"No," Catherine shook her head. "There never was going to be a child. I lied to save myself the night he found the letter. The night he had Malcolm beat you."
"How could you? Didn't you know he'd find out eventually?" Marie's scornful tone told Catherine that the young girl had recovered from her terror at Malcom's hands.
"I told him."
"You're very lucky you're still alive, even if we are entombed in this crypt."
"It's no crypt. It's just our cell until we get our transfer."
"I think that depends on how long they wait to issue that transfer. You don't feel short of breath, do you?" Marie pressed her hands to her chest and tried to take a deep draught of the cold, damp air. The result was a long, deep cough whose timbre startled Catherine with its tenor.
"Do you really think they'll leave us here?"
"For a woman who has moved in such elite company, you strike me as very naïve. I am no soothsayer, but I don't see a convent in your future."
"I do not wish to contemplate where else I might end up if our rescuers don't accompany us to the promised convent. The Ursulines are known for their great work in protecting women, and Robert's tirade last night gave me hope that I would find myself there before this day is out. I had a dear friend who had a vocation that took her into their sisterhood. She was so beautiful at her induction."
"I imagine we may be dragged somewhere much less hospitable. I believe we should make some plans." Marie's authoritative tone made Catherine all too aware that the lives they had led were entirely dissimilar. Before Marie came to Lac d'Or to work in the kitchens, she had known nothing of the simple comforts that had always cocooned Catherine in her family home.
"What can we do? Once the door opens and they take us to the carriage, I do not foresee a chance to make any alterations to their plans," Catherine said. "We can't commandeer the horses and change the route."
"Then we must act quickly," Marie said, pointing her finger in emphasis. "As soon as the door opens we must run."
"Run where?" Catherine couldn't imagine what safety the two of them could find, half-dressed and completely ignorant of the land surrounding the chateau. Catherine had only glimpsed the road to the house as she arrived, and the joy she had felt at her marriage had blinded her to the geography.
"Again, I am amused by your innocence."
"I am not innocent," Catherine said. She laughed shortly at the idea. "How could I have survived a double fortnight of marriage and be innocent, when the life I expected to have—a loving husband, a convivial social life, and a burgeoning family—have all been replaced by a madman, a superficial society of acquaintances I have only met once, and a child who is no more than a figment of my imagination? I am not innocent. I have become quite the jade."
"Forgive me," Marie said as she scooted across the stone floor and wrapped her arms around Catherine. "You are right. I mean to say I have seen the road from here to town several times, and I am convinced that we could make our way there in not too long a time if we stayed in the forests along the path and hid ourselves if we heard anyone coming."
"And once we are in town, what are we to do?"
"I have had business with the baker. His wife is a jolly, kind woman. The soul of piety. I think if we threw ourselves on their mercy, she might keep us from any harm and perhaps spirit us away to that convent you are so sure is our true destination."
"Don't mock me."
"I am not mocking you. The forest is heavy along the way. Monsieur Picard keeps it thick so the game will flourish. We can hide easily. And what have we to lose if we do make it to the convent and find that was our destination all along? They will welcome us with open arms whether we are truly to be cloistered with them or approach them as pitiful refugees of a macabre house of horror."
Catherine nodded. "You speak well. We must have a plan."
"If only Malcolm comes, the two of us will try to overpower him and make our way down the hall and out the doors."
"Simple enough."
"However," Marie cautioned her, "If more than one person comes, Malcolm and Picard, for instance, then it will be more difficult. You must be prepared to use every tool at your disposal to escape their grip and then flee as quickly as you can."
"I don't know what weapons I possess," Catherine said, surveying her simple shift and bare arms and legs. "I have nothing."
"You have everything. You have your whole body to turn against them. Bite the hand that reaches to muzzle your cries. Grind your heel into the instep that is set to trip you. Thrust back your elbows when they grip you. Throw back your head, hard. It will catch them just under the chin and make them stumble." Marie's description of the chaos to come unsettled Catherine. She had never struck anyone with her open palm, much less prepared to use her whole body as a weapon.
"Must we?"
"If you are quick, you will outrun them as fast as a pail of snow melts on a hot stove. If they are quicker, you must employ every asset you can," Marie said.
For nearly an hour, Marie demonstrated the different ways she had learned to protect herself in the grimy streets of Paris. "Use your strength. See how leaning back will connect your head with their face if they grab you from behind? If they put a foot out, step on it hard, as hard as if you had the hoof of an animal like a bull, or a horse. Your foot, as dainty as it is, could do great damage if you use all the force at your command."
The two women devised as many scenarios as they could think of and practiced their responses over and over.
"We must rest for a bit or we'll not have the strength to fight when they appear," Marie said, panting from the exertion. She sat on the cold floor and leaned against the rocks and dirt of the cell.
"If only one opens the door, run." Catherine recited the catechism Marie had taught her.
Marie nodded.
"If two, run, but be prepared to engage them in a struggle."
"No, do not 'engage them in a struggle.' Fight them off and flee. We will meet behind the great stone birds that guard the entrance of the estate. You know where I mean?"
