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The Marin Family Chronicles--Volume 5-Book 1

The Achievers by Charles O. Goulet

Chapter One -- Prosperity -- 1900-1904

St. Eustache, Manitoba, Saturday, February 10, 1900

 "Son, you're a natural.  You're as a good a shot as the old-time buffalo hunters."
 Jean-Paul Marin's chest swelled with pride; he considered his father's statement the best compliment he could receive.  He enjoyed the stories and tales that his father, Frederick, told about the old days: the buffalo hunts, the camps, the camaraderie, the organisation, the excitement, the adventure, the danger, and especially the prowess of the old-time buffalo hunters--their riding and shooting skills, their sense of following the herds, the kill, the satisfaction of winning a dangerous game.
 He shot a snowshoe hare at a hundred yards with the new .22 that his father gave him for his fifteenth birthday the previous August 25.  "Your turn, Papa."
 Frederick shrugged his shoulders.  "Jean-Paul, the eyes aren't what they used to be.  I can't shoot like you...never could.  You're the best I've seen."  At fifty-four years old, Frederick realised that his eyesight was failing; distant objects were a blur although close images were distinct and clear.  Although he could see the sights of the gun well, he could not focus on the target.  "No, son, from now on I'll leave the shooting to you.  You're a man now...and you must behave like one."
 For his age, Jean-Paul, a slim, wiry young man, slightly shorter than average, was tough and durable.  He could defeat most young men in a fight, and in wrestling.  He had his father's dark hair, swarthy complexion, and intense dark eyes.  He could ride any animal, and he could shoot any gun; he loved the outdoors and the challenges of the wilderness, both the woods and the prairies.  Often he dreamed of the old days of freedom, unfettered by the rules and laws of society.

Vancouver, British Columbia, Friday, March 2, 1900

 "Antoinette, have you heard?  The damn fool government was defeated...and we're in for another election.  As if we needed that."  Frank Marin glanced up from The Vancouver Daily Province--founded two years earlier--to his wife, Antoinette, who was knitting a small bonnet for the child she soon expected.
 She nodded in agreement.  She knew that the economy was not strong, and that Frank's import-export business was struggling.  She knew that her new husband of a little over a year was worried.  Although he never said much about the business, she sensed that it need more capital.  As well, they were expecting their first child in May and Frank, who was eager for children, want to be a good provider.
 "Those fools like to waste our money.  McInnes tried to avoid an election but the rest of the fools would not accept Joseph Martin as the new premier.  They claim they have no confidence in the Lieutenant-Governor or Martin."
 "So...now, what happens?"
 Frank folded his paper, looked over his reading glasses, and growled, "Another costly election."

Hull, Quebec, Thursday, April 26, 1900

 The unseasonable, warm spring weather exulted Auguste Marin as he strode purposefully toward the Eddy Match Company located on the Hull side of the Ottawa River.  Although for two days now he went from company to company searching for work, but with no more success than he had in Toronto.  Soon he would be nineteen years old; he was strong and well-built; he wanted to work but no one wanted to hire him.
 The southeast wind was vigorous, sending the smoke from factories and all the chimneys streaming toward the northwest.  Someone coming toward him shouted, "Fire!"  Auguste noticed several men running toward the outer edge of the town.  With this wind and the dry conditions, a fire of any sort would be dangerous, he realised.  "There's a house on fire!"  "It's spreading...fast!" Another voice shouted.  "The wind!  The wind!  It's spreading the fire."  Now Auguste could smell the smoke; it was no longer the smell from the factory chimneys.  A pall of white smoke interspersed with spumes of grey and black spread toward him.  He hurried toward it wondering what it was like.
 The roadway was a mass of chaotic figures--men, woman, and children, dogs, cats, cattle, and some sheep--running, pushing, shouting, bawling.  Some hurried away from the fire; others, mostly men, hurried toward it.  Auguste joined a group of men, some carrying buckets, others shovels, axes, and crowbars.  A man next to him mumbled, "We'll never stop it!  The wind's too strong!"  Another man shouted, "We must try!"
 A tall thin man with a walrus mustache hurried toward them.  "It's no use!  It's out of control!  Save yourself...and your family.  You can't stop it!"  He hurried on amid the cries of scorn that those heading toward the inferno heaped on him.
 A wall of fire faced them; houses crackled and roared as the bright red and oranges flames engulfed first one building then another.  A crowd streamed toward them, running, crying, screaming--men carrying bundles and young children; women dragging older children, all carrying meagre possessions, horrified looks on their faces, eyes wide with fear, cheeks smudged with soot and grime, clothes smouldering as sparks blown by the rushing wind fell on them.  Men shouted, women screamed, children cried; chaos reigned.
 Auguste spotted a figure at the upper window of a burning house.  It was waving and shouting, but no one paid attention.  He hurried toward the burning building; it was a two-story inn--most of the rooms and the left side of the building were ablaze, flames leaping and dancing.
 "Please help me!"  It was a woman's voice, almost calm, but quivering with fear.
 Auguste looked around; he could not enter the building; that would be suicide.  Then he spotted what he needed, a long wooden ladder along a wood shed to the right of the building.  He hollered, "Stay there.  Don't move.  I'll get you."
 Quickly he hauled the ladder to the wall, raised it to the window, and hurried up.  A young woman wearing only a light nightgown, her brown curly hair dishevelled, her face smudged with streaks of soot, reached for him.  As she did so, the left shoulder of her gown slip from her shoulder revealing a round firm breast with a rufous nipple.
 Oblivious to her nakedness she flung her arms around his neck; he hauled her through the window.  Her arms tightened about his neck; she nuzzled against his shoulder, quivering.  He whispered, "You're safe now.  Hold tight!"
 As he descended the ladder, her arms held him fiercely, and her body shook as sobs and moans racked her body.
 The warmth and softness of her body against his stimulated him, and he was surprised by the intensity of his desire for her at such a dangerous and violent time.  She was a woman, that he knew--young, but developed.
 When they reached the ground, she still clung to him, her face buried in his shoulder, oblivious of their surroundings.  "Your safe now," he whispered, but she did not seem to hear.  Her closeness, her softness, her vulnerability irritated Auguste because he felt his passion enveloping him.
 "Young man, thank you for saving our daughter."

