An Ignorance of Means Read online

  When she allowed herself to reflect, Catherine wondered if her parents' marriage was the exception and hers the rule. If that were so, she had to choose. Staying with Robert and continuing as the woman of the manor was one choice, but it meant she was doomed to a partnership devoid of love or real affection. In the first few days of her marriage, she had thought if she tried to be the exemplary dame à la maison her mother-in-law had been, Catherine might win her husband's affection. As time passed, she found that nothing won his approval. After her traitorous body responded to his rough lovemaking in their conjugal bed, Robert would leave for his own bed without even a grunt of appreciation, let alone a tender moment affirming their matrimonial state. Appealing to her parents to save her meant humiliation for her, and perhaps for her parents as well. Would her escape shame them when their daughter returned home?

  Every evening the family dressed for dinner. They ate in near silence. Afterwards, her husband expected Catherine in his room, where she let him have his way with her.

  Almost a month had passed when Robert appeared in the library one afternoon where Catherine had secreted herself. She had found a volume of French poetry and was weeping as she read the passionate verse she found there. The poet spoke to his lover the way Catherine wished her husband would speak to her.

  "Do you have nothing better to do than wrap yourself in the pages of a dusty book?" Robert asked when he found her in the library one day. His restless hands twitched, the short crop he held flicking at the seams of the fawn colored breeches he wore. His waistcoat's dull cherry material shone in the many-windowed library. He clutched a heavy hunting coat in his other hand. The cream cravat of the shirt only yellowed his countenance, making him appear even more menacing.

  "I only hope to improve my mind," Catherine replied. She wiped her eyes surreptitiously, closing the book and rising to return it to a shelf.

  "You don't need to worry about improving your mind, what there is of it," he sniffed. "I only came to ask you if you had bled this month."

  "What?" She knew what he asked, but it still appalled her that a man would be so blunt. He had to know the answer, she thought. He could not be ignorant of her natural calendar when she had been in his bed every night (and sometimes every morning).

  "Have you bled? Woman, I need to know if our antics have taken or if I'm to have to have you in my bed every day for another unendurable time!"

  "I bled just before we married. I haven't since then. Perhaps it is time—"

  "Or perhaps you have taken and my son is growing in your belly even as we speak? Good news. Let me know so I can make other arrangements while you are...indisposed. I think our agreement is that you will grace my bed every day until you've been bred."

  "An unspoken arrangement! I am not a brood mare." Rarely did Catherine indulge her temper, but Robert's effrontery at reducing her to a vessel for his heir pricked her anger.

  "But you are. If the Picard name is to survive, then you must catch, and catch soon or I'll out with you and find another bitch who'll take. You are my brood mare, and you will bear my son or you will be gone." His words pelted her like hard hail. He turned on his heel and left the library.

  Robert's valet met him outside the door. Catherine heard the rumbling of Robert's voice and then guffaws from the men. Was she the brunt of his joke?

  Catherine's tears dropped and pooled in her palms as she brought them to her eyes. What would her life be like if she were to have his child? Would it mean that she could be free of his bed forever and only be a mother to their son? A quotation came to her, "Aye, there's the rub." If she did not produce a son, then she must endure Robert's attentions until she did. And in between, when she was not with him, he would be with others.

  Why should she care if he welcomed other women to his bed? There was no love between the two of them. The encounters they had were purely for his pleasure: the pleasure of relieving himself sexually and the pleasure of an heir to carry on his precious name. Catherine tried to be only physically present in their couplings, but his expert touch would often melt her resolve and she would find herself actively participating in the congress that could lead to such delicious catharsis.

  Catherine pressed her hands into her eyes and sobbed, trying to muffle the sounds so no one would come. If she could not have the only embrace that would comfort her—her mother's—then she would not take any comfort at all. How long it had been since she had seen her gentle dam, and how long since she had a letter. In fact, although Catherine had written daily since her departure, she had received no answer.

  Her fragile emotional state made her assume the worst. Her mother must be ill again. Her heart clenched in sorrow at the idea that her mother was suffering and had no one to succor her.

  Catherine had to admit to herself that her mother had more people surrounding her to care for her than Catherine did. In the house called Lac d'Or, there were no friends. Marie was kind, but she was a servant and not a friend, and so she could not confide in her the way she needed to. Heloise was older, and intimidating, and nothing about her demeanor was maternal or inviting. Berdine? It would not do to confess her problems to her mother-in-law. Of course she would side with Robert and cluck sorrowfully at Catherine besides. Even the priest that came to perform a weekly mass was suspect. Catherine's family had embraced Lutheranism, and so she did not particularly see the man in his elaborate vestments as someone to be embraced as a confessor. Robert attended the mass, but he paid little attention to the service.

  Catherine rang the bell. Marie answered, scurrying into the room and curtsying.

  "I must get word about my mother, Marie. I've written every day and haven't heard a word back from her. I'm concerned. Her health is so fragile—"

  "Perhaps they are so busy they cannot find time to answer?" Marie suggested, but she averted her gaze.

