by C H Chelser
There’s just me, a faint voice muttered at the far edges of her perception.
The signature that accompanied it was unexpected. When she concentrated on its energy, the figure of Antoine came into focus. He sat in a corner of the bedroom, half-hidden behind a cabinet yet fully visible to her mind’s eye.
There is just me, he repeated morosely. Loneliness and sorrow were wrapped around him like strips of muddy cloth, as wet as the rest of him. The reason for his pain was written all over him.
“You can ask Jean,” Mercedes breathed, reminding the boy of the guide’s offer of sanctuary.
Antoine shook his head, although his resistance was not as strong as before. He missed Danielle dearly, almost as much as Mercedes did. Big tears rolled down his already damp face while his soaked clothes continued to drip water as always. The dark drops pooled on the floor before vanishing into another world.
Mercedes stared at the fleeting puddle. As her mouth fell open in astonishment, her hands rose of their own accord to cover it.
“Oh! Monsieur…”
That woman who had been with the British soldier, what had she said? Something about a ghost’s appearance. That it was born from choice and convenience, or otherwise dictated by the habit of a lifetime, or warped by the scars of death. Or all three at once.
“Antoine?” she whispered through her fingers.
The little boy, who had begun to retreat, paused and returned his attention.
“Antoine, may I please ask you… how did you die?”
He seemed confused by her sudden interest, but shared a memory. A large house; a garden; a pond. A wooden hoop that bounced away; a small splash. Little hands reaching for the floating hoop, but too far. A larger splash; cold; wet. A silent scream. So heavy; panic. No more screaming. Too heavy.
Mercedes shuddered despite the blankets. Her nightgown was dry, but little Antoine, son of parents rich enough to dress their child in the thickest embroidered velvets, was drenched. Luscious fabrics had soaked up water until they weighed as much as Antoine himself. Unable to swim, too heavy to move, he had—
“Drowned,” she echoed her thoughts, trying hard not to feel his parents’ grief at discovering what had happened to their little boy. She knew that pain only too well. “I am sorry. I am so very sorry…” Heartfelt regret, even if the fashion of Antoine’s sodden clothes betrayed that he had died long before Mercedes was born.
Forlorn in his corner, the boy took no notice of her sympathy. Mercedes wanted to urge him to seek Jean and join Danielle, but when she tried, he shifted away from the threshold. He didn’t acknowledge her gratitude for his openness and when she wished him well, that, too, was ignored.
Yet what Antoine had shown her was a vital clue, a new panel in the pattern that was the demon she called ‘monsieur’. She hesitated to assume that demons retained habits and scars of their old lives in the way that other ghosts did, but his sodden appearance was too fortuitous not to be significant. Death by drowning could be an explanation. Not the only possible one, yet worth hazarding a guess. A careful inquiry about his appearance might constitute a demonstration of her interest in him, and thus a major step towards gaining his trust.
A viable plan, or at least the best one she had. People often shared information more readily with someone who showed an interest in them. Personal interest, well feigned or not, was the core of social interaction and brought forth the stories and confessions that begat gossip and forged alliances. This desire to connect was human. ‘Monsieur’, by nature, was not, but his faulty judgements yet furious denial of anything resembling uncertainties had already established that he was not above – or below – human behaviour.
Mercedes tapped her chin. For all their ferocious appearances and disastrous appetites, it would seem these devourers were, in a twisted way, no worse than her own kind.
That put matters into a new perspective. While they were unknown and went largely unseen, she had held the demons in reverent regard out of fear. Not so now. Extreme caution remained essential, but mindless awe of their superior strength no longer applied. Not even with regard to ‘monsieur’s’ formidable will power.
“Hmm. ‘Monsieur’.” She repeated the word herself, tasting its significance.
Such formal address was appropriate, since the demon was an ally but not a friend. Still it reminded her too much of how the servants addressed Eric. Her use of it created an undesirable suggestion of subservience that she was of no mind to entertain. The only problem was that in her experience ghosts never used a proper name unless they chose one, like Jean had, or Danielle and Antoine. Should she abandon the polite reference, how else was she going to address her demon?
