Why the boys had insisted on taking sides about who Rose should or should not date was beyond her… even if it took her away from them all in the process. Was it not Rose’s own decision to make?
She had been through many things these younger kids did not understand, and it did not help to have arguments over things that were not up for discussion. Rose was becoming a woman… she needed to know they all loved and supported her for who she was, even if they didn’t agree with all of her choices.
Or any of them, lately.
Mama Fifine sighed as she followed the boys to the kitchen, shooing Cinderbelle and Wiley out of the way. Que el pobre gato debe ser dispuesto a tener un colapso nervioso, con todas las personas aquí que no esta acostumbrado, she thought to herself, smiling a little.
“Here we are,” she said, pulling up a chair. “Now, boys… it’s time for you to explain what happened. And no trying to pull everyone to your side of the issue this time, si?”
“Si, Mama,” Didier said as Duncan glumly nodded his head. “We understand. So, um… here’s how it went,” he began.
“I think Rosie should stay here with us and remember that we love her, and Didier thinks we should just let her live with her choices, as if they don’t affect anyone else.”
The words fairly flew out of Duncan’s mouth, and Mama Fifine frowned at him.
What happened to not swaying sides, she thought, sighing.
“Well,” Edward Stuart said, clapping his son’s shoulder with a hand, “I think you both have valid points; it’s good for Rose to remember who loves her, but it is also her choice to explore if that circle of people is really expanding or not. Isn’t it?”
The boys shook their heads no.
“Duncan thinks we’re the only people that love her,” Didier said. “But Rose is in love, and she says this guy she moved away with is really pretty cool. I wish I could remember his name, though… I only know the first part of it. I was going to try to see if you could research him, but also wanted to stay out of it,” Didier explained, his big brown eyes filling with tears.
He sniffled and rubbed a sleeve over his face.
“But I saw her letter to Pilar, as did you. Didn’t you,” Duncan asked. “Even I can tell he’s not nice. Otherwise, why wouldn’t she say where they went or what his last name is,” Duncan said, looking at Didier incredulously, as though the adults weren’t even there.
Mama Fifine sighed.
Lord, help them to stop fighting long enough for us to get through a meal and talk like civilized people. And be with Rose… Mother Mary, watch over her and bring her back safe to us in the Father’s timing, she prayed as she stirred the locro one last time.
“Now, boys, that’s enough,” Edward said, his tea in hand, most of the way to his mouth. He took a sip. “You both have valid points, but points get you nowhere when its someone else’s decision.”
Paloma nodded her head in agreement. “So right now, instead of fighting about what Rose should or shouldn’t do, why don’t we pray for her, alright?”
Didier nodded, followed by a grumble from Duncan.
“Well, alright,” her son told their guests. “I guess if it’s all we can do, then haremos lo que podamos con ella... pero yo digo que no es nuestro negocio, incluso para hacerlo.”
Edward, Duncan, and Paloma looked at her for an explanation, and she smiled.
“He says he might not agree that it is our business, even to pray, but he is willing,” Mama Fifine interpreted for them. “Basically… and he’s right. Rose has her own business, but you are right, too… we must pray, and pray hard. We know nothing about this joven - this young one – and we may never know, but we know God, and we know Rose. And we know she belongs here, with those who truly love her.”
And at that, she called everyone to lunch.
Paris, France… October 20, 1701
Roisin tucked Clarice in for the night once they’d said their prayers together, then made her way back to the dining area, where Maurice awaited her.
The week had been long, and she was thankful for a reprieve.
She sighed as she plopped down into her chair. Maurice eyed her a moment as Duffy padded along and plopped onto the floor at her feet. He was an underfoot, slobbery kiss-giving mop of a dog, but she loved him.
“What a day,” she said, finally, as Maurice drew his chair in closer to her. “Sewing, and cleaning, and that rambunctious ball of energy… whew!”
