The Seamstress

by Allison Pittman

  “They are the thieves,” Marcel said, “not us.” He sounded much like Gagnon in his reasoning, as if our countless hours of talking by the fire had seeped in without his knowledge.

  “There might have been food.” This from a scrap of a man at the end of the table.

  Marcel’s voice softened. “Nor are we beggars. Trust me, mon vieux, the time will come when we will want no more. We will take all that is due to us, and we will feast on bread and victory. But we have to be smart.” He began a slow pace around the table, and every greasy head turned to follow. “When you want to kill your prey, do you cut off a foot? Do you aim your shot at the hind’s hoof and hope it will trip and fall into your snare? No. You wait, you track, you follow. And when you strike, you strike at the heart.”

  He’d come full circle and stood directly behind Laurette, his hands on her shoulders. Her own heart stopped.

  “They will hang us if we hunt,” Dubois said with disgust.

  “No more than if we steal. Be more patient, mon ami. There will be time for a better shot.”

  Marcel’s final proclamation diffused the tension in the room, and all those who had been paying rapt attention to his words turned to their private, petty business. Her awe at his power to command the room sent a shiver through Laurette’s being, which Marcel took for cold, as he bent low to speak an invitation to sit with him in the corner where a fire burned low.

  “Two more drinks,” he said en route, gesturing to Saumon with one hand, and clutching hers with the other. “And whatever you have to eat.”

  “I should tell you,” Laurette said, keeping her voice low to save both of their pride, “I don’t have much money. Not nearly enough to pay for—”

  He squeezed her hand. “Even here, I am a kept man. My presence brings in others. And today? A fresh, pretty girl.”

  “You shouldn’t say such things.” Though Laurette’s smile belied her disapproval.

  The small table and two chairs were occupied at their arrival, but a dismissive glance from Marcel soon emptied them. Once Laurette sat, Marcel pulled the second chair closer and leaned in to speak.

  “Why are you here, Laurette?”

  “I told you—I came to see you. To be sure—”

  “Tell me the truth.”

  “Because . . .” The idea formed as she spoke. “I wanted to see where you go. Who you are when you’re not at home.”

  “I have no home.”

  “You do, always. With us.”

  “That’s not your home to offer, is it?”

  Chastened, she sat back and stared into the fire until the keeper came with a tray of wine and plate of paté and bread.

  “Merci, mon ami,” Marcel said, and began to serve himself before the man walked away. He portioned the same for Laurette, who took it gratefully and forced herself to eat slowly, not only to savor the deliciousness, but to keep the delicacy down in her swirling stomach. Meanwhile, Marcel wolfed down his first slice, and set about immediately dressing another. “Do you know what I think?” The firelight sent a devilish cast to his complexion, his loose curls doubled in shadows on his brow.

  Laurette forced a swallow. “The whole room knows what you think, Marcel.”

  “They do, indeed. And all would agree—I don’t think you came here to see me at all. You came so that I could see you.”

  “But you see me nearly every day.”

  “Not like this. I see you on that wretched farm. Always with sheep and mud. Some ridiculous cap on your head, your sleeves rolled up to your elbows so you can scrub something clean. Until that night, that first night that it rained, remember? And you were wearing that garment Renée fashioned for you. I got just a glimpse as you ran back to change.” He closed his eyes, and Laurette would have, too, but he was too beautiful to shroud in darkness. “I can see you now. Every bit.”

  Her bread went slack in her hand and fell to the floor, forgotten. Marcel opened his eyes, reached for her, and pulled her into his lap.

  “What do you mean?” she asked, though she knew. “What do you see?”

  In response, he buried a hand in her hair and pulled her down for a kiss that left their previous one in its shadow. His arm encircled her waist and she wrapped hers around his neck. Certainly, she thought, they would melt into a single being, like two wax figures left too close to the fire. Perhaps sensing that he need not urge her to kiss him, Marcel took his hand from her hair, dislodging its loose gathering as he did so. She felt a grazing across the fabric of her vest, briefly tracing the stitching of the peacock feathers, and finally a very surprising, but not unwelcome, grip to her bare calf. A protective instinct roared to life.