Vaudreuil, Quebec, Friday, May 4, 1900

 Auguste studied the small town on the bank of the Ottawa River. He was not sure why he was there: Was it to see Fleurette Archambault, the young woman he had saved from the inferno that destroyed most of Hull and a good part of Ottawa, or to take the job that her father offered him after he rescued the daughter?  He still dreamed of the young woman he helped; her curly hair, her large blue eyes, her firm well-rounded breasts, her tight close-knit body, her shapely legs.  Each time he thought of her, his emotions were mixed up with a desire to know her better, to hold her in his arms, to make love to her.  Although she was a fully-developed woman, she was very young, thirteen or fourteen at the most.
 Gaspar Archambault was an important man in Vaudreuil; a successful farmer, a prosperous storekeeper, a thriving lumberman, and the leader of the people there.  He promised Auguste a job in his many enterprises, so Auguste was about to collect on that promise.

St. Eustache, Manitoba, Wednesday, May 16, 1900

 The warm, spring sunshine felt stimulating against Jean-Paul's skin as he lay in the grass beside the Assiniboine River.  The water was cold, but he enjoyed the stimulating swim, and now the warm sun felt invigorating.  He eyed the fluffy cumulus clouds that drifted lazily across the azure sky as his mind formed images from the white balls of fluff.  The swish of something moving through the dry spring grasses along the shallow bank broke the peaceful aspect.
 Quickly he gathered up his clothes and crawled behind a clump of willow bushes that grew a few feet back from the shore.  His ears pricked, and his eyes peered as he tried to locate the intrusion on his personal swimming hole.  A figure emerged from the nearby bushes and stepped to the waters edge; Jean-Paul crouched immobilised as he watched her.  Her back was to him; a figured kerchief covered her head, and a dark blue man's suit jacket hung loosely about her shoulders; a loose skirt of calico dangled beneath the jacket to her ankles.  She looked so indiscriminate that Jean-Paul could not recognise her even though he knew all the women in the parish.
 She continued looking across the river to the far shore shading her eyes with her right hand.  Slowly she turned, surveying the countryside as if she was looking for something.  As she turned toward him, he recognised Colette Bellerive, the young daughter of Ambroise Bellerive, who owned the farm a mile down the river.  Her eyes rove over his hiding place; he wondered if she had spotted him; but she turned away and glanced up and down the river.
 Then she slowly removed the jacket and dropped it on the ground behind her; next she unknotted the kerchief and let it fall atop the jacket; she shook her head releasing her long brown hair; she bent to her feet and Jean-Paul realised she was removing her footwear--probably moccasins that most people wore.  She straightened up, raised her arms skyward and stretched toward the sun as if enjoying its energy.
 Jean-Paul watched fascinated, knowing that she did not realise that he was a spectator.  She was a pretty girl; about fourteen years old, developing into womanhood; her young breasts outlined the simple gown, and the skirt fell in soft folds from her slim hips.  A tinge of uneasiness and guilt made he wonder if he should reveal his presence, but his nakedness restrained him; he dared not move, for if he did it would reveal him and he would be embarrassed.
 Suddenly she reached for the hem of her dress and drew it over her head; she let it drop on the clothes behind her.  Now she stood naked, her back to him.  Jean-Paul watched in awe as she lingered; her shoulders curved to a trim waist, well-rounded buttocks, shapely thighs, and full calves.
 As Jean-Paul gazed at the young woman, he realised his heart beat faster, his breathing increased, his hands sweated, and his lust raged.  He never saw a young woman naked before; the experience was exciting and exhilarating.  He wanted to see more of her; he wanted to shout at her; he wanted to rush to her; he wanted to touch her; but he held his breath to control his emotions.
 Slowly she walked toward the water, gingerly placed the toes of her right foot in the water, testing it.  She appeared satisfied and advanced her left foot to the ankle; she waded in to her knees and then turned around.
 Jean-Paul suppressed a gasp.  For a moment she stood before him; her young breasts jutted to a crimson nipple; her stomach was flat, creased with a depression at the navel, and smooth down to a filmy gossamer of brown pubic hair.  She was the most beautiful sight that he ever saw.  He wanted to rush toward her; to hold her; to kiss her lips, her breasts; her stomach; her womanhood.  His manhood raged with lust; he wanted her as he never wanted anything in his life.
 She stooped to gather a handful of water and rippled it over her bosom and breasts; the nipples hardened into to rosy cherries.  She remained crouched, splashing water over her entire body.
 Jean-Paul slipped into his trousers and hurried toward her.  Her mouth opened in surprise; a flash of bewilderment flitted across her face; she rose instinctively and her hands flew to her mouth.  She stood before him; attractive, enticing, and desirable.
 "Jean-Paul!  What are you doing here!"  Her hands lowered to cover her nakedness; the right to cover her groin, the left to cover her breasts.
 Jean-Paul stammered.  "I sw-sw-swim here."
 They stood facing each other; unnerved, shocked, and amazed.

