Lies Told In Silence (5 page)

Madame Lalonde a beauty? Grandmere indulging in escapades? Helene could not imagine.

* * *

After lunch, Henri took Lise out to the garden, which occupied the south and east sides of the house. His aunt had designed it with pleasure in mind: a short walk, a time of contemplation on the swing hanging from a spreading chestnut tree, a game of croquet or badminton at the bottom of the garden, where shouts and laughter could be indulged. Discreet spaces behind hedges and trailing vines offered opportunities for an afternoon rest or brief flirtation. His wife was far too angry for flirtation.

“Shall we go this way?”

He pointed towards a wo
oden arch covered in wild roses and Lise tilted her head to one side in response. They walked along a rough stone path bordered by alyssum and bluebells until finding a wooden bench near a tangle of raspberry bushes and a birdbath decorated with leaping fish. Henri gestured for Lise to sit.

“Talk to me, Lise. You know I’m trying to do what I think is best. I’ve told you as much as I can.”

“You’ve said all that before, Henri. But you’re acting like a dictator. I feel like chattel, not your wife. We used to make decisions together.”

“But I can’t tell you all the facts. You have to trust me.”

“Trust? Why should I trust you? And what will I do in this tiny backwater? I have no friends, no family. It feels like exile, not safety.”

“Maman is with you.”

“She’s your mother, Henri, not mine. I respect her, but we are hardly friends.”

They were silent, each waiting for the other to speak. Summer sounds of buzzing insects and chirping birds did nothing to ease their estrangement. Finally, Lise raised her head, revealing
bright splotches on her cheeks.

“You’ve sent me away so you can be with that woman.”

It was time for the truth. He could not avoid it any longer. Forcing her to leave Paris was difficult enough; leaving Guy behind was even more difficult. He could not have her wondering every day whether he was with another woman. Vivienne’s charms had been fleeting; lust had ensnared him as well as a desire to prove his skills in the bedroom to another woman. Moments of release, but nothing compared to what he had with Lise. Nothing at all. Had he damaged his marriage beyond repair? Henri could only hope this was not the case. He was miserable without her love.

“The affair is over. It’s been over for months. I’m sorry, so very sorry I hurt you. I love you, Lise. Please don’t let us part this way. I can’t be alone in Paris without knowing that you love me.”

Lise did not move; every part of her appeared frozen by what he had disclosed. Her complexion was almost ghostly, lips as pale as mist. Hands hanging at her side as if drained of all energy. She said nothing, her silence an unspoken rejection. He waited. Slowly, very slowly, she turned her back to him, yet still he waited. Birds chirped, insects hummed, petals fell to the ground, clouds drifted past. Eventually, Henri rose from the bench, squared his shoulders and retreated like a weary soldier along the path towards the house.

* * *

The following morning, while Gaston cleaned the windows of the Tonneau with a damp cloth, Henri stood on the front step with a small black valise, waiting for Lise to appear. Although only a few minutes after nine, hot humid air was already making the day uncomfortable.

Henri’s mother had prepared breakfast, which he ate quickly, grateful for strong coffee, crusty bread and thick slices of cheese from an amply stocked pantry. These tastes reminded him of
simple country pleasures, and he wished that the world was not turning upside down and he could stay to put things right with Lise.

The previous night, she had refused him for the first time in twenty years of marriage. At dinner, she had spoken little, but he had retained a shred of hope that her attitude might soften and had followed her upstairs to bed, her swaying hips bringing heat to his body. When he had closed the door, she told him he was not welcome in her room, and when he had attempted to kiss her, she stiffened, allowing no part of her mouth to respond.

Even then he had persisted, touching her breast in a way that had always caused her nipples to harden in the past, but she had pushed his hand away and told him to leave. He spent a restless night on the sofa, cursing himself for allowing a flirtatious woman to tempt him and wondering what he could do to recapture his wife’s love.

At least Jean is content
, he thought, observing his son chattering to his grandmother, who nodded and smiled at a constant stream of questions.
Helene will get used to it
, he told himself, although he knew her unhappiness had returned, the blush of exploring a new home fading overnight. She had responded to his cheerful questions that morning with
yes
or
no
or a shrug of her shoulders.

