Free Distant Fires by D.A. Woodward Page B

homes of Seigneurs, Robichaud, and Valcour; their rigidly formal homes and pretentious family members bearing little to offer, other than pedantic conversation and a place to lay ones’ head.  
    However, late in the afternoon on the third day, they docked near the home of a habitant; a farmer, or common man, who paid the Seigneur a small yearly rent, in exchange for use of his land. His whitewashed abode, thought Louise, with its hipped dormer windows and distinctive sloping roof, exhibited infinitely more warmth and appeal than any of the fancier homes they had previously encountered.           
    Moments after they disembarked, a man strode out of one of the barns, accompanied by a boy of about sixteen, each bearing what looked to be a pair of two-tined, roughly hewn pitchforks. Doffing his knitted hat, he identified himself as Georges Greavette, and informed the visitors that his Seigneur, Monsieur Couagne, was on an extended stay in Trois Rivieres, and that the manor home had been the scene of a recent fire, rendering it uninhabitable.  
    “But...you can stay in our house, if you like,” he said matter-of-factly, raising a calloused hand to shield his eyes from the sun, the tassel of his woollen cap dangling in tandem to his speech. “We like to sleep outdoors when it’s warm, and those that don’t can sleep in one of the out buildings.” He was a lanky, pipe-smoking man, clad in dark work clothes encircled by a loose belt, with native boots upon his feet.  
    It was then that his wife, a round, affable, middle-aged woman, hurried down from the house, wiping her hands across her apron. Her red cheeks were dusted with flour, as she smiled, curtsied rather awkwardly, and quickly took her place beside her man.  
    Felippe looked to Armand, who in turn, responded with a simple nod. Clearing his throat, Felippe replied, with a hint of hesitancy: “Yes. How very...hospitable.”  
    Though agreeably uttered, it was clear to Louise that he was not in earnest. While Felippe might value the service of the common man, she was certain his regard did not willingly extend to “share” lodgings. She recalled the evening in which they had planned the trip, when, for the benefit of Armand, he had attempted to appear the seasoned traveller in the colony, knowing he had not sailed further than Montreal.    
    Often, over the past days, she had wondered how he would fare through the rugged second leg of the journey, with what she had heard of its unaccustomed harshness—the scourge of insects, gruelling portages, the uncouth men smelling of bear grease and labour, manning the many forts and outposts in their path. Thereto was the very serious possibility of confrontation with the natives? How soon would it be before he exchanged his shirts of Rouen linen, cravats of Broderie Anglais and satin cloaks, for clothes of buckskin or hemp and deerskin lace; suitable to travel along the treacherous waterways...  
    She noticed that Armand had loosened his own attire…she looked to him now, and found him free of supercilious posturing, and like herself, quietly amused—or at the very least, charmed—by the sincerity of their hosts.  
    In a sudden tumult of confusion, five towheaded children of various ages, bounded from the field, chasing one another in and around the barnyard in playful abandon.  
    Louise watched, enchanted by their fun, and impressed that the mother did not reproach her children for behaving disapprovingly in front of the important personages. Instead, with the youngest pulling on her skirts, and several others vying for attention, she merely swung him to her hip, and cheerfully asked her female guests back to the house.  
    Louise stared at the woman’s dull auburn hair, home spun clothing, bare feet, and in that moment wished, for all the world, that she could be her; to have both the adoration of a large family, and the freedom and courage to say, “take me as I am.”  
    “My name is Annette,