“Would you come with me? To see Maman?”
“We shall go see her as soon as you are rested.” Sara looked at her sister cautiously. “But what about Bastien? Will he pursue you?”
Lydia shivered. “If he finds me … he has such a temper, Sara.” Tears streamed down her face and she could not continue. Her eyes said what her lips could not: Lydia feared for her life.
The old watchman’s shed, where Sara and Maman now lived, was located on the main road to Vouvray, a stone’s throw east of the main house. It was constructed entirely of fieldstone, save for the slate rooftop, oak door and glass windows framed with birch. The two northern windows allowed the shed’s occupants to see any visitors arriving on the main road before they made the turn toward the manor house. The interior was divided in two by the hearth and chimney. The front half of the room was used for receiving visitors, cooking and other chores, and in the rear half, behind a wool curtain, was the bedroom. The hearth itself was framed by three oak boards and boasted a base of limestone. Maman’s copper pot hung from the center, often bubbling with thick, spicy-smelling broth. Marcheline always delivered the remains of rabbit or duck from the scullery on Sundays, and Maman skillfully transformed this into a stew that would often last the two of them the week. In the early weeks of their marriage, Bastien and Lydia had invited Sara and Maman to dine often, but now it seemed to Sara that Bastien’s interest in them had waned as his contempt for his wife grew.
Sara and Lydia entered the shed and moved quietly to the dimly lit bedchamber, where Sara and Maman shared a featherbed on the floor. There was space for a steamer trunk and the boudoir vanity that Papa had given Maman after his first successful harvest. Sara thought that its elegant carved mahogany legs and ornate mirror were decidedly out of place in their new home, which was otherwise quite basic. Her mother had turned the vanity into a shrine to Papa. Upon it sat his silver pocket watch, the tintype of Papa that Jacques had given her, his dog-eared journal and their wedding photograph. Sara looked at Papa’s face—young and happy. Now, when they so desperately needed him, he was only a paper memory.
Maman sat at her vanity now, examining her complexion in the morning light. She had aged since Papa’s death, but had persevered in her toilette ritual. First she would chew on a sprig of basil, dried in winter, to freshen her mouth. Then she would wash her face in rosewater and brush her hair, now streaked with white, with long, careful strokes until it was as smooth and shiny as a silk ribbon. Then she would twist it up into a topknot or chignon. She would even heat the iron on the hearth and press the wrinkles out of her dress before rolling her stockings, fresh from the laundry, up each lean leg. Even though she felt certain Maman must feel shamed by their humbled surroundings, Sara admired that she kept her appearance pristine.
Sara felt uneasy about interrupting Maman, but she knew she must protect Lydia.
“Maman? Lydia and I have something we need to discuss with you. A matter of the utmost importance.” Maman looked up, a bit startled, and turned toward them.
“What is it, dears?” Maman’s eyes widened and her face filled with anticipation, as if she were about to receive a great gift.
Lydia collapsed into tears on the bed. Sara just stared at her. Was she worried about disappointing Maman? Surely the safety of her child and herself were more important!
“What has happened, Lydia?” Maman’s eyebrows bunched with concern.
Lydia shook her head, unable to answer. Sara knew she would have to explain things to her mother. She vividly described the harm Lydia had suffered at Bastien’s hands. Maman stiffened in her chair as Sara told her story, but she wanted there to be no doubt in Maman’s mind as to the nature of his offenses. Lydia nodded in agreement as Sara spoke, and Maman held steepled fingers to her parted lips, her eyes widening at every new horrifying detail.
When Sara was finished, Maman stood up and squeezed Lydia’s hands in hers. “How long has this been going on?” she asked, though Sara didn’t understand how the timing mattered.
“Over a month, Maman,” Lydia choked out.
Maman nodded. “Sara,” she said gently, “It was kind of you to help your sister, but …” Maman turned to Lydia, resting her hands on her shoulders. “I wish you’d come to me sooner.” She sighed heavily. Maman’s eyes were filled with sweet concern, but lacked the fiery indignation Sara had expected to see. Had the trauma of Papa’s death robbed her of all passion, even for protecting her daughters?
“If she had come to you, Maman, what would you have done? What will you do now to help her?” Sara cried.
