Girl in the Afternoon

by Serena Burdick

  She noticed a small bed in the corner neatly made with a stuffed rabbit propped on the pillow. Next to the rabbit sat a rusted toy monkey that had once been Aimée’s. In each hand he held a stiff wire. As a child she’d spent hours twisting the crank on his back, watching him lurch into motion, climb the wires, flip over the top, and make his jerky, mechanical way back down. Aimée wished she could take the monkey in her lap, twist the crank on its back, and watch it climb the wires one last time.

  At the stove, Leonie poured coffee. Henri sat across from Madame Savaray, but kept his chair at an angle so he didn’t have to face her head-on.

  Everything felt strange, with the thunder cracking outside and the lightning streaking through the room. No one spoke. There was nothing save the occasional boom of thunder to quell the silence. Leonie set the coffee on the table with a plate of cheese and bread, prepared beforehand, and sat next to Aimée. She wanted Aimée to see that she didn’t hold any grudges. Henri had told her the truth about growing up in the Savaray house, the truth about Jacques, and not for one minute did she hold him accountable. As far as Leonie was concerned, it was all Colette’s fault. That vile woman had slipped into his bed in the middle of the night, in the dark, and what was Henri supposed to do? Leonie might have grown up poor, but she’d been raised decent and proper. To have a maman such as Colette, well, that was worth all the pity in the world.

  Madame Savaray shifted in her chair. Her knee ached, the bottom of her dress was wet, the storm irked her, and no one, it seemed, wanted to discuss why they were here. It was clear that it would all be on her. “They have agreed to take the child,” she said, looking directly at Aimée, who wasn’t sure whether she should feel grateful, or outraged.

  Another flash of lightning turned the sky into a sheet of white, and the room, for that split second, was brilliant.

  Aimée felt the sofa shift under her as Leonie edged closer. Solid, practical Leonie—none of this would unsettle her. Aimée glanced at Henri, who kept his hands wrapped around his mug and his eyes turned away from everyone. It was humiliating to think that he knew of her condition. Looking at his profile, the curve of his narrow lips and the rise of his small nose, she felt the same pull, the same attraction and longing she’d always felt, but knowing what he had done with her maman changed it to something disturbing, repugnant.

  She realized then that her image of family, of her place in society and the rules she’d been told to follow, were all lies. Lines were blurred, roles confused, rules broken and neatly covered up. Even her stalwart grand-mère—who Aimée imagined hadn’t told a lie in her life—was sitting here, orchestrating a ruse that would go on for a lifetime.

  Madame Savaray picked up her coffee, the warmth of the cup only a slight comfort. It was no wonder no one was saying anything. How could one speak of relief and sorrow in the same breath, of a child who was to come and go, and never be mentioned. She set her coffee down and reached for a piece of cheese, hoping food might take the jittery edge off her stomach.

  “Where’s Jacques?” Aimée asked, this sudden turn of conversation startling everyone.

  “A friend took him for the afternoon,” Leonie said. “We thought if he saw you and Madame Savaray it would upset him. He’s only just stopped asking for his maman.”

  It was outrageous to Aimée to think these children would grow up as siblings, her child and her maman’s, and from the tight pull of her grand-mère’s mouth, Aimée knew she felt the same way. Outrageous, and yet, somehow, the perfect solution.

  Leonie took Aimée’s hand and gave it a reassuring squeeze. Aimée looked at her. Nothing was said, but something very important passed between them—something of a deep and intimate understanding, a moment of profound gratitude and acceptance. They would never speak of it, but it was this moment that would allow for all that was to pass between them. And years later, when Leonie was much older, when memories consumed her, this was the moment she would come back to, the moment that would help her understand, no matter how painful, that she had done the right thing.

  “How will we manage it?” Aimée asked.

  “You can live with us,” Leonie said. “Until the baby is born. Not here, of course. It’s much too small.”

  “What will we tell my parents?”

