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Hello everyone!

Good news — Chapter 2 of Volume 2 is finished! Without further delay, here it is! Thank you for your kind words and your support — it really means a lot!

Thank you George_Bush_2910, Galan_05, Porthos10, Mium, Ranger_Red, dodolmantab, paffnytij, Dekol347, AlexZero12, UnknownReadr, Daoist0wZJRR, alphin_cj, First_Time_****, Shingle_Top, Kieran_Lynch,Black_Wolf_4935, and DaoistbuQNvD!

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It was the end of the day.

The sun was slowly descending toward the horizon, bathing the countryside in a golden light. There was still a good half-hour before darkness would fully set in.

For nearly two hours now, the temperature had been dropping—as it did every evening in this season. It was probably six or seven degrees Celsius, but the brightness of the sun gave a misleading impression of warmth.

You could almost forget it's still winter, François thought as he instinctively hoisted the heavy saddle onto Carmène, his chestnut mare.

He had bought her for a very reasonable price from a breeder near Montreal—a good horse, gentle and reliable, never stubborn. The perfect mount for learning to ride.

February was a fickle month in this part of the world. In just a few days, the weather could shift from biting cold to unexpected mildness.

The past two days had been freezing, but a change in the wind earlier that afternoon had brought a welcome rise in temperature.

With a bit of luck, tomorrow would be a warm day.

After fastening the straps, François fitted the bridle—the leather harness used to guide the animal. Carmène complied calmly, and with a few precise movements, the beautiful mare was ready to ride.

Without delay, the major led her out of the fort's stable, climbed into the saddle, took firm hold of the reins, and gave her strong neck an affectionate pat.

"Good girl. Shall we go?"

The mare gave a slight toss of her head, as if to say yes. François smiled softly and gave a gentle nudge with his heels.

At a slow pace, Carmène began walking toward the massive gates of Fort Bourbon.

Much had changed since the end of the war.

As soon as the British had retreated to Albany, the French had set to work ensuring the fort would never fall again. The border between the two European empires remained vague—somewhere between the two strongholds—and to avoid any incidents, neither side attempted to settle colonists in the zone.

Even so, patrols often crossed paths, watching and provoking one another.

Along the banks of the Hudson River, the brickyard had been quickly brought back into operation under the leadership of the previous commander-in-chief of the French forces in New France: Marshal Louis le Gand de Mérode de Montmorency. He had replaced Marshal Duke de Richelieu in 1763 when the latter returned to France.

Though Montmorency's tenure was short—he died in 1767—he launched numerous ambitious projects across New France to secure the new frontier.

At Fort Bourbon, the old wooden walls had been replaced with brick fortifications. It had been a long and grueling task, to which the garrison had devoted much energy.

Fortunately, the nearby river provided abundant clay.

But the French hadn't just replaced the walls—the fort had also been expanded and redesigned to accommodate an entire regiment.

Île Longue was next in line for construction, but work on brick production wouldn't resume until the return of fair weather. With a bit of luck, in two or three years, the entire island would be fortified.

It was highly unlikely, however, that cannons could be installed everywhere.

Around the fort, in a radius of nearly fifteen hundred meters, not a single tree remained. Everything had been cut down or burned to fuel the enormous brick kilns.

This deforestation, which hadn't begun immediately after the peace treaty, now offered a clear firing field for the fort's cannons.

Another major change in the region had been the emergence, since 1766, of a small village to the northeast of the fort, along a modest tributary of the Hudson River. It was called the Champlain River, as it connected to the lake of the same name.

This budding hamlet was François's work—the sole seigneur of the area. The absence of any rival claims to this newly annexed land of the Kingdom of France had allowed him to freely choose the location of his domain.

He had also managed to obtain a larger territory than what he might have been granted in the Saint Lawrence Valley.

Seen from above, his seigneury formed a wide, irregular rectangle wedged between the Hudson and Champlain rivers, stretching up to six kilometers northward. Only a large security zone around the fort lay beyond his jurisdiction.

In total, his seigneury covered just over twenty square kilometers.

That was considerable, even though there were far larger estates in the north.

As soon as he passed through the fort's gates, François felt the weight of his military duties begin to lift. At this hour, he was no longer a major—just a man eager to return to the warmth of his home.

