Delphine rubbed her hand tiredly across her eyes. “Must I implore you again, father? Sail without me! You have a new navigator in Copain’s place, we have patched and caulked until I think I will choke from the smell of pine tar, and my fingers refuse to shred another rope end to make oakum to seal Olympie’s seams! Why do you need me on such a short voyage? If you will prick that sluggard Michel, you will scarce miss my hands!”
“But why, Delphine?” he asked softly.
“Because I am tired!” she snapped. “Because I wish to stay ashore, because I wish to be alone, because—” her voice faltered, caught on the edge of a sob, “because I have no heart for it.” She bit her lip and turned away.
“Delphine—child—what is it that torments you?” He put a gentle hand on her arm.
She shook her head, unable to speak, fighting back her tears. “Please, father,” she whispered at last, “let me be.” She sniffled, then smiled brightly. “You’ll see—when you return in September you shall find your old Gosse again, as hearty as ever! Did I not leave my gear aboard Olympie to prove to you I shall go to sea again?”
“Well, it does not please me, but—Will the coins I gave you be enough to see you through the summer? Thanks be to Monsieur le Comte, I was able to pay back the moneylender with interest for last year’s loan for supplies and cargo. If you husband the money carefully, we might still be able to glaze the window before Christmas.”
“There is little that I shall need.” She ticked off the items on her fingers. “We have planted leeks and cabbages and other potherbs. In a few weeks I shall have fresh vegetables for my soup. And I found some turnips still in the ground from last winter. There are mussels and oysters along the shore, and fish, if I am so minded. I have a small piece of salted pork, two litrons of dried peas, and a boxful of ship’s bread. If I want fresh bread, there is a bit of flour left in the bin, and when the pears ripen on the little tree I shall make perry and trade it for some milk and butter. What more will I need? I have my books—and I shall welcome my solitude.” She smiled and put her arms about his neck. “Now be off with you, and trouble yourself no more over your foolish Gosse!”
He kissed her on the cheek, then frowned and stood back, taking her hands in his. “You are so young, so innocent, so—trusting. Do not—trust—too much, Delphine.”
She swirled away from him. “I shall not spread my legs for any man, if that’s what you mean, father! You may have raised a fool for a daughter—but not a whore!”
“You are not a fool, and you are very dear to me,” he growled, and, stooping, swept up his sailor’s bag from the floor and went out.
“God be with you,” she cried. “And a safe voyage!”
He stopped at the rise of a dune that led to the path and the wide harbor beyond. “God grant you peace,” he murmured, and cresting the dune, was soon lost from sight.
The lonely weeks passed slowly. They had never stayed long enough on shore to have many friends in Dieppe; Olympie had been Delphine’s whole world. Now she tended the small garden and fetched buckets of water from the rill behind the cottage. She watered her vegetables and soaked the salt out of the bits of pork she cooked with the peas or turnips for her suppers. She scrubbed the small cottage until her hands were red and sore, and strewed the coarse planks with fresh-cut rushes. Then she swept it clean after a few days and scrubbed it again for something to do, pausing sometimes to study her reflection in the pail of water. Child or woman? she thought. He had wanted a woman, with long flowing chestnut curls, and sweetness and grace. Not a ship’s brat with lank yellow straw for hair and a face as plain as earth.
She walked on the beach from time to time, but most days she felt too lethargic even for that and sat instead on a small bench just outside her door, reading Ronsard and Malherbe, finding the verses flat without Copain to share them with. And sometimes she took out her knife to whittle away at pieces of driftwood washed up on the beach, fashioning with some difficulty a small comb embossed with flowers to hold the fast-growing hanks of hair that had begun to fall over her eyes.
And one day, wrapping a shawl about her cropped hair and shoulders, she ventured to church, huddling in a dim corner, watching in agony as the women came down the aisles—graceful, charming, surrounded by handsome young men. Holy Mother, she prayed, make me beautiful! Then she sank to her knees, hands clasped together, to beg forgiveness for her sinful vanity.
