The Seamstress

by Allison Pittman

  I grin at her assertion. “I can fix your dress for you.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.” She stands straight again. “Of course you can’t. I’ve none of my things with me. Not even a needle and thread.”

  “I have a needle. And thread. Not so fine as what’s been used here, but it will do.”

  “Oh, will it? Will it do?” She turns her attention to the task at hand behind her. “Attention, messieurs. How long will I be kept here in the blazing sun? I’m to be in Paris tonight.”

  “You won’t be in Paris tonight,” Gagnon says before, bracing his shoulder against the wheel, he lets out a grunt and turns the carriage upright. To be fair, the driver aided in the process, but showed nowhere near the strain of effort.

  “And why not? Given we’re right side up again?”

  “One of the wheels is broken, madame. It would be far too dangerous to drive at the pace necessary to get you to Paris tonight. I can see to scaring up a saddle for the horses should you wish to ride, but—”

  “Give care, man.” This from the driver, whose interruption made clear Gagnon’s place. “You are speaking to Madame Gisela Poitiers, a high-ranking friend of the court, and not one to be the target of such disrespect.”

  “My apologies,” Gagnon says, without any hint of an apology at all. “I only wished to convey my desire for the lady’s safe travel.”

  “And you’ll speak not to her if she has not addressed you.”

  “But she did,” I say. “She asked him—”

  “Assez.” Madame Gisela punctuates her command with a thwack of her walking stick against a nearby stump, leaving no doubt that she’d prefer to strike my person. “Enough of this bickering. What, then, messieurs, is to be our course?”

  “Re-hitch the horses,” Gagnon says. “If we walk them slowly enough, we can get the carriage back to my farm, and I’ll see what I have to repair the wheel. At least to secure it enough that it will see you home.”

  “Would it not be better to return to—what is the name of that village? Mouton Blanc?” The driver asks. “Is there not a blacksmith? A proper inn for my lady?”

  At this, Madame Gisela holds a lace-trimmed handkerchief to her nose, as if already fending off the noisome atmosphere of any inn Mouton Blanc could offer.

  “Did you stop there?” Gagnon asks. “On your way through?” Neither respond. “I thought not. Wise of you. You have my word that you’ll be comfortable and safe in my home. But I cannot guarantee as much should you go into town. We don’t get many like you here as flesh amongst our flesh. And to be so helpless, with no means of escape . . .”

  As he speaks, he moves closer and closer to Madame Gisela with mock menace, and I can tell she is equally terrified and delighted.

  “I haven’t been to a farm since I was a child,” she says, lowering her handkerchief to reveal a thin-lipped smile. “I’m sure to find the prospect charming.”

  “Take her, Renée. See that she is settled, and fix us a supper fit for a special companion of the court and her driver.”

  Madame Gisela bristles, clearly unwilling to be so closely associated with a servant, but desperation begets necessity, and she turns on her heel to follow me.

  Never before would I have considered the walk back home to be in any way arduous, but on this afternoon I experience it through the steps of another. Every tiny spot of mud reminds me that my walking companion is wearing silk shoes that will lose all of their beautiful stitchery before we reach home. Not only that, but the chill of the remaining damp must be seeping through, as my own bare feet are nearly numb with it.

  “Tell me,” she says, “now that we are away from the prying ears of men, what is it exactly that you are wearing? You can imagine why I thought you to be a boy, as I mistook your garment for breeches, but now I can see that it isn’t, quite.”

  “No, madame.” Nobody ever asks about my clothing, and I feel a stirring of pride at the chance to share my ideas with this woman. “I’ve taken my skirt and rigged some fastenings, especially good for when I’m out walking with the sheep when the ground is wet. It keeps the hem of my skirt dry.”

  At this, she looks down to where she’s carrying her own skirt aloft, gripped in an attempt to rescue the poor, torn flounce. “What do you care if your skirt gets wet? Doesn’t look like it would be ruinous to the fabric.”

  “No, madame. But the wet, then, it . . . well, it chafes against the skin.” I stop there, as it feels unseemly to discuss the raw flesh created by the constant friction.

