“Thy prize,” he said, his voice thick with desire. “Soon to be inside thee.”
I tried once more to break free, but he shoved me back down against the table, his weight pinning me in place. Then he was behind me, forcing my legs apart with his knee.
The pain when he entered me was sharp and tearing. A strangled cry escaped my lips as he buried himself to the short hilt. But it was enough to spear the barrier of my virtue, taking my maidenhood with brutal efficiency.
“Virgin,” he grunted, sounding pleased with himself. “As I knew thou would be.”
My mind went silent then, retreating to some distant place where Gaspard’s grunts and the slap of his body against mine couldn’t reach. I stared at the wall across the room, focusing on a small crack in the plaster, tracing its path from ceiling to floor as he used my body for his pleasure.
I was dimly aware that I was crying, that tears slid silently down my cheeks to pool on the polished wood beneath me. But they seemed to belong to someone else, some other girl whose life had been torn apart in the space of a day.
Gaspard’s rhythm grew erratic, his breathing harsh in my ear. With a final, violent thrust, he pulled out of me. I felt somethingwarm and sticky splatter across my naked back and buttocks as he groaned, his seed spilling onto my skin rather than inside me.
“Perfect,” he panted, his voice thick with satisfaction. “Thou wilt learn to enjoy it, Isabeau. All my women do, eventually.”
All his women.The words echoed in my mind, confirming what I had already suspected. How many others had he forced himself upon? How many had he broken with his cruel hands and harsher words?
I remained motionless on the table, my body aching, my spirit numb. Gaspard tucked himself away, adjusting his clothing as if nothing untoward had occurred. As if he hadn’t just shattered something irreparable within me.
“Margaret!” he called, his voice casual, almost cheerful. “Come clean up this mess.”
The door opened almost immediately, suggesting the maid had been waiting just outside. She entered with downcast eyes, a basin of water and cloths in her hands.
“Clean her,” Gaspard instructed, gesturing to me as if I were a spill to be mopped up. “Then lock her in her room for the night. I’ll not have her wandering about.”
He strode from the dining room without a backward glance, whistling tunelessly as he went.
Margaret approached me slowly, her eyes finally meeting mine. The pity there was unbearable, as was the resignation. This was routine for her. A duty she had performed before and would likely perform again.
“Come, miss,” she said softly, helping me to stand on shaking legs. “Let me tend to thee.”
I allowed her to clean Gaspard’s seed from my skin, too numb to feel shame or embarrassment. My torn dress hung in tatters around my waist, beyond repair just like my former life.
“It gets easier,” Margaret whispered as she worked, her voice so low I barely caught the words. “Not better. But easier to bear.”
I didn’t respond. Couldn’t. My voice seemed to have fled along with my dignity, leaving nothing but an empty shell where Isabeau Dubois had once been.
When she was finished, Margaret wrapped a blanket around my shoulders and led me up the narrow stairs to a small bedroom at the end of the hall. It was sparsely furnished considering the rest of the house. A bed, a chest for clothing, and a small table with a basin for washing. The window was narrow and, I noted with detached interest, fitted with iron bars on the outside.
“I’ll bring thy things up,” Margaret said, still avoiding my gaze. “And water for washing properly.”
I nodded mechanically, standing in the center of the room like a forgotten doll.
“I’m sorry,” she added as she backed toward the door. “Truly, I am.”
Then she was gone, the lock clicking into place behind her from the outside.
Alone at last, I sank to the floor, the blanket pooling around me like spilled ink. The tears I had been holding back came in a flood, silent and burning. I curled into myself, making my body as small as possible, as if I could disappear entirely if I just folded up tight enough.
I clutched at the locket around my throat, the only piece of my mother I had left. “Protect me,” I whispered to it, as I had the night before. But no protection had come. No salvation had arrived.
The lock on the door and the bars on the window told me all I needed to know about my future in this house. I was not a ward. I was not a future wife. I was a possession, to be used and locked away as Gaspard saw fit.
Unless I found a way out.
My hand slipped into the hidden pocket of my ruined dress, fingers closing around the small wooden rose I had cut from Papa’s table. Its edges were sharp where my knife had severed it from its home. Sharp enough, perhaps, to draw blood.
The thought came unbidden, dark and desperate:If I couldn’t escape this house, perhaps I could escape this life.
