Tansy

by Gretchen Craig

  As they lay together, their bodies limp, Tansy thought that if Valere made love to his wife like that, she would not, could not be unhappy with him. She wondered if she could teach him, if she should teach him, how to love a frightened girl.

  Valere’s regular breathing told her he was asleep. She was drifting away herself until a selfish thought roused her. If his wife began to please him in bed, would he still want her? What would she do if Valere left her? He had signed a generous contract that protected her and Alain from the specter of poverty if he tired of her. She didn’t have to worry about money. But it would break her heart.

  Wouldn’t it? She would be sad. She would miss him. But would it break her heart? She clutched at him in his sleep, unwilling to probe for the answer.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  The boys in Tansy’s class were dears, everyone one of them. Marcus often seemed like a great grown boy with his solemn, steady kindness, but now and then he’d giggle over some foolishness, or he’d slip into silliness himself, and she was glad he still had the heart of an eight year old. René had ceased obsessing over the size of his chalk pieces. Instead he wiped incessantly at his board, removing every trace of chalk residue before he would write the next problem.

  David, the new boy, continued to be withdrawn. She coaxed him into looking at her when she spoke to him. She praised him, she encouraged him, but he still rocked when she sat too near. She tried placing her hand on his arm to still him, but he froze. She removed her hand and he resumed rocking.

  Tuesday, David arrived at school with a bruise on his cheek. When Tansy came in, Rosa took her aside. “See if you can find out what happened to David. It doesn’t look like a blow, but something is amiss with that child.”

  Once she had the boys stringing beans together to make their own abacuses, she took David to the back of the room. He situated his chair so that he was backed into the corner and began his rocking. Tansy carefully placed her chair so that they could talk quietly, but mindful not to sit too close or the rocking would intensify. She began with the complicated math problems he adored. “Sixty-three thousand four hundred and twelve take away eleven thousand twenty-two.” She quickly scribbled the problem on her own slate to get the answer, but he beat her to it without benefit of chalk and slate.

  “Fifty-two thousand three hundred ninety.”

  Tansy frowned at her slate. She erased the second two and corrected it to a three. “Right.”

  They worked companionably, and David’s rocking almost stilled. “You have a bruise on your cheek,” she said.

  He continued the rather slight movement to and fro. He evidently saw no reason to comment on her statement of fact.

  “How did you get it, David?”

  He glanced at her, all he was ever able to do before his eyes darted back to his slate or his lap or the window. He touched the bruise with a slight crease between his eyebrows as if he were trying to remember. “I stepped on a doll.”

  “You stepped on a doll? How did that hurt your cheek?”

  “I tripped on the doll.”

  “And so you fell?”

  He had nothing more to add. After Tansy’s two hours, she went home and collected Alain from Mrs. O’Hare’s. Then she went back to the Academy to speak to Rosa when school was out. “David says he tripped over a doll.”

  Rosa grimaced. “Maybe. Still, I think I’ll stop by this afternoon.”

  “I’ll go with you.”

  Rosa shook her head. “I don’t want Alain along.”

  Christophe stood not five feet away, his arms crossed, watching the boys rushing out of the building on bursts of pent-up energy. Tansy raised her voice slightly. “Christophe?”

  He turned a carefully blank face to her. He had hardly spoken to her in over a week. If he looked at her at all, his eyes froze her marrow. She curled her hand into her skirt to hide her nervous fingers. “I would like to meet David’s parents, to go with Rosa to see them after school. Can I leave Alain with you for half an hour?”

  “What about Mrs. O’Hare?”

  Tansy swallowed hard, ashamed. She’d been trying to use Alain to bridge this rift between them.

  “I’ll keep him.” He turned his attention back to the boys darting past in a dance of chaos.

  Tansy found Alain at the back door pounding erasers, a fine dusting of chalk in his hair. “Come, sweetheart. I’m going to run an errand and leave you with Christophe.” The main hallway was emptied and quiet now. She put on a bright smile and walked into Christophe’s room. “Here is my treasure.”

