The Seamstress

by Allison Pittman

  “Fish?” Joseph guessed.

  “No,” Gagnon said, with a softness that stirred Laurette’s heart as much as the spinning life within her. “Not fish; the water was too deep. And still. What he saw was another dog.”

  “His reflection,” Philippe said.

  “Yes,” Gagnon affirmed. “And what do you think that other dog had in his mouth?”

  “A bone!” Nicolas jumped in before his brother could.

  “Yes, a bone. Now, this dog was a very selfish dog. Well, he thinks to himself, why should I not have that dog’s bone also? So he bends low to bark at that dog, opens his mouth, and what do you think happens? The bone, it falls out of his mouth. Le floc! Splash! Into the water. He has nothing.”

  “Poor dog,” Joseph said through a yawn.

  “There is never a loss if there’s a lesson learned,” Gagnon said. “Now, off—all you boys.”

  They obeyed, all three to the loft above the barn, Joseph feeling like such a big boy to join them. When they were out of sight and the lamplight snuffed in the window, Laurette ventured a whisper.

  “I was worried for a time, Gagnon, that I would be like that dog. Losing everything.”

  “Because you wanted something more?”

  “All I ever wanted was to belong somewhere. With someone.”

  “You’ve always had as much with me. This was your home.”

  “And you told me, over and over, that I could leave. That I could go—anytime I wished.” She’d been staring into the flames, and she turned to find him doing the same.

  “So you left.”

  “So I left.”

  “And you’ve come back, just like before. Hungry, clutching an even hungrier one by the hand.” He looked at her, a smile tugging on his lips. “So it is just like before? I take you in for a time, until you want . . .”

  “I won’t want to leave again.”

  “Where is Marcel?”

  It was the first his name had been spoken since her return. “I don’t know.”

  “Will he be coming for you?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Do you still love him?”

  “He’s . . . he’s not what I thought. I believed he loved me from the night—that night before Renée went away. But I don’t know if he ever did. And he changed so much. When we got to Paris, it was like something took him over. This lust for blood, these people.” She went on about the long stretches of his absence, his crimes—

  “He stole Girard’s horse.”

  She looked away in shame. “I know. I know he did.”

  “Girard named too high a price for it. I’m indebted to him.”

  “What price?”

  He smiled, calculating. “He wanted me to marry his daughter.”

  There was no time to stifle her laughter, the expression on his face giving no encouragement to suppress it. “And what did you say?”

  “I was tempted, for a time. Because we—the boys and I—missed having a woman in the house. Then I realized I didn’t miss having a woman; I missed you. It wouldn’t be fair to Elianne. Now, you have not answered my question. Do you love Marcel?”

  “I’m going to have his child.” That would have to suffice as an answer, because it was the only truth she could offer. Gagnon did not move, not a single muscle of his face or body. Not for a full minute as the flames danced beside them, casting shadows and filling the silence with hisses and pops. Laurette looked down into her lap, not embarrassed, but unsure. Then his hand crept into her field of vision, taking hers, and his other touched her face—warm from the fire—and forced her to look into his eyes.

  “Has he married you?”

  Tears pricked her eyes. “You must know he hasn’t.”

  Illogically, he grinned. “Then, my sweet Laurette, I shall.” He brought her close and kissed her brow. “If you’ll have me. This will be your home, and I’ll give the child my name.”

  It was a declaration, not a proposal, leaving Laurette to wonder if she owed any kind of response at all. The idea of marrying Gagnon seemed too natural to question, like something that had happened years ago, only to be newly discovered. She waited for him to tell her that she was free to refuse, free to take herself and Marcel’s child to find whatever fate awaited. Free to return to him, if she liked. Surely it couldn’t be this easy, to simply say yes and have—finally—a life and future assured.

  “But should Marcel come for me . . .”

  His grip tightened, thumb beneath her chin, holding her in place. “You won’t be free to leave. He won’t be able to take you. Is that what you want?”