She looked up. Across the aisle a man was watching her. He seemed to be about thirty or so, and was dressed in the somber clothes of a merchant—dark doublet and breeches, unadorned falling band, the silver buckles on his low shoes the only indication of his comfortable circumstances. His face was pleasant and boyish, crowned with a head of curly brown hair. She frowned at him and bent more diligently to her prayers. When she looked again, peering cautiously out of the corner of her eye lest his glance be still on her, he was gone.
At last she rose, moving quietly up the aisle to the front portal of the church, aware for the first time of the clumsiness of her gait, as though she were still aboard ship. She stopped at the font to dip her fingers in the holy water, the movement a hollow gesture; her soul was more troubled by her inadequacy as a woman than it had been before she came to church.
“Mademoiselle?”
He was standing there, smiling, offering her holy water that he had cupped in the palm of his hand. She hesitated, feeling the hot flush stain her cheeks, wondering if it was sacrilegious to refuse such a Christian gesture.
“Please,” he said, his dark brown eyes soft on her. “The water will be doubly blessed for me.”
Modestly she averted her gaze while she touched her fingertips to the water he proffered, making the sign of the cross before escaping into the bright sunshine.
“Mademoiselle!” As she reached the bottom of the church steps, he caught at her hand and would have brought it to his lips. She wrenched her fingers away and raced down the narrow lane next to the church, twisting and turning through the cobbled alleys and byways, never looking back or stopping until she had reached the safety of the dunes and her own cottage. She leaned against the doorway, gasping for air, unable to rid her mind of the pleasant face, the warm brown eyes. How dare he presume to be so forward, she thought self-righteously—but she could not prevent her lips from curving upward in a shy smile.
The next day—and the next—she wandered through the streets of Dieppe, pretending to herself that she was only out for a stroll, but she did not see him again. It didn’t seem right to seek him openly in church, and she went instead to early mass, that she might not profane God’s house.
By the beginning of July the weather had turned hot, draining her energy, making her feel sluggish and sleepy much of the time. And though she resolutely swept her waking hours free of André—dismissing him as a dark cloud that had caused her a moment’s pain, and no more—her dreams were haunted by his blue eyes, and she awoke filled with longing and grief and an all-consuming hatred. Restless, she wandered down to the bustling harbor at the mouth of the Arques River, feeling a little more at home among the ships and sailors. Then she climbed the chalk cliffs that sheltered Dieppe and gazed out at the open sea, almost regretting her decision to stay in port. Olympie might torment her with memories of André, but could her despair be any greater than the misery she suffered every day ashore, knowing herself different from all other women?
There was to be a great fair in Dieppe, with merchants and artisans coming from the surrounding towns and regions to sell their specialties. Delphine had learned of it one sunny afternoon when, yearning for a sweet pastry, she had caught a few extra fish and traded them to the baker for a cherry tart and the latest gossip. A fair! She had seen many a foreign and exotic market, but never a fair in her own country! She hugged herself for joy, filled with excited anticipation, planning what to wear with as much care as though she were a great lady going to a ball. She washed her best apron and folded it carefully while it was still wet; when she shook it out t
o wear, it would be embossed with neat squares from the folding. She had never bothered with garters before, letting her stockings droop as they wished; now she undid a length of hemp, pulling out a few strands and braiding them into a fine string to tie up her stockings just below her knees. She washed her chemise and dried it in the sun, and beat the beach sand from her green skirt. She would wear an extra petticoat—a heavy, cream-colored flax one—so she could tuck up one side of the green skirt and let the petticoat show. She even managed to whittle another comb for her hair.
