The Seamstress

by Allison Pittman

  “How did you know I was here?”

  “I know everything about Her Majesty, and you belong to her.”

  I move to stand. “Has she called for me?”

  “No. Something else. Come with me.”

  I follow without question. He walks, his massive back straight, shoulders squared. His coat flaps in time with his steps, to the point where it could be its own rolling drum. He’s replaced his tricorn hat. Feeling like some escorted prisoner, I run to catch my steps with his.

  “Is there trouble?”

  He does not look down. “I can’t say.”

  “What can you say?”

  Apparently the answer to that question is rien. Nothing, for that is what I get in reply. He leads me to the very edge of the garden, then along its wall. When we finally stop, he reaches into a pocket within his coat and produces a key. We are at a cleverly concealed door, overrun with brambles.

  “This,” he says, holding the key, “was given to me in confidence, and with the assurance that I would return it within the hour. Now, you’ll have to forgive me for accompanying you, but as I said, my duty is to Her Majesty and you are a part of Her Majesty; therefore, my duty is to you as well.”

  He places the key in the lock and, before opening the little rounded door, draws his sword. In a fluid motion, he opens the door, ducks through it saying, “Make way,” and then calls to me.

  Speechless, I obey. Already I can see that there is firelight on the other side, and when I walk through, I find a field of light produced by a semicircle of soldiers—some on horseback—holding torches aloft. In the center a man stands with all the defiance he ever displayed at our table back home.

  “Do you know this man?”

  “I do.”

  He’s grown thinner since I last saw him, his face sharp, his hair long and wild about his face where it is not contained in the tie at the nape of his neck. His clothing is little more than rags draped on his frame, his shirt open nearly down to his navel, and I can see his breath beneath his ribs.

  “Renée,” he says, and without thinking, I run to him. My arms could wrap twice around his waist, and I don’t think a bit about the fact that my face is pressed against the rough skin of his chest. He does not embrace me in return, and I soon realize it’s because his hands are chained behind him.

  “What have you done?”

  “Apparently he was making quite a ruckus,” Bertrand says, “storming around the grounds at the palace asking for you. And not so politely, I’ve been told.” As he speaks, he walks closer, and I step away.

  “Is that a crime?” Marcel asks, looking like a boy next to Bertrand.

  “It is if the king’s guard says it is. It is if he’s been turned away, escorted from the property, and told that he’s no right to speak to anyone in the queen’s care.”

  “I’m just a seamstress,” I say, my allegiance with Marcel. “I’ve no need for protection.”

  For the first time since emerging from the garden, Bertrand looks at me. “I’ll beg your pardon, but that’s not for you to decide.” Then he regards Marcel. “You are not in prison right now only because of our curiosity. So say your piece. Or declare your love, or whatever it is you have decided is important enough to risk your freedom. Go on . . .” He makes a wide, open-armed gesture and backs away.

  “May we speak in private?” Marcel asks, looking at Bertrand as if they were physical equals.

  “No,” Bertrand replies, with no further elaboration, but he does take an additional step away.

  “Come now,” Marcel says, and the chains in which he is bound clang with his truncated gestures. “If I were some kind of a spy, would I really have been shouting my intentions? I’ve known Renée since she was a child, and I’m merely here to determine her welfare on behalf of her former guardian.”

  “Gagnon.” I grasp Marcel’s shredded sleeve. “Is he well?”

  “He is. He sends his love.”

  “And Laurette?”

  “The same, ma petite.”

  “Did you give him—”

  “Of course I’ll give him your love when I go back home.”

  The way Marcel interrupts me, it’s clear that he does not want me to mention my letter, or that he is here at my invitation. Whether my silence on that part is meant to protect me or him, I don’t know, but I respond with an innocuous “Please do.”

  “Messieurs,” Marcel says, now speaking to the soldiers surrounding him, “I beg of you. Look at the beauty of this girl. So far from home, she’s been. And we’ve missed each other so. Can I not convince you to give us just a few moments? Over there—” he gestures with his head—“in the shadow by that wall. A few simple moments for a proper reunion?”

