The Seamstress

by Allison Pittman

  Cossette and Copine had escaped out into the rain the minute I opened the door, and I spy them now, waiting for a command to come back in. This I give, then hold up my hands against the spattering of water as they shake their coats dry.

  “Well,” I say once my own laughter dies down, “it doesn’t look like it’s going to let up anytime soon. Bring the milk in when you’ve finished. I’ll ask Laurette to make us a batch of bread porridge for breakfast. And there’s tea.”

  “Merci. I’ll be in directly.”

  I think of Laurette, lounging on the floor in her makeshift blanket dress and decide I’d better move quickly. Without further conversation, I climb up to our cozy loft and find my basket. Knowing today will be largely spent indoors, I might as well take advantage of the time. I look around, briefly, for anything Laurette might want for a day of leisure. Finding nothing, I grab my comb and two pair of warm stockings and head back down the ladder, pausing at the bottom rung to enjoy the sound newly added to the morning. Marcel, just under his breath, sings an unfamiliar tune. Its lyrics are nothing more than the hiss of soft consonants, and I want to ask him to sing louder, clearer, but something tells me it is a song I’m not meant to hear at all.

  L’épisode 2

  Renée

  * * *

  MOUTON BLANC, CHEZ GAGNON

  * * *

  Two days, and we have experienced no more than a few hours’ respite from the rain.

  At any other time, such a deluge would be welcome, farmers out in their fields, faces upturned to catch what glorious drops they could. But our field is empty. Everybody’s field is empty. The ground has yielded less and less for two seasons now, and what it has provided has been harvested, sold, and given over to pay taxes on the very land that bore it.

  “We grow hungrier and hungrier,” Marcel says, the candlelight making great slabs of shadow on his face. He is bent low over a pamphlet, moving it this way and that to fit within the light. “And they are too fat to fit through their doorways to see.”

  Laurette giggles at the image, but I know better than to laugh. I occupy myself with my needle and the skein of yarn I’ve managed to card and spin from scraps left in the bins after Gagnon returns from market. It’s been dyed a rich berry hue, and I’m working it into a thick lace—something I hope to stitch over the cuffs of my dress after adding mismatched length to the sleeve.

  “I don’t know how you can complain of hunger when you’ve been eating at my table for two nights,” Gagnon says without malice.

  “Well, I’ve no means to my own table, have I? No land of my own to work—as if any of us can claim our own land.”

  “I can,” Gagnon says. He, too, has taken up a fireside chore, whittling thick pegs to mend the sheep’s pen that will surely be flattened by the time the rain stops. “My grandfather was born in this house, and every man in my family until . . .”

  His voice fades, because the last of his line to be born in this house never took a breath.

  “Until the day they decide to take it.” I’m silently grateful to Marcel for steering the conversation back to his rant. The grayness of the day needs no ghosts.

  “No one’s taking my land. It isn’t mine to lose.”

  “Exactly my point.”

  “No.” Gagnon never looks up from his knife blade. “Not your point, I don’t think. This, and all that I have, belongs to God. I work it at his pleasure. When he withholds the rain, I let my fields go fallow. He grows the grass that feeds my sheep.”

  “And for all that, you give more than half what you earn to those who care no more for your life than they would the life of one of your precious sheep.”

  “You’re wrong, Marcel,” Laurette says. Of all of us, only she sits with idle hands. “Any one of Gagnon’s sheep has far more value than any of us. They have wool, we have only flesh.”

  “And some of us not much of that.” I feel Marcel’s eyes on me as he says it, his voice tinged with worry.

  “And some of us too much,” I say, lifting nothing but my eyebrow in Laurette’s direction.

  “No such thing,” she says. Gagnon makes a chastising sound, but Marcel laughs, whether at my comment or hers, I cannot say, but the sound dissipates the festering anger in the room.

  Later that evening we have supper—a pie Laurette has made from a sodden grouse Marcel found taking shelter under the eaves. We join hands and bow our heads for Gagnon to ask God’s blessing on the meal. Rather, Laurette and I do, for a moment, looking up at the thinly veiled harshness of his voice.

