle of discretion itself. Even Aurélie had made no mention of it yet to her Pierre, but she would have to say something in the next day or so. In any case, he would end up noticing. She suspected the identity of the father-to-be. The Cloutier’s son had a bad reputation. She heard it on the grapevine that each spring, when he returned from the lumber camp, he spent all his money in Quebec City on lowlife women. He never stuck his nose inside the church walls and chased after any woman who crossed his path, even after his marriage to poor Catherine. When she ran into him on Chemin Sablon, he would scrutinize her and make eyes at her. Once he’d even blocked her passage with his sturdy, stocky trunk of a body. She had cried out. Luckily, Pierre was working in their field not far away, had heard her, and ran toward them. The two men had glared at one another for a long while, and then Jacques Cloutier had hissed at him, his lips curled in a sardonic grimace:

“Don’t worry, I don’t touch any married woman but my own!”

Nothing would surprise her about such a reprobate who believed in neither God nor the devil. The last thing she wanted was for him to discover Amanda had found refuge in their home. She drew near the bed. Amanda had fallen back asleep. Her face had recovered an air of peacefulness in her sleep. The farmer’s wife covered her up so she would stay warm. As soon as the young slip of a girl was back on her feet, she would have to leave.

VII
Quebec
August 1^st 1858

Emma’s buggy rolled rapidly over the cobblestones on Saint John’s roadway which had just been resurfaced. The wheels made a terrible din. She had to stop at the crossroads of Saint John and d’Auteuil to let the omnibus pass which was advancing slowly on the rails, pulled by two draft horses. Emma sighed impatiently. One day they would surely invent a more efficient mode of transport than these bone rattling snail-like coaches. The omnibus finally took off with a squeak, freeing the way. Emma cracked her whip. The mare, unused to being hurried in this way, turned its head to its mistress as if in rebuke.

“Come on, make a bit of an effort,” pleaded Emma.

The buggy set off and turned into d’Auteuil Street, and afterwards down Saint Louis Street which was less busy than usual. Some passersby hurried along the boardwalk; beleaguered housekeepers, baskets over their arms, headed for market. Emma was relieved to go through Saint Louis Gate and finally drive down Grande Allée. A feeling of urgency invaded her. She had to find a way to speak tête-à-tête with Fanette without arousing the notary’s suspicions.

˜

Régine was pouring tea into porcelain tea cups which the notary had had shipped from England at great expense. He frowned in disgruntlement.

“Good manners have taken to the wind in this town!” he exclaimed. “Disturbing us in the middle of afternoon tea, no less!”

He signalled to Régine to continue serving the tea. After a while, banging could be heard, twice as loud as before. Annoyed, the notary stood up.

“What kind of behaviour is this?”

He stomped his way to the hall door without realizing he still had his serviette in his hand. He opened the door. A stern man, wearing a top hat, stood on the doorstep, flanked by two policemen in uniform. The notary stared at them in bewilderment. Then, an awful thought wormed its way into his mind. These policemen were here for him. The moment he feared all these years had arrived. He was going to pay for his wrongdoing. The notary clenched the serviette in his fist. The man politely removed his hat.

“I would like to speak to Madam Grandmont, if I may.”

The notary pulled himself together. He discreetly wiped his brow.

“My wife is indisposed.”

The notary was about to close the door when the man approached the doorstep with an assurance that even the most modest men use when wielding the power of authority.

“Mr. Grandmont, please allow me to introduce myself. I am Coroner Duchesne. May I come in?”

The notary had never met the coroner in person but his reputation preceded him. He was an important person in Quebec. He reluctantly allowed him to enter. The coroner, followed by two policemen, headed down the hall. An immense chandelier shed a vivid light into the room, making the oak panelling on the walls glisten. The two policemen stopped in their tracks, intimidated by the opulent furniture, the imposing staircase and the luxurious salon where the mantelpiece stood out in the semi-darkness.