  "Not have time? I'm their only daughter, and away from home for the first time. My mother isn't able to make the journey. The letters are our only means of communicating. Mother would never be too busy."

  "Perhaps they feel they should make a clean break and let you settle into your new family." Again, Marie could not meet her mistress's eyes.

  "I have no family at Lac d'Or," Catherine shouted. "I live with an animal who demands I submit to him on a nightly basis with no thought for my pleasure or comfort, and sup with a woman who pretends that I am here to be the gay hostess for more parties to rival the fabled entertainments she once hosted. I am a whore to one and a doyenne to the other!"

  Marie's widened eyes betrayed her shock at the outburst. The two women stared at each other.

  Catherine dropped into one of the enormous leather chairs and laughed. At first, it was a low chuckle at her own lack of control, but it rose in pitch until it was a hysterical shrill. Marie grabbed her shoulders and shook her.

  "Madame, you are not well. You must get control of yourself. Of course your mother is well or you would have heard."

  Catherine took several deep breaths before she spoke. "When does the post come?"

  "In the forenoon almost every day. But madame must not concern herself with that. Pierre is quite capable of bringing you any missive from your mother that appears."

  "Does Pierre receive the post?"

  "He collects it from the rider, and then takes it to Monsieur Picard's office. The master wants it arranged just so." Marie bit her lip, betraying her reluctance to say much more.

  "Does Pierre always receive the post?" Catherine didn't know for sure what answer she would receive, but she suspected there was a reason Marie knew how "the master" wanted his letters arranged.

  "No. No, sometimes...sometimes I gather the post." Marie hung her head.

  "How does the master want the letters arranged?" Catherine prodded.

  Marie shook her head.

  "What has he told you to do with the letters, Marie?"

  "I disremember. It has been a while since I have taken up the letters since I have been so busy helping madame. I ha
ven't handled the correspondence since you arrived."

  "Pierre has gathered the post every day since I arrived? I know he has business in town for Monsieur Picard at times and surely someone else has gathered it. Who brought the letters the first day I was here? The letters that appeared on my desk? Should I speak to Heloise about the matter?" Catherine felt a twinge of shame at baiting the girl with a veiled threat to bother one of the elder staff with the matter, since the disturbing news that Marie was not being entirely helpful might lead to some punishment.

  When Marie looked into Catherine's eyes, her words came in a rush. "Sometimes I gather the letters, and the master has instructed me to arrange most of them on his desk in a certain way. But madame, he has told me if any letters come with your family's name on them, I am to toss them into the fire. And I have! I am so sorry, my lady, so sorry. I see how you suffer, but I thought since you have your husband here, you must not mind so much if you did not hear from your maman."

  "Have you a mother, Marie? Do you know what it is like to be loved unconditionally, to know that someone expects nothing of you but wants everything for you? Obviously not. I cannot bear to look at you a minute more. Get away!"

  Marie fled the room sobbing, and Catherine sat back, rubbing her temples in an attempt to focus. If her mother's letters hadn't reached her, perhaps her letters had not reached her mother. Unable to make the trip to check on her, both because of fragile health and her father's business, her mother must be as worried as she. Before she quit the library and went to her room for something to assuage her aching head, she decided she must intercept the post until another letter came. Getting a letter out would prove more difficult, as she had no natural allies here. She pledged to herself that she would have a letter from her mother no matter what obstacles Robert put between them, and soon thereafter her mother would finally have a letter from her.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Unable to formulate a plan, Catherine had fretted for a while in the library and then gone to her room. She carelessly dropped her clothes on the floor and laid down, twisting under the heavy covers until the sheer exhaustion of finding no way out of her present dilemma put her to sleep.

  A sense of great peace filled her.

  Her mother's voice was so close she could feel her breath as she whispered. Catherine felt incredibly safe, curled up against her mother, the familiar arms holding her, the wooly scent of a favorite shawl filling her senses. So real.

  "Do not give up hope, my love. I know you need me. I have been worrying about you as well." Mathilde gently rocked, smoothing Catherine's thick hair back from her hot forehead. "You do have friends here. Think carefully. You will realize who they are, and they will help you."

  "Maman, I am so ashamed," Catherine cried. "I didn't want to tell you, but you already know, don't you? How could we have been so wrong about Robert? He doesn't love me. He only wants to use me as an incubator for his children."

  "Any child would be a gift. You were for me," her mother said, pulling back and looking into her daughter's eyes.

  "You don't understand! I could never love a child he put in me."

  Instead of the fecund mass of plants from the previous dream, she and her mother were surrounded by sand. They sat on a bench, a hard marble thing. In any direction she looked were rolling dunes of sand like the ones she had seen in the illustrations of the Holy Land she had seen in books.

  "Do you really think you could withhold your love from him? Or her? A daughter might need you even more than a son. Your poppa has equipped you well. I discouraged him from sending you off to a convent where you might lead a sheltered, contemplative life. I thought that you needed a family."

  A clear, almost cloudless sky canopied the two women, and the eerie whisper of sands blown across more sand provided an unnerving background.

