The Seamstress

by Allison Pittman

  “What should I do, Laurette?”

  “Why are you asking me? I don’t even understand what—where you’d go. Would you ever be back?”

  “Of course!” But then her determined smile collapsed. “I suppose. Oh, Cousine, what would you do?”

  Renée was imploring, her small frame burdened with choice, leaving Laurette woefully unqualified to take it from her. But she could lighten the moment. She chuckled. “Leave this place and go live in a palace?”

  Renée responded with a wan smile. “Think how much Marcel would hate the idea.”

  “Yes.” Laurette sobered. “Think of it.” And with that thought, a window to darkness opened. Perhaps if she were gone, Renée wouldn’t haunt his thoughts. When Marcel saw her ambition, how quick she was to seize an opportunity to abandon the only home she’d ever known, would his love for her diminish? The moment the idea took life, she wished to squelch it, but it had inhaled the possibility, and she could hold it no longer. “It can’t matter what he thinks, Renée. He’s nothing to you.”

  “And what is he to you?” A question tinged not so much with suspicion as concern. “I know you were with him last night. I heard you and Gagnon talking.”

  “Never mind about that.” She hoped to push the question away with her words. “It’s nothing. He’s nothing to either of us. But you, now—close your eyes.” Renée obeyed, and Laurette was struck by the translucence of her cousin’s skin, the pale lashes against her cheek. Had she always been so wraithlike? Her pale, thin lips began to move in silent prayer. “Listen to me,” she said, not caring that she interrupted a sacred conversation. “When you think about what this woman said to you—what she offered—what do you see?”

  Renée closed her eyes tighter, knitting her sparse brows together. Then, a transformation that reached Laurette’s own heart.

  “It’s like a dream,” she said, her voice almost sleepy and far-off. “Only, a dream I don’t remember having.” She opened her eyes. “Like a gift someone is giving to me, but not a gift I ever asked for, because I never knew it existed. Does that make sense?”

  Laurette couldn’t help thinking back to lying with Marcel. That, too, had been a dream, but one that had been burning within her since the first spark of imagination. If only the thought of it could bring the same kind of peace that seemed to consume Renée at this moment. How perfect it might be if he loved her.

  “Of course, Renée.” She swallowed the darkness, scooted closer, and took the girl in a careful embrace, relieved to escape from her large, searching eyes. “Of course you should go. It’s a good dream, and if you wake up from it, put on your shoes and walk home.”

  PART II

  Le Printemps et l’Été (Spring and Summer) 1788

  * * *

  Sous les étoiles et la lune et les nuages gris . . .

  L’épisode 8

  Laurette

  * * *

  MOUTON BLANC

  * * *

  Ten days after Renée shut herself behind the royal crest on the carriage door, Laurette awoke in the grip of a memory. A happy memory, in fact—one of the few she carried, and thus had been safely stored in the subconsciousness of sleep. She was no more than five years old, Renée a stumbling toddler haunting her every step. Their mothers were alive and robust, serving platters of food along a table that stretched from the house to the barn. The demons that would possess her father had yet to manifest, and the knife in his hand posed a threat only to the woolly coat of the sheep in his arms.

  It’s shearing day, and there’s a race—a contest between the shearers to see who can clip the most wool in the time it takes for the children to run the perimeter of the pen. Laurette lags behind the rest, clinging to Renée’s hand lest she be trampled in the mix. She passes Émile Gagnon, a gangly boy too old to run, too young to shear. He shouts something encouraging, but the words are lost in the fog of dreaming. Soon, everything else is lost, too. The sound of her father’s laughter, the hope of seeing her mother, and the feel of Renée’s tiny hand.

  She woke up with her hand clenched in a fist, her lungs stinging with the effort of breathing—not from running, but from the strain of fighting the guilt that would greet her first waking thought, and every one throughout the day to come. She flung off her blanket and sat up, instinctively wary of the low, sloping roof, and brought her blanket up to bury her face. Where was Renée waking up? What kind of day awaited her?

