The three Thibault women dined in silence that evening. Even Lydia, always the peacemaker of the family, failed to find neutral topics for conversation. Sara had decided she would speak with her mother privately. She concentrated on chewing every bite of food twenty times before swallowing, in an effort to keep from screaming and cursing.
Maman retreated to Papa’s study after dinner, as she always did, saying that she was tidying up his possessions or categorizing his books and letters. Sara followed her, stopping in the doorway to scrutinize her mother. Maman sat in the small chair Papa had claimed as his own. Its dark red cushions were threadbare and lumpy, but Papa would not consent to have them restuffed, insisting that should he repair them, their exquisite comfort would be irretrievably lost. Maman was stitching a piece of fabric, and on the floor next to her lay her sewing hamper, draped with chemises, drawers and bed linens, some bearing the initials LT in pale blue embroidery. She hunched over her work under the lamplight, threading the needle with expertise. Sara noted that the blue veins that ran like tiny rivers between her mother’s delicate hand bones were more pronounced. Sara was saddened to see her mother this way, but she wouldn’t pretend Maman hadn’t crushed every hope she’d had.
Maman finished a row of stitching and looked up at Sara.
“Lydia has told you.” Her eyes flickered over Sara’s face and then returned to their work.
“Yes.”
“You feel I have betrayed you?”
Sara was quiet.
Maman placed her embroidery aside and said gently, “There are things you don’t understand.”
“Of course.” Sara understood perfectly.
“It was the only way,” Maman pleaded.
Sara said nothing.
Maman stood up and peered out the window at the starless sky. “You disagree. You never approved of Lemieux or his sons.”
“I know Bastien was snooping around the caves. He found the sulfide and told his father, who used our financial trouble to force you to sell. Now you have given them what they wanted. I only wonder why you waited so long to sell the farm. You never valued the life Papa built for us here.”
Maman whirled around to face Sara. “I have just lost my husband of twenty-five years. You cannot fathom how deeply I valued your father.” Her chin trembled. “You know nothing of our situation, and yet you question my motives? I have prayed to the Lord for guidance, and it has been given. Now you want me to reject his blessings?”
“If you had just tried to negotiate with Lemieux, or asked our friends and neighbors for assistance, surely we could have—”
“There was no other solution. It was my decision to make, and I took Monsieur Lemieux’s offer to secure an income for us and a dowry for you.”
“Papa worked for years to make Saint Martin a success, and if it hadn’t been for the phylloxera, he would have. How can you turn your back on Saint Martin and sell it out from under us?”
“It was not what I would have wished, but it was the least complicated path.”
“For you, and for Lydia. But what about me, Maman?”
“You will marry—to a vigneron, if you like. You would be a wonderful wife to a vigneron.”
The idea horrified Sara.
Maman stomped her foot. “Your father would wish you to abide by my wishes, to agree that this is best for our family.”
Sara’s voice was a cold whisper. “My father is dead.”
CHAPTER 5
Sin
The wedding of Sebastien Jean Lemieux to Lydia Marielle Thibault took place on March 14, 1896. The villagers of Vouvray followed the customary rituals without question, though they may have had their suspicions. There would, of course, be time for speculation as the bride’s belly blossomed in the months to come.
The bride’s door was decorated with pine branches freshly cut from the forest trees. Lydia wore a white woolen dress and, with the exception of a single panel of Amboise lace that adorned her wedding chapeau, her ensemble was noticeably absent of any embellishment, for she was still in mourning for her father. What was noticeable, at least to her sister, was Lydia’s expanding waistline. The dress had been altered twice before the wedding. As luck would have it, her bump remained hidden by her long coat for the better part of the day.
Jacques guided Lydia on horseback down the road from Saint Martin to the church, where Bastien awaited her. Sara could tell Bastien gloried in his black top hat and frock coat fastened with copper buttons. The curate performed the wedding Mass, which was followed by a wedding breakfast at the new Lemieux residence—formerly, of course, the Thibault family home. The guests would feast on potato soup, buttered asparagus, tender pork loin, partridge with wild mushrooms, shad, and meaty tripe cooked in chenin blanc. A delectable array of cheeses and prunes stuffed with apricot purée would follow. Sweet fruit tarts, Sara’s favorite treat, were among the offerings. It was one of her few consolations on this bleakest of days.
