And yesterday. Damn the man! He had decided she should learn to embroider, as all gentlewomen did. Anne-Marie had shown her how, making the first few stitches in the work before handing the piece to Delphine. She had struggled awkwardly with yarn and needle for the better part of an hour, cursing under her breath, pausing to suck at a bloody fingertip each time her hand slipped and the needle pricked her skin. And then Gilles had bent close, and whispered in her ear, promising a night of delights if she could finish the piece before bedtime. She had worked diligently, her shoulders aching from bending over the needlework, her eyes growing puffy and tired from the hours of concentration. She barely stopped to eat supper; at last, weary, stiff fingered but proud, she had presented the finished work to him and gone to her bedchamber to await him. And he had not come. Damn his eyes, he had not come!
“Will you lie abed when there is work to be done, my lovely?” Delphine’s eyes flew open to see Gilles smiling above her. “Or are you dreaming of another lover?” he went on, his words light and carefree. Did she only imagine an edge of steel in his voice?
“Get out of my room, you scurvy whoreson!” she cursed, sitting up in bed and fiercely tucking the coverlet around her. “You are late by several hours!” The golden eyes flashed with anger.
He eyed her coldly, his face twisted in contempt. “I wish you could hear yourself when you swear like an old sea dog. It scarce becomes you—and puts the lie to Delphine the lady, for all your pretty new ways.” She squirmed uncomfortably, feeling chastened, ashamed of her own foul tongue. “As for last night,” he continued, his voice smooth as honey, “your work was so clumsy I took the scissors and snipped out half the stitches. I did it for your own good, ma chère,” he said, before she could voice a protest. “When you are a perfect gentlewoman in every way, you will be proud to walk in the streets and know that all Dieppe is filled with envy. ‘Look,’ they will say, ‘there is Monsieur Despreaux’s exquisite wife.’”
She glared at him sulkily, the ghost of Gosse strangely disquieted, despite his flattering words. “Will they not say ‘There is the exquisite Delphine?’”
His mouth curled in imitation of a smile. “Delphine without Despreaux would still be a coarse hoyden, my love.”
She flinched, knowing it was so, her heart filled with remorse for her ugliness this morning.
“And now,” he said, “I want you to buy a new lace falling band for your black silk gown. The mercer’s shop down the lane has many beautiful collars and cuffs from Italy.”
“I scarce need new lace,” she protested. “I am quite content with what I have.”
“My beautiful wife must have the finest goods that I can afford. Now,” he said, as she smiled in pleasure, “do you not regret your sorry greeting?”
“Dear Gilles, I beg your indulgence for my rough ways. I promise you I shall take up my needle again today, and make you proud of me.”
He nodded his approval and bent down to kiss her, then put his hand firmly upon her breast.
“Gilles—?” It was a question—filled with hope, anticipation; the expectant smile on her face faded as he patted her on the head and left her bedchamber. She felt a momentary pang, then cursed herself under her breath. Ah Dieu, she thought, what an ungrateful wretch she was! Save for his disappointing performance as a lover (and she was not entirely sure it was his fault), he was a good husband to her, indulging her fancies with sweet gifts, setting her on the path to self-improvement that she never could have found alone. She had no right to feel the flicker of uneasiness she sometimes felt at things he said or did; it was simply the newness of her being a wife that created difficulties between them. She rang for Anne-Marie, resolving to herself to make more of an effort to please Gilles.
