An Ignorance of Means

by Jennifer Oakley Denslow

  "And have you become intimate enough with this one?" Catherine asked. Her saucy reply was meant to rebuff her confidante, but it had just the opposite effect, as the woman who had made the pompous pronouncement burst into laughter.

  "You have put me in my place, I think. I am not quite as arrogant as my current ravings might indicate. I do like a good wine, and I am interested in its provenance." The woman leaned further in so the words reached only Catherine's ears. "I'm also quite fond of making grand pronouncements."

  "An entertaining pastime, I've been told."

  The guests would pause in their conversation only when a new course reached the table, and when the final course had been consumed, the men and women separated for their own amusements. Catherine's partner in dinner conversation moved next to her as the women made their exit, holding her arm tightly and whispering terrible sallies about the other women.

  "They are such tiresome cows, I suppose if you asked one to sing she could only low." Lucie held her feathered fan in front of her mouth to ensure the words weren't overheard. "And all they want to talk about is the body. Very base and crude, women are. So much gynecological prattling, I get quite bored."

  "I have had little intercourse with anyone other than my family, I should be happy for any conversation at all."

  "Even mine, I suppose? Let me sit by you on the couch and I'll be able to translate for you. Of course, we all want to curry favor from you, since all of us are crazy to be invited back to Lac d'Or. It's just as beautiful as I've always heard."

  "My husband tells me that years have passed since the house has seen such entertainments as this," Catherine said. Settling on a narrow settee, she allowed Lucie to join her, but someone else responded.

  "I remember well when the late Monsieur Picard had house parties quite regularly," said an imposing matron who had sat heavily in a fragile-looking chair. "The late monsieur and Berdine knew how to bedeck the house with flowers until it was a relative bower."

  "I regret we have welcomed you at a time of year when fresh flowers are especially hard to come by," Catherine said.

  "Your embellishments are quite lovely. The wicker cornucopia on the table was a nice touch. I just meant that in former days, we would find the house quite elaborately done up when we arrived," the Marquessa said, snapping her fan open and turning to the woman beside her.

  "Species: dragon. Give up now or she'll singe your eyebrows," Lucie whispered.

  Catherine restrained a giggle.

  "My mother told me," said the youngest of the group, "that one time she came to a party here, and the entire meal was white. Not just white dishes, but every bit of food that made it to the table was of that pure hue. Can you imagine?" She punctuated her wonder with a widening of her eyes.

  "Not cow. Calf," was Lucie's comment.

  "White asparagus, I remember," said the matron, "and grapefruit, very pale. Coconut scattered over the platter. I was there, and I don't remember a speck of any color other than white. The dining room had white curtains then, and the fixtures were the same silver as the serving pieces. The rumor was that Berdine had them changed just for the party, but I've always doubted that."

  "I can't confirm that extravagance myself," Catherine offered. "Berdine has not confided in me what a sensation she made as a hostess."

  "Sad that she couldn't join us. I trust she is well?" Lucie asked. Her social voice was smooth and melodious, unlike the secret, sniping tone she had used when she spoke with Catherine privately.

  "Yes, quite well. My mother-in-law thought I should have the chance to do the honors myself. I've been quite intimidated by the whole process."

  Lucie lowered her voice once more, saying, "You have a special gift, my dear."

  "My husband insisted the dress—"

  "No, I mean your sight. You have a special way of seeing things. I do, as well."

  "I would not call it a gift."

  "Speaking of it can be dangerous, I know, but my senses tell me something is not right here at Lac d'Or. When I look at you, I see a bird beating its wings but going nowhere. This chateau is a beautiful cage, but even a beautiful cage can be a prison. I caution you to keep your secret. Your husband might well use it against you if he found out."

  Catherine nodded. Keeping her voice low, she said, "My mother warned me of that on my wedding day."

  "We are sure to see each other again, chérie. My husband seems quite taken with yours, and I suspect the business of New France will bring them even closer." Lucie leaned back against the padded back of the settee and nodded.