“I wish to speak with your daughter-in-law, Madam Fanette Grandmont.”

“About what?” asked the notary with a sharp edge to his voice.

When she heard the voices, Fanette headed toward the hall.

“I am Fanette Grandmont.”

˜

Emma could make out the notary’s house in the distance with its turrets visible against a cloudy sky. Then she saw a black open-topped carriage parked in front of the house and recognised Coroner Duchesne’s car. A few passersby had gathered near the carriage, pointing at it. She realized she had arrived too late.

˜

The coroner drank a mouthful of tea Régine had served on a huge silver tray. He found it excellent. Besides, everything in this house, from the green Wedgewood willow-patterned porcelain tea service to the velvet damask drapes, betrayed the comfort and opulence of the local bourgeoisie. He glanced at the young lady, sitting on a sofa opposite him with her husband at her side. Fanette O’Brennan had decidedly made a good match.

“If I’m not mistaken, Madam Grandmont, you have a sister called Amanda O’Brennan?”

Fanette was visibly astonished. How had the coroner been able to make the connection between her and her sister?

“Yes,” replied Fanette eventually, trying to strengthen her voice.

Standing by the chimney, the notary looked in Fanette’s direction, fascinated. His daughter-in-law had a sister? That was the first he’d heard… Fanette felt overwhelmed with anxiety. The coroner’s stern appearance and the presence of two police officers led her to fear the worst.

“Has anything happened to her?” she asked, stricken with fear.

The coroner replied to her question with another query.

“Have you seen your sister again recently?”

The coroner’s question reassured her. If he was seeking to find out about Amanda, then nothing deplorable had happened to her. Her response, however, presented a more prickly decision. The last time she had caught sight of Amanda was in front of the Quebec Prison, when Jacques Cloutier was being hanged. She daren’t imagine the notary’s reaction if he found out his daughter-in-law had been present at an execution! But above all, she profoundly mistrusted the coroner. Something in his attitude, his false benevolence perhaps, put her on her guard.

“No, I have not seen my sister for some ten years.”

The coroner watched her keenly.

“You’ve never had any news? Not even a letter?”

Fanette put her cup down on the table. She hoped the coroner had not noticed her hand shaking. Stay calm. The image of Emma came to mind and gave her back some courage.

“No. Nothing.”

The coroner observed her in silence. This young woman was lying, he was certain of it. She had managed to hold his stare without batting an eyelid but he had heard the slight tinkling of the cup when she had placed it on the saucer.

“Have you never tried to see her?”

Reaching his boiling point, Philippe intervened:

“Clearly my wife has answered your questions.”

The coroner ignored the young man’s intervention.

“Please answer, Madam Grandmont.”

Faced with the coroner’s unwavering stare, Fanette intuitively realized it would be useless, even dangerous, not to tell a smidgeon of the truth.

“Of course, I have tried to see her again but I have had no success.”

The coroner could not help but admire her look of determination and the firmness in her attitude.

Exasperated by what he considered to be a revolting intrusion into their private life, the notary also intervened:

“So, why are you looking for this Amanda O’Brennan?”

The coroner was delighted with the line the notary had inadvertently thrown to him. His extensive experience had taught him to bide his time and to play his trump card at the last minute.

“Amanda O’Brennan appears to have been the sole witness to Jean Bruneau’s murder, committed on March 15^th 1849.”

The notary felt the earth give way beneath his feet. Not only was he ignorant of the existence of Fanette’s sister but he was now learning from the coroner himself that this Amanda O’Brennan was wanted by the police as a witness to a murder! That the Grandmont family might be associated, even indirectly, with such a sordid affair, horrified him. What a scandal if ever this was known uptown! The presence of police at their home was humiliating enough… Already he saw the neighbours delighting in this juicy gossip throughout the capital. He bitterly regretted having given in to his son’s insistence and accepting his marriage to this Irishwoman. He had been right to exact Emma Portelance’s dowry but if he had known the price he’d have to pay… He wore a dignified and resolute mask despite his anger and fear.