With the housekeeper’s help, she put on her everyday gown of gray wool, a simple two-piece dress with a snug square-necked bodice, cut somewhat low, that ended at the waist in braid-edged lappets. The gray skirt was called—after the fashion of the time—la friponne, the hussy. Beneath la friponne was an underskirt—la secret—of a paler gray, and beneath la secret was a soft lawn petticoat that matched the chemise worn under her bodice. Delphine turned and eyed her body in the large Venetian mirror, assessing the still-narrow waist. Soon enough she would have to begin wearing la modeste, the sleeveless redingote of black wool that would fit over her gray gown and help to disguise her enlarging body. But today she looped up a corner of la friponne in the manner of the bourgeoise women so la secret would show as well. Anne-Marie tied the white linen falling band about her neck like a high collar, modestly covering the patch of bare flesh. For a more festive occasion she would wear a low lace falling band on the same bodice, baring the first swell of her bosom, or an old-fashioned stiff ruff about her neck. She buttoned on linen cuffs at her wrists, then sat at her vanity table to don gray silk stockings and serviceable leather shoes. Her hair, which she had allowed to grow, now hung almost to her shoulders, though she had had to trim it often to even out the jagged edges. She pinned it quickly with a few hairpins and put on a little cap. If she went out-of-doors she would add a loose hood or a tall stiff hat with a silver buckle. Her hat, her costume, would identify her at once as the wife of a merchant. She briefly contemplated the wispy curls about her face, wondering if she should bother to heat the curling iron, then thought better of it. Her curls would hold for a few more days.
“What is to be done today, Anne-Marie?” she asked, taking the ring of keys from the housekeeper.
“Perhaps you would like to see to the winter stores, madame. September is nearly over, and the harvest as well. If you wish to lay in more fruits or vegetables, it must be done soon, before the farmers have sold all their produce.”
Delphine frowned. “You must guide me, Anne-Marie. I know well enough how to lay in stores for a hungry ship’s crew, who will eat anything, so long as there is enough of it. But a household of a dozen or so—” She paused, a questioning look in her amber eyes. “How many are we, exactly?”
Anne-Marie counted them out on her fingers. “Monsieur and madame, of course. The cook and the four servants. The coachman and the stableboy—”
“And the six apprentices in the shop. Oh! And you yourself. Two—seven—nine—sixteen in all. Think you we have enough to feed them for the winter, with a little extra for guests? Monsieur Despreaux has indicated he wishes to entertain his friends this season.”
“And small wonder!” exclaimed Anne-Marie. “Now that he has a charming wife to show to all his friends!”
“May le bon Dieu bless your loyalty. But the charming wife will soon enough have a fat belly, and he will perhaps not wish to show me off then!”
Anne-Marie beamed. “Madame!”
“Hush! Not a word! I shall tell monsieur in my own time. Now—to the kitchen!”
They descended the steps to the large room at the rear of the house, passing through an airy chamber where one of the servant girls was setting up a trestle table and spreading out a tablecloth, neatly embossed with its square folds. While the weather remained warm, Delphine and Gilles took their meals here, but when the days grew cold the large kitchen, with its roaring fireplace, would become the focal point for meals and socializing and domestic small work.
The furniture in the kitchen was strong and serviceable, good Norman oak trimmed with brass fittings. There were several cupboards with diamond shapes carved into their front panels—the very latest style in the provinces; an upholsterer could scarcely furnish his home with old-fashioned castoffs. The table was massive, with heavy turned legs, and the chairs were upholstered in plum-colored velvet. Above the cupboards were wall shelves with thin lath ships that held back the pewter plates, copper mugs, and porcelain jugs displayed proudly for all the world to admire. There were several knife boxes on a small cabinet, and a large panetière, a decorative bread box, that held a week’s supply of that most staple item in the French diet.
The cook, busy peeling turnips at the table, bobbed politely to Delphine before setting
out a large chunk of crisp bread and a bowl of bacon drippings. While Anne-Marie poured beer into a mug and mixed it with sweet fresh milk (“All the better for you now, madame!” she said with a knowing smirk), Delphine spread pieces of the bread with the drippings, savoring the pungent smokiness of the bacon, a rare treat for her until now. There was no larder aboard ship to keep the oils and fats from turning rancid, and the salt pork and lard always tainted the soups and stews, no matter how much the ship’s cook masked the flavor with spices. But here, in the earthen room carved out in the cool basement, there was sweet butter and lard, olive oil and walnutseed oil. The suet and sides of bacon, wrapped in gauze and nestled in the tubs of dry salt (the tangible sign of a man’s wealth), would give a flavor of meat on those days when fresh beef or pork was scarce; the oils would enrich the food when meat was forbidden by the Church for this or that solemn occasion.
