“Forgive me, mon père,” she breathed. One childish hand cupped a breast scarce bigger than a green apricot, making the nipple pout with imagined seductiveness. My stomach revolted at the thought of touching her again. But I had perhaps given too much away. I took a step toward her and brushed her forehead with languid fingers.
“Very well,” I said. “I’ll overlook it this time.”
26
Sainte Marie-de-la-mer was taken in the stone-breakers’ wagon to the easternmost point of the island, where the coast is ragged from the eroding tides. There her remains were given to the sea. I was not present to see it-only LeMerle and the abbess were there-but we were told later that a great wind blew up from the sea where the effigy fell, that the water boiled and that black clouds obscured the sun so that day became night. Since LeMerle told us this, no one disputed it aloud, although I met Germaine’s cynical gaze during his performance.
Of course, she has lost someone to him too. Her face seems narrower these days, the scars very prominent on her pale skin. She sleeps as little as I do; in the dorter I hear her pretending sleep, but her breathing is too shallow, her lack of movement too disciplined to be that of rest.
Last night before Vigils I heard her quarreling with Clémente in a low, harsh voice, though I could not make out the words she spoke. There was silence from Clémente-in the darkness I guessed she had turned her back-and during the long hours between Matins and Lauds I heard Germaine weeping with long, harsh sobs, but I dared not approach her.
As for LeMerle…He had not sought me out since my visit to the market, and I had become increasingly convinced that Clémente-who after all, shared his bed-had also stolen his heart. Not that that troubled me, you understand. I’m long past caring where he lays his head at night. But Clémente is spiteful; and she has no love for Fleur or for me. I hated to think of the power she might wield over all of us, if LeMerle had succumbed to her charms.
I was working in the laundry house when at last he came looking for me. I knew he was there; knew the sound of his feet against the flagstones, and knew from the clink of his spur against the step that he was dressed for riding. I did not turn round at once but plunged an armful of linens into one of the vats of boiling water, face averted, not daring to speak. My cheeks were burning, but that might have been the steam, for the laundry house was hot and the air was filled with clouds. He stood watching me for some minutes without a word, but I would not return his gaze, nor speak until he spoke first. At last he did, in the tone and style he knew had always infuriated me.
“Exquisite harpy,” he said. “I trust I am not interrupting your ablutions. Cleanliness, if not godliness, dearest, must be the prerequisite of your calling.”
I used the baton to pound the laundry. “I’m afraid I’ve no time for games today. I have work to do.”
“Really? What a pity. And on market day too.”
I stopped.
“Well, after all, perhaps I have no reason to go to market,” said LeMerle. “Last time the stench of fish and the common folk was almost unendurable.”
I looked at him then, not caring that he saw the pain in my eyes. “What do you want with me, Guy?”
“Nothing, my Ailée, but your own sweet company. What else should I desire?”
“I don’t know. I daresay Clémente could tell me.” It was out before I could stop it.
I saw him flinch, and then he smiled. “Clémente? Let me see now-”
“You know her, LeMerle. She’s the girl who comes to your cottage at night, in secret. I should have known you wouldn’t be here long without finding yourself a comfortable bedfellow.”
He shrugged, unabashed. “Light entertainment, that’s all. You wouldn’t believe how tedious I find the clerical life-and do you know, Juliette, she’s begun to bore me already?”
Yes, that was like him. I hid an unwilling smile. But it’s hard to keep a secret in a place like this, and even Mère Isabelle was not so besotted that she would overlook a charge of lechery. “They’ll find out, you know. You can’t trust Clémente to keep a secret. Someone will talk.”
“Not you,” he said.
His eyes had remained on me, and I felt uncomfortable beneath their scrutiny. I poured more water into the vat, my eyes stinging at the rise of steam over the lye soap. I would have poured more-it was needed for the starch rinse-but LeMerle took the water jug from me and set it down very softly on the floor.
“Leave me alone.” I made my voice sharp to stop it from trembling. “The laundry won’t wash itself, you know.”
“Then let someone else finish it. I want to talk to you.”
I turned and faced him. “What about?” I said. “What can you possibly want from me that you haven’t already taken?”
LeMerle looked hurt. “Must it always be a question of what I want?”
I laughed. “It always was.”
He was displeased at that, as I knew he would be. His mouth thinned, and a gleam came into his eyes; then he sighed and shook his head. “Oh, Juliette,” he said. “Why so unfriendly? If only you knew how hard it’s been these past few months. All alone, no one to confide in-”
“Tell that to Clémente,” I said tartly.
“I’d rather tell you.”
“You want to tell me something?” I reached for the baton to pound the clothes. “Then tell me where you’re hiding Fleur.”
He gave a soft laugh. “Not that, sweetheart. I’m sorry.”
“You will be,” I told him.
“I mean it, Juliette.” I had removed my wimple to do the laundry, and he brushed the nape of my neck with his fingertips. “I wish I could trust you. There’s nothing I’d like better than to see you and Fleur reunited. As soon as I’ve finished my business here-”
“Finished? When?”
“Soon, I hope. Enclosed spaces do nothing for my constitution.”
I poured another jug of hot water into the vat, sending up a great billow of stinging steam. Then I pounded the laundry some more and wondered what his game was. “It must be important to you,” I said at last. “This business.”
“Must it?” There was a smile in his voice.
“Well, I don’t imagine you’re here just to play practical jokes on a few nuns.”
“You may be right,” said LeMerle.
I took the wooden tongs, fished the linens out of the vat, and dumped them into the starch bath. “Well?” I turned toward him again, tongs in hand. “Why are you here? Why are you doing this?”
He took a step toward me, and to my surprise, on my hot forehead he placed the lightest of kisses. “Your daughter’s at the market,” he said gently. “Don’t you want to see her?”
“No games.” My hand was shaking as I put down the tongs.
“No games, my Ailée. I promise.”
Fleur was waiting for us by the side of the jetty. Although it was market day, there was no sign today of the fish cart or the drab-faced woman. This time there was a man with her, a white-haired man who looked like a farmer, in his flat hat and rough-woven jacket, and a couple of children, both boys, who sat close by. I wondered what had happened to the fishwife: whether Fleur had been staying with her at all, or whether LeMerle had told me the story to put me off the scent. Was this white-haired man my daughter’s keeper? He said nothing to me as I walked up to them and took Fleur in my arms; his milky blue eyes were flat and incurious; from time to time he chewed on a piece of licorice, and his few remaining teeth were stained brown with its juice. Other than that, he gave no sign of movement; for all I knew he might have been a deaf-mute.