  Around the two women's quiet conversation, the other voices rose like the cacophony from a gaggle of geese. Into the heightened sound, the master of Lac d'Or intruded.

  "Has Catherine made you all comfortable, ladies? I come to let you know that we gentleman think everyone should begin making their way home. A sudden storm is overtaking the region, and if one does not undertake the journey home now, the way may be impassable."

  "Oh, Monsieur Picard, surely we could take advantage of your hospitality if such an eventuality were to befall us?" Lucie said.

  "Yes, of course. I know that it is true I much prefer my own bed to an alien one, so I offer my advice in that spirit. The men have called for the carriages, though, and so unless you all want to have a hen party, it may be time to join your husbands."

  "I can't help thinking that it is bad manners for us to encourage our guests to leave, Robert!"

  "I am only thinking of their safety," he replied. The quiet rebuke in his eyes for daring to disagree with him chastened her, and she kept quiet.

  "And we appreciate your concern," Lucie said. Her quick gratitude kept the tone light. She stood, wrapping a thin shawl around her shoulders. The others did the same, and Catherine rose to make her goodbyes. The group migrated to the hall, and eventually paired off and left as their carriages were brought round. Soon, only Robert and Catherine were left.

  "Would you call that a successful entertainment?" he asked.

  "I hardly know, as it is the most glamorous and elaborate dinner I have ever seen. I think it was delightful."

  "Come with me to my study. I have something to share with you." Robert took her hand, and the two of them walked down to the hall. The candles that had so brightly burned in the dining room were being snuffed out, so the hall grew dimmer even as they took the first steps past the open doorway. When they reached the study, it was dark, so Robert lit a single candle. He gestured for Catherine to sit down. The one candle barely lit the room, but Robert seemed oblivious to the dimness. He sat at his desk and bent over to one of the side drawers, removing a piece of paper, which he threw onto the desktop.

  The paper looked familiar. Catherine squeezed her eyes shut in anticipation of a blow. When it came, it was not physical, but words that made her rock her head back.

  "Monsieur Harcourt Dauterive had a story to tell me that I was reluctant to believe. However, once he provided me with tangible evidence, I had to admit to myself what has been right before me."

  Catherine couldn't believe Dauterive had betrayed her. Robert must have intimidated him just as he had Marie. Perhaps he had employed Malcolm's fists as well.

  "Must you feign innocence again?" Robert shook his head. "Harcourt was a longtime friend of my mother's. What would I have known about fashion? Of course she recommended him and of course he was happy to hear from an old family friend. Happy to come visit. Grateful to do a favor."

  An old family friend? Catherine did not have to pretend to be shocked. She really had believed Harcourt had been her ally.

  "Forgive me for thinking that the life I can provide you and our child would be one in which any woman would revel. Is the chateau too ostentatious?" Robert held the letter between his finger and thumb and waved it as if the distasteful contents might infect him.

  "I don't have anything to say."

  "Because you've said it all to your parents in this note. ‘I beg you...,' you write. 'This terrible life,' you s
ay. What has been terrible? The luxurious surroundings, the likes of which you have never encountered before now? The savory board our personal chef provides? The clothing, custom made and maintained by a lady's maid?" Robert loomed over her, his voice rising.

  "What did you have Malcolm do to Marie the night you threw me into that dungeon you keep hidden beneath one of your mahogany doors? Do you think I don't know you tortured her to find out my secret? And what a terrible secret it is, that I find myself unable to be happy in a loveless marriage."

  "I have been deluded and deceived from the very beginning. But here we are, my dear. You are carrying the Picard heir, and I am an honorable man. You will have that child under my roof. Then we can talk about where you can find refuge from my terrible imprisonment of you."

  "What do you mean?"

  "I mean that as soon as you are delivered of that child, I have no further use of you, and since you find your life here so distasteful, we will find somewhere else for you to live while our son and I enjoy the renaissance of Lac d'Or."