“My daughter-in-law has never seen this… person. Now, please leave, I have much to do.”

Satisfied with the effect of his intrusion and knowing he wouldn’t garner any more information, at least for the moment, the coroner got up, politely bid everyone good-day and took the top hat Régine was holding out to him while eyeing Notary Grandmont with suspicion. The notary waited until the coroner and his two policemen had left and then dryly asked Régine to return to the kitchen. She obeyed, sensing a storm brewing. The notary turned to Fanette. His face was ice-cold.

“So, your sister is a criminal sought by the police. I understand why you hid her existence from me.”

Fanette got up, sick to the core.

“The police are seeking her as a witness; does that make her a criminal?” she cried indignantly.

The notary eyed her up and down coldly.

“No matter whether she’s guilty or not. What matters is what people think, appearances. Have you seen your sister? Have you exchanged correspondence?”

Fanette remained mute. The notary hammered on:

“Answer!”

Philippe stood up, put his hand on Fanette’s shoulder, as if to protect her.

“Father…”

The notary stared at Fanette with his almost translucent blue eyes. Thank God, I had the good sense to hide Amanda’s letter, she thought. Under no circumstances should her father-in-law find out about it.

“No.”

The notary continued to stare her down as if he was trying to read her very soul.

“Hear me, Fanette. If you have lied to me, I will find out. In the meantime, ensure that you sever all ties with your sister. I’ve had enough with one visit from the police in my house. I want no reoccurrence of such a deplorable event.”

Fanette could not help reacting.

“Who are you to judge her thus?”

The notary stepped closer to her, white with fury.

“I worked all my life, without a break, like my father before me. I built my reputation and that of my family on the strength of my work and discipline. I will let no one and no event tarnish my good name, which incidentally is also yours. You are with child, the future of our lineage. Try to live up to it.”

After this agonizing confrontation, Fanette and Philippe found themselves alone in their boudoir. Fanette sat on the divan. Her usually smiling face was sombre and anxious. Philippe wanted to take her in his arms but remained by the window, not knowing how to break the silence. Fanette was the first to speak. She whispered, as if she feared being overheard by prying ears.

“I lied to the coroner and to your father. I have had news from Amanda.”

Fanette got up and went into their bedroom. Philippe watched her, both intrigued and worried. She came back a few minutes later holding a letter. She handed it to Philippe.

“When did you receive it?” he murmured, examining the envelope.

“Just today. I had placed a personal notice in the newspaper. The letter was delivered to the editorial desk and given to me.”

Fanette omitted to mention to her husband that an awkward, quick witted young journalist had followed her into the street to hand it to her… Philippe gave it back to her without uttering a word.

“Won’t you ask me what it says?”

“That’s for you to say, if you wish,” replied Philippe.

Touched by his tact, Fanette removed the single sheet of paper from its envelope and showed it to Philippe. He glanced at it and then looked at his wife inquisitively. Fanette couldn’t help but smile.

“It’s in Irish,” she whispered.

She translated it in hushed tones. Philippe listened to her attentively, while the last faint glimmer of day illuminated her beautiful profile. When she was finished, he kept his counsel as if he were weighing the significance of each word.

“Do you intend to show up at this meeting?” he finally asked, already guessing her answer.

“If your own sister had asked you to, what would you have done?”

“Rosalie is not sought by the police.”

Fanette looked straight at him and cut to the quick.

“Are you condemning her too?”

Philippe motioned to her to lower her voice.

“I’m not condemning anyone. I’m concerned for you, for our child.”

Fanette wrapped her arms around his shoulders, looking him in the eye.

“I must see her again, even if it might be for the last time.”

Philippe nodded.

“If father finds out…”

“He won’t find out anything.”

