Dove Keeper

by Emily Deibler

  But then, she drifted back to his nonchalance when he mentioned Clair was compensated well, and therefore she’d do whatever Jehanne asked. Her mind whirled and her throat constricted. The whisper came out as more of a squeak: “Does he hurt you? I’ll ask him. I’ll make him tell me. Whatever made this happen, I’ll stop it.”

  Clair scratched angry sigils into the pale knob of her elbow. “No, I don’t want you to compromise your love for your father for someone like me.”

  Jehanne couldn’t breathe for a minute. The dying hearth mocked her. “Why? Why do you think you’re not worth compromising anything? Why won’t you tell me? Why won’t you say it? What’ll happen if you do?”

  Mucus and spit poured from Clair’s nose and mouth, and she buried half her face in a handkerchief stippled with a little blood. Her knuckles were death-white. “I can’t.”

  “Please. I want to help. Did Father do this?”

  Clair gulped, cupped her mouth, and exhaled wetly. “Yes.”

  The word smacked the wind out of Jehanne.

  “Does he—does he do this often?” As if it mattered. As if once wasn’t too much.

  “Yes.” Clair heaved, as if shedding off an iron weight. Jehanne needed her to be lying; Jehanne needed that more than her own heartbeat, but it’d damage Clair if the first person she spoke to about this called her a fraud. “Please don’t tell him I told you. Please don’t bother him. Please. He’s worked so hard to keep you safe, and I can’t ruin that. I don’t deserve your regard.”

  “Why? What do you mean? How could you ruin something when you’re the victim?”

  Clair laughed, and it was the least joyful noise Jehanne had ever heard. “No one cares for the weak till they’re dead, and you’re just a child. You can’t help me.”

  “I’m not a child,” Jehanne insisted. “At least in body. You should know. You’re really not that much older than I am.”

  The attempt at levity failed, as it should’ve. All Jehanne knew was rage.

  Blinding rage.

  She should’ve gone with Clair to protect her, but she failed, and Father, he—

  “It shouldn’t be your burden. Please don’t worry about it.” As Clair pleaded, Jehanne stood and extended a hand. The woman leaned on Jehanne until she secured her stance, and though she hated to, Jehanne left Clair alone and stormed to Father’s bedroom.

  Anyone with a deep-seated regard for decorum would go to a quiet place and dwell on a shocking revelation before responding, but to Hell with them.

  Without knocking, Jehanne flung open Father’s door.

  Father sat dressed, buttons half-done, on the bed with his feet on the floor. Moreau was standing before him, and they both bore their stares into her.

  Father said, “Pup, what do you need?” M. Moreau looked ready to faint. There were shadows under his eyes like sleeplessness bruised them, the Sandman had pressed his fingers to the skin too hard without gifting any of his grit.

  As softly as she could manage, which wasn’t all that much, Jehanne said to Moreau, “I’d like to speak to my father alone.”

  Father waved a dismissive hand. “Leave us.” Something akin to annoyance flashed over Moreau’s face, but he bowed and obeyed.

  As soon as the door thumped closed, Jehanne strode closer to Father, who remained sitting on the edge of the bed.

  Jehanne said, “There are some things I want to ask you.”

  “What is it?”

  She juggled between meddlesome subtlety and forthrightness. “Please, let me know you, know more about the past. Talk to me about Mother.”

  “Why? Won’t it only hurt? Wouldn’t you like to do something less strenuous?”

  She refused to budge. “I’m stronger than you think. I need to know who she was to know who I am. You’re always so vague. I love you no matter what, no matter what you’ve gone through, no matter what you’ve done. Please talk to me about Mother and your past.”

  If he suspected her of any subterfuge, he didn’t falter. “You swear you’ll love me?”

  “Yes, of course. Tell me what’s hurting you. That’s what love is, right, loving each other despite our pain.” She’d make him admit his sins; she only needed the right honeyed words. “Father, tell me, please. If you can’t tell me about how she died, it’s okay. I just want to know how she lived. Let me carry your burden too.”