  Reaching for another piece of cheese, Madame Savaray said, “I have a friend in England—Lady Arrington. Widowed, without children. I wrote and asked if you might stay with her. She said she’d be grateful for the company. I told her you would be traveling in the late spring. It’s only a matter of convincing your papa to send you abroad.”

  “But I won’t be going abroad.”

  “You will, after the baby is born. So it’s not entirely a lie.”

  Henri hadn’t said a word. He looked wholly absorbed in his cup of coffee.

  “We want to move anyway,” Leonie said. “My grand-tante passed away, and she’s left me a little money.”

  Madame Fiavre had been the only family Leonie had, and Aimée felt a stab of sympathy.

  Leonie looked at Henri, trying to catch his eye, continuing when he gave no sign of disapproval. “Your papa’s sent money too,” she said. “He writes that he’ll send it every month, for Jacques.”

  “I don’t want his money,” Henri said, hating for Aimée to think that he was taking it willingly.

  “Then you’re a fool.” Madame Savaray slapped her hand on the table. She wished Henri would sit up straight and stop looking so desultory. “You don’t have the means to provide the boy with a home he deserves. He might not be Auguste’s child, but neither were you. It’s selfish to be prideful. Leonie’s a prudent woman, with a good head on her shoulders. You listen to her. She knows what’s best for the boy. I expect you’ll be marrying her now, what with these children involved. Make a proper woman of her.”

  Henri gave a slight smile, which Madame Savaray took as passive and noncommittal. “Well?” she said sharply.

  He nodded. “One thing at a time.”

  Madame Savaray grimaced. “Another month and Aimée’s condition will be all too obvious. The three of you can’t possibly stay in this infinitesimal room. It would be highly improper, not to mention there’s the risk of Colette making an unexpected visit. The sooner you get away the better.”

  “I know of a cottage in Thoméry that’s for let,” Henri said. “I plan to go out tomorrow and have a look.”

  “Good.” Madame Savaray stood up and looked out the window. “The storm’s easing up. We ought to be going.”

  Henri went to retrieve their coats. First he helped Madame Savaray on with hers, then he held Aimée’s as she slid her arms through the sleeves. From behind, he reached up and adjusted the heavy fabric over her shoulders. Before she could move away, he drew his hands down her arms and gave an unmistakable squeeze.

  Long after she and her grand-mère stepped back out into the cold, wet afternoon, Aimée felt the pressure of Henri’s hands on her arms. Whether his quiet acknowledgment was pity, or some silent apology, Aimée accepted it, wanting to forgive him in a way she could never forgive her maman.

  Chapter 21

  When they returned home that night, Madame Savaray went to Auguste. Deeply concerned, she told him that Aimée needed discipline before she was to be married off. Marriage had never kept any woman in line, she said, raising her eyebrows, “But I don’t need to tell you that. What Aimée needs,” she insisted, “is to be sent away. I propose sending her to Lady Arrington. You know how the English are.” Another raised eyebrow. “Far more disciplined in matters of the flesh than we.” Madame Savaray stood over Auguste in her black, high-necked dress, hoping it made her look authoritative, unrelenting. She needed this plan to work.

  Auguste folded his arms across his chest. “You’re just trying to get her out of marriage.”

  “Yes,” Madame Savaray said, “I am. I don’t think it’s the answer. What we can agree on is that she must be removed from temptation. Your solution is marriage. Mine is England. At least mine
isn’t permanent.”

  Auguste walked to his desk, drawing his chair out and making a great show of seating himself in front of his work. “I’ll think it over,” he said.

  Madame Savaray pinched her lips together. This would not work without his consent. “Auguste,” she started in again, but he shot his hand in the air.

  “I said I would think it over.” He picked up his pen. “If you are quite through, I have work to do.”

  Madame Savaray watched her son scribble something on a piece of paper, set it aside, and pick up another. He used to be reasonable and kind. All she saw now was an irate, bitter man. She supposed anyone could get beaten down, eventually, which was how he looked, beaten down. His eyes were puffy, his skin sallow, his broad shoulders slumped and defenseless where they had once looked so formidable. Affection was what he needed, Madame Savaray thought, but there was no room for that in their relationship. There never had been.