  She thought back to the night she left, when she’d offered herself to him—unmistakable in her intent. The motives behind this offer, however, were hidden, and an unwelcome shadow of doubt emerged. Was she a prize in some unknown competition? Was her child simply another foundling to be taken in? Would marriage somehow ease his conscience for having so easily lost her to the ills of the city and the dangers of the rebellion? For all she knew, Gagnon would take her as a wife for no other reason than to fend off future threats from Elianne Girard. Looking into his eyes, though, the motive didn’t matter. Even in the firelight, she recognized their hue—gray and green together. The colors of promised rain and new life. He might never love her with the all-consuming desire that sated her hunger all those breadless days with Marcel. But neither, still, would he let her go hungry. Nor the baby within her, nor Joseph, whom he’d welcomed and fed without question. For them, as much as for her own life, she would accept.

  “When, do you think?” She touched her hand to her stomach. “I don’t expect the baby until—”

  “Tomorrow.”

  “So soon?” She suspected he worried she might have a change of heart, and could think of no words to assure him otherwise.

  “To wait much longer, I’m afraid, will set tongues to wagging more than they already will. Would you be content with just a small ceremony? The two of us, the boys, and whoever happens to be in the church to act as witnesses?”

  She felt a rush of relief at the thought. “Of course. That will be perfect.”

  His look turned serious. “There’s one other thing. Father Pietro will expect us to give Confession.”

  “I won’t.”

  “You must, to take Communion. I’ve allowed you to—”

  “Allowed?”

  He changed course. “I’ve said little about your reluctance to attend Mass—all these years that you’ve been living under my roof. But this is different. Matrimony is a sacrament. If we are to be married in the eyes of the Church—”

  “I don’t care about the eyes of the Church.”

  “The eyes of God, then.”

  “I won’t go behind that curtain and tell him everything I’ve . . .” The fire had burned down to embers and the night taken on a true chill. She longed for a shawl to wrap around her not for its warmth, but for its comfort. Something to hide behind, because the thought of all those words, her deeds spoken into the darkness, terrified her like a living nightmare.

  “The Holy Scriptures tell us—”

  “Please—” Her instinct was to tell him to stop, knowing she had no argument against God’s Word, but then a fluttering within her, the fluttering of the child—Marcel’s child—reminded her of Marcel’s growing antipathy toward not only the institution of the Church in all its abuse of power, but also all of Christianity. He’d said precisely that the Church had no power to sanctify a marriage. Here, she seemed to be speaking his argument with her lips. “Please—” she softened her tone—“what does Scripture say?”

  “That if we confess our sins, he—Christ Jesus—is faithful and just to forgive us our sins, and to cleanse us from all unrighteousness. All unrighteousness, Laurette.”

  She thought about the deliciousness of the bath she took upon her return, washing the grit of Paris from her body. Sleeping beneath the sunshine, completely alone. Alone. “It hardly seems fair, Gagnon, when you have nothing to confess.”
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  “I was cruel to you, Laurette.” By now, with the fire nothing more than veins of orange in a dark pit and the sky moonless above, his face was obscured as if behind a confessional curtain. Here, though, the air was not warm and close, but wide and sweet, so that his words carried beyond her ears and clear to heaven, though she knew he’d whispered them to God in the darkness. “You came to me and I rejected you, even though I’d had thoughts . . . thoughts I could have made pure if I’d asked you to be my wife before . . .”

  “Before I left?”

  “Before Renée left.” This, perhaps, God did not hear, as it nearly disappeared behind the hiss of an ember.

  “What can I confess?” She felt tears, cold against her cheek. “What do you not know? What does God not know? Doesn’t he see everything?”

  “Confession is not for God’s benefit. Or for mine. It’s for you, Laurette. Speaking it brings your soul to the surface. Otherwise, sometimes, I think, our silence keeps the truth hidden from ourselves.”

  Since before Renée. She could tell by the direction of his voice that he was looking away.

