“Send for Dr. Benoit,” she told her and dashed back to her house. She bathed Alain with a cool cloth for an hour until at last Dr. Benoit came, Martine hovering at his elbow. Dr. Benoit pulled Alain’s eyelid down, had him stick his tongue out, and examined his skin all over.
“What is it? Can the measles come back? You won’t bleed him, will you?”
“Settle down, my dear. This is the sixth or seventh child I’ve seen this week. They seem to pop right out of it in two or three days.”
“And then they’re fine?”
“And then they’re fine. I’m pleased how your boy has put back his weight. He will be himself again by the weekend.”
Just as the doctor said, Alain felt fine by Friday afternoon. Then it dawned on Tansy she hadn’t the money to send Dr. Benoit his fee. She’d missed three days’ work while Alain was sick and her pay went to the substitute teacher Rosa had to hire.
If she didn’t buy coal or firewood, she could send Dr. Benoit what she owed him. But Alain might catch a chill in an unheated house. She put Alain to sleep and sat with paper and pen, figuring her accounts. She gnawed at her thumbnail, something she hadn’t done since she was twelve. She’d never known this constant thrum of anxiety. Rosa was right. She didn’t know how to be poor.
During the night, she woke in a sweat, the sheet balled in her fists. Images of those hungry little boys’ desperate pale faces as they ran from the butcher shop lingered in her mind, as vivid on waking as they had been in her dream. How was she to sustain her courage with images like that in her mind? Fear lurked like the shadows in the corners, under the bed, sliding down from the ceiling and seeping into her skin. What would she do when all her ball gowns were sold and still Alain outgrew his clothes? What would she do if she herself were sick and couldn’t work?
She hugged her pillow to her, her stomach in knots. When she finally drifted off, it was with thoughts of oranges, buttered bread, and big fat sausages for Alain’s breakfast.
She woke with dread pressing on her chest. She sat at the kitchen table, her forehead pressed into her hand. She’d let herself believe she could do this, be a teacher, be an independent woman. She felt queasy and gray and heartsick. She was going to have to ask Valere to take her back. If it wasn’t too late.
She took out a sheet of writing paper. She sharpened a quill and opened the ink pot. She stared at the blank page, her hands in her lap. Nausea swirled in her belly and rose into her throat.
Just do it, she told herself. She closed her eyes and tried to compose the words. Dear Valere, she would write. I have been a fool. I thought I didn’t need you anymore, and now I can’t … I can’t afford coffee or tea or wine. I can’t afford to buy Alain new clothes without selling my ball gowns. I’m a failure. A nothing. Just as you thought. Come back to me and I will … continue to be a nothing. She fisted her hands. Not a teacher. A nothing.
She dipped the quill in the ink pot. In her elegant script, she wrote Dear Valere. Her grip on the quill tightened. She pressed the nib into the paper. Then, as if the quill had grown red hot, she dropped it on her desk and stood up. She didn’t have to do this now. Tonight, when she had prepared herself, she would write to him.
She put the kettle on. A cup of hot lemon water would at least warm her. She held her hands over the fire as the water heated and felt as low as she had ever felt in her life. Now and then, she had allowed herself to think that Christophe must be proud of her. Rosa would have written him that Tansy taught full time now, that she was like his Musette Vipont, self-supporting and independent. How he would despise her when he heard she’d gone back to Valere. But she had to do it, for Alain.
She heard her boy in the other room talking to General Ney, safe and happy and well fed. He’d never be like those children stealing food, racing away, their hearts thundering with fear. She’d do what she had to to make sure of that, even if it meant — God, she could hardly say the words to herself — even if it meant going back to being merely a rich man’s toy.
She fed Alain his breakfast, unable to swallow anything herself. She felt as though she might faint, but of course she would not. No reason to faint. She was simply being reasonable. Admitting the truth of who she was, a placée who wanted what was best for her child. There was no shame in that.
