gather once again as she rocked back and forth on the white wicker chair. After a few minutes, Lise brushed a mosquito off her arm then crossed one knee over the other and smoothed her skirt.
“Henri has had an affair. It doesn’t matter with whom. One of my friends—an acquaintance, really—told me about it several months ago. At first, I didn’t believe her, but as the weeks passed, whenever we were in this woman’s company—the woman Henri had supposedly taken for a lover—he behaved differently. He stood straighter, gestured more, smiled at her. Occasionally, he rested a hand on her arm or shoulder. Once I saw him brush past her in the hall and squeeze her hand. That’s when I knew.
“After Henri announced that he wanted us to go to Beaufort, I accused him of sending us away so her could be with her. I called him names and tried to slap his face.” Lise paused to clear her throat. “Is there any more tea?” she asked.
“Of course. But I don’t think it’s very hot.”
“Doesn’t matter.” She held out her cup and continued to talk while Mariele poured. “The day we arrived in Beaufort, he admitted to the affair and said it was over. I didn’t believe him. I don’t know what to believe anymore.” Lise swallowed a mouthful of tea then attempted to smile, but it was more like a grimace.
“Beyond that, I’m worried about Guy, of course. If Henri is right, Guy could soon be in danger. And we’re stuck in this little town away from everyone and everything we know. I’m lonely and angry. Nothing in my life is stable or dependable. Nothing.” Lise’s voice, which at first had been soft and mournful, was now biting and brittle.
Mariele took Lise’s hands. “My dear, you’ve been carrying such a large burden. I’d like to help, if you’ll let me.”
Lise dropped her head. Mariele continued to hold her hands, and in a soft voice that was little more than a whisper, spoke of her own marriage: troubling times as she adjusted to living with Bertrand, a man she barely knew, their early life together, the frantic times with young children when it seemed she was always pregnant. “Even my toes were fat,” she said. Mariele told Lise about living through war and her brother’s death, about two miscarriages and the loss of her mother and father within weeks of one another.
“Bertrand was at my side, helping me through all those trag edies.”
Should I disclose the rest? she wondered. If I do, Henri might find out. Mariele considered whether loyalty to her husband should outweigh the needs of her daughter-in-law. She took a deep breath.
“My husband had two affairs that I know of. Both hurt me very much. At the time, I told myself he would always come back to me. You see, I was convinced he needed me. And he always did. He told me once—I suppose he was about fifty at the time—that the other women were never serious, more of a diversion. I don’t know if he thought that would make me feel better, but that’s what he said. Despite our trials, I loved Henri’s father. A nd not a day goes by without missing him, wanting to tell him something, wanting the reassurance of his love.”
Mariele turned to face her daughter-in-law. The look of asto nishment on Lise’s face almost made her laugh.
“Maman Noisette, you have surprised me more than I can say, and I’m very grateful for these confidences. But I still don’t know what to do, and I’m so angry with Henri.”
“Anger is like a prison, Lise, and you are the prisoner. I know you’re strong enough to forgive him. He will know you love him, if you do.”
Chapter 8
June 1914
Lise felt like a trapped animal in a shrinking cage. Each important aspect of her life—love, marriage, family, security—was threatened by circumstances beyond her control, and she alternated between anger and despair. It was well past midnight and she had yet to begin her nightly ritual. Instead, she sat on her reading chair as if confined by invisible
“Henri has had an affair. It doesn’t matter with whom. One of my friends—an acquaintance, really—told me about it several months ago. At first, I didn’t believe her, but as the weeks passed, whenever we were in this woman’s company—the woman Henri had supposedly taken for a lover—he behaved differently. He stood straighter, gestured more, smiled at her. Occasionally, he rested a hand on her arm or shoulder. Once I saw him brush past her in the hall and squeeze her hand. That’s when I knew.
“After Henri announced that he wanted us to go to Beaufort, I accused him of sending us away so her could be with her. I called him names and tried to slap his face.” Lise paused to clear her throat. “Is there any more tea?” she asked.
“Of course. But I don’t think it’s very hot.”
“Doesn’t matter.” She held out her cup and continued to talk while Mariele poured. “The day we arrived in Beaufort, he admitted to the affair and said it was over. I didn’t believe him. I don’t know what to believe anymore.” Lise swallowed a mouthful of tea then attempted to smile, but it was more like a grimace.
“Beyond that, I’m worried about Guy, of course. If Henri is right, Guy could soon be in danger. And we’re stuck in this little town away from everyone and everything we know. I’m lonely and angry. Nothing in my life is stable or dependable. Nothing.” Lise’s voice, which at first had been soft and mournful, was now biting and brittle.
Mariele took Lise’s hands. “My dear, you’ve been carrying such a large burden. I’d like to help, if you’ll let me.”
Lise dropped her head. Mariele continued to hold her hands, and in a soft voice that was little more than a whisper, spoke of her own marriage: troubling times as she adjusted to living with Bertrand, a man she barely knew, their early life together, the frantic times with young children when it seemed she was always pregnant. “Even my toes were fat,” she said. Mariele told Lise about living through war and her brother’s death, about two miscarriages and the loss of her mother and father within weeks of one another.
“Bertrand was at my side, helping me through all those trag edies.”
Should I disclose the rest? she wondered. If I do, Henri might find out. Mariele considered whether loyalty to her husband should outweigh the needs of her daughter-in-law. She took a deep breath.
“My husband had two affairs that I know of. Both hurt me very much. At the time, I told myself he would always come back to me. You see, I was convinced he needed me. And he always did. He told me once—I suppose he was about fifty at the time—that the other women were never serious, more of a diversion. I don’t know if he thought that would make me feel better, but that’s what he said. Despite our trials, I loved Henri’s father. A nd not a day goes by without missing him, wanting to tell him something, wanting the reassurance of his love.”
Mariele turned to face her daughter-in-law. The look of asto nishment on Lise’s face almost made her laugh.
“Maman Noisette, you have surprised me more than I can say, and I’m very grateful for these confidences. But I still don’t know what to do, and I’m so angry with Henri.”
“Anger is like a prison, Lise, and you are the prisoner. I know you’re strong enough to forgive him. He will know you love him, if you do.”
Chapter 8
June 1914
Lise felt like a trapped animal in a shrinking cage. Each important aspect of her life—love, marriage, family, security—was threatened by circumstances beyond her control, and she alternated between anger and despair. It was well past midnight and she had yet to begin her nightly ritual. Instead, she sat on her reading chair as if confined by invisible
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