An Ignorance of Means Read online

  An Ignorance of Means

  By

  Jennifer Oakley Denslow

  Copyright 2018 by Jennifer Oakley Denslow

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

  This e-book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. No part of this book may be reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping, or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission from the author except in brief quotations embedded in reviews.

  This is a work of fiction. The names, characters, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination. Any resemblance to persons living or dead is coincidental.

  For Keith, who brings me stories.

  CONTENTS

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  Acknowledgements

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  CHAPTER ONE

  Catherine stood with cupped hands, holding back her breath and tears. She had managed to catch the pearls as the necklace gave way. The precious orbs glowed in the flickering candlelight, but there was no way to count them to make sure none had been lost.

  "Maman! Look quick! I may not have caught them all!" Catherine's voice cracked with tension.

  "I'm sure you caught the better part of them," Mathilde said. She sat in a chair padded with a down comforter and several pillows. Her gaunt frame was wrapped in a simple, warm woolen dress whose dark blue complemented her gray hair. "They are just beads, my dear."

  "But you said they are important to you."

  "Yes, your father gave me those pearls on our first anniversary. He was still sailing then and brought them back from an Asian port." Mathilde's face softened as she recounted the pearls' origin story. "He told me he had seen my face in them. I wanted you to wear them since today is your wedding day. If they bring you the happiness your father and I have known, it will be a blessing."

  The tale that made Mathilde melt with nostalgia only made Catherine more tense, but she relaxed as her mother continued.

  "Even if we cannot mend them, we will take the wish for the deed."

  "The string has broken. How can I wear them now?"

  "Fetch that little dish on the bureau and dump the pearls in your hands there and then we'll see if any escaped."

  "I have always imagined this necklace around my neck on my wedding day," Catherine said, looking at the pile of pearls filling her hands.

  "You will not solve our problem by talking about how terrible it is. Attend to the pearls, not your misfortune."

  "The pearls breaking is my misfortune," Catherine said under her breath, but her mother's hearing was sharp.

  "And nothing good will come of whining about it. We must act or they'll have to hold the ceremony."

  The sound of carriages on the cobblestones outside were another reminder of the people gathering for the wedding.

  Catherine nodded in response and moved to the heavy wooden chest of drawers and then turned back to scan the floor for any errant beads. Her hair was the golden brown of the honey from the hives behind the house, and her eyes an odd grayish green. In the candlelight, her skin glowed like the skin of a DaVinci Madonna, and in direct sun it was clear and unlined. In her search, she furrowed her brow, and the lines she created enhanced her likeness to her mother.

  "Do you see any escapees?" Mathilde asked. Conserving her words meant conserving her breath, a practice essential everyday because of her waning health, and necessary in the moment, Catherine knew, because of the lack of time.

  "No, I think I may have caught them all." Catherine looked up at her mother and smiled, but her forehead remained wrinkled.

  "I am sure you did. Now find a length of string in the top drawer there and the thinnest needle you can thread." The two women bent to the task until the younger stood before the mirror in the entirety of her bridal costume.

  "The pearls are lovely, but I wonder if it was a bad omen that the string broke this morning."

  "Now they are mended, and we have no time to talk of omens. Don't seek the dark shadows on such a sunny day."

  "Thank you, Maman." Catherine hugged her mother carefully, so as not to crumple the ivory taffeta wedding dress. Pulling back, she saw how closely her mother's pale complexion mirrored the hue of the gown. "Do you feel well? You might have a little rest before we begin."

  "I am not too fragile to enjoy your special day. Come, let me untangle that bow on the back of your dress. A lady's maid might have been useful."

  "But extravagant. Robert will be able to give me some fine things, and the servants to care for them, but at times I think such help will be more trouble than it is worth." Catherine screwed the posts of the drop earrings onto her ears and patted her hair in place.

  "Emilie has been a wonderful part of our family."

  "Yes, the people who have helped you run our little house and raise me have been family." Catherine thought about the best way to phrase her instincts about the difference between the house she grew up in and the house of which she was soon to be made mistress. "In Robert's house, I think this might not be true. Emilie tucked me into bed as sweetly as you might have, Maman. And Jean-Louis has been a merry soul to be around, no matter if he was cleaning trout or cleaning the eaves. The people at Robert's family seat were not so merry and they seemed to be perpetually bowing, even when they were standing at attention."

  "The word for that is 'subservient' and our own dear helpers do not know it because we look on them as helpmeets and not slaves," Mathilde sniffed.

  "I will make friends with them, Maman."

  "I believe you will find the help in managing the Picard estate invaluable. His home is much larger than the one you are leaving. When you say such things, I am reminded that you have your father's egalitarian sensibilities, dear."

