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Authors: Sandra Gulland
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mother’s powdered cheeks. She smelled sweetly of vanilla.
“You still walk with a limp,” Françoise observed. “What about that surgeon who uses pulleys and weights? I paid him to pull you straight.”
Sister Angélique looked chagrined. “The sessions were painful, Françoise. The girl could not bear it—”
“Is this true, Louise?”
Petite took the slateboard attached by a rope to her waist and began to write out an answer.
Françoise turned to the nuns. “My daughter’s still not speaking? I paid a small fortune for special Masses.”
“But only once a month,” the Prioress observed, hooking her cane on the grille. “Once a week is more effective, as I previously advised you.”
“This convent is not to get a sou more out of me. My daughter is coming home.”
Petite looked up in alarm.
“But—” Sister Angélique pressed her hands over her mouth.
“You see”—Françoise smiled as she pulled up her lace gloves—“there has been a change of plans. I’ve accepted a proposal of marriage—from a marquis. ”
Chapter Six
I T WAS NOISY on the street outside the convent. Cart and carriage wheels grated on the icy cobblestones. A hawker with a deep voice called out, selling meat pies and oatcakes. Three snarling dogs encircled a goat as a milking maid tried to beat them off with a stick. Two chimney sweeps stood by laughing. Petite looked for the sun, but it was blocked by tall houses.
“Come along, Louise,” Françoise said as a man handed her into the hired carriage.
Petite climbed up and wiped the seat before sitting down beside her mother. She turned up the torn leather window-covering and looked back at the gateway to the convent. There, behind the decorative ironwork cherubs, stood her aunt. The carriage jolted forward. Petite pressed her hands against her heart.
As they headed north, the sun cast long shadows over the glittering winter fields. Petite squinted against the glare. She recognized some of the landmarks—a tower windmill, a graveyard—yet they seemed foreign to her now. She hadn’t been out of the convent for four years.
“He’s César de Courtarvel, Marquis de Saint-Rémy,” her mother told her, positioning her feet on the foot-warmer, “chief steward to the Duc d’Orléans at the château at Blois.”
Petite didn’t know what to make of this information. Blois was some distance away, yet she knew it was good for her mother to marry a titled gentleman. Her father had tried to become a marquis, but had failed. Now her mother would no longer be addressed familiarly as “mademoiselle,” no longer suffer the disrespect of being married to an untitled man.
“He’s an older gentleman, a widower himself. He will be a good father for you and Jean.”
Petite looked out the carriage window. Three heavy horses stood against the wind. One was a black, like old Hongre. She recalled riding behind her father as he went about his doctoring. She remembered leaning her cheek against the cold leather of his doublet, singing hymns in harmony with him as they ambled down the laneways. She didn’t want another father.
“He might even be able to get Jean a position through his contacts at Court.”
Her brother needed a father to help him make his way in theworld, Petite knew, and she also understood that her mother couldn’t live alone. Only witches and women of another sort lived without the protection of a husband or father.
“We’ll be moving to Blois after the ceremony. I’ll have you fitted for a proper gown. I need to find you a personal maid to keep you tidy and well turned-out. I’m sure the Marquis will be able to get you a position as waiting maid to one of the princesses. A good maid is silent, so one who doesn’t talk at all might be considered advantageous.” Françoise patted Petite’s knee. “And who knows? Maybe he will even be able to find a husband for you some day.”
They passed through the village and crossed the narrow bridge. The lower
“You still walk with a limp,” Françoise observed. “What about that surgeon who uses pulleys and weights? I paid him to pull you straight.”
Sister Angélique looked chagrined. “The sessions were painful, Françoise. The girl could not bear it—”
“Is this true, Louise?”
Petite took the slateboard attached by a rope to her waist and began to write out an answer.
Françoise turned to the nuns. “My daughter’s still not speaking? I paid a small fortune for special Masses.”
“But only once a month,” the Prioress observed, hooking her cane on the grille. “Once a week is more effective, as I previously advised you.”
“This convent is not to get a sou more out of me. My daughter is coming home.”
Petite looked up in alarm.
“But—” Sister Angélique pressed her hands over her mouth.
“You see”—Françoise smiled as she pulled up her lace gloves—“there has been a change of plans. I’ve accepted a proposal of marriage—from a marquis. ”
Chapter Six
I T WAS NOISY on the street outside the convent. Cart and carriage wheels grated on the icy cobblestones. A hawker with a deep voice called out, selling meat pies and oatcakes. Three snarling dogs encircled a goat as a milking maid tried to beat them off with a stick. Two chimney sweeps stood by laughing. Petite looked for the sun, but it was blocked by tall houses.
“Come along, Louise,” Françoise said as a man handed her into the hired carriage.
Petite climbed up and wiped the seat before sitting down beside her mother. She turned up the torn leather window-covering and looked back at the gateway to the convent. There, behind the decorative ironwork cherubs, stood her aunt. The carriage jolted forward. Petite pressed her hands against her heart.
As they headed north, the sun cast long shadows over the glittering winter fields. Petite squinted against the glare. She recognized some of the landmarks—a tower windmill, a graveyard—yet they seemed foreign to her now. She hadn’t been out of the convent for four years.
“He’s César de Courtarvel, Marquis de Saint-Rémy,” her mother told her, positioning her feet on the foot-warmer, “chief steward to the Duc d’Orléans at the château at Blois.”
Petite didn’t know what to make of this information. Blois was some distance away, yet she knew it was good for her mother to marry a titled gentleman. Her father had tried to become a marquis, but had failed. Now her mother would no longer be addressed familiarly as “mademoiselle,” no longer suffer the disrespect of being married to an untitled man.
“He’s an older gentleman, a widower himself. He will be a good father for you and Jean.”
Petite looked out the carriage window. Three heavy horses stood against the wind. One was a black, like old Hongre. She recalled riding behind her father as he went about his doctoring. She remembered leaning her cheek against the cold leather of his doublet, singing hymns in harmony with him as they ambled down the laneways. She didn’t want another father.
“He might even be able to get Jean a position through his contacts at Court.”
Her brother needed a father to help him make his way in theworld, Petite knew, and she also understood that her mother couldn’t live alone. Only witches and women of another sort lived without the protection of a husband or father.
“We’ll be moving to Blois after the ceremony. I’ll have you fitted for a proper gown. I need to find you a personal maid to keep you tidy and well turned-out. I’m sure the Marquis will be able to get you a position as waiting maid to one of the princesses. A good maid is silent, so one who doesn’t talk at all might be considered advantageous.” Françoise patted Petite’s knee. “And who knows? Maybe he will even be able to find a husband for you some day.”
They passed through the village and crossed the narrow bridge. The lower
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