Isola

Chapter 38

38

I leaned on Claire as she ushered me inside, for all at once, I was like a child who must learn to stand and speak. It was relief that overcame me, and kindness that silenced me, as I, who had walked so many nights and days, could scarcely take another step. I, who had so much to tell, had no breath left to talk.

Claire asked, “Where have you lived? And what of Roberval? How did you return?”

But her mother shook her head. “Do not trouble her just yet.”

Agnès took the girls back to their chamber while Claire and her mother helped me to our own. A maid brought up my bundle, and my friends sent for warm water, food, and wine.

“It is too much.” Half-fainting, I steadied myself, holding Claire’s bedpost.

“Come lie down,” she said.

“No, I am too dirty.”

“We will wash you,” said Madame D’Artois. “Let us help you with your clothes.”

“Please. Not yet.” I started back, afraid that they would see my knife. “Let me undress alone.” And in their kindness, they allowed this, and Claire gave me a shift to wear.

Carrying this garment, I entered my old chamber and closed the door. There I untied my knife and emptied the contents of my pocket—coins, necklace, pearls, and claw. Where would I put them? The room was bare. My virginal was now in Claire’s chamber, as were the altar and the table, for her room was the one we used for lessons. In my chamber, only the bed and linen chest remained.

In the chest, I hid my knife and my small treasures between folded sheets. Then I cast off my musty rags and slipped on the shift. In this way, I changed from soiled clothes to white and from a beggar to a lady. The fabric felt like air, but my body was still covered with red bites. Some had scabbed where I had scratched, and some were bleeding.

“Poor child,” Madame D’Artois said when I returned, and Claire winced to see my broken skin, but tenderly they washed me. They treated my bites and soothed my cracked hands and feet with oil. Then Madame D’Artois shook out Claire’s blue gown.

“It is too delicate,” I protested, because I feared to snag or stainit.

“Not so,” said Claire.

And her mother said, “You wore many finer gowns before your journey.”

And so, they laid out the blue gown and found me shoes and stockings in their own chest of clothes.

Now Claire combed my hair. She did not lose patience and cut out knots, as I had done on the island, but worked out every snarl. And when she was done, she dressed me, lacing her gown tight on my thin frame.

“Look.” Madame D’Artois held up the glass so that I might see myself attired.

But Claire said, “Wait.” She took the ruby ring from her finger and slipped it onto mine.

I marveled at my mother’s jewel—but my hand was rough, and in the glass my face was freckled, burnt by the sun. I was bruised, unworthy, and uncertain what to say. Like the prodigal, I wore fresh robes and a fine ring. Like him I was welcomed with rejoicing—but I feared conversation.

That I must speak, I understood, for I was home now, not walking with strangers. I must confide in Claire and Madame D’Artois, but how much should I tell? If I confessed I had been cast away, must I also explain why? If I said Roberval had mistreated me, must I admit my disobedience? Not to my gentle friends.

Claire and her mother did not press, but when our students returned for lessons, they peppered me with questions. No longer fearful, the girls embraced me in my clean clothes and took my hands, demanding answers.

“Where have you been?” said Ysabeau.

“What have you been doing all this time?” asked Suzanne.

“I will tell you something of it soon,” I said.

“She is tired,” Claire defended me.

Madame D’Artois asked, “Would you prefer to rest in your own chamber?”

But Suzanne protested, “Don’t go!”

And Ysabeau said, “Watch us play!”

“With pleasure,” I answered because I could not refuse, and I pulled up a chair.

For a moment, all stared in surprise because I had not waited for the maid to place one for me.

I sprang up. With flushed cheeks, I allowed the girl to seat me.

“Are you ill?” Suzanne asked.

I shook my head. “Only eager to hear what you have learned while I was gone.”

Suzanne performed first, and she played assuredly.

“Are you really twelve now?” I asked when she was done.

“Yes,” she said proudly.

“Truly,” I said, “you play as well as one much older.”

Then Ysabeau frowned because she was not as skilled. She made more than one mistake, banged the keys in pique, and started over. But after she performed, I encouraged her. “I had not yet begun at your age.”

“You shall play for us now,” said Ysabeau.

“Alas,” I answered, “I cannot, for I am out of practice.”

Suzanne asked, “Had you no instrument while you were traveling?”

“It was ruined.”

“Couldn’t you send for another?” Ysabeau said.

“It’s time for needlework,” Claire told the sisters.

All that afternoon, I watched Claire and her mother untangle thread and pick out errant stitches. I watched but did not take up a needle because my hands were rough.

When maids arrived with our refreshment, I felt shy to eat at table.

“Are you not hungry?” asked Ysabeau.

But hunger meant something different to me now, and I was overwhelmed by delicacies, the sweetness of strawberries, the luscious flesh of plums. I spent more time looking at my food than eating it. Indeed, I stared at everything. The fruit, the furniture, the silk clothes our little charges wore. Fireplaces faced in stone, tracery framing our glass windows. Had I once thought the north tower poor? Had I found these rooms cold? I wondered at our bedframes carved with square medallions, our chairs cushioned with red leather, our table smooth and shining. I saw all this and noticed what I had not seen before. Servants retrieving dirty plates for scouring. The girls’ nurse standing while they ate. The little maids, no older than Suzanne, carrying the overshoes our pupils wore in the garden. These servants could not read or write, nor would they learn. They would have no lessons.