  “We are bowed in prayer, mon ami.”

  Marcel sits, one hand gripping Laurette’s, the other mine, plank-straight in his chair. “By all means, proceed.” He gives my hand a little squeeze. It feels like a wink, and I wonder if he’s done the same to Laurette.

  “The Gospel says that he who will confess Christ before men, him will Christ confess before the Father in heaven. We shall all acknowledge God at my table, and give him thanks for his provision.”

  “Ah—” Marcel uses our joined hands to point to the pie—“but I found the grouse for the pie. Do you not think I am owed some thanks as well?”

  Laurette unsuccessfully stifles a laugh, bringing their joined hands to cover her mouth. To my shame, I also find Marcel’s reasoning amusing, but when I witness the glare Gagnon sends across the table, I fight for a stoic expression.

  Once again, Gagnon bows his head, and I follow suit once I see Laurette has, too.

  “For the food on our table, and the friends at hand, we thank thee, our Father.” His words are simple. Humorless, but gentle. I open my eyes to find Marcel’s dark eyes still open and the slightest furrow between his brow. He must not know I’m watching, because he looks at Gagnon with unveiled affection. For all his bluster, for all he would deny God’s hand in his life, it is clear at this moment that he is awash in gratitude. Not only for the food at the table, I suspect, but for his place among us. When Gagnon says, “Amen,” I must tug my hand from Marcel’s grip to sign the cross.

  There are parsnips and peas and a fine, thick gravy saturating the crust. Marcel drags his spoon along the edge of his portion and attempts to transfer it to mine.

  “Do you not like it?” Laurette asks, her attention captured by the sound of the scraping spoon.

  “She’s too thin,” Marcel says. He sits next to me, and I lay my hand upon his to stop him.

  “I’m fine, really. This is enough.”

  “She doesn’t eat much,” Laurette says, assuming the authority of the table.

  “By choice?”

  “Please.” Wanting nothing more than peace and giving no thought to manners, I reach over and pluck a tantalizing piece of meat from Marcel’s offered portion. I chew and smile, my lips slick with grease. Once I swallow, I say, “Thank you,” and glance across the table to Gagnon and Laurette to see if they, too, are pleased to see the end of the discussion. For his part, Gagnon has not looked up from his meal to register an opinion, but Laurette looks on with unabashed hunger. Not for the lingering gravy on my fingers, nor the uneaten food on Marcel’s spoon, but for Marcel himself. And, I suspect, for the ease the two of us have together.

  “You may as well finish, since you’ve taken the choicest part.” With no further ado, he empties his spoon onto my plate.

  If not for the fact that, as our guest, he’s been given the lion’s share, I might have protested more. In one aspect he is right—I am hungry. It is a constant state with me, a low buzzing at the base of my head, a cord that cinches my stomach at the thought of food when I know there won’t be enough. Perhaps that’s why I often am satisfied with so little. I take the few bites with gratitude, ignoring Laurette’s glare.

  When darkness falls on this second day of rain, it is Marcel who will sleep in front of the fire while Laurette and I make our way to our loft.

  “Wouldn’t have to if Gagnon would open that second room,” Laurette says once we make it through the door. “The woman has been dead for seven yea
rs. It’s a waste of an empty bed.” We’ve covered our feet with a double layer of burlap to protect us from the mud, and I kneel beside her, untying the cords.

  “You shouldn’t say such things. A man’s grief is his own.”

  “Can I tell you a secret?” She kneels and releases my feet from their mud-caked slippers. “When I’m here by myself, I go in there. All the time.”

  “Laurette! That’s terrible! That’s . . . dishonest.”

  “Just to check, and tidy up. What if there were a leak in there, ready to flood the whole house? Or mildew growing in the corners? If nothing else, sometimes I’ll open a window to let out the spirit.”

