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The Marin Family Chronicles--Volume 4-Book 1

The Innovators by Charles O. Goulet

Chapter One--Quebec City, Lower Canada, Sunday, December 7, 1800.

 The cold December sunlight filtered through the heavy lace curtains of the compact sitting room adding its meagre warmth to the crackling flames in the small brick fireplace.  Michel Marin studied his wife, Louise, who sat across from him gazing absently into the flickering flames, and he wondered what she was thinking.  He hoped her thoughts were the same as his: All that was missing from their life was children.
 Children would add gaiety and liveliness to their recently acquired house on the crest of the steep hills of upper Quebec.  The last year was a profitable one: the crop on his farm across the broad St. Lawrence was good; his investments in lumber and the lumbercamps were very profitable; his new practice of advocate made a reasonable return; his association with the French members of the Assembly gave him prestige.  Yet he felt that something was lacking from his life.  Children might satisfy that deficiency.
 He stretched his legs toward the fireplace to enjoy the warmth and sighed.  "Louise, my dear, what are you thinking about?"
 Louise tossed her long tawny hair and smiled enigmatically.  "You'll never guess," she teased.
 Michel straightened up in the soft upholstered chair and cocked his head at his wife.  She's very pretty, he mused to himself.  Her slim body was trim and firm; she held herself with a grace that was more natural than learned, with movements that emphasized her sexuality.  It pleased him greatly when his friends and associates eyed her with admiration, lust, and desire.
 Although they would soon be married five years, she never missed a menstrual period and he wondered why.  He knew she wanted children as well as he, but nothing seemed to come of their regular lovemaking.  He was beginning to think that she might be barren.
 He grinned.  "You want to go to the bedroom?"
 She laughed forcedly.  "What good would that do?"
 Michel noticed the hint of scorn in her laugh, and a twinge of annoyance seized him.  Was she hinting that he was to blame for their lack of a family?
 "What does that mean?"  He tried to keep the brittleness from his voice.  After all, he knew that he was not impotent.  Their lovemaking was always vigorous and satisfying--at least he thought so.
 She bowed her head slightly down and mumbled something that he did not understand.
 "What did you say?"
 She lifted her head and tilted her chin upward, almost defiantly.  "I said we seem to make love for nothing."  Her light brown eyes held his.
 "You do want a child?"  He tried to keep his question from being a challenge, but he felt that she was blaming him for their infecundity.  Never before had she suggested or implied that he was to blame that she had not become pregnant even when members of his family teased them about it.
 "You know I do.  I've always wanted children...but..."  Her voice trailed off.
 Michel studied her face.  It was unreadable; her deepset eyes betrayed no emotion; her smooth cheeks were placid and unmoving; her full lips did not betray the hint of a smile.  "What do you think is the matter?"  he asked softly.
 She shook her head.  "I'm not sure.  Maybe it's you...maybe it's me."
 He noticed that she pointed to him first, and his anger surfaced again as he countered.  "Maybe your right.  Maybe we can't have any children of our own."
 Silence like smoke from a faulty fireplace filled the room as they stared at each other.  Their eyes held; a tension that never existed between them before made the air vibrant.
 "So you're blaming me," he blurted finally.
 She nodded her head slowly.  "No...No...I'm not blaming anyone.  We both may be to blame."
 "What can we do?"
 She shook her head again, slowly, dejectedly.  "I don't know," she murmured.
 "Maybe we should think of adopting a child.  What do you think?"
 She stared at the flickering flames in the fireplace, unmoving, quiescent.  "No."  Her lips barely moved.  "I could never love someone else's child."  Her voice was low, controlled, almost unemotional.
 "But I'm sure you would...in time.  Many people do that...out of necessity...for the children...to help a family member.  You could...you know."
 "No...I've thought of it."  Her voice rose sharply.  "I want a child of my own...of my body...a child that's been a part of me."
 "I do too...but if that's not possible....then...then we must think of...."
 Her head jerked up and her eyes flashed with ferocity.  "No...never!  I'll never agree to that."
 Why was she so stubborn, so adamant?  She must believe that he was to blame, that he was sterile.  No other reason seemed plausible.  Why had she come to that conclusion?  She did not know that; he did not know that either.  He never knew another woman; he never thought of making love to another woman.  He did not know if he was sterile; but his wife seemed to know.  Anger and resentment rippled through him.
 "Maybe I should bed another woman!"  As soon as the words were out he regretted them.