Maman walked over to the hearth and leaned on the mantel. She rubbed her forehead, staring down at the cinders from last night’s cooking fire. Sara watched her mother struggle and prayed she would have the courage to help them. Lydia remained seated on the bed, staring at the floor. When Maman faced the girls again, she laid a hand against her chest. Her mouth turned downward as she walked over to sit down beside Lydia. “Oh, don’t look so forlorn, my dear Lydie,” Maman said, patting Lydia’s knee. “The first years of marriage are often the most difficult. Bastien’s … appetites will subside once the baby is born, and all will be well.”
Sara’s stomach dropped. She would never understand why their mother always placed her own comfort ahead of theirs. First by selling Saint Martin, and now this. “Maman, you cannot be serious!” Sara railed. “Papa never treated you with such contempt!”
Maman did not respond, but her eyes floated to their wedding photo: Maman in a wide-brimmed flowered hat linking arms with a beaming Papa in his suit and tie. A tear ran down her cheek. When she finally spoke again, her face was determinedly composed, but her voice trembled. “Indeed, he did not, but we had our scuffles. Marriage is not for the faint of heart. The woman most often bears the brunt of its difficulty and, at the same time, enjoys the privileges that arise from her husband’s success. Bastien provides well for you, for us and for your child. Be grateful, and you will receive your recompense in heaven.”
Sara was astounded. Maman had swept their concerns into the closet, locked the door and tucked away the key, just as she did with every unpleasantness she faced. Lydia wiped fresh tears from her eyes. Sara’s heart broke for her sister. “But what is Lydia to do, Maman, when Bastien beats her, endangering her unborn child?”
Maman looked up at Sara, and then at Lydia. “If it happens again, I will speak with Bastien. I will move back into the house.”
“Bastien will never allow it, Maman,” Lydia declared, shaking her head, “and if you speak to him, it will only anger him. Lord knows what he’s capable of doing.” Sara nodded, proud of her sister for speaking up.
Maman placed an arm around Lydia. “My love, you are exhausted. Get some sleep, and I assure you, time will take care of things. You’ll ease into your marriage, and Bastien will discover what a treasure you are, once you present him with a child.” Sara wondered if her mother actually believed what she was saying.
Lydia’s shoulders slumped, and she turned away from Maman. Sara was so exasperated, she couldn’t even summon the words to lash out. Instead, she stormed out of the cottage. She would seek Jacques’s help. She found him inspecting and pruning plants in the center of the vineyard. She knelt down beside him and began to do the same. They continued in silence for some time.
“What is it?” Jacques seemed to know something was amiss.
Sara did not meet his eye. “It’s Lydie. Bastien has violated and beaten her.”
“He’s a son of a bitch. Where is he right now?”
Sara caught Jacques’s arm to keep him from marching off to thrash Bastien. “We can’t confront him. He’ll just hurt her again.” Sara’s eyes pleaded with him. “We must help Lydie leave him in secret.”
“What about your mother?”
Sara shook her head. “We told her everything—all of it—and she has advised Lydia to stay with him. She is steadfast.”
“I’m afraid your mother has not recovered from losing your father.”
&
nbsp; “Don’t defend her! What mother would not shield her daughter from violence?”
Jacques sighed, squinted up at the sky, then turned back to her. “Your mother is frightened, Sara.”
“Well, if she won’t do something to help Lydia, we must.”
“Lydia is set on leaving? She understands that she will not be able to return?”
“Yes,” Sara replied firmly.
“She may be a stranger to her mother.” Jacques’s voice filled with regret.
“Yes.” Sara knew that could not be helped.
Jacques stood up and Sara followed. “All right. I’ll set to work on it. In the meantime, you and I will find a reason each night to visit the house, to make our presence felt. Perhaps Bastien will not injure your sister if we are near.”
“Thank you, Jacques.”
“You were right to tell me. What I’d like to do is skin the bastard alive, but that would end badly for all of us. We’ll find a way to protect her. Now get on back to the house and tell your sister.”