  “What shall I confess to, then? To being foolish? To being jealous of Renée and giving myself to Marcel the first time so that I could pull his love away from her? Foolish for wanting him and wanting him, even when he cast me aside? When I think about what I’ve done—how I must appear to you . . .” She saw herself, full-figured, eyes bright with wine, sitting in Marcel’s lap at Le Cochon Gros, pinned beneath him beside the fire after the shearing, exchanging glances throughout the winter, walking along beside him in the spring. “I’m so sorry, Gagnon, that I didn’t listen to you when you warned me. And I’m sorry most of all that I ever thought you would—that you could see me the way he saw me. That you would want me the way he—”

  “Enough with that.” The weight of his hand on her shoulder brought the same comfort as a heating stone at her feet. Still, she took it and pressed her face against it, not caring about the tears that were now flowing freely.

  “I’m sorry that I didn’t trust you to take care of me. And I’m sorry I helped steal Monsieur Girard’s horse. And I hate every minute I spent in Paris—every minute with . . . him. I’ve never felt so filthy and used and alone. Only—” she clasped his hand in both of hers and held it to her body—“I can’t be sorry about the baby. I hate what I did—how I lived—with Marcel. But I cannot hate this child.”

  “Nor do I.” Gagnon stood, bringing her with him, and drew her into his arms. He held her long enough for her to repeat the litany of her confession—every word spoken into the fold of his shirt. He said nothing in response. No words of comfort, no assurances that it was fine. All forgiven. He didn’t try to hush her or draw out any more than she was willing to say. He asked no questions, showed no frustration at her repetition. He remained steadfast as ever until she sobbed herself into silence, midsentence. She turned her face to lay her cheek against his now-damp shirt and felt the cooling breeze against her skin, thinking, I’ll never have to say these words again. She’d poured her sin and sorrow and felt—empty. Not depleted, but like a jug emptied of its soured remains and ready to be filled with something new. Her body carried Marcel’s child, but her heart knew only Gagnon.

  “Will you ask Christ to forgive you?”

  “I want you to forgive me.”

  He stepped away, and she missed him immediately. “You were restored to me the minute I saw you on the path. But to be restored to Christ, you must come to him.”

  Though the night itself was dark, she closed her eyes, not only to shut herself away but because she knew she was supposed to. “Holy Father—” She opened her eyes. “Will you hold my hands, Gagnon? Hold me steady? I feel dizzy.” It was not a complete lie. Her head pounded from its onslaught of tears, and the darkness felt disorienting. Once in his grip, she closed her eyes again, but no more words would come. She pleaded, “Tell me what to say.”

  “Will you speak my words from your heart?”

  “I will.”

  “Say, ‘Father of mercy, I have spoken my sins. And I am cleansed with the blood of Jesus on the cross.’”

  Laurette spoke them faithfully, perfectly, each phrase with a ring of truth as sure as her confession.

  The market square in Mouton Blanc breathed the same resurrective air Laurette herself felt. It was nothing like the thriving days of her youth, when merchants shouted over one another in an effort to take coin or goods in trade, but there were signs of life: a hastily erected pen of late-born lambs, a few wagons with baskets brimming with summer vegetables. A middle-aged woman walked up and down with a tray of soft, downy chicks strapped to her chest. “Chick-chick-chick! Three-a-copper!”

  Laurette tugged at Gagnon’s sleeve. “Can we get some? Maybe six?”

  “Of course,” he said, tucking her arm in his. “What kind of a groom would I be if I didn’t buy my bride a gift on her wedding day?”

  It was then that the boys learned the true purpose of their journey—they’d been promised only an afternoon in town. All three whooped in delight, though Joseph seemed short of understanding.

  L’église du Mouton Perdu, the Church of the Lost Sheep, was a small structure, with a single, arched door that opened to an empty, dark vestibule. While many members of France’s First Estate—the clergy—benefited financially from their strong ties to the ruling class, the priest serving here, Father Pietro de Salinas, was a poor Spanish transplant willing to pastor those in an equally poor French village. A dozen solid, backless benches—worn soft through the centuries—lined a narrow aisle; beveled glass in the windows bathed the chapel in gray. Three women knelt in prayer at the altar; three candle flames danced surrounding the empty alms box.