Gaston looked once more at his watch. “Don’t want to miss the train, Monsieur.”

“A moment, Gaston.”

Surely Lise would not let him leave without saying good-bye. He was about to go searching for her when she emerged from the front door and stood beside Helene.

“I’ll write soon and so will Guy,” he said.

“When will you visit us, Papa?” Helene made no pretence of smiling.

“In a few weeks time. I’ll send word.”

Henri kissed his wife, ignoring her rigid body, then Helene and finally his mother. He admonished Jean one more time to be helpful to his mother and grandmother, placed his valise inside the
wicker basket and climbed into the front seat. Waving good-bye, he wondered whether Lise would ever forgive him and if life would ever be normal again.

Chapter
7

June 1914

Distress and anxiety took over Tante Camille’s house. Mariele felt it in her daughter-in-law’s unfinished sentences and the blank way she stared off into the distance. She felt it when the light in Helene’s eyes vanished into bewilderment or when her granddaughter picked an argument with Jean over something as small as who had forgotten to close a window or whose turn it was to sweep the steps. Even Jean was testy, resisting his mother’s suggestions and glowering whenever she scolded him. Mariele kneaded and stirred and bustled about the kitchen to keep her worries in check. In the evenings, she read the newspaper fetched by one of the family from Beaufort, and just the other day, she had purchased some wool and had begun to knit a sweater, her fingers fumbling with almost forgotten movements.

Accustomed to the pace of Paris—the busy streets, the comings and goings of friends and family, the shops and bookstores and gallerie
s designed for browsing—Beaufort was more than quiet. It was strange to think of the unexpected twists a life could take. Bertrand was dead, yet here she was back in the place where they had discovered such contentment in the early years of marriage. The place where Henri was conceived. How well she remembered those idyllic summer days and nights, first as a young bride and later as a mother of several children. Would some of the contentment she had found so long ago creep into their lives?

Within the confines of their Beaufort home, the moods of her daughter-in-law became familiar. She knew when Lise was thinking about Guy by the way she paused and pressed a handkerchief to her eyes. When thoughts of Helene preoccupied her, she tapped a finger against her mouth and seemed about to speak but rarely did. When Lise thought of Henri, her face tightened. Only Jean made her smile.

Mariele wondered how to help. Days were long and nights even longer without the bustle and glamour of Paris. She and her daughter-in-law were accustomed to coexisting, but their lives had previously been parallel, rarely intersecting. In reality, they knew little about one another.

“Lise! Can you help?”

Mariele was in the dank, dark dressing room attached to her bedroom when she called out. Since their arrival, she had been slowly transforming her bedroom, adding personal touches to remind her of Paris and a photograph of her husband taken on a holiday trip to Greece. She replaced gloomy canvasses with two pictures discovered in the cellar: one a beach scene with colourful umbrellas and small children splashing in the waves, the other a landscape of golden fields pierced by poppies. She removed heavy drapes in favour of light gauze panels that moved gently as if breathing in and out when the wind stirred. Cleaning the dressing room attached to the bedroom was her last task.

After a few moments, she heard Lise climb the stairs.

“What is it, Maman Noisette?”

“I found a chest underneath all these boxes. Can you help me move it out so we can see what’s inside? It seems to me that Camille kept the oddest things. Did I tell you I found a matching pair of duelling pistols the other day?”

“Really? Why don’t I grab the handle at this end while you push?” Lise said.

Mariele had been hopeful that Lise might comment on the duelling pistols or ask to see them. They were truly extraordinary
and from such a different era. She wondered what it would take for Lise to allow even a small degree of intimacy to flourish between them.
Does she think I’m too old to understand her feelings? Or that I will judge her?

The two women struggled until they had the wooden chest in t
he middle of Mariele’s bedroom.

“It’s a pretty piece,” Lise said. “Are these Tante Camille’s initials?”

“Yes. Camille Elise Noisette.”

“I’m sure the moths have destroyed whatever’s in there.” Lise brushed the dirt and cobwebs off her skirt.

“Let’s open it anyway,” Mariele said, anxious to keep Lise talking for a little while. She pinched each clasp and smiled when she heard them snap and click. After lifting the lid, she peeled away several layers of tissue.

