All of this before I exhale my final breath. Laurette’s story, my story. I live every moment of both in less than the blink of a blade.
A Note from the Author
This story had its first spark of life when I was standing in front of a class of tenth-grade students, doing my due diligence as an English teacher, making them consider every nook and shadow of Charles Dickens’s novel A Tale of Two Cities. In talking about the redemption of Sydney Carton and the role the little seamstress played, I tossed off a comment: “I would love to write the story of the seamstress.” And for years, as the idea spun around in my head, more questions presented themselves. How did she come to the guillotine? Why mention a cousin? Would anyone else even care about this?
Then, in a flurry of Facebook messaging with my dear friend Rachel McMillan brainstorming story ideas, this idea that had been buried for years resurfaced. As usual, I feel blessed to be a part of the Tyndale House family, where acquisitions director Jan Stob caught the same enthusiasm. I am grateful for the opportunity to bring my stories to life through Tyndale House. Thank you, Kathy Olson, for not putting up with my nonsense.
Careful readers of A Tale of Two Cities will recognize the seamstress character immediately, and to them I apologize for a novel that is at least 50 percent spoiled. I do hope you’ll appreciate how very much I love this work and have tried to be true to the world Dickens brought to life in his untouchable way. I don’t consider this an homage or a retelling of that story at all, save for the final pages. And, again, I ask historians to forgive lapses in facts that result from a desire to pave the path for my characters. Specifically, you’ll have to indulge my idealistic portrait of Queen Marie Antoinette. I did strive to faithfully re-create key moments of the French Revolution. The Palace of Versailles was overrun by an army of women; a guard was killed while protecting the queen; the family did attempt an ill-fated escape. However, the role that my Renée plays in all those events is purely fictitious. Hence the fun of writing this story! I also own up to placing a red cap on Marcel’s head a few years too early, but he seems like the kind of guy who might have started that trend.
Readers—you have no idea how much I cherish your faithful support, how you’ve carried my spirit through book after book. Thank you so much for sending me an email at just the right time, for posting encouraging reviews, for welcoming me into your mind for a few hours with every page. If you don’t already, please follow me on my Facebook author page, Allison Pittman Author, or on Twitter and Instagram @allisonkpittman. You can even enjoy the occasional, infrequent blog post on my website, allisonkpittman.com.
May the God of hope fill you with all joy and peace as you trust in him, so that you may overflow with hope by the power of the Holy Spirit.
ROMANS 15:13, NIV
Discussion Questions
The Seamstress was inspired by a minor character in Charles Dickens’s A Tale of Two Cities. Have you read that novel? If so, did The Seamstress change anything about your view of that story? Is there another Dickens novel that is a particular favorite of yours?
Marie Antoinette is portrayed sympathetically throughout the story. How often do you think there is a difference between a highly visible figure’s private life and public persona? What effect do you think the passage of time has on our perceptions?
Do you think Renée’s decision to remain with the queen stemmed from compassion, or was it motivated by pride? Or some other reason?
Patriotism and love of country can take many forms. How would you compare and contrast Gagnon, Marcel, and Bertrand in terms of their love and dedication to their country? In what ways are patriotism and love of one’s country the same thing? In what ways, if any, are they different?
In general, should people in positions of power choose their duty to their nation over the well-being of their family? Why or why not?
What do you think motivates Marcel to get involved in the revolutionary cause? What motivates him in his relationships with others? What consistent themes or attitudes do you see in his character? Is there anything about him you admire? Why or why not?
Despite a series of bad decisions, Laurette finds herself with a safe, blessed life. Can you think of a time when God turned a bad choice into a blessing for you or someone you care about?
Although Renée’s role is purely fiction, the women’s march on Versailles (during which the character of Bertrand is killed) actually happened. Is it ever appropriate for social reform to find its voice in anger and violence? Give reasons to support your answer and, if you can, other historical examples.
Suppose Renée’s final “confession” could have saved her from the guillotine. Did she make the right decision in refusing this offer of help from Marcel? Why or why not? What do you think you would have done in her place?
Romans 13:5 says, “Therefore, it is necessary to submit to the authorities, not only because of possible punishment but also as a matter of conscience” (NIV). Do you think this holds true when authorities are in clear violation of God’s Word? Should Christians ever consider disobedience to authorities a righteous act? If so, how and when?
About the Author
Award-winning author ALLISON PITTMAN left a seventeen-year teaching career in 2005 to follow the Lord’s calling into the world of Christian fiction, and God continues to bless her step of faith. Her novels For Time and Eternity, Forsaking All Others, and All for a Sister were named as finalists for the Christy Award for excellence in Christian fiction, and her novel Stealing Home won the American Christian Fiction Writers’ Carol Award. In 2012, she was named ACFW’s Mentor of the Year. She also heads up a successful, thriving writers’ group in San Antonio, where she lives with her husband, Mike, and the canine star of the family—Stella.