His house was less than two kilometers away, along the road leading to Fort Carillon. This meant he could return to his land each evening, except in special circumstances. And if anyone needed to find him, a rider could reach him in about fifteen minutes.

Within a few minutes, he reached the edge of the land entrusted to him by the governor.

The title of seigneur was no honorary distinction—it came with heavy responsibilities, the foremost being to develop the land in His Majesty's name.

The first step had been exploration. Accompanied by a royal engineer, a surveyor, and a notary, François had scouted the region to identify arable land, the marshes along the Champlain River, the cliffs along the Hudson, and to evaluate the hydraulic potential.

Then, they had sent their initial reports to Quebec and Montreal for approval. But French authorities' consent wasn't enough—he had also needed the Iroquois' agreement.

Fortunately, they had not opposed the project, on the condition that no settlers would cross the Hudson River or go farther west than the Hudson Falls.

Even before the arrival of the first settler, François had planted a large wooden sign at that very spot, on which he had written: "From this point on: Haudenosaunee territory," topped with a white-painted skull. He had even added fake gris-gris and ominous talismans to deter the more daring.

By mid-October 1762, they had already begun clearing the site of the future manor and the seigneurial mill.

These two projects, deemed priorities, had barely begun when winter set in. François remained at the fort, while Onatah stayed in her village.

He used those months to begin recruiting willing settlers, known as censitaires or habitants. He first turned to the families of soldiers from the Régiment de Nouvelle-Aquitaine, then to veterans of the Six Years' War who had chosen not to re-enlist.

The official development of the seigneury didn't begin until the spring of 1763, and it picked up pace over the summer.

François divided his domain into long, narrow plots, following the tradition of New France. Each measured roughly a hundred and fifty meters wide by nearly a kilometer deep—stretching from the Champlain River to the road leading to Fort Carillon.

With that much land to work, the new inhabitants would have no shortage of things to do.

As in the Saint Lawrence Valley, the goal of this layout was to welcome as many censitaires as possible and to settle them on untouched land so they could build thriving households. It was also a clear message to the English: this land was now French, and would remain so.

These long, perpendicular strips of land along the Champlain River—the censives—formed what was known as the first range. Once it was filled, a second range would be opened further back.

By the end of 1763, only four households had settled there, living in rudimentary cabins. François had a house of his own as well.

At first, he had envisioned a small château, but quickly scaled back his ambitions. The first winter outside the fort had been harsh, and helping hands were in short supply.

But year after year, the house grew in size and strength.

In 1765, a second floor was added, along with a small stone cellar. And starting in 1766, François began replacing flammable materials with stone and brick.

Three years later, he was the proud owner of a handsome, sturdy L-shaped house. His seigneury now hosted nineteen families. One more, and the first range would be full.

François could only feel a deep pride for how far he had come—and a profound relief at having a place of his own he could call home.

Ah… Finally… I thought this day would never end. All I want is to lie down.

He left the main road and led his faithful mount between two stone pillars marking the entrance to his property. He had them built wide enough to allow a wagon to pass through.

For now, the land was only marked off by a low wall, more symbolic than defensive. But François intended to raise it higher, both for security and to discourage the curious from walking in as if it were a public square.

He guided Carmène to the estate's stable, a simple yet well-built structure located just to the left of the entrance. With a few practiced gestures, he removed the saddle, unbuckled the straps, and freed the harnesses, releasing the brave animal.

Before leaving, he offered her an apple, which the mare eagerly crunched into.

"I'm home!" François called as he pushed open the house door.

"Father!"

A bright, joyful voice answered. A small boy with sun-kissed skin and messy black hair came running into the vestibule.

"Heh!"

The child hurled himself at him at full speed, as if trying to knock him over. Smiling broadly,

François let himself fall backward with a playful groan.

"Oof! You're too strong for me now, Pierre!"

"Today I made Grandpa fall too! I'm the strongest!"

So Onatah's father stopped by again? He comes so often, we should probably build an extra room in the manor.

Puffed up with pride, the boy remained sprawled across his father's chest. Pierre, the eldest son of François and Onatah, was now five years old.

He looked a lot like Tehonwaskaron, Onatah's younger brother, only younger—and he was one of François's greatest sources of joy. Even if he drained his energy faster than Carmène could go through apples.

"Sir, you're back," said a gentle female voice.