Delphine spent the morning with Anne-Marie, counting the sacks of corn and flour in the granary, the dried peas and beans and apricots, the barrels of apples. She inspected the meats—pickled, smoked, salted, dried—that hung in the cool cellar. She sniffed the herbs that were freshly picked from the kitchen garden, nodding in approval as the servant girls tied bunches of the fragrant greens together and hung them from the ceiling beams to dry. There were barrels of cider and perry, several large hogsheads of wine brought from Bordeaux (the drink the English called clairet), and a bottle of aqua vitae, those distilled spirits that warmed the belly and went to the head. Dieu! she thought, with a sudden ache in her heart, remembering how she had drunk too much aqua vitae the night Copain died. And André—so tender, so gentle as she wept in his arms. She swayed slightly, feeling the old longing, the old pain.
“Madame, are you not well?”
“Be at peace, Anne-Marie. I am overtaken with weariness, nothing more. I shall sit in the garden for a spell. Finish with the inventory. If there is aught we need more, I shall speak to monsieur for the necessary coins.” She made her way to the little garden, and finding a stone bench under a tree she sat down amid the glory of autumn. But her staring eyes didn’t see the vibrant reds and oranges of the leaves, only the blue sky beyond. His eyes were bluer than that sky—clear and beautiful. The cloudless sky wavered as she gazed, her eyes misted with tears, burning and bitter.
Damn you, André, she thought, will I never be free of you?
“Madame, there is a gentleman here who says he was sent by an old pilot in the harbor.”
Delphine wiped away her tears and turned to see Maurice Fresnel.
“Father!” She jumped up, throwing herself into his arms.
“Sink me, Delphine, but had not old One-eye told me you were here, I would have passed you by on the street without recognizing you!”
“And have I changed so much?”
“Only for the better! But they say that you are married! Is it so?” She nodded. “But why?” he asked. “What possessed you?”
She hesitated. André, the child. No. Let it be her own secret grief. “It was time,” she said simply.
“Are you happy?”
“I am—content,” she said. “Gilles is a good husband.” She took him by the hand and led him back to the bench. “But tell me all of the voyage!”
His eyes crinkling with delight to see her so well and robust, he spun out the tale of the last three-and-a-half months. They had had a successful voyage, with a comfortable profit. Monsieur Ramy had been pleased and had immediately commissioned a voyage to New France and from there to the islands of Guadeloupe and Martinique. Olympie needed repairs, but as soon as the work was done, and they could take on new supplies and goods for bartering, they would be off again. Fresnel was sorry to find Delphine married—though he hastened to assure her it was a selfish impulse—for Olympie would not return until April or May, God willing, and he was loath to be parted from her for so many months.
They had three weeks together. Delphine spent few hours at the quai or aboard ship; Gilles did not like her to share the company of rough seamen. Gunner and Michel came once or twice to the house, but they were uneasy at the changes in her, and sat uncomfortably like strangers while she offered them wine and tried to elicit news of the voyage and their lives. Michel downed his wine in silence, his dark eyes filled with heartbreak and pain; he seemed suddenly so young, so far removed from her life.
Fresnel dined several times with her and Gilles, enjoying the elegance of their menus, the obvious comfort of his daughter’s new life. He was a simple man, an uncomplicated man, little given to judging human behavior. He took no measure of Gilles; it was Delphine who concerned him, Delphine and her feelings for her husband.
But he was not a fool, and an uneasy undercurrent tugged at him. “Are you happy, Delphine?” he asked at last, on the day he was to embark for America, remembering that she had never answered the question directly.
“Sink me!” she exploded, in a fury that he should probe her soul, batter at her defenses. “What makes you think I would have been happier aboard that dungheap of a ship?”
