The Seamstress

by Allison Pittman

  It was a flattering impersonation, carrying Gagnon’s warmth and compassion, followed quickly by the real voice, stripped of all that, accompanying a pounding on the door.

  “Laurette! Ouvrez la porte! Marcel!”

  Marcel leapt from the bed. “Ah, Laurette. Look, your knight has come to your rescue.” He slid the latch before Gagnon’s fist could land on the door one more time. It came perilously close to landing on his face.

  Gagnon shouldered through the door. “Come. We’re going home.”

  “It’s not . . . I mean, nothing—” Laurette stood, took a step, and immediately sat back down, wincing in pain. She lifted her foot and spied a shard of glass embedded in the arch. She pulled it out. “Stupid glass.”

  Gagnon stepped forward. “Let me see.”

  “I’m fine.”

  “She’s fine,” Marcel added, taking half a step to stand in front of her, then moving aside at Gagnon’s approach. He scooped her off the bed like she weighed nothing and spun to fit her through the door. Somehow he maneuvered her down the narrow staircase, where they were met with applause from the patrons downstairs. To a man, they held their cups up in salute, shouting mocking, debauched cheers to a young lady’s virtue. Even the two strangers joined in, amused at the local display.

  Marcel went no farther than the bottom step. “You’ve no quarrel here.”

  “I’ve a quarrel where I find it.” He kept her aloft, skirt gracing the tabletops as he carried her outside.

  “Gagnon,” she said, eyes burning with the sunlight.

  “Not a word,” he said, not stopping until he brought her to the water pump in the middle of the square. There he deposited her unceremoniously on the ground, took a cloth from his pocket, and held it under the spigot while he worked up a stream of water. Kneeling in front of her, he wiped the bottom of her foot clean and transformed the cloth into a bandage, wrapping it around twice before tucking the loose ends. “Can you stand?”

  She held her hand up and he gripped it, lifting her.

  “Can you walk?”

  She rolled her foot to the side and found she could take a few steps with relatively little pain, but took his arm for the limp back to the wagon, where Elianne sat waiting, hands primly folded in her lap.

  “Did she send you to my rescue?”

  “She did.”

  They said nothing else for the rest of the walk to the wagon, nothing as Gagnon lifted her up beside Elianne, and nothing as they drove away. Elianne attempted conversation about the warmth of the day, the growing lateness of the hour, and ultimately convinced Gagnon to stop outside a grove to eat the dinner Laurette packed the morning that now seemed to have happened a lifetime ago.

  “I was worried about you,” Elianne said finally, picking the softer bread from its hardened crust. “Papa says those men, in the red caps? They’re dangerous. Plotters against the king.”

  Laurette left her bread untouched after the first disappointing taste. “Perhaps our king is a tyrant.”

  “Do you see?” Elianne had never before sounded triumphant. “How he’s turned her head?”

  “He’s turned nothing.” She looked over to meet Gagnon’s eyes and clutched his arm before he could look away. Her skin crawled with shame as she offered a silent plea for forgiveness. Yes, she’d been a fool to be caught up in such a moment of spring madness. But that’s all it was. A moment. Madness. A sip of wine falling into a stomach too long empty. A soft touch after a winter of crowded solitude. A desire to be something other than a withered, old, forgotten woman. But she couldn’t say any of those things, not with Elianne’s beaked nose so close to their conversation. She could only repeat, “He’s turned nothing,” and pray for an opportunity to plead her case later.

  Gagnon stood. “Finish up so we can be back by dark.”

  For this leg of the journey, Elianne would not be silent. After trying and failing to convince Gagnon to favor them with a song (“I’ve not forgotten your voice since the New Year”), she spoke of their new litter of pups, offering his pick to train up as herd dogs. She took it upon herself to examine the bandage on Laurette’s foot and, seeing the blood soaked through, tore a new one from her underskirt.

  “It’s my natural tendency to care for people,” she said, “which is why I was so concerned when I saw you going into the tavern with that rebel. It’s no place for a sweet girl, and Lord knows he’s no fellow to go with. Just shows it’s never too late for you to need the attention of a mother.”

