The Devourer

by C H Chelser

  “What time is it?” she croaked, her parched throat painful.

  “It is gone noon, madame.”

  She shot upright. “Noon?” Of what day? “How long did I sleep?”

  “Since yesterday evening, madame. We found you lying unconscious in your room. Monsieur Fabron carried you to bed and ordered us to let you sleep through the day.”

  “A bit longer would have been welcome,” she muttered, still thinking about the interrupted conversation with her suspiciously distraught guide. “Yet you woke me.”

  The maid hunched deeper than usual, her crooked hands trembling. “Pardonnez-moi, madame. It’s Madame Talbert. She demanded to speak with you.”

  Carmen. Of all people. “I assume you informed her that I am presently in a state unfit to receive guests?”

  “I did, madame, but she said she would complain to monsieur if I didn’t wake you straight away.”

  Not an empty threat, knowing Carmen. How typical. That woman relished bending others to her will. Her games had often unsettled Mercedes, too, but compared to a close encounter with a demonic werewolf, her sister-in-law was positively charming.

  “Well then. If it is so urgent, Madame Talbert will not mind waiting while I make myself presentable.”

  She did, but not to excess. When Amélie opened the tin of lead-white cream for her to mask the dark circles under her eyes as well as the yellowing bruises on her cheek and neck, Mercedes declined. The decorum she had held in such regard had lost significance this past week. Let Carmen see that she was intruding. The sooner that woman left, the sooner Mercedes could question Jean about his unexpected change of heart.

  Under the pretence of having rushed, she went to meet her unwelcome visitor with a haphazard hairdo, a plain dress and petticoats instead of a crinoline beneath her skirts. The lack of make-up and jewellery completed her bedraggled appearance. Hopefully this would inspire Carmen to leave quickly, either out of pity or because she took offence at this sorry presentation.

  Carmen had made herself comfortable in the parlour. She had claimed the majority of the sofa with her immense skirts and had ordered a fire to be started in the hearth. A half-empty glass of red wine stood on the side table, telling Mercedes that the trespasser was in no hurry to go anywhere. Nevertheless, she put on the best fake smile she could manage before she stepped into the room.

  “My dear sister, how happy I am to see you,” crowed Carmen from her seat, flapping her hands in an overzealous show of affection.

  “My apologies for keeping you waiting. I see François has been looking after you, though.”

  “So he did, so he did. Oh, but I daresay it is you they should be looking after. My dearest, you look a fright!”

  A lifetime of navigating social conventions shaped an answer: “It is nothing, really. Just the stress of the past weeks. So much has happened, it has taken its toll.”

  “Naturally, naturally. It is not your fault, not your fault at all! It’s nothing short of a miracle that you are up and about after yesterday.”

  Mercedes held her breath in shock. What did Carmen know – or rather, what did she think she knew?

  “You must be exhausted, dearest. Come, sit down before you collapse.” Carmen patted the sofa cushions, stirring up tiny dust particles that danced in the weak sunlight.

  Mercedes accepted the invitation after a long moment’s hesitation. She tentatively sat down at the far end, using the size of Carmen’s crinoline as excuse to keep a considerable distance between them. Not that this deterred her sister-in-law from brushing her cheek.

  “Good Heavens, your eyes are even more sunken than they were yesterday,” she said, scrutinising Mercedes’ face.

  So Carmen had seen her after last night’s fit. Mercedes locked her gaze onto her hands resting in her lap.

  “Dearest, have you eaten anything at all lately?”

  She hadn’t, in fact. Only a sip of water while her maid did her hair, and to be honest she was ravenous to the point of queasiness. Small wonder her skin was so dull and knuckles seemed chiselled.

  “A late noon meal would not go amiss, I admit.” She glanced up with a weary smile. “I have not lost my appetite, should that be what worries you. Ask Eric. We have shared various meals in the past days.”

  Rather than reassure, as intended, this caused Carmen to sigh dramatically.

  “Dearest, it is Eric who is most worried about you! And he has just cause, too, don’t you think? After all, he found you half-dead from laudanum.”