Not that what I do is anything compared with his work, she thought to herself. He’s the one has to be off in the wee hours of the mornin’ to tend to the Marquise and her whims, and then the King, as well, when he needs extra help. With their high demands, sometimes it was days before he got to come home. A few times, it had been several weeks, even, before a task was finished and they were allowed to go home to their loved ones.
“Yes, yes,” Maurice replied. “C'est vraiment beaucoup, en effet, Mon Amour. Mais maintenant, nous avons le temps…. I have tomorrow off, unless, of course, something comes up.”
He pulled her in for a quick kiss, and the dog barked, wagging his tail so it swished against her leg.
Och, Maurice finally has a day off, she thought, smiling to herself. It certainly has been a stint since that’s happened. ‘Bout time the Marquise realized it… or is the King to thank?
How long had it been since that had occurred? As far as she recalled, he’d had so few of them off that she could count the free days on her fingers and toes. And that was for their whole marriage as yet.
“Really,” she asked him. “And no catch?”
“No catch. For once. I just reminded the Marquise that I had a family, too, and that I miss them terribly so when I barely see them at all.” He reached for a croissant from the tray she’d set out earlier in the evening and took a bite.
Duffy moved away from them, his scraggly little body shaking in excitement as someone knocked speedily at the door. The sudden sound startled Roisin.
“Now, who could that be,” she wondered aloud as they both stood to answer it. “I dinna ken who would be coming at this time of night, knocking, when we ourselves should be getting to settling down for the evening. Do you, Maurice?”
She followed her husband through the cooking area, around the fire pit to the door.
“Qui vient à cette heure,” her husband called through the door.
“C’est moi, Herbert, Beausoleil. Puis-je venir dans quelques instants? Nous devons vraiment parler. Vous avez évité cette conversation assez longtemps,” she heard someone say, much more quietly than the knocking had been.
“Oui, oui ... venir en, Herbert. Just one or two moments,” Maurice called back, turning toward her. “This is the man I told you about, Mon Amour. And we must speak in private, for it is related to work. I am sorry I cannot allow you to be in the room, as it may take a fair amount of time,” he said, his big brown eyes watching her face.
He reached around her for a quick hug, kissed her cheek, and patted her on the bottom. “So, I will see you once Herbert has gone back home, yes?”
With a resigned sigh, Roisin agreed, called Duffy, and went back into their bedroom.
What could be so important, save a royal emergency, that this other man would track her husband down at night? And what had he meant… that Maurice was avoiding the conversation? What conversation had he been avoiding?
Thoughts tumbled forth as she prepared for bed, trying not to eavesdrop on what was happening. As she said her prayers; as she washed her hands and changed; as she lay down for the evening and pulled out her worn Bible, the murmurs from the other room drifted in through the cracks of the door, giving her pause.
“Lord, I ken Ye understand better than I what’s been happening with Maurice of late, and I ken I’m not to worry; Ye say so Yourself in Your Word, but I don’t ken if I’m doing all that I can to keep it from happening. Weithiau, nid wyf yn gwybod beth i'w wneud ar wahân i boeni, Arglwydd. Nid wyf yn ceisio. I jyst ... yn digwydd. Maddeuwch i mi.
I mean…” She paused, trying to put her words back into the common tongue, but her native Welsh continued to flow.
“Nid yw poeni yn dda i'r enaid, ie, mae hyn yn wir. Ac nid yw'n ychwanegu dydd i fyw ... os unrhyw beth, mae'n cymryd amser i ffwrdd. But, Lord, have some mercy. I ken what Ye say, and I ken what I’m to do and not do, and still, like Paul, I do what I don’t wish to. Ye ken Maurice’s heart, and Ye ken the conversing that he’s in now. Veuillez lui donner la sagesse dans tout ce qui se passe, Seigneur Dieu, pour je ne sais plus quoi faire. ”
And with that, she called Duffy in a whisper, and the dog gladly bounded onto the bed. She let him get close, and hugged him.
“At least I ken I can trust ye, Duffy, old boy,” she told him. “Whatever be happening, ye might be getting’ an earful from me soon if I have nowhere else to turn. Can’t rightly go speaking with Babette or Bettina about this, can I?”