  “You mustn’t,” she said, breaking their kiss to look at the others in the room. If she and Marcel had attracted any of the patrons’ attention, they knew enough to glance away at that moment.

  “Do not mind them.” He continued his touch. “You are not the first woman to be seen in such a position. Our times are too desperate for modesty.”

  “I may not be the first woman. For you. But I’ve . . . I’ve never—”

  He kissed her again, irrevocably erasing the word never from her mind, drawing away only when distracted by a commotion at the door.

  “Mes amis! Mes amis!” He was a small, wiry man, and he jumped about with flailing arms, like a featherless bird. “You would not believe! A royal carriage, just on the other side of the trees. You know, that little valley? Overturned! Wheels spinning in the air!”

  As the man spoke, Marcel carefully dislodged Laurette, returning her to her chair, and stood, moving closer as if to catch every detail.

  “You see?” Dubois said. “Look, we are given another chance.”

  “So we are,” Marcel said thoughtfully. Then, to the newcomer, “You can find this again, Gerard?”

  “I think a cup of wine might aid my memory, but since this has interrupted my business, I’m afraid I don’t have . . .”

  Marcel summoned the patron. “Saumon! A glass for our friend here, who will lead us to great fortune!” Then, to Gerard, “Drink it down fast.”

  “Oh,” said Dubois. “Quite a change of tune, eh, Moreau? What was all that earlier? That we are not thieves? Why chase down now what we could have taken hours ago when they drove through our streets? So fast any of us could have been killed by their golden spokes?”

  “Perhaps,” Marcel said darkly, “circumstances have changed that they will not put up as much of a fight. If any at all.”

  His words elicited a grisly cheer, and Laurette, as unimaginable as it seemed given her state just moments ago, felt herself grow cold. Perhaps he sensed as much, because he turned away from the crowd and drew her up into his arms again.

  “You will come with us, ma belle?”

  “Non.”

  “Laurette . . .”

  “You just said—Marcel, what about not being a thief? And hanging. You wouldn’t—I know you couldn’t kill . . .”

  He gripped her arms, his eyes hypnotic. “It is known that even the greatest predators will chase their prey, waiting for it to tire and become weak. You wanted to see who I am, Laurette? This, this is who I am. I am a lion, and my prey has fallen. Show me that you have a lion’s heart to match my own.”

  L’épisode 4

  Renée

  * * *

  MOUTON BLANC, LA VALLÉE

  * * *

  By the time I arrive the driver is on his feet, covered in mud and swearing the way Gagnon does when he thinks we’re not around.

  “Are you all right?” I ask, still running. “And the horses?”

  He either doesn’t hear me, or doesn’t find my concern worth his while. Instead, he makes his way around and stops the still-spinning wheel, then hoists himself up to pound on the carriage door. Now I hear the sound of whimpering coming from within.

  “Madame!” he shouts, as he cannot reach to the window. “Are you hurt?”

  More sounds come, the volume intensified to a degree that I am satisfied w
hoever is inside the carriage feels more anger than pain. There is a loud banging sound, and the door bursts open—straight up, like that of a cellar.

  “Very good, madame. Very good. I shall—”

  By now I am close enough to be within reach of the carriage, and I make myself known to the driver. He is not a young man, his face thin and jowled and speckled with gray whiskers. He looks at me and makes it clear that I am to stay quiet. Not to make myself known to the passenger inside. Hopping down from his perch on the useless wheel, he holds the back of his hand to his mouth and whispers, “Garçon. Go, fetch help. Two strong men, at least.”

  I only balk for a second at the realization that he thinks I am a boy.

  “There’s no one,” I say, because there isn’t. Not at home, anyway. I could go to the village, catch up with Laurette on the road. Or, maybe, if I run fast enough, find Marcel and bring him here. But the sting of garçon takes on new life. I’m scratched and muddy, I’d be breathless and red-faced from the run.

  “Are you stupid, boy! Allez!”

