“I’m sorry this is difficult for you.”
Despite herself, Jehanne curled her hands into fists. “Answer me! Did something—did I—”
Father was only gentle with her, making her regret her outburst. “No, you weren’t attacked, and you aren’t possessed.”
“Then how did I get sick?”
His gaze went to the carpet. “I don’t have an answer, though I wish I did.”
“Not even if it’d help me?”
“If only I knew.” He shook his head. “I never thought you’d ask so many questions. I should’ve known better. There are things I’d rather you not worry about. I have trouble sleeping from what I’ve seen, and I don’t want you to suffer like I have.”
“I could stay here with you if it’ll help you sleep.” Jehanne might need the comfort in the night too.
“I need to leave the room sometimes during the night, and I wouldn’t want to wake you.”
“But—”
He tapped her chin with his forefinger. “I also have Moreau come here at night should I need assistance.”
“So he’ll come back?”
Father frowned, and disapproval crept into his words. “You saw him leave?”
“Yes.”
As quickly as Father’s demeanor had changed, he calmed. “Well, yes, pup, he’ll return to help me.”
Still, Father hadn’t heard the last of this.
Jehanne said, “I heard a scream once, and I wasn’t sure if I was mad. But now, I see we need to keep each other safe.” If she told him that when she was out, she had seen things in the trees, he wouldn’t let her go out, even if it was safer than being in here.
“Nothing will hurt you if you keep yourself quiet and kind.”
Then she was already doomed. “How do you know?”
“Even demons are God’s servants and know when to keep away from His sheep. They only come when we let them in.”
What a strange thing, to blame himself for the infestation.
“Don’t you care about me?”
“Yes, never doubt it.” His voice carried a new roughness.
“Then why won’t you let me stay with you?” She wanted freedom, yet she also wanted Father here if it meant safety.
“Sleep is hard for me when—walls have a certain voice to them. I’d be afraid to wake you with my own sleep habits.”
“What do you mean?”
“What more do you want me to say?”
“I want you to be more honest.”
“I am, I’m trying. Do you know how hard it was to tell you that, of all things, we have demons under our floors? Can’t you be patient with me? I saw you almost die.”
“I, I . . .” She wanted to be freer but closer to Father all at once now.
“I’m sorry. I don’t mean to be coarse. I’m trying, pup. I’m trying to keep you happy. Can’t you see how much this hurts me? I’ve told you as much as I can so we can be content.”
“But I’m not.”
“It’ll be better, I swear. Nothing will separate us again.” Father took her hand into both his own, then pulled away and ruffled her hair, though his movements were stiff. “Think of something calming. Clair can rest with you.”
I don’t want him to crack again. If I push too much, he may be the one lost forever. He needed the patience she afforded no one else.
Jehanne met her lips to his knuckles and murmured, “I’ll pray for you.”
Father’s jaw quivered, and Jehanne opened her mouth to say anything to keep him from weeping again, but before she could, Father engulfed her in a crushing embrace.
“I’ve missed you,” he whispered, his cheek damp on hers.
“I’ve been here.”
“I thought I lost you. I swear I won’t lose you again, my sweet girl.”
“I’ve just been sick, that’s all. My memory should come back, and you’ll help me, won’t you?”
“I don’t know if I can. I was supposed to protect you.”
“You can’t protect me against a sickness.” Afraid more arguing might make Father cry again, Jehanne bit her lip, dissatisfaction gnawing at her.
H
As night sank into the room, Clair slept beside Jehanne, her light snores drifting through the air.
Worrying her lip, Jehanne admitted to herself that her maid’s presence brought solace, though she envied how swiftly Clair fell asleep. Water dripped, a wolf bayed somewhere in the hills. Breathing through her nose, Jehanne traced her hand along the quilt pattern. Wherever sweat pooled, the nightgown stuck to her. She swore a shadow moved in the space between the corner and boudoir. Clair mumbled in her sleep, and Jehanne rubbed her back in case she was having a troubled dream. The back-rubbing was an act Jehanne could do only as Clair slept, or else her servant might think her mistress liked her a little more than she let on with the daily barbs.