Frederick's Town, New Brunswick, Monday, December 8, 1800

 Joseph Marin raised his eyes from his breakfast plate to the silent woman who sat across from him.  She avoided his gaze intentionally, and he knew it.  The gulf between them seemed an abyss that deepened every day.  They occupied the same house, but they did not live together; they were no longer man and wife, and he knew he was to blame.
 He cleared his throat to get her attention, but she ignored him and seemed lost in the cup of coffee she held before lips.  "Jeanne..."  He waited for her to look at him, but she did not.  "Jeanne," he repeated, "we must talk."
 "There is nothing to talk about."  Her voice was low and hostile.
 "My darling, we can't continue this way."
 "And why not?  You started..."
 "Jeanne!"  His voice rose as he interrupted her.  "You're right.  It is my fault...and I take all the blame.  But you must forgive me.  I made a bad mistake...and I'm sorry."
 "You expect me to forgive you...just like that!  After what you've done to me...after...after...."  Her voice caught, and she turned away.  Carefully she set the china cup down to remove a delicate handkerchief from the sleeve of her morning gown.  She dabbed her eyes and wiped her nose daintily.
 "What more can I do, my darling?  I'll never see that woman again...I vow.  I was never in love with her.  I've always loved you.  You must believe me...you must!"
 She sniffled.  "You've humiliated me...in this town.  People laugh at me...behind my back."
 "I'm sorry about that...but they'll forget."  He tried to justify.
 "We can't stay here while that woman's here."  Her voice was emphatic, determined.
 "But, Jeanne, that's impossible.  My business is here.  Everything I own is here.  I can't leave all that.  We need to be here."  His voice shook with desperation.
 "But she'll be here...always a reminder."  She tossed her head defiantly.
 Joseph shook his head slowly.  How could he convince his wife that his affair with Elizabeth Jeffreys was over?  How could he make her understand that he only wanted to improve his economic position by using the English woman to further his ambition?  He knew it sounded immoral and deceitful, but it was the truth.  If he told her the real reason behind his affair, she would respect him even less.  No, he could not tell her that he became the English woman's lover to gain access to her husband, an aide to Governor Carleton.  But that was what he did, and it paid off.  Through her he obtained several contracts for lumber and spars.
 Now he regretted it.  Jeanne discovered his liason earlier that summer and left him to go to Montreal.  She was only gone a few weeks, but on her return she moved from their bedroom, and they lived as strangers in the same house.
 He thought she would eventually forgive him, but days became weeks, weeks became months, and nothing changed.  They seldom spoke although he tried to talk to her; yet she ignored him with a wall of silence.  What could he do?
 "Please...please, my darling...please forget about her.  She means nothing to me."  He reached across the narrow table to take her hand in his, but she drew it away quickly.  "My darling, what can I do?  How can I..."
 "You can't!"  She glared at him.  How could he speak of love after what he did, after he humiliated her in the small community of English men and women?  Why had she returned to Frederick's Town?  Why had she notstayed in Montreal?  She thought back to her time there, and she remembered her brief encounter with her brother-in-law, Jean-Francois Marin, Joseph's half brother.  They made love, passionate love, but that was not an affair, that was not the same as Joseph's liaison with the English woman.  No one knew of her encounter, no one was hurt, and then Jean-Francois abandoned her, rejected her.  That was why she returned.
 "We can't stay here...I can't...we must move to...St. John."
 "But, my darling, that's the only thing I can't do.  I must stay here to manage my affairs.  You understand that."
 He glanced around the bright kitchen with its many windows, its frilly curtains, its painted walls, and carpeted floors, the imported furniture, the porcelain dishes, the iron pots and pans, the cast iron stove--modern and efficient.  "We'd have to abandon all this.  No, my darling, I can't leave here.  We must stay if we are to prosper."
 Jeanne followed his gaze.  He was right.  The house was new and modern and well equipped with the latest furnishing from England and other countries of Europe.  As her eyes fell on each piece of furniture, her mind rebelled at the idea that they were procured through success that came at the expense of their marriage.  She knew Joseph used the English woman to obtain contracts and favours from the English governor and his retinue.  She was not a stupid woman.  And that rankled her even more.  So she could not stay here in Frederick's Town where people whispered behind her back about her and Joseph and that woman.  The ignominy of it shook her to her inner being.  Maybe Joseph had to stay, but she did not.  She could return to Little Falls or Madawaska--the small French communities from which they came.  That might not be such a good idea; their friends and relatives there probably knew about Joseph's dalliance with the English woman.  Such gossip travelled quickly.
 No, she had to leave.  She had to go to St. John where she would be unknown, where Joseph's indescretion would be of no consequence.  "I'm sorry, Joseph.  I can't stay here with you.  If you want my forgiveness, you must come with me to St. John."
 "Please...please, reconsider, my darling.  I can't leave what I've worked so hard to achieve...and when it's going so well."
 "You won't come with me?"
 "You won't stay with me?"
 "No!" Their voices blended simultaneously.