Her contemplation was interrupted by Amélie entering with a steaming bowl of water and a clean towel. Propriety and manners concerning demons would have to wait. Managing the unstable domestic situation was going to require her full attention for the next few hours.
After Amélie had brought the requested clothes, too, Mercedes rose from the bed and allowed the girl’s crooked hands to wash and dress her. Which went smoother than usual, especially when Amélie worked to tighten the laces of the corset.
“Have you been using the ointment?” Mercedes inquired, holding on to the bedpost as the whalebones shaped her waist and ribcage. In the mirror on the dresser, she saw Amélie nod and beam.
“It’s as if it gives me more strength, madame.”
“Good,” Mercedes wheezed as the last bit of superfluous air was forced from her lungs. “You will need strong hands when you take on more tasks in the household.”
“Madame?”
She had said too much. “Think nothing of it for now. All in good time.”
“Yes, madame.”
Mercedes forced a smile to embellish that the ‘good time’ might be less than a few hours from now, depending on how the meal unfolded. Eric had sounded tired and dejected this morning. Under such circumstances, he often became volatile and even more than usual prone to drawing hasty conclusions.
She needed to take the necessary precautions before that happened.
The scent of eggs, ham and hot butter drifted through the kitchen doorway when Mercedes bustled in without announcement. She spotted the black kettle on the stove, steam rising from its spout, and strode over to remove it. Gagnon, who was stirring the frying pan on the fire, visibly started when the kettle floated away.
“What—? Oh, madame!” The old woman pressed a bony hand to her chest. “You gave me a fright.”
“Why, Gagnon. You know what is said about people who startle easily. Surely your conscience isn’t plaguing you?”
The fake smile on wrinkled lips pulled into a nasty scowl. “There is no need for you to wear yourself out coming here, madame. I was just about to bring you your tea in the parlour, like you asked.”
“I will make my tea myself,” said Mercedes. She opened the cupboard and proceeded to take out a cup, a tea strainer and the tin at the back of the top shelf. For years she had covered these motions with the discretion of the night, but this time Mercedes made no secret of them and made a point of ignoring Gagnon’s incredulous gaze while she waited for the herbs to soak in the hot water.
“Mon Dieu, mon Dieu. If Monsieur Fabron were to come in now,” the old woman tutted, a vile tone to her voice.
Mercedes withheld a glare, but sniffed conspicuously. “You had better mind your work, Gagnon. Something is burning again.”
Indeed black strands of smoke had begun to curl up from the frying pan, accompanied by the stench of burnt meat and eggs. While Gagnon fussed, Mercedes removed the tea strainer from her cup, emptied it into the garbage bin, and sipped the beverage to test the temperature. Evidently the water had been off the boil for some time before her arrival, because whilst warm the water was no longer hot. Another point of negligence on the housekeeper’s part, but a small grace all the same, as it permitted Mercedes to drink the tea all at once and minimise the foul taste.
Setting the
cup down on the kitchen counter, she snatched the tin in a swift movement before peering over Gagnon’s shoulder at the contents of the frying pan. The housekeeper was picking the blackened bits from the unsinged part of the omelettes.
“Stop that and prepare a fresh serving,” Mercedes ordered. “This time, pay attention to what you are doing rather than dreaming up excuses and gossip. Monsieur Fabron has no further patience with your mistakes.”
“I dare say that isn’t my problem,” the old woman spat at her without even a pretence of politeness, “not with those leaves in the bin.”
“Those leaves will not suffice to save you if you burn his meal again. Do not expect you can scare me into dissuading him from his decision, when you so evidently bring it onto yourself.”
“That cuts both ways,” Gagnon muttered even as Mercedes turned on her heels, the tin in her hand obscured by the laces of her cuff.
