“And that’s a good thing?”
He pauses in his work. “It’s a very good thing, Laurette. For all our safety.”
“You needn’t worry,” Laurette says. “Marcel stayed in town.”
Gagnon glances up, something unidentifiable in his face. Less than anger, more than concern. “You shouldn’t have gone there.”
“I had to get away, after so many days cooped up with the rain . . .”
“Then go to the fields with Renée.”
“I’m not like Renée.”
Gagnon says nothing but returns to his work.
After a moment, Laurette rises and turns to climb the ladder. “Good night, then.”
“He’s a dangerous man,” Gagnon says to her retreating figure, “and I hope I don’t live to regret inviting him to my table.”
I wait until Laurette has disappeared and a few breaths more, sensing that the moment newly past between the two was not meant for me to share. Then I open the door wider, allowing the creak of its hinges to announce my presence, and ask an obvious question, “Where is Monsieur Rancon?”
“He’s chosen to sleep in the carriage,” Gagnon says, and I can see that he is forcing some levity into his reply. “Protecting it with his life, though I don’t know how much of a fight he’d put up if anyone made a claim to it.”
I look at the unfamiliar tools. “Will you have it mended by morning?”
“I hope to, yes.”
“Then I must hurry, too. It seems we both are charged with mending tonight.”
I climb up to our loft, certain to find Laurette awake since it was only moments ago she left Gagnon, yet her form is perfectly still, as if in a deep slumber. This evening, it seems, is one for deception all around. She offers no reply to my whispered greeting, and I have no idea what I would say to her if she did. All my life, our last words of the day have been to each other. But tonight, this intrusion of strangers and old friends has wedged something between us.
I grope in the darkness and find my basket. I know what I have inside will be perfect, but I won’t know until dawn if it will be enough.
The sun is coming up as I bite off the thread at the final stitch. I want to rise and work the crick out of my neck, but I’ve spent the night covered in heavy, fine silk, and I can’t say when that will happen again. Only the sound of Madame Gisela calling me from the bedroom summons me to stand.
“Oui, madame,” I answer her impatience. A glance out the window reveals Gagnon and Monsieur Rancon working to reattach the carriage wheel. Today, despite his inevitable protest, I’ll make certain that he takes to his bed until dinnertime, at least. Laurette and I can see to all the chores.
“Renée!”
For the first time in my life I feel like a servant as I unfold myself from the chair and gather up the silk so that not a bit of it touches the floor. The dress is heavy, and I can’t imagine the burden of carrying such weight every day.
“I don’t suppose you’ve anything that can pass as a dressing gown?” Madame Gisela stands in the middle of the room wearing only her chemise. Her hair is plaited loosely over her shoulder, and in this state she looks completely at home in this simple peasant’s room. “I’m not accustomed to going to breakfast dressed for the day.”
“No, madame.” I walk past her and spread the gown across the unmade bed. “But if you like, I can make something up and bring it in here to you? But I must tell you that the carriage appears to be repaired. I don’t know how late of a start you will want to get this morning.”
“What time is it now?”
“Nearly six o’clock, I think. Shall I go?”
Madame Gisela yawns, stretches, and heaves a sigh. “Non. You are right, I suppose. Now, show me what you’ve done.”
My stomach flutters with nerves as I direct her attention to the alterations I made to the gown. “See here? I’ve taken the flounce, lifted it, and patched lace in the gap. It might not look special here, but I believe once you have it on, it will look like the hint of a cutaway with a lace petticoat beneath.”
Madame Gisela bends forward and lifts the mended portion close to her face, angling it to better catch the gray morning light.
“Where did you get this lace?”
“Forgive me, madame. I know I misspoke.” My face burns with shame. “It’s not lace, not in the truest sense. I don’t have a fine-enough thread or shuttle. This is just a crochet stitch. But it’s small and fine, and—”
She waves off my protest without a glance. “It’s exquisite, Renée. As beautiful work as I’ve ever seen.”