“Oh, look,” she said, draping a heavy damask tablecloth against her body.

Mariele set it aside and extracted three more, each of exquisite design, followed by fine cotton sheets and a long, lacy nightgown and matching peignoir.

“This must have been Camille’s trousseau.”

“But Henri . . . but I thought she never married,” Lise said.

“She was engaged.” Mariele’s smile dropped away.

Lise touched the nightgown. “It feels like silk. No one ever mentioned an engagement. What happened?”

“His name was Andre. He drowned in a boating accident. Camille didn’t know he couldn’t swim. We tried to
rescue him but . . .” Her words trailed off.

“How did—”

“She blamed herself,” Mariele continued as though Lise had not spoken. “After Andre’s death, she became more and more unconventional.”

Years ago, Mariele had been amused by her husband’s anno
yance when Camille did something scandalous—a frequent occurrence. His sister’s antics made him rage about her effect on the family reputation.

“I remember an incident when Camille drove a horse-drawn carriage at full speed through the Bois, racing with a rather rakish but very handsome man at least ten years her junior. Your father-in-law often said she needed a husband to tame her.”

“Henri speaks of her with great affection. But I met her only a few times before she died.”

Mariele nodded. “She had many lovers. Men admired her wit and beauty. She did as she pleased. Women envied her for that. Your sister-in-law, Chantal, is rather like her.”

Lise removed another layer of tissue and held up a pile of hand-smocked baby clothes extracted from the bottom of the trunk. “Who were these for?”

Mariele placed a hand over her lips. “Oh, dear. That’s a long story.”

“Time is one thing we have a lot of.” There was no sharpness to Lise’s voice, merely a tone of weary despondency.

“Why don’t I tell you the story over a pot of tea?”

When the kettle whistled, Mariele poured boiling water into a white teapot decorated with tiny green shamrocks while Lise set four cookies on a matching plate. Once outside, they pulled two chairs into the shade and sat for a while in companionable silence, cups in hand. June was slipping away, the vivid greens of spring darkening, the sky turning a hazy blue as humidity gathered and the sun’s angle changed. Something banged inside the house.

“Must be Helene,” Lise said with a sigh.

Mariele shifted in her chair and set her teacup down. “Shall I tell you about the baby clothes?” Pleased to see a spark of interest in her daughter-in-law’s face, Mariele began the story. “Camille was my favourite sister-in-law. When I married Bertrand, she was the only one I could talk to. My mother-in-law and father-in-law were austere, private people who remained aloof from Paris society. So very different from my own family. They made me feel foolish and inadequate no matter what I did.

“Before our wedding, Bertrand told me we would live with his parents. Their house was so large he said it made sense for us to have two bedrooms and a small sitting room on the second floor.
We took our meals with his parents and five siblings.

“Bertrand’s mother criticized everything I did, everything I wore. Nothing pleased her. One day, Camille found me crying in my bedroom. When I confessed the reasons for my tears, she told me Bertrand was their mother’s favourite and that Madame Noisette was jealous of me. Camille showed me how to get the upper hand.”

“How did you do that?”

Mariele laughed, remembering the first time she mentioned plans to move out of the family home. The look on her mother-in-law’s face had been worth Bertrand’s displeasure.

“I had a few strategies. I adopted the habit of holding Bertrand’s hand or touching his arm or cheek whenever his mother was looking. And I talked all the time about plans for a house of our own. Camille helped me realise that her mother was a bully, and if I stood my ground, she would back down.”

“Did your strategy work?”

“Eventually. We moved out after eighteen months when Bertrand had had enough of living in between his two women.” Mariele smiled at the memory.

“I can certainly imagine you standing your ground, Maman Noisette. What about the baby clothes?”

“Ah, the baby clothes. That’s where we started, wasn’t it?” Mariele twisted her necklace around one finger. “The summer after we married, Bertrand and I had a holiday in Beaufort, and Camille and her fiancé came to visit. I think her parents were so relieved she was finally engaged that they were prepared to overlook the impropriety. No one thought to ask Andre if he could swim when Camille proposed we go boating. That was the day he drowned. Our boat was on the other side of the river, and by the time we reached them, it was too late.”