  “And I don’t suppose you have stockings.”

  “No, madame.”

  “Nor shoes?”

  “Not at the moment, madame. But there’s time before winter.” There’s no hint of compassion in her voice, and I hope she hears no petition for charity in mine.

  “Show me.”

  “Pardonnez, madame?”

  “Your skirt.”

  We are standing in the middle of a meadow, a shallow valley that I always call the saucer. Whenever I crossed it, I delighted in the momentum of running down the edge, holding my arms out to keep my balance, and maintaining the speed until I was up on the lip on the opposite side.

  “Why do you want to see?”

  “Because I do. Because you intrigue me.”

  My pride has now become pure determination, and I transform the garment, unraveling the panels and fastening them to each other, disguising the breeches with a skirt.

  Madame Gisela does not seem impressed. “With buttons all exposed.”

  “Yes.” I stare down at the plain wooden nubs, feeling both deflated and defensive. “But if I had a print material I could hide them, or if I had the means to paint the buttons, they could be equally embellishments and function. And see how they angle? I’ve never had a chance to see, but I feel like the line could create the illusion of movement. Like the skirt is swaying even if I’m standing still. Tell me, does it seem so?”

  Forgetting my station, I take a few steps away and give a slight twist under her scrutiny. Countless times I have asked Laurette this very question, but she merely rolls her eyes at me and asks how a skirt can move if the girl inside it doesn’t. Madame Gisela feels no such confusion.

  “Oui. I can see. Quite a genius. But tell me. Living out here, why do you not simply wear breeches if you wish?”

  I laugh. “I don’t think Gagnon would ever allow such a thing.”

  “Gagnon? That man? Your father?”

  “He is not my father.” I start walking again, and she joins me.

  “What is he to you, then? Is he married to your mother?”

  I’m glad for the brim of the hat and the distance to hide my face. “He is my guardian.” I’ll not invite this woman into the tragedy of my mother. And she’ll learn soon enough that Gagnon is not married to anybody.

  “Is he good to you?” Here, I can almost hear true concern.

  “Very. He is a good man.”

  We walk a little farther before she tells me to take off my ridiculous hat, and I obey because deep down I am hoping that she will look at me and tell me I am far too pretty to cover my face, but she doesn’t.

  “Can you do nothing with your hair?”

  I reach my hand back to finger the strands caught in the ribbon at the nape of my neck. “What else should I do?”

  “You’re right. It’s thin, isn’t it? I can see your scalp at the part. But you’re almost blonde, and fair, so I suppose you do well to wear this.” She waves a dismissive finger at the hat, which I take as her dispensation to put it back on.

  “I’m working on a better one.”

  “A better hat?” She sounds amused.

  “We have a tanner in the village. He saves scraps for me. . . .” And I tell her how I treat them, and soften and braid them. “To make something more like for a lady. Like a straw hat from leather.”

  “And why not straw?”

  “Because it has to last. And be strong.”

  The farm comes into view, and I want to ru
n ahead, grab my unfinished hat—still little more than a coil of soft, plaited leather in a basket—and come back to present it for her approval.

  “Tell me your name again, girl.”

  “Renée.”

  “And your guardian? Monsieur Gagnon?”

  “Oui. Émile Gagnon.”

  “Your house, from here it looks quite small.” There is an accusation in her voice I know well.

  “I don’t sleep in the house.” With him. “My cousin and I, we have a loft in the barn. It is quite cozy. A bit warm in summer, but there is a window, and since we’re up high it is safe to sleep with it open.”

  She laughs outright. “How is it that an orphan shepherd girl who sleeps in a barn would have such fine sartorial sense?”

  “Why do you say I am an orphan?”

  “You sleep in a barn. It is the kindest word I have for you.”

  It is the first thing she has said to me in which I sense no hint of derision. So, trusting, I ask, “What did you mean when you said I had a fine sartorial sense?”

  “La mode. Fashion, clothing, and the like. You have ideas.”