  Catherine shook her head. She hastily calculated the risk of telling Robert there was no child at all. Admitting her deception would anger him, but it would mean she would be free of him that much sooner.

  "I have been terribly unfair to you," she said. "I have not been honest."

  He raised one eyebrow and took a step back. "Are you implying that you now wish to be? What else is there besides what I have discovered? You've been planning an escape from a most comfortable home to return to your parents' hovel."

  "You have no idea what a home is! It is not made of walls, but of the people one loves. Your child is not simply a scion of your house. Your child will be a mewling, puking, squawling infant for a long while before he is an accessory for you to flaunt at court."

  "I believe you mean 'our' child," Robert returned.

  "There is no 'our' child."

  Robert’s face flushed. He pressed his lips together and inhaled. "I suspected as much. Who is the bastard's father? I've made every effort to keep you locked away when I couldn't use you to insure you didn't jump the fence. Is it Malcolm? I'll have his red Scottish head on a plate if I find out—"

  "There is no child." Catherine stood calmly, but a whirlwind of emotion swirled around her as she waited for Robert's reaction.

  The roar came quickly, a scream like nothing she had ever heard. His voice was raw and, from the sound of it tearing from his throat, would not sound normal for some time. He turned as he screamed, sweeping the clutter from his desk to the floor and then whirling to sweep more off the shelves behind the desk. Catherine scrambled out of the chair and tried to escape the avalanche of objects flying through the air. She cringed against the wall. Soon, Robert stood panting in the pile of clutter, his face red and sweating, his eyes dark as a storm coming from over the mountains, his fists clenched, his muscles tense enough they seemed about to burst out of the shirt he wore.

  "Then there will be, dammit. What do you think I brought you here for?" He advanced on her, hands out to take her shoulders, and she ducked away, taking cover behind the wing backed chair in the corner of the room. His face was that of a madman. There was no reasoning with him, she could tell. If she made it out of the room, she'd have to find a way to make it out of the house as well before he could get his hands on her.

  "No! There'll be no child! Let me go back to my parents and forget you ever knew me. Find a woman who wants what you have and can give you what you want. I am neither of those things."

  "How dare you? I give you the gift of my house, my lands, the tender attentions of a mother willing to train you to be a hostess in one of the most admired estates in our country, the chance to mother a boy who would carry the name of one of the most illustrious clans in our history, and you spit on it. That's how little you think of all this? Why go back to your family? You belong...you belong...in a convent."

  Catherine saw his face relax and his eyebrows go up as if he'd had an epiphany.

  "You are too pure for this life," he said, "too pure for the life you want to go back to. What will become of you if you do return to your parents? They will only encourage you to take a common swain and marry and bear his children, I am sure. But really, you're too pure for that. You must be preserved, put in a bell jar to keep the dust of the world off you."

  A calm descended on him, and the voice he had left was low. Catherine emerged from behind the chair and moved closer. The look in his eyes was no less mad, and she couldn't follow his reasoning.

  "I will do everything I can to effect your escape from here," he continued, "but you must promise to take refuge in a convent as soon as possible. I will arrange the carriage and horses for tomorrow and send word ahead so the sisters can welcome you."

  "No, I can't. I have to return to my parents. This has all been a terrible mistake." His talk of a convent confused her.

  "Yes, a terrible mistake. But it's all the trappings of the world that make you so uncomfortable. You won't have to struggle with all that in a convent. Think of the peace, the contemplation, you will experience." He moved back towards her, and this time she could not escape his grasp. He pulled her towards him, wrapped his arms around her, and embraced her. She felt his rough cheek against her hair as he murmured. It took a moment to understand the mumbled words.