  Laurette could not hold her tongue. “A mother?”

  “Everybody regards you as his daughter, of course.” She inclined her head toward Gagnon. “But a girl needs a mothering influence. I’d be lost without mine.”

  “Was it your mother’s suggestion that you accompany Gagnon and me today? Because I’m sure it wasn’t his.”

  Elianne’s sallow face fell, and she looked out over the steadily passing landscape. Gagnon nudged Laurette’s arm. “Enough.”

  The gait of the horse lulled her. She closed her eyes, remembering Marcel’s arms wrapped around her, only to be jolted awake to find herself in Gagnon’s. His body against her back, her head drooped onto his shoulder. Her foot throbbing in pain. They were riding Girard’s horse because of her foot. It was too late, too dark, and too far to walk—three reasons enough to have accepted the family’s invitation to take supper and spend the night, but Gagnon had refused. The boys were at home alone, after all. And Elianne showed no enthusiasm in the invitation.

  “Can I ask you a question, Gagnon?”

  “I don’t know. That would entail talking to me, something you haven’t done much of since I pulled you away from Marcel.”

  She ignored him. “What am I to you?”

  “Is that your question? Or his?”

  “Mine.”

  “You are . . .” There was a series of hoof-falls before he continued. “You are my Laurette.”

  “What does that mean?”

  She felt him shrug. “It means what it means.”

  “Does it mean that you love me?”

  He transferred the reins to one hand and brought the other to her face, his touch warm against her cool cheek. Turning her head and leaning his body, their faces were closer to each other than Laurette could remember. So close that she could see nothing else. Not the stars, not the sky, and least of all, the image of Marcel.

  “Do you need me to tell you, Laurette? Do you not know?” Then he took his touch away, settled back, and the heavens came into view again.

  The silence that accompanied this ride was nothing like the silence in the wagon with Elianne. This was comfortable, familiar, like a night by the fire transported to a worn path under a blanket of moonlight. Rather than speak, Gagnon began to sing—a soft song about a young woman whose lover sailed away, a favorite of theirs, though the boys declared it too sentimental. She felt the song rumble through her, experiencing it in a way she never had before. Always, by the comfort of the fire, having never seen the ocean, Laurette would try to picture a ship, a shore. The endless stretch of sea, the horizon into which her lover disappeared. Now the vastness of the night stood in place of the sea, and though Gagnon was close enough to share the beating of his heart, he felt a world away.

  An ache formed within her. What if he disappeared? What if she disappeared? Like Renée. No need for a ship or an ocean. Just two turns of a carriage wheel. Marcel was a force in and out of her life; Gagnon, her only constant. A part of her, like this moment, positioned as her spine, keeping her upright and steady as the world moved beneath.

  She woke up when it stopped, and in one fluid motion, Gagnon dismounted the horse, bringing her with him, cradled close to his chest. He carried her through the empty house and deposited her on her bed, whispering good night. She heard him leave, knowing he was heading to the barn to put up the horse and check on the boys. But he’d be back. Not to her room—never to her room. Never to her bed.

  Yet he loved her. He’d said as much, and it was more as
surance than Marcel had ever given. Even more, he cared for her—fed her, sheltered her, spoke to her first and last each day. Solicitous of her comfort without overt emotional indulgence. Gagnon would never permit her to wallow in pity, but he allowed her intermittent moments of joy. There wasn’t a morsel of her mind or soul or spirit that didn’t belong completely to Gagnon, but that wasn’t enough to assure her place, because her body remained under Marcel’s power. Nothing else explained her reaction to his invitation, his kiss. How was it he could be away for months at a time, never darkening her thoughts, yet a stolen moment in his presence destroyed her defenses?

  She’d given herself to Marcel once, and he’d given nothing back, least of all a place beside him. Until this day, she’d never considered her place beside Gagnon to be precarious, to be so easily dislodged. And yet, outside of Gagnon’s view, she’d fallen right in step with Marcel, on the sidewalk, up the stairs, to his kiss. If only Gagnon fully possessed her . . .