Her heart throbbed in her throat with elation and terror as she paced out of the kitchen. She hadn’t meant to speak to Gagnon at all, but this unintentional bout of eloquence brought on by the woman’s audacity had secured Mercedes either an absolute victory in this domestic war, or a crushing defeat. Which of the two it would be depended entirely on making the tin of herbs disappear.
Gagnon had neither the time nor the excuse to follow her mistress, but out of precaution Mercedes visited various rooms around the flat, spending several minutes in each so her behaviour would not give away the fact that she had hidden the little tin behind the large Bible in her nightstand. The Holy Scriptures covered a multitude of sins. Hopefully it would hide this for as long as she needed.
With the incriminating evidence out of Gagnon’s immediate reach, any comment the housekeeper might make could now be more easily refuted or passed off as an excuse. Not a solid solution, but it would ignite a measure of advantageous confusion when Eric at last confronted the housekeeper and fired her. A theory that, depending on the quality of the omelettes, would be put to the test within the next half hour.
Or sooner still. The parlour was the last room on her circuit of the flat, but upon entering, Mercedes met a sight that caused her to stifle a cry of surprise.
By the fireplace, hunched over with both hands braced on the mantelpiece, stood Eric. He was staring at the unlit logs on the grate and didn’t acknowledge her presence, too lost in thought to have heard her, just as she had missed his arrival in the flat due to her own preoccupation.
“Mon cher? I had not expected you this early.”
He sighed, but didn’t move.
“Are you hungry? Gagnon should have our meal ready soon.”
At this, he glanced at her with a snort of disdain. His face was placid, his bloodshot eyes sunken in their hollow sockets. The only colour on his cheeks was a tinge of red, brought on by exasperation and frustration reaching boiling point. Mercedes tensed, well-aware of what this heralded.
“Why is it so hard,” he spat, “so inexpressibly hard for people to simply do their job!” He enunciated each word with pointed and spiteful precision as he detached himself from the mantelpiece with a sharp shove. “The seamstresses gossip rather than do what I pay them to do. Yvette refuses to lift a finger to usher them to work. Your girls and even my own assistants stand around like idle dolls and tin soldiers, leaving me to explain to a seething Monsieur Leclerc that he must come back for a second fitting, because the sleeves of his coat were too narrow. He has never had to come back for a second fitting!”
Mercedes had folded her hands, eyes lowered. Arguing was futile, as usual. That she felt no inclination to do so this time, however, was because Eric was right. Everyone made mistakes, but errors such as this should not occur when a customer’s particulars were so well known.
“He was fuming,” Eric continued. “Made loud sneers about dead bodies in the shop, in the presence of other customers!” His creased frown changed and his gesticulating hands fell to his side. “Of course I explained that it was an accident, but after Monsieur Leclerc stomped out, the others left without placing an order.” His face fell. “One had already decided on the fabric, too…”
His lashes were wet, his sagged frame unsteady, as if the demon had fed not only on his energy but on his spirit as well. A soul eater who did not kill was a devourer all the same.
Mercedes hesitated, torn. Her cheek and body remained tender after Eric’s recent outbursts, but when all was said and done, he was still her husband. Her husband and currently a broken creature deserving of pity. She cupped his trembling arm and led him to the sofa before he collapsed.
“I miss you, ma mie,” he whispered, leaning his head on her shoulder when she sat down beside him. “The shop is slipping through my fingers. The customers, the staff, the seamstresses…”
“We will need to be creative to restore the order flow, but we have done so before. It has only been a week since the incident. People will forget eventually, and then life will return to normal.”
He buried his face in her collar. “So I told Yvette, but I don’t think she believed me. They have been talking behind my back for days.”
“You are their employer. If you tell them to heed you, they will remember their place.”
“I did, in no uncertain terms. It never helps for long.”
Mercedes recalled the times that his tantrums had made the seamstresses uneasy, bringing Yvette to her to find a practical solution for his impractical demands. That usually settled the women, but under the present circumstances, she could imagine them becoming more uncooperative by the day.