Sault Ste. Marie, Upper Canada, Monday, December 15, 1800

 Jean-Francois pulled Thurensera into his arms.  The warmth of her body thrilled him and he ran his right hand gently over her tawny skin, savouring its velvet smoothness.  Her slim arms encircled his neck as she drew his face toward her delicate breasts.  His lips roved over the firm mounds of her bosom until they found her cherry nipples tonguing them to firmness.
 He raised his head and looked into her dark eyes.  "I love you, my little dawn of day.  I love you more that I've ever loved anything...more than life itself."
 She placed her small hands on each side of his face and drew his mouth toward hers.  Their lips met moistly, and their tongues entwined writhing like coiled snakes.  She pushed him back.  "I could never live without you, my Jean-Francois.  I'll always go where you go."
 A twinge of improbity incited Jean-Francois as he raised himself to his left elbow.  This beautiful woman was now his wife so he should not feel guilty for the missionary priest at the small church married them two days before.  She no longer belonged to his half-brother, Andre, back in York.  No, she was now his wife...his wife forever.  But still that tweak of conscience bothered him as he remembered the woman that he left behind in York.  Yes, that was even worse; he married her although it was by an itinerant preacher recognized by neither the government nor his Church, the Catholic Church.  Yet Dorothy Granger was morally his wife although he now realized that he never really loved her.  He left her in York while he travelled west to find his father whom he had been searching for the past years.  He knew that both Dorothy and Andre disapproved when Thurensera insisted that she accompany him so she could visit her native family, her mother, Pequim's people here at the Sault.
 On the way, they became lovers, almost against their wills.  And the priest asked few questions before he married them almost immediately.
 "But where will we go?  We can't go back to York."
 She laughed.  "Why would we want to go back to York?  We could stay here."
 He shook his head slowly as he thought of her suggestion.  He did not want to stay at the Sault.  His father was dead; he knew no one; really, there was nothing to stay for.  Even Thurensera's tribe did not live nearby; they were many miles further west.  There was nothing to stay for; there was no work here.  "No, my sweet, we can't stay here.  There's nothing for me here."
 "Why not?"  She hunched herself to her elbows.  "Maybe you could hunt and trap around here?"
 "Darling, I'm not a hunter or a trapper; I'm a voyageur...a paddler, a porter.  I know little of trapping and hunting."
 She laughed again.  "But you know how to live in the woods...off the land.  We could go into the woods and live there...together...and make love..."
 He grabbed her and pulled her against him, her breasts thrust against his bare chest; his lips found her neck, and he held his mouth against her warm skin enjoying the taste of her nakedness.  Her arms encircled his head holding him firmly against her as she wriggled gently in his arms.
 He released her tenderly, lowering her smoothly onto the rush-filled mattress.  His eyes rove over her naked torso admiring the unblemished dusky skin, the smooth globes of her breast with their light cherry-coloured nipples and areola, her flat stomach, and rounded hips.  She had a beautiful body; more beautiful than he ever saw.  It would be heaven to take her away into a private world and make love to her whenever they felt like it, but they had to be practical.  That could never last for ever.  Soon there would be children which would mean a responsibility to them.  No, her idea was impractical.
 "No, my darling, we can't run away from the world.  We must decide on what we'll do."
 "Let's go west...to Grand Portage...to the western fur country.  I'm sure we could live there."
 Jean-Francois recalled when he fled from the western fur country.  He remembered another woman, dark-haired Suzanne Connolly whom he thought he loved, but now he knew that she was only an infatuation.  He recalled the quarrel with her father and how he accidentally struck her and killed her.  And he fled when her father offered a reward for him--dead or alive.  Was that reward still be waiting for the person who would hunt him down?  Could they go west?
 "Thurensera...I killed a woman there...I didn't mean to.  It was an accident...but her father wants me dead or alive.  He offered a reward."
 "Who will remember that?  And we don't need to go there.  The west is big...big enough to get lost in."
 "How do you know that?"
 "Jean-Francois, this is my country.  I know no one will ever find us."
 "Maybe you're right.  I can't run forever...and I know the North West Company is looking for men."
 "Yes...I heard that too.  They need men for the spring brigades."
 "Well...it's a little early for that...but I heard they want men to work in the woods...cutting logs...and firewood...they are planning to expand...and I've heard they will be building a new factory...to replace Grand Portage."
 "They'll abandon it?"
 "That's what I've heard."
 "Then we'll go there.  It'll be an exciting trip...with dogs."
 "No, sweetheart...you must stay here.  I'll go and find work, and then I'll send for you."
 She jerked herself into a sitting position.  "No!  I'll go with you...or...or I won't let you go.  I don't want to be away from you.  I love you too much."
 "No, my darling...it's too dangerous...in winter.  There are storms...blizzards...very cold weather...it's too dangerous."
 "If it's so dangerous...then you can't go either.  I won't let you."
 "It's a long journey...all around the lake."
 "I know how to take care of myself.  This is my country.  I know what to do when it storms...when it's cold.  You need me more than I need you."
 Jean-Francois shook his head ruefully.  She was right.