François, still lying on the floor, lifted his head. A young woman in a simple dress stood there, holding a toddler of nearly two years in her arms.

"Yes, Jeanne. Were the children well-behaved?"

"Pierre refused to get dressed this morning. I had to be strict."

François looked at the servant for a moment, then at his eldest son, who suddenly put on an innocent face.

"Really? What's this all about?"

"I—I got dressed…"

"But not the first time. Don't make Anne scold you—you know I won't scold her if she does."

Jeanne Brochant had been hired shortly after Pierre's birth. She was a competent young woman with a gentle face, efficient, highly professional, and remarkably patient.

She was tall and slender, with fair skin and beautiful eyes as blue as a calm summer sea. Her hair was tucked neatly beneath a charming white bonnet.

The child she carried was Louis, François and Onatah's second son. He was nearly two years old now.

"Where is my wife? Has she returned?"

"No, sir. Madame left earlier. It seems there was a dispute on one of the plots."

"A dispute?"

François's expression grew more serious. He gently lifted Pierre off his chest and set him down beside him before rising to his feet.

"Can you tell me more? Is it serious?"

"It seems that one of your censitaires looked a bit too long at his neighbor's wife… The husband didn't take it well and crossed onto the other's land to confront him. It turned into a fistfight."

François let out a long sigh.

"Don't they have anything better to do? Are they really that short on work?"

"It's still winter, sir. The days are long, and idleness leads to foolishness."

François grumbled softly.

"Hmm. I think I'll reserve a section of land on the second range to build a rugby field."

"Really, Father?!" Pierre exclaimed, eyes shining.

Despite his young age, the child had perfectly understood his father's words. François had introduced him to the sport, and he had been fascinated. Ever since, he dreamed of running with the ball and scoring tries to the applause of a cheering crowd.

"Well, I'll certainly need the governor's approval, but I think it's doable. I'll say it's a popular activity among both soldiers and settlers. That it'll strengthen the bond between civilians and the military, while also helping maintain the men's physical fitness."

"That's a wise idea, sir," said Jeanne with a faint smile. "Your censitaires need distractions. And it will give your seigneurie a modern and benevolent image."

"Good. In that case, I'll discuss it with my wife as soon as she gets back, and then write to Monsieur de Vaudreuil."

"Discuss what with me?" came a soft voice from behind him.

François turned around.

Onatah had just returned. As beautiful as the day they met, she radiated a calming presence that could dispel any tension.

As she often did, she wore a mix of Iroquois and European clothing. She was now twenty-five, and would turn twenty-six in May.

"Ah, Onatah."

"Mama!" cried Pierre as he rushed toward her.

"Mama!" echoed Louis, arms stretched out to be picked up.

Onatah's face, still marked with fatigue, instantly softened at the sight of her children. Without the slightest embarrassment, as always, François kissed her gently.

"Jeanne told me there was an incident on one of the plots. Is everything alright?"

The beautiful Iroquois woman sighed.

"It's been resolved, but… I have to admit I sometimes have trouble understanding white people. They argue over nothing, like children."

"Isn't it the same everywhere? Maybe they were just looking for a way to blow off steam."

"I'm not sure I understand," said Onatah, running her fingers through Pierre's brown hair.

"I mean… maybe they were already upset and just needed a reason to let it out."

Onatah slowly nodded.

"That's possible. They apologized and promised not to fight again. But I get the feeling they said it just to please me."

"Honestly? That's very likely," François muttered, rubbing the back of his neck. "But I was thinking—and that's what I was discussing with Jeanne before you arrived—maybe we could build a rugby field on the other side of the road. It would give the settlers and soldiers a place to let off steam. And when it's not being used for games, we could hold a weekly market there."

Onatah took a moment to think. Though they made decisions together, she was the one who spent most of her time managing the seigneurie's affairs, while François handled his military duties.

"I think that's an excellent idea."

"Yes!" cried Pierre, jumping in place, already overexcited.

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The evening meal, prepared by Jeanne, was simple but comforting. It was her famous cartouffle à la québequoise, a dish now iconic in New France.

Although this plant was already known to the subjects of King Louis XV, its use by the American colonists had caught the attention of several scholars. Some, convinced it could be the key to ending hunger among the poor, had even crossed the ocean to learn more.

They were shown the québequoise, along with the purée and even fried slices.

