at his mother and her explicit instructions that her maid was not to be touched. It tickled him so much that he laughed with all-out hearty pleasure. “We’ll keep this from her until it can’t be kept. Mother’s sight is not so sharp, but even she will see the maid’s belly swelling with her great-grandchild! Hoo, son! You have no idea what a gift you give me today. You do me proud.”
Byron thought there was nothing he could do but enjoy his father’s gifts and jubilation. He bit off the end of the cigar and helped his father fill the room with smoke.
Madame saw the girl limp across the lawn. She turned to the door, anticipating the cache of letters. How she would enjoy the exchanges between Byron and his friends, or letters between Byron and Eugénie, his soon-to-be fiancée. From what she had observed, theirs was a careful, if not timid, dance of conversation and romance—and not so much that their flame would die too soon. While she had been denied the intricate dance of courtship herself, she hoped to experience a bit of that joy through her grandson’s courtship and engagement. Heaven only knew her son had denied her that joy at every turn. And of course, her beloved daughter, Charlotte Thérèse, taken from her much too soon.
No. Sylvie couldn’t dwell on her losses. Not when she heard the girl padding up the stairs. Her anticipation was so great she could barely hold her urine.
“Come, girl. Let me see!”
Thisbe stood before her, trembling and empty-handed.
“Where are the letters?”
“Madame, Monsieur Byron came back. He took them.” She reverted to the French that Madame expected. Demanded.
“And why are your clothes torn?”
“Madame, Monsieur Byron, he tore them.”
Thisbe didn’t wait for Madame to motion her forward. She stood at Madame’s side, extended her hand, and took her thrash on the hand, this time courtesy of Madame’s pearl-handled fan. She knew it would come, but she cried out, mainly to satisfy Madame. Madame stopped beating her.
“What else did he do to you?” Madame demanded.
“He pushed me, Madame Sylvie.”
“I don’t care about that. Did he touch you? Did he put it in you? You cannot enter the room of a saint if you are unclean.”
Thisbe shook her head no.
Madame raised her fan.
She spoke up. “No, Madame Sylvie. No. Monsieur Byron did not do that.”
“If you are unclean you cannot enter the room of Saint Charlotte Thérèse, clean her statue, or kneel for me before the Holy Mother. Do not lie to me, Thisbe.”
“No, Madame Sylvie. I don’t lie.”
Madame looked at the blouse, the sleeve torn from its bodice. She studied the trembling girl. “You can’t stand here looking like a whore. Give that”—she pointed to the blouse—“to Marie and Louise to fix. Now.”
Marie and Louise weren’t happy to stop their work to repair Thisbe’s blouse. This unexpected task only added time to a workday that wouldn’t end until the Guilberts were fed and the dishes, glasses, platters, and silverware were washed for the next day. And then, the sisters must tend to their husbands and babies in their own cabin. No. This disdain for Madame’s useless servant only grew.
“Don’t be so clumsy,” Louise said when she gave Thisbe the blouse.
Thisbe took the blouse but didn’t thank either sister.
VIII
LUCIEN AND BYRON ENJOYED THE REST OF THE DAY shooting ducks that were brought to Lily for that night’s supper. The pellets did so much damage to the fowl. Lily managed to pluck the flesh clean, scrape out the birdshot, and butcher what was left of the carcasses.
Father and son were in good moods and proud of their kills when Marie and Louise brought the platter of fricasseed duck meat to the table.
Madame didn’t care for Lily’s duck but ate it. The duck, like the venison, rabbit, turtle, and eel, was smothered by thick, salty gravy. Madame yearned for the sauces prepared by the old cook. Her valued servant and confidant, now departed from her. The smothered food before her made her feel she had lived too long in a world of limited choices. Chewing the fatty meat and fighting to swallow it only intensified those frustrations.
Yes, Madame thought. I have lived too long, and when this house is filled with grandchildren and great-grandchildren, they will not know me—the first mistress of Le Petit Cottage. They will not reflect on my sacrifices. My great and many sacrifices.
But it was also true that Lucille Pierpont had had her portrait painted and hosted a much-talked-about showing at the Pierpont