  Catherine adored her father. A sailor who had become a merchant. A businessman who wasted hours on the Latin and Greek books that lined his study, crowding out the account books. A stern, robust man whose Germanic face lit up at the sight of his French wife or their tiny daughter. All these contradictions fascinated Catherine as she grew up in the clean, modest house her father had provided for their family.

  Only one time in her life had he done anything to hurt her. She had been only about seven years old, and her father had called her into the dark, paneled study where he worked. He studied her seriously as she stood before him. A wild shock of steely gray hair stood out from his head and his mustache and beard made a bushy halo around his unlined but ruddy face. The gray eyes were kind, but in such close scrutiny Catherine felt their intensity." Maeuschen, I have always regretted that you were not the son I had hoped fo
r." Her father's words made her face crumple, but he continued. "However, I would not risk your mother's life for a foolish wish of mine. And I will not waste your fine mind. You like your dolls, Liebling?"

  She only nodded.

  "You like Poppa's books as well, ja?"

  He must have discovered the little detours she made into the study to run her fingers over the spines of his collection, or seen her breathing deeply of the fine, earthy smell of the well-cared-for leather. Again, she only nodded.

  "This is gut, then. I will let you study those books a little every day. I will be schoolmaster and you will be student. There are many things you can learn, and you will find it almost like a little candy store for your mind. Does that make you happy, my dear?"

  "Yes, Poppa," she grinned as she threw herself into his lap for a bear hug.

  He had kept his promise, and fed her a diet of language and mathematics and the philosophical writings of the ancients. At times, she thought he might doubt the wisdom of stuffing a young girl's head with such learning, but he continued to lay out the banquet for her, and she continued to feast on all he offered.

  Many times upon his return from sea, before he had become a merchant and opened his own little store, Catherine would greet him and then be sent to her room with some little toy he had found for her while he was away. If she sneaked back down to find her Poppa, she would find him kneeling by her mother's bed. Mathilde's milky white arms, hardly a shade pinker than the crisp sheets, would cradle his golden head that was only then beginning to tarnish into the steely gray curls Catherine would became more familiar with as she grew older. The two of them looked to be carved out of the same piece of marble, and while they were not silent like a statue, their voices were too low to hear. Catherine would move back from the scene and go back to her room until her parents called her.

  Her parents' love had been an excellent model, she felt. She didn't know how her father had met and married her mother. She always wondered, but hesitated to inquire about such a private matter. Catherine herself had met the man she was marrying very publically, at a dinner her parents had hosted less than a year before. Her parents welcomed business associates of her father's to the table for many dinners, and Catherine would sometimes join the little parties as she grew older.

  On the evening she had met her fiancé, the candles on the table were reflected in the many mirrors lining the walls, enlarging the modest dining room. The warm scent of roast chicken and the earthy aroma of a pate de foie gras had filled the little room, and honey-colored wine sparkled in the round-bellied glasses at each place as Gerhard signaled to Jean Louis to pour for each guest. When Jean-Louis, their man of all work, reached Catherine, he poured just a tiny sip and winked at her. The small taste of wine she imbibed at the toast made her face turn warm. So did the glance from the man sitting at her father's right hand.

  "Herr Drummond," the man was saying as she glanced at him early in the meal, "I hesitate to bring matters of the field to this beautiful table, but your dogs may be the finest hunting dogs one could hope to find in France."

  "That is not a recommendation, Picard. The people in France are not hunters. An Englishman might be interested in such dogs, but not me and not my adopted countrymen." Gerhard's eyes crinkled in amusement at the thought of following dogs around the countryside for a chance to shoot at a wild animal. He bought his meat at the butcher, and had no desire to decorate his study with the disembodied heads meant to serve as trophies.

  "That is my intention, sir. I plan to introduce them to the good people of England or maybe to the newest hunters across the Atlantic in America. Someone must appreciate these hounds' fine form!" The man's hawk-like profile softened as he talked about those hounds. For a moment Catherine saw a tanned, rumpled little boy where sat the carefully groomed man.

  Her mother had told her a little about the man as the two of them dressed for dinner. "Robert Picard," she said, "Is a man of a distinguished family. He has some business with your father. An importer, I think, but I can't remember what it is he's brought your father to sell in the store. Something successful, I'm sure."

  "And his wife?"

  "No, he is not married. He is still very young. Twenty or so, I suppose. He has a few years on you, my dear." Mathilde pinched her daughter's already rosy cheeks. "But much younger than your father. Picard should be an engaging conversationalist. He has apparently traveled quite widely."

  That night, Mathilde had gilded herself with some face powder and lip paint. Both of these products she refused Catherine, so the young lady that found herself staring at the man with the hound obsession was bare-faced, and her expression was wide-eyed and curious. Many women at the dinner attracted Picard's perusal, and Catherine spent much of the night wavering between longing for and dreading his attention.