After school, instead of picking Alain up at Mrs. O’Hare’s, Tansy wrapped her blue velvet gown and trudged the avenue to Madame Celeste’s. The woman no doubt made herself a tidy profit off Tansy’s need, but that did not make her pleasant. She did her usual close examination by the light of the window, sniffed, and twitched her sharp nose.
“How much?” Tansy asked, humiliation gripping her by the throat.
Madame Celeste performed the ritual of scratching a figure on a price tag. Tansy grit her teeth and agreed. She would stop at Dr. Benoit’s and pay his fee on the way home. That at least should bring her some ease for the night. She’d write to Valere, and it would be done. No more worrying. No more dreaming … No more dreams.
Tansy pressed a hand to her stomach. She felt she might be sick, sick of herself, of feeling helpless and scared. And how would she feel with Valere back in her life? Surely this awful fear would be gone.
She stepped onto the sidewalk. A tall well-made man leaned against a hitching rail with his arms crossed. Nicolas Augustine. He gave her a lazy smile, his gaze raking her from toe to tignon.
“Tansy Marie Bouvier.”
A cold chill swept through her. Like a toothed predator targeting the weakest gazelle in the herd, Nicolas Augustine had found her at the lowest moment of her life. She fisted her hands to hide her trembling fingers, tilted her chin up, and swept past him. When he fell into step next to her, she picked up the pace, but his long legs easily kept him at her side.
“You don’t have to avoid me, ma chère. I only want to spend a few minutes with a pretty lady.”
“I don’t desire your company, monsieur.”
He showed no offense. “You don’t know me, Tansy. But I know you. I’ve had my eye on you ever since you were a girl. A beauty like you, how could I not lose my heart?”
Tansy stopped abruptly in the middle of the sidewalk. “You think I am some green girl to swallow such tripe? We have nothing to say to each other.”
His hand lightly traced the length of her arm, his eyes burned through her bodice and scorched her skin. She knew who he was, what he was, and still her pulse leapt at his touch.
“Then we don’t have to talk,” he murmured, his voice suggesting more fleshy communion. His gaze painted her neck, her lips, her breasts. “Your Monsieur Valcourt is looking for a fresh face — you see, I know all about you.” His voice flowed over her, into her, smooth and warm and dangerous. He touched a long finger to her cheek. “Are you lonely in the night, ma chère? Do you miss a man in your bed?”
Tansy jerked back and strode away from him, her heart racing. He strolled beside her with perfect ease. “I know you have brought Madame Celeste three gowns. I know you have expenses and other … needs. I want to help you, Tansy. You know I can help you. A woman like you, you shouldn’t be alone, and you shouldn’t have to do without.”
He took her elbow and made her face him. “Tansy, I want you.” His voice, low and seductive, created a sense of intimacy even though they stood together on a busy street. “I’ve always wanted you.”
The man was a furnace of sexuality. She felt his heat through her sleeve, penetrating fabric and skin and muscle. The planes of his face, the carved plush lips, the lingering gaze — Tansy had never seen, never felt, such a raw sensual force. For a moment, the man lay a film of neediness, of lonely yearning — for her, only for her — over the confident, captivating manner. “Let me love you, just a little. Give me a chance to show you how good we can be together.”
Acid rose in her throat. The old threat, plaçage or prostitution, safety or degradation. She gazed into the eyes of ruin, beautiful brown eyes, long lashed, full of sincerity and promise. Girls like her, Maman had said, qu
adroon, beautiful, helpless — they required a patron. The only alternative in her world was an alliance with a man like Nicolas Augustine who would exploit her youth and her looks until she was used up.
The image of the greasy-haired woman sleeping in a shabby room on dirty sheets came to her as vividly as the day Maman had dragged her into the brothel. Tansy pulled her arm away. “Is this what you say to the women who live in your house? That you love them?”
He flashed her a grin. “I do love them, chèrie.”
She looked with contempt into his seductive eyes. “Do not speak to me again, monsieur.”