Fanette let go gently, returning to the bedroom where she put the letter back in the same place. Alone in the boudoir, Philippe stepped into the room anxiously. For once, he thought his father was right to fear for the family’s reputation. He hadn’t forgotten what Fanette had confided to him the evening she had returned in a comatose state from the Quebec Prison after her visit to Jacques Cloutier, convinced Amanda had been assassinated by him. And now that Amanda was alive, and had shown signs of life after all these years of silence, she seemed slightly threatening to him; a shadow from the past which had come to trouble the peaceful flow of their existence. He understood Fanette’s desire to see her sister again but couldn’t help but fear the outcome. Why had Amanda waited so long to send news of herself to Fanette? And why now with such precaution? Did she know she was sought by the police? But what irked him the most was why Amanda had not reported the perpetrator to the police, if it were true she had witnessed such a villainous act. That could only mean one thing: she was an accessory… He gently shook his head. Fanette seemed to have such affection for her sister that he could not pursue such a hypothesis. However… The Amanda Fanette had known when she was a child was no longer the same.

Fanette came back into the boudoir. Judging by the resolute look on her face, he knew nothing and no one would prevent her from going to that appointment, no matter what the consequences.

Watching her sleep that night, he was moved by the dimple on her right check, the only mark from her childhood. The Fanette who was lying beside him, so sweet and carefree in her sleep, had become a determined woman.

V
Quebec
August 1^st 1858

The buggy rolled down Saint Flavien Street. Emma was driving, her face betraying her preoccupation. Eugénie glanced worriedly over at her. Emma hadn’t uttered a word since they had left the refuge, which was out of character for her. Eugénie guessed the reason for her silence and was careful not to force her to pour out her heart. The car crossed Remparts Street and turned into Sous le Cap. Clothes were drying over the balconies and flapped in the breeze like birds flying off.

Emma ended up breaking the silence:

“Fanette told me she’s expecting a baby, and all I can manage to say is that she’s too young! What a bad mother I am!”

“Would a bad mother worry about her daughter?”

“A good mother would have kept her worries to herself.”

The buggy stopped in front of their house. The aroma of wild roses climbing on the arbour filled the air. Emma alighted from the car, firmly holding the reins. What she daren’t admit was that, deep down, she would have wished a different future for Fanette. Yet she had set everything in motion to allow her marriage to Philippe, even sacrificing a huge portion of her income from her lands as a dowry, in spite of her distrust of Notary Grandmont and the advice of her lawyer, Mr. Hart. Fanette’s happiness depended on it. But she couldn’t help dreaming of a freer life for her beloved daughter, a wider horizon than the duties of marriage from which she herself had escaped. Eugénie alighted from the buggy while Emma unlocked the gate leading to the courtyard.

A black Tilbury stopped behind the buggy. A rather tall man, wearing a top hat and a black frock coat, stepped down. Emma looked back and recognized the man, even though she had only met him once previously, long ago: it was Coroner Duchesne. His hair and his sideburns had whitened but he had not changed in any other way. He was the type of man time treated well. Or was it that the administering of justice kept his features in a cold and intemporal mask?

The coroner approached the two women.

“Madam Emma Portelance?” he said to Emma.

“It is I,” replied Emma, trying to hide the apprehension she always felt before a guardian of the peace, even if she had nothing to reproach herself for.

“Georges Duchesne, coroner. I have a few questions to ask you.”

“About what?”

The coroner pointed to the hall door.

“Allow me?”

Eugénie put the aluminium kettle on the stove while the coroner, hat in hand, standing by his chair, politely waited for Emma to be seated before sitting down. Emma decided to remain standing, hoping to abridge the conversation. The coroner put his hat on the table without taking a seat.

“If my memory serves me correctly, you have an adoptive daughter.”

It was as much an affirmation as it was a question. A deafening disquiet overcame Emma. Why was he enquiring about Fanette? What did he want with her?

“Yes.”

“I presume she bears your family name?”