  “Oui, monsieur.” I turn obediently, and rather than heading north toward home, following the sheep, I veer when I get to the cross path. Gagnon said this morning he was going to meet with other farmers in our area, to see if they suffered any damage from the rain. But I know that is not the true nature of this meeting. What farmer could suffer damage from the merciful, blessed soaking God sent to us? There’d been no wind, no hail, nothing that could have blown off a roof. Nothing to beat down a crop, if there had been a crop to beat down.

  No, he and others would be gathered around the table at the Girard place, not quite a mile from ours. I see Madame Girard in the market from time to time, and she always looks at Laurette and me with the most accusatory, suspicious glare, then says that she doesn’t trust a man who doesn’t have the decency to take a wife. She and Monsieur Girard have a grown-up daughter, Elianne, somewhat simple in the head with pock scars scattered on one cheek. I know it is their greatest wish to find her a home and a husband, and Gagnon is their greatest hope of all.

  So when he says that he is going to “meet with the neighbors,” they gather at the Girards’, not at our house. At least, not anymore. The last time they did, I hovered at the edge, a pitcher of sweet water in hand, listening, waiting for them to talk about crops, or flocks, or anything to do with land or livestock. Instead, they spoke of taxes. Of their land being parceled away from beneath them.

  “It’s not right that we produce food we cannot afford to buy,” Monsieur Girard said that day, slamming his meaty fist on the table. “They take and they take and they take—until we have nothing. And it will only get worse until we become men of action.”

  Gagnon put a calming hand on Girard’s shoulder. “Leave that talk to younger men.”

  “You are a young man,” Girard said, eliciting sounds of agreement from around the table. “But you’ll die under the weight of your labor soon enough. Think of your father—”

  “My father would have me place my faith in God, for in his hand the heart of a king is like a stream of water.”

  “Perhaps we need a stream of rebellion,” Girard said.

  At that moment, Gagnon registered my presence and bade the men to silence. Thereafter, they moved their meetings to the Girards’, and I was strictly forbidden to accompany him, even when Madame Girard was to pay me a thin copper for the dress I mended for Elianne, or when she promised me a whole bag of scrap wool for carding.

  “Tell me what she’s promised and I’ll bring it to you,” Gagnon would say. “Stay put until I get home.”

  Until today I’ve obeyed without question. When I come in sight of the clearing and see Girard’s house, larger than ours by far, I stop and take a few deep breaths, then push myself to run faster than before.

  “Allô! Allô!” I pound on the door until the sallow face of Elianne appears. “I—I need to see—”

  “Renée!” Gagnon pushes Elianne aside and grabs me by my shoulders. “You know you’re not to come—”

  I point, vaguely, behind me. “I had the sheep in the south pasture, and there was a carriage. And it—there was a hole. Washed out from the rain. And the horses . . .”

  My thoughts are as fast and shallow as my breath.

  “It’s overturned, then?” His face fills all of my vision, his gray eyes wide with concern for me. For what I may have seen.

  “I think—” and now it comes to me, what I saw in the flash of the carriage door opening—“there’s a crest on the door. And—” I remember the blinding—“it’s gold, and mon Dieu, Gagnon.”

  “Hush, now.”

  He pulls me close and stops my words with the coarse-spun fabric of his shirt. My head fills with the unspoken possibility. Royal. And when I do pull back for a bit of breath, he must sense I’m about to speak again, because he puts his hand to the back of my head and brings me closer. It’s now I realize that somewhere along the way, I’ve lost the broad-brimmed hat.

  “Say nothing more, Renée. I’ll make some excuse to leave, and then you can take me to the place.”

  “He said to bring two strong men,” I whisper when released.

  “That’s because whoever it is assumes he has two friends in this place.”

  Gagnon leaves my side and I overhear him tell Girard that one of the sheep is caught in a bramble and he must go to free it. It is the only time I have ever known Gagnon to lie, reinforcing the power of this secret. What follows is a chortling conversation about the uselessness of such a young girl to tend a flock, and the strength and agility of Elianne, who is offered up to accompany us. I hold no grudge against Gagnon, for I know he was only participating in a ruse, but I match Elianne glower for glower before the door is shut behind me.

