“I have been told that a woman, une certaine Madame Vivant disappeared from your village.” His misty breath rose and melted away.
“Do you know her?”
“By reputation only.” He drew closer. Then bending down, his breath brushed against my cheeks. “People say that her milk is more abundant than that of other women and that its quality is likewise superior.”
His long, manly nose had a slight point to it, which made him look even more distinguished. His dark brows were arched and the hair over his forehead was curled in such a way that it looked like he wore an expensive wig, though it was his own hair. From what I read in her diary, Robert wore a periwig when he made social calls. When he came back from Paris she had tossed it as she found it girlish.
“My name is Monsieur d’Agenais.” The man bowed gracefully. “I recently became aware of the disappearance of the celebrated wet nurse and it distressed me greatly to consider that someone possessing such an exceptional character would simply vanish.”
I clutched the door and stepped back. Armande spoke of her Robert smelling like Indian cinnamon. The perfume on this man, lily with a touch of pepper, roused my senses. I had no idea a man could smell so sweet.
“She is said to have the purest of hearts, generously sharing her education with all who seek to go beyond their stations. Pray thee welcome my presence as an angel here to show you that kindness still does exist in the world.”
His eyes had no specks in them, pure like a mountain river or summer sky. That was surely a good sign. The last visit I had was from the doctor who spouted lies about Armande. Clearly this person was a gentleman—an angel—come, at long last, to help me. Opening the door, I bid him come in. To my shame, the drawing room was not welcoming in the least. A rush of freezing air came in through the chimney. The curtains were drawn to block out the wind, which meant the room was both cold and dark. The gown I put on that morning suddenly felt stiff and cold like ice.
When he saw me crouched to light a fire, he ran to my side and said, “No, you mustn’t Mademoiselle. Please allow me.”
He bent down on one knee and lit a match to the sticks.
“It would be an awful shame for you to soil your lovely blue gown.” He brushed a ruffle at my elbow, which sent a rush of blood through me.
My cheeks warmed. My heart jumped nervously. What flattery from such a handsome gentleman.
We sat in the drawing room. He told me he grew up in Villeneuve, the next village over, and that his father had just died. “I came back to assist, along with my two brothers, in settling my old man’s affairs.” He sat on the yellow and blue striped dormeuse, his eyes on the fire. “Do you have any idea what might have happened to her?”
I rubbed the worn arms of Armande’s leather chair. My knuckles had turned white from cold and nerves. He seemed to be a sentimental man as he plainly saw how distressed I was by her leaving. The stranger’s singsong voice and penetrating blue eyes put me in a kind of trance. Before I knew it, my mouth took over. I had no time to stop it.
“I think, Monsieur, she was taken against her will from this very village.”
“Taken? Now why would any good body want to capture such a gentle soul as she?”
“Not good body. There aren’t only kindly people in these parts.” Ever since she went away I wanted to tell somebody how angry I was over how others treated her. “Many believe knowledge leads us astray. Good folks exist, but they see the wet nurse for who she is, a woman with heart enough for all. No, Monsieur d’Agenais, it’s the jealous ones, the ones who don’t grasp her purpose.”
The presence of the gentleman wound my emotions like a top. I felt foolish for thinking for one moment that this man could be Armande’s husband Robert. He was a kind-hearted gentleman come to help me find her.
“And what exactly is her purpose?” he asked.
“To care for infants who require her virtuous milk,” I replied.
He clutched his cocked hat, moving his fingers along the rim. He then stoked the fire, his dark wavy hair coming loose and flowing down his back. He was tall, wide-shouldered, and had a slender frame. Any woman would be lucky to have a man like that. He walked over to the harpsichord as if to sit down and play. Instead, he skimmed the keys with the tips of his fingers. Armande sometimes played the harpsichord while I made supper or did my lessons. An infant’s cooing or crying joined her soft yet mighty voice in the throes of a song.