  “I can fix your dress.” The idea has been working in my head since noticing its tear.

  “And why would I let such dirty little hands touch my dress?”

  “I can wash my hands. You can’t fix your dress.”

  She stops again and touches a long, white finger beneath my chin, raising my face to see her. “How do you know I cannot fix it?”

  “You said you don’t have needle and thread. You’ll have to rely on mine.” That is the polite answer, but we both know that the tools of mending would be useless in her hands.

  The sheep are gathered in their pen, as I knew they would be. The dogs function as a barrier, lying nose to nose in the open space. I make a clicking sound, releasing them, and close and latch the gate. When we step inside the house, I’m overwhelmed with a sense of fierce pride. Yes, it is small, but it is decently furnished and neat. Many of our neighbors’ homes have been allowed to fall into disrepair, as if poverty were an excuse to disregard the comfort of the home God provided. Gagnon would let us all go cold before he would sacrifice his furniture to the fire. Our meals might be meager, but we have a table upon which to serve them, and a hearth to call home.

  Madame Gisela takes a deep breath upon entering, at last dropping her grip on her wounded skirt and clasping her hands to the flattened point of her bodice. “I grew up in a home much like this. Very simple. Very—small.”

  “Wait here.” I offer her our most comfortable seat. “I’ll fetch some water for the basin. If you want to wash up.”

  “I believe you are the one who needs to wash up. Especially if I am to allow you to touch my dress.”

  “I will.”

  And I do, straight from the well bucket, scrubbing and rinsing my hands until they are two full shades lighter than the skin above my wrists. The water is cold and we have no soap, so it is only by harsh friction that I get them clean, and by that time I need to dump the bucket of gray water and haul up a fresh one for Madame Gisela. I clean my face, too, and smooth the loose tendrils of my hair. When I walk back into the house, I find her reclined on the seat, sodden shoes beside the stool, ornate hat in her lap. Seeing her in repose, her face is softer, and I can almost imagine her growing up in such modest means.

  Moving as quietly as possible, I pour the water into the washbasin and examine the larder to see what I can offer for supper. This is Laurette’s strength, the ability to create a meal when it seems there’s no food to prepare it. I find only the remainder of a loaf of bread and a crock of stew grown cold. Its texture would be unappealing after another heating over the fire, and there isn’t enough for all of us. I take a pinch of bread and dip it in the cold stew so I can say with complete honesty that I ate while she slept, and I trust that Gagnon has eaten with Girard. Laurette will no doubt sup at the inn, leaving only Madame Gisela and the driver to feed.

  It will be enough for tonight.

  Tonight.

  The house is small.

  This is not a woman who can sleep in a barn loft, no matter how cozy. Nor could she spend the night in Gagnon’s room, even if he sacrificed his bed to sleep in the barn, as he has done on other occasions of an overnight visitor. She needs a proper chamber, and though I’ve been obedient to Gagnon’s request and haven’t taken so much as a peek through the keyhole, I must assume that proper lodgings wait behind the closed door. Closed, and locked, making me run for the kitchen stool to get the key down from the jamb.

  I cannot say what I expected to find on the other side. It’s late afternoon and the light is dimming. The shutters closed tight over the single window make the room almost completely dark. It smells of musty linen, but nothing rank, and as my eyes adjust, I’m pleased to find it as tidy and neat as any other room in the house. The bed is large, set with a full, bare ticking. There’d be no shame in offering this as a place of sleep to our guest.

  “Renée.”

  His voice, soft as shadows, hits me like ice. I don’t want to turn to face him, but I do. He’s nothing but silhouette.

  “I’m sorry, Gagnon. I only thought—”

  “Who asked you to think?” I can hear the grief in his voice. It sounds fresh, as if this room had been vacated yesterday rather than years ago. It is such a rare thing to ever hear him speak with anything other than indulgent humor that I don’t know how to respond, so I repeat my apology.

  “What is this?” Madame Gisela appears behind him. The broadness of Gagnon’s shoulders don’t permit her to peer inside. “Is this to be my lodging for the night? Can the carriage not be repaired before evening?”