"Yes, I remember the birds. I saw them the morning I came here, when I was still innocent." A sly smile cracked her normally placid face. The idea of protecting herself was new to her, but the thought of such physical contact made a strange feeling spread throughout her body. The feeling was not unlike the feeling she remembered from the first time Robert had touched her, but it energized her instead of making her feel languid. "What do we do until he comes? Until they come?"
If Marie had told her to run from one wall to the other, over and over, in the tiny room, she would have obeyed. She felt odd entrusting herself to this girl, but she knew that Marie's experience made her the more suitable for planning such a scenario.
"We wait," Marie said, and they both sat down on the floor in the dimness that was steadily lightening as the morning sun pushed further and further under the door.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
The two women did not wait long, and they did not try to make the time go faster by chattering. They sat on the floor until they heard footsteps in the hallway.
"Stand up," Marie whispered, gesturing for Catherine to stand with her back against the wall on one side of the door while she took up the same position in mirror image on the other side. Barely were they in place when they heard a key inserted into the lock and the door creaking open.
Malcolm stepped into the room. The opening door flooded the room with light, and both women involuntarily closed their eyes in reflex. In that short span of time, he grabbed one of their arms in each hand and backed out, pulling them with him. Both women struggled, but Marie was more focused and bit the broad, hairy hand wrapped around her fleshy arm. Malcolm released them both, massaging the nip with the hand that had been wrapped around Catherine's limb.
The two scrambled up the stairs as Malcolm was still recoiling from the pain, but neither of them had counted on the two armed footmen that dawdled in the hall. Pushing past them, Marie and
Catherine used their petite statures to duck the tangled arms and elbows of the guards and ran through the front door. Running down the steps, the pair pounded down the drive toward the stone birds that kept a lookout at the entrance to the grounds.
"Draw and give chase, don't let them away!" Picard's voice boomed from behind them.
Hampered by their uniforms, the footmen lumbered after the two women in their scanty linens. Just as the men were about to grab them, Catherine found a burst of speed that propelled her beyond their grasps. The wind whistled by her ears, a clean, whirring sound interrupted finally by a scream.
Catherine turned around to see Marie writhing on the ground. A footman leaned over her, twisting the sword that had pierced her side. Catherine rushed back over the ground she had just covered, horrified to see her friend impaled on the gleaming steel.
Marie cried wordlessly, trying to stand but pinned like a butterfly on a collector's board.
The sight paralyzed Catherine and deafened her to everything but her own heartbeat. None of their preparations had prepared her for that pitiful sight.
Another footman advanced on Catherine. Testing his weight on one foot and then the other, he held his arms wide, a sword aloft in one hand, and prepared to pounce.
Marie finally stilled except for her mouth, and although Catherine could hear nothing, she saw the girl's lips form the word "Go". A cold wave of self-preservation rolled over her like a sudden rain shower, and she bolted away as if the last breath from Marie's lungs were a wind that propelled her down the drive and past the stone birds whose visages menaced her and pushed her even farther. Past the columns that fettered the birds, she found a wide road, obviously well-traveled. In confusion, she stopped and tried to remember which way would lead to the nearest village. She had only a moment to close her eyes. From which direction had the carriage come on the day of her arrival? Instinct and fear took over as the sound of pounding footsteps grew louder, and she fled blindly, praying that she had chosen well.
Tripping over the brush and weeds, she ran into the trees that lined one side of the road, trying to distance herself from the remaining footman. Without stopping, she pushed deep into the cover, trying to stay parallel to the road. She had no idea how much time passed until she was forced to stop from the deep pain in her side. Once she paused, bent double and panting, the cuts on her feet from the rocks and twigs shouted, and she fell.
For a moment, she could hear nothing in the forest but her own harsh breathing. When she was finally able to breathe normally, she could hear the sweet trills of birds and rustlings of the animals whose home she had invaded.
No evidence of human activity. No footsteps. No sounds of limbs being bent back. Catherine allowed herself to close her eyes and breathed deeply, trying to float above the pain, both physical and emotional, that pinned her to the forest floor.
The sound of wheels made her alert, and she rose to a low crouch, straining to see the carriage as it passed. She was closer to the road than she imagined, and could see the deep burgundy of the coach that had brought her to Lac d'Or. The coach moved slowly, both footmen hanging on to it, squinting in what had become a bright morning, trying to see into the trees on either side of the road.
The coach passed, and Catherine relaxed. The adrenaline that had coursed through her veins as she and Marie made plans, the wrenching pain that had grabbed her and twisted her intestines as she saw Marie die, and the surfeit of emotion—all of it—had left her, and she collapsed back on the ground, spent from the emotional and physical trauma she had endured.
"You are safe, my dear," her mother said. Looking up, Catherine saw Mathilde standing before her in the forest; the morning light slanted through the trees backlighting the familiar figure. Beside her, another person stood. A woman.
"I have found your friend, and she is safe with me."
Catherine felt an incredible sense of peace flow through her, and then a wave of nausea and dread gripped her.
"How could you go where Marie is?" She asked.
Mathilde and Marie looked at each other, and Marie answered, "Your mother met me."