The guests, who had brought gifts of flour and butter to the breakfast, seated themselves around long tables borrowed for the occasion. They chatted amicably and drank wines provided by their host. The accordions and violins played merrily around them. That Jean Lemieux had spared little expense in celebrating the union of his son to Lydia Thibault was obvious. Exactly who would be seated next to Sara was less certain. She dreaded polite conversation.
“Mademoiselle Sara?” A familiar voice inquired behind her.
“Jacques!” Sara beamed at him with relief. “You look smart in your town clothes. Please, sit next to me. I’m in need of a friend.”
Jacques took his seat beside Sara. “Merci. Lydia and Bastien have fine weather for their wedding, do they not?”
“Indeed.”
“Are you not happy for your sister?”
Sara lowered her voice and leaned in. “If she cares for Bastien, I suppose I must be pleased for her. Yet, I cannot bear to see my sister align herself with such an arrogant—” Sara stopped midsentence as her mother walked past. She continued, whispering, “I know this is hardly the occasion to speak of it, but your family, too, has suffered injustice at the hands of the Lemieux family, have you not? How do you bear it?”
“Yes, it is true. You know well that my niece Marie left for America with Philippe Lemieux after he took advantage of her … affections.” They had never spoken about it before.
“Pierre and Mim must have been enraged! Do they ever hear from her?”
“Pierre is tight-lipped, but I do know that Marie has made a new life in America, and is not unhappy there.”
“She has a child, does she not?”
“She does, and although Lemieux does not acknowledge her, he does provide for her amply, from what I am told.”
Sara wondered if he meant Philippe Lemieux or his father, but felt it would be intrusive to ask.
“Do you not despise them?”
“I did for a time. One does not easily forgive such offenses. However, I’ve since come to believe that the vengeful man digs two graves.”
Sara chose to ignore Jacques’s attempt at advice. “And what will become of you, Jacques? Where will you go now that they have stolen Saint Martin from us?”
Jacques cleared his throat. “Monsieur Lemieux will have his hands full trying to turn the next harvest into a decent return on his father’s investment. Bastien isn’t a complete cochon. He knows he needs someone to run Saint Martin. He’s asked me to stay on.”
“That is such welcome news!” Sara grabbed his hand in hers and squeezed it tightly. She would have an ally.
The April rains came early to Saint Martin and the grape shoots burgeoned on the vines. The winter months had been so mournful and staid that Sara delighted in the physical exhilaration of weeding the vines, nipping the buds off the old canes and tying the new canes to their tall stakes. By sundown, her shoulders, neck and knees ached mercilessly, but Sara welcomed any sensation that made her feel alive again. Besides, if she kept herself busy trimming the vines, she could m
aintain her distance from her brother-in-law, who rarely ventured into the vineyard. There was something peculiar in Bastien’s manner that Sara could neither understand nor ignore. He was one of the most ridiculous men she had ever met. On the rare occasions he spoke to Sara, he always stood too close to her. And their most recent encounter had conjured up a whole new set of fears.
She had come upon Bastien standing in her room, rifling through her books. He had told her, in his honey-tongued fashion, that she and Maman would be more comfortable living in the unoccupied watchman’s house out by the road. He and Lydia would continue to live in the manor house. Before Sara could object, he rested his hands upon her hips and dug his fingers into her buttocks. When she pushed him away, Bastien did not stop, but instead drew her closer. Sara felt his rank breath, thick with brandy, hot against her ear. “Come, let us be friends,” he had whispered. After a long, awkward moment, he finally released her. Sara stumbled back, stunned. After he left the room, she stared at the door.
Bastien had been right. Papa was dead and no longer able to protect her. Jacques could defend her only outside in the vineyard, not in the house, and Maman was useless in her grief. Sara would have to fend for herself.