Mariele could still remember Camille’s frantic screams, Be
rtrand’s desperate effort to row as fast as possible and Andre splashing helplessly as the current swept him downstream.

“Four months later, she came to me with news of her pregna
ncy. Bertrand never knew that I took her to Beaufort for her confinement. The baby died when he was two days old.”

Mariele retrieved a rumpled handkerchief tucked inside the sleeve of her blouse and wiped her eyes. She smiled apologetically.

“And she never married.”

“No. She had another engagement, but she never loved anyone like that again.”

Lise pushed a few strands of hair behind her ear. “Sad story,” she said in between sips of tea.

“Very sad. But for the most part, she was a contented woman. I loved her dearly.”

“Perhaps being unmarried is a good thing.”

“Perhaps.”
Careful
, she thought.
Let silence work its magic.

Mariele watched a butterfly flutter and swoop, rarely stopping for more than an instant. To her left, a yellow-breasted finch perched on the birdbath, dipping his beak into the water then twisting his neck back and forth as if checking for danger. A cowbell clanged, but otherwise all was still.

Mariele stole a gaze at her daughter-in-law just in time to see a tear roll down Lise’s cheek. “Are you all right, dear?”

Lise twisted her wedding r
ing back and forth. “I’m fine. It’s just . . .”

“You’ve been so unlike yourself ever since we came to Beaufort. Is it Guy?” Lise shook her head. “Henri?” Lise said nothing. “I’m a good listener, you know. Sometimes it helps to share your worries.”

Lise extracted a handkerchief from her pocket and wiped her eyes. “Thank you, Maman Noisette. But I don’t want to complain about my husband to his mother.”

“You’re assuming that I will take his side.” Mariele laid one hand on her daughter-in-law’s arm. “I know my son, Lise. He can be selfish and act without regard to consequences. I’ve watched you avoid him for months.”

“For months?” Lise said.

“Yes, for months. What has he done that makes you so unha
ppy?”

“I don’t know if I can tell yo
u. Or anyone, for that matter.”

Mariele allowed silence to gather once again as she rocked back
and forth on the white wicker chair. After a few minutes, Lise brushed a mosquito off her arm then crossed one knee over the other and smoothed her skirt.

“Henri has had an affair. It doesn’t matter with whom. One of my friends—an acquaintance, really—told me about it several months ago. At first, I didn’t believe her, but as the weeks passed, whenever we were in this woman’s company—the woman Henri had supposedly taken for a lover—he behaved differently. He stood straighter, gestured more, smiled at her. Occasionally, he rested a hand on her arm or shoulder. Once I saw him brush past her in the hall and squeeze her hand. That’s when I knew.

“After Henri announced that he wanted us to go to Beaufort, I accused him of sending us away so her could be with her. I called him names and tried to slap his face.” Lise paused to clear her throat. “Is there any more tea?” she asked.

“Of course. But I don’t think it’s very hot.”

“Doesn’t matter.” She held out her cup and continued to talk while Mariele poured. “The day we arrived in Beaufort, he admitted to the affair and said it was over. I didn’t believe him. I don’t know what to believe anymore.” Lise swallowed a mouthful of tea then attempted to smile, but it was more like a grimace.

“Beyond that, I’m worried about Guy, of course. If Henri is right,
Guy could soon be in danger. And we’re stuck in this little town away from everyone and everything we know. I’m lonely and angry. Nothing in my life is stable or dependable. Nothing.” Lise’s voice, which at first had been soft and mournful, was now biting and brittle.

Mariele took
Lise’s hands. “My dear, you’ve been carrying such a large burden. I’d like to help, if you’ll let me.”

Lise dropped her head. Mariele continued to hold her hands, and in a soft voice that was little more than a whisper, spoke of her own marriage: troubling times as she adjusted to living with Bertrand, a man she barely knew, their early life together, the frantic times with young children when it seemed she was always pregnant. “Even my toes were fat,” she said. Mariele told Lise about living through war and her brother’s death, about two
miscarriages and the loss of her mother and father within weeks of one another.