Vancouver, British Columbia, Thursday, May 17, 1900

 "Congratulations, Brother!"
 Frank looked up from the shipping invoices he was working on.  His older brother, William, dressed in the uniform of a captain in the Salvation Army, reached across the cluttered desk his hand extended.
 Frank rose, grasped his brother's hand and shook it firmly.  Since William's marriage to Ivy Barclay, another Salvation Armyist, they had become quite close.  Frank knew that William and Ivy were eager to start a family since Ivy would soon be forty years old.
 "Frank, I'm happy for you.  How are they doing?"
 Frank's wife, Antoinette, gave birth to a daughter the day before. "They're well...Thank God."
 "Have you named her yet?"
 "Yes...We're going to call her Charmaine Elizabeth...after both grandmothers."
 "Nice name."
 Frank indicated a chair and William sat down.  "What brings you here, William?"
 "I was in the neighbourhood...so decided to drop in...and I wanted to talk to you about something."
 Frank cocked his head as he settled into his chair.
 "How's business?"
 Frank hesitated.  William had never inquired of his business before; he seemed too busy with the Salvation Army.  "So-so...I guess."
 "Come on, Frank...be honest.  I've heard you're in trouble.  True?"
 "Well, things could be better.  Yes, I'm a little short of cash right now...but business is improving."
 "Would you consider a partner...who could bring some cash into the company?"
 "What do you mean?"
 "Well, I'm thinking of doing less for the Army...and I need a job.  Ivy and I have saved a little money.  Would you consider me as a partner."

Vancouver, British Columbia, Friday, May 18, 1900

 Frank stooped to kiss his wife who sat in the oak rocking chair nursing their new-born before the glowing fire in the fireplace that he lit to take the spring chill from the room.  He held back the coverlet as he gazed at his new daughter.  His chest swelled with pride as he studied the sucking infant.  Her skin was white and smooth and the light fuzz of hair appeared almost white compared to that of his wife and him.  He bent to kiss her, and whispered, "She's beautiful."
 Antoinette smiled her assent.
 "Darling, I've something to tell you."
 Antoinette looked at him quizzically.
 "William came to see me yesterday.  He offers congratulations and best wishes."
 Antoinette nodded.  "That's it?"
 "No...He wants to join the company...as a partner.  He has some money.  He wants to buy in.  What do you think?"
 She pondered as she looked down at the infant sucking at her breast.  "Can the company support both families?"
 "No...not at the moment...but with both of us working...it could be more profitable...and William has many contacts in the city.  I think it would be a good thing."
 "How much would he invest?"
 "He says he has three thousand dollars."
 "That's a lot of money.  Where did he get that much money?"  Frank shook his head.  "I'm not really sure...but he said that Ivy and he have saved it."
 She raised her head and smiled.  "I think it would be a good thing."

Vaudreuil, Quebec, Monday, June 5, 1900

 "Auguste, I love you."
 Auguste's eyes roved over the naked body of the woman beside him.  He leaned to kiss her rosy lips; as he did so, her arms encircled his neck tightly and drew him toward her.  Her lips found his; her mouth quivered, warm and moist against his.
 His chest crushed against her right breast; her hands groped feverishly for his crotch and she guided him into her.  She wriggled and pulsated as he rolled over her.
 She moaned and whispered, "I love you...I love you.  I will always love you."
 "My darling, you'll always be mine."
 They gyrated together, quiet in the passion of the moment.  Their rhythm matched as their passion intensified.  He felt the climax coming, and she squealed as their lust erupted into one spasm of love.  They gasped together and collapsed in a heap of satisfaction.  For several moments they clung to each other enjoying the culmination of their ardour.
 "Auguste, you must marry me."
 Auguste rolled to his back and extended his arms behind his head.  "Of course, we must marry.  I love you...I love you more than anything in the world.  I'll ask you father for you hand tomorrow.  We must marry immediately."  Auguste knew that Fleurette was only thirteen years old; she would be fourteen in the fall, just before Christmas.  Would her parents allow her to marry?  Although she was very young, she was already a  woman, mature and wise.  He could not believe that he fell in love with this young maiden.  He had not planned it; he was not prepared for marriage either; but now it was beyond his control; he had to marry her, because he loved her and because he made love to her.
 He turned to her.  "My darling, I love you.  Will you marry me?"
 She reached over and patted his right cheek.  "My darling, you know I will.  I love you.  I love you with all my heart."
 He drew her close and kissed her gently.