He huddled closer. “I’m so tired, ma mie. So tired…”
Her first instinct, honed by years of dedication, was to declare that she would resume her work after the midday break. Her face was nigh on healed, so he couldn’t object on that account. But she had other priorities, responsibilities that she had sworn not to neglect.
“I would help, mon cher, but I cannot. I fear a relapse if I try, leaving you alone for longer still.”
He clasped his shaking hands around hers, gasping twice before words would come. “You are right,” he said, jaw clenched. “Last night you were so distraught, I had believed a relapse to be a fact. If not for the late hour, I would have called Doctor Hubert.” He lowered his head, pressing his brow to her wrists. “What I did instead... I didn’t know what else to do, how else to return you to sanity, even though I feared I was losing my own. I cannot remember falling asleep and woke as if I had been awake for days already.”
Again she wondered how much the demon had taken – and what – that it could bring a proud man so low. Last night, pain and humiliation had made her vindictive. Now she wondered if the punishment hadn’t been worse than the crime. Eric had been frustrated when he had violated her, but he had never intended to be cruel. A cruel man would never bury his face in shame, much less do so in the lap of his molested wife.
When he kissed her fingers, she didn’t resist. She only retrieved one hand and gently combed through his flaming hair. “You slept,” she assured him, although she rather suspected he had been unconscious. “You slept long and deep, but worry has exhausted you beyond measure.”
“Worry and exertion. He scoffed at his own expense. “I pray that at least my efforts to pacify your temper were of some benefit to you.”
Honesty and lingering spite replied before she could intervene: “I’m afraid it was not, mon cher. You only hurt me.”
Nails that weren’t hers dug into her palm even as he slid off the sofa, landing hard on his knees in front of her.
“What am I to do? Carmen says that I have already lost you, but I cannot believe that. I will not!” He clutched her hands tighter, and she felt his tears fall hot on her skin. “Before the babies, before the hardship... I loved you so, and I still do. You are mine, my wife to have and to hold. I refuse to accept anything else.”
Mercedes sat motionless as he stooped further, sinking deeper into the folds of her skirt with every sob that wreaked him. Not a stubborn man too p
roud to admit that he was wrong, but a lost boy tired of fighting life’s dragons, sitting scared and alone in the shadow of ill fortune. Had she not seen a boy like this only this morning? Antoine’s tears had inspired pity and compassion. Why should Eric’s equally desperate tears leave her unmoved? Because he had hurt her? That would be petty. He had hurt her before, and she had forgiven him then. For all the pain he had caused, he also had helped her heal other wounds. He had brought her joy and kindness in their years together. And he loved her, of that she had no doubt.
But she did doubt, as she had so often, that he understood at all how deeply his violent and restrictive actions hurt her. Was it his fault that he was too blind to see this? If it was, she would not blame him. Growing up as the youngest child and competing with siblings all as strong-willed as Carmen, how could he have learned tenderness?
Perhaps that was her own shortcoming as a wife. Perhaps she should have sheltered him, rather than seek shelter for herself, when they were both grieving too strongly to mean anything more to one another. She hadn’t supported him as he had her, nor had she attempted to lighten the burden of their shops. She played her part, but nothing more. All of the responsibility rested on Eric’s shoulders.
These thoughts accumulated into a crippling shame. Shame over how much she had been delighted to watch ‘monsieur’ draining Eric of his very life force. That devourer was the true demon, not this man crying in her lap! This was her husband, whom she loved even if his temper sometimes frightened her. She loved him, enough to comb her fingers through his hair and let him cry his fears and frustration. The heavens knew how much she wanted to do the same.
A polite cough pulled her from her thoughts. François stood a few steps away, valiantly attempting to ignore the scene he had stumbled on. Seeing he had his mistress’ attention, the manservant opened his mouth to deliver what he had come to say, but Mercedes pressed her finger to her lips to silence him. Grateful to be spared from alerting and embarrassing his master, François bowed and gestured in the direction of the dining room.