“Truly?” Now I’m doubly glad she’s not looking at me, because I’m sure my joy must seem childish.
She stretches her arm, regards my work, then brings it close again. “Flawless. Do you know what kind of price you could fetch for such work?”
“It wouldn’t matter if I sold it for half a sou or a thousand livres, my people here have no money to pay. I do little things for myself, or for Laurette. Or for what I can trade.”
“A waste.” Madame Gisela tosses the gown back on the bed as if it didn’t hold more value than this entire estate. It is the second time someone has said such of me.
I work to revoke all of the freedom bestowed upon her last night, cinching her corset, buckling the cage, tying the petticoats, rolling the stockings, and knotting the garters. I brush her hair with my own brush and fashion it simply, dressing it with a length of my crochet. When all else is accomplished, I hold the dress for her to step into and patiently refasten each of the jeweled buttons in the back. Fully dressed, she turns, and I see my design. Before I can stop myself, I clap a hand over my mouth in delight.
“I don’t suppose you have a full-length glass here?”
“Non, madame. But—can you see?”
She glances down, extends her leg and contorts her body. Then she emits her own satisfying giggle.
The effect of my work is that of an invisible hand lifting Madame Gisela’s skirt. Flirtatiously, as I’ve seen some of the women do outside of Le Cochon Gros in Mouton Blanc. The kind of women Gagnon tells me not to look at, as he himself tears his eyes away. But this is no salacious invitation. There is no leg exposed, only lace—and thick, wool lace at that. Colored and textured, sturdier stuff than the skirt itself, but stitched to be light as air.
“Such a clever idea,” Madame Gisela says. “How on earth does a shepherd girl have such a clever idea?”
I shake my head, feeling no insult at being called a shepherd girl. Her next words, however, stop my breath.
“You must come with me.”
“Come with you?”
“Exactement. To Versailles. The queen will be mad for this. And I can only imagine what you might create given the resources—why, what stitching those little hands can do!”
I allow a single swirl of imagination before my better senses prevail. “I couldn’t possibly. This—this is my home. I’m needed here.”
“Nonsense. Your Monsieur Gagnon can manage quite well without you. The countryside must be teeming with orphans in need of a place to live.”
I must have lost control of my mask of strength, because she breaks into a little frown and puts a maternal arm around my shoulder. “Oh, I see I’ve offended you. Forgive my brashness, but I know what it is to be what you are. I was what you are, though not orphaned to be sure. And not quite as poor, but only because the country was not quite as poor. But I was a simple country girl until I married a man who became a guest of the court. Believe me when I tell you that our Marie is a good and gentle woman who relishes any opportunity she can have to bestow generosity and reward. I would welcome you, Renée, as one of my own family. I will see to it you are introduced to the royal dressmakers. To Mademoiselle Bertin herself. Our ‘Minister of Fashion.’ What a relief your quick work will be.”
By the time she comes to the end of her speech, it seems all decided, despite my not having said a single word of agreement or protest. She has relinquished her hold on me, an
d all her belongings are gathered and snapped inside her valise when a knock sounds on the other side of the door. I open it just an inch, as if to keep in the secret of Madame Gisela’s proposal, and look up into Gagnon’s tired eyes.
“Tell Madame that she should try to be en route within the hour. That will get her to Paris late tonight.”
“Open the door, Renée,” Madame Gisela says, and I obey. In a single breath she repeats all she has said to me within the past moments, framing her declaration as if I have already agreed to her terms. Midway, Gagnon looks at me, questioning.
“I have not said I would go,” I tell him, denying the newly formed tug of desire.
“But do you want to?”
“Of course not!” I speak too quickly to be believed. “How could I leave you after all you have done for me?”
“Child—” he lays his hand to my cheek—“I did not take you in with any thought of holding you against your will.”
“But I’m free to stay, aren’t I?”
