An Ignorance of Means Read online

  And she would have to.

  When the servants returned to the house, so would Robert's mother. While she had met Berdine before the wedding, and while she had been gracious, Catherine was nervous about how the older woman would react to becoming the dowager of the estate. Mathilde had explained to her daughter that the mistress of a house such as this had many responsibilities. Robert's confession that he had readied a cottage for his mother on the grounds made it clear he expected Catherine to become that mistress.

  The dread she had only just banished reappeared. Why her? Robert had surely known women of his own station who might well have made fine mistresses of his house from the very first day. Instead, he chose a merchant's daughter and she briefly wondered why. Perhaps her innocence and lack of artifice had attracted him. She was like a fresh piece of marble a sculptor might work their magic on, blank of experience and ready to be carved into whatever likeness the artist desired. She could learn to run the house, Catherine decided, but another woman could not unlearn the worldliness she had acquired in society.

  Even when she came to that conclusion, Catherine had many questions. What would it be like to direct someone to make the coffee and bring the croissants for their petit dejeuner instead of preparing them herself? How did one inspect such a large dwelling? What was the proper form of address for the servants? Perhaps her mother could answer these questions. Catherine tried to rise without disturbing Robert, thinking she could pen a letter to her mother with these and other inquiries, but her movements roused him anyway.

  "Where do you think you are going, ma chérie?" Robert rolled to her and pinned her to the bed, his shaggy head cocked inquisitively.

  "I didn't mean to wake you."

  "But you did, and now you must pay the toll." Robert pressed himself against her, his body and lips meeting hers, and took his sweet payment from her.

  "Now I may go. And you may sleep some more. I thought I would write Maman." Catherine tried to free herself.

  "I believe you made some promises yesterday. Do you remember pledging to obey me?" Robert's stern look was only mock serious, she was sure. "I demand you remain in your nuptial bed with me. You must put away this attachment to Maman and cling to me from now on!"

  Catherine laughed, but the rocky face her husband presented did not change. She was so close to her mother, and her mother needed her! How could she abandon that sweet bond? It was true, though. Once a woman moved away from her childhood home, she became part of something else.

  "We will make a family of our own," he said, as though he read her thoughts, "We will soon be three."

  "Yes! You, me, and a darling bébé of our own!" Catherine sighed at the thought of a little girl in her arms.

  "A fine son to carry on the Picard name. The first fruit of our vine, with many more harvests to come."

  Well, a man wanted a son. And Catherine hoped, if nature cooperated, she could give Robert what he wanted. There would be time for a little girl later. Although her mother had not been strong enough to bear more than one child, Catherine felt herself up to the task of bearing many children.

  "They say our Lord helps those who help themselves. We must do our part." Nuzzling her neck, Robert moved his hands beneath the comforter, rubbing her bare skin. "We are alone for only a little while longer. The servants see nothing and say nothing, of course, but while it is still just us let us pretend this bed is a little island and we have no entertainment but ourselves."

  When Robert and Catherine awoke after a post-coital nap, the sun was almost directly overhead and the sense of isolation was gone. Catherine heard distant stirrings in the rooms below.

  Robert cradled her beside him and ran a strong hand through her hair, pushing the tousled mess back from her face and planting little kisses on her forehead.

  "Thank you, Robert."

  "For what?"

  "For a wonderful marriage."

  "We have been married less than a day. I don't know if you can thank me yet."

  "If this is what marriage is like, I think I will adore it."

  "There is more to marriage than the marriage bed. The servants are returning even as we speak, and before our supper tonight, my maman will be here as well. Our little world is being invaded." Robert smiled at her.

  "We will always have this little world, here in our chamber."

  "Yes, sometimes we will have this world."

  "At the end of every day."

  "No, my dear. Not the end of every day. This room is where I will retire each night, but your bed is in the next room."