Jehanne looked at the mirror, and noticing nothing somehow worsened the insomnia. Closing her eyes only made her dread opening them, so she kept them fixed on the canopy. Her mind was nothing but a wasteland latticed with stars, stars that promised oblivion. Jehanne’s tremoring hands didn’t ease.
Something pattered. Might’ve been rain. A groan. Might’ve been the manor’s chilled bones settling. Tapping in the hallway. A shadow grinning over the boudoir.
It’s not a demon. Father has protected me. But Father wasn’t here. Father wouldn’t lie to me because he needs me.
Why wasn’t he here?
Why doesn’t he trust me? Why won’t he tell me about my mother?
She clenched her fists and worked to control her breathing.
He knows what’s best for me. He’s suffered a good deal for me. Clutching the quilt until her hands hurt, Jehanne’s long exhale was too loud, came deep within her lungs. She cut it off with a squeak. He knows what’s best for me. He’s doing his best. Don’t think on it. Don’t worry over it. Mlle Clair’s snores were suddenly everywhere, like an air raid siren, too loud to make note of anything else. Hair stuck to Jehanne’s forehead like seaweed, and a bitter stickiness coated her tongue. She wondered if Clair had locked the door. She wondered how well Clair could fight.
She wondered if Clair normally spent the night with Father like M. Moreau did.
Jehanne did not fall asleep until dawn.
7
Rosalie
The moment Rosalie saw André lounging on the hooved, mahogany couch, his polished shoes on the armrest, she said, “I’ve a matter to speak with you about.”
“Indeed,” he said, not looking at her. She ruffled. “Go on.” The sunlight made him appear boyish.
“When Marcy is near, be sure to never mention your…”
By the tautness in André’s shoulders, Rosalie suspected he’d erupt, and she tensed.
He stood up and spat, “My bastard?” The violet twilight harshened his countenance.
She sniffed, fidgeting with her cuff. This escalated too soon for her taste. “Your child. Don’t mention her in front of Marcy. It’d upset her. And lower your voice.”
“Of course. I’d never want to be indiscreet. I’m sure Marcy would crumble.”
Rosalie’s eyes hardened. “You’ve never cared to be discreet in the past when you were with women, so I doubt it’d come as any surprise. Nevertheless—”
“Don’t talk around this. Tell me, what are you accusing me of?”
She thought it was fairly obvious. In fact, it wasn’t a claim if it was true. “It’s as I said. You seem content with warming women’s beds. You leave and come back smelling of wine and perfume, and it’s—it’s a sin, and I can’t understand it.” A twinge stirred in her ribs. Anatole had loved another woman before Rosalie, and she hadn’t judged him, but she tried to cast it in the river of her mind, too deep for a net to catch. “But you could at least be subtler.”
André’ pressed his lips together. “I made a terrible mistake, and I wasn’t subtle at all about it. I admit it. Does that make you happy?”
“No.” Ro
salie’s frown deepened.
“Of course it doesn’t.” His eyes narrowed to slits. “It’s my mistake. I do try my best to find warmth where I can.”
She stepped forward. “What does that mean?”
“I’m not asking you to let go of the past, of those you loved, but you’d think you’d show more warmth toward your sister’s only child.” She couldn’t stand this, couldn’t stand the softness. The pity made it more difficult to keep her fury stoked.
Yet, Rosalie did find enough coal anyhow. “Don’t bring Juliette into this.”
“Why? Wasn’t she my mother?”
“You didn’t grow up with her. You didn’t know her.”
André averted his eyes, his jaw twitching. “You’re right. I didn’t, and I can’t.”
Rosalie’s heart clenched. “I didn’t mean—”
“No, you did, let’s be clear. You’re not wrong.” His eyes, his Juliette eyes, buried themselves in her. “It’s difficult to miss a person you can’t remember. I miss what she could’ve done, what we could’ve had.”