Duffy wagged his tail and barked. Then, in the darkness, she felt his cold nose against her cheek before he gave her a decided kiss.
“Exactly. I ken ye’d understand.”
“Maurice, what is going on,” Roisin asked she pushed the covers away to let him in.
He had not even changed into something new for sleep; a first. The night was cold, but in spite of her prayers and the presence of Duffy, it felt colder, knowing he had been keeping a secret from her.
Was his change of procedure for the evening because he was tired, because of the cold, or because of some other reason?
She moved to get up, and he shook his head at her, the shadow of it cast against the wall for her to see. A sense of dread moved through her, in spite of her prayers to keep from worry.
What was happening to her family? And what would the effects and outcome be, if this were more than a simple conversation about things at work?
“It is nothing serious, my Love,” he murmured as he drew her close and slid in under the covers, pulling them up with the same motion. “He just had some questions for me, and that was all. Everything has been cleared up,” he said, squeezing her shoulders a little; pulling her in for a quick kiss. “Nothing to it but a crossing of wires between some of the other guards; we are handling it as we are able, and this is the truth.”
She pulled back a little; enough to see his face a bit in the light of the moon. Trees whispered and swished in the wind, and Duffy’s shaggy mane created spikes on the wall nearby; she could hear him barking gently in his sleep as she began to speak.
“I dinnae what ye’ve been hiding from me, Maurice Beausoleil, or for how long, but I guess I’ll just have to be trusting that ye know best,” she said. “Just promise me… promise me it isn’t anything dangerous… that it’s nothing that will bring harm or dishonor to our family.”
She looked him in the eye as well as possible, and moved to place a trembling hand against his well-rounded cheek. “Promise me,” she said again, her heart beating briskly within her. “Nothing dangerous.”
“Oui, I promise you, Roisin. Nothing dangerous. And not even a hint of dishonor to it; quite the opposite, I would hope. Just men’s business related to work. We kept missing each other with everything else happening. Nothing more to it, really, my Love.”
His words, though they sounded a bit avoidant to her, were sincere… but were his eyes?
It was difficult to tell in the moonlight.
She hoped so…
Well, Mother Mary… ye know, and so does your Son, as does the Father of us all. Watch over us, and keep us safe. Help our reputation to remain intact, too, if ye would. Mae'n fy mhoeni y byddai fy ngwr mor gyfrinachol ... ac yr wyf yn gweddio nad oedd yn cuddio oddi wrthyf rhywbeth y mae angen i mi ei wybod, she prayed, lapsing into her native Welsh yet again.
A peace came over her as she cuddled in closer to her husband, the stiff fabric of his justacorps and smooth coolness of his cravat rubbing against her cheek a moment: a welcome reprieve from the everyday chaos and commotion that seemed to permeate the very air of her existence. At least, of late.
Not that I would ever complain, mind ye, Lord, she thought to herself. I dinnae think I would ever find happiness again, and here I am, with a family and friends that ken I love them, and who love me back. I have a roof over me haid, and food to eat, and there are royalty who know me name. Not just anyone can say all that’s the truth. And not everyone would need to. But more than all that, I ken the Virgin Mary and her Son to watch out fer me, and me dear Declan awatchin’, too, she thought. And that, I ken nobody else can truly say. Nobody else was so blessed by two such different men to love and be loved by. I surely am thankful beyond words, Lord. Thank Ye.
And with that, she drifted off to sleep, not bothering to get after Duffy for curling up at her feet.
Boston, Massachusetts… October 20, 1936
Shannen Wishart-Laurent languidly sighed as she bookmarked her book at chapter X and set it aside – a brand new copy of Margaret Mitchell’s Gone with the Wind her husband had bought her for her birthday – and stretched before heading into the kitchen of their little apartment.
Her belly proceeded her, nearly bumping into the sink as she approached it to get some water in the dim lighting. She quickly turned the light on in order to see properly.