  I blush at the implication, even more when Bertrand breaks his show of strength to send me a look of amusement. “Mademoiselle?”

  “I’d—I’d like to hear about my family. In private, as we are not used to public scrutiny.”

  Bertrand directs his gaze to a soldier on horseback. “What say you, Lieutenant, sir?”

  The lieutenant grunts permission.

  “One more thing, if I may,” Marcel says. “The chains? May I not be rid of them for the purposes of one chaste embrace?”

  Rough laugher, and a comment from the back about some embracing not needing hands at all, which prompts Bertrand to raise his sword and call for order.

  Marcel shrugs. “Come.” His feet are bound, and his steps shuffle as we walk toward the wall, to a place of pure dark, hidden from the garden torches and outside the circle of the soldiers’ light. Once we are cloaked in blackness, I embrace him again, wary that his bones might break. Months ago, at the idea of Marcel seeking me out, presenting himself to my arms, I would have allowed myself to drift into a sweet, peaceful death. All dreams fulfilled. Now, my heart quickens with fear.

  “You received my letters?” I speak the question directly into the fabric of his shirt, my nose inches away from the stiffened stain under his arm. The odor is atrocious and I have to force myself not to wince.

  “I did.”

  “Madame Gisela took them to the post for me. It’s been so long, I wasn’t sure . . .”

  “Soundly delivered to Le Cochon Gros.”

  “And Gagnon and Laurette? They are pleased to know how well everything has turned out?”

  “I had to come for myself to see. I wondered if perhaps your letter had not been written under some duress. Or a desire to hide your true status. But now I see—you are so important as to be escorted by mountains with every step.”

  It is a joke, and I laugh. “I believe he’s more intended to be a wall between you and the queen.”

  “Ah yes. The queen.” His voice takes on a familiar bitterness, one I well remember from our talks at Gagnon’s table. But here, the edge is sharper, and I realize his words—along with his body—are a knife’s hilt away from Her Majesty. One leap over the wall, a few quick steps . . . Now I know why the chains are kept in place. “How is it you have become so familiar with Our Majesty?”

  I feel wary. “I’m not so familiar.”

  “Familiar enough to be here. Only her closest companions accompany her here. Everyone knows that.”

  “Let me make a new shirt for you.” I tug at his rags playfully. “Look at you, so thin now. I can make it from scraps. A waistcoat, too, if you like. And breeches the same as theirs.” I point to the soldiers behind us, and he makes a hissing sound.

  “I want nothing that puts me in league with my oppressors. And I’d rather live out my days naked than clothe myself in the scraps of the nobles.”

  Self-consciously, I smooth my skirt, taking no comfort in the perfect exposed seams. “I’ve access to plain linen, too, if you’d rather.”

  “I’d rather not.” He takes a step closer, and I find myself trapped between his body and the wall. Still, even at this proximity, the darkness reduces him to little more than a voice wafting on sour breath. “Why did you write to me?”

  “I h
ave some means to help Gagnon.”

  “Then why did you write to me?”

  His question begs an answer beyond what I have to give—that I knew Marcel would come to me and that Gagnon would not. I tell him this, the simple truth, and he laughs.

  “You thought I could not resist your charm?”

  “I thought you could not resist an excuse to leave Mouton Blanc.”

  “And why did you tell me to keep my visit a secret?”

  “In case—what if something were to go wrong? And you didn’t find me? That would only heap more worries upon his head, don’t you think?”

  “You think he worries?”

  “About me? I don’t know. But, from the talk I’ve heard, about the crops, this dreadful summer.”

  “So, we come back to your letter. And why you summoned me here. What means do you have to help Gagnon? Do you have rainclouds stitched into your ridiculous dress?”

  I smile at the insult because it feels good to be teased again. “I have money.” My voice is so low, I barely hear myself.

  “Comment?” He’s not teasing anymore.

  “Not much, I don’t think. Truly, I don’t know how much. Maybe nothing, maybe a fortune. People, at court, they pay me sometimes when I stitch for them, or when they want to know some secret I might have.”