On the day of the fair she dressed carefully, wrapping a large white linen neckerchief about her shoulders and tucking the ends modestly into the bodice of her low-cut chemise before donning her rust wool jacket. The day was warm, but only a common peasant would go to the fair without a jacket! She parted her hair in the middle and pulled the tresses away from her face, fastening them at her temples with the two combs. She peered into her small mirror to study the effect; she could pass for a woman from the front, but the moment she turned her head the chopped sides and back of her hair made her look like a street urchin. If only she had a little cap of linen—She sighed unhappily and picked up the pink ribbon Copain had given her. Tied about her waist, the long ends hanging down over her snowy apron, it gave a very fetching look to her costume, and she smiled, feeling heartened again. She counted out the few coins she would allow herself to spend, and put them in her pocket along with a piece of ship’s bread in case she were hungry.
The fair had been set up on the opposite side of the town from the harbor, in a broad meadow just within the ancient and crumbling walls of Dieppe. With the advent of gunpowder and cannon, the old walls of almost every town—except the most heavily fortified—had become well-nigh useless, and had been allowed to fall into ruin. Dieppe’s old stones were overgrown with ivy and mosses and meadow flowers that ran riot in the fields beyond the walls—bright patches of red, pink and yellow that danced among small groves of dark green trees.
Delphine clapped her hands delightedly at the sight that greeted her. There were scores of small booths set up, trestle tables gay with colorful cloths, canvas tents painted and adorned with many-hued pennants and banners. In the shade of a large elm tree a man in a scarlet gown was swallowing fire, extinguishing flaming fagots in his throat to the breathless “aahs!” of the crowd. Delphine watched for a while, her eyes wide with astonishment, then moved on to a troupe of actors performing a ribald comedy on a makeshift stage. One of the men, a large goat’s horn tied to his groin, pranced and capered about in pursuit of a young girl. She threw up her hands in pretended horror before allowing him to cast her to the stage floor and perch over her, undulating and bobbing in a crudely pantomimed gesture that was not lost on the squealing throng. Delphine frowned and turned away, strangely offended by the sight; it was easier to watch a man go down on a whore than see the ugliness of this mock show. She carefully avoided the young boy who passed through the crowd, holding out an upturned hat for contributions. Rot and damnation, but she would not pay to see such a thing!
She moved through the meadow, drinking in sights and sounds that were new to her: a team of acrobats, balancing one upon the other to dizzying heights; a group of country dancers swirling to the shriek of a bagpipe; itinerant vendors, hawking their wares to every passerby, crying out in song and monotone their varied offerings. There were pastry sellers and women with baskets of onions and oysters, hot chestnuts and oranges and lemons. A man in rags implored the folk to buy his twig brooms, and an old crone moved through the crowds with a jug of milk balanced on her head. A young barefoot peasant lad, dressed in oversized clothing that seemed to be the castoffs of some aristocratic master, pushed a heavy wheelbarrow containing a grindstone, his singsong cry promising a sharp blade and a good future to all who availed themselves of his services.
The buyers were as interesting and varied as the sellers. Haughty aristocrats rubbed elbows with the lowest urchins, and the somber garments of the merchants and other bourgeoisie punctuated the colorful scene with dots of brown and black and gray. The pickpockets might have had a field day, save that the Town Council of Dieppe, seeing a golden opportunity for a moral lesson, had taken the occasion to hang several thieves and murderers in the midst of the festivities. The corpses dangled from an oak tree, with signs about their wrung necks to warn others away from a life of crime.
Clutching her coins in one tight fist, Delphine moved past the booths that dealt in regional specialties: linen collars and handkerchiefs from Brittany, flints and steels from Lorraine and the Savoy, laces from Alençon. There were hats from Paris and kid gloves from the region near Bourges, and glass beakers and goblets—à la façon de Venise, in the Venetian style—from Orleans and Nevers. There were several booths set up to display the speciality of the Dieppois: delicately carved objects of ivory—combs and statuettes, hunting horns, handles for swords and daggers and table knives, chessmen, and embossed seals.