  He did not look at her, did not acknowledge she had spoken. Alain walked over to where Christophe sat at the desk and leaned over his lap. Christophe ruffled his hair. “How would you like to walk down to the river to see the ships?”

  “Steam ships?”

  “Could be steam ships. I think I heard a whistle.”

  He rose to retrieve his hat. Tansy stood in front of the peg by the door. He stopped and shot a glance at her. She felt like curling into a small withered ball under that cold blast. She moved aside.

  He put his hat on, took Alain’s hand and left the room, not having granted her a single word. She tried to conjure up the righteous anger that had sustained her for the first days after he’d taken her book in such a scornful manner. But she’d run out of anger.

  Rosa waited for her in the hallway. They walked the six blocks to David’s home and knocked on the door. A pleasant looking woman of medium color answered, a little girl with bright black eyes on her hip. Mrs. Thomas wore a neat cotton day dress and a modestly tied tignon. She looked at them blankly.

  “I’m Rosa LeFevre. This is Madame Bouvier. We are David’s teachers.”

  Mrs. Thomas smiled uneasily. “David just came in. Is he in trouble?”

  “Not at all. We try to know the families of all our students, and we hoped you would take time to visit with us.”

  “Of course.” She opened the door wide and welcomed them to her parlor.

  The room was comfortable, the furniture good if not expensive, the floor bare but polished. Several toys were strewn about. Mrs. Thomas gestured for them to sit down.

  “Is David behaving at school?”

  Tansy heard the anxiety in her voice. “He is no trouble, Mrs. Thomas,” Tansy said. “In fact, he is a remarkable boy. His facility with numbers is extraordinary.”

  “Yes, it is.”

  “Did you or your husband teach him?” Rosa asked.

  David’s mother set her little girl down and she toddled over to pick up her set of wooden cups that nested one inside the other. Mrs. Thomas tucked a stray hank of hair into her tignon. “As I remember it, my husband spent an afternoon with him talking about multiplication when David was six. He already had picked up his numbers, I’m not sure how. My husband is an accountant. I suppose he watched Mr. Thomas with his figures.”

  “I’ve never seen a child so able.”

  Mrs. Thomas flashed a worried look at Rosa. “Is it so very peculiar?”

  Rosa tilted her head. “Unusual, certainly.”

  Mrs. Thomas nodded again, her eyes focused on the near-distance. “My husband’s brother is the same.” She flushed in embarrassment. “The rocking. The numbers. You know.”

  “How very interesting,” Rosa said. “Does David play with his sister? Romp and get into trouble here at home? Cause a ruckus?”

  Mrs. Thomas looked at them blankly. “A ruckus?” A shadow darkened her face. “I wish he were a child to cause a ruckus.”

  “I see. I thought perhaps he’d run himself into a door jamb or failed to catch a ball. The bruise on his cheek.”

  Tansy watched Mrs. Thomas closely. She showed no discomfort at reference to David’s bruise. “He tripped over Nancy’s doll and fell against the stool.” She seemed to be remembering the moment with some sadness. “He didn’t even cry.”

  She looked from Tansy to Rosa, seeming to understand all at once. “You’re worried that we hit David, that that’s how he got the
bruise.” Mrs. Thomas smiled, the saddest smile Tansy had ever seen. “We don’t hit David. We love him.” She suddenly pressed the back of her hand to her mouth. “We do the best we can.”

  “I’m sure you do. I raised three myself, and there were days I wanted to dive into a pile of pillows and hide. Whatever the challenges, that’s all any of us can do, Mrs. Thomas. Try, and hope for the best.” Rosa turned to Tansy with a slight nod. She was satisfied, and so was Tansy.

  Rosa stood. “We’re happy to have David at our school, Mrs. Thomas. We’ll work to keep him challenged, to help him develop his remarkable talent.”

  Mrs. Thomas’s eyes glistened with tears. “Thank you. I’ll tell my husband how kind you were to call.”

  Walking back to the school, Rosa said, “I suppose it’s a difference like any other. Some of us can’t sing and others are canaries. Some can’t dance, some can.”