  I shudder and cross myself at the thought, then follow her up the ladder, noticing the width of her calf. How is it she maintains such nourishment when the rest of the world around her suffers such pangs of hunger?

  When I’ve stripped my dress and settled beneath my blanket, there’s just enough light through the slit in the lantern to allow me to see my needle. Working to complete one last row, I’m too distracted to suppress a sigh.

  “What is it?” Laurette asks from the darkness.

  “What is what?”

  “What is it that has you breathing like a bear?”

  I giggle, and relay the story. Marcel, the hole-ridden blanket on his shoulders, then dropping to reveal so much of him.

  “What a waste,” Laurette says.

  “How so, a waste?”

  “Your attraction. He feels nothing for you other than that any man would for a little sister. Or a starving dog. Makes me sick how you ate off his plate. We don’t even allow Cossette and Copine to beg at the table.”

  “I wasn’t begging.” I steady my hands not to drop a stitch.

  “But you took it.”

  “I tried—”

  “With those skinny little fingers. Took it right off his spoon.”

  “You’re just jealous.”

  Her laugh pierces, sharper for the shadows that encase it. “Why would I be jealous of a child?”

  “I’m not a child.”

  “You’re younger than he is.”

  “As are you.” If only a year.

  I’ve finished the row and put my project in the basket beside my bed. The lamp hangs on a pole jutting out between our beds, and I take a stretching step to blow it out. On very cold nights, Laurette and I will huddle together on one mattress, keeping each other warm, though I doubt how much I contribute. Tonight is it almost chilly enough to warrant such closeness, but I can tell by the edge of her voice I would not be welcome.

  Before getting into bed, I kneel beside it to say our prayer—the one Gagnon taught us. Laurette does not stir.

  “Prayers,” I remind her, and can sense the irritation in the way she throws back her covers and comes beside me.

  “God of heaven, see me now,

  ’Neath stars and moon and darkest cloud,

  Grant me dreams to sleep in peace,

  And with the sunrise in the East,

  Wake me to a glorious day.

  Father, Son, and Holy Spirit—I pray,

  Amen.”

  The rain hits steadily, like whispers, and my ear strains to the occasional heavy droplet. To think, being in such a small space, every drop of it is splashing only inches above our heads.

  “You wouldn’t understand,” Laurette speaks as if nothing has interrupted our conversation.

  “Understand what?”

  “Marcel. And just how wonderful he is. You only think he is handsome because you are silly. You could never know what it is to truly love a man.”

  “Marie Antoinette was younger than me when she got married.” Other than reports of her beautiful dresses, it is one of the few facts I know about our queen.

  “Yes, well, since your blood has no value, you’ll be spared that fate.”

  I laugh, and she does, too, knowing that we both live lives of little value to anybody but each other. “It’s a good thing, too,” I say. “Otherwise, Marcel wouldn’t want to have anything to do with either of us. You know how much he hates the monarchy—”

  “And the government—”

  “And the Church—”

  “And so,” Laurette says with giggling declaration, “if I present myself as nothing more than a poor, classless heathen, I should be the perfect woman for him.”

  “You’re not a heathen,” I say, sobering, with just a hint of uncertainty. “You were baptized into the Church, same as me. And you believe in God—I know you do.”

  “Just because I believe in him doesn’t mean I trust him. Marcel says we have to take our lives into our own hands. Like I did when I brought us to Gagnon.”

  “I think God brought us to Gagnon.”

  “Think what you want, Renée.”

  Silence again, except for the rain.

  “Would you really want to marry Marcel?” I ask. “And leave me here alone?”

  “Oui . . . et non.” There is a pleasant sigh in between.

  The next morning Marcel is gone, and we are given the run of the house, as Gagnon has gone to a neighbor’s to confer with other farmers. In his estimation, the rain has been nothing short of a miracle, soaking the ground while the few seeds for this year’s scant garden nestle inside. Too deep to be washed away. Too soon to have sprung up with new, fragile growth.