“Peasants wonder why the rich pay less tax than the poor,” I blurted out.
“We are in difficult times,” said Monsieur d’Agenais.
“She helps the very people who need it the most, imparting cleverness and wisdom to those who, tomorrow, will be of age.”
“These times call for severe measures. You must be in great distress over her absence.”
“She left me no sign she was leaving … said she would be back before dark and that was eight days ago. It’s not like her.”
“All is not lost.” His blue eyes twinkled at me. “I can make some enquiries. The process of settling my father’s estate is tedious and my brothers are under a misapprehension that they have larger shares than I do.” He removed his frock coat and laid it beside him. “Although there is very little that is left to us if truth be told,” he laughed, sucking in a breath. “It will refresh my heart and head to do a good deed whilst immersed in this somewhat dreary family affair.”
“That is very kind of you Monsieur.”
He went on to tell me that he worked as a schoolmaster in Paris.
“I teach students during the day and study in the library at night in preparation for a book. In effect, I shall return here in the spring to collect further specimens for my research.”
“What is your book about?” I asked him.
“It’s of a scientific nature,” he told me. “Much too dull for you Mademoiselle.”
What an ambitious man Monsieur d’Agenais was. His shining hair and blue eyes caused a fire to ignite in my heart and between my thighs. His eyes followed the lines of my body and a pleasing shiver passed over me. I gazed down between my feet, an ugly big toe poked out of my stocking. Afraid he would see I quickly hid it with my other foot. When I looked up, the man’s eyes caught my glance. Rosy warmth filled my cheeks. He was a scientific man just like Armande’s father.
“How do you bide your time Mademoiselle, uh…?” His pause suggested he wanted me to tell him my family name, one belonging to my father. I had renounced that name, and so told him it was Vivant.
“I was an orphan and Madame Vivant took me in,” I added.
My face reddened. A wave of shame passed over me. He must now consider me distasteful. His eyes opened partway, and then he smiled.
“I have my lessons Monsieur. Armande teaches me and I in turn teach myself. There are ever so many things to learn in this world, don’t you find?”
We talked away most of the morning, just as learned men and women do when they have not a care for time passing or a need to complete a household chore such as mending or chopping wood. He made me feel a true gentlewoman and did not seem to judge me for being an orphan. Before I knew it, the sun was over the rooftop, melting snow falling in clumps outside the window. When he bid me adieu, my body was warm from head to toe. It was the first time I ever conducted myself with a man, as would a true gentlewoman. Yet before I let my heart run away with me completely I needed to find out whether he truly was a gentleman.
Two days later, children laughed, pushed each other and tattle tailed in the square. Mothers shushed little ones and fathers shifted and eyed each other. We were filing into the church when Pierre’s mother approached me.
“Where’s your wet nurse?” she said. “Gone to the Devil?”
Her words buzzed around my head like a noisy pair of flies playing chase. Catching up to Pierre, I nudged him as we entered the church, yet he did not greet me.
I nudged him again, this time with more force, but he kept walking ahead as though I was invisible. Did he see the stranger enter Armande’s house? Monsieur d’Agenais had not come on horseback when he visited me and it was early in the day, so I thought nobody saw. His mother pushed me to the side. When I watched how they looked at each other I realized he was tied to her apron strings, and we would never be close. My belly churned. I looked around and saw other people looking my way, eyes judging, tongues mocking, fingers pointing. I took a seat. There was chatter and laughter behind me.
“She’s dull-witted, has no idea, poor thing.”
“Reading puts loose thoughts into women’s heads.”
When the priest asked us to kneel, I dropped to my knees praying to Almighty God to keep Armande safe. My head pounded. Eyes closed, I let myself slip into a foggy state where neither nasty stares nor laughter could find me. Armande’s diary was tucked safely inside my pocket, its cover pressing on my thigh.