  “The rocking, though. That’s strange.”

  “I once had a student who bit his nails until they bled. Maybe David will outgrow the rocking. Carlos grew out of the nail biting.”

  “I hope so. It’s hard for the other children to like him.”

  They were at the entrance to the school. “Well. We’ll do what we can for him. I’m going up to prop my feet on my big comfy ottoman.”

  Rosa climbed the outer stairs to her apartment. Tansy let herself into the main hallway. The building, empty of boys, was quiet and still. Her footsteps were loud on the cypress boards.

  She found Christophe’s room empty and sat down at his desk to wait for him and Alain. He didn’t keep his room so tidy as Rosa did. The desks were awry, the chalk tray under the blackboard full of powder. His desk was cluttered with books and notepaper.

  Tudor England lay atop a pile of folders with a bookmark halfway through the volume. She pressed a hand to her chest in relief. Things could not be so bad between them if he were reading her book. Idly, she straightened a few papers with one hand, hardly bothering to square the corners. Her eye caught on the letter head of a sheet of paper. Baton Rouge Academy in heavy, formal lettering. “Dear Mr. Desmarais, We are pleased to offer you the position, Instructor of History, to begin at your earliest convenience.”

  There was more, but Tansy’s cold fingers dropped the page. He was leaving?

  The front doors burst open, Alain’s running footsteps echoing in the hallway. “Maman! We saw a steamship!” He careened into the room. “The man pulled a rope and made the boat whistle.”

  ~ ~ ~

  Christophe entered the room behind Alain, prepared to resume the frosty cloak he’d worn around Tansy the last ten days, but his stomach twisted when he saw her face. She was trying to respond to Alain, to exclaim about smokestacks and whistles, but her lashes were wet. His eyes fell on the open letter from Baton Rouge.

  He’d meant to leave without telling her goodbye. It would be easier that way. When she’d missed the picnic, he felt as if a bell had gone off in his head. What was he doing looking forward to a picnic with another man’s woman, another man’s child? It was madness to wait for a happiness that would never come.

  She looked at him over Alain’s head, her eyes deep with hurt. He’d told Musette goodbye that very morning. She’d kissed him and cupped his cheek in her palm and wished him well. But saying goodbye to Tansy, how could he bear it?

  “Alain.” He opened a drawer in his desk and pulled out a ball. “You can roll this up and down the hallway. Don’t throw it high, just roll it.” Alain took the ball and scampered to the hall.

  He stepped to the desk where Tansy sat. He could see each individual eye lash. He smelled the lavender water she wore.

  “You’re leaving?”

  He nodded.

  “You weren’t going to tell me?”

  He swallowed. He shook his head.

  Tears spilled over her cheeks. “Why?”

  Instantly, anger flared from the inside out, so hot it must surely consume them both. “Why? You can ask me why?”

  The bewilderment on her face seared his heart. How could she not understand? What did she expect of him?

  Frustration and need welling up, he grabbed her by both arms and took her mouth, not in the tender, sensual kiss he’d dreamed of. This was about pain and yearning and despair. His heart pounding, he dragged his lips over hers, he forced her to open her mouth to him. She trembled. She pulled against his arms, a small cry escaping from her throat. He didn’t care. He was lost in the wanting, in the taking.

  Then she wrapped her arms around his neck. Her tongue tasted his lip. He softened his kiss and fell into it. Cradling her face with his hands, he whispered his kiss over her lips. “Tansy.”

  Her breath shuddered against his mouth. “I don’t want you to go.”

  His arms strained around her, enclosing her as if he could absorb her into his body. Her breath on his neck was a caress. “I want you,” he said, his breath ragged. “I’ve always wanted you.”

  She leaned back to look at him as if she searched for meaning in his face. Did she still not understand how it hurt him, every day, to see her and not touch her, not love her? “Marry me, Tansy.”

  She blinked. She blinked again. “But he is Alain’s father.”

  He dropped his arms. His heart turned to cinders. A dozen arguments he could give her. He’d presented them to her in his lonely, angry nights many times. But she had to choose this. She had to choose him. He would not coerce. He would not beg.