  "We do what we have to do. Tell me, would a child of your union be responsible for Robert's actions?"

  "Of course not. A child is an innocent thing."

  "So how could you think to keep your motherly love from a child? Your child?" Her mother shook her head and averted her eyes as she continued. "And now I find that I should have listened to your father. I blame myself for where you are now. I thought you would have everything I have found in marriage—love, respect, a true union of a man and a woman—plus material comforts and the horde of children that I could never have."

  "Maman, we only have a little time. Do not waste it being so sad! Tell me what I must do. Who can I trust to help us contact one another?"

  "You will find someone. The answer is right there in front of you."

  "Where is Marie?" Robert's voice startled Catherine from the dream. He reached out with one of his enormous hands and shook her shoulder as she fought back to consciousness. "Where is that flighty little strumpet?"

  "I dismissed her. What concern is she of yours?"

  "Everything in this house is a concern of mine. I came to see that you were dressing for dinner and find you asleep. Marie should be preparing you for our table."

  "I am not the entree." Catherine pushed her husband's hand away.

  Resistance to his efforts made him take a step back as he said, "I've hired every servant in this house, and they work for me. What did she do? Did you catch her making eyes at me? Don't worry, she doesn't hold any attraction. My tastes are much simpler. Marie is a bit too rougeaude."

  Robert had replaced the earthy ensemble he had worn earlier with pearly ivory linens beneath a gray waistcoat and breeches. He laughed at Catherine's efforts to struggle to her feet. She had crumpled to her bed in a pique of emotion and slept in such a way her legs were tingling and protesting at holding her weight. It took her several tries until she was steady on her feet and standing tall.

  "Marie has betrayed me, and so have you."

  "Marie has performed the duties I've asked of her. Until now. I'll send one of the men to find her, and when she returns I'll have an exchange with her about her duties."

  "She is my maid. She should take her orders from me."

  Catherine revealed her mood in the up tilted chin and sharp, clipped words of her response. "This is about the letters, isn't it? You feel betrayed because Marie has done my bidding and consigned your mother's letters to the fire? It's good enough for them. Any contact with your mother would only make you unhappier about your life here with me."

  "I fail to see how I could be any unhappier," Catherine said.

  "And what became of the attitude I so enjoyed when we were courting? I admired your zest and spirit."

  "I had such fire because I had a life I loved and people who loved me."

  "There is more to life than love. Love has not kept Lac d'Or in our family's hands for centuries. Not even love for the land. I know this will disillusion you, but it has been a shrewd eye for the future and making decisions, all decisions, based on what is good for our family seat that has kept this house and the attendant land in our family."

  Catherine's lack of response irritated Robert.

  "Your inability to respond tells me we agree," Robert said. "I am in charge of the servants, and they will do my bidding. Marie will return shortly. Do not be surprised if Marie is a little bruised. She'll be able to take care of your needs, I'm sure. But the girl must learn her lesson. I am master of this house and all within it. She must answer to me and not run from your moods."

  His exit didn't allow Catherine to relax. Now, not only did she worry about her mother, but she felt as though she were to blame for what was about to befall Marie.

  A rustle from the dresses hung along one wall caught her attention. From behind the pile of silk and taffeta, a blond head emerged, then shoulders and torso, and finally the whole form of a trembling girl.

  "Marie! How did you manage to secrete yourself there?"

  "I came to dress you for dinner, but you were asleep. When I heard the master's footsteps on the stairs, I dove into the pile of dresses waiting to be taken to the laundry," Marie said. "I want to tell you I'm s
orry, madame."

  "For what, Marie? Monsieur Picard hired you and has every right to expect you to follow his direction. I shouldn't expect your loyalty." Catherine tried to sound serene, but her trembling voice betrayed her bitterness.

  "We could be women together, Madame Picard! I don't know what it's like to have a mother's love. I grew up in the kitchen of a great house very far away from here, serving more as an obstacle than a help. I was very lucky to catch the attention of the mistress of that house. She had me trained in the amenities so I could serve as a lady's maid someday. When she passed away, the first Madame Picard brought me here, and I became a lady in waiting for her."

  "So, in fact, my husband misspeaks when he says he hired you."

  "No, Madame Picard let me go when they decided she would move into the dependency. Monsieur Picard paid me to stay on and become his wife's maid."

  "We are still where we began. My husband is the master of us both."

  "I believe there is something larger here, madame. You are most unhappy, and monsieur is not making it easy for you. I want to help you."

  Catherine moved toward the girl, proffering her pale, smooth hand in exchange for Marie's much rougher one. The two stood, staring at each other, lost in their own thoughts for a moment until Catherine broke the silence.

  "I must get word to my mother and hear something from her. The most important task you can do for me is to bring me any letters that may come from her and carry mine out."

  "I can bring the ones from her easily enough, but I don't have a way of taking any letters to post."

  "Who carries the post away?"

  "Pierre, I suppose."

  "And how does he carry the letters?"

  "He has a little bag," Marie said, her face brightening as the way to accomplish her task dawned on her. "I can slip the letters into his bag before he leaves and he will be none the wiser!"