“No. I really wanted her to keep her Irish name, in memory of her loved ones.”

“O’Brennan, is that right?”

Emma stared at him, taken aback. She tried to recall the details of their meeting when she had visited him at his office at the Courthouse. There had been a lot of water under the bridge since then… my God, it was at least ten years ago. As if he could read her mind, he continued:

“In June 1849, you asked me what had become of Amanda O’Brennan, specifying she was your daughter’s elder sister.”

Emma tried to hide the anxiety welling up inside her.

“You have a good memory.”

She understood the meeting would last longer than she had hoped and resigned herself to sitting down. The coroner did likewise. Eugénie brought a tea pot and two porcelain cups which had belonged to Emma’s father, the Lord of Portelance. She filled the cups with hot tea and slipped out discreetly. The coroner examined his teacup with interest.

“Staffordshire china. You have taste, Madam Portelance.”

If you could come to the point!

The coroner sipped a mouthful of tea and put his cup on the saucer.

“I’m looking for Amanda O’Brennan as a witness to Jean Bruneau’s murder.”

“I thought that whole case was closed,” replied Emma in a bland voice.

“No case is closed until the guilty party has been apprehended.”

Emma almost exclaimed: Jacques Cloutier was executed! But she stopped herself. She didn’t want to say too much to the coroner who was leaning toward her:

“Your daughter could help me find her sister. Will you permit me to meet with her for a few minutes?”

“My daughter no longer lives under this roof.”

He looked at her inquisitively.

“She is married. She wed Notary Grandmont’s son. They are expecting their first child,” she retorted as if to say “leave them be”.

She didn’t breathe a word about Fanette looking for her sister for months and going as far as to place an announcement in the newspaper L’Aurore de Québec. The coroner observed Emma Portelance thoughtfully. This woman would be capable of climbing mountains to protect her daughter, he said to himself. And perhaps even cover up for Fanette’s sister, who knows… He was familiar with Notary Grandmont’s name because he’d seen it on occasion in the world news section of the Quebec newspapers.

“What is your daughter’s first name?”

Emma replied hesitantly:

“Fanette.”

“Thank you for your collaboration, Madam.”

He bowed his head slightly, put his hat back on and left.

Emma raised the curtain and, from the window, watched the coroner climb into the black Tilbury. A coachman closed the door, climbed onto his seat and whipped his horse. The car moved off. She kept watching until he went out of sight. This man vaguely reminded her of someone. Javert… Doctor Lanthier had loaned her Les Misérables by Victor Hugo. With grim determination, Inspector Javert pursued the old convict, Jean Valjean, whose only crime was stealing a baguette. The coroner had the same politeness mixed with pugnacity, his apparent good nature veiling a will of iron… Eugénie rejoined Emma.

“Has he left?”

Emma nodded.

“If Amanda is still in Quebec, he will find her. And God knows what could happen to her then…”

She let the curtain fall back, a worried expression on her face.

“I need to see her!”

Eugénie gazed at her in astonishment.

“Who are you talking about?”

“Fanette. I must warn her the coroner is looking for her sister.”

Emma put on her broad-rimmed hat and went out in a whirlwind through the kitchen door, leaving it ajar. A mother is always a mother, thought Eugénie, watching Emma march to the shed which they used as a stable. A mother… That was what Emma had been for her, right from the day she had taken her in. Emma had taught her how to read, write, count and cook. She was the one who had taught her the names of the plants, towns and countries; thanks to her she knew that the earth was round, and it wasn’t her fault if, at the age of nineteen, she found herself on the streets, without resources, so despairing she even considered throwing herself into the river to end it all. Never did Emma judge her nor ask her questions about the past. All Eugénie had confided was that she had left her village to find work in the big city, and that things had taken a bad turn for her.