  Their gazes locked. Sorrow and resentment warred in his chest, but her gaze held no hope, only resignation. Shaking his head, he stepped away from her.

  “I can’t do this any longer.”

  She reached her hand out. “Christophe, please.”

  He stiffened. “Will you marry me?”

  She dropped her hand. With a raging impotence, he turned on his heel and strode from the room.

  ~ ~ ~

  Tansy flinched when the outer door slammed. Alain’s ball rolled down the hallway and bounced off the baseboard. Shadows crept from the corners, slid across the floor, and flowed over her and into her. Where there had been pain and longing a moment before, there were now only these shadows.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Tansy didn’t hear a word of Alain’s chatter on the way home from school. She didn’t see how she could breathe, her chest hurt so bad. How could he have thought she could take Alain from his father? She had never been free, not since Maman had sanded the ink of Valere’s signature on that contract.

  She’d been a fool. She’d told herself she and Christophe could be merely friends. After all, he had his seamstress. She had Valere. She hadn’t let herself think about those moments Christophe’s mask slipped, revealing feelings deeper than friendship. She hadn’t let herself see there could be an us.

  With trembling fingers, she touched her lips, remembering the burn of his mouth on hers. His heat had flashed through her, flaming through her body into her soul, burning away every illusion. She loved him. And she had lost him.

  She picked up her pace, tugging at Alain’s hand. She’d break down here on the street if she didn’t get into her house, into her room. At her door, she searched frantically for the key in her bag.

  “Bonjour!” Valere in his gleaming boots strolled along the walk, swinging his cane.

  Tansy felt a murderous resentment. She could not take care of Valere now. She could not.

  He lifted his hat in greeting and smiled as if he’d brought her a merry treat. “I’m free this afternoon.”

  “I saw a steamship, Papa,” Alain told him.

  “Did you? And did it blow its whistle?”

  Tansy led them inside and fought to calm herself. In the dim light, she could rely on Valere’s lack of perception to hide her feelings. If she concentrated on him, maybe she could shove the pain in Christophe’s face from her mind.

  Valere bent his knees to settle on her sofa, then stood again. He’d sat on an open book. He snapped it shut and tossed it to the floor. She gritted her t
eeth, resisting the urge to slap his face, and slap it again. He’d thrown her book. He’d lost her place!

  Not trusting herself, Tansy backed away, her fingers curled. Valere lowered himself and stretched out one long leg. Alain climbed onto the sofa next to his father. The image of Alain draped over Christophe’s lap, Christophe’s casual, intimate mussing of Alain’s hair came to her. But Valere hardly noticed his son. Instead, he was occupied with adjusting his waistband. He’s getting fat, she thought with a dart of scorn.

  “I could read to you, Papa,” Alain said.

  “So you can read now, eh?” Valere patted Alain’s knee. “Good for you.”

  She was about to shout “Of course he can’t read. He’s four!” But she bit it back.

  Alain scampered to his room and came back with his book of fables.

  “Shall I make lemonade? Or squeeze you some orange juice?”

  “Coffee, please.”

  Tansy left Valere with his head leaned back, eyes closed, as Alain began to run his finger swiftly over the lines of print. “It was a hot summer day.”

  At the kitchen table, Tansy closed her eyes and leaned into her fists on the table top. Hot tears rolled over her cheeks. She stopped her breath, holding in the gasping sobs that threatened to erupt.

  “Tansy.”

  She startled and sucked in air.

  “Are you all right? Did I scare you?”

  She swiped at her cheeks and turned to Valere with a smile. “I’m fine.”

  The man really was dense. How could he not see the misery shrouding her?

  “I’m taking Alain to the babysitter.”

  “Fine. Thank you.” She hadn’t known Valere even knew which cottage was Mrs. O’Hare’s. “Wait.” She gathered half dozen oranges in a napkin and handed them to Alain. “Be a good boy. I’ll see you in the morning.’’” She bent over to hug him and kiss him.