The grandfather clock in the hallway chimed ten o’clock. The sound reverberated in Sara’s head. Her heart raced and her steps quickened as she walked down the corridor toward the kitchen. Bastien had assaulted her sister again tonight, striking Lydia square across the cheekbone. Marcheline had rushed to the shed to tell Sara as soon as Bastien left the house. Sara had found Lydia whimpering on the floor of her bedroom, her face purple, her hairline matted with blood.
Sara had been correct: Bastien would never stop mistreating Lydia. Lydia would have to leave Vouvray, with her unborn child, and Sara might have to accompany her. But to where? The question weighed heavily on her mind. It had been over a week since she had confided in Jacques, and he had agreed to form a plan. However, Jacques had yet to communicate exactly what the plan was.
Sara had sent Marcheline home, for she preferred to nurse her sister’s injuries unobserved. When they were children, the warm milk Maman fixed them would always, as if by magic, ease their minds and relax their muscles. Perhaps it would soothe Lydia’s spirit tonight. In the kitchen, Sara placed her lamp on the butcher-block table by the basin. She poured goat’s milk into the copper pot and placed it on the cookstove. On a small tray, she arranged dried elderberries, crusty bread and soft cheese she hoped would replenish Lydia’s strength. In an effort to calm her own nerves, Sara steadied her hand and concentrated on laying the cheese knife and metal fork precisely atop a freshly pressed white linen napkin.
The house was quiet, save for the rush of heat to the warming pot, until Sara heard the scrape of footsteps on the walkway outside leading to the kitchen. She swallowed hard. The last thing she wanted was to exchange words with Bastien this evening. She didn’t have her wits about her.
Bastien threw open the door to the small, dimly lit room. The lamp cast the flickering shadow of his figure on the stone wall.
“Mademoiselle Sara, it is a pleasure,” he said, the corners of his mouth curling. “You are like a guardian angel to my ailing wife.”
Sara did not wish to spark his anger, so she simply nodded a greeting and began to stir the milk.
“Why do you dislike me so? Am I not amiable? Am I not pleasing to your eyes?” he demanded. Sara felt him come up behind her. He rested his large hands on her hips. “Let us be friends, sister.”
She willed herself not to shrink from his touch, or betray her anger. His hands felt heavy on her slender frame. “Brother, you mistake me. Of course we are friends.”
Bastien shifted her around to face him. His hand cradled her jawbone and lifted her eyes to his. Sara shuddered.
He clearly mistook her trembling for excitement. “I desire to have a deeper friendship with you. You see, I have grown to admire your tireless devotion to your sister and your clever plans for the vineyard. You are most valuable to me.”
“Monsieur, you flatter me. May we discuss this later? Lydia is tired and needs her meal.” Bastien was obviously not going to acknowledge the beating he had just given Lydia. Sara heard the crackle and spit of the boiling milk flooding over the rim of the pot onto the scalding cookstove. She tried to turn away from Bastien to tend to it, but he halted her with the firm grip of his hand under her chin, jerking her back around to face him.
“As my friend, you must give me your complete attention, if not devotion. Have I not protected you and cared for you as I promised? Even now, I have the intention of offering you a more … suitable situation … than the one you have at present in that little shack beside the road. We could make an arrangement that would benefit us both.” Bastien began to stroke her jaw with his thumb. “You are not the prettiest of girls, but you have a certain appeal—a fiery spirit that I admire. And those eyes, those bewitching emerald eyes of yours. I feel them on me, watching me, whenever we’re in the room together. That’s why I am determined to convince you of my sincere affection.”
His voice was smooth and deliberate. Bastien moved his thumb to rest on Sara’s lower lip. His caress was intolerable, yet unexpectedly tender. A man had never touched her so intimately. Every sense, every fiber in Sara’s being was awakened to his energy, however repulsed she was by him. She was at once drawn to him and fearful of him. His scent of sweet liquor mixed with bitter tobacco overwhelmed her. She stood motionless. Bastien rested the tips of his fingers on Sara’s throat and with his other hand smoothed her hair, then her cheek. His hand wandered down the length of her neck and grazed her bodice.
“I chose wrongly, Sara. All this time, I was convinced that Saint Martin was the prize I sought. Not so,” his whisper was hoarse. “Not so.” Before Sara could utter a word, Bastien’s lips crushed down upon hers, his sour tongue twisting into her mouth.