  I want to know what kind of man you were, are. I want to know if you’re the sort of person who’d hurt Mlle Clair in such a way, any way, and how I can fight it.

  “You truly won’t think less of me?”

  “No, I would never,” Jehanne lied.

  He rasped, eyes falling to his knees, “I treated her badly, pup.”

  “What do you mean? Did you . . . beat her?”

  “No, I would never,” Father answered, an eerie echo. He leaned back, as if stunned. “But the ways I hurt her.” His voice broke as he rasped, “I hurt her, and I’ve carried it with me with no one to comfort me.” He leaned forward and averted his eyes, seemed as if he’d speak no longer. Just as Jehanne opened her mouth, he opened his. “In one of our quarrels, I upset her until she miscarried. Before that—we’d been married for years when that happened—she didn’t want to marry me, but no other man could have her after I…” He trailed off.

  Jehanne persisted, “Why wouldn’t anyone marry her? What did you do?”

  Father winced. “Pup, that was another time. I did as my grandfather instructed to ensure an heir to the estate.” He squeezed the fabric of his trousers, twisted it above his knees. “It seems so—perhaps this wasn’t the best idea. Look at us, we have one another. Isn’t it enough?”

  “What did you do to her?” she pressed, and she’d keep pressing.

  He wouldn’t look at Jehanne. “It’s not important.” His fingers clenched hard into his palm.

  No other man could have her.

  “You—you raped her.” Jehanne was going to vomit. She pressed her knuckles to her lips. “Oh, oh, God.” She waited for him to contradict her, but the silence slapped all her senses awake. She stood by the bed, waiting for an answer before she realized the stinging nothing was his answer. “You raped her, so everyone would see her as tainted.” Spoiled, like a piece of fruit. It took all her strength not to crumple to the carpet. “Please—please tell me I’m wrong.”

  “It wasn’t seen as that.” He still avoided her, his eyes gleaming dead like glass.

  “Seen as that by who, you or her?”

  Flatly, as if reckoning his checkbook, Father said, “I needed a wife so I could have a child to possess my property after my death.”

  “And that makes it okay?”

  “I’m sorry you’ve reacted like this. I did respect her. She was calm and obedient, as a good woman should be.” His words were quiet and measured. “She kept to her bed, and I kept to mine. I tried to make amends. After all, about a decade in, I gave her a daughter to entertain herself with.” By God, Father was trying to appease her; he thought this was enough. He didn’t see an issue speaking to her about this because so long as he apologized and diminished the pain he caused, it wasn’t a heartbreaking revelation.

  “‘Like a good woman should be’? I’m not always calm and obedient. Am I not to your liking? ‘Quiet and kind’—that’s what you told me I had to be to keep safe, but I’m not. I’m too much like you.”

  “I wish that were true.” Damn it, he could at least not be a coward and meet her eyes.

  “That I was more like you, after what you’ve said?”

  “No, actually, I wish I could be more like you. You’re different from any other person, any other woman. You’ve always been.”

  “No, I’m not. I’m not any better than Mother or Mlle Clair.”

  That troubled the dark lines above his brow. “But you are, you are!”

  “Why would you think that? What is it about me that’d make you say that?”

  “I can’t tell you.”

  “But why? After all you’ve already tol
d me, why not tell me why you think me better than any other woman? Because I’m not. You should treat us all the same, shouldn’t you?”

  He had the audacity to shush her. “Calm down.”

  Her fingers burned by her sides. “I won’t!”

  Father stood, his gaze sharp on her. “Your tone is too much. You told me you wouldn’t judge.”

  Her tone? He raped Mother, but it was Jehanne’s tone that ruined it all? She stewed.

  “I expected you’d killed a soldier in desperation or something, something terrible you truly felt sorry for, something you hadn’t wanted to do. Not that you hurt those who don’t fight back.”

  “Do you think God has forgiven me?” Father blurted, and he softened like sense broke through. She hoped it was sense. Jehanne didn’t answer, couldn’t without crying. No matter what he said, she still had the figments in her head—resting against her faceless mother’s arm as she drifted to sleep, the smoky satisfaction deep in her breast. With his hands squeezed together, Father murmured, “Here on this lowly ground, teach me how to repent.”

