Mathilde gathered her daughter in her arms and crooned softly to her. Wordless, comforting sounds wrapped Catherine like a warm shawl, and she clung to her mother.
She knew, even in the dream, that there was nothing her mother could do. She felt defeated. She felt her mother's hand on her chin, raising her face to the sun. She heard the few final words of the dream.
"Look up, not back. There is often pitch-black night before dawn's tendrils touch the horizon. Do not abandon hope, my daughter. No matter what, do not abandon hope."
"On your feet," a rough voice from the doorway told her. "You've not time to dawdle here. There's work we've got to turn our hands to, girl. A party at Lac d'Or means the lady of the house must look pert. Lay around like that and nothing will get done."
Raising her head, she couldn't make out the dark form in the doorway. Only the vague outline of a woman loomed over her.
"Heloise? I have to hide before Malcolm returns. One of the linen closets. I'll be as quiet as a little mouse, I will. Only help me get out of here, I can't stand the cold anymore.” The words spilled out of her mouth in a great rush, as she pushed herself up, hands and feet. Still clumsy from the tight, cold muscles, she staggered the meager steps to the open door only to find no one there. She peeked cautiously out from the cell.
"Where do you think you're going?" Robert's voice boomed at her.
Catherine flinched and fell back into her prison. Startled, she began crying, the tears running down her reddening face, her chest heaving with the effort to breathe.
"How did you manage to get out of your little trap?" he asked, leaning in to grab the lapels of the woolen robe and haul her to her feet. "I made sure the door was locked tight. Checked it myself after Malcolm locked you in."
"Someone came," she gasped, twisting in his hands, trying to get away. Even if she escaped his grasp, she would still have nowhere to go. Robert blocked the only exit in the tiny room.
"Who have you bribed to rescue you? Is it one of the kitchen boys? Have you been flaunting yourself?" He sounded drunk on anger, if not liquor. Was it too early for alcohol to fuel the fire? She had no sense of how much time had passed since she'd been tossed into the little cell.
"I've done nothing to deserve this kind of treatment. I will know why you have chivvied and taunted me," she said, trying to swing her body and throw him off balance.
"You are like a fox cornered by a wolf. Too proud to give up, but certain you are facing your doom."
"You're going to hurt me, Robert!"
"A little correction never hurt anyone."
"You might hurt our son," Catherine lied desperately. She used what she was certain were her last breaths to choke out her words.
The shock made Robert loosen his grip and Catherine fell to the floor. Looking up, she saw his face pale and his head rock back as if her words slapped him. His mouth worked without sound for a moment and he looked as though he was as hungry for air as she was.
Finally, he spoke. "You told me only a day or so ago that you were ready to bleed."
"I haven't."
"If you are lying to me, there will be hell to pay."
"I only know that I have never felt like this before. I have all the symptoms. The only treatment is time." She struggled to keep her voice even so she wouldn't betray her fear. That emotion she wanted to conceal seemed to pass over his face like a quick cloud in the summer sky passes over the sun. Odd, she thought.
Robert stared at her. On his face, she saw calculation. She imagined he was trying to decide how much he could punish her without harming the child in her belly. His face also betrayed pride. How vain were men, that their meager participation in the forming of a human being could make them 10 feet tall. The woman would give up her very body for nine long months, and the man, who could continue to do everything his life and station required, strutted like a rooster.
"We will need a nurse for the boy, of course. A wet nurse, too, I think. I don't want your lovely attributes to suffer. And we must arrange the room between ours for the first nursery," he prattled on with myriad plans. She thought of stopping him, but the more he thought of all the plans to be made, the less attention he paid to her.
Catherine stood, still a little shaky from her long night on the floor. When she was on her feet, he took her arm in a solicitous gesture that almost knocked her to the floor again for its tenderness.
"You must to bed," he murmured, wrapping one arm around her shoulder and taking her hand in his. He walked her down the hall to the grand staircase that led to the second floor. His steps slowed to match her smaller stride and he bent his head to hers, his breath warm on her hair. "I'll call Heloise to look in on you."
"I don't know if I can talk about the dinner," Catherine said in a weak tone. Being locked away in her boudoir would be preferable to being locked away in the cell like the previous night. For good measure, she wrapped her arms around her midsection and bent over a little. The small gesture seemed to panic Robert.
"I'm sure you'll be fine once you're safe in your own bed. Heloise can bring you a hot water bottle. The heat will warm your muscles and soothe you. I'll call for the doctor—"
"No," she said, grabbing his arm, "don't call for the doctor. I feel fine. Just help me into my bed and send Marie. I need to talk to her."
"Marie is not well," he said, looking away from her and focusing on the steps they trod up to the second floor. "I'll send Heloise."
"What does Heloise know about such things?"
"She was a nurse, once upon a time. And a baby nurse for my family. For me, actually. She came to help my mother after I was born. Berdine labored a long, difficult time to bring me into the world and was very ill for a while after. I looked on Heloise as my second mother all through my childhood," Robert explained. "Don't trip here, the steps are quite steep."