Vaudreuil, Quebec, Sunday, June 10, 1900

 "Are you crazy, Monsieur Marin.  She's only a child!"
 "Monsieur Archambault, in your eyes she's still a child, but in reality she is a woman.  We're in love...and we want to marry."
 "Impossible!  I will never allow it."  Gaspar Archambault's voice shrilled with anger.  "Have you desecrated my child?"
 "Sir, if you mean: Have we made love?  Yes, we have.  She loves me and I love her.  I want to marry her...immediately."
 Archambault clenched his fist and took a step toward Auguste who did not move.  The angry man shook his fist in Auguste face.  "I will never let you marry my daughter.  Now leave.  Leave...before I do something that will harm both of us."  His florid face quivered with anger, his jowls shook, and beads of perspiration pimpled his brow.
 "Sir, please...please be reasonable.  Let us marry.  Do not cause your daughter pain.  We love each other; we want to live together."
"You have already done that, you swine.  Now leave...before I kill you."
 Auguste shook his head and turned away.  Would he ever see Fleurette again?  What could he do?

Morinville, Alberta, Friday, July 20, 1900

 The drone and clatter of the mower was music to Phillipe's ears.  By nightfall he would finish mowing the hay field, and tomorrow he could begin raking it into windrows to cure--if the weather held.  For the past two weeks the summer sunshine, the cool breezes, and the long days were ideal haying weather.  Already he had put up three stacks of perfect hay.
 A shout from the edge of the field broke into his thoughts.  Three small figures approached through the cut portion of the field.  Thirteen-year old Raymond, his stepson, lead the group; on his right was ten-year old Emilie, his stepdaughter, and on the left his own daughter, Julie, a year and half toddler.  His heart leaped to her as she struggled to follow the older children.  She was such a sweet child--light brown, almost blond, hair already to her shoulders, large blue eyes, a tiny pert nose, and small cupid lips, and a perfect little body.  She was the perfect child.  At least, he thought so.
 That was his problem.  Bernadette, his wife, widowed in 1893 when her husband, Pierre Esquierres died of smallpox, came West to marry him.  Phillipe met her on a trip to Montreal and persuaded her to marry him.  She came to his homestead farm with her two children, and his happiness was complete until Julie was born.
 Bernadette felt that he was ignoring the older children for Julie.  Maybe he was.  After all, Julie was his child, his flesh and blood, his seed.
 He had nothing against Raymond and Emilie; they were lovely children, loving, devoted, accepting, and he knew they loved him just as he loved them, but Julie was special.  Yes, he knew that, and they knew that.  He tried to treat them equally and felt that he succeeded most of the time.  But he knew that his feelings for Julie were different from what they were for Raymond and Emilie.
 "Papa, we brought you lunch."  Raymond heaved the willow basket into the air.
 "Whoa."  Phillipe slid from the metal seat as the team of bay horses came to a stop.  He knotted the reins around the lever that lowered and raised the mower blade.  Then he turned toward the children.
 Raymond, a small boy for his thirteen years, was still too slight to be of much help around the farm although he did milk one of the cows, fed the half dozen pigs, and cared for the small flock of chickens.  He actually worked with his mother more than he helped Phillipe.  He handed Phillipe the basket.
 Phillipe set it down, crouched, and opened his arms to Julie.  She hurried into them, and Phillipe rose, lifting her.  "How's my girl," he intoned.  "Give me a kiss."
 Julie gurgled, flung her arms around her father's neck, and kissed him firmly on the lips.  "That's my girl," Phillipe exulted.

Montreal, Quebec, Thursday, September 6, 1900

 Nicholas Marin was celebrating his sixteenth birthday; the feast was subdued and ordinary as was usual for birthdays in the Marin family.  The evening meal was nothing special; the same meat and potatoes with the usual side dish of turnips.
 Nicholas sat to the right of his father, Michel, who at forty-four years old, looked much older.  Nicholas knew it was from the hard life that his father lead: his lack of financial success, his struggle to provide for his small family, and the pressure from his own father to accomplish.  His mother, though, who sat at the other end of the small table, was still a pretty woman; although a year older than his father, she looked many years younger, still slim, her light brown hair lacking any grey, her skin unlined, her eyes clear and bright.  On the other side of the table, his oldest sister, Marguerite, twenty years old, and his youngest sister, Barbe, six years old were a picture of contrasts; Marguerite was plain looking while Barbe was pretty; Marguerite was a quiet introspective young woman while Barbe was a vivacious, extroverted child.
 "Papa, I'm sixteen today."
 His father, Michel, nodded but said nothing.
 Barbe blurted, "Are you a man yet?"
 "Barbe, hold you tongue!"  His mother's voice was sharp and compelling.
 "But, Maman, he always says when he turns sixteen, he'll be a man."
 Michel nodded.  "Barbe, Nicholas is a man."
 "Papa...I wanted to talk to you about that."