  He leans in, so close now that I can feel his lips brush the lobe of my ear. “What secrets?”

  I can’t think. When I inhale, a strand of his dark curls brushes my mouth, and when I exhale, it stays and moves with my words. I feel the backs of my legs turn to icy fire, destroying the muscles that hold me upright. I’ve nothing to clutch but Marcel, so I do. “Silly things, mostly. Ladies want to know what the queen will be wearing to a banquet or a ball, and I tell them. Once a man wanted to compliment the color of the queen’s gown but didn’t know the name of the color in French, so I told him.” He’s right up against me as I speak. I can feel his breathing against the length of my body. Relaxed, slow, calm, though how he could be under the circumstances I cannot understand. “I’ve little use for it, beyond the small coppers I keep for when I go to the markets. I have all I need. Will you take it to him for me?”

  “In case you haven’t noticed, I’m not in a position to act as your banker right now. Do you really think these barbarians will set me free and let me abscond with a bag of gold you fetch from the queen’s chambers? Your big white mountain would come tumbling down on me like an avalanche.”

  “I have it here. In my pocket.”

  He stands straight, so suddenly that I’m knocked back a step. “Are you crazy?”

  “I’ve not really a place to call my own. Don’t worry, it’s down deep, and I’ve fashioned a button to close it up. And I keep them all bundled—the coins—so they won’t jingle when I walk. I already look enough like a gypsy, don’t you think?”

  I don’t know if he’s smiling back at me, but I hear the rattle of his chains. He’s thinking. If we were back at Gagnon’s, he’d be up from the table, pacing the room, previewing his words with his hands, gesturing as if to capture the very thoughts as they flew from his mind.

  “Eh!” shouts one of the mounted guards. “Les amoreaux! We will not extend the entire night for your pleasure.”

  “Please, sir!” Marcel shouts over his shoulder. “You are a man of romance, I can tell! I beg your indulgence for just a little while longer. Think of your first love!”

  Ribald laughter responds.

  “Renée. Take hold of my shirt, and walk back, back, back, until you are touching the wall.” He continues as I comply. “Your money is no good to anyone if we do not find a way to release me, but that will come later. There.” We’ve come to the wall, and Marcel makes another in front of me, he is pressed so close. “Now, put the coins in my pocket. Not all, if you don’t wish to. Keep what you want.”

  “No, I have it here, ready. I have since I sent the letter.”

  “Good, then. My breeches pocket, I think. So far I haven’t seen these animals strip a man to that indignity.”

  “You’re sure they are intact?”

  I feel him grin. “It’s where I stash all that I steal. Food, I mean. I carried a single apple for three days.”

  Marcel remains close, so close that some part of me touches some part of him with even the slightest of movement. I reach into the deep secret pocket of my skirt, find where I’ve sewn in a buttoned pouch, and pull from it the coins, wrapped tight in a square of muslin and knotted twice. The bundle is silent as a stone when I drop it into Marcel’s pocket, and it is with great relief that it doesn’t fall straight through to the ground.

  “Good girl,” Marcel says. “Your generosity will be your reward, but I wish I could convince you to come away with me. You’ve a crafty mind.”

  “We don’t know that you’re going anywhere yet, Marcel.” A thought occurs to me, and I place a staying hand on his sleeve. “One more idea, a safeguard. Let me sew up your pocket, seal it halfway down, so even if you get—I don’t know, tossed—it won’t fall out.”

  “And how will you manage that?”

  Reaching blindly into my belt, I pull out the threaded needle. “I keep this with me. Nothing makes a seamstress more nervous than having someone watch her thread a needle. Makes her go all blind and thumbsy.” Then, working deftly with the skills memorized by my fingers, I set a series of swift stitches resulting in a pocket that, were anyone to thrust a hand inside, he would find to be empty.

  Revolting sounds and lewd comments continued to flow from over Marcel’s shoulder, making references I would not have understood just a few months ago. “What they must think of me,” I say, wishing I could cover my ears to block them out.