Catherine screamed at the simple finality of the realization that no matter how hard she struggled, no matter that she had escaped and that Marie had paid with her life, no matter if she went forward, she would never again know the comfort of her mother's welcoming embrace. But if she went back, she would know only terror. Her escape would stoke the fires of madness that had been ignited when her husband found out her deception.
"Shame on you," her mother said. "Have you forgotten your father? He pines for you even more now that I am gone. You have to move on and find a way back to him. The house was bereft when you left us, but now it is even more a crypt for your father. He is waiting for you, and his house is empty of love and laughter. You can do it. You have chosen the right direction. You only need to keep going. It's only few turns in the road until you find the town. Please, my dear." Mathilde stretched out her hand as if to help Catherine to her feet. "Please get up and walk."
Catherine felt herself struggle up, the sharp pains in her feet hobbling her as she lurched forward. She tottered a few steps before she realized the bright sun that had illuminated her mother and Marie was again the clear light of a crisp fall morning, and she stood in the forest alone. The realization she was on her own didn't make her stop, but it didn't push her forward. She felt as though moving in the direction she had taken when she fled the chateau was just another autonomic impulse. She couldn't stop breathing long enough to meet her mother herself, and if she was breathing, she must move.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Catherine found it harder and harder to find cover as the trees thinned out. She came upon a clear creek that roiled around rocks and fallen limbs, and stopped to scoop water into her mouth. Not until she stopped did she realize how violently she was shivering in the cold, clear air. She still wore only the shift she had worn when Malcolm threw her into the cell, and the air was sharp with the harbinger of snow soon to come.
A house sat just over a rude bridge that spanned the water. Beyond the house, the edge of the village was visible, including a building with a smokestack out of which poured pure-white smoke. Even from her vantage point, she could see a sign in front of the building. It was a shop, but what kind? Marie had said the baker's wife might be helpful.
Just a glimpse of the sign would tell her what the shop sold, and then she could creep up to the back door and wait for a glimpse of the woman Marie had barely described. "Jolly" and "pious" didn't mean anything physically. A laugh escaped her mouth, but it sounded like a croak. She laughed at the idea she had any choice. If she stayed hunched at the side of the creek bed, someone would discover her soon enough and drag her back to her husband. If she moved ahead, she at least had a chance.
Catherine scuttled across the bridge and crouched behind a hedge, then ran until she found herself hiding behind an enormous pile of wood. Examining the detritus that surrounded the back door, she thought it likely that the shop was indeed the baker's shop and breathed a little easier.
The ground behind the wood pile was almost as hard and cold as the floor of the cell she had escaped. But not as cold as the grave, she thought. She chided herself that such grim thoughts would do no good. Shifting her seat, she wondered when someone would appear.
Spotting the pig pen outside the back door, Catherine scrabbled for some pebbles and pitched a few toward the pen's fence. As the small rocks landed, they startled the animals and they began snorting.
The door in the back of the building opened, and a woman, round as an apple, peeked out. Emerging, she stepped across the dirt yard and threw the slop from a large pan into the pen's trough. The woman watched the antics of the pigs who crowded together to eat the leavings and laughed, rocking back on her heels and lifting her ruddy face to the sky.
"Jolly," Catherine thought. But pious? Unless the woman got down on her knees and began a rosary in thanks for the good pork the pigs provide,
there was no way Catherine could judge the woman's devotion.
Her inhibitions rubbed away from her terrible morning, Catherine stood up and walked slowly toward the woman, trusting that her decision would be the right one.
The woman finally stopped laughing, sighed largely as if in resignation, and turned to go back inside. She caught sight of Catherine and stopped.
The two women stared at each other.
Catherine wrapped her arms around herself, covering her near nakedness and then dropped them to her sides, palms out, so the woman could see she was no threat.
"Where have you come from?" the woman asked, backing away.
"Lac d'Or," Catherine tried to say, but the chilly night in the woods had coarsened her voice, and the words didn't escape clearly. Again she tried to speak, forcing out the single word, "Please."
"Oh, ma pauvre! What has happened to you! Surely you are freezing in this air. Come with me," she said, taking the heavy woolen shawl from her shoulders and wrapping it around Catherine's. "I will get you something decent to wear and something hot to eat."
"I cannot..." Catherine tried to say, but again her voice failed her.
"Don't try to speak. I am Sabine. I will take care of you."
Catherine closed her eyes and said a quick prayer of gratitude.
The door opened before they could reach it, and a man even larger than Sabine stepped out, followed by a footman in Lac d'Or livery. Before the door closed, the familiar red-headed figure of Malcolm stepped out into the sunshine.
"I harbor no one," the baker was saying. "It is only my wife and myself here, and between the two of us, we bake the bread. No children. You will find no one here."
Catherine's presence stopped the man in his tracks so quickly that the footman ran into him. Malcolm maintained his dignity by stopping before he, too, crashed into the man.
"I believe your wife is the one that matches you for size. I recognize the other one. Monsieur Picard will want to know about this perfidy, keeping her from him here in your shop," the footman said.
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