     Michel nodded again.
 "I want to go to work...I don't want to got to school any more."
 His mother groaned.  "Nicholas you must go to college.  You can't waste your life as a worker."
 "Maman...what's wrong with that.  I don't like school...to study...books.  I like to work with my hands."
 Michel growled, "Nicholas...how many times have we gone through that.  I haven't worked hard to keep you in school just to see it wasted.  You must go to college...to university...to be a doctor...or lawyer..."
 "Or a priest!" Barbe chimed in.
 "Papa...I'd like to be a farmer...like your grandfather..."

"Impossible...there's no land left...in Quebec.  Farming is not profitable...there's no money in it. Forget about that, my son."

Edmunston, New Brunswick, Sunday, October 28, 1900

 Henri Marin surveyed the group around the table: his father, Simon, age fifty-six, still looked youthful and vigorous, although his once blonde hair was now almost snow white; his stepmother, Elise--age forty, a young woman yet, slim, her brown hair only slightly streaked with grey--sat at the other end of the table.  On either side of her sat her children from her previous marriage: Gerard, eleven, and Albertine, seven.  To his right, his sister, Yvette, age twenty--soon to be married to Herve Robillard, a local farm boy--was prim and proper.  Across the table, Christophe, his thirteen- year old younger devil-may-care brother, smiled at him as he noticed Henri's scrutiny; he winked at Henri and then attacked the slab of fried pork in his plate.  To Christophe's left was his youngest sister, Christine, eleven years old, just showing the first signs of womanhood, and across from her Benjamin, his youngest brother--seven-years old, a dark-haired, dark-eyed solemn boy--was engrossed in his dinner.  At the moment all nine concentrated on the plate before them.
 Now was as good a time as any, Henri thought, as he lifted a forkful of turnips toward his mouth.  He lowered it and turned to his father.  "Papa, I'm leaving."
 "What?"  His father dropped his fork to his plate.  "What did you say, Henri?"
 "Papa...I'm leaving.  I'm going to look for work."
 Simon shook his head.  Silence enveloped the group, and Henri felt all eyes were on him.  It was not the first time that this discussion had taken place, but this time Henri was determined not to let his family talk him out of his decision.  "Papa...I've heard they're looking for men in the mines at Sydney."
 Simon nodded.  "Son, I've heard that too...but you needn't go.  We need you here."
 Henri shook his head.  "Papa...you don't need me any more...and Christophe is old enough...and big enough to help you now."
 "Henri...that's not the point.  We don't need you to work...we need you as part of the family.  Yvette will soon marry...and leave."
 "But, Papa, she won't be far away."
 "That's the point.  You'll be the only one away.  We want you here...with us."
 "But Papa...I have to go.  I have to find my own way.  I want to find my own way.  Please..."

Montreal, Quebec, Thursday, December 20, 1900

 "I can't believe it!  Gran'pere left me his farm!"  Nicholas shook the sheet of paper he held in his hand.
 His father, Michel, shook his head.  "Son, I can't believe it either.  Why would he leave you that worthless piece of land?"

  "Papa, it's a farm.  It's where we came from.  It's where you were born...and your parents...and your grandparents.  It's your heritage!"  Nicholas enthusiasm rang in his voice.
 "You must sell it!"  His mother's voice was commanding and unequivocal.
 "No, Maman...no, I'll never sell it."
 "What'll you do?"  Marguerite's quiet, even voice was in sharp contrast to the intense language of the others.
 Nicholas hesitated.  What would he do?  Would he leave Montreal for this small farm a few miles from Quebec City?  Would he become the farmer he always dreamed of being?
 "Papa, Maman..."  He turned to his sisters.  "Would you like to live on a farm.  We could all move to the farm!"
 "And starve to death!"  His father's voice had a finality to it.
 His mother shook her head.  Marguerite said nothing.  Barbe exploded.  "I'll never live on a farm!"
 "Then I'll go alone."