After the children left, I stood at the window and watched the wagons far below. On the road, I saw farmers hauling tubs of water and an old man bent under a load of sticks. I watched these laborers, and I knew in my arms and back what it was to carry water and fetch kindling.

“Come sit with us,” said Madame D’Artois. “It’s quiet now.” She meant that while the children were downstairs, we could speak freely.

“It’s a miracle you found your way,” said Claire when I was seated. “And to walk so far alone!”

“We prayed for you,” her mother said.

But Claire admitted, “We scarcely dared to ask for your return.”

I said, “Did you know where I had gone?”

“We heard your guardian sailed to New France,” said Madame D’Artois. “And we were afraid he left you undefended.”

“So he did,” I said. “But not in La Rochelle.”

“What do you mean?” said Claire.

“He took me with him.”

Claire’s eyes widened. “To the New World?”

“Yes, I accompanied him with my husband.”

“ Truly? You have married? ” They spoke at once.

Softly, I said, “Yes, I was wed—and now am widowed.”

For a moment, they did not speak at all. Then Madame D’Artois said, “Who was he?”

“A gentleman. A man of letters—but my guardian did not approve the match.”

Madame D’Artois looked at me sharply, and my cheeks burned, but I kept speaking. “In his anger, Roberval marooned us.”

“No!” said Claire.

“We were cast away upon an island where we lived alone with Damienne.”

“Were there no other people?” Claire asked.

“None at all.”

“But who could help you? Where could you find shelter?”

I hesitated, and then I said, “We found wood upon the shore and built a house.”

“With your own hands?” said Claire.

“It was quite a small house—just a cottage.”

“What did you eat?” said Madame D’Artois.

“Only the provisions we had brought and the fowl my husband hunted.”

“Was it the Indies?” Claire asked, trying to imagine.

“No,” I answered. And I described my island and its winters—but I did not mention my cavern. I spoke to them of Auguste’s death and Damienne’s—but I did not tell them of my child. I said simply, “After my husband and nurse died, I made my way alone until, at last, I found passage home.”

“How did you manage it?” Claire asked.

“Wait,” I said. “Tell me first if my guardian is living.”

“He is at court,” said Madame D’Artois. “With the King at Blois.”

Silently I absorbed this news. If the King still favored Roberval, there was nothing to be done. I could not protest the sale of my lands or accuse him of mistreatment. I had no case against him. Indeed, the opposite was true. Roberval might do exactly as he wished with me because, unmarried, I was his ward still. “My guardian will be angry when he hears I have returned.”

“How could he be?” said Claire. “After all that you have suffered?”

“Ah, but he hoped that I would die and be forgotten.”

“God forbid anyone would wish for such a thing,” said Claire.

“You have a good heart,” I said quietly.

“Come, you must rest,” said Madame D’Artois, and this time, I said yes.

My companions took me to my chamber and offered me their book of prayers, but I could not read, nor could I speak more. When they left, I undressed and, with a stepstool, ascended to my towering bed. There I sank into a cushioned mattress. Easily, I fell asleep, but after a short time, I woke. Once more I drifted and woke, catching myself as though I had been falling. So I tossed, until, at last, I slipped onto the floor, where I couldn’t drift or float away or fall. Here I knew just where I was, and slept in a blanket until morning.

Opening my eyes, I saw Claire gazing down at me. “Oh, you’ve fallen! Are you hurt?”

“I am not injured,” I assured her as she helped me to my feet.

“I am afraid you will catch cold,” Claire said.

“Forgive me,” I said. “I did not intend for you to find me so.”

“It is I who should ask forgiveness,” Claire murmured as she helped me dress. “I who stayed here, comfortably at home.”

“You had no choice.”

She said, “I did not think what it would be for you.”

I told her truly, “You could not have guessed.”

From Claire’s room, we heard morning lessons, the girls speaking, and Madame D’Artois answering.

I said, “I must learn again to teach so I may stay.”

But even as I spoke, I remembered that my guardian was with the King. Staying was not up to me. Heavyhearted, I knelt for morning prayers. Holy Father. Holy Mother. I cannot leave again. Have pity, I entreated silently.

When I entered the next room, our students welcomed me. “Tell us where you traveled,” said Ysabeau.

Claire said, “This is not the time.”

“Did you ride or take a carriage?” Suzanne asked.

“Shh,” Madame D’Artois hushed them.

But Suzanne said, “You will stay with us now.”

Ysabeau told me, “We will not let you leave again.”

Our lessons were just as they had been before. Music and copying, needlework and books. I listened to Ysabeau read. If you want to be considered wise, then behave wisely and chastely.