Eugénie rinsed the cups, dried them and stored them in the cupboard, then went out into the yard to take advantage of the light breeze which was beginning to cool the heavy humid air. Emma was finishing harnessing her mare. Perched on the branch of an apple tree, a tawny-throated thrush shrieked itself hoarse. She listened to its melancholic song. She had never had the courage to tell Emma the truth. God knows she fully trusted her, neither fearing her criticism nor any loss of affection. Was it shame that prevented her from confiding in Emma? No, not shame. Perhaps remorse. The thrush’s sad chant seemed to punctuate her thoughts. She bent down, picked a sprig of sage that she crumpled between her fingers. The pain had not abated with the years but had taken on a different tone, like a landscape whose colours change with the seasons. Some days were written down in an imaginary calendar; on those days, the intensity of her grief surprised her. The secret she had so carefully locked away in a compartment of her conscience weighed heavily, and one day, she would have to free herself of it.

III
Quebec
August 1^st 1858

Leaving the Bon Pasteur Refuge, Fanette walked down Saint Louis Street toward the Ursuline convent. Bells began to toll. She noticed she was already within a stone’s throw of Parloir Street and recognized the monastery bells ringing. Suddenly a hand landed on her arm. She turned around abruptly and instinctively clutched her purse which was attached to her belt. Pickpockets had been seen in the area and she didn’t intend to allow her meagre allowance – the paltry sum the notary handed her each week for her “trivial expenses”, as he called them – to be stolen. Relieved, she recognized the ruddy face of Oscar Lemoyne, the young journalist who worked for the newspaper L’Aurore de Québec.

“Excuse me, Miss, I didn’t mean to frighten you.”

“Madam”, she coldly corrected him. “I took you for a thief.”

Then she noticed a boy standing behind Oscar, staring at her with big brown eyes.

“Don’t quibble wiv ‘im,” said the boy. “It’s taken ‘im almost a month to track ya down!”

Oscar turned red as a beetroot.

Antoine took a step forward, slightly puffing out his trim torso.

“An’ ‘tis thanks to me! I saw ya at th’ refuge. Afterward, Oscar and me followed you ‘ere…”

Oscar cut him short, irritated.

“Please Antoine, let us speak in peace.”

The boy wanted to protest, but Oscar placated him:

“Come to the office tomorrow and I’ll give you an errand to run.”

Antoine reluctantly moved away. Fanette frowned. She was beginning to get annoyed at the journalist’s behaviour.

“So, you followed me?”

“With just cause, Mis… Madam.”

He reached into his jacket and took out the crumpled letter, covered in finger marks.

“A letter. It came to the editorial desk a few weeks ago, addressed to ‘F.O.’”

The young woman turned so pale his impulse was to support her, but she remained poised. She took the envelope, her eyes shining with hope: it was Amanda. It could only be her! She examined the address written in clumsy handwriting: “Editorial Desk, L’Aurore de Québec, Saint Pierre Street, For the attention of: F.O.” She didn’t recognize the writing but it was a long time since she’d seen her sister; perhaps her writing had changed. Then she noticed the flap had become unsealed. She mentioned it to Oscar, who was quick to reassure her.

“It somehow became unsealed. I swear I didn’t do anything.”

The journalist’s face showed such sincerity she decided to give him the benefit of the doubt.

“Thank you for bringing this letter to me. You cannot know how important it is.”

Fanette tucked the letter away in her blouse and quickly headed off down the boardwalk. Oscar stared after the young woman, his heart overcome with happiness at having handed her the letter and seeing her beautiful eyes sparkle; but he also felt remorse for having betrayed her confidence. For he hadn’t been able to resist the temptation of opening the envelope and reading the letter, which was written in Irish Gaelic. He had managed to decipher it thanks to the smattering of Irish he learned from his maternal grandmother who was of Irish descent, trying to justify his actions over and over again, telling himself his uncle Victor would have approved because any journalist worth his salt should be ready to do whatever is necessary to uncover the truth. But this indiscretion was unpardonable. What a sneak he was!