Sydney Mines, Nova Scotia, Sunday, March 10, 1901

 Henri flung the rock toward the grey water of the grey land and sky.  It bounced once and settled into the smooth surface of the bay.  Henri bent to pick up another stone.
 "You have to give it a twist as you fling it."
 The voice startled him; he straightened up quickly.  A slight figure wrapped in a faded, worn coat, while a knitted tuque pulled low over the forehead almost concealing a rosy round face with glowing cheeks stood a dozen feet away.
 "Who are you?"  Henri could not hide the irritation in his voice.  He was interrupted in an activity that he thought was private and unobserved.  Often, on a Sunday afternoon, when he had nothing to do, he came to this lonely stretch of beach beside the inlet that was Sydney harbour.  He liked the solitude and peace broken only by the lapping waves and the screeching sea birds.  Now his privacy was intruded upon.
 The slender person took a step forward almost as if challenging his right to be there.  "My name's Isabeau Bernard.  You're Henri Marin...and you work with my father, Bernard."
 Henri knew Bernard because other workers teased him about his name.  "What's your name again?"
 "Isabeau Bernard.  That's my name."
 Henri had never heard a name like that before.  It didn't sound very much like a boy's name.  "Isabeau.  Are you...?"
 "Yes...I'm a woman."  She stepped closer to Henri.
 Henri could see her face better.  Yes, it had the soft curves of a female, grey eyes with thick lashes, a well-developed nose, and full feminine lips.  She was not pretty, nor was she ugly, maybe plain.  "What are you doing here?"  His irritation softened somewhat.
 "Like you...I come here often.  It reminds me of home."
 Henri nodded.  Although it did not remind him of home, he found it a comforting, peaceful spot.  "Where's home?"  Again Henri was surprised at his boldness.  Usually he was tongue-tied around unfamiliar woman, but this one did not seem like a stranger; they had something in common.
 A wisp of a smile curled her lips.  "I'm from Anse des Belliveau...at the other end of this country.  It's much more beautiful than here."  She glanced around the rocky, barren shore.
 "Why are you here?"
 "Papa...We needed the work.  After Maman died..."
 "I'm sorry."
 "Oh, you needn't be...it was a while ago.  Papa was lost and neglected things.  We had to leave."  She leaned to pick up a stone and flung it.  It bounced on the water three times and disappeared beneath the wavelets.  "It's all in the twist."
 Henri grinned.

St. Henri, Quebec, Saturday, March 16, 1901

 Nicholas was in the saddle for over two hours.  He was sore and glad that his journey was coming to an end.  A few minutes before he passed through the small village of St. Henri dominated by the Catholic church with its tall steeple topped by a large cross.  From there he travelled south along the narrow road that paralleled the small Etchemin River which recently became devoid of its ice cover.  He knew that his land was along this road, but he was not sure exactly where it was situated.  A neat farmhouse of rough boards appeared on his right.  As he turned into the small entrance, a large mongrel dog came toward him, barking and wagging his tail.
 A tall man dressed in faded blue overalls and a soiled weather-beaten felt hat came out the door of a small barn behind the house.  He waited as Nicholas approached.
 Nicholas dismounted.  "Sir, I'm Nicholas Marin...the owner of the Marin property."
 The man surveyed Nicholas from head to food, then stepped forward cautiously, carefully.  "Bonjour, Nicholas.  I'm René Leblanc."
 At that moment, a young woman in a simple gown with a skirt that came to mid-calf came out of the barn carrying a battered tin bucket which steamed with fresh milk.  When she noticed Nicholas, she stopped, a surprised look on her face.
 She was a slim young woman with long, almost black hair that framed a pixie face.  The thin gown could not hide her well-developed breasts and shapely hips.  Her dark brown, almost black eyes, caught Nicholas's and held them like a magnet.
 Nicholas thought she was the most beautiful woman he ever saw; he could not take his eyes from her.  They stood immobilised, staring at each other.
 Rene Leblanc, the father, broke the spell.  "This is my daughter, Emilienne."
 Emilienne tossed her head, flinging her long hair over her shoulder and hurried toward the house without looking back.
 Nicholas watched as she entered the house.
 "Monsieur Marin, you like my daughter."  He began to laugh as he noticed Nicholas's embarrassment and discomfort.  "Forget about her.  She's spoken for."
 Nicholas stammered, "She's...a...beautiful..."
 René Leblanc grinned.  "She's to be married soon.  To Alexandre Dumas...the boy who's been renting your place."
 Nicholas struggled to regain his composure.  Never before had a woman affected him the way that Emilienne Leblanc had.  He forgot his reason for stopping at the Leblanc farm.  Then he remembered; he wanted to verify directions to his property.

St. Henri, Quebec, Saturday, October 12, 1901

 The small church of St. Henri was full.  Now that harvest was completed, everyone had time to celebrate, and most of the congregation was here to witness the marriage of Emilienne Leblanc and Alexandre Dumas, two promising young people of the community.
 Nicholas occupied a place in the last pew; he saw Emilienne several times during the past summer and each time they met it seemed as if a magnet drew them together.  Each time he came near her, his heart pounded, he broke out in a sweat, and he wanted to take her in his arms, smother her kisses, and make love to her. She seemed to reciprocate.  But now she was marrying Alexandre Dumas.  He waited, tense and uncomfortable, for the wedding party.  The organ broke into his thoughts, and Alexandre, accompanied by his father, as was the local custom, moved slowly down the aisle to the altar.  Then came Emilienne, on her father's arm.  As they entered, her eyes met Nicholas, and again, their gaze locked.  An unexplainable spark seemed to bounce between them.  Nicholas felt that she had similar feelings, as he noticed she struggled to tear her eyes away from him.
 Why was she marrying Alexandre Dumas, if she was so attracted to him?  He knew that the marriage was arranged by the two families, but he knew that Emilienne could balk at the arrangement; she could refuse to marry Alexandre.  Why had she not if she had doubts?