  Laurette’s would be the same as ever, cooking and serving porridge to Gagnon, morning chores, and then another long, silent day as he prepared for the upcoming shearing. In his morning prayer, he would ask God to protect the unborn lambs, and in the evening after supper, she would drift off to sleep to the sound of his blades against the whetstone. During the hours in between, he would be gone, taking the sheep far off to graze sparingly. Hungry, tired sheep were much easier to handle in the shearing pen. They wouldn’t be gassy or bloated, less likely to expel waste on the shearer.

  “Weaker, too,” he’d say. “Won’t put up as much of a fight.”

  In the days of Laurette’s dream, it seemed like half the town came to Gagnon’s farm to help with the shearing. It was a time of joyous celebration. Her father would earn wages to last half the winter. Women planted their gardens and cooked up the last of the winter stores. The evenings were filled with music and dancing and wine—all in excess. Between the bleating and the challenges and the laughter, there was never a moment of silence. But as time passed, as Laurette grew, as the land rebelled with drought and the far-off government waxed with greed, all of life became subdued. The work that had once been a celebration became nothing more than a task to be completed.

  “I’m going into town today,” Gagnon said later that morning, spooning the last of his breakfast porridge. “See if I can scare up a couple of men to help.”

  Laurette took the empty bowl. “Why bother?” Never before had she spoken back to Gagnon about anything involving the work of the farm, and her impudence surprised them both. She cleared her throat and adjusted her tone to one more subservient. “I mean, there’s so few this year. It seems to me you could get the shearing done yourself. If nothing else, there are laborers closer by—”

  “Who have their own labor to do. And who will want wages I can’t pay. In town I’ll find men with idle hands and empty bellies. They’ll work for what I can feed them. Even that wastrel Marcel—might do him good to work a few days and eat food earned from honest labor.”

  She’d seen nothing of Marcel since their night in the forest, and though it was never far from her thoughts, the mention of his name brought the memory out full force. Her face flushed and her words teetered with indecision. With encouragement, Gagnon might think her too eager; with protest, he might be suspicious. She opted for deflection.

  “Renée might be gone, but you still have me. Surely these hands would be enough?”

  She thrust them in his view, momentarily pleased that they were chapped and red, evidence of hard work. Still, he laughed.

  “I’ve known you to be here at shearing time your whole life, Laurette. And yet I’ve never seen you touch a clipper. Seeing how well you can butcher a chicken, I think it’s best for the sheep that we keep you away.”

  She indulged him with a smile before succumbing to a quiet thought. “This will be the first shearing without Renée.”

  He took her hand, squeezed it, and let go. “It will.”

  “Do you think—will she ever come back home?”

  “Only God knows. He directs our steps. And, today, he’s directing me to Mouton Blanc.”

  Laurette spent the day in fidgeting chores, scrubbing what needn’t be scrubbed, sweeping what needn’t be swept—nervous energy to keep her mind and body occupied so she wouldn’t stew about an inevitable reunion with Marcel. She tried to imagine what she would say, alternating between an angry confrontation and a flirtatious invitation, both of which had the same text: Where have you been? The unspoken nature of the question was neit
her brash nor brave. It burrowed deep, hidden beneath layers of shame—both at the memory and the desire to be with him again.

  With all of the house neat and tidy, she reached for the key to the master’s room to find it missing from its place, the door unlocked. Cautiously, not knowing what to fear, she opened it and found the bed made up and smooth, a curtain fluttering in the breeze, Gagnon’s shirt hanging from a hook on the wall. The curse lifted.

  The sun was nearly set when she looked up into the horizon to see three silhouettes approaching. The unmistakable Gagnon, with his cropped hair and broad shoulders, Marcel with his mane of curls distinct in the red-gold light, and Le Rocher, twice as wide as the two put together.

