mask decay with extra herbs. Perhaps the old woman had lost her sense of smell. There was certainly a lot of sage, a herb best used in moderation in Petra’s opinion, but no one else showed any sign of minding.
Once the soup was served, Solette helped her grandmother to hobble painfully to the empty chair opposite Madame Goulart, then sat beside her sister. When Monsieur Goulart was home the chair at the head of the table would surely belong to him….
“Perhaps you’d offer grace, Sister.”
Madame Goulart’s words pulled Petra away from the half-formed thought. Petra said a brief prayer of thanks for the food and also asked God for blessings on this household, for they surely needed them. Everyone picked up a wooden spoon and began to eat.
Petra filled her spoon and took a mouthful—then had to force herself to swallow it. It must have a bushful of sage in it, and there was definitely an unpleasant taste beneath. She stirred it as the others ate with relish. Truly, local tastes were different.
“Eat, eat!” the old woman croaked, showing a few long, blackened teeth.
Petra looked back at the stew, bracing herself to force it down as penance, but then a whole clove of garlic bobbed up. She remembered an unfortunate sister in the convent. “Oh! Is there garlic in this?”
“Of course there’s garlic,” the crone said. “What’s soup without garlic?”
“Yes, yes, but you see, I can’t eat garlic. It makes me terribly ill.”
“Garlic?” queried Madame Goulart. “How can anyone be made ill by garlic? It’s good food, Sister. Eat.”
That shot out like a command, but Petra put down her spoon, the focus now of unfriendly eyes. She felt bad, but she couldn’t eat the stuff. “Truly,” she assured them, recalling Sister Beata’s sufferings. “It gives me terrible cramps and foul gases. You wouldn’t want me in the house if I ate this.”
After a tense moment, Madame Goulart waved toward the bread and cheese. “Make up with that, Sister.”
Petra thanked her with true sincerity and sliced into the loaf, then cut a wedge of cheese. The bread was coarse and chewy, the cheese pungent, but she had to struggle not to gobble it. When the pear cider came around, she drank deeply and praised that, too.
Perhaps the mood eased, but apart from her thanks, everyone ate in silence. It was clearly their normal way, and in the convent meals had been silent, but Petra found herself longing to speak. She wasn’t sure how long the family might sit here in silence, but once she’d eaten her fill, she used the soup as escape.
“Please excuse me. Even so little garlic has stirred my insides. I will retire to my room.”
Madame Goulart’s face was stony, but she said, “The privy’s in the yard, but the mud’s bad. Jizzy, give the holy sister a bowl.”
Jizzy took a mixing bowl off a shelf and thrust it into Petra’s hands. Petra thanked her, said, “Good night, and blessings upon you all,” and escaped.
Probably they were as pleased to see her go as she was to leave.
Once through the curtain, Petra realized that she had no light, but she didn’t want to return. The clouds must have cleared a little, for some moonlight enabled her to make her way past the bed to her dirty cubicle. Who slept where? Monsieur and Madame Goulart in the big bed, the grandmother and girls in the cells? Perhaps there were sons.
She put the bowl down on the floor and sighed, going again to the window. The moon lightened the scene a little, but the night air was damp. She wouldn’t look toward the warmth again. The rake would only take it as encouragement.
How long must her strength last? Perhaps only one day. She had studied maps, and though Lady Sodworth would have taken two days from Abbeville to Boulogne, it was possible in one day if they left early and traveled long. The packet ship to England would leave in the evening. She could be in England on the day after tomorrow, if God would for once be kind. Then she had
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