  Aside from the triptych altarpiece depicting the Annunciation, Crucifixion, and Ascension, the only artwork in the chapel was a large painting on the wall opposite the window of Saint Germaine, saint and shepherdess. She was the patron saint of lost sheep and children, being an unwanted and unloved child forced to live with the animals she tended. Every spring, on her saint’s day, the villagers at Mouton Blanc celebrated her legend, choosing one little girl to play the part reenacting her miracle. With one arm tucked up to resemble Germaine’s deformity, the girl ran through the market, chased by the woman chosen to play her wicked stepmother. The stepmother would scream at the girl, accusing her of stealing bread from the kitchen, but when the girl opened her apron to confess the sin, a hundred flowers wafted to the ground. Laurette had never been chosen to play Germaine, but Renée had, and she’d practiced for weeks unfurling her apron to make the blossoms fly.

  Father Pietro entered from behind a heavy drape, looking pleased to see so many souls within his little house of worship, and even more so when Gagnon informed him of the reason for their visit.

  “So rare to hear good news these days,” he said, clasping the thin hands that protruded like twigs from the voluminous sleeves of his black robe. “How soon until the happy occasion?”

  “Today,” Gagnon replied, his own hands clasped in pleading. “Now.”

  Father Pietro’s dark brows rose high. “Is there a reason for such a hurry?”

  Gagnon leaned closer and whispered, “The oldest reason known to Christendom.”

  Understanding dawned, and the priest stepped back. “Shall we, then, have Confession before the ceremony?”

  “And have our marriage serve as penance?” Gagnon’s words were tinged with humor. “Our sins are well known to our Savior, and covered by his blood, Father. We have confessed to him and to each other.”

  Laurette’s heart swelled with gratitude for his intervention, but Father Pietro would not be so easily denied.

  “You know well you cannot take Communion without Confession, and I will not join you as man and wife without knowing you come together fully restored to righteousness.”

  Behind them, the boys—all three—shifted nervously, but Laurette stood resolute. Who could know Gagnon and assume him to be anything other tha
n righteous? One truth would clear him of the sin Father Pietro assumed. He need only say that the child she carried wasn’t his, that he was offering to share his life as a gift. Instead, he placed a protective arm around her.

  “We wish to be married, Father. To make a permanent home for these boys and the child to come. We will choose a marriage in the eyes of God over one in the eyes of the Church and save ourselves the fee.” He punctuated his statement with a wink to Laurette—they were her words, after all—and a thin silver coin held eye level to the Father.

  Without delay, and to the bemusement of the women at prayer, Father Pietro pulled Philippe to serve as altar boy, holding a small plate of the host and later, a pewter chalice of sacramental wine, both of which he administered with Latin prayers and undue haste. Laurette took the bread to her tongue and sipped the wine for the first time since her first Communion. When, with practical efficiency, Gagnon and Laurette were declared man and wife in the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit, they exchanged a chaste kiss, after which Gagnon finally pressed the coin into Father Pietro’s palm.

  “I will see you at the baptism,” the priest said. “If not before.”

  The atmosphere in the market square had erupted into something like a celebration by the time the newly married couple and their gathering of lost sons emerged from the church. Shopkeepers congregated in the street, and a steady stream of shouts poured through the open doors of Le Cochon Gros.

  Though the scene before her was on a completely different scale, Laurette’s mind went back to that terrible final day in Paris—the shouting and the macabre celebration. Even without the brandishing of crude weapons or the presence of the king’s army, the revelry carried a hint of the same dark tone. Instinctively, she reached for Joseph and brought the two of them under Gagnon’s protective arm.

  “What do you think it is?” she asked, her fears in no way allayed by the lack of violence.

  “Come.” Gagnon ushered them into the street. Once they came to the door of Le Cochon Gros, he handed the care of Joseph to the older boys and took Laurette’s hand. They walked in and were met immediately with a wall of noise. A cask of wine sat on the bar, and upon arrival, both Laurette and Gagnon were handed a cup and ordered by Saumon to fill and drink to their satisfaction. No less confused, they complied, Laurette surprised to find it tasted no sweeter than what she took from the chalice Father Pietro pressed to her lips.