  "Our acquaintances will understand. The grief of losing a child sent you into the arms of God. How could anyone blame me for seeking another wife when you have left? I have so much to offer a woman here at Lac d'Or and an impeccable lineage to bestow on my descendants." Robert had ceased looking directly at her and looked instead beyond Catherine into a future she was not to be a part of. For a moment, he was transfixed, but once he had fully engaged with the plan to banish her and find another, his focus returned to the study.

  Catherine kept silent.

  "I can no longer stand between you and your God." He pushed her roughly back against the wall and screamed, "Malcolm!"

  Before the word stopped echoing, the flat-faced thug was standing in the door of the study. He said nothing, just waited for instructions. And when Robert explained what he wanted, Catherine began to weep.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  When Catherine awoke on the cold stone floor, she had none of the disorientation she had had the first time she woke up there. She knew without opening her eyes that Malcolm had thrust her into that same clammy dungeon of a room where Robert had her thrown before. This time, she shivered on the floor protected only by the shift she'd worn under the gown Harcourt had made for her. Her feet were bare, and her hair was loose and tangled. The room was dark; the only light was what peeked beneath the door from the hallway sconces.

  Only the arrival of someone to open the door would provide an egress since the stone-lined room was devoid of anything through which she could scramble. No grate, no window.

  If Robert sent her to a convent, maybe she would find a sympathetic sister to help her back to her family. A convent was not a prison. And surely Robert would forget about her once he had sent her away. He'd be busy trying to find a woman he could sire a child out of and too involved with rejuvenating his family's dynasty to care about her. The thought of being sent to a convent should have given her hope, but the disturbing gaze that accompanied his rantings gave her pause.

  Catherine acknowledged she had no hope of resolving anything as long as she was imprisoned in the spare gray room. And with no reason to stir, she finally decided to close her eyes again and await her escort. Once her eyes shuttered, she rapidly slipped into a dream.

  "Maman, such wonderful news!" Catherine found herself rushing into her mother's familiar bedchamber. Taking her mother's hand, she sat on the bed beside her and smiled into the soft brown eyes she had missed so much. "I am coming home!"

  "I'm so happy to hear that," her mother said. Her voice was still low and gentle, but warmed with happiness at Catherine's news. "I knew you would find your way back to us. Poppa and I will be so happy to see you."


  "I hope you aren't disappointed in me."

  "I am only disappointed for you. I am not happy that your first experience with love has ended so badly. I fear now you will never want to make a wife, and being a wife can be a wonderful thing."

  "I believe that. I have your example."

  "Come home to us soon," her mother said.

  A loud rapping sound made her jump, and she looked over her shoulder, but before she could even ask what it might be, she opened her eyes and realized it was a pounding on the door.

  From the inside.

  "Marie! How did you get in here?"

  "How do you think? Malcolm tossed me in here right after you." Marie sat and huddled in the corner. As Catherine's eyes adjusted to the limited light, she saw Marie shivering in a thin cotton shift. "I don't know what I've done. He lurched into the laundry and dragged me up the stairs and down the hall. I was scared he was going to toss me out the front door, but I ended up here. You were so deep in sleep."

  "I'm sorry. I think that your life has been very hard since I have come to Lac d'Or."

  "My life is no harder here than it was before I came into service. I don't know what's to happen to us though, and that worries me." Marie had been abandoned on the streets of Paris as a child, and her life had indeed become easier when she was traded by the man who had pressed her into service in his kitchens. Lac d'Or was full of light and space, a decided contrast to the smoky, greasy kitchens in which she stood on a tall stool stirring great pots of soup to be dished out to the meat house and market workers who ate lunch there.

  "Robert says he's sending me to a convent," Catherine said.

  Marie's face shadowed in disbelief. "A convent? And why is that?"

  "He found out that there's not to be a son for him."

  "And threw you in here? You surely need some nursing.” Marie's alarm was apparent even in the dim light. Both women's eyes had adjusted, and they could at least make out each other’s forms despite the lack of illumination. Marie's whole posture expressed concern that Catherine might have miscarried.