This incident with Bastien and their exile to the watchman’s house had been alarming enough. But Bastien’s erratic behavior since the wedding concerned Sara even more. He seemed occupied with little outside his visits to the tavern to discuss “business” with his associates, and was barely involved in the vineyard’s day-to-day operations. Jacques asked him questions: Sulfur or flooding to kill the insects? What did Bastien want to pay the vinedresser? Should they purchase a new plow or make do with the old one? But Bastien withdrew and would not respond. He seemed unable to understand that the farm would be ruined if they did not take precautions to safeguard the healthy vines now. When Jacques suggested that they should consult Bastien’s father on his wishes for the farm, Bastien flew into a rage and went so far as to pin Jacques against the wall and threaten him. In the end, Jacques was left to make all the decisions, with Sara’s help, and the two of them managed the entire business of Saint Martin.
Another might have felt pity for Bastien, with his thinning frame and increasingly colorless complexion, but not Sara. She was too concerned about Lydia. Even in the warmth of May, she rarely encountered her sister outside. Although Lydia was well into her sixth month, Bastien insisted she was ill with morning sickness, and that she couldn’t walk well on her swollen feet. But now three days had passed since Sara had last seen her. Dissatisfied with Bastien’s explanations, Sara resolved to uncover the truth.
She had waited tonight until she heard his horse’s hooves clatter past the watchman’s house on his way to the village. Sara then stole away to the manor house. Lydia usually waited for her in the parlor, a single candle in the window, a cup of wine in her hand. Tonight the parlor was empty. Lydia did not respond to her calls. Searching the house, Sara caught a glimpse of Lydia faltering along the upstairs hallway, away from her.
“Lydie?”
Lydia glanced back at Sara for a moment. The pallor of her skin announced her fatigue; her vacant eyes declared her distress. She turned and stumbled on. Sara spied a dark stain spreading across the back of Lydia’s dress.
“Lydie!”
Lydia doubled over and clutched the fabric of her dress. She caught hold of the bedchamber door with her hand.
“You are unwell!” Sara rushed to Lydia’s side and caught her under the arms as she sank to the floor.
“Sara,” Lydia said, then babbled something unintelligible. Her head swayed from side to side. She seemed unable to lift it.
“I shall call the doctor at once.”
“No, no, you mustn’t,” Lydia pleaded.
“But your child … we must, for your child’s sake.”
“The baby is fine.” Lydia was breathless and her words slow. “I must rest, that is all.” She gripped Sara’s arm. “Promise me, Sara, promise me you will not call the doctor. You mustn’t tell anyone, especially not Maman.”
Sara helped Lydia to the bed. She did not understand Lydia’s refusal of help, but wanted her to sleep.
“All right, Lydie,” Sara said soothingly, “but you must allow me to tend to your injury.”
Lydia did not answer, but simply drifted off.
Sara knew nothing about accouchement or the signs of miscarriage. She examined her sister’s dress. The blood had turned from dark red to brown, so the bleeding must have ceased, she thought. She didn’t think there was enough blood for a miscarriage. Sara unlaced the stays of Lydia’s corset and placed her hands underneath, feeling the hard swell of her sister’s stomach. Sara felt the baby roll and kick. Thank goodness, she thought.
Sara set about cleaning and changing her sister. She filled the basin with water and rolled Lydia onto her side. Lydia stirred, but her limbs were heavy with slumber, her breath shallow. Sara pulled her sister’s dress and petticoat up to her waist. Lydia’s drawers, dirty with blood, had been ripped in the back from the top seam down. Sara ran her hand gently under the torn fibers of delicate cotton that stuck to her sister’s skin, matted down with blood. Near Lydia’s hip, the garment was not saturated with blood, but bore curious marks. Sara took a closer look.
They were four smears of blood, each in the distinct shape of a fingertip.