I miss it too. I miss that and more. I miss it so much it aches. No, too much. Rosalie straightened.
André continued, “Tante, I know I haven’t been the best nephew, but I still have trouble wrapping my head around the fact you think I’d pursue Marcy when she’s just a child. She’s not as fragile as you think, but, as I said, she’s like a little sister to me.”
“I wish I knew what to say. You’ve put us in a difficult position. We’ll support you and your child, of course, but it’ll hurt us—”
“I’m not asking you to pay for everything. The woman has a home, and Guylaine is safe. I can find a job, a factory—”
“Like your uncle found a job?”
“Is there anything I could do to satisfy you?” Before Rosalie could answer, André’s voice broke, not in only sorrow or anger, but both. “I could leave if I’m such a burden. I’m sorry my mother had the audacity to die and burden you with me.”
“How dare you! I’ve never called you a burden. You’re assuming, like you have before.”
“Oh, have I? And if I walked out now, would it matter to you?”
Rosalie bit her cheek. “If that’s what you think will cool that temper of yours, then perhaps time away will do you good.”
“You mean it’ll do you and Oncle well.”
“That’s not what I said. Should I be happy with your recklessness?”
“How could I be of more use to you both?”
When André was a boy, he was considerate and always needed a kiss or a kind word. Often, he captured her in an embrace, or a hug, as the Americans would call it (since her people never found a word for this oppressive gesture). It was discomforting, when she considered it long enough, to allow another person so close. Quite frankly, it should be banned.
Yet, as her arms rested confused by her side, she couldn’t find it in herself to demur. At the start, at least. André couldn’t be satisfied until someone made him content. When Marcy arrived, he pouted whenever anyone cooed over her. Rosalie never stopped loving him no matter how he pushed, so she didn’t understand why he now thought so little of her and his uncle to think they only cared about his usefulness.
Rosalie remembered the four-year-old André, that excitable boy with his carnation-pink complexion, who held her hand down the stairs and said with startling clarity, “You look tired, Tante.” His head was tilted, his voice too somber for his age, the front of his hair cowlicked. In response, her eyes stung because, yes, she’d been sore from leaving the bed. Even when she didn’t want to be confined, her body punished her.
No, no, that was the past, and Rosalie needed to focus on her new self, on the new André.
She repeated, “I’ve never called you a burden.”
André tilted his head. “It’s true. You don’t speak much at all.”
“I—”
“Do you wish I had died instead of Maman?”
Rosalie leaned back. “What sort of question is that? I’d never wish losing a child on my sister.”
“And would you’ve grieved for me?”
“Of course I would’ve. Why would you ask me this?” It wasn’t fair of him to assume she wouldn’t grieve for him if he had died, and she teetered between sympathy and anger.
His hypotheticals confused her. “Would you only mourn me for your sister’s sake?”
“I wouldn’t know you like I do now.”
“I think you know more than me that you don’t need to know someone long to mourn them.”
No blood in the bed, no blood in the bed, no death in the bed.
“You’re right. I do. Why would you bring the past up, especially that past? How could you? Are you trying to make me say I love the dead more than I love you? After I raised you and fed you? How could you do this?”
“If I left this instant, would you leave this house and come after me?”
“You’re a grown man. If you need to leave, you should.”
“Forever?”
“I won’t make your choices for you.” Rosalie wouldn’t want to make the decision anyway. “You seem to be content to do whatever you want, regardless of what it does to others, regardless of how it makes Anatole or I feel.”
She shouldn’t have said that, but it was too late to suck the words back into her lungs.
André huffed and raked his fingers through his hair. “That’s not fair. Why would I try to learn Oncle’s profession if I didn’t care how either of you felt? But that’s not enough for you, is it? You don’t want me to do that. So what should I do, be like Oncle and knock on all the doors in France and have every single person slam a door in my face? Why would I ask you these questions if I don’t care?”