“Madam! Madam!”

Fanette turned around and saw the journalist running toward her. What did he want, this time? Oscar caught up with her and stopped, out of breath.

“I want to apologize… In fact, I… I forgot to …” He hadn’t got the courage to admit what he had done.

“… to ask you… your name.”

She hesitated, and then told herself it was the least she could do after all the trouble he had taken.

“Fanette Grandmont.”

She went on her way. Fanette Grandmont… Finally he knew the pretty lady’s name. A clock chimed four. Good Heavens! My cover story isn’t even written! The boss will cast the evil eye on me and there will be hell to pay … He hailed a cab, searched his pockets for change and found not a single coin. He had given everything to that rotten scoundrel, Antoine. He had to cancel the cab and reluctantly walk back to the newspaper office.

˜

Fanette passed Saint Louis Gate and turned into Grande Allée. The notary’s house could be seen from a distance with its imposing façade and pepper shaker turrets festooned in wrought iron. Régine opened the door. She glanced at Fanette somewhat reprovingly.

“What’r ya thinking of, Miss, going out in that sun without a hat? You’ll get sunstroke!”

Régine persisted in calling her “Miss” even though she had been married since the month of May. Fanette raised her eyes, annoyed everyone around was interfering and treating her like a defenceless child. She headed into the hall, astonished at the silence pervading the house. Passing the notary’s office, she noticed the door was closed; there was no light showing under the door. She took the stairs leading to the first floor, trying hard not to make a sound: Philippe seemed to have gone out since she couldn’t find him in the study where he usually worked or in the boudoir leading to their room. She entered the boudoir and walked on into the bedroom, locked the double lock and, without bothering to sit down, her heart all a flutter, removed a sheet of paper folded in two from the envelope. This time, Fanette recognized her sister Amanda’s handwriting. The letter was written in Irish Gaelic. Clearly Amanda had found a way to communicate in a language only she would understand, but it was so long ago since she had used her maternal tongue, she found it hard to decipher and had to read it a few times to understand every word.

Mo Fhionnuala,

Má fhaigheann tú an litir seo, bíodh a fhios agat go bhfanfaidh mé leat Dé hAoine an séú lá de Lúnasa istigh in eaglais Naomh Pádraig, ar sráid San Héilin, ag a haon déag a chlog. Beidh mé i mo shuí in aice le tuama an athar Mhic Mhathúna. Caithfidh mé muince ár máthar. Le cúnamh Dé, buailfimid le chéile arís eile.

Beidh grá agam duit i gcónaí,

Amanda

My dearest Fionnuala,

If you receive this letter, know I will be waiting for you, at eleven o’clock on Friday the sixth of August, inside St. Patrick’s Church on Sainte Hélène Street. I will be sitting beside Father MacMahon’s tomb. I’ll be wearing our mother’s pendant. God willing our paths will cross again.

With my love as always,

Amanda.

Tears streamed down Fanette’s cheeks unbeknownst to her. Amanda had finally written. Her beloved sister had torn down the wall of silence separating them and wanted to see her again. She had arranged a meeting for the sixth of August, the birthday of their mother, Maureen. Fanette was so overwhelmed it was hard to remember what day it was. Sunday. Friday is only five days away! In five days, she would finally see Amanda. She pressed the letter against her heart, sniffed it and kissed it.

She is little Fionnuala again running along the road behind their house in Skibbereen, her hand holding Amanda’s whose eyes are brimful of sun and sky. They run barefoot until they’re breathless, right to the cliff’s edge, and stop just before falling off the precipice, their toes on the edge of the abyss. Amanda laughs, her red hair emblazoned by the sunlight. “Look Fionnuala! Look!” she says pointing at the waves breaking on the rocks way below. Fionnuala squeezes her sister’s hand tightly and looks below. She’s frightened but a delightful vertigo makes her head spin at the same time. The white froth from the waves resembles birds.