  He wasn’t low on the ground, but he deserved to be.

  Jehanne simmered about being alone because of Father’s actions, but even if her mother had never miscarried, he had no right to treat her or anyone that way.

  She asked, “Was this before or after I was born, Mother losing the child?”

  He looked at her as if she’d changed into another person right before him. “I’m not sure how to answer that.”

  Jehanne slammed her fist on the end table, and the lamp squatting there shook. “How can you not know? Did it happen more than once?”

  “Please,” Father croaked, raising his hands as if surrendering a battle. “I didn’t know it’d upset you so.”

  “How could it not upset me? How did it not upset you until you noticed how I felt?”

  Father murmured, “I really haven’t given it much thought. I already asked for forgiveness, and I assumed it was enough.” He met her gaze, and then averted his eyes. “You’ve never . . .”

  “Gotten angry at you?”

  “Never spoken to me quite like this.” His voice shook, and for the first time, Jehanne couldn’t bring herself to pity him. “I should’ve expected this wasn’t the best truth, but I believed you when you said you’d love me regardless. I still believe it. You’ve always been exceptional, and, for me, it’s better to have a bitter truth than a secret. Less of a burden on me.”

  Jehanne pursed her lips. “Enough about you. What did Mother love to do? What did she do when she wasn’t hurting because of you?”

  Father pulled a handkerchief out of his breast pocket and dabbed his dry cheeks. “She was a reader, but after our wedding, she didn’t seem to enjoy much of anything anymore, even with an entire library on her side of the home.” He still worked to console Jehanne, it seemed, but bitterness laced his words like he was indignant about his wife not reading the books he lent her between the rapes. “Jehanne, pup, I was alone for so long. I didn’t know how to treat your mother, how to treat you, but what matters most is that you and I are here now.”

  “Did you ever love her? Even once?”

  “I owe you the truth.” His frown deepened. “No, not for a moment. I thought that, when you search everywhere and try everything in your power, you’re bound to strike silver one day. I hoped we could love each other one day. I never struck her, and I allowed her safe passage in our home.”

  Jehanne’s hackles rose. “And you think that’s enough for love? Shouldn’t that already be how you act?”

  “I did, then. I believed it was enough.” Father spread his arms. “But look at what we have, the two of us. The past doesn’t matter. The rest of the world doesn’t matter. And your mother, God rest her heart, is at peace now, and there’s nothing I can do to tell her I’m sorry, to tell her I appreciated that she was a good, obedient wife in her warmer moments. She was what women should aspire to be.”

  For all Father’s attempts to appease her with his honesty, Jehanne’s vision bordered on scarlet.

  “What was her name?”

  He looked at her like she’d spoken German. “Does it matter?”

  “Yes, yes! It matters. Of course it does. It matters more than anything to me.”

  “I—Catherine. She was Catherine.” Jehanne started. The name sank in her like a bag of stones. Familiar, so familiar, one of the few truths she had, and tears came to her eyes as furiously as ever. He took her in, and his gaze made her feel dirty. “Oh, darling, I knew that wouldn’t help you.”

  “Father, listen to me.” She rubbed her nose on her sleeve, but she wouldn’t be cowed. “Eve came from Adam’s side—not his foot or the air above him. Because they were equals. They were meant to stand together on the same ground. I don’t understand how you’d think—if a man treated me like you treated Mother, what would you think? Wouldn’t you want to kill him?”

  Father shook his head. “I can’t change the past. I can only repent, or try to as best I can.”

  “And you think that’s enough? You think your tears are all it takes?”

  “Isn’t it? With God, isn’t there always that new chance? God always forgives those who repent.” His voice rose, a hopeful lilt.

  “Do you treat all women like this? Father, you came from a woman’s womb. The Lord was born from a chosen woman. He met, saved, and listened to women, and then it was a woman sent by another woman who saw the Resurrection. The Virgin, all the saints—women have died for God’s will.”