  Catherine recoiled from the words. In her pre-nuptial imagination, she had gone from the ceremony to her husband's bed, where she expected to spend many happy nights. After the thrilling consummation of the union and Robert's confirmation he wanted a child, she still saw herself joining him in his bed each night. How unthinkable to spend the long, dark hours apart from her husband, who had proven to be a passionate lover and made her feel something she never imagined feeling before. Robert saw her mood shift from giddy to confused.

  "This is the way we will live, chérie. I am honored to have you in my bed. But you are here to be a wife, not my twenty-four-hour companion. A wife must oversee the house, make sure our lives are comfortable and amusing, and produce an heir. Our time together in this bed will be entertaining, I'm sure. But there is more to life than copulation. And of course, once you are carrying my son, we will need to desist so there is no danger of losing him."

  "I don't understand. I thought we would be more than...business partners." Catherine felt instinctively that what Robert described was not the kind of marriage her parents thought she deserved. In watching them as she grew up, she had seen not only two people knit together with the concerns of daily life but also bound by a mutual affection that she guessed went beyond mere friendship to passion. "My parents did not stand in our way when we found ourselves entangled by love, but if they knew what you expect of me..."

  "If they knew? Your parents made their own little world, but it is theirs. Other people know a marriage is a tool. A tool to preserve the things that matter more than the cloudy idea of love you've picked up from your novels: a family's name, honor, and assets."

  "A child is all you want from me? No, a son to carry on your name and secure your family seat? I see you need only an incubator, and I am a complete woman, with not just a sex, but a brain...and a heart."

  "You are a beautiful woman. I chose you," he said, as if she was a doll he selected from a shelf, "because you are lovely and cultured besides. I think you will be not only a gorgeous hostess at our soirees, a thoughtful and canny manager of our resources, and a flaming bundle of passion in my bed, but you will also be able to entertain yourself when I cannot."

  "What do you mean?"

  "I am easily bored. You must understand, my dear, I am several years older than you, with more experience, and the ecstasies that transported you last night were amusing for me, but only just so."

  "You have business to attend to, you mean? You must travel?"

  "I am not part of the merchant class like your father," Robert sniffed. "Business does not entertain me. Women entertain me. As I said, I am easily bored."

  Catherine jumped out of the bed as though prodded with a hot poker, gathering the comforter around her naked form. "Women! We have made vows of monogamy! You cannot think you can continue to entertain other women now we are husband and wife!"

  "My dear, I will continue to do just as I please now we are 'husband and wife.' You will be my entertainment for many nights while we try to start a son to inherit all I have. When you are not with me, you will make sure this home I brought you to is filled with fine food and wine, diverting guests, and lovely things."

  Catherine hung her head and breathed in hard, shallow gasps.

  "Maman will be here soon. She will join us for dinner. I left instructions for tonight, but after that, you will be dealing with the servants." Robert's eyes were cold as he stared at her. "You are
somewhat disheveled. Your lady's maid, Marie, will be waiting in your chamber to assist you in preparing for the day. I suggest you rest. Bathe again. Eat a bite. I will see you at supper."

  Catherine did not move.

  "Through the door, woman! Your room is on the other side of the bathing chamber. Go!" His sharp command propelled her out the door. The tone of his voice wounded her as much as the content of its message. Even in correction, her parents' voices were always gentle.

  "I married une coquille vide,” Catherine said to herself. She realized she did not know the man she had married, only what he had presented himself as to her and her parents. It was a pretty picture, but she could see it was only that. There was nothing there.

  She had married a man she adored and found he thought of her as only an amusement for his own purposes. How could she write her maman now? What could she tell her of her embarrassment? Pulling the door open, she stumbled through the bath and into the room on the other side.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  If Catherine intended to keep her shame secret from her mother, she would certainly keep it from her mother-in-law as well. Gaining control of herself, she returned to the room to which her husband had banished her. She found the lady's maid, Marie, sitting on a small stool just inside the door. The girl wore a rough blouse and skirt of some thick, serviceable beige material and a cream-colored shawl crossed over her bosom. The neat cap on her head could not hide the blond curls that peeked out from beneath it, and her brown eyes shown with an open intelligence.