  Mercedes vaguely remembered giving that excuse for her disjointed condition. In hindsight, it might not have been the wisest of decisions, given the implications of its misuse.

  “Laudanum is a potent tincture,” she argued. “An unintentional miscalculation is easy to make.”

  “So it is,” Carmen conceded, “but you must admit that it is worrisome. You have measured laudanum many times before, and to Eric’s knowledge, this is the first time you made such a mistake.”

  Mercedes’ congeniality began to slip. “It was only a slight excess, Carmen. Had it been a deliberate attempt to end my life in that fashion, surely I would have taken multiple doses rather than a few extra drops.”

  “So, you deny having any thoughts of taking your own life?”

  A strange look passed over the woman’s sharp features. Alarmed, Mercedes squared her shoulders and glared back.

  “If the purpose of your visit is merely to agitate me with distasteful accusations, I beg you to hold your tongue and leave. Life is difficult enough for Eric and myself without sensations created for your amusement.”

  Carmen chuckled softly. “No need to excite yourself, dearest. I only came because my brother and I agreed that I should. You see, he is terribly afraid. He lives in constant fear that when next he sees you, you may be dead. It breaks him!”

  This was a problem. History had proved Carmen’s theatrics easier to disregard than Eric’s anxiety. If he engaged his elder sister to investigate his wife’s incomprehensible mental state, anything Mercedes did to brush off Carmen would backfire through him.

  Suddenly her decision to exaggerate her distraught appearance had become a liability. Together with her lie about the laudanum, this steered the conversation into a potentially disastrous direction.

  “All this is entirely unnecessary. I have no intention whatsoever of dying, I assure you.” She shook her head in the semblance of disbelief. “The laudanum is beneficial, but not essential. If it upsets Eric so, I will simply not take it again.”

  “‘Simply’ no longer applies, I’m afraid,” said Carmen as she leaned back, her fine brow furrowed. “Dearest, I don’t think you grasp the true severity of your condition. You are very sick, don’t you realise?”

  Mercedes inhaled deeply and willed herself to maintain her composure despite seething inside.

  “Doctor Hubert prescribed confinement and rest, laudanum, and ‘proper stimulation’ for my condition, such as it is. And I have obediently complied with all of those treatments. Last night was no exception.”

  “Oh, but I will be the last to imply that you disregard doctor’s orders,” countered Carmen, hands raised in deference. “Eric told me about the implement you bought. It’s most helpful, I’m sure.” Her lips curled into a thin smile. “The gypsy woman in rue Gervais Laurent certainly knows her business.”

  Mercedes’ pale face drained of its last colour so fast that she nearly fainted. She bit on the inside of her cheek, the sting keeping her alert while her mind scrambled for a suitable reply.

  “Georges told you we met?” she blurted. “I had not recognised him when I passed him, but I suppose I should have. Was it he who recommended that quaint little shop to me some time ago, or was it you? Either way, I thank you for bringing it to my attention.”

  “No need to thank me, dearest. I like to invite seers and magicians to my parties, and among those people the gypsy woman is quite renowned.” Carmen’s voice was sweet, but her eyes had become hard as emerald
s. “As are her potions and powders. Georges, too, frequents that hovel for whatever excuse he cares to make. But, dearest…” She leaned closer. “Neither of us has ever mentioned its existence to you.”

  Mercedes froze. Red-hot panic screamed through her head and paralysed her tongue.

  “I rather think you have known about the gypsy’s shop for a long time. And I believe that your recent visit was not your first.”

  “What are you implying?” Mercedes snapped frantically. “I have never—!”

  “Oh hush, dearest. There is no shame in procuring a man-made phallus when God’s own creations don’t satisfy. Pleasure is not a crime, nor is buying medicine that alleviates aches and ailments. After all, a dose of laudanum doesn’t solve everything!”

  Carmen laughed merrily at her own joke, but then her sharp expression went stone cold.