  Father gave her an odd, bitter look. “Yes, I know the stories. I don’t need to be lectured about women who’ve been sacrificed to the wolves for God. I’ve seen what happens to women who try to act outside what they’re meant to do. It can be endearing, admirable, but it leads to ruin when they aren’t watched carefully enough.”

  “Aren’t men hurt and killed too? How is it any different? How are some women’s deaths proof that all women are incapable, or even that they were incapable? That’s insulting, don’t you think? How could you be so hateful?”

  “It’s not out of hate, but love.”

  “What you did to Mother isn’t close to love. You said it yourself.” Jehanne grunted in frustration, and the catalyst for this came to the forefront of her mind. Clair and her rules and walls, her eyes downcast or blank. “Have you been hurting Mlle Clair?” She thought of Moreau too with his ghostly pallor.

  “What does it matter, darling? I compensate her exceedingly well for her services.”

  “And that excuses it? You really don’t understand?”

  “There’s nothing to excuse. Clair receives food, shelter, money—endless compensation for meager tasks. If she fails, that’s the sole time I punish her. I don’t go out of my way to hurt her, and I don’t beat her or any of the other servants.” The others, those in the shadows, those Father never named. “That is reasonable enough treatment, I assume.”

  Jehanne’s feet twinged like she needed to pace, but she needed to make her point. “Punishment. What sort of punishment? Father, no, Father, please, please tell me you’re not that man anymore. What do you do to her? Why does she look sad all the time?” She wanted to corner him on the burns and bruises, but he’d suspect Clair showed them to Jehanne to force this confrontation, and he might—she didn’t know.

  “Please don’t be so upset, pup. I don’t want you to grow tired and ill again. The winter could be so difficult for you.”

  A diversion. She scoffed. “Mlle Clair needs help, not me.”

  “You’re too kind for the likes of her.”

  “You aren’t kind enough!”

  Lowly, Father said with a scowl, “That’s a terrible assumption to make. Do you know what her life was like before I found her?”

  “How could it be any worse than being hurt, than having a master who hits you?”

  Father puffed out his chest. “I bought her from the brothel her father had sold her to for a modest sum. He had debts, and she had her uses.”
/>   “You bought her?” Jehanne’s blood froze.

  Some fathers sell their daughters, you know.

  “I purchased her and Moreau’s services—for the manor, that is. I saved them and gave them a new life.”

  Saved, what a word.

  “They were both there?”

  “I know you may wonder why I was in a brothel, but—”

  When he stepped closer, Jehanne lurched away and spat, “That? No, I’d rather not know. Though compared to you raping my mother, that’s nothing. Unless you would rape those women too?” Not waiting for an answer, she continued, “You used her after she was betrayed. You use her still, don’t you?” Use, as if Clair were a tissue. To say she wanted to slap him was an understatement. Whatever she wanted to do, it was violent. “Do you ‘take’ her? Have you learned nothing? Please say you at least don’t do that anymore.”

  Father laughed as though she were an infant trying to eat her own toes. “Darling, don’t fret so much.” She noticed he kept switching between “pup” and “darling,” and for reasons she couldn’t say, it made her skin crawl. “You can’t rape someone in that profession. It’s in their nature to acquiesce. I assure you all our private matters are just.”

  Jehanne swallowed down bile. “How can you say that? You can rape anyone.” She narrowed her eyes. “Is that how you excuse it? You do hurt her like you did Mother, don’t you? It’s against God.”

  “I told you it’s in the past—”

  “Mlle Clair is here and alive now.”

  “—and that I’m sorry, but I’ll excuse your tone. You have a soft heart, pup.”

  “How can you dismiss what you’ve done and say you feel remorse all at once? And I don’t have a soft heart.”

  “That’s not an insult.”

  “I want to hear you say it. Do you rape Mlle Clair like you raped Mother?”

  “It’s hardly the same predicament.” She couldn’t understand his callousness, how he could talk fondly of her soft heart and speak of hurting women like it should be nothing to either of them. How he could hold her and bruise someone else. How he seemed regretful in the beginning, hoarse and tearful, but the minutes scraped that warmth away to reveal a rotting, squirming core. By Mary, he expected her to simper and comfort him and let this go.