Sara could not breathe. Panic rose up within her. Her immediate reaction was that she would rather die than endure this violation any further. Then, fighting against her every instinct, she decided to return his kiss, slowly and deliberately, until she at last felt his body relax into hers.
When she was certain he was convinced of her willingness, she brought her hands up, grabbed his ears and bit down with all her strength, slicing her two front teeth deep into his lower lip. Bastien roared in pain and stumbled back into the wall. Sara continued her assault, kicking him squarely between the legs.
She knew Bastien would not be deterred for long. She reached for the tray on the counter, meaning to use it as a weapon, but in her haste sent it crashing to the floor. Bastien lunged toward Sara, grabbed hold of her hair and snaked it around his arm. He dragged her down to the floor.
“You little bitch!” Bastien moved astride Sara and pinned her skirts to the floor with his knees. Sara tried to scream, but only a guttural moan escaped her lips. Her arms flailed, but she was unable to strike him. She spotted something shiny on the floor, just inches away. She strained to reach it and caught it up just as Bastien slammed one hand down on her chest, and, with the other, split the front seam of her dress wide open.
Sara saw a kind of wild excitement flash in his eyes as he looked over her body. Terror seized her. Bastien held her arms down. He leaned over her with his bloodied lips and sucked her left nipple. Then, with blinding force, he bit into her tender flesh. Sara heard herself scream, but this seemed to incite Bastien further. In one swift motion, he pulled down Sara’s underdrawers and thrust his fingers inside her. Instantly her fear turned to fury.
Using every last bit of strength she had, Sara propelled her free arm up and toward the side of Bastien’s neck. She hit her mark. Sara pushed and twisted her weapon deeper into Bastien’s flesh. His face contorted in a grisly pantomime of pain. Only when she had carved a large and grotesque gash did she finally pull her hand up and out. Sara sprang up to a crouching position, ready to strike again if he lurched toward her, but Bastien seemed wholly unaware of her. He cupped his hand to his neck in a futile attempt to stem the flow of his blood. He was choking on it, trying to spit it up and clear his throat. His eyes widened and he began to sway. He tumbled back down onto the hot
wood floor, grabbing Sara’s arm and pulling her with him.
Sara studied his face carefully, for she could not look away. Bastien’s eyes stared blankly at the ceiling. His grip weakened and the hand that clutched her sleeve fell to the floor. Sara heard a sickening gurgling sound erupt from deep inside his throat. Within a few moments, it ceased. Only then did she loosen her grip and release the dull, blood-stained fork to the floor.
She collapsed, exhausted and numb. The walls of the room began to spin. The acrid smell of burnt milk and blood overwhelmed her senses. Sara’s world went black.
She awoke to Jacques shaking her shoulder and calling her name. Her head throbbed, but her vision cleared enough to see him kneeling beside her.
“Jacques? Oh, Jacques!” The memory of what she had done flooded back to her. Sara gripped his arm to steady herself.
“He hurt you.” Jacques’s face crumpled.
“Only a little, but I … stopped him.”
Jacques turned to Bastien’s body, lying face up in a river of blood. Jacques’s expression was blank.
Sara looked down at her torn, blood-soaked corset and felt a thick, salty substance on her lips. She realized it was Bastien’s blood mixed with her own. She began to retch.
“All right, there, all right. You’ll be okay, my love,” Jacques consoled her. He offered her a cloth.
“Where is Lydia? What time is it?” Sara could not bear to ask the most obvious question. When she observed the vast amount of blood that had pooled around them, she knew she had killed Bastien.
“Upstairs. It’s nearly midnight. Where is your mother?”
“Asleep. In the shed.” Sara’s mind was a haze.
“Is there anyone else in the house? Marcheline?”
“No, just Lydia. Where is she? When I left her she was asleep.” Sara clutched Jacques’s shirt with both hands. “What should I do, Jacques?”
He pulled Sara up by her forearm. “First thing you do is wash yourself, your hair. Put on a fresh dress—borrow one of Lydia’s. Then pack a small bag of things. You’ll need a change of clothes and money, however much you can put your hands on. Bring Lydia to meet me at the caves in a half hour. Hide there, no matter what happens.”
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