Daughters of the King (Completed)

04 | Jacques

WE CAUTIOUSLY partake in an oddly paired companionship. Lorraine begs me to teach her to read, and so I do.

She says that she will be the laughingstock of New France once her new husband discovers she is illiterate and unable to read a single word. I doubt that is the case. I have met no other girls who know how to read, and from what I have heard, most of the men on the colony are uneducated commoners, albeit a few nobles.

We spend our nights huddled on my bunk, our shoulders hunched over the few books I could afford to bring along in my trousseau, tracing different letters on the backs of our hands. We lack an inkpot, feather, or paper, and so I decide it to be best to teach Lorraine how to read first—assuming that writing will come easy to her after practicing reading.

When she has mastered several simple words and letters, we amuse one another by telling stories that result from our vivid imaginations. The pastime seems childish for two young women expected to be married within a short few months, but we lack any other sort of amusement aboard.

As we journey farther out into the ocean, our friendship blossoms and we understand one another. I appreciate Lorraine's kind spirit, and she admires what she calls my courage.

The others disapprove of Lorraine spending time with me, the impulsive Jewish recluse with the dark past, but she ignores their concerns and treats me as her equal.

One day, as we are strolling through the hall, we happen upon a terrified looking girl. When she perceives our presence, she shudders, and pulls her shoulders over her knees, weeping onto the floor, her long, auburn hair sprawled out about her like a shroud.

I have never seen such flaming red hair, and cannot help but stare at it in awe.

"Bonjour, what is your name?" Lorraine coaxes, scooping the small, fragile girl into her tiny arms with impressive ease.

The child appears to be but six or seven, but I am certain that she must be older, perhaps suffering from the misfortune of being small or malnourished for her age. She possesses a withered arm and tucks it into her threadbare cloak. Surely a girl so young and frail would not be sent away, alone, to marry in such a state. The king would not permit that kind of heartless treatment, would he?

Beneath our scrutiny, the child crumples like a piece of parchment.

"How old are you?" I ask her as she nuzzles her head in Lorraine's soft shoulder, braving a look up at me.

Though it is not in my nature, I attempt to mimic Lorraine's maternal manner as I speak, lowering my voice while trying not to frighten the girl further.

"I am nine years old." She whispers. "But I am almost ten."

I stifle a gasp.

Though it is not unusual for girls to marry for the sake of securing a dowry for their families, the notion that such a sickly-looking child is already prepared for a life of marriage and child rearing seems absurd. How can a girl of nine years be prepared for marriage and the handling of a farm and livestock, or to birth young of her own?

"I am afraid." She continues, peering up at us, then buries her crimson head in her reddish hands once again.

"Come, come ma chérie. I have a little sister who is just your age, but you are far braver than she is. I am sure she would have loved to be your friend." Lorraine coos, grasping the child's small hand in her own. "What is your name?"

The girl's eyes dart between us like a skittish animal, too wary to converse until she manages a tiny and weak reply, "Ami."

Ami takes to loving Lorraine, resting her head in the crook of her arm and following her everywhere, like a devoted cat. Adding to the fact that she has a withered arm, she possesses a weak disposition. She is more timid than most children, shuddering at almost everything—from the sound of the ship's rudder slicing through crashing waves, to the jubilant music of fiddles as the sailors serenade the end of each successful day at sea.