The woman next to me snored while her child crawled under my seat, poking my legs, shrieking. I shushed it and it crawled away. The priest’s voice echoed in the cold, damp church…Kyrie eleison (Lord have mercy on us)…Dominus uobiscum (May the Lord be with thee). There was burning in my belly and a taste in my mouth like rotten fruit. The group rose, kneeled and sat back down. My eyes opened just enough to follow along. Sed libera nos a malo (But deliver us from evil). Pierre turned his head to look at me. His eyes seemed lost and sad. Would he ever make up his own mind without his mother telling him what to do? His kisses made an impression on me even if he could not read. Tears collected in my eyes, rolling down my cheeks in spite of my will to stop them. Please do not let them see me cry Almighty God. Give me strength. Sanctus, sanctus, sanctus Dominus Deus Sabaoth (Holy, holy, Lord God of Hosts). Tears spilled onto the front of my cloak. So nobody would hear me, I sniffled at the same time the woman snored.
After church I sat on the edge of the fountain in the square not wanting to go back to my empty home. Pierre passed by me and turned his head.
“My mother doesn’t want me talking to you.” He was hunched over, watching as the group broke up and left the square.
“Go away then,” I told him.
He nudged some snow with his shoe, looking down so I would not see he cried.
“What can I do?” he pleaded.
“You know what you saw that time,” I told him.
I was thinking of what he said about Jacques putting honey on a stick to capture a feather stuck under the front steps of the house.
He looked at me wide-eyed, his eyes full of tears.
“You told me it was her milk that made the child act that way,” I said to him.
“I still believe it.” He stamped his feet on the ground, a piece of hair coming undone from where it was tied at the back.
“Is that a bad thing, an evil thing?”
“It must be,” he stammered. “Most children aren’t that way and if God wanted us all to be like that then he would have made us so without her milk.”
Snowflakes drifted into the square. The sky was grey, the air damp and sticky. A chill went from my spine to the top of my head as I thought about the children’s prophetic words. How nobody, only me, had heard them.
“The lack of bread and all the hunger is not the will of God,” I told him. “Surely he would want us to better our lives.”
“Like the riots over bread,” he replied. “People are tired of not having enough, of all the riches going to those who have everything.”
Pierre understood more than he showed. He reached down just then, grabbed my hand and walked me home, looking over his shoulder should his mother be watching.
Lie
THAT EVENING, I OPENED THE DOOR and looked around to make sure nobody saw Monsieur d’Agenais enter the house. It was not proper for a lady to let a strange man in with no female companion to watch over her. He wore a periwig, tilted on his head like a hat and his regard was mischievous as a boy about to put a frog down a girl’s chemise.
As we sat down to dinner, his eyes lighted on my hair, shoulders, and the pleats of my chemise. It pleased me that he looked me over and clearly liked what he saw. His dancing eyes shimmered and his face beamed at me, which caused my heart to quicken. Margot told me that taking a lover would help the uterus fall back into place. I was no foolish virgin but nor had I begun to master the ways of love. Sweat collected on my brow, my hands fidgeting from nervousness.
As he ate the bread and cheese, Monsieur d’Agenais took little bits at a time instead of filling his mouth in one go. He touched a finger to his chin, sniffing the ale before drinking. The kitchen was cold, yet the measly broth pinched from a pork bone warmed my insides. Armande knew how to make good soup, even with few ingredients. Mine always lacked taste.
“I have news that two men were sent here by the King to request Armande’s presence in Versailles.” He poured ale into a glass and took a sip.
“But Monsieur, whatever for?” I pretended to know nothing about it and did not dare mention the lettre de cachet until I knew him better.
“Gossipers told me the ailing Dauphin is in need of the wet nurse’s milk, and since she has the finest milk in the land, they requested she come with them to assist the King and Queen.” Then he added, “I am told she went without much fuss.”
“She would never quit the village without first alerting me.” I roared these words surprising even myself.