The words cut him deeply and they parted in anger, each locked into injured pride. It was not until Olympie was well out into the harbor, her sails puffed by the freshening breeze, that Delphine repented her cruel tongue. She climbed the chalk cliffs, seeing the last of Olympie’s brave banners sink over the horizon, and—a futile gesture—waved a loving farewell.
By November she had begun to thicken noticeably, though not so much that Gilles would be suspicious and begin to count the months. She laced her underbodices (worn more and more now as the weather turned cool) as tightly as she dared, and thanked le bon Dieu that she seemed to be carrying a small child; it would be easier to pretend a premature birth when the time came. As for Gilles, he was delighted at the prospect of a child in the spring, a new toy of his own creating, another “possession” of which he could boast. In truth, Delphine had begun to wonder—her heart filled with dismay—if that was all she meant to him. She was a doll, a puppet he dressed and guided and manipulated, a pretty little thing he used to impress his friends and dazzle his clients. She did not like his friends—Monsieur Jacques Charretier, the shifty-eyed bijoutier who dealt in rare stones; Monsieur and Madame Vivoin, the draper and his fat wife; Monsieur Ardoise, the goldsmith, gray faced and old, whose pompous wife claimed ancestors going back to Charles the Fair—but she had learned to hide her dislike and smile and entertain them as Gilles insisted she do. She liked his customers even less, rich merchants and leering aristocrats who were rude and careless, their shameless eyes stripping the clothes from her body, their manners and gestures and words suggestive and lascivious. She had become quite clever in her artfulness, charming them while her soul ached to take a rapier to their guts, to pound them into the ground until they could no longer smile obscenely at her.
It was only with Gilles that she found it burdensome to pretend, hiding her disappointment in his lovemaking with increasing difficulty. Sometimes (if she concentrated hard enough), she could forget for a while that it was Gilles in the bed with her, forget his thoughtlessness, his clumsiness, could begin to feel a certain pleasure in the act of love. The pleasure was small, but it was enough to ease the almost physical ache she felt, the need to be close to someone and to smother the loneliness that sometimes threatened to engulf her. She needed to still the dread deep within her that he had no feeling for her beyond his lust and that sense of ownership that puffed him with overbearing pride. Not that she loved him, but she had hoped that together they could fashion a life of caring and concern.
But as he pleased her less and less in bed, her anger and disappointment became more obvious, in spite of her attempts to dissemble, and Gilles’s frustration and humiliation grew apace. He began to demand more and more civilized behavior from her during the day, scarcely hiding his impatience and annoyance at her slightest lapse, as though she were expected to compensate him for the torments of the bedchamber.
By the beginning of December she was forced to wear her
loose redingote and set the waistband of her skirt higher up above her expanding girth, although (thanks be to God!) she scarcely appeared to be six months with child. It was the season of Advent, that period before the birth of the Christ Child that was observed as another Lent, with prayers and penance and abstinence. There were countless meals without meat (and joy for the fishmongers), and long hours spent kneeling on the cold stones of the church, while she prayed to be forgiven her deception and, tears streaming down her cheeks, prayed to be free of her agonizing memories of André. His face filled with piety, Gilles announced that, to do honor to le bon Dieu, he would not come to her bed until after Advent. But the flicker in his eyes when she passed him—ponderous and heavy-footed with her increasing size—made her wonder if he was merely repelled by her shape, so different now from the perfect woman he wished her to be.
Christmas came at last, with eating and drinking and merriment. The kitchen hummed with preparations for a festive party, and a suckling pig was set to roasting over the open fire. Anne-Marie brushed out Delphine’s black silk gown and starched her best lace falling band, dressing her mistress with care long before the guests should arrive. There was a soft knock on the door and Gilles entered. Anne-Marie curtsied and left them alone.
“Let me see how you look,” he said, motioning for her to stand up and turn slowly before him. He frowned and tugged at the open front of her sleeveless redingote—set neatly under the falling band—so the edges more nearly came together and hid the rounded swell of her belly. He patted the curls that framed her face, his eyes cold and appraising. “Have you no other cap?” he said at last.
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