A long way from home (Slow updates)

Chapter 1

Okay, after changing this story literally a million times, I finally found the perfect start! I've also been busy with school and work, so my writting has literally been non-existant. But, hopefully I can update more now! 

Nearly two months ago…

The small farmhouse was quiet. It was always quiet now, since the children’s mother had taken ill.

Marguerite stood by the fire, stoking it. It was not hot enough to cook the rabbit stew she had made, and Maman needed something warm to help her heal. The herbs they had infused in teas had done little to stop the fits of coughing. Maman claimed her pain eased each sip, but the coughing never ceased. It shook the little farmhouse night and day, making its occupants painfully aware of their mother’s worsening condition.

The door to the farmhouse opened, revealing two young men, one a man grown and ready to leave, the other still quite young. The brothers set their muskets on the table, their faces eager for good news and their stomachs eager for a hot meal.

“We do not have enough money.” Marguerite said solemnly, stirring the stew, which began to bubble.

“For the physician?” Jean asked. “That is no matter. I will take up work in the village, perhaps in the towns.” He was hopeful; all his life he had laboured the land his father had given him. He longed to learn a trade, make money, and build a better life. This would be his chance.

Marguerite shook her head. “No. The physician we can afford. It is his ministrations we cannot.” She turned to her brothers, lowering her voice. She did not want her sisters to hear what she had to say. They were far too young to understand. “The physician fears Maman is too far gone to be healed.”

“Then I will work to pay the ministration fees, and she will be well again.” Jean declared, determined.

Marguerite felt tears spring to her eyes. She blinked them back. She had been crying since the physician had told her the news, and her eyes stung. “The physician is not willing to care for Maman…she is…the ministrations will not heal her. Had we searched for him earlier…”

Jean and Louis, the younger brother, were stunned. Nothing could have prepared them for the loss of hope they had felt. Their mother was dying and none could save her. It would take a miracle, and miracles were few and costly. Marguerite turned back to the stew, serving it up and placing a bowl in front of each of her brothers. She called to her sisters, who came in from their mother’s room to eat. Then she got herself a bowl and tried to eat as much as she could. But her stomach was restless and her heart ached.

She pushed the stew around, ate a few bites and repeated the process. The boys were devouring their meal, getting second helpings, consuming warm food to take the edge off of their grief. Marguerite stood, bringing her own bowl and filling another, taking to her mother’s room.

As she pushed the wooden door open, she knew her mother would be glad for the company. She had been without it for some time. “Maman.” She greeted her.

“Marguerite.” Her mother smiled from her sickbed, her sallow skin stretched across her cheekbones. She had thinned dramatically. “Have the boys returned?”

“They have, Maman.” She sat on the edge of the bed, and set her own bowl down to feed her mother. Her mother chattered on, her raspy voice adding more pain to her eldest daughter’s heart. Marguerite listened and fed her mother, chiming in only when necessary. She wanted to remember her mother’s voice for years to come.

It wasn’t too long after that her mother went to sleep, so exhausted from the energy she needed to eat. It took her so much to do so little. Marguerite sighed, collected the bowls and left the room, shutting the door softly.