  “Your heart is pure, same as mine. Let their thoughts be their sin to carry and confess to the Lord at judgment.”

  “It’s not often I hear you speak of our Lord, Marcel.”

  “And it’s not often anybody will for much longer. Save to cry out for mercy.”

  When I’m finished, I snap off the thread, and Marcel bids me to rise up for a kiss—a chaste one to my cheek, and then I loop one arm through his confinement and walk him back into the soldier’s light.

  “Finished with her, are you?” the lieutenant says, but his laughter is cut short by Bertrand.

  “Enough of that.” Then, to Marcel, “You’ve said your good-byes. Now, go.”

  Marcel rattles his chains. “It doesn’t appear I’m at liberty.”

  Bertrand addresses the assembled guard. For the first time, I allow myself to take a look at the lieutenant, the one who appears to be in command. His breeches are pristinely white, his coat a blue sea with islands of brass, and his head—bald as an egg—currently uncovered as his hat rests on the pommel of his horse’s saddle. The lower half of his face is all a trim, white beard, every bit the shade of his breeches, his nose broad, and his lips entirely without humor. In every way he bests Bertrand—in age, authority, rank, and utter contempt for the prisoner at hand. And yet, when Bertrand says, “Release him,” there is a subtle shift in the confidence of his seating.

  “You’ve no authority, boy.” The last word an insult to both their offices.

  “I am second in command of the guardianship to the queen.”

  “And this nuisance of a man is a threat to the queen?”

  “Is it now a crime to be a nuisance?” Marcel says, assuming the air of a solicitor. “A crime to make inquiries on what is known to be property free and open to the citizens of France?”

  “It is if I say it is.” The lieutenant speaks directly to Marcel.

  “And yet, Lieutenant,” Bertrand says, taking slow, measured steps until he is standing a sword’s length away from Marcel, “you chose to bring this nuisance to the queen’s private retreat? By whose authority? Whose invitation?”

  “Just wanted to shut him up is all.”

  “Then you should have slit his throat when you had the chance.”

  Bertrand touches the tip of his blade to Marcel
’s throat, and though Marcel is able to remain stoic at the steel, I leap forward and cry, “No! He is a dear friend of my family. He has brought me news, that is all.”

  “Well, that’s not all,” the lieutenant says. In an instant, Bertrand has resheathed his sword, and in a swift motion, hauls the man clean off his horse and throws him to the ground. The air is filled with the sound of half a dozen blades drawn, feet hitting the ground, and the rattle of a set of chains as Bertrand shoves Marcel to the side and places himself in front of me.

  The lieutenant yells, “Stand!” even as he struggles to his feet, and his men reluctantly resheathe their weapons. Once up, he refuses to dust off his breeches, though somehow I know the stain of dirt infuriates him. He steps to Bertrand, his nose barely in line with the younger man’s throat. “I suppose there’s no need for the queen to get word of any of this unpleasant business.”

  “Take two of your men,” Bertrand says, “and escort this person back to . . .”

  “Saint-Canus,” Marcel says, without affording me the slightest glance of warning.

  “Saint-Canus,” Bertrand says. “Wherever such a wretched hole of a place might be. Flank him, and send a message that his fate is that of anyone who takes it upon himself to disrupt the royal peace. Then he is to be left unharmed. Will you repeat my request to your men?”

  He does so, using a more vulgar term to define their prisoner, and two of his soldiers remount while a third escorts Marcel to stand between them.

  “Am I not to be allowed a horse?” Marcel asks over his shoulder.

  “Did you ride a horse to Versailles?” the lieutenant responds.

  “And these?” Marcel presents his chains.

  “Leave them,” Bertrand says. “Let someone in—what was it? Saint-Canus?—find a way to set you free.”

  Marcel shrugs. “Eh, bien. Au revoir, Renée. I will give your love to your cousin.”

  “And Gagnon!” We are at quite a distance from each other by now, and I’m forced to peek around Bertrand to say anything at all.