CHAPTER 1
MY FATHER ALWAYS told me if I never took a sip of wine, I’d never shed a single tear. One begat the other, and only the common cup in the hands of a priest, the blessed wine of the sacrament, could offer peace. Only the blood of Christ could offer life. Any other was nothing more than ruin, a sinner’s way of washing sin.
And yet he drank. Every night, the flames of our small fire danced in the cut glass of his goblet.
It seemed a silly warning, but for all of my brief childhood at home, I had only two sips of wine. The first over a year ago when, at the age of five, I begged for a taste at the grand table. The other just months ago, in the feast following Mother’s funeral. Then, true to my father’s prophecy, tears streamed down my face.
So, too, as I stood in his embrace, the cold wind of November whipping all around us. Ice like pinpricks upon my cheeks. Perhaps I’d taken in a sufficient amount from the constant scent of wine on his breath, and from the traces left on his lips when he kissed me.
“My Katharina.” He stretched my name, and I imagined it pouring out in a stream mixed with tears and wine. He knelt before me, the patched fabric of his breeches touching the last bit of unsanctified ground.
“Papa? Where are we?”
To answer, he took me by my shoulders and turned me to look at the foreboding stone structure on the other side of the iron gate. “A church, kitten. A house of God.”
That much I assumed from the tall, arched windows and the lingering echo of the bell that had been tolling upon our approach. Six rings, and the sun nearly set. A new sound emerged in the wake of the bells. Footsteps, strident and rhythmic, displacing the tiny stones on the path beyond the gate. They carried what looked like a shadow—tall and black and fluttering.
Frightened, I twisted back in my father’s embrace. “Papa?”
“Be strong, my girl.”
Before I could say another word, I heard the screech of metal and a voice that matched its tone in every way. “Katharina von Bora?”
“Papa?” I clung to him, even as he stood tall and away.
“Ja. This is my daughter.”
A heavy hand fell on my shoulder. “Say good-bye to your papa, little one.”
Good-bye?
“Is it because of the new mama?” The woman loomed large, even with two days’ distance between us. Her stern commands, her wooden spoon ever at the ready to correct a sullen temper, her furrowed brow as she counted the meager coins in the little wooden box above the stove. “I can be good, Papa. I will work harder and speak to her more sweetly. I’ll be a good girl. I promise. Papa—please!”
I grasped his hand, repeating my promises, feeling victorious when he scooped me up off the ground. I tried to bury my face in his neck, but he jostled me and gripped my chin in his fingers.
“Ruhig sein.” His voice and eyes were stern. “Hush, I say. You are Katharina von Bora. Do you know what that means?”
“Ja, Papa.” I touched my hand against his grizzled whiskers. “Bearer of a great and proper name.”
“Very old, and very great.” He was whispering now, his back turned to the shadowy figure. From this height, looking down over Papa’s shoulder, I could clearly see that it was only a nun. A soft, pale face peered from behind a veil, while long black sleeves fluttered around clasped hands. A tunic over a plain black dress bore an embroidered cross, and in many ways she was not unlike the nuns I knew from our church back home. So why had Papa brought me here, so far away?
“But I don’t want to stay here, Papa.” I had to look down into his face, and it made him seem so much smaller.
“Be a good girl.” He set me back on my feet and bowed down to meet me eye to eye. “Grow up to be a strong, smart young lady. And do not cry.”
“But—”
His admonishing finger, nail bitten to the quick and grimy from travel, staved off the prick of new tears. “Strong, I tell you.”
“Are you coming back for me? After a time, after I’ve grown up a little? When I’m a lady?”
A weak smile played across his lips, and he cast a quick, nervous glace up to the nun. “Child,” he said, gripping my shoulders, “I am delivering you into the hands of God, the same God who once gave you to me. Could you ask for anything better than to be in his loving care?”
I knew, instantly, how I should answer. Thinking back to our small, dark home, with rooms shut away to ward off the chill. My three older brothers crowded around the table, squabbling for the last bowl of stew, and taking mine when there wasn’t enough. Now, with me gone, there would be more for everybody else. Not enough, but more. Maybe the new mama would smile a bit and not stomp through the kitchen rattling pots like a thunderstorm. Maybe my brothers would stop stealing bread and making their papa lie to the red-faced baker when he came pounding on the door. There would be one less body to soak up the heat from the fire, and more space in the crowded bed.
I stood up straight and wiped my nose on my sleeve. “I’m ready now, Papa.”
“That’s my good girl.” He kissed my forehead, my cheeks, then briefly, my lips. One kiss, he said, for each of my brothers, and one final from Mother watching from heaven. The nun kept her own silent watch until the end, when Papa handed me the small bundle he’d been carrying over his shoulder for the last mile of our walk.
“No.” The sister’s sturdy hand stretched from within the long black sleeve. “She comes with nothing.”
“Please, Sister—”
“Sister Odile, reverend mother of the convent of Brehna.”
“It’s just a nightcap,” Papa said, not mentioning that it was the cap Mama—my mama—had stitched with small purple flowers. “And clean stockings and an apron.”
“Nothing.” Sister Odile tightened her grip and dragged me to her side.