  “Now, that’s one to feed.” She slapped the newly milked goat on her flank before sending her back to the barn. Of all the men she’d seen gathered around Marcel at Le Cochon Gros, surely there were others in greater need of work and a meal. Le Rocher looked anything but hungry. She stood as they approached, smoothing her skirt and wishing she’d had time to wash her face and fix her hair. Soon she would know whether to greet Marcel as a new lover, or an old friend. The chaste kiss he offered upon walking into the yard resolved her question, and without doubt she knew why Marcel would choose Le Rocher to accompany him. He wouldn’t speak about that night.

  “Makes him a great keeper of secrets,” Marcel said later, after dinner, when the four sat around the table with empty plates and an empty bottle.

  “Do you not speak at all?” The wine had given boldness to Laurette’s tongue, releasing it after a meal spent holding it.

  Le Rocher raised his eyebrows and tapped a sausage-sized finger to his temple. His head might be shaved clean, but he had beard enough to compensate.

  “His father—” Marcel turned to him. “Do you mind my telling? His father picked him up by the throat when he was a baby, trying to get him to stop crying. Crushed it. Never has been able to make a sound since, have you, mon ami?”

  Le Rocher shook his head, then pounded a fist on the table hard enough to make the plates jump.

  “Other ways to get a message across, right?” Marcel tipped his glass, emptying it again. “Room enough in this world for all.”

  Later, when the promise of a full day’s work called for an early bed, Gagnon caught Laurette by her sleeve on her way out the door. “I don’t want you sleeping in the loft tonight. Not while these men are here. I don’t trust them.”

  “Marcel has slept here—”

  “That’s different. You had Renée with you. Those two will sleep in the barn; you’ll come to my room.” He looked away and took a breath. “What was my room. Now, it is yours, Laurette. For as long as you wish.”

  He gave her a candle and directed her in, where she found all of her belongings waiting. When had he done such a thing? He must have noticed, as she was busy preparing supper, how Marcel stood close behind her, whispering into the nape of her neck. But these had not been a lover’s whispers. While she had braced herself for words of desire and longing, she instead was besieged by accusation.

  “How could you let Renée go?”

  “How could you conspire to send that poor lamb into the viper’s pit?”

  She could still feel the words hot against her skin, and Gagnon obviously mistook them for another kind of passion. Laurette’s possessions were few enough to have been transported while she stirred the stew.

  “Merci, Gagnon.” She dipped her head in gratitude, took the candle, and closed the door.

  The task of shearing Gagnon’s flock took a scant five days, and might have taken less had any of the participants felt a rush to complete it. But the weather was pleasant, the company entertaining, and the sheep by and large compliant, as long as they were not subjected to the blades of Le Rocher, who proved to be terrified of hurting the animals, and thus clumsy with the shears. He and Laurette assumed the task of leading the sheep from the corral to the pen, handing them off to Marcel and Gagnon, who waged a friendly competition with each fleece. Once, when a feisty ewe fought every step of the way, dislodging Laurette’s cap in the battle and bringing her hair cascading down, Gagnon made a joke that he might just shear her instead.

  “That mane of yours might fetch a hefty price for a wig.”

  “Yes,” Marcel said without humor, “and then the cocks at court can steal flour from the mouths of our children to powder it.”

  “No talk of that here,” Gagnon said. “You’ll stir yourself up, and the animals will sense your anger.”

  The ewe became compliant in his arms as he turned her and took the first clip up her exposed belly. Marcel started in on his own, and for the next several minutes the only sound was that of steel slicing wool in a regular rhythm. As if choreographed, the sheep were turned, wool cut up and under the hind legs, the front, around the head and face, and finally a cascade down the back while Gagnon whispered words of soothing praise. After, Laurette took the wool—all in one piece due to Gagnon’s experience and skill—and laid it out on a table to pick through for clumps of twigs and dirt and other undesirable elements. It was taxing, disgusting work, especially in a certain area where she trimmed down around the sheep’s tail, but her reward came from running her hands along the underside, soft and warm and soothing to work-worn skin.

  “It seems strange,” Laurette said, snipping with her smaller shears, “not to gather up the scraps for Renée.”

