Chapter Twenty-Two
By early December, Mathilde knew for certain that she was pregnant: her body was changing in ways she couldn’t ignore.
There was a strange metallic taste in her mouth and she could no longer tolerate coffee or a glass of piquette, which tasted revoltingly bitter.
She felt exhausted and nauseous most of the time, her breasts were tender and she was constantly having to stop work to pee behind the nearest hedge.
Georges repeatedly told her to hurry up or they wouldn’t get the pruning finished before summer; Odile shot her ominous looks from under lowered brows.
‘I must have stomach flu,’ she told Odile eventually, when she could only face a dry biscuit for breakfast.
‘Is that what they call it nowadays?’ Odile replied, pursing her lips. ‘Maybe Doctor Pailleau should take a look at you.’
‘I don’t want to bother him.’ Mathilde leaned back in her chair, closing her eyes.
How could this have happened? She’d only spent one night with Yves.
Less than a night, even: a few magical hours under the stars before dawn broke and she had to hurry back to the vineyard.
She’d thought the chances of falling pregnant so slim as to be non-existent – yet at the time, it had to be admitted, she hadn’t been thinking at all.
She’d been driven by an instinct as old as the hills and now here she was, in a predicament so many women had faced before.
And what was she going to do about it? Abortion was strictly illegal and she didn’t trust anyone enough to ask about obtaining one – Paulette, perhaps, but then the whole of Les Roches would know her secret.
Besides, life was precious, and even more so these days, when death was meted out so casually.
The thought of a child to love, created with a man like Yves, filled her with joy whenever she surfaced from the depths of despair.
Yet how would she manage? Madame de Courcy had thrown her own daughter out of the house when she was expecting a baby outside marriage; she was unlikely to be any more lenient with an employee.
And Mathilde had ignored her clear instructions to stay away from Yves, which wouldn’t go down well.
One bitterly cold morning she emerged from the bathroom, wiping her face, to find Odile waiting outside. ‘This takes me back a year,’ she said grimly, ‘listening to you heaving up your guts. Come down to the kitchen when you’re dressed, and let’s hear no more about stomach flu.’
It was actually a relief to talk to someone about the mess she was in. ‘You must tell Madame de Courcy,’ Odile said. ‘She’s probably worked it out already but get in there first so she doesn’t catch you by surprise.’
‘What do you think she’ll do?’ Mathilde asked. ‘Throw me out?’
‘Not necessarily. You aren’t a daughter who’s going to bring shame on the family, and she’s a practical woman.
She won’t find anyone who’ll work as hard as you for such low wages.
You’ll have to listen to a lecture, though.
’ Odile gave her a thoughtful glance. ‘Don’t suppose there’s any chance of marrying the father? ’
Mathilde shook her head. She wasn’t considering even telling Yves. How could she distract him with news of a baby? He didn’t know when he’d be back in Provence, he’d said when they parted, but if she needed to contact him urgently, she could always send a message via Doctor Pailleau.
‘Speak to Madame now,’ Odile said. ‘A letter came from Fabrice yesterday so she’s in a good mood. You won’t get a better chance.’
Mathilde nodded. ‘Thank you.’
‘That’s all right.’ Odile’s expression was a little kinder than usual. ‘I’m used to you now. Shouldn’t like to start over with anyone new.’
‘This is very disappointing.’ Madame de Courcy looked Mathilde up and down. ‘After my specific warning!’
Mathilde knew she should be hanging her head, but she couldn’t find it in herself to be humble and penitent. She met the countess’s gaze with a lifted chin, because Odile had given her hope and suddenly the future seemed possible.
‘I don’t know why you’re looking so proud of yourself,’ Madame de Courcy said coldly. ‘You’ve ruined your chances of marrying again. A widow is one thing, a widow with a child quite another. I suppose you can fudge the dates and pass it off as your husband’s, but even so.’
‘I don’t want to get married again, Madame,’ Mathilde replied. ‘Respectability hardly seems important now. I should very much like to stay on at the chateau and you can be sure I’ll work harder than ever, but if you’d prefer me to leave, then of course I’ll go.’
‘Go where?’ the countess asked. ‘And do what?’
‘I’ve had various offers of employment in Les Roches,’ Mathilde replied, inventing wildly, ‘though Chateau Albertine is where my heart lies.’
The countess sighed. ‘Loyalty is important, and I’ve had reason to be grateful for your help.
Well, I shall have to see what Odile and Georges say.
If they’re prepared to work with you, then you may stay.
But there are to be no allowances made for having a child, understand?