  I prop open the windows, allowing sweet, fresh air to chase out the dank of the house. The stone floor must be swept and washed, as our muddy tracks have made it indistinguishable from the yard. Neither of us has the energy to wash our linens, but we hang them out just the same, letting them soak and be cleansed in sunshine. Through it all, Laurette works half as hard as I do, and grumbles twice as much, but I don’t mind. It feels good to work after two restless, rainy days. Not that I’ve been idle. I’ve mended every stocking in the household, patched breeches, repaired pockets, reinforced seams. I’ve cut scraps into quilting squares, and used the trimmed-off strips to braid into belts, and tied bits of thread end-to-end to wrap around my spool.

  So when, midmorning, it seems that the sun will hold for the day, I offer to take the sheep out to the southern field. Laurette begs off. I suspect her reason has to do with what we talked about the night before, the second bedroom locked away and her propensity to open it. But when I confront her, she just laughs.

  “Don’t be stupid. I just don’t want to tramp around with a bunch of dirty sheep is all. Going to toil like a Turk and then—”

  She could never stop herself from her own secrets. “Then, what?”

  “Go into the town, maybe. That’s all.”

  A blush has risen up, bursting into roses on her cheeks, and blotches of uneven color spread across the ample chest bared by her bodice.

  “What for, in town? You haven’t got any money.”

  “What do you know what I’ve got? Plenty to stop in with some friends and have a cup of wine to the rain.”

  “I suppose Marcel will be there, too?”

  The deepening of her flushed state answers long before her assenting nod.

  “Did he invite you?”

  “I don’t need to be invited to a public house, Renée.”

  “Gagnon won’t approve.”

  “I don’t need permission, either. Besides, I’ll be home long before he is. And more sober, too, I’ll wager.”

  I touch my tongue to the back of my teeth and call the dogs to my side. “Maybe you should take Cossette with you? For the walk there and back. You shouldn’t go all alone.”

  “I’ll be fine. Besides, if all goes as planned, I won’t be walking home alone.”

  Pushing my uneasiness aside, I go to the corral, open the gate, and give the dogs the command to run the sheep through it. I stand, staff firmly planted as they tear past me. In years past, I would pull my skirt up and tuck it into its waist, creating a pair of rough, ratty bloomers. Recently, though, I’ve devised something infinitely more clever. My skirt has been cut into panels, and these panels wrap around my waist, c
reating a thick belt into which I can tuck a bit of needlework to pass the time. Today, though, I’ve vowed to give myself respite from my crochet hook and simply bask in the beauty of the day. Underneath the skirt wound around my waist, I’ve fashioned breeches that fall just below my knees. In an instant (meaning, at Gagnon’s approach), I can unwind the belt and button up the panels, creating a dress as convincing as any other. Until then, I opt for comfort and function, even if—as Laurette says—my knobby knees make me look like a malnourished peasant boy. An image I’m sure is complete with the addition of Gagnon’s wide-brimmed leather hat.

  The grass is cool and wet beneath my feet; more than once I have to use my staff to keep from slipping. The flock moves as a single meandering mass, and I whistle one command after another, steering them to the left or right, sometimes because I feel they are traveling too far from the promising field, other times just to amuse myself at their obedience. I think about Laurette’s comment—how common we are. Peasants, even. I may not have royal blood, but I have power. With a whistle and a click I command the dogs that command the sheep. I will decide where they eat, and how much. In a few weeks’ time I’ll help shear their wool, keep remnants to card and spin and dye at my pleasure. These sheep live so my feet will be warm in winter. One of their lambs will be my supper this Easter. Another, a stew.

  How could any queen have more power?

  And yet, as far as I can tell, our sheep do not despise me. Not the way our country has grown to hate Queen Marie Antoinette. Gagnon refuses to speak of her, claiming no good can come of vile gossip, but Laurette takes great pleasure in showing me the vulgar drawings circulated in newspapers and political pamphlets. I don’t always understand what I see, and Laurette is sometimes incomprehensible through her giggles.