  “You should gather them anyway,” Marcel said, standing and stretching. “She might be back.”

  “And if not,” Gagnon said, “she left her carders. I’ll teach you. Pity you haven’t learned already.”

  “Maybe,” Laurette said, “but I’ll never be as good—”

  “No talk of that here.” Marcel made no attempt to hide his good-natured mockery of Gagnon. He captured the timbre of his voice and chastising tone. “The animals will sense your sadness. Now, Le Rocher, fetch me a sheep—a big, beautiful, plump one.”

  Laurette turned before Gagnon could see her blush and ran for the corral.

  On the last day, they worked well into the evening, the final sheep a spirited male who required the attention of both men to safely take his wool. He scrambled out—nicked—with Gagnon at the chase to finish him off. That night they supped with nothing but bread, butter, and wine, Le Rocher nodding into his cup.

  They gathered around a fire outside, craving the fresh spring air after a day spent in the flying dust of a shearing pen. The flames leapt lazily, occasionally emitting a spark that caught the attention of the dogs, who would snap up their heads as if to catch it.

  “Shearing is a young man’s job,” Gagnon complained. He was stretched out flat on his back, and extended his arms and legs as though caught in a torture device.

  “Easy, mon vieux,” Marcel said, raising his glass. “You have a few good seasons left in you.”

  “We’ll see what I don’t have to sell. Or butcher. Next year it might be just me and that old one.”

  “And if you get rid of the ewes, he’ll probably kill himself.”

  The two men laughed as easily as if there’d been no lady in their midst, as did Le Rocher, who only half heard the joke. Once his laughter—a strange, breathy sound—died, his cup fell from his hand, and the night noises were joined by his snores. Moments later, Gagnon’s breath was equally deep and even, his body motionless save for the rising and falling of his chest. Silently, swiftly, Marcel rolled until he was at Laurette’s side, up on one elbow, trapping her with his other arm, head nestled in her open chemise. It happened so quickly, so shocking—given the presence of the other two men—that she made no protest at first. Then, coming to her senses, she grabbed a handful of Marcel’s curls and lifted his head.

  “Have you lost your—”

  But he kissed her into silence, drawing himself up and covering her so that she’d no idea if they had an audience or not on the other side of the fire.

  “Take me to your bed,” he whispered, so low that the words felt more like caresses
in the night.

  Laurette shook her head in protest. Not because of fear, or modesty, or any other quality that she should possess, but because the last time he kissed her he led her down a path of surrender and left her at the end with nothing but moss in her hair and stains on her skirt. Why should a night spent in a bed prove any more satisfying?

  “Non,” she said, only to be kissed again. She forced her head to turn away, but everything below it seemed poised to rebel. Summoning the strength of both body and spirit, she escaped from beneath him and scrambled to her feet. Cossette and Copine leapt to attention and flanked her as she walked into the house, stationing themselves at the door behind her.

  “Laurette,” Marcel called after in whisper.

  She stopped at the doorway and turned to find he’d followed, only to be kept at bay by the protective dogs. With a soft sound, she rewarded their vigilance with a rub to their heads before sending them away to give Marcel clear passage inside. He wasted no time, taking her in a distanced embrace, ducking to meet her eyes.

  “What have I done, chérie?”

  “Ten days you were gone. Not a word. And since you’ve been here? You haven’t—” tears stung her throat—“you haven’t even looked at me.”

  “I’m looking at you now. I’ve been looking at you all these days.”

  “I mean, since . . .”

  “Nor have you come to me, lionne. Because he keeps you here, doesn’t he? Like a prisoner. Not like he did Renée, selling her off at the first opportunity.”

  “Why is it you can only think of Renée? When she is gone and I am here?” She buried her hands in his dark, thick curls and pulled him close, kissing him with a ferocity intended to command his thoughts.

  He responded, returning her fervor, and when at last he did pull away, his voice was hoarse with impatience. “Answer me. Do you want me in your bed?”