He draws me close and my arms wrap around his waist. I close my eyes and feel the roughness of his shirt, smell the night’s labor. He plants a kiss on the top of my head and says, “It is the dream of all of us that France will be a place of freedom to make such choices. I would miss you, Renée. But I suppose like any father, I should have known that such a day might come.”
Until this moment I’ve never thought of Gagnon as a father. He is not by nature affectionate or authoritative. I love him, and I obey him, but only as a natural response to his kindness and wisdom. It pains me to see how easily he can bear to let me leave, but his decisiveness fuels my own. Still, I need to hear it said plainly.
I look up. “Shall I go then, Gagnon? With her?”
“I will not decide for you, ma fille.” He looks over my head toward Madame Gisela. “Our Laurette has prepared a breakfast for you and your driver, madame. Go, eat. Allow Renée some time to seek the counsel of our Lord.”
“Very well,” Madame Gisela says, though she doesn’t sound at all pleased to have her personal wishes handed over to one more sovereign than the king. “But I—”
Whatever she had been about to say is silenced with a glance from Gagnon. She sweeps out of the room, obviously disappointed not to have received a comment on the flirtatious design of her garment. When we are alone, Gagnon goes to the tall dresser in the corner, opens the fourth drawer, and draws out a small book. He leads me to the bed and sits me down upon it, kneeling at my feet.
“This belonged to my wife. My Denise.” It is a book of the Psalms, obviously loved and cherished and faithfully read by another life. A strip of faded blue silk marks a page, and Gagnon opens to it. “‘In thee, O LORD, do I put my trust; let me never be ashamed: deliver me in thy righteousness. Bow down thine ear to me; deliver me speedily: be thou my strong rock.’” He presses the open book into my hand. “God is with you in whatever you choose. No matter where you are, you’re never far from him.”
“Tell me what to do, Gagnon.”
He rises, shaking his head. “You’re sixteen years old. This is not my decision to make. I obeyed God when he told me to feed you. To shelter you. And I’ll obey him now as he tells me to hand you over to him. Read this prayer, let it be your own.” He turns back at the door. “Just know this—Madame Gisela will leave within the hour.”
Within the hour. My time to decide is measured in minutes. Left alone with the open book, I read:
For thou art my rock and my fortress; therefore for thy name’s sake lead me, and guide me. Pull me out of the net that they have laid privily for me: for thou art my strength.
I pause and pray—have they laid a net for me, Lord? Am I being lured with promises of . . . what? Surely not wealth, as I will be a servant. Surely not a roof and bed, for I have those here. My mind reels with the praise of Madame Gisela. Have I laid my own net, to be ensnared by my own pride? I read the next verse:
Into thine hand I commit my spirit: thou hast redeemed me, O Lord God of truth.
These are the same words of Christ upon his death, and a fear grips me. This place had been marked. Are these the words Denise heard before she died? Here, in this house. In this room. Could this be a place to cut life short? I know I am weak. I know how I suffer, and I wonder if what Madame Gisela offers is truly life. I close the book, keeping the scrap of silk safely nestled within. I’ve never made such a decision by myself before. I don’t know that I’ve ever made any choices in my own destiny. Part of me wants Madame Gisela to stride in, take my hand, and drag me away, just as Laurette did when we could no longer care for ourselves. To my shame, the words of the psalm lose their power. Madame Gisela has no authority to take me, Gagnon has no authority to keep me, and God’s will is frustratingly unclear. I hear Laurette’s voice, pleasant in conversation with Madame Gisela. Last night was the first in memory that the two of us did not sleep and awake in each other’s presence, and it feels already like the first chip of a chasm between us. Each of us holds a secret—I, Madame Gisela’s proposal; and she . . . I don’t even know how to name it, but there’s something. We’ve never had secrets before, and I’ve less than an hour to divulge mine. I’ve always relied on her strength, but never took stock in her wisdom. This morning, I will need both, and I take a deep breath before calling her to me.