Head low, Papa shouldered the bag once again, saying, “As it should be, I suppose.”
I noticed the quiver in his chin and knew it was one of those times when I would have to be strong in his place. I needed to stand straighter, fix my eyes above, and set my mind in obedience. A pinpoint of cold pierced my shoulder where the gold band on Sister Odile’s finger touched my flesh. Ignoring the growing grayness of the sky and the imminent demise of Papa’s resolve, I took a deep, cleansing breath.
“You should start for home, Papa. It will be dark soon.”
“Yes,” he said. And that was all. In the next instant, I was turned toward the gate, then marched through it. Sister Odile’s robes flapped against her, an irregular rhythm in the growing wind. For all I knew, Papa remained behind the iron bars, watching every step. Counting them, maybe, as I did. I listened for his voice, waiting for him to call me back, but if he did, the words were lost to the crunching of the stones beneath Sister Odile’s bearlike feet. I myself felt each one through the thin, patched leather of my shoes. When we came to a turn in the path, one sharp enough to afford a glance out of the corner of my eye, I saw the gate, with Papa nowhere to be found.
Then came the rush of tears.
“Stop that, now.”
To emphasize her command, Sister Odile stopped in the middle of the path, leaving me no choice but to do the same. I scrunched my face, calculating the distance between the looming church and the empty gate. Both were within a few easy, running steps. And I was fast—faster than any other girl on my street, and some of the boys, too. I could outrun my brothers when I needed to avoid one of their senseless poundings, and I could cover the distance from our front door to the top of the street before Papa could finish calling out my name in the evenings when he came home before dark. In an instant I could be free, back at the gate, squeezed through, and in Papa’s arms before the nun would even realize I’d escaped. Or I could fly, straight and fast, right up the path to the looming church. Surely Sister Odile’s cloddish feet and flapping sleeves would make her lag in pursuit. The height and breadth of the outer stone walls promised a labyrinth of dark corridors and twisting halls within. I could run away, hide away, lose myself in the shadows until morning, when the clouds might disperse and reveal a shining sun to direct me home.
Labyrinth. It was a word Papa taught me, reading from a big book of ancient stories. A monster lived in its midst—half man, half bull. Minotaur. I mouthed the word, feeling the dryness of my chapped lips at the silent m, and reached a tentative hand out to Sister Odile’s skirt, wondering if the voluminous fabric might not be hiding such a creature within.
“Hör auf.” Sister Odile slapped my hand away and resumed our journey, doing nothing to allay my fear that I might well be in the custody of a monster. The size of the feet alone promised supernatural proportions, and now the woman’s breath came in snorts and puffs like some great-chested beast.
“You want to run, don’t you, girl?”
“No.” The lie didn’t bother me one bit.
Sister Odile let out a laugh deep enough to lift the cross off her frock. “Back out the gate, wouldn’t you? And what if I told you to go ahead? You’re little enough to squeeze right through, aren’t you? You want to chase down your papa? Do you even know which way he went? Up the road or down?”
Every word in every question climbed a scale, ending in a high, gasping wheeze.
“If I did run, you’d never catch me. I’d disappear like a shadow.” It’s what I did at home, on nights when Papa wasn’t there. I’d fold myself into the corners, away from the reach of the new mama’s spoon.
“Not even a shadow can escape the wolves,” Sister Odile said, her grip softening a little. “And hear me when I tell you this, my girl. That is all that waits for you outside these walls. Wolves ready to tear little girls into scraps for their pups.”
This, I knew, held some truth, as Papa had often said the same thing. Still, my trust faltered. “And what is inside the walls?”
Sister Odile laughed again
, but this time the sound rumbled in her throat, like the comfort of long-off thunder. “Great mysteries and secrets. The kind that most little girls will never learn.”
“Like in books?”
“In the greatest book of all. And sacred language.”
Our steps fell into a common pace, with mine trotting two to every one of Sister Odile’s.
“I can read a little already,” I said, my words warm with pride. “Papa taught me. I can read better than my brother, and he’s eleven.”
“Then your father has done a very good and unselfish thing, allowing you to come here. Let your Dummkopf brother fend for himself.”
I stopped my laughter with the back of my hand. Fabian was an idiot, by all measures. Cruel and thick and lazy. He was the closest to me in age, and therefore the most likely to deliver abuse. Clemens was thirteen, and Hans a full-grown man, almost, and I wondered if they would even notice my absence. Our sister, Maria, had been gone for nearly a year, married to a solicitor’s clerk, and had rarely been mentioned since.
“You can find peace here,” Sister Odile was saying, “because we work to keep the darkness of the world away.”
We’d come to a heavy wooden door with an iron ring fastened so high, Sister Odile had to stretch up on her toes to reach it.
Thud. Thud. Thud.
“There is another door on the other side of the building,” Sister Odile said, “open to all who seek sanctuary. This one is just for us.”
Us. I repeated the word.
“The sisters. And the girls. Other little girls, just like you. And bigger, too. We don’t lock the door until after supper, and then don’t open it at all after dark. You got here just in time.”
The Seamstress Page 39