  “I’ll need an answer soon,” she said, mustering what authority her age and position afforded. “Lady Arrington has already agreed, and she is awaiting my reply.”

  “You should have consulted me first.” Auguste didn’t look up. “Let her wait.”

  What he couldn’t say was that he didn’t want to make any more decisions concerning Aimée right now. He regretted the ones he’d already made, and he didn’t need his maman staring at him with her accusatory look while he muddled over another.

  * * *

  Two weeks went by, and still, nothing came from Auguste in the way of an answer.

  Aimée and Madame Savaray moved through their days with increasing anxiety. Aimée did not eat as much as she should, and Madame Savaray ate more than was good for her. Neither one of them slept much.

  Colette was still too wrapped up in her grief over the loss of Jacques to notice. She rarely sat in the parlor with them, and since her Thursday-night soirées had ended, she spent little time concerned with the details of the house. The servants were left on their own, and Madame Savaray couldn’t help but notice that they were taking full advantage.

  But this was no time to worry about the servants. Aimée’s middle was thickening. There was no rounded stomach yet, but her condition would be obvious soon. Madame Savaray worried she would compromise the baby if she kept tightening her corset. A proper, expandable corset would have to be purchased, and that would be the end of hiding anything.

  Madame Savaray decided she must go to the factory, to Auguste’s office where everyone could see she had come on important business. He wouldn’t dare send her away, and she wouldn’t leave without an answer.

  Madame Savaray sat on the hard, wooden chair opposite Auguste’s desk. She hadn’t been to the factory in years, and as she listened to the rhythmic clank of the thin metal discs on the bobbinet machines, she remembered the feel of a perfect strand of thread between her fingers. She missed that life.

  “I’ve booked Aimée’s passage.” It was a risky thing to say, but she had no other choice. Aimée had to go. “I’ve heard these new paddle steamers make the trip from Calais to Dover in under two hours.”

  For a moment, the balance of power swung between mother and son. Auguste leaned back with his hands clasped across his stomach. His maman wore a steadfast expression that he recognized from his childhood. It was the one she wore when she would tell him, in that unwavering voice, exactly how a thing was going to be. He looked out the window where a pigeon perched on the sill, cocking his head as if listening in on them. The truth was that Auguste was grateful the decision had been made for him. Sending Aimée away was the sensible thing to do; he just couldn’t be the one to do it.

  “Very well,” he said, finally. “Have you told Colette?”

  “Of course not. That’s your concern.” Madame Savaray stood up, clutching her reticule, so relieved it was all she could do not to circle around the desk and kiss her son’s cheek.

  Auguste watched his maman, smiling, her head bobbing ever so slightly to the rhythm of the machines. He remembered how huge she had seemed to him as a child, towering overhead, a deep resonance to her voice that gave her an almost brutish quality. He had found comfort in her strength. He had thought his great maman was capable of anything.

  Leaning forward, he wondered if he’d missed, all these years, what an asset she was to him. “I will write to Lady Arrington myself,” he said. “I will want to know how Aimée is getting on.”

  “Of course.” Madame Savaray waved her hand over the desk. “Hand me a pen. I’ll write out the address.”

  She had worked this part out also, with Henri. It was his idea. He said he knew a woman in England who would help them. “How well do you know this woman?” Madame Savaray had asked, and he’d said well enough. “And what makes you think she’ll lie for us?” she’d demanded. “Because she’s good at it,” Henri had said, and they’d left it at that.

  Madame Savaray wrote the address on a piece of paper, and pushed it in front of Auguste.

  * * *

  Aimée’s departure was on a Friday. Madame Savaray had made sure of that. Auguste would have to be at the factory to inspect the week’s finished products. He had given Aimée a hasty good-bye on his way out that morning, a nod, and a word of advice about obeying Lady Arrington. Colette was bothered she hadn’t been consulted on any of this, but not enough to protest, and certainly not enough to mention it to Auguste. Her daughter was no different from the rest of them, her entire life subject to the decisions of a man.