  “It is the truth, isn’t it, my dear sister? Sometimes certain, strictly feminine afflictions can only be solved by a special powder. A powder too bitter to stand the light of day, never mind that of the law. Merely buying it already risks a severe penalty, but what is risk to one who is desperate enough for its effect?”

  Years of accumulated fear crushed Mercedes with sickening force. Any denial of these allegations would only serve as an outright confession. Cornered, she glared at Carmen and launched the only defence she had left:

  “You seem well informed on the matter. Do you speak from personal experience, by any chance?”

  Red lips formed a perfectly round ‘o’, but what shone on her face was glee. “My God, she has a tongue in her head.” Carmen cooed, her tone smooth but with a viscous edge. “My dear sister, how can you even suggest such a thing? I have two healthy children, bless their souls. Good grief, no, it would be suspicious if I were to be with child again. I mean, with my soirees and Henri being away most of the time!” She smirked. “You, however, have no such excuse.”

  Mercedes said nothing. Any form of retort was futile now.

  “What did you use?” Carmen hissed between her teeth. “The gypsy’s powders? Or did you take a knitting needle to your womb?”

  An invisible blow struck Mercedes in her gut. She gasped, clutching her belly protectively.

  “You are insane,” she spat as tears welled up. “God or the devil or gross misfortune has torn my babies from my body, but all I ever wanted was to hold them in my arms!”

  At once Carmen was all sweetness. “I know, dearest, I know. So many have lost a child to breech presentation. It’s all too common and people understand. But think, dearest.” She leaned closer, whispering. “What are the odds of all other children dying in your belly? You cannot blame people for wondering whether fate was tempted to be so cruel, especially to one already so ill at the time.”

  “Grief is no illness!”

  “Of course it isn’t, dearest,” said Carmen, stroking Mercedes’ tense arm. “But grief did cause your illness to manifest, didn’t it? Henri and I visited you when Eric had taken you to our mother’s house, remember? There I saw what your pain had driven you to. Poor Eric sheltered you throughout, even when you were quite out of your mind and capable of anything.”

  Mercedes pressed her wrists to her face to stem the flow of tears. “Eric stood by me, because he knew I wanted those babies as much as he did.”

  After losing them, the world had been dark for the longest time. Yet gradually the colours had returned. Life had become tolerable again, her work a challenging diversion. She wasn’t hysterical, and she hadn’t hurt her children; on the contrary. But she had sunk so deep into this game of pretending she was sick that it had become hard to remember it was only pretence. She dabbed her cheeks with the cuff of her sleeve.

  “I wanted those children,” she repeated.

  “You certainly had Eric convinced that you did. So much so that he argued your innocence with the police.” Carmen pursed her lips. “But then what do men know of feminine affairs?”

  For an instant, all motion in the room ceased. Even the fire in the grate seemed to stop flickering.

  Mercedes had never believed her husband had reported her to the authorities on suspicion of infanticide. Not in earnest; not Eric. Yet learning that her faith in him – at least on that subject – had been justified, gave her no comfort. She had thought the threat of Gagnon’s treason to be contained, but now that same sword swung on a diaphanous thread, and it was Carmen who held the scissors.

  “All this happened years ago,” she whispered. “Why bring it up now?”

  The chilly atmosphere grew hot with purpose and intent that flowed from Carmen like burning oil.

  “I want what is best for you, dearest, and so does my brother. He called on me, because the help you need is beyond him to give. Through my connections, however, you can receive the diligent ministration you require. I have an acquaintance who owns a wonderful property in the Pas de Calais. It is a most wondrous place, and especially equipped to provide such specific care.”

  In the recesses of her memories, Mercedes heard her mother speak to the priest. Her jaw set. “No,” she said simply. “No, I will not leave. Eric needs me here.”

  “That he does, that he does,” Carmen hushed, “but we discussed this possibility, and if it aids your health, he agrees to suffer your absence.” She sighed wistfully. “His love runs so deep, he will make that sacrifice for you.”

  Mercedes curbed her desire to slap that impudent witch in the face. Eric might believe himself to make this decision for love, but Carmen only ever used that word in as ambiguous a sense as possible. Her husband meant nothing to her but a source of income and her children naught but a cover for her illicit affairs.