"Yes, I've climbed them before," Catherine was amused at Robert's sudden solicitude. She thought how inconvenient Heloise's presence would be. How was she to pretend she was with child if a baby nurse was constantly at hand? The tangled web of deception was already tightening.
Robert supported her as he threw back the covers of her bed and helped her onto it. The bruises Malcolm's rough escort left on her arms were darkening. As he helped her off with her robe and spotted the evidence, he winced. Catherine flinched as his hand brushed her upper arm.
"You need some attentions I cannot provide. I will send Heloise directly."
"I beg you, I don't need a nurse."
"You will allow Heloise to minister to you." He caught himself being short, modulated his voice, and tried again. "You need to clean up and someone should apply unguent or poultice to take care of those bruises." He muttered the last few words as if embarrassed.
She bowed her head in acquiescence. What malady had taken Marie? She knew now she couldn't trust her, so the task of dealing with Heloise would really be no different. She would simply refuse to trust Heloise even as she had Marie. In the moment, she decided she must trust only herself if she were to survive and find a way to escape Lac d'Or.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Heloise bustled into the room with a basin of steaming water and several clean white linen towels over her arm. She set the accoutrements down, and glancing at Catherine, who lay naked under the blankets where she had fallen asleep after Robert's departure, went to the bureau and unearthed a white flannel gown and some knit stockings. Before she went to Catherine, she rummaged through another drawer and found a wooly shawl. All of the clothing was white, and when Heloise laid it on the bed beside her, Catherine could smell the lavender wafting off the fresh, crisp material.
"I know you need your rest, madame," she heard Heloise say, "but you must wake up a little so I can help you. Let me bathe you and help you into something warm, and then you can go back to sleep." She took Catherine by the shoulders and shook her gently, then helped her up from the bed. Squeezing a sponge she took from the basin, she dabbed it all over Catherine's limp body before retu
rning it to its bath.
Catherine felt steadier on her feet, but her muscles still ached. "Where is Marie?" she asked.
"She is not well, madame," Heloise said, expertly slipping the gown and stockings over her patient's compliant frame and helping her back into the bed. "She needed some rest."
"Is she ill?"
"Not with anything you need to worry about. The master tells me there is good news and we will be welcoming another Picard. I am happy to be here to see the next generation."
Her ministrations made it clear that Heloise had, indeed, been in a healing profession. Her response to the inquiry about Marie sounded odd. Perhaps she was being too suspicious, Catherine thought.
"My husband is very happy, I think."
"And you are not?" Heloise's eyebrows arched in surprise, and she finally stopped still, leaving off the puttering that had occupied her since Catherine had been wrapped up and deposited in the bed.
"Yes, of course I am happy. Having a child is every woman's fulfillment, is it not?"
"You are still young, madame," Heloise said complacently, "I hope you do not take it forward of me to tell you that as the baby grows, so will your maternal feelings. I am sure when you share the news with your own mother, she will tell you the same."
Catherine caught the sob that threatened to spill out at the mention of her mother. Her humiliation by her husband was one thing. She had found the strength to confide in her mother how desperately unhappy she was about his singular focus on having a child out of her and his disregard for her feelings. But to lie about expecting a child, and to the people who had no reason to distrust her? Of this she was thoroughly ashamed. The tears came as she realized that some mystical connection with her mother meant she would always know the truth. The conversations in Catherine's dreams were so real it was if the two women needed no letters.
Heloise noticed her tears and offered her a towel to dry them. "Emotional, I see. You will find yourself on a hilly journey for the next few months."
In her heart, Catherine knew the lie was not only wrong, but it would mean only a brief reprieve from the physical and emotional attacks her husband had inflicted on her. Once he found out she was not really pregnant, there was no telling what he would do. The violence he used Malcolm to inflict on her made her fear for her life. Underneath her apprehension about Robert's reaction to her subterfuge was another emotion, one she couldn't easily explain; it twinkled like a star on a cloudy night in response to the idea that she might not be lying. She might well be carrying the heir Robert wanted.
"I hope that it is a journey I may complete," Catherine said carefully, crafting another lie to aid her in escaping the results of the one she had already told. "My mother lost several children and her own health in trying to bear them. I fear that I may experience the same heartbreak. She warned me that I would be very delicate when it came to bearing children."
"I am a nurse, I'm sure Monsieur Picard told you that. I know you have only known me as a social secretary, but I still know what it means to care for someone who needs me. I will do everything I can to make sure you and your baby are healthy." Heloise moved close to her and offered a comforting pat as she adjusted the pillows. "For now, I recommend you sleep."
Sleep beckoned as Heloise left, but Catherine feared it. What if she dreamed about her mother? She was always sensitive to her mother's censure, and something told her that is what she would find if they met in a dream. She had not the constitution to resist for long, but when her eyes had almost closed for the last time, she heard the door open. Forcing her eyes open, she saw Marie slip into the room and close the door behind her.
Catherine's first impression of Marie had been that she resembled a bon-bon box. Her pale golden hair piled on her head, her naturally high-pink complexion, the pretty colors she affected, all of them gave her the gay air of a box of sweets. The girl who stood in front of her now was broken, crumpled; a torn, dun-colored shift revealed skin mostly darkened by dirt and scratches. Marie was a sepia ghost. Her normally shiny, curly hair fell in lank curtains on each side of her face, but it could not hide the dark bruises there, bruises darker even than the ones that circled Catherine's upper arms. The apparition trembled, wrapped in a rough blanket of coarse wool.