Hungry at last, Delphine stopped on the edge of the meadow to eat her piece of hardtack and wash it down with a mug of perry—the Norman cider made from pears—that she had bought of an old woman. Though she was still hungry, she refrained from spending her money on more food, tempting as was the abundance and variety about her. She had been hungry before, and there was a well-stocked larder at home if her pangs became too severe, but she might never again have the opportunity to purchase something unique and wonderful for herself. She shopped carefully, unwilling to part with her coins until she was sure of her own desires.
At last she stopped at a stall presided over by a fat little man with a luxuriant head of black curly hair that fell to his shoulders, nearly obscuring his linen falling band. Before him on the counter were several wig stands, each crowned with hair as abundant as that on his head. As she watched in amazement, he plucked the wig from his head—his skull as naked and shiny as an eel—and replaced it with a bright red perruque. Self-consciously Delphine patted her own cropped hair, then shook her head as the man turned to take a ladies’ wig from the shelf behind him.
“No,” she said, “it will grow soon enough. But perhaps—” She fingered a small glass vial on the counter, holding it up to examine the ebony liquid inside.
“Not black,” he said emphatically. “Not for you, mademoiselle!”
“No. I thought—mayhap—brown, with a touch of red. I have always favored—chestnut curls—”
“Would you abandon Apollo’s treasure when you have captured it for your very own?”
Delphine whirled in surprise. The man from church was smiling down at her, brown eyes twinkling merrily. At the sudden look of apprehension on her face he put a gentle hand on her sleeve. “I beg you, my charming little bird, do not fly away again! And never change the color of your hair. It glows with all the sun’s radiance—you cannot think to alter one single tress!”
“Go to the devil,” she said softly, uncomfortable with his unexpected flattery, unable to put anger into her voice. She moved away into the crowd.
“Did you know,” he said, keeping pace beside her though she ignored him, “that the women of Florence suffer the most horrible torments to have hair the color of yours? They dab their curls with foul-smelling salves and put on great wide hats with open crowns through which they draw their tresses. Then they sit in the sun for hours on end—with flies buzzing around their stinking pates—and if their hair does not fall out, nor their skin break out in festering sores and boils, they may flaunt golden hair for a month or two! Ah, there!” he said, as she began to laugh in spite of herself. “I had begun to think you could not smile.”
“Do they really?” she asked. “Do they really do such terrible things to their hair?”
“Indeed they do! And what did you do to your hair? Or were you ill?”
“Damn your eyes!” she spat. “It was a bother and I cut it!”
“No matter. It wants a bit of curl, that’s all. And a little cap to cover it until it grows long again.”
She s
norted, taking in his fine doublet and breeches, his silk hose and linen collar, his wide-brimmed hat. “You may spend your money on fripperies—but I shall not, God rot!” Then blushed, remembering the bottle of hair dye she would have bought.
If he was thinking of it too, he did not let his face betray him. “Come,” he said, “it would please me greatly if you would allow me to buy you a cap.”
“Why should you?” Her amber eyes were dark with suspicion.
“Because I have money to spend on fripperies. And because you would look charming in a cap. And because it was a cheerless day until I saw you, mademoiselle. Mademoiselle—?”
“Delphine. Delphine Fresnel.”
“And I am Gilles Despreaux.”
“Without a de?”
“Alas! I am but a simple craftsman, an upholsterer by trade. Do you fancy a nobleman with de to his name?”
“Not I, God rot! Let them all be damned to hell, says I!”
He laughed. “Leave a few to buy furniture of me! Come”—slipping a hand beneath her elbow—“there are dainty caps over here.”
She frowned and shook free of his grasp. “I am not a fool to be beguiled so easily. I shall not go down for you for the price of a cap!”
“No. I thought not,” he said, suppressing a smile.
“Then why do it?” she asked, striding along beside him.
“I told you. I should like to see you in a cap. You are a charming young woman—so different from most.”
She stopped for a moment, searching his face for any traces of mockery, before continuing, heavy-gaited, at his side.
“Do you live in Dieppe?” he asked.
“Yes. No—mostly on shipboard, but there is a little cottage for when we are not at sea.”
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