When it was her turn, Suzanne read the story of brave Argia from the book of ladies. After her husband was killed in battle, she set aside her own robes and finery to walk among the corpses to find his. And Argia found her husband bloodied and blackened, smeared. His body was corroded, his face eaten away.

“Are you crying?” Ysabeau asked me.

Suzanne looked up.

“Keep reading,” Claire said gently.

When her sister was finished, Ysabeau observed, “You are sadder now that you have traveled.”

“Do you think so?” I asked lightly.

“Did you go to Paris?” Ysabeau said.

“No.”

“Florence?”

“No.”

Suzanne pressed, “What cities did you see?”

And I knew that the girls would not stop questioning.

“I must find a way to answer them,” I told Claire when they were at music with her mother.

“Yes,” said Claire. “It would be best.” Then, lowering her voice, she said, “Their father is now owner of the house.”

“I know.”

“And he has bought his title. He is Lord Montfort now, and his wife is Lady Katherine. They have refurbished all the rooms below, and they have gone to Béarn.”

Quickly, I considered this. Béarn was Queen Marguerite’s court. While my guardian accompanied the King, the Montforts waited on his sister. “How long have they been with Her Majesty?”

“Four weeks.”

I met Claire’s eyes. “What will they do when they find out I am here?”

“I hope they will welcome you as their daughters have,” said Claire. “The girls are good and lovely, as you know, and their parents grant them everything they wish.” By this, she meant that the children might speak on my behalf.

I looked at Suzanne sitting at the virginal while Ysabeau stood waiting her turn. I gazed upon the sisters in their embroidered gowns. They had jewels and sweets, and books and music—as Claire said, everything that they could wish. They wanted nothing but my story.

“When your virginal was ruined,” Suzanne said, after music, “what did you do?”

“I will tell you that and more,” I promised.

“When?” Suzanne’s dark eyes commanded me.

“And I will tell the wonders I have seen.”

“What were they?” begged Ysabeau.

“I cannot describe them all at once, but I will speak after you have done your copying.”

Now the girls worked with a will, and when they finished, I led them to my chamber, where I sat on my linen chest. Claire and her mother stood, and the maid carried in my students’ chairs so they could sit near me.

I hesitated, even as the girls looked at me expectantly.

At last, I said, “I sailed on a ship to a stone island.”

“Truly?” Ysabeau said.

Suzanne asked, “What kind of stone?”

“Black granite.”

“Why did you go there?” Suzanne said.

“Because it pleased God for me to live alone.”

“But why?”

Claire interjected gently, “Do we question his will?”

“What did you do upon the island?” asked Suzanne.

“I prayed.”

“For what?”

For rescue, I thought. For revenge. For relief. But I said, “To be redeemed.”

Ysabeau was not impressed by this. “What did you see?”

“A fox.”

“A fox is not a wonder,” said the little girl.

“But he was white entirely. Pure as the white snow. In winter on my island, all the world is white, and all the creatures too.”

“Even their eyes?” asked Ysabeau.

“No. Their eyes and noses and their claws are black. Apart from that, they are white entirely. Foxes. Even bears.”

“Ah,” said Ysabeau.

And Suzanne exclaimed, “How beautiful!”

I thought of my first bear and how I had hacked his head from his body. I remembered the second with his great jaws, his bloody footprints in the snow.

“What else?” said Ysabeau.

I looked up and saw Agnès at the door. “Your nurse is waiting,” I said, for she looked at me severely.

Agnès did not enjoy strange tales, but, as the girls said, she disapproved of everything. The next day they hurried to me as soon as they had done their copying, and once again, the maids arranged their chairs.

“Where I traveled, the winter is nearly one dark night,” I said. “But in summer, the days are so long and bright that you can hardly sleep. And in that season, one flower grows with five petals like a star.”

“Is it a daisy?” Suzanne asked.

“No,” I said. “Much smaller.”

“Is it a poppy?” asked Ysabeau.

“It is smaller than a button, but this flower is lovelier than a daisy or a poppy—and more beautiful than any rose.”

The room hushed. Claire and Madame D’Artois listened intently. Even Agnès drew closer.

“What is the flower’s scent?” asked Suzanne.

“It has none.”

Ysabeau said, “How can it be lovely if it is so small and smells like nothing?”

I answered, “It is beautiful because it is the only blossom in that place.”

The girls were silent as they tried to understand a country with one flower.

“And there is only one fruit where I traveled,” I told them. “A berry so tart you would spit it out.”

“Did you try it?” Suzanne asked.

“At first, I thought that it was poison, and then I thought it was too sour, but finally, I plucked and ate it gratefully.”

Half-laughing, Suzanne said, “You were grateful for the sour taste?”

“Yes, because it was all I had.”

Madame D’Artois looked approvingly and told the girls, “That is a lesson.”

But Ysabeau said, “Tell us about the foxes and the bears.”

“Tomorrow,” I promised.

“Oh, but tomorrow never comes,” said Ysabeau.

I smiled at this, but I was anxious too. While the girls wished the time away, I feared each day that Roberval would find me. Would the Montforts help me then? I could not know until they came home.