York, Upper Canada, Tuesday, December 16, 1800

 Heavy damp snowflakes drifted from an obscure sky as Andre Marin opened the thick puncheon door of the small shop on Yonge Street, the main street, of the small town of York, the capital of the sprawling province of Upper Canada.  He stamped his mocassined feet to dislodge the clinging snow, and shook himself as he removed the heavy cloth 'Mackinac'.
 The short sturdy woman bent over the round stove in the dim interior straightened up from her chore of feeding firewood into it and greeted Andre.  "Looks like we're in for a blow."  Any storm from the north was always called a 'blow'.
 As Andre hung his clothes on the wooden pegs behind the door he agreed.  "I hope it doesn't last to long...but it just what the trappers and hunters need."
 "That's true...but I've heard that trapping and hunting has been good up north.  Soon we'll have to go there with supplies."
 Andre grunted.  He and his half brother, Jean-Francois, owned this post in York as well as one at Penetanguishene on the deep inlet of the same name on the bay that Simcoe had renamed the Georgian Bay.  "If Jean-Francois were here it would sure help."
 Dorothy noticed the bitterness in his voice.  "Soon...he and Thurensera will be back soon."
 "Humph...I doubt it!"
 "What does that mean," she asked, but she already knew the answer.  Andre indicated several times that he did not think that Jean-Francois and Thurensera planned to return.  He was convinced that they were lovers, that they deserted him and Dorothy.
 "You know what I mean.  They've left us...for good.  They're not coming back...mark my words."
 "How do you know that?"  Dorothy's voice quivered.
 "The way she looked at him.  She wanted him!"
 "Andre...how can you say that.  She was your woman."
 He shook his head slowly.  "Yes...she was my woman...but she's his now."
 "Andre...don't say that.  Jean-Francois is my husband...he would never do something like that.  He's an honourable man.  I know his coming back."
 Andre shook his head in disbelief.  How could she not see what happened?  How could she be so naive?  It was obvious to him that Thurensera and Jean-Francois were attracted to each other.  The way they avoided looking at each other made him believe that there was something between them.  The way they avoided each other was a clue that they feared being close to each other.  And he caught her stealing glances at Jean-Francois when she thought he was not looking.  Each time Jean-Francois looked at Thurensera, the lust, the desire was obvious.  How could Dorothy be so trusting?
 He did not wanted Thurensera to accompany Jean-Francois to Sault Ste. Marie, but he feared alienating her if he made an issue of it so he grudgingly agreed to her trip.  He wondered if Dorothy saw the danger of the two travelling together.
 "Dorothy, I think you're fooling yourself.  I don't thing they plan to come back."