The man’s easy charm turned to ice. He gripped her arm again, this time without tenderness. “I see you selling off your gowns. You buy that boy of yours used clothes, you walk in patched shoes. Soon you won’t be able to keep food on the table.” He leaned in close, his clove-scented breath nauseating. “You’ll see it soon enough — you need me.” The low purr turned to a contemptuous snarl. “You’ll come to me. But, darling, don’t wait till your tits dry up and your skin’s yellow with hunger. I’ll have no use for you then.”
He released her arm and resumed his mask of charm and good will. “You know where to find me. Au revoir, my beauty.”
She watched him saunter away, loose-limbed and lithe as a tiger, sinuous as a reptile. A shudder of cold dread ran down her back. She reached for the awning post to keep herself on her feet. Valere, or Nicolas Augustine. The trembling moved into her shoulders, and then up her neck. Bile threatened to choke her. Valere or Nicolas Augustine.
Tansy picked up her hemline and ran all the way home as if she were chased by dogs. She slammed the door behind her, then bent over and gasped for air, waves of panic stealing her breath. She gulped at the sobs wracking her body and sank to the floor. As abruptly as they had begun, the sobs shifted into belly-deep bursts of laughter.
Helpless hysteria seized her as maddened guffaws and weeping drained all sense and strength. When at last the crazed spasms degenerated into pants and hiccups, she sprawled where she’d dropped to the floor. A strange calm flowed through her, leaving her languid and oddly passive. The hard floor welcomed her, the quiet house promised her peace. She closed her eyes.
When she raised herself from the floor, she felt depleted but strangely tranquil. The most dreadful fate of her imagination, becoming one of the poor creatures in Nicolas Augustine’s brothel, stared her in the face. But it didn’t have to happen. She knew what to do. She washed her face and went to fetch Alain from Mrs. O’Hare’s.
Through the evening, as Alain played, as she washed and dressed him for bed, the page on her desk seemed to glow in her peripheral vision. Dear Valere. She would write the letter. Valere would shield her forever from want and worry, from Nicolas Augustine and hunger and fear.
Once Alain was asleep, she sat at her desk and stared at the page, inert. She waited, for some inner signal, some impulse to drive her to pick up the pen. A moth flirted with the candle flame. The clock ticked on.
A knock on the door startled her out of her reverie. Valere stood at her door for the first time in weeks. “Hello,” he said, standing uncertainly, his hat in his hands. Numbly, her first thought was that she wouldn’t have to write the letter after all.
She could almost see Fate in the shadows, mocking her, forcing her choice between Valere and Nicolas Augustine. She took his hat. “Come in, Valere.”
He looked around the room, obviously uncomfortable. “Alain gone to bed?”
“Yes. Would you like to look in on him?”
“I think I would.”
She opened Alain’s door quietly and Valere walked into the room. He stood over the bed a moment, just looking at his son. “He’s bigger, I think,” he whispered.
“Yes. He’s been growing.”
He walked back to the parlor and sat in his favorite chair. She had no wine in the house to offer him. She couldn’t even make him a pot of coffee.
“How are you, Valere?” He didn’t look well. Beautifully groomed, as always, but there were circles under his eyes and he’d added a few pounds.
“Well, thank you. How are you, Tansy?”
She hoped her earlier emotional maelstrom didn’t show. She still felt light-headed, in fact, but she said, “Alain and I are well, thank you.”
The silent moments stretched out. “My Arabian won two races this fall,” he said.
“How very exciting. And did you buy the gray you spoke of?”
“Yes, I did. He’s coming along. Took third at Metairie last week.”
“Congratulations.”
He took a breath. “See here, Tansy, I don’t want to talk about horses. I’ve come to give you another chance. I’ll take you back if you’re ready to see reason.”
A singular coolness washed over her, a cooling of the nerves throughout her body. “If I’m ready to see reason?” Her old mantra came to her. There is only now. She hadn’t said that to herself in months. She hadn’t needed it because she’d had more than simply now. She’d had hopes and expectations for tomorrow.
“Mac told me he’d been out to patch the roof. I know about the broken window. And, look, Tansy, even I recognized that gown of yours, the blue one, in the shop window. You’ve been selling off your ball gowns.”
