“You will survive this,” he said, full of determination. “You will.”
Marthe did not respond. She sat in the bed with the cattail mattress, her head on her knees, bobbing in the sea.
“You must survive, my Marthe,” Verger said, more plaintive now. He rubbedher back and she felt her shoulders slump with relief. They had not sent for any of their near neighbours, lest they discover the widow in her outhouse prison and release a tornado of trouble. Once Élisabeth returned, Verger would run for one of theSaint-Jean-Baptistegirls. For now, Marthe had only her husband.
“You must survive, my Marthe. For we have so much we want to do. You are going to sell jam, remember? Remember all our plans?”
She thought of raspberries and blackberries and the dark currents they called blueberries and could almost taste the summer fruit on her tongue. She would love to have sold jam in her little shop on the corner of Rue Saint-Paul. A white shelf with jars full of deep reds and near-black purples. She would have loved that.
“You will survive, Marthe,” Verger pleaded. “From the moment I saw you in the chapel, I knew…” He lost his words, then tried again. “You said to me, that first day, that your mother had died when you were a child. I thought it would make you happy, to have an older companion. I thought that Barbe Poulin would be the mother you had lost. I failed you. And I know you are disappointed with me, wanting us to have more—”
“Verger?” Marthe struggled to raise her head off her knees.
“Yes?” He laid his hands on top of hers. “Yes, my Marthe?”
“You’ve not failed me.” She wanted to explain how powerless she felt, watching her father die, slowly, then all at once when the blood ran from his vein. She wanted to explain to him she only ever wanted to be rich so that she would not lose someone she loved again. She wanted to confess that she liked spending time with him alone, that his kisses were as good as any gold. She could not summon the words. “I… I hoped for a different fate” was all she said.
This prompted Verger to leap from her side and run out of the room. He returned a moment later, a purse in his hands. “I have put aside a few coins every month. I have a small sum saved. I will call for the barber-surgeon, he will help you. I will go now—”
“No,” Marthe gasped weakly. “Not the surgeon, I beg you.”
She remembered what Apolline had said. The surgeon was only called when a father wanted his child cut out of the mother’s belly. But Marthe could not explain; she hadn’t the strength or the time before the next wave was upon her. The whip cracked. She circled her belly with her arms, laid her head on her knees and groaned.
The sea dragged her under again.
38
Élisabeth pushed the door open and was struck by a waft of pipe smoke and the smell of sour wine. Half a dozen heads turned towards her. She cringed to be back in Folleville’s tavern so soon; she could not quite remember what had happened when Marcosi confronted the governor but realized that many of the men staring at her certainly did.
She had nowhere else to turn but to the sorry little tavern. She had half a notion that Anne Lamarque, with the taint of witchcraft upon her, would somehow help release Jeanne Roy. Or, Élisabeth thought, if she were indeed a witch, perhaps Anne could fly to Jeanne’s aid.
Élisabeth strode up to the bar, looking for the innkeeper. Instead, she saw Anne Lamarque’s husband staring at her. He had a soft, grey beard and gentle eyes, quite the opposite of his hard-bitten wife.
“Can I help you, mistress?”
Élisabeth stumbled as her muddy skirts clung to her legs. She tried to kick herself free, like an animal caught in a trap.
“May I speak with your wife, Monsieur de Folleville?” she asked, loosening her legs from the clinging cloth and bobbing politely on the spot.
“She’s not here,” he said, eyeing her warily. Élisabeth saw that her associationwith Barbe Poulin, Anne Lamarque’s bitter rival, made the innkeeper doubt her intentions.
“It is very important.” She lowered her voice. “It is about Jeanne Roy.”
“She’s most certainly not here,” he said more emphatically. Élisabeth’s heart sank. Everyone in the village knew it had been her accusation that had brought Jeanne to justice.
“Please, I won’t cause any trouble. I am so very desperate. I need help—”
“Élisabeth.”
She turned so quickly she felt lightheaded. It was Francoeur. Her Francoeur.
“It’s you.” Her eyes lit up. “I was praying for a miracle. And the Virgin sent you.”
Her husband’s beard was shaggier, his chemise dirty around the collar. “I’ve not been sent. I’ve been staying here this past fortnight.”
“It feels like a miracle to me.”
Francoeur clenched his teeth. He held out his arm, indicating that she join him at a table away from the bar.