 "How can you think that, Andre?  You must be more trusting.  You must believe that they will return...and soon."
 "I'm sorry...I can't be as trusting as you."  His voice rose in anger.  "I'm sure that they've deserted us.  They won't be back."  His face reddened as anger consumed him.  "I should find them...and if...if...."
 "What good would that do?  What would you do...if what you think is true?"
 He clenched his fists.  "I would make them suffer...I would..."  His voice trailed off.  "I know Thurensera has...chosen...Jean-Francois.   And he has taken her."
 "Andre...don't talk like that.  Make it sound as if what you think is a fact."
 "You'll see, Dorothy...that I'm right, and if I am..."
 "What will you do?"
 "I'll find them!"  His voice rose shrilly, almost incoherently.  "I'll kill them!  They don't deserve to live.  He's stolen my woman...she's stolen your man.  They don't deserve to live."
 Andre's anger and vehemence frightened her.  She never saw him so emotional and uncontrolled.  She tried to soothe him.  "Andre...please.  You don't know that.  You're making a great deal out of nothing."
 He made a grasping motion with his hands, as if they encircled someone's neck, and he shook them as if he was throttling an imaginary person.  "I'd get my hands around her neck...and I'd slowly squeeze the life out of her...slowly...I'd make her suffer the way I'm suffering."
 Dorothy stared at him, her eyes wide.  She did not know what to do or what to say.  He seemed beside himself, oblivious to all about him.  His mouth twitched, and his face wrinkled into and frightful mask.  "Don't...Andre!  Please!"
 He did not appear to hear her.  "That son of a bitch...that dog...I'd keep him to the last...but I wouldn't kill him.  No, I'd let him live...without his manhood...I'd castrate the...the bastard!"
 He pulled the knife that hung at his waist and made obscene motions as he visualized the torture that he would inflict on Jean-Francois.
 Dorothy shook with fear, her eyes wide with surprise, her hands twitched as she wrung them.  Had Andre lost his mind?  She never saw him so wild and uncontrolled before.  Was he dangerous to her, to himself, to others...particularly Jean-Francois and Thurensera.
 He dropped the knife to the floor, and looked at her, his eyes ablaze, wild, staring, unfocussed.  Then he came toward her, his mouth twitching, his hands raised and groping.  He reached for her.  She backed away, beating at him with her hands.
 She screamed, "Stop!  Don't!  Andre!  Please!"
 He stopped momentarily.  His lips curled into a snarl.  "You whore, why did you do this to me.  Why did you let him take you?  You don't deserve to live!"
 Dorothy back away from the oncoming man.  "Andre, it's me...Dorothy! Stop!"  But he did not.  He lunged at her.  His right hand caught the neck of her woolen gown.  She twisted away as she flailed at his face.  "Stop!" she screamed.