I won’t accept any excuse for slacking.’
Mathilde bowed her head. ‘Thank you.’
‘By the way, does Yves know about this? I’m assuming he’s the father but correct me if I’m wrong.’
‘I have no way of contacting him,’ Mathilde replied, ‘apart from sending a message via Doctor Pailleau.’
‘I think that would be a very bad idea,’ the countess told her.
‘Yves is a wanted man here – the last thing he needs is you dragging him back across the Channel. I shall ask Doctor Pailleau to examine you but he’ll be discreet.
He’s bound by patient confidentiality, although his wife as we know is a different matter. ’
She gazed out of the window, tapping a pen against the leatherbound surface of her desk.
‘Well, everyone in the village will get to hear about this sooner or later. We shall just have to hope Yves doesn’t come back before the baby’s born – then we can pretend someone else is the father and hope he never finds out. ’
‘Thank you for deciding that for me,’ Mathilde said, and Madame de Courcy nodded, unaware of her sarcasm.
Although Yves’ idea that the two of them could ever be friends was unlikely to become a reality, Mathilde felt hugely relieved as she left the countess’s study.
That encounter could have gone much worse.
There were bound to be difficulties ahead, but if Odile was on her side, she’d overcome them one way or another.
The week before Christmas, Mathilde went to visit Paulette.
Odile had heard that Paulette’s father had died, and although Mathilde hadn’t seen her friend since suspecting she was pregnant, she knew she should pay her respects now.
She took a bowl of blood pudding, the pig having been killed a couple of weeks before; he would only have lost weight over the winter with so few scraps to feed him.
‘Hello, stranger,’ Paulette greeted her. ‘I’ve been wondering how you were.’ She inspected Mathilde’s head with a professional eye. ‘Do you want your roots touching up?’
‘I’ve come to say how sorry I was to hear your father had gone,’ Mathilde replied.
‘I’m growing out the bleach – it’s turning my hair to straw.
But you could cut it for me, if you have time.
’ She had taken to wearing a pair of horn-rimmed spectacles, a much easier disguise, and felt so different anyway now she was pregnant that further steps seemed unnecessary.
‘All the time in the world.’ Paulette stood back. ‘Come in, have a seat and tell me your news. I could do with the distraction.’
‘I’m expecting a baby,’ Mathilde said baldly, once she was sitting in her usual seat at the kitchen table. ‘Around the middle of June. I wanted to tell you before you heard it from anyone else.’
Paulette stared at her reflection in the mirror for a few seconds. ‘Are you indeed?’ She smiled. ‘Well, good for you. Pétain will be pleased: another little citizen for the Vichy regime. But what does Lady Muck have to say about it?’
‘She’s not thrilled,’ Mathilde admitted. ‘But she isn’t throwing me out, which is something.’
‘I should think not,’ Paulette said. ‘Everyone knows what a good worker you are. So, little Irène will have a playmate.’
‘I suppose she will.’ Mathilde hadn’t considered that before. Unconsciously, her hand rested on her stomach.
‘And I don’t suppose you’re going to tell me who the father is?’ Paulette asked.
‘Let’s just say it’s nobody you’re likely to know,’ Mathilde replied. At that moment, footsteps overhead made them both glance up at the ceiling. ‘Oh, is Thierry at home?’
‘I’ve a guest keeping the bed warm in Papa’s room,’ Paulette said enigmatically. ‘Like the one you had staying in the chateau not so long ago. I’m only telling you because I know you’ll keep your mouth shut.’
‘Of course,’ Mathilde said. ‘That’s brave of you.’
Paulette shrugged. ‘The room’s going spare and we’re tucked out of the way here, so I figured, why not? Besides, it’s good for Thierry to have a man around the place. The last one was teaching him English.’
‘The last one?’ Mathilde repeated. ‘How many have you had?’
‘Three so far.’ Paulette’s scissors flashed. ‘They stay here until there’s a group going over the mountains to Spain and then I send them down to Marseille. A few of us in Les Roches are at it. We’re sick of marching to the beat of Vichy’s drum.’
‘I had no idea.’ Mathilde was mentally adjusting her view of Paulette. ‘We haven’t had any more staying at the chateau.’
‘I should think not. You can’t take that risk until you find out who blew the whistle.
Apparently Madame Pailleau swears blind it wasn’t her and the doctor believes she’s telling the truth, but who else could it have been?
’ Paulette held up two strands of Mathilde’s hair to compare their length.
‘Unless the girl who comes to clean spotted your man. What’s her name? ’