Read Online Petty Treason by Madeleine E. Robins - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Madeleine E. Robins
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not without giving Miss Tolerance a look of some disapproval. Again they were conducted to the room at the rear of the house, and Beak went to apprise the mistress of their visit.
In a few moments Anne d’Aubigny appeared at the door.
While brother and sister exclaimed over each other and embraced, Miss Tolerance observed the widow. She was a full head shorter than Miss Tolerance, fair and fine-boned. She lacked her brother’s sturdy country manner and ruddy complexion, and might readily have been imagined the sister of the china figure on the table. The inky mourning she wore made the widow’s skin look as sickish-white as parchment, and her eyes were pink as a rabbit’s, presumably from crying. Miss Tolerance rose and curtsied.
“You called here yesterday,” Mrs. d’Aubigny said. Hers was the first voice Miss Tolerance had heard the day before: tremulous and softly reproachful. Whom was she reproaching? “William?” The widow looked to Mr. Colcannon.
“Anne, may I present Miss Sarah Tolerance?”
Mrs. d’Aubigny bowed her head in a tiny acknowledgment, then turned to her brother and murmured something to him. From the rigidity of her carriage and Colcannon’s red face, Miss
Tolerance thought Mrs. d’Aubigny was not pleased to find a Fallen Woman in her parlor.
Colcannon replied audibly. “I did not think of that, but indeed, it is exactly as she represented the matter yesterday. I am sorry if you dislike it, but I entreat you to speak with her. I think only of your safety—”
Miss Tolerance took pity on Colcannon’s embarrassment.
“If I might speak a few words with you privately, I believe I can satisfy you as to my qualifications, ma’am. But I will first assure you that, whatever my status, I am not one of that professional sisterhood with whom I apprehend your husband was very familiar.”
Anne d’Aubigny looked shocked. Miss Tolerance felt a moment of impatience, but kept her own expression studiously neutral. She waited. Mrs. d’Aubigny thought, then turned to her brother and said, “Willie, go away.”
Colcannon left the room.
Mrs. d’Aubigny did not ask Miss Tolerance to sit. She stood just inside the door as if ready to run, waiting for an explanation she clearly did not believe would improve her opinion.
“You have a natural dislike of contact with that which is impure,” Miss Tolerance began, “perhaps made greater by what your brother tells me was your husband’s behavior. You must make up your mind to trust me, but I will tell you that, while I am indeed Fallen, I have never been a whore.” Anne d’Aubigny flinched at the word. Miss Tolerance continued. “Indeed, I took up my profession to avoid being handed from man to man. I made what the world calls a mistake in whom I loved, ma’am. Perhaps I am wrong, but I imagine that mistake is one which might be familiar to you.”
The widow twisted a handkerchief between her fingers. “What the world calls a mistake? You do not call it so?”
Miss Tolerance shrugged. “I know all the evils that attend a woman who has cast aside propriety for love. But there are many a man and woman joined by vows who have been less man and wife than … my seducer … and I.”
“And yet you did not marry him.”
“No, ma’am.”
Anne d’Aubigny’s frown deepened. “He had a wife?”
It was perhaps unreasonable of Miss Tolerance to resent this question. “I was not so lost to principle as that, even at sixteen! We eloped to the Continent, and marriage of a pair of English Protestants would have been difficult. But he was Catholic, which made the matter more complex, particularly because I did not want to be wed in the Catholic rite. It was the one quarrel we did not resolve before he died.” The crux of the widow’s objection occurred to her. “I can promise that I was not flaunted before a wife; I did to no woman what was done to you.”
Mrs. d’Aubigny moved to the sofa and sat down. Tears stood in her eyes, and she
In a few moments Anne d’Aubigny appeared at the door.
While brother and sister exclaimed over each other and embraced, Miss Tolerance observed the widow. She was a full head shorter than Miss Tolerance, fair and fine-boned. She lacked her brother’s sturdy country manner and ruddy complexion, and might readily have been imagined the sister of the china figure on the table. The inky mourning she wore made the widow’s skin look as sickish-white as parchment, and her eyes were pink as a rabbit’s, presumably from crying. Miss Tolerance rose and curtsied.
“You called here yesterday,” Mrs. d’Aubigny said. Hers was the first voice Miss Tolerance had heard the day before: tremulous and softly reproachful. Whom was she reproaching? “William?” The widow looked to Mr. Colcannon.
“Anne, may I present Miss Sarah Tolerance?”
Mrs. d’Aubigny bowed her head in a tiny acknowledgment, then turned to her brother and murmured something to him. From the rigidity of her carriage and Colcannon’s red face, Miss
Tolerance thought Mrs. d’Aubigny was not pleased to find a Fallen Woman in her parlor.
Colcannon replied audibly. “I did not think of that, but indeed, it is exactly as she represented the matter yesterday. I am sorry if you dislike it, but I entreat you to speak with her. I think only of your safety—”
Miss Tolerance took pity on Colcannon’s embarrassment.
“If I might speak a few words with you privately, I believe I can satisfy you as to my qualifications, ma’am. But I will first assure you that, whatever my status, I am not one of that professional sisterhood with whom I apprehend your husband was very familiar.”
Anne d’Aubigny looked shocked. Miss Tolerance felt a moment of impatience, but kept her own expression studiously neutral. She waited. Mrs. d’Aubigny thought, then turned to her brother and said, “Willie, go away.”
Colcannon left the room.
Mrs. d’Aubigny did not ask Miss Tolerance to sit. She stood just inside the door as if ready to run, waiting for an explanation she clearly did not believe would improve her opinion.
“You have a natural dislike of contact with that which is impure,” Miss Tolerance began, “perhaps made greater by what your brother tells me was your husband’s behavior. You must make up your mind to trust me, but I will tell you that, while I am indeed Fallen, I have never been a whore.” Anne d’Aubigny flinched at the word. Miss Tolerance continued. “Indeed, I took up my profession to avoid being handed from man to man. I made what the world calls a mistake in whom I loved, ma’am. Perhaps I am wrong, but I imagine that mistake is one which might be familiar to you.”
The widow twisted a handkerchief between her fingers. “What the world calls a mistake? You do not call it so?”
Miss Tolerance shrugged. “I know all the evils that attend a woman who has cast aside propriety for love. But there are many a man and woman joined by vows who have been less man and wife than … my seducer … and I.”
“And yet you did not marry him.”
“No, ma’am.”
Anne d’Aubigny’s frown deepened. “He had a wife?”
It was perhaps unreasonable of Miss Tolerance to resent this question. “I was not so lost to principle as that, even at sixteen! We eloped to the Continent, and marriage of a pair of English Protestants would have been difficult. But he was Catholic, which made the matter more complex, particularly because I did not want to be wed in the Catholic rite. It was the one quarrel we did not resolve before he died.” The crux of the widow’s objection occurred to her. “I can promise that I was not flaunted before a wife; I did to no woman what was done to you.”
Mrs. d’Aubigny moved to the sofa and sat down. Tears stood in her eyes, and she
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