L’épisode 7
Laurette
* * *
MOUTON BLANC, CHEZ GAGNON
* * *
He was gone when she awoke, but the steady rhythm of Gagnon’s labor had soothed her troubled conscience to sleep. She could only guess how much he suspected of what transpired the night before with Marcel—the memory of it sullied with the gray of morning. Hurriedly, Laurette dressed and went out into the yard, finding the carriage with a fully repaired wheel gleaming in the piercing light. Gagnon and the driver, the latter dressed in a sleep-rumpled livery, worked together to harness the horses.
“We’re going to take it for a quick drive,” Gagnon said, handing up the reins before climbing to sit beside the driver. “Can you prepare a meal for our guests before they leave?”
“Of course, Gagnon.” She could only imagine what was left over to eat. After a brief stop at the well, where she splashed her face in the bracing, freshly drawn water, Laurette went inside, past the window seat with Renée’s abandoned mending basket. She heard muffled voices from behind the bedroom door, girlish squeals that piqued her interest, but she’d been assigned a task. There were fresh eggs in the basket, half a loaf of bread to slice, a thumb’s worth of butter, and, after nosing through the cloth-covered crocks, slices of ham and sausages. She took half a sausage for herself and ate it, cold, while she stirred the eggs and shreds of ham together to cook in the sizzle of the bit of butter. She added a pinch of salt and a bit of dried rosemary, thinking such might be welcome to the palate of a fine lady like Madame Gisela.
Her mind reeled, thinking about what Marcel would have to say about cooking for their guest. That is, if he came back to see her this morning. Two scenarios filled her with equal fear—what Marcel might do to bring shame to Gagnon, and what Gagnon might do to keep Marcel in his place.
When Gagnon returned and summoned Madame Gisela to breakfast, Laurette opted not to join her, politely thanking her for the portion she’d already eaten. Soon after, Gagnon went back outside. She’d just determined to follow him and warn him that Marcel and his friends knew about the carriage when Renée called to her from the bedroom.
“In a minute?” Laurette responded.
“Please.” Renée’s voice conveyed an unfamiliar urgency. Laurette thought back to the night before, her cousin’s soft presence in the loft and her refusal to respond. Gagnon had no need of her warning. He knew—everything.
“Excuse me,” she said, remembering her manners.
Their guest offered a smile that could only be described as cunning and said, “By all means, say your good-bye,” before closing her teeth over the fork.
Laurette frowned, not knowing what the
woman could possibly mean. Renée’s distraught face only added to her confusion.
“Shut the door,” she said, as if in possession of a great secret, “and come here.”
Laurette crossed the room and sat next to her cousin on the bed, marveling at the normalcy of the act, when just yesterday the room was still a shrine to the dead. “What is it? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.” More to the fact, she looked like one, her pale face nearly translucent, her eyes wide with blue shadows beneath.
“Yesterday . . . ,” Renée said, and launched into a narrative much as Laurette suspected. That she had seen the carriage fall as she guarded the sheep, that she had fetched Gagnon to fix it. She spoke in reverent tones about Madame Gisela’s torn skirt and her hours spent mending it. “And so she’s asked me to go back with her.”
Laurette, only half-listening to the details of the evening, shook herself at the last statement. “Go back with her? Back where?”
Renée shrugged. “I—I’m not even sure that I know. Only that Madame Gisela is a friend to the queen, and she thinks she will be impressed with my—what I can do. She says I could have work there. With her. As a seamstress.”
“How—what did Gagnon say?”
Renée withered and looked at the small leather book clutched in her lap. “He said it was my decision to make. And to pray.”
Laurette found the first of his responses surprising, the second less so. How could this not be his decision? Renée was . . . his. Wasn’t she? Weren’t they both? But then her own actions had forged a new allegiance for herself. Had Marcel asked, she would have returned with him to—to wherever he went when he wasn’t here. And she wouldn’t have asked Gagnon’s permission or blessing, and she certainly would not have prayed. She’d held that very book in her own hands, even opening it to run her eyes across the words, but knew they would not give any answer she desired.
The Seamstress Page 8