  After dinner, as the men and women separated to go to their post-prandial amusements, Picard approached her and whispered in her ear.

  "Cherie, perhaps you appreciate fine hounds? You do not think my interest is silly? I saw you listening to the conversation I had with your father."

  Flustered by his brazen approach and proximity, she stuttered out a defense. "I have no particular interest in hounds."

  Picard nodded to her as he turned and followed the other men into the parlor. Catherine blushed, and only the sharp call of her mother made her turn and join the ladies. If she had not heard her mother's voice, she might have stayed rooted to the spot, Picard's masculine scent crowding her dizzy brain along with the smoky timbre of his voice.

  Such confusion marked the entire courtship between Catherine and Robert. Catherine was still shy enough to be flustered at the man's attentions, but excited in a way she couldn't explain, even to her mother.

  "It was like there was a little flame burning inside me," she said one evening as the two women sat together, engaged in needlework. "And when he spoke to me, it flared up, blue and quivering. And then when he went away, the little fire still burned, but without him in the same room, it was small, red, and trembling."

  "This feeling, this flame...does it make you happy?" Mathilde asked Catherine.

  "No, it makes me miserable!" Catherine threw down the embroidery she held in her hands and leaned forward in an uncharacteristically awkward way, her elbows on her knees. "I cannot eat half the time because the little flame makes me queasy, and when the big flame is burning, I am tongue tied and can't hold a sensible conversation. Robert wants more than a friendship."

  "Yes, your father and I have talked to him about that. This sensation you describe—it means you feel something for him. Maybe his interest is the kindling that feeds this conflagration. How do you feel about the idea of being his wife?" Mathilde tried to look into her daughter's eyes, but Catherine turned away, hiding her face, and her response was in a small, quiet voice.

  "I do not know how he would treat me. I envy the bond you and Poppa have, but it is small and friendly compared to the passion I can feel bubbling up between Robert and me. And passion isn't an everyday thing. What would daily life with him be like?"

  "You make much more sense than most girls your age. You are right. Passion is not an everyday thing." Mathilde paused. "Ask yourself, how does he treat his mother? This passion you feel is one thing. How would he treat you if there was no passion, if you were a friend, or a sister? If he treats his mother well, he will probably treat other women with respect."

  Catherine had seen a tender regard from Robert for his mother, Berdine.

  "If you want to know how he will treat you, look to how he treats his mother," Mathilde repeated.

  Now, on her wedding day, standing before the mirror in what once was her sleeping room and was now her bridal bower, Catherine remembered those words. As hard as it was going to be to leave her parents, going to Robert's house would be a wonderful transition. While her parents' company was precious, a life at Robert's estate would mean mingling with all sorts of people from various stations of life. She smoothed the lace collar of
her dress and stared into space, imagining what her new home might be like.

  "Catherine!" Mathilde's voice interrupted her daydream. "Don't leave me yet. I only have few moments alone with my daughter left before she becomes Madame Picard and goes so far away!"

  "It is not terribly far," Catherine said, knowing that the day's journey was too much for her mother to make regularly. Her reassuring words were meant for herself as much as her maman.

  "You will be mistress of an enormous house and wouldn't have time to visit me often anyway. You will have a husband with a fine future. He can give you everything. If your father and I were not sure he would treat you well, we would not be having this ceremony in our home."

  "His mother—"

  "His mother is not sure of the propriety, I know. But I am proud of my daughter for her frugal soul." Mathilde rose and gathered Catherine in her arms for one last maternal hug. "I hear your father's tramping. I am sure it is time to go down."

  The largest room of the modest home, the library, had been decked with orange blossoms, and in the deepening dusk, the lazy flame of the candles were reflected in the mirrors of the room. Friends helped Mathilde take her place near the old man in robes that looked nearly as ancient as he did. Mathilde pressed her fingers against her lips and then onto the book he held in his hands. The guests gathered round.

  Catherine paused in the doorway, leaning on her father's arm. Her hair was pulled back and her shoulders, white as the lilies arranged around the improvised altar, rose from the ivory gown worked with tiny gold threads to make patterns of flowers and bees. A fine lace veil covered her hair and her face, barely hiding the bittersweet gleam in her eyes as she looked up into her father's face. For a moment, she focused on the steely gray hair, unruly even on this formal, solemn occasion, and the plump, ruddy cheeks that reddened with emotion. His pale eyes looked into hers with paternal pride. When she turned her face to look at the man about to become her husband, a strange double vision left her father's image hovering over the face of the man who waited for her. The image disappeared, and she was left only with the vision of a man taller, thinner, younger, and more vigorous than her father. Robert's hair was a dark raven black, and his face was tanned from his time in the hunting fields.