Now I can’t get that waltz out of my head, she thought as she made her way to the stove to put on a kettle of water. And the nerve of that Rhett Butler, bidding on Scarlett like that when she’s still in widow’s clothes! How could they even let something like that happen? It makes no sense! And that neither of them have any respect for the Cause of the war… why, that’s just…just…. How could they not? There was slavery afoot, and they were supposed to be on one side or the other, weren’t they? Didn’t they have thoughts on it, like regular people, or were they so against what was happening, they purposely ignored it?
She couldn’t even imagine!
Why, Shannen thought she’d gone into early labor just from the shock of it! Why, it was positively scandalous, and yet… how different the Civil War must have been from the Great War that was still emblazoned in the memory of the people… or even the Civil War in Spain presently occurring… so many shattered and lost lives, in all three cases.
She felt so bad for those enslaved… and had sometimes wondered as a girl what it might have been like. Reading about it now, through the eyes of Margaret Mitchell, she wasn’t so sure she wanted to think of herself in that situation.
The very image of herself in shackles, or out in a field picking cotton and beans, sent shivers through her, and she shuddered, her stomach doing a somersault. She placed her hands over the girth of it and took a few deep breaths, as well as she was able.
Did the feeling of being a slave feel anything like being a Jew, who, like her grandparents, had to move several times when they lived in Russia, simply because of their nationality? Was the hatred for black people the same as for the people of Israel?
True, she didn’t have to kowtow to anybody now, but her parents had, as children, and certainly their parents before them… and it had been so for most Jews from the beginning of their very existence. She had gotten strange and sometime chilling looks and comments as a child, but now that Hitler was riling up the people against Jews again, she saw more and more that frightened her; it frightened her for the sake of her child, more than for herself, but what could she do?
She couldn’t change being Jewish, just as those who were black couldn’t change their color or nationality or even their status. Her heart tripped over itself at the thought.
Was the hatred of whites toward blacks similar to the hatred of those who thought they were better than the Jews, simply because God had chosen them? The thought had never even occurred to her that the same fear might be behind both hatreds. But who was she to figure out the state of it all?
She glanced at the clock – red, white, and blue, printed with the words “Made in the USA,” with the year 1936 right on it – almost 5:30. Huh, she thought, laughing. Almost the same exact colors as the Red S
ox use.
She made sure the table was set properly and double-checked that their meal was ready.
I’ve got to shift my thinking. I’ve got to get my mind on something else, she told herself. The images of war she’d seen in the papers and heard stories about melded with Gone with the Wind in her mind.
A vision of Hitler yelling out for harder labor for slaves, only for Rhett Butler to shrug his shoulders at him and smirk intersected in her thoughts, and she had to run to the sink in the event she would vomit.
Thankfully, she didn’t.
Mother Mary, I could sure use some help. Would you speak to your Son… I need newer thoughts; better thoughts; kind and good thoughts. This isn’t working on my own, she screamed in her mind. I can’t do this right now. I can’t.
Shannen slowly moved toward the window, looking out over the city, just as the kettle began to whistle. The sky had cleared from the earlier rain, and she hoped it would stay that way at least until Steven got home from work.
She was thankful he’d found a good office job within a few building spaces of Fenway Park, where the Red Sox played their home games, and just as thankful that he seemed to enjoy it. One of the perks was, sometimes he could hear the events going on at the stadium when he stayed late.
Unfortunately, though, he stayed late once, sometimes twice a week because of backlogged paperwork other employees didn’t get to that were due the next day… but at least he had work, and it helped keep a roof over their head. And as a side benefit, he’d gotten to know some of the baseball team, and so had the family.
Footsteps in the hallway, followed by the jiggling of a key in the lock, announced her husband’s arrival home. The kettle sounded even louder that it was ready, just in time as he opened the door.
“Shannen? I’m home, and you’ll never believe what happened today, of all days,” he called as he came through the living room toward the kitchen.
Thankful for the warmth, she poured her water as she replied. “What is it?”
The Angels' Mirror Pack 2: Books Four through Seven Page 2