  Up, she was surprised at the pain in her foot and found a position that allowed her to take the few steps over to the table, where a basin of cool water waited for her to clean her face, a coarse brush to drag through her hair. She unfastened and dropped her skirt, her shirtwaist, and the corset beneath. Dropped her chemise and stood naked in the cool breeze coming through the open window. The house had been left as such to take on the spring air, bringing new life to the room so long choked by cold and smoke. Her room smelled of fresh earth and green grass, the slightest sting on its edges raising her skin to gooseflesh.

  In a few brief, breathless steps, before she had the chance to lose her courage, Laurette limped from her room and slipped into Gagnon’s, straight to the bed that had been hers throughout the winter, sliding between the familiar blanket and mattress. Once in, her pulse took on the rhythm of the horse’s steps, bringing to mind the memory of his arms. “You are my Laurette.” Here, he would finally see her unrealized value. He would know her as a woman—not a girl, not a foundling. There would be a final purpose to his rescue. Slowly the chills she suffered warmed until she felt nothing but unreserved peace.

  Until he walked in the door.

  Because of the darkness, he did not at first see her and had no idea of her presence until he sat on the edge of the bed. Then, at her slightest shift and whisper of his name, he leapt to his feet.

  “What are you doing here?”

  “I want to be yours, Gagnon. Like you said I was.”

  “Not like this.”

  He hadn’t paused, not even a breath to think before speaking his rejection. The words stung as if he’d delivered them as a physical blow. The nerves that had settled into peace sparked again as anger. She sat up and knew his eyes had adjusted to the moonlight, because he turned his head as the blanket fell away.

  “You didn’t mind keeping me here while Marcel was in the house.”

  “To keep you warm, and to keep you safe. From him.” He gave a bitter laugh. “But I see that did no good, as I pulled you from his bed this afternoon. Why, after that, would you think you’d be welcome in mine?”

  Refusing shame, she extricated herself from beneath the blanket and came to stand before him. Her hair tumbled to the middle of her back, providing the only cover to her smooth skin.

  “You’ve wanted me before, Gagnon. Émile. You must have.”

  Though they stood completely apart, she felt the turning of his head, the resistance and tension of the movement. Sensed the constriction in his chest. She took his hand and brought it to her lips, knowing every bit of labor behind each tiny scar and callus.

  “Laurette.” His voice held a warning for them both. But she knew if he would only touch her—once—whatever they lacked would be complete. How well she knew a single touch to conquer all good intentions. She moved his hand to lay it flat against her flesh, and he moved forward, briefly brushing against her as he reached for the quilt and draped it softly over her shoulders.

  “This is what he wanted from you, Laurette. But it’s not right in the eyes of God, nor in mine.”

  Now, despite her attempt at courage, humiliation flourished. Fully covered and untouched, she felt more disgraced than she did the night she brushed the green moss from her skirt.

  “I’m sorry.” She fought back tears. “I thought—”

  “Don’t be sorry.” He placed a soft kiss to the top of her head. A father’s kiss. “And know that my feelings for you have not changed. You are to me now what you were this morning. My sweet Laurette. Ma famille. But this cannot happen again. Do you understand?”

  He spoke as if she’d committed a minor infraction of childhood disobedience. The same as he would if she left the gate to the sheep pen open or spilled a pitcher of milk with a careless gesture. She nodded and shouldered past him, forcing herself to walk straight despite the pain. In her room, she folded his blanket and set it at the foot of her bed before dropping her nightdress over her shoulders. Only when she was tucked away where she belonged did she allow the tears to flow unbidden.

  Why had she followed Marcel? Tonight’s actions were no less impetuous, as they flowed from the same source—a yearning for something other than the drudgery of each day. A means to infuse herself with a strength not drawn from her own dwindling resources. Her body, a wasteland of skin and bones, her teeth aching, her flesh dry and scabbed over from the sparks that landed when she sat too close to the fire. She was twenty years old now, with full memories of her mother being twenty years old. Poor and wretched, yes, but alive with a life she had chosen for herself. A life with a man whose passions ran so hot he’d killed her in their wake. A child of her own who clung to her long after life ebbed away.