Monsieur d’Agenais seemed like an honest man who would not repeat falsehoods, yet I refused to believe what he was saying. Even so, a wave of sadness hit me as I pondered for a moment whether it might be true.
“There, there, Mademoiselle, let your tears flow.” He gave me his handkerchief.
The lantern’s soft glow fluttered on the table. Stopping for a moment, I glanced at the piece of cloth, casually turning it over in my hand without even thinking. Just as I caught a glimpse of a letter stitched in blue, the man yanked it from my grasp.
“How thoughtless of me, that one is soiled.”
I did not need to see the initials, R.P. inscribed on the handkerchief. In an instant that one gesture told me I was wrong about his identity. My body shook as the truth got hold of me, a trickle of sweat rolling down my back. I was a fool to be taken by his pleasing appearance and kindness toward me.
“My apologies,” he said, his voice trembling. He gazed not at me but out the window. “It is my only one.”
Finally, his eyes came back to me and once again he played the perfect gentleman. “Your hair is lovely in this light, Céleste.”
He reached his hand out, letting a single strand of my hair fall between his fingers. I held my breath, heart racing, eyes closed as though the Devil himself caressed me.
“The colour and texture of honey,” he mused, bringing the hair to his face for a closer look.
Nodding my head, I choked back tears. He poured the jug of ale into his glass, and in a couple gulps, it was empty.
In the drawing room, Monsieur Phlipon—not Monsieur d’Agenais—took off his embroidered waistcoat and boots. He sat on the dormeuse, his elbow resting on the upholstery, his body leaning to one side.
“I am told that Armande’s father, an author and bookseller, now lives in Paris.” He raised an eyebrow. “Maybe he advised them on where to find his daughter.”
“That’s impossible Monsieur,” I said, my voice strained with emotion. “Her father would never do that.”
“Yet I am told she went willingly, and, why wouldn’t he want the King to find his beloved daughter? Does he not look upon his Majesty as the highest authority in the country?”
He already knew about Monsieur Vivant’s political views, his forbidden bookselling, his scandalous writings, yet he acted as though he did not. Did he consider me a fool? Earlier I was taken by his charms, yet now that I’d come to my senses, there was no way he
would fool me again.
Searching to fill the silence and slow my beating heart, I said, “How will your mother get on now your father’s departed?”
“My mother died when I was very small,” he answered.
“It is unfortunate not to have known her.”
“From what my father told me she wasn’t maternal in the least,” he said absently. “In fact, I would be surprised if she cared about us at all.” His eyes closed for a moment and his face showed anger and regret.
“Come sit by me,” he said nudging over to make room on the dormeuse.
I moved slowly as if in a dream. It seemed to take forever to walk there. My body pointed away from him and to the fire so I would not meet his gaze. Even so I could feel him next to me, his warmth coming through my silk sleeves to my skin. He rested a hand on my knee. Feelings of desire for the younger man of her diary—mixed with hatred for him—filled me. I thought about the first time she and Robert kissed. The first time he touched her, and she touched him. His eyes were just as she described them: a constant reminder to me of the river he adores.
“In a few days I shall be fixed with a post-chaise and coachman and will travel with an older couple, a doctor and his wife from Grenoble, first to Orléans and then on to Paris,” he told me. “I’ve not met the duo before; however, a mutual friend assured me they are enjoyable travel companions.” His hands made sweeping movements, his eyes lighting once more on my body. “I detest travelling alone and it is a stroke of good fortune that his dear friends welcome a third party. His poor wife is quite ill and must undergo a special treatment available only in Paris.”
My heart kept saying hold me, and I saw him kissing my neck while I stroked his shiny dark hair. How could I think such things, now that I knew who he was? Had he bewitched me? Could he hear me, see my thoughts? In the dim firelight I saw he had fixed his gaze on me. He moved closer, his head next to mine. I turned away and felt his warm breath on the back of my head. Then I jumped up, adding another log to the fire.
Milk Fever Page 16