  By now I’ve caught my breath somewhat, and while I can’t maintain the pace with which I ran to fetch Gagnon, we walk at a quick gait and reach the scene of the overturned carriage in good time. From a distance I can see a tall woman—the bright silk of her dress a stunning contrast to the rich brown and green of the land around her. I can hear her high-pitched wailing carrying across the distance.

  “Surely that’s not—”

  “No,” Gagnon says. “Not her, not the queen. But the crest on the coach is that of the palace.” He says it with an air of confidence. “Speak to no one. Do you understand? I’ll answer for you, should the need arise. But I can’t think of anything a member of the royal household would have to say to a shepherd girl.”

  “Boy.”

  “What?”

  “They thought I was a boy.” Here I see the hat on the ground where it must have fallen shortly after I took flight. I pick it up and pull it down over my ears, but not soon enough to drown out Gagnon’s laughter, as if he’s just noticed my attire.

  “Even better. What could be more useless than another poor, starving boy?”

  I fall back as Gagnon sprints ahead, and witness an immediate change in the woman’s posture. Where she had been pacing, arms flailing in accompaniment to her tirade, she now stands still. Stiff, really, with her chest thrust out and one hand perched at the thinnest part of her waist. It is a pose I’ve seen many times whenever Gagnon comes into a woman’s presence. He is a handsome man, after all. Usually, though, it is the lower class of woman who will so blatantly display herself—the kind of woman who loiters at the pub or preens in the alleys at the edge of the market. But this is obviously a woman of substance and wealth. No doubt the only hunger she knows is that which is apparent in her eyes as she takes in the vision of my guardian.

  “What’s happened here?” Gagnon asks, ignoring the woman completely and heading straight for the driver.

  “Nothing that wouldn’t have if you people could properly maintain your roads,” the woman says, physically inserting herself between them.

  “I beg your forgiveness, madame.” Gagnon removes his cap and bows his head, speaking to the ground at the hem of her skirt. I bristle at his subservience. “God saw fit to bless us with ra
in. We’ve grown so unaccustomed to any good thing, the very dirt on our paths was taken unaware.”

  I stifle my giggle a little too late and the woman scowls at me. “Impudent boy.”

  Gagnon doesn’t correct her, so neither do I, but I scowl right back from under the hat’s brim. When he notices, he says, “Renée,” in a tone fraught with enough warning for me to settle my features back into something like respect.

  While Gagnon and the driver examine the underside of the overturned carriage, I take an opportunity to examine the gown of the woman standing beside me. It is the color of a hearty red wine, the bodice trimmed in a dark-blue velvet, and the sleeves edged with lace. Never have I seen such finery up close. The silk of her skirt glistens, like it has been poured from her waist and somehow suspended in motion around her. She’s pacing—short, angry steps—and I can hear the rustle of petticoats. Like the sound of dry leaves on a flat stone. My own clothes, and those of everybody I know, are too worn and soft to call attention to themselves. This woman’s dress would announce her presence long before she turned a corner. It speaks.

  Now she speaks too. “What are you staring at, boy?”

  “Your dress is torn.” I point to a place where the flounce has ripped clear away from the skirt. “I imagine it happened when you were climbing out of the carriage.”

  She lets out a yelp of exasperation, and makes herself look silly turning and twisting in all directions to try to see the damage. “It’s ruined. Utterly ruined. And loaned to me by the queen herself.”

  I gasp. “The queen? Herself?”

  “Hush,” she says. “Your mouth’s not fit to say the word.”

  It’s meant, I’m sure, to be a stinging blow, but I laugh instead. “There’s no such hierarchy. I can say what I please and she’d be none the wiser. You, on the other hand, I assume will have to return the dress?”

  She wrinkles her nose and bends down, bringing it close to mine beneath the hat’s brim. Her face is pale, narrow, and pinched. “You’re not a boy at all, are you? No boy’s mind is so shrewd.”