Sara’s stomach churned to realize that Bastien must have assaulted her sister. She had known Bastien was sly, even vicious at times, but physically brutal? Certainly, Sara had heard talk in the village of wives being hit or slapped by their husbands. It was not uncommon. Even Madame Laroche had confessed to Maman that Monsieur Laroche had taken the strap to her for lying to him. But this? And with his wife pregnant? Tears threatened Sara’s composure. Married or not, this was not to be borne.
Sara wiped her eyes and reminded herself that she must complete the task at hand. She continued the intimate inspection of her sister’s wounds. Red scratches—from Bastien’s fingernails, Sara guessed—marked Lydia’s outer thighs and waist, and the soft flesh on Lydia’s inner thigh bled from one deep laceration. Sara exhaled hard. Her sister had tried desperately to fight back. Sara pressed a clean cloth to the cut until she was certain the bleeding had stopped. She rinsed the soiled cloth, wrung it out and then used it to coax the caked blood from her sister’s legs and buttocks, steeling herself against the foul odor of salt mixed with excrement. If Lydie could endure such a violent thrashing, Sara could summon the grit needed to tend to her injuries. She blotted the scrapes gently, for purple bruises had already started to form.
Once she dressed Lydia in a fresh gown, Sara fell in a heap on the bed. Lydia did not stir.
What should she do? Whom should she tell? Should she confront Bastien? What if he were to come home and find her here? Sara could not assemble the thoughts coherently in her head. She didn’t care if Bastien discovered her. She would decide what to do tomorrow. Tonight, fatigue had outstripped fear.
Early the next morning, the cries of the starlings outside awakened Sara. Bastien had not returned, which was a relief. Lydia’s bleeding had ceased and she’d regained her color. Her eyes were no longer hollow; they were fixed upon Sara, like an animal seeking protection.
“Sara.”
Sara stroked her sister’s cheek. “You gave me quite a fright last night. How are you feeling?” she asked softly.
“Sore, and most vile. I’m so sorry …” Lydia sniffed, and shook her head, defeated. “I suppose I can’t pretend anymore.”
“Why would you pretend? Why did you not tell us? We would have helped you. We will help you.”
Lydia sat up on her elbow and looked down at her fingers, which smoothed the bed linen. “Bastien said a wife must obey her husband. I have tried, but he is never pleased with me. And then last night …”
Sara waited for her sister to collect herself. Lydia shuddered, then forged ahead.
“Bastien demands things of me,” she whispered. “Intimate acts. Sinful a
cts, against the laws of nature.” Lydia’s face flushed with shame and she squeezed her eyes shut. “I can’t even say it.”
Sara wondered if Lydia realized that she had seen all her injuries. She rested her hand on Lydia’s arm to comfort her. “And you refused?”
“Yes. I told him that as husband and wife our … marital congress should be conducted according to Church law. He was so angry.” Lydia began to cry. She cradled her belly and turned away from Sara. “He said he had wanted to break off our engagement because I’m dull and dim-witted. But he had already told his father I was pregnant, and his father insisted Bastien marry me, threatening to hold back his allowance if he didn’t. Bastien never loved me.”
“I’m sorry, Lydie.” Sara knew her words were inadequate. At the same time, she wondered how Lydia could not have seen Bastien’s true nature during their courtship. She racked her mind for a solution.
“We will tell Maman, and you will divorce him. I will serve as your witness.” She hoped Lydia understood that she knew exactly what Bastien had done.
“I cannot afford to be so impulsive, Sara. Bastien will never agree to a divorce. He wants his child. Besides, he would accuse me of adultery if I left him.”
Hardly the point, Sara thought. Yet she understood Lydia’s dilemma. If Bastien accused Lydia of adultery, she could lose all rights to the baby.
“Then for the sake of your child, you must leave Vouvray and never come back.”
Lydia’s eyes glistened with hope. “Do you think it possible? Could I hide somewhere? Perhaps across the river in Montlouis?” The desperation in Lydia’s voice made Sara realize the severity of the situation. She contemplated Lydia’s options.
“You would have to travel farther, but not too far, for I would want to see you and the baby.”
“Then I must tell Maman. Perhaps she will know what to do.”
“Perhaps.” Sara shrugged uncertainly.
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