  Yet Mercedes wouldn’t give her vile sister-in-law the pleasure of an outrageous reaction. Her grave might have been dug, but she would not step into it of her own volition.

  “Eric’s immolation is admirable,” she said, “but he cannot run the shops alone. It is too much work, and the seamstresses need a woman’s hand to steer them.”

  Carmen’s face brightened. “He will not stand alone, dearest. I have idle time whenever Henri is away. I will gladly provide whatever woman’s touch is needed in the business, and while I’m here, Eric will be assured of a reliable assistant and confidante.”

  Mercedes steepled her fingers. Her grave dug and the coffin waiting. “How providential,” she muttered, biting down on the irony seeping through. “Should it become necessary, we will be grateful for your help, but for the moment any contingency plan to cover the possibility of my hospitalisation is vastly premature.”

  “Premature? Dearest, last night you took an overdose of your medication, jeopardising your wellbeing if not your very life!”

  “As I said, I did no such thing.”

  Carmen tutted. “I’m convinced that you believe miscalculation a viable explanation,” she said, “but isn’t the pathological need for telling untruths a symptom of your illness?”

  The proverbial sword trembled; the grave gaped. Any answer Mercedes might give would only dig it deeper.

  “Besides,” Carmen continued, “Eric would never send you to an asylum. The acquaintance I spoke of has merely opened his peaceful house and large gardens to those who need rest to heal. You will have no distress, no responsibilities. Only walks in the park, baths whenever you desire, and trained staff to look after everything you need or want.”

  “That would be far too expensive,” Mercedes argued in a last, desperate dash to escape the closing trap. “The shops’ income has suffered severely in the past weeks. We cannot afford—”

  “Oh, but the cost will not be your concern, or Eric’s.” Carmen’s thin smile had a wickedness about it. “There is no price that I would not pay to see you well, and make my brother happy.”

  Thus sweet tones drove the nails into the coffin lid. Slowly suffocating, Mercedes quelled the inherent fire in her heart. If she fought back now, it would only speed the cunning entombment Carmen had devised for her.

  “Thank you for ho
lding my best interests so close to your heart,” she whispered, her voice quavering under the weight and inevitability of the lie.

  “It is all for the best, dearest. You will see. Now, how about I leave you to have a rest and maybe a bite to eat? You do look ever so gaunt.”

  Mercedes didn’t bother to rise with her guest, or accompany Carmen on her way out. She only gazed at the worn patches in the rug, marginally aware that Carmen’s retreating footsteps resounded down the stairs to the workshop rather than to the front door. Soon, Eric would learn what had transpired here.

  No, she corrected herself, he had known well in advance of Carmen’s arrival. No doubt they had planned this last night, if not days ago. Or possibly much, much longer.

  She drew a deep breath, but failed to gather her courage. Rallying Eric to her aid against Gagnon was like kicking a sandcastle compared to the fortress of this sibling bond. His older sister vexed him, but he always confided in her. How often had he shared concerns with Carmen that he could not – or would not – share with his wife? Such as the shop, and the dead tenant. And the loss of their babies.

  “I have been so blind.”

  She pushed herself to her feet. A dizzy spell came and went. As she retreated to her crafts room, she instructed Amélie to serve her something to eat before she shut the door, shut out the world, and locked away her emotions in the process.

  But the key was missing from the lock. She didn’t bother to search. It was all too clear that after last night, she was no longer permitted uninterrupted privacy. Apparently, they would strip her bare before they buried her.

  She glanced around the room. Amélie must have tidied up after the incident, because she recalled waking up on the floor, yet the chair stood upright behind the desk and the work space had been cleared. All that betrayed what she had been doing before her body lost consciousness was the neatly stacked deck of cards in the corner of the desk.

  When they found her, the servants would have seen the spread she had laid, and Eric… No doubt he had shown the scene to Carmen, who would have recognised the cards and their arrangement even if she couldn’t read the meaning of that particular spread.