François didn't know it, but His Majesty—curious by nature and intrigued by the plant—had tasted all three dishes and greatly enjoyed them. He had even asked his royal chefs to rework the recipes for himself and the Court.

He had also renamed the cartouffle "pomme de terre," (literally in English "apple of the ground") to give it a softer and more elegant sound.

As for the scientists and doctors, they published numerous treatises and theses to promote the root throughout the kingdom.

At the Montrouge manor, the potato appeared often in various forms—but it was also common to see both small and large game at the table.

These were usually obtained from the Iroquois—specifically the Mohawks from the village of Akwiratheka, who maintained an active trade with Fort Bourbon.

At first, Onatah's father had been hesitant about his daughter marrying a Frenchman, but he quickly changed his mind after the birth of his first grandchildren. He hoped there would be more.

According to Onatah, she had never seen him as happy as the day he held little Pierre in his arms.

Since she couldn't often travel to her native village, it was her father who came to visit her.

Tayohseron also stopped by regularly, as did Tehonwaskaron, now a tall and powerful warrior like his father and brothers.

They had even helped build the manor.

On the outside, the large house looked like a typical European structure, but its interior blended both cultures harmoniously: open spaces, clever storage, and a large stone hearth in the main room.

Each family member had their own bedroom. François insisted on that. He and Onatah shared the largest one.

After dinner, François went back to work—both matters of the regiment and the seigneurie. Then came bedtime.

"It's time to sleep," said Onatah as she laid a towel on a well-organized work surface. "Jeanne, can you take care of Pierre? I'll put Louis to bed."

"Yes, madam. Pierre, come with me."

"But I'm not sleepy yet…"

"And I have a story to tell," Jeanne replied mischievously.

The boy hesitated, then jumped up and followed Jeanne to his room. Stories were still the best way to get him to bed. Jeanne knew many of them, and she told them very well.

Meanwhile, François returned to his own room—a large space dominated by a bed wide enough for two. Several sheets, thick blankets, and a carefully spread animal pelt on top ensured warmth and comfort, even in the depths of winter.

Although the technology of this century was far behind that of his former life, he had never been cold within these walls since moving into this version of the Montrouge manor.

Unhurriedly, he removed the last pieces of his uniform, let down his long hair, and put on a long nightshirt. Then, François slipped between the still-cool sheets, soon to be warmed by the heat of his body.

The room was bathed in soft light from a single candle placed on a small wooden dresser. Its tiny flame cast long, dancing shadows across the brick walls and the ceiling's heavy wooden beams.

Exhausted from the day, he gave up on continuing his manuscript—a retelling of Sleeping Beauty—and closed his eyes.

But no sooner had he begun to doze off than he felt the sheets shift and the mattress yield under a new weight.

He slowly reopened his eyes and turned to the right to blow out the candle. A hand rested gently on his chest.

Hmm?

He stopped moving, then turned far enough to his left to see Onatah leaning over him.

She moved closer without a sound, a tender smile on her lips. She whispered softly in his ear, in her native tongue:

"Leave the candle on. I want to see you."

Without waiting for a reply, she straddled her husband and settled onto him with feline grace.

A smile spread across François's face. Suddenly, he was fully awake. She made that request from time to time, and it was true—they hadn't had a moment of intimacy in a while.

"Starved for love?" he teased, feeling the warm breath of his wife on his face.

"Since the moment you left this morning," Onatah confessed, beginning to undo the ties of her dress slowly, as if encouraging him to help her.

"Why didn't you say anything?" François mock-protested in French. "I would've stayed!"

His hands were already moving, rediscovering with fervor a body they knew by heart. Onatah closed her eyes, savoring his touch.

From her thighs, his hands moved up to her belly, slid over her ribs, claimed her soft, warm breasts, then her neck and the base of her skull.

Her heart beat faster; her desire flared.

"I know," she whispered.

She kissed him passionately. François pulled her close, as if to make up for all the lost hours.

Breathless, Onatah quickly removed his shirt and kissed him on the neck, then a little lower, on the collarbone—near a scar he'd gotten at Hastenbeck.

François returned her kisses with as much tenderness as intensity.

The candle remained lit for a long time in the lord's chamber.

Then, at last, it went out.

The Montrouge manor surrendered to the silence of the night.