“Will there be any more singing of unrighteous songs in the fields?”
“Non, ma soeur. I will not sing in the field.” I hung my head, expecting a beating to follow the words. It did not. She had only her bony dog finger to tap my shoulder rather than a stick. I felt so exhausted. I pinched my lips and thought, Curses on you, Sister Joseph. I thought of the song I had used for Mistress Hasken. I puffed out a large breath. It fit, except that I had loved Sister Joseph. Until then. I stuck out my lip, thinking, No singing in the field. No singing the wrong song. I wished I were a pirate. I would sing the “Faraway Isles” song and “Blow the Man Down,” even one they did not know I knew, that had all a woman’s parts named right in the singing, “The Captain’s Tart.” I wanted to sing all the songs that insulted every ear on this land. Every place I was bound to, I knew all the wrong songs. My face reddened and I felt a flush of heat across my cheeks. Tears were welling and my lower lip quivered against my will. With great effort I tucked it under my upper teeth. I hated Montréal and I hated this convent and I hated Sister Joseph for making me work so hard.
Sister Joseph put one hand under my chin and lifted my face to hers. She said, “Now, let me put some salve on your poor little hands.” She clucked her tongue.
One moment I was full of hate, the next, longing. I told myself I hated Sister Joseph, even as she rubbed salve on my hands. I hated her as she wrapped them in cotton lint and put a pair of black stockings on my hands as if they were gloves. I hated her as she led me to the dining room and sat beside me. After the blessing, I opened my eyes and saw that I had two pieces of bread on my plate and she had none. Oh, la. I wanted to climb into her lap and be comforted! I wept. If she had only stayed cruel I could have held only my anger and hatred, but instead I turned to Sister Joseph and asked, “Will you fix my hands again?” not because the bandages had fallen, but because I wanted her to caress and hold them again. She murmured to me as she straightened the stockings that I had worked so very hard, much more than the other girls, and that she was proud of me for such a great labor unto the Lord. When she had finished pulling the stockings in place, she hugged me and I loved her for it.
In chapel, I fell asleep during prayers. One of the girls awoke me when it was over and I stumbled as I followed the others to my dormitory where Donatienne waited to help me into my nightgown. She held in her hands the rough, gray thing as I approached the bedside. Exhaustion left me bitter and anger flooded my thoughts. “Leave me alone,” I said. I swatted at the thing, sending it to the floor.
“What is the matter, Marie?” Donatienne picked it up, searching for the sleeves.
“My name is not Marie. I am tired. I have worked like a slave all the day long, and you ask me what is the matter? Leave it on the floor; I do not want your help.”
“Very well. I will not help you.” She laid the gown on my bed.
I hated that horrible bed. The small comfort that it was not a flea-ridden bearskin next to a chimney, nor a mat on the fetid floor of a Saracen bilge-hold did not make it my bed. My bed had coverlets of goose down and pink satin. My bed had carved and rubbed mahogany posts and a down tick and a cunning wee stair to get into it. My bed was on the top floor of a stone house on Meager Bay. “Do not look at me, either,” I said, and burst into tears. Why could I not hide them now? Why was I no longer brave? Why did Sister Joseph not come and hold my hands in hers again? Such hard work as this day I hoped never to see again.
Donatienne mumbled, “Très bien.”
I answered in French, “And stop saying ‘very well.’ It is not very well at all.”
“Your French has improved. You have found your tongue.”
My tears flowed in earnest then, and I blubbered, “Je vous déteste. I hate you.” I turned away from her and pulled down my skirt, dropping the loose shirt atop it, both in a heap on the floor beside the bed. I pulled the gown on over my petticoat and shift. I kicked off my shoes but did not bother with the stockings for I could not use my fingers, wrapped as they were in other stockings.
Donatienne sobbed as she put on her own night clothes and climbed into her bed only inches from mine. “I am sorry if I have offended you.”
Her words threw fresh oil onto the fire of my anger. “Pulling flax all day for two days, that has offended me.” Uncontrollable tears annoyed me for a short time before I slept the sleep of exhaustion.