“I don’t really know. Why would you make a stupid choice and make a woman pregnant when you were supposed to fight for our country? Why would you act less than a whore, when at least a whore is working for her own survival?”
Stupid, that was the word Marcy used.
André tilted his head back a fraction and stared at her with wide, unblinking eyes. For the first time since Rosalie could remember, André was the silent one of the pair of them. Again, her words spilled and stained the carpet, André, herself.
He, God, he was crying. Because of her. “I—I was afraid to tell you because you’d react this way.”
“André, I—I didn’t. I didn’t mean it—”
“What can I do to make you happy? What job can I do to make myself be worthy in your eyes? What did I do to make you despise me?”
André fled out the front door before Rosalie could say, “I don’t hate you.” He was just a boy, and she had hurt him.
Rosalie tried to follow, but once her feet landed on the cool porch, the daylight burned and its weight collided against her all at once. She could go to the mailbox, but no farther, so she retreated, and when she closed the front door, it rattled her soul.
André hadn’t even taken his hat. Tension in her chest, squeezing, squeezing, she thought she’d snap in two.
She was poison, and if she gave too much of herself to Marcy, she’d kill her. Even in all her attempts to keep away, she still managed to cause pain. Imagine how severe the consequences would be if she were more engaged. Hands, hands were the gateway to sickness. Anatole wasn’t harmed because he was already sick; they both carried that headsman blood in their families, and so did Marcy and André, but their daughter and nephew were younger, stronger. Rosalie couldn’t interfere, couldn’t make their lives worse.
Yet she had, even through her best efforts.
And she had no one she could confide in, no one who would listen.
Trembling, Rosalie lifted her knuckles to her mouth so she could keep down her sick. The back door closed, and it could only be Anatole coming away from the garden. He’d wash his hands, pass André’s bedroom, and see that their nephew was gone. Marcy was in her room, maybe reading a book, maybe sleeping off her dinner.
Rosalie smoothed he
r fingers along her cheeks and straightened her sleeves. When her husband entered the room, she lifted the corners of her mouth as much as she could manage.
Anatole’s forehead crinkled. “What happened? Where did André go?”
She didn’t answer, only turned her back to her husband and pretended to dust the end table with a handkerchief she kept folded there. The dust moved a bit, but stayed on the surface.
“Rosalie.” Anatole took her hand, curling his fingers around hers gently. “Rosie.”
“He left. He couldn’t stand to be here any longer.” It was a miracle she didn’t stutter.
“Did he say something cruel to you?” Oh, poor Anatole, sweet Anatole, diverting the blame from Rosalie when she could only loathe herself. “Please tell me.”
“He didn’t say anything.” Her spine shivered as she lied. “I could just tell that he was in a mood. He’ll likely find a woman to stay with. It’s what he does, isn’t it?”
“I suppose. I’ve tried to tell him he needs to be more discreet.”
Then there’s André’s child, the one you know about, yet you don’t trust me enough to let me know.
Rosalie didn’t need to hear anymore, and she couldn’t burden Anatole. She could distract him with love. Yes, that was for the best. Most of all, it was what they both deserved, even with that lingering mist of betrayal coating the chairs and the floor and the curtains.
Anatole pressed, “What happened, mon cœur?”
Rosalie ran her hand down his arms and brushed his fingers. “I’d like to go to bed now, the two of us. I need to rest my head.” He looked reluctant to drop the subject, so she added, “Please, my love?”
Anatole held her to him so her nose rested below his chin, and his coarse beard tickled the skin. She closed her eyes and let breath pool in her chest, and when she shifted, they kissed. Her heart’s thorns relented, and he followed her up the stairs when their lips unjoined.
Rosalie’s mind wandered to their first married night together. Strangely, while her stomach fluttered, she hadn’t been as nervous as she expected; by dusk, in the ruddy pink glow of their bedroom, her cheeks hurt from smiling.
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