Morinville, Alberta, Friday, January 10, 1902

 "Phillipe, you must pay more attention to Raymond and Emilie."
 Phillipe looked at his wife sharply.  "What do you mean?"
 "Don't you see it, Phillipe?  You almost ignore Raymond and Emilie; all your attention goes to Julie."
 Phillipe shook his head.  "I don't.  I give Raymond the attention he needs; he's a young man now--soon he'll be fifteen years old--old enough to quit school...and work full time."
 "Phillipe...that's what I mean.  You expect him to quit...and to help on the farm...but you want more than that for Julie.  What about Emilie?"
 Emilie would be twelve in June.  She was a healthy, well-developed twelve year old, almost as tall as her mother.  Phillipe paused.  "She'll probably marry one of the boys here.  She doesn't like school...but she likes the work here...in the kitchen...in the garden...even in the fields."
 "But...have you ever encouraged her...in her school work?  Have you ever encouraged Raymond in his school work?  No...I don't think so...but what are your plans for Julie?"
 Phillipe fought to keep the irritation from his voice.  Julie would soon be three years old.  He never really thought of her future.  She was still a child, although she seemed a bit precocious--she walked before her first birthday; she talked before her second birthday; and she seemed very mature for a child before her third birthday.  But who knew?  "Look, Bernadette, I have no plans for Julie...she's a baby.  And for Raymond and Emilie, I only want what's best for them...for their happiness.  What do you want for them?"

Sydney Mines, Sunday, September 14, 1902

 "Isabeau, this is my brother, Christophe."
 "Isabeau, I'm happy to meet you.  You're prettier than Henri said."
 Both Isabeau and Henri turned aside to hide their discomfort.
 Christophe laughed.  "It's a pleasure to meet you."
 Isabeau lifted her head and jutted her chin forward.  "I'm happy to meet you too.  Henri told me a great deal about you...and you're everything he said you were...naughty, a tease, a rascal."
 "Don't believe him, Isabeau.  He has a tendency to tell tall stories."  Christophe unabashedly eyed Isabeau from head to toe.  She was not pretty, but he found her attractive.  Her reddish-brown hair hung down to her shoulders in soft waves and gentle curls framing a round face with high cheek bones.  Her grey eyes, masked by thick, long lashes, exuded a refreshing warmth.  In the late summer sunshine the breezes blowing off the water of the inlet moulded her bright blue cotton dress against her body revealing the soft curve of her breasts, the flatness of her belly, the smooth outline of her hips, and the graceful contours of her well-formed legs.
 Christophe felt his desire rising, and now it was his turn to feel uncomfortable.
 Henri's voice broke the spell.  "Come, let's walk."
 Christophe nodded and Isabeau murmured, "That's a good idea."

Winnipeg, Manitoba, Saturday, May 16, 1903

 Jean-Paul prowled down Main Street of Winnipeg.  He was searching for someone; who, he did not know.  But he knew it was a woman.  Ever since his first encounter with a Collette Bellerive three years ago, he had pursued every woman he knew.  She opened the floodgates of his desire and lust.  She was so easy that he often wondered if she had planned the entire encounter.  And he found the experience so fulfilling and intense that he could no longer get his mind off women.
 Each conquest of a young woman of the parish only increased his appetite.  Each woman satiated and satisfied him for the moment.  Each time he made love to a woman, the conquest seem to kill his interest in her, and he turned to a new search, a different pursuit, another subjugation. Why?
 His promiscuity made him a pariah in St. Eustache; parents feared for their daughters; young woman sought him or distrusted him; men--young and old--hated him because of his facility with women.  He was forced to leave.
 She was standing on the street corner beneath a lamppost. The light shown off her brown skin.  She looked lonely and sad.  Her dark eyes found his and held them.  They were large and luminescent; her nose was small, but flat; her lips full and unsmiling.  Jean-Paul felt sorry for her.
 "What's your name?" he asked as he stopped beside her.
 She looked up at him, her eyes round and doleful.  She lowered her head and looked at the sidewalk.  "I'm Josie."  As if that would tell him everything.  "Two bucks, please?"
 Why did she want two dollars?
 "You want me?  Two bucks"  She opened the thin coat she was wearing and revealed her torso; her breasts were full and firm with dark nipples.  "You want me?"
 Jean-Paul nodded.