  In the vestibule, the trunks already loaded, Colette looked over her daughter’s shoulder into the street. It surprised her how difficult it was to say good-bye.

  “I never cared for the English,” she said. “They’re much too stiff if you ask me. Regardless, I’m sure you’ll manage.”

  Madame Savaray hovered behind them, puffing air over her bottom lip.

  “At the very least, it will be a change of scenery,” Aimée said, looking out into a day that was bright and chilly and promising.

  “A dreary one, but a change.” Colette reached for Aimée. It wasn’t her usual way, but an embrace seemed the proper thing to do when one’s daughter was going abroad for an indefinite period of time.

  Taken aback, Aimée leaned in and awkwardly returned the hug. It was then that Colette noticed her daughter had put on a little weight; there was some substance to her chest now. She pulled away. Aimée’s complexion was rounder and rosier than she’d ever seen it. “Filling out.” She gave Aimée’s stomach a little pat, and Aimée winced. “Maybe you’ll find an Englishman for a husband.”

  “I’m sure I will not.” Aimée noticed the delicate spider veins running through her maman’s temples, and the thin, bruised skin under her eyes. Her maman looked fragile, which was startling, and for a moment it worried Aimée to leave her.

  Madame Savaray pushed her way between them, gave Aimée a vigorous hug, and turned her toward the door. “Best be getting on.”

  Before stepping into the carriage, Aimée looked back. Her grand-mère and her maman stood side by side on the threshold, her grand-mère’s magnificent black hair turning midnight blue in the sunlight. Aimée gave her a look of deep gratitude, returned by a sharp nod from Madame Savaray. A bond of trust and secrecy had formed between them. They were in it together, that they knew. But neither knew what threatening emotions lay ahead, what helpless, intolerable pain might have to be endured. They could only hope to come through it.

  * * *

  After the carriage pulled away, Madame Savaray hurried inside, but Colette stayed on the doorstep watching the commotion in the street. A white-haired man with a large dog stepped into the road, a carriage halted, and the horse swished his thick mane and slapped his tail against his back. All these people coming and going, she thought, lives being lived. A shout echoed. Handcarts rattled by, filled with the last of the root vegetables, pushed by strong-armed women. Colette imagined these women enduring the hardships of life with the same relentless strength with which they pushed their carts.
How simple, she thought, to throw oneself into a job. Haul something heavy. Dig potatoes. Survive.

  She turned, and the sun slipped away from her face as she stepped back into the house. For a long time she stood in the dim, cool hall listening to the silence. She wanted to be young again, with all the possibilities of a future. She wanted to be going far away too.

  Instead of heading to her room, Colette went into the parlor where Madame Savaray sat looking out the window. The old woman’s chin was tilted up, and Colette could see the protruding muscles along her neck, and her paper-thin skin hanging under her chin. How miserable to be old, Colette thought, sitting on the sofa and straightening her shoulders.

  “A cup of thick, warm chocolate might comfort us,” Madame Savaray said.

  “Yes.” Colette smiled. “It might.”

  For a brief moment they looked at each other, and then looked away, aware that Aimée had always been the buffer between them. Without her there was a danger of things becoming too personal.

  They became aware of something else too, something obvious yet profound. They were aware of how mundane and tedious their lives had become. And how neither one of them had anything of meaning, whatsoever, to do.

  Chapter 22

  Instead of taking a train north to Calais, and then a boat across the English Channel, Aimée took the train from Paris to the station at Fontainebleau. It was strange to go such a short distance, and travel into an entirely different life. A passage across the sea would have made it feel more believable, or at least more momentous.

  Aimée sent her trunks ahead in the carriage and walked, following the Seine, weaving her way under massive oak trees, tall and ordered like sentinels along the river. A bitter wind blew off the water, but the sun was shining, and Aimée didn’t mind the cold. She paid close attention to the gray-green color of the river, to the bursts of white sunlight on top, and the cool blues of the sky. Yes, this was where she would come and paint every day, as long as the weather, and her condition, permitted.