The journey had indeed been exhausting and it was good that we had taken it when we did. A few weeks later and it would have been very trying for Margot.
Madame Gremond turned out to be the most discreet of women and I was to wonder, during the next few months, whether she was aware of the truth. She was a handsome woman and in her youth must have been extremely attractive. She must now be in her mid-forties and the thought occurred to me that she might be doing what she was for an old friend the Comte, of course. K I was right, she was a woman whom he would trust; and of course the thought had occurred to me that she might well have been one of the numerous mistresses I was sure he had had.
The house was pleasant not large, but set in a garden and approached by a drive. Although it was in the town it seemed isolated because of the trees which surrounded it.
Margot and I were given rooms side by side at the back of the house overlooking the gardens. These rooms, though not luxurious, were adequately furnished. There were two maids in the house Jeanne and Emilie Dupont, whose duty it was to wait on us. Jeanne was inclined to be talkative, while Emilie was almost morose and scarcely said a word unless she was spoken to. Jeanne was very interested in us; her little dark eyes were like a monkey’s, I thought alive with curiosity. She hovered about Margot, fussing over her, so eager was she for her comfort. Margot, who loved to be the centre of attention, soon grew quite fond of her. I would often find them chattering together.
“Be careful,” I warned.
“You could easily betray something.”
“I shall betray nothing,” she protested.
“Do you know, sometimes I awake in the night and almost weep for poor Pierre, which shows you how deep I am in my part. It really does seem that he was my husband.”
“I expect he looks rather like James Wedder.”
“Exactly. I thought that was the best way to play it … as near to the truth as possible. After all, James is the baby’s father and I did lose him suddenly-only by a different method.”
“Quite a different kind of exit,” I commented wryly. But I was pleased to see how she was recovering from the first shock of her experience.
Now she was gay, actually revelling in the situation, which would have been difficult to understand if one had not been aware of Margot’s temperament.
She had one characteristic which was a help to her. She could live completely in the present, no matter how threatening the future might seem. I confess there were times when I was influenced by her and when what was happening seemed like a merry adventure instead of the serious matter it was.
The weather was perfect. All through June we enjoyed the sunshine. We would sit under the sycamore tree and talk as we sewed. We took a great delight in making baby garments though neither of us, I must admit, were exactly geniuses with our needles; and Margot would often tire of a garment before she had finished it. Emilie, it seemed, was an expert needle-woman and more than once she came to the rescue and finished off some little thing, decorating it with the most exquisite feather-stitching, at which she excelled. She would take the garment away and we would find it finished and neatly folded in one of our rooms. When we thanked her she would seem quite embarrassed. I found communication with her very difficult.
“It’s due to Jeanne’s being so much prettier,” Margot told me.
“Poor Emilie, she’s scarcely a beauty, is she?” I “She’s a good worker.”
“Maybe, but will that get her a husband? Jeanne plans to marry Gaston the gardener in due course. She told me all about it. Madame Gremond has promised them one of the outhouses which they can turn into a cottage. Gaston is clever with his hands.”
Again I repeated my warning: “Do you think you gossip too much with Jeanne?”
“Why should I not talk to her? It passes the time.”
“We shall have Madame Gremond complaining that she chats with you instead of working.”
“Madame Gremond is anxious to make us comfortable, I think.”
“I wonder why we have been sent to her.”
My father arranged it. “
“Do you think she is or might have been a friend of his?”
Margot lifted her shoulders.
“That may be. He has many friends.”
I used to wake to the sunshine in the morning and pull up the blinds which were at all the windows, for the sun could be fierce. I would look out on to the garden, the smooth lawn, the wicker seats under the sycamore tree, the pond in which the birds bathed. It was a scene of utter peace.
During the first weeks we often took a walk through the town where we would shop for what we wanted. We became known as Madame Ie Brun, the very young widow who had suffered a great tragedy-when she had lost the husband who would never see his child, and the English cousin. I knew they gossiped about us; sometimes they would barely wait for us to leave the shop. Of course, our coming was an event in the quietness of Petit Montlys, and I sometimes doubted the Comte’s wisdom in sending us here. Whereas we might have been lost in a larger town, here we were the focus of attention.
Sometimes we did a little shopping for Madame Gremond, and I enjoyed buying the hot loaves which came straight from the glowing oven set in the wall. The baker drew them out with his long tongs and displayed them for us to select those which most appealed to us. Slack baked, well baked, medium baked, you took your choice. And what delicious bread it was!
Then we would stroll through the market which took place every Wednesday, and on those days the peasants would come in from the surrounding country, their produce laden on donkeys, and set up in the market square. The housewives of Petit Montlys drove a hard bargain with them and I liked to listen to the haggling. We so much enjoyed the market that we asked Madame Gremond to let us shop for her there too. Sometimes Jeanne or Emilie would come with us because she said the peasants put up prices when they saw the sad widow and her English cousin.
By the end of June we both felt that we had been in Petit Montlys for months. Sometimes the strangeness of it all would strike me, for my life had changed so drastically. Only this time last year my mother had been alive and I had had no idea that I would ever do anything but continue with the teaching career she had planned for me.
Each day seemed very like the last and there was nothing like this peaceful pleasant monotony to make the time slip by unheeded.
Margot’s condition was now noticeable. We made full, loose garments for her and she would laugh at her reflection.
“Who would ever have believed could look like this?”
"Who would have believed you could have allowed yourself to,” I countered. Trust the prim and proper English cousin to point that out. Oh, Minelle, I do love you, you know. I love that astringent, way of yours . taking me down when I need it. It has not the slightest effect on me but I love it.”
“Margot,” I said, ‘sometimes I think you should be a little more serious. ”
Her face puckered suddenly.
“No, please don’t ask me to. It’s the baby, Minelle. Now that it’s moving, it seems to be real. It seems to be alive. “
It is real. It is alive. It always has been. ”
I know. But now it’s a person. What will happen when it’s born? “
“Your father explained. It will be sent away. It will have a foster mother.”
“And I shall never see it again.”
“You know that is what is intended.”
“It seemed an easy solution then, but lately … Well Minelle, I’m beginning to want it … to love it ” You will have to be brave, Margot. “
“I know.”
She said no more but I could see she was brooding. My feather-brained little Margot was realizing that she was about to become a mother. I was anxious and in a way would have preferred her to behave in her feather-brained, inconsequential manner, for if she were going to grieve for the child she would be very unhappy.