  Catherine stopped, surprised to find someone else already there. Marie rose and curtsied to her. The girl's eyes traveled up and down her new mistress' frame, calculating. The red, puffy eyes did not make her draw back. Marie only cataloged what stood before her like a carpenter looking at the wood and tools he had to make a project.

  "Madame, I am happy to do whatever you require. I am a personal maid. I have spent my whole life learning how to make a lady beautiful." The chatty girl stood in deference to her mistress's entrance.

  "I will need all the help I can get," Catherine commented, rubbing her drying eyes.

  "Oh, no, madame! Madame is truly beautiful herself, if I may say so. In this case, it is my job to preserve such beauty." Marie fluttered closer to her mistress, anxious not to offend. She pursed her lips and cocked her head to one side before asking, "Has madame been upset?"

  "What would make you think that?"

  "Your eyes are a little dark here," Marie said, pointing to the circles beneath Catherine's eyes, "and a little puffy. Perhaps too much sleep today? Did your husband keep you up late last night?"

  "I must rest a bit, and then have a little food." Catherine ignored Marie's questions. Already she had learned not to assume people's motives were complementary to her happiness. Marie seemed concerned, but she had been hired by Robert and could be one of his bedmates for all Catherine knew. "Mme Picard—Robert's mother, will be here to join us for supper. Something light, I suppose. The trip may well have tired her."

  "Please excuse my forwardness, madame. I will help you here, in your chamber. It is Claudine, the housekeeper, who you must speak to about the other matters. We have our own little spheres here. I am in charge of your body and your clothes." Marie's frank tone made Catherine flinch. She had given her body to her husband. Must she now share it with this woman as well? Marie continued chattering, "Claudine is over the house and kitchen. You will meet your social secretary, as well. She will make all the arrangements for the soirees you and your husband will host." During this little lesson about the house's organization, Marie turned back the covers on a narrow but elaborate bed and offered a fresh nightgown for Catherine to replace the down cover she still wore wrapped around her.

  "I didn't know," Catherine said.

  "We are all here to help you, madame. This house is not only cherished by the Picard family; it is also a monument to those who have grown up in this fecund corner of France. You are our new mistress now. We want you to enjoy and cultivate the advantages of maintaining your position."

  Maybe Marie could be trusted. She was a warm, chatty little soul. Too soon to decide, Catherine thought. Her husband had fooled her for several months, and she had only known Marie for several minutes. She tensed her shoulders, trying to keep her breath even as a fresh fusillade of sobs threatened her.

  "Please, madame," Marie said in a gentle voice, taking Catherine by the hand, "lie down for a while. When you awake, you will feel so much better. And I will have a little bowl of my special cucumber concoction for you."

  "Lovely. It sounds delicious."

  "Not to eat, madame," Marie laughed. "It is for your eyes, to reduce the puffiness I see."

  Catherine nodded once and a flush lit up her pale face. If she was ill-informed of such a trivial bit of beauty lore, what else might she be doing wrong? The books she had read had never touched on the machinations of the life she had been thrust into upon her marriage to Picard. She had no instruction for what it meant to be the lady of a fine, big, house. How many more bumps would there be for her to trip over on the road ahead?

  "I couldn't climb into bed in the middle of the day. Perhaps there must be some correspondence I must look after." Catherine thought that puzzling over some of the letters piled on the petite white desk might help her grasp her role now that she was part of Picard's estate. Her shoulders slumped a little at the thought. Part of his estate? Was she only a piece of chattel?

  Marie nodded and left on her errand. The pile of letters on the desk confused Catherine at first. Sorting the billets into piles based on their apparent purposes—social and business—bolstered her resolve. The letters from merchants must be passed along to Robert. The social messages would be her responsibility.