  Wordlessly, he enters, walking straight to a trunk at the foot of the bed. With heart-stopping reverence, he kneels, opens it, and takes out a short stack of folded blankets, and when he walks toward me, I stretch out my arms to take them. Instinctively, I bring them to my face and inhale the scent. Though I know them to have been stored for my lifetime here, I can still smell the sun of a happier time. Gagnon opens the shutter, flooding the room with light. All of this he accomplishes with his eyes downcast, his shoulders coiled like a spring, and I’m afraid any sound or gesture will bring him to explode. So I whisper, “Thank you, Monsieur Gagnon,” hoping Madame Gisela will be prompted to echo my gratitude, but she merely sniffs.

  Say nothing, I plead in silence. Not now, not in his presence. Do us the honor of a modicum of grace.

  “It will do,” she says, and I exhale.

  L’épisode 5

  Laurette

  * * *

  MOUTON BLANC, LES BOIS

  * * *

  The party was five in all. Jacques Dubois, Marcel, Laurette, and Le Rocher—a man who looked strong enough to hoist the carriage on his shoulders and bring it back to the village in triumph—followed Gerard, who wasted no opportunity to regale them with details of his chase.

  “On my way into town, a few rabbit pelts to trade if I could, and I see this thundering chariot coming over the horizon. I’ll tell you when we get to the place where I saw it.”

  “It’s not a chariot,” Dubois said humorlessly. “Nothing more than a painted cart, the same as we use to take pigs to market.”

  “Oh, and painted it was,” continued Gerard undeterred. “Black like silk, sun bouncing off the shine like a lake of ice.”

  “Never mind trading the rabbit pelts,” Marcel said. “Sounds to me like you could go in and sing tales for your supper.”

  Everybody laughed, including Laurette. The sound drew Marcel’s attention, and he turned to take her hand.

  It was dusk when they came to the clearing, and if there was any doubt they’d arrived at the appointed place, Gerard boldly gestured, saying, “There. Right there, as sure as I live.”

  The little party stood at the lip of the meadow, staring at the emptiness below. Dubois spoke first. “Broken to pieces, was it?”

  “As I breathe, messieurs. Shattered. Bits of it scattere
d a quarter mile or so.”

  The man who looked strong enough to transport the carriage wasted no time displaying his strength on the hapless Gerard, leveling him with a single blow to the man’s slack jaw.

  “Enough,” Marcel said, moving bodily to block any further attack. He looked down at the cowering Gerard. “Are you positive, my man, that the carriage wasn’t simply mired?”

  “It was more than that,” Gerard replied after taking a moment to be sure he retained his power of speech. “Else I would have put my own shoulder to it to help. Earn a coin or so.”

  But nobody believed the man had the strength—neither physical nor of character—to accomplish such a task, no matter if doing so would have resulted in a story grand enough to earn a night’s worth of wine.

  “Do you see now?” Dubois towered over Marcel, one long, dirt-crusted finger an inch away from the younger man’s nose. His presence was so imposing, Laurette backed away, lest she be caught up in the whirlwind of his anger. “This, this is why we strike in the moment. That carriage drove through our street with no regard for us, or for the hungry children with caps in hand. I had to pull my own son out of its path or he’d been trampled under the horses.”

  “What would you have had us do?” Marcel’s voice matched the cool of the descending evening, tinged with its own darkness. “Should we have thrown Le Rocher here in its path instead?” Le Rocher, the boulder, the man of impressive girth who had spoken nary a word since leaving Le Cochon Gros, rumbled an approving sound.

  “Better than to have done nothing.” Dubois relaxed his stance and took on something more like petulance. “Better than standing around like a pile of useless bones staring at a wasted opportunity.”

  “Ah—” Marcel leapt away, positioning himself to address the entire party—“but there are no wasted opportunities if a lesson is learned. Our bones are useless, but our minds are alive. And what have we learned?”

  “That Gerard is a liar.” Dubois’s response sent Le Rocher into action as he cuffed the teller of tales on the back of his head.