Sydney Mines, Sunday, May 17, 1903

 "Isabeau, I'm so glad you came."
 Isabeau looked fresh; her brown hair with its ruddy highlights hung loosely about her face, pushed back by the warm spring breeze that rippled the waters of the bay.
 Christophe grabbed her hand and laughed.  "Let's walk."
 She flung his hand aside and laughed.  "Let's run."
 She spurted ahead; the light skirt of her gown swirled around her legs revealing her trim ankles and bare feet.
 Christophe streaked to catch up to her.  He passed her and then turned quickly to meet her.  She ran into him and his arms enveloped her.  Her warm body pressed against his thin shirt.  Her bosom pressed against his.  She did not pushed away.  Her fresh fragrance, the warmth of her body stimulated him, surprised him, and he released her quickly as if she was a fiery brand.
 She grabbed his hand and turned down the path that followed the shore line.  Neither said a word.
 The softness of her hand in his, the brightness of the spring day, the solitude of their surroundings, stirred Christophe.  A clump of willows bordered the path and behind it a meadow of new grass invited.  Surprise and anticipation filled him as she drew him behind the willows; he resisted momentarily and then followed.
 Her arms encircled his neck, and she drew him toward her.  He turned her toward him; her lips found his, quivering.
 For a moment he stiffened in shock.  He had never been kissed this way by a woman before.  Her mouth opened, her tongue pierced his, searching.  His tongue met hers and intertwined.  His pulse quickened; his heart thumped; his arms tightened around her body pulling her tight against him.
  Her hands seized his face; her lips and tongue explored his mouth and lips; her breath came in quick, pulsating gulps; her hands slipped from his face to buttons of his light shirt.  Quickly, feverishly she undid them and pushed the shirt over his shoulders, off his arms.  Her hands massaged his torso then she guided his hands to her breasts.  She moaned as his fingers searched for the nipples through the thin material of her gown.
 Slowly they sank to the ground, oblivious to their surroundings as their passion and lust mounted.  She grasped the hem of her skirt and in a single motion whipped over her head.  To his astonishment, she was naked beneath it.
 She drew his head toward her breasts and his lips found her left nipple, teasing and rolling it between his lips.  She moaned and flung herself on her back.  She lay before him, a comely, desirable woman.

Vancouver, British Columbia, Monday, November 16, 1903

 Frank sighed as he lowered himself into the rocking chair before the fireplace.  He was tired; it was a busy day at the Marin Bros. Import-Export Co.  Since William and Ivy joined him the company prospered beyond his dreams but it required more and more of his time.
 Three-year old Charmaine came running from the kitchen and flung herself into her father's arms.  Frank hoisted her to his knees, hugged her, and planted a noisy kiss on her left cheek.  She giggled in surprise and enjoyment.
 She nestled on his knees, and he squeezed her gently.  She was an active child with a robust body.  Her light coloured hair was a mass of curls framing her rosy cheeks and emphasising her large brown eyes which gazed up at him.  "Papa, read me a story."
 Antoinette entered the room at that moment.  "It's too late, my darling.  I read you one before supper...and Papa's too tired.  It's time for bed."
 "Let her be...for a few moments.  This doesn't happen too often any more."
 Antoinette nodded.  "Frank...you spend too much time...at the office...with William...and Ivy."
 "But I have to...we're too busy.  Even with Ivy's help...we never seem to be able to keep up."
 "The business is doing very well.  Isn't it?"
 Frank nodded.
 "But..." She hesitated.  "I've heard rumours."
 Frank nodded.  He murmured, "I've heard them too."
 "I hope they're only rumours.  Do you think...William has reverted to his...old ways?"

Morinville, Alberta, Thursday, May 12, 1904

 "Bernadette, what the hell are you trying to do?"  Phillipe fought to keep the anger from his voice.  "Why didn't you tell me?"
 "I didn't think you would agree."
 "But you didn't even ask."
 "Raymond needed the money.  He wants to work in town...in Edmonton.  He doesn't want to be a farmer.  I didn't think you'd agree to that. That's why I did it."  Bernadette's voice was defiant and unrepentant.
 Phillipe shook his head.  Bernadette emptied his meagre bank account in Morinville.  She forged his name, and since she was known, the bank released the money--the money he needed to purchase seed for the coming planting.  "Where's Raymond?  Where's the money?"
 Bernadette glared back at Phillipe.  "Raymond's gone...with the money.  He left for Edmonton this morning."
 "Papa, don't be angry at Maman.  She was only trying to help."  Emilie, now a thirteen-year old young woman, sturdy and strong for her age, pleaded, "Papa, I'll do Raymond's work.  I'll help you."
 "Emilie, that's not the problem.  I needed that money to buy seed...and hay.  I'm short of both."
 Five-year old Julie climbed onto her father's knee.  "Papa...why did Raymond go away?"
 Phillipe shrugged his shoulders.  "Darling...I don't know.  Maybe he didn't like working on the farm any more."
 "Phillipe...you know why he left.  He thinks you treat him like a slave...not like a son."
 "That's not true!"
 "Think about it Phillipe.  You never praised his work...you never gave him a sou to spend...you never listened to him...when he wanted to talk...you simply ignored him!  That's why he left." 

"Papa...don't be angry."  Emilie forced the tears back.
 "And Phillipe...don't forget Emilie...or she'll want to leave too."
 "Bernadette...that's no excuse for what you've done!"

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