  Who would cling to her in death? If the harmless shard of glass that embedded itself in her foot had instead slashed her wrist, her throat, who would care? Ma famille, Gagnon had said, but her only true family had abandoned her without even so much as a word in her absence. She cried, not knowing for sure if her tears were born of shame or pity or a loneliness she would not have recognized before today.

  “He’s a fool.”

  Had she not buried her mouth into her quilt to mask her sobs, she might have screamed loud enough to scare the goats. Instead, the initial shock so constricted her throat that she could do little more than will herself not to explode with the impact. Marcel unfolded himself from the darkest shadow.

  “What—what are you doing here?” Her words choked with the same staccato as those emitted in a nightmare.

  “I followed. And I waited.”

  “How long have you been here?” The walls, she knew, were solid—enough to hold the house for five generations, enough to conceal their whispers.

  “Since before you arrived.”

  “So, you saw—”

  “Everything. Hence, the fool. If you ever were to give yourself to me so completely . . .”

  “I did, once.”

  “And this should prove that you were meant for so much more. Get dressed, Laurette.” He crossed to the open window, hoisted himself easily up and through it, and spoke to her from the other side, elbows propped on the sill. “Find your shoes and meet me at the barn.”

  “The barn?” Already she found her legs dangling over the side of the bed in anticipation of following through on his command.

  “You won’t alert the dogs. Or the boys.”

  She couldn’t stop the fact that her tears were now more closely associated with the nervous laughter rumbling out of her. “Alert them to what?”

  “To the fact that you are taking Girard’s horse. Rather, we are taking Girard’s horse.”

  “Oh, really?” She played along, waiting for her mind to catch up with her heart and her words. “Taking it where?” But she knew.

  “To where you belong, ma lionne. With me. In Paris.”

  PART IV

  L’Été et l’Automne

  (Summer and Autumn) 1789

  * * *

  Et au lever du soleil à l’est . . .

  L’épis
ode 19

  Renée

  * * *

  VERSAILLES

  * * *

  I’ve made Louis-Joseph a battlefield for his tin soldiers—a green quilted cloth the size of my arms squared, with odd-shaped bits of batting to simulate hills and valleys for strategic positioning. I pack it along with the soldiers in the long wooden box that serves as transport, knowing somewhere in the back of my mind that I will not see him—or the soldiers—again in my lifetime.

  In the months since his little brother’s birthday, the dauphin has been in a steady decline, so weak he can scarcely hold up his beautiful head without the propping of a pillow. He hasn’t walked in weeks, getting from one end of the palace to the next by means of a wheeled chair, pushed by a brave nurse who fights tears behind his back. He speaks little and eats less, and continues to be haunted by a racking cough through which he regularly blood-soils his linens and nightshirts. These are burned immediately, lest lingering evidence of the king’s weak line become more fodder for gossip. Any child can grow to be a ruler who cannot walk, but none live with the exhalation of royal blood. So rather than embellishing gowns or cutting coats from the finest velvet, I spend my time stitching new shirts for the king’s heir, as he requires several every day.

  Tonight, traveling in the darkness to avoid the angry throngs that gather at the palace gate and roads beyond, the royal family will go to Château de Meudon. It is thought to be a better environment for Louis-Joseph: fresher air, fewer people.

  And I am left behind.

  Versailles takes on a strange personality with the absence of the royal family. In many ways, business conducts itself as usual. There are meetings in the Bull’s Eye Antechamber, nobles strolling the gardens, shouted political discourse and whispered schemes. But this time it is different. It is heavy and dark. Everybody knows the dauphin is dying. Everybody knows that France herself is in no better state. Our people are weak, our land near death, and our king and queen are sovereign only in title, for they are powerless to heal either one.