"What has happened to you?" Catherine gasped as she sat up in bed.
"I came to ask you, madame, please don't think badly of me," Marie's voice was a raspy imitation of the soprano lilt she usually affected. "I tried not to tell him, but it hurt so much I had to or he wouldn't stop!"
"Who did this to you? Did Robert beat you?" Catherine helped Marie to the bed, where the two of them sat. She wrapped her arm around the girl, who laid her head on the soft, linen clad shoulder of her mistress.
"Malcolm."
"Robert uses the man for his fists," Catherine said. "I'm so sorry I doubted you. You were trying to protect me, weren't you?"
"I think about your mother and I envy you. But I think, if I cannot have this kind of love, why should I begrudge you? You might have it again if I help. But Monsieur Picard came to me and he demanded that I tell him about our conversation. He wanted to know everything that had passed between us. I tried, madame, I tried to be quiet. But he sat in the chair there in his bedroom and he told me if I did not give him what he wanted, he would make me hurt. And then he called Malcolm."
"I know Malcolm. You've taken a great risk coming here. You should not have come to me. If anyone misses you, it will go badly for you again."
"I thought I had to warn you."
"I'm glad you came, despite the danger. I had quite given up on being able to trust anyone here. When Malcolm threw me in that nasty room, I thought you had betrayed me."
Marie closed her eyes as Catherine spoke. What effort it had taken for the girl to make it to her, and how dangerous it might be for her if she were caught out of her room. Catherine would have to do what she had to on her own, not because she couldn't trust anyone—Marie's pilgrimage to her room proved she was loyal—but because she couldn't risk harming Marie anymore. She stroked the girl's hair and whispered to her that she must go.
"Yes, madame. I will go back to my room. Heloise has advised me to stay there for a few days."
"The same advice she offered me," Catherine said, hugging Marie warmly. "Take it. I will pray that you make it safely back to your room and then we should both go to sleep. Sleep is a healing thing."
Marie slipped out of the room and Catherine went back to her own bed. The comforter was not the bed of nails it had felt like earlier. The lie she had told her husband and Heloise still bothered her, but she knew that the alternative was worse. Now, in addition to the lessening guilt, she felt anger towards her husband for what he had done to Marie. Marie was truly friendless, and unlike Catherine, who had a mother and father who were probably worried about her, Marie had no one to worry about her.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Catherine's dreams were richer than her real life. In real life, she spent most of each day in bed, Heloise plying her with warm soups and bed warmers. Occasionally, Robert would walk in, stand at her bed, hands clasped behind his back, rocking back on his heels, and ask after her health before fleeing. A few days after Catherine's faux revelation, Marie rejoined the rest of the house staff, and Catherine could see her going back and forth in the hall. Apparently, Robert had told the maid to stay away from Catherine's room.
In dreams, she traveled everywhere. One night she might be standing with her mother in the nursery of her youth. Another, she would be enjoying an opera with her musically inclined Poppa in an unfamiliar but elaborate private box. Still another dream would take place in a forest where the trees had the height and grandeur of the cathedral at Chartres. Then the next night she'd be in the cathedral itself.
For all the attention Heloise showered on her, Catherine was still fundamentally alone. Her only company in the hours she spent in the room were her own thoughts. Her lies had saved her life; she believed that. Even if Robert had not
killed her, her imprisonment in the room off the wine cellar was enough to break her spirit if it had continued. Telling Robert what he wanted to hear had moved him to sequester her in her own room, a room that still felt like a cell.
Catherine imagined the possible paths before her as if she stood at a crossroads. She might continue to pretend to be expecting Robert's heir and wait until she bled, revealing the lie. The consequences if she chose that path could not be predicted, and her chance of escaping the chateau would be negligible if she angered Robert. His rage would make him dangerous, and she could not face the beating Malcolm was likely to administer.
She might find a way to miscarry the fictitious child and buy some time while she recovered. Perhaps Robert would leave her alone long enough for her to escape. This path would take strength and cunning since she had only herself to execute any plan she might imagine. Without Marie to help and with no way to win Heloise to her aid, acting alone would be risky.
Or she might be carrying the Picard heir and therefore would remain safe for as long as she was cosseted in her boudoir. If this were true, escaping would mean being responsible not only for herself but for the child she sheltered in her womb.
Catherine felt paralyzed by the choices before her, and alone in her room, she brooded. All the planning for the party, the renaissance of entertaining at Lac d'Or, had been forgotten, she thought. Such superficial concerns would only irritate her, given the struggle to decide what to do about her current situation. Heloise never mentioned the fete in her ministrations, nor did her husband until about two weeks after she had been confined to the room.
"I want our guests to see you at your best," he said one evening, his restless rocking making the ancient floor squeak. The high-pitched sound grated, but she refrained from saying anything that might raise his ire, remaining quiet while he continued. "I requested a dressmaker from Paris to come fit you in something for the party."
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