  Unfolding one such letter, she found a gushing note from a Madame Durand inviting the newlyweds for an evening. Despite her bravado, Catherine was stymied. Who was Madame Durand? An answer must be written on the appropriate stationery, and Catherine had none yet. Putting the letter aside, she chose another and went through the same process. Soon, the pile of letters had been unfolded and sorted. Catherine's eyes drooped until she folded her arms on the desk and dropped her head onto them in sleep.

  She soon slipped into a dream. Her maman was there.

  Catherine walked down a dirt path crowded on both sides with huge fronds of an exotic and unidentifiable plant. Sharp, spiky leaves cut her each time her step veered from the straight line that kept her perfectly in the middle of the narrow path. She watched her feet until she was satisfied she could look ahead without falling or subjecting herself to more of the stings the plants inflicted.

  When she raised her head, she saw her maman standing in the middle of the road. The path widened just in front of where her mother stood. Blue! Her mother was wearing the blue Catherine associated with Mother Mary; the mantle draping her figure was the blue of the Delft platter Poppa had brought home on his last buying trip, and the dress she wore was the blue of tiny berries.

  "Maman! Oh, Maman! I wanted to talk to you and here you are!" Catherine began running toward her, and the torturous hedge drew back. Her careless steps left her unmolested, but she found herself getting no nearer to her mother. The figure was silent, and instead of growing larger as Catherine ran, her mother's form stayed the same. "I have to talk to you! Come to me...I don't think I can reach you!"

  Her mother's countenance was clear even as far away as she stood. Nothing would bow her mother's head, not disease, nor infirmity, nor pain at her daughter's sad state. Catherine could see the drooping mouth and knit brow that always signaled Mathilde's sadness.

  Louder she called and faster she ran, but she could not reach her mother, who stood with hands outstretched in an attitude of acceptance and peace while she shook her head in apparent sadness.

  Catherine stopped running. The hedges crowded back against the edges of the road. More of the plants seemed to push up through the dirt in front of where her mother stood and shot up until
her mother had disappeared behind the vegetation.

  Catherine started to walk forward, pushing the plants out of the way, but both her palms stung on contact with the bushes, and when she drew them back, she saw her palms were sliced open and oozing blood. She groaned in pain.

  A sharper pain cut through her midsection as she sat up. The once fresh gown was drenched with her sweat and clung to her, as did tendrils of her hair, coiling around her face like little blonde vines creeping toward her lips.

  The sound had brought Marie running from the enormous closet adjoining Catherine's boudoir.

  "Madame! Are you safe?" Marie looked as though she had just dressed for the day, every piece of clothing fresh and unwrinkled, her hair still neatly tucked up in the cap, her complexion unmarred by the marks the impromptu nap had left on Catherine's face.

  Catherine struggled to keep her voice calm as she assured Marie. "I'm fine. Just a dream that made me cry out."

  "What kind of dream? Were you being pursued?"

  With no intention of sharing her terrified dash through an alien landscape, Catherine brushed away Marie's worries with a languid, if shaky, hand. "I cannot remember," she said as the picture of her mother flashed before her eyes. "I want to dress."

  "Of course, madame. Would you care for a bath? A tub of warm water would help relax you and calm you down."

  "Yes, a tub would be wonderful." Catherine's voice was flat. Soaking in a tub in the middle of the day seemed antithetical to the resolution she had made to prove her worth to Robert by managing her portion of their life expertly. Still, until she found some sort of guidance, there was little she could do. The bath would calm her physically, but it would do nothing to the roiling seas inside her. Her own rather sheltered life, led mostly in books and at her mother's bedside, had not really prepared her for this life.

  "Wrap this robe around you while I pour the water for your bath. I will ring the bell and tell Claudine you require a little morsel. In the meantime," Marie never stopped talking as she led Catherine to the salle de bain, poured warm water into the tub, and took her mistress' hand to help her in, "you relax here."