Quebec City, Lower Canada, Wednesday, December 31, 1800

 The candle chandeliers cast flickering, quivering shadows over the circling dancers as the small group of musicians on the raised dais at the north end of the room worked their instruments delicately on a Vienese waltz.
 Michel held Louise tenderly as they whirled around the crowded room.  She looked stunning with tawny hair in ringlets held with many tiny blue ribbons.  Her white muslim ball dress, newly arrived from England, with a low square decolletage, reveal a daring expanse of her clear skinned bosom with its shallow cleft.  The short puffed sleeves accentuated her delicate, slim arms.  Her face glowed with excitement as both men and women admired her beauty.
 "My dear, you're the most attractive...and beautiful woman here.  We should leave early...and begin the new year right."
 She smiled coquetishly.  "You're joking, Michel.  We can't leave now.  We must stay for the new year."
 "Of course...I was only fooling...but I sure the new year will fulfill all our desires."
 "We'll have a child."
 "Yes, I know we will!"

Frederick's Town, New Brunswick, Wednesday, December 31, 1800

 Joseph glowered into the flames of the fireplace.  He sat sprawled in an upholstered chair, a glass of Jamaican rum in his right hand.  "She gone," he muttered, as he raised the glass slowly to his lips and drank deeply.
 "She's gone...and I don't know where.  I suppose to St. John."
 The flickering shadows from the light of the heavy logs in the large brick fireplace played on the floor, the walls, and the ceiling of the large comfortably furnished room.
 "She's gone...just when we have everything...this new house, the fine furniture...and a servant.  I can't believe she's gone.  Why would she give up all this...for...for...what?"
 He lifted the glass to his lips and took another draught.  "I loved her...and she loved me.  What happened?"  His thoughts turned to the past.  He remembered how she seduced him and convinced him that he should not marry Henriette Roulais whom he thought he loved.  Her love was so strong that he decided to marry her and they were married in Little Falls that very year. That was in '96 the year his younger half-brother, Jean-Francois, left to search for his father, Jean-Marie Marin, somewhere in the Canadas.
 Oh, how happy they were.  And how life favoured them: his lumber operations prospered as the British needed timber and spars for their navy; his farm was successful to, but he decided to move to Frederick's Town so he could be closer to the lumber markets, and his ambition was his downfall.  In order to get larger and better contracts he became the lover of Elizabeth Jeffreys, the bored wife of John Jeffreys, an aide to Governor Thomas Carleton.  The relationship helped his business, but ruined his marriage.
 Jeanne was gone!

Sault Ste. Marie, Upper Canada, Wednesday, December 31, 1800

 Thurensera snuggled against Jean-Francois under the soft rabbit skin robe.  Their naked flesh warmed them as the fire died in the small clay fireplace along the north wall of the single roomed log cabin.
 "Tomorrow is a new year, my darling," Jean-Francois whispered into her ear as he nuzzled it.  "And we're ready for it.  I have a job with the NorWest...at Kaministiquia...but it's not till spring."
 She took his hand and placed it against her stomach.  Her warm flesh always excited him as he massaged her flat stomach, his fingers exploring her navel and creeping downward to her loin until it felt the texture of her woman's hair.
 She giggled.  "Darling, I've something to tell you."
 "Yes," he murmured.  "Tell me."
 "You're going to be a father."
 Jean-Francois remained motionless, silent.  Indian woman never told their men when they were pregnant.  It was an unwritten rule.  So he was shocked.  Then he remembered: Thurensera was not Indian although she was raised as one.  His half-brother, Pierre, was her father, and Pequim, a Saulteux woman was her mother.  That made him her half uncle as well as her husband.
 He grabbed her and drew her to him.  "You have made me the happiest man in the world!"

York, Upper Canada, Wednesday, December 31, 1800.

 Andre Marin surveyed the pile of supplies.  Everything was ready for his departure.  He acquired a team of dogs and a well-built carriole from a Missassauga Indian for a rifle and some new iron traps.  He accumulated a good supply of pemmican and jerky and a warm outfit of fur clothes.  Yes, he was ready to be on his way.
 Tomorrow he would leave for the Sault.  He would find Thurensera and Jean-Francois.  And if they deceived him, if she left him, if Jean-Francois took her, he would avenge their perfidity.
 If he was wrong, then he would re-visit his childhood haunts, he would renew his childhood acquaintances, and he would surprise his father and step-mother who returned to the Sault to spend their final days.
 He was ready for the new year.

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