She made herself unclench her hands. “Yes, there have been expenses.”
Valere came to her on the sofa. He took her hand and smoothed out her fingers. “You’re not meant to struggle over money, sweetheart.” He kissed her forehead.
A tide of loneliness and need flooded her. She leaned into him as he kissed her eyes. Was it so hard to accept him, along with the condescension, the “seeing reason”? Was that such a high price to pay for safety and comfort and affection? She could let him take her to bed and hold her and make love to her. And she’d never have to lie awake worrying again.
“I’ve missed you,” he said and took her into his arms. His kiss was sweet and gentle. Tears welled in her eyes. It had been so long since she’d been held, and after the leering heat in Nicolas Augustine’s eyes, she felt safe in Valere’s embrace. This was, if not love, affection. Permanency. Security.
She stroked his cheek. “Valere.”
He cradled her other hand against his chest and smiled at her. “Yes, my love?”
Her hand stilled. My love? Valere had never called her his love, had never said he loved her in all their years together. In fact, he didn’t love her. He simply wanted her, the convenience and comfort of her. And she didn’t love him. But plaçage had never been about love, had it?
What would it cost her, what would she lose in exchange for Valere’s protection? Tomorrow morning, her seven little boys were to have a Day of Rhymes. They were going to make long lists of rhymed words on the big chalk board at the front of the room. They were going to make up rhyming lines of poetry and conjure up a rhyme for every bite of food on their plates or objects in their pockets. She was looking forward to reaching into her own pocket and producing an orange for them to try to rhyme. They were going to have such fun.
And Valere would take her back only if she narrowed her world to this cottage, to waiting for him and tending to him. He didn’t even want her to read.
He kissed her and ran his hand down her back. She did want him. She wanted him so much at that moment. She cupped his face in her hands and kissed him with all the affection she’d ever felt for him. She blinked at the tears spilling over. “Valere. I did so want to love you.”
He kissed her wet cheeks and smiled at her. “We’ll be happy again, you and me and Alain.”
Slowly, she shook her head. “No, Valere. I can’t.”
His body jolted. His hand at the back of her neck tightened. Tansy stepped away from him.
“You need me,” he said. “You need my allowance. You need my name to keep the likes of that Augustine fellow from following you around.”
“You know about him?”
“The Quarter is a small town, Tansy. You were seen this afternoon.
Without me, men like that lowlife will be after you all the time.”
“And so you came to me tonight to save me from him? Oh, Valere, thank you. You don’t know what it means to me that you would do that.”
“You’re my good girl, Tansy. Of course I’ll protect you.”
“But you don’t understand. I don’t think I understood either.” She lay her palm against his heart. “Dearest Valere, it’s not like you think. Not like Maman has always said. Just because Nicolas Augustine says come, I don’t have to go.”
“Of course not, but you’re vulnerable. And you have Alain. And expenses. We’ll go back to the way we were, forget all this ever happened.”
She gathered his hand in both of hers. It was all so clear now. “No, my sweet Valere. No.”
He stared at her open-mouthed. “You’d send me away?”
“Yes. I must send you away.”
“I’ll take the Frognard girl,” he said, his voice harsh. “I won’t give you another chance.”
She swallowed. This was the moment. Valere … or patched clothes and worry and counting pennies. And it meant pride and accomplishment and becoming.
“I’ll always care for you, Valere. But I don’t need you.”
She studied his face. He was hurt, angry, and confused. He didn’t understand, and that was reason enough to send him away.
She walked over to his hat and held it out to him. His face red, his eyes wet, he swallowed. Then he straightened. He took his hat with one last searching look at her face.
She closed the door behind him and leaned her back against it. It was done. She had cut her last tie to Valere and all he had to offer. She truly was on her own now.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Tansy put on her slippers and robe and padded into the parlor where the letter she’d begun to Valere only yesterday morning still lay. Dear Valere it said. She had used him, she supposed, as he had used her. He had kept her from want and worry and, just as importantly, from the fear of want and worry. She’d changed her mind about what she feared, however.
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