Savage Lands (14 page)

The widow’s two daughters ran through the kitchen, ducking beneath the floury arms of Anne Conaud, the blacksmith’s wife, who, red-faced, lifted an iron kettle from the fire. She tutted at them irritably as they slipped through the doorway to wind themselves in their mother’s skirts, clamping to her legs like irons and clamouring for her attention. The widow placed a hand lightly on their tousled heads but she did not look at them. Her face was still tipped up towards Jean-Claude’s. Elisabeth did not know how the widow had contrived to be invited to the party. Her lodgings were on the other side of the settlement, beyond the place d’Armes. As for blood ties, she was kin to no one.

‘For the love of peace, Elisabeth Savaret!’ Perrine scolded. ‘See how much apple you take off with that peel!’

The widow stooped, taking the girls into her arms and pressing her lips against their foreheads. Jean-Claude watched them in silence, his hands thrust deep into the pockets of his breeches. Elisabeth willed him to look up, to seek her out, but he did not. The widow opened her arms and, seizing each other’s hands, the girls ran together through the open door. The widow and Jean-Claude smiled. He placed a hand beneath her elbow. Then they followed them.

Slowly an unpeeled apple rolled from the pile and fell with a thud to the floor.

‘Elisabeth Savaret? Where do you think you are going?’

But she was already gone.

Above the screams of the birds, Elisabeth could hear the flimsier cries of the girls as they called out to their mother. The afternoon was bright, the sun a harsh white glare behind its shade of cloud, and she squinted as she hurried down the steps and into the yard. When she reached the mulberry tree, she stopped, aware suddenly of the apple-sticky knife in her hand. They were standing together at the southern edge of the yard, their backs to her, a clear slice of the canebrake that edged the property visible between them. As she watched the widow called out to one of the girls, warning her to take care. Beside her Jean-Claude hoisted the smaller one up into his arms. The child leaned back away from him, her face crumpled with concentration as he pointed upward. There was nothing and then a vividly coloured bird flashed green and scarlet across the white sky.

‘Yes,’ she cried delightedly. ‘Yes, I see it. I see it!’

Jean-Claude turned. Elisabeth hastened backwards, snatching at her skirts, until, bent over a little, she was concealed by the fans of the palmetto. She could hear feet creaking on the planks of the stoop behind her, muffled voices, the distinctive bark of René Boyer’s laughter. In the sudden dread of discovery, her feet slipped on the muddy ground and she fell, dropping the knife and bruising her hand against a rock.

Perrine looked up as she returned to the kitchen and took up her knife.

‘Whatever happened to you?’ she asked peevishly. ‘You’re white as milk.’

Elisabeth bent her head, pressing the blade of her knife into the waxy apple. It left a smear of mud on the rosy skin.

‘Well? Are you ill?’

‘No. Perhaps. I don’t know.’

Perrine shook her head, expelling a spiteful snort of laughter.

‘Why, Elisabeth Savaret, one birth and you could almost be a physician.’

After the baptism dinner, Jean-Claude was summoned to the garrison and Elisabeth returned home alone. The hectic energy that had sustained her through the day had soured into an exhausted jitteriness. Fatigue fogged her head, making her clumsy. When she heated the stew over the fire, she burned her hand on the iron pot. She sucked the scorched flesh, feeling the blister rise beneath her tongue. She thought then of the tiny infant, not yet a day old, suckling at his mother’s breast, and of the indissoluble threads that bound her to Marie-Cathérine and to the child, whether he knew it or not. When Guillemette le Bras had first asked if she might consider assisting her in her midwifery, Elisabeth had hesitated.

‘I don’t know,’ she had said. ‘I would not be a popular choice.’

But Guillemette had only frowned, studying Elisabeth with her red knuckles pressed against her hips.

‘You are capable and circumspect, qualities of considerably greater worth to a labouring woman than a fondness for tittle-tattle. Surely you wish to be useful?’

The spoon slack in her hand, Elisabeth let her head hang forward. Her eyes closed and she thought of Rochon, who had gone to live among the savages so that he might not rot in a safe harbour. She thought of the widow and her daughters, of a heart-shaped face tipped upward and a smile tucked into the corner of a mouth, and of the rags she soaked each month, the trails of brown blood drifting in the water like smoke.

It was late when he returned, his supper still on the table. Rubbing her eyes, Elisabeth lifted the top plate. The gravy had grown a waxy skin.

‘I’m afraid it has spoiled rather.’

Jean-Claude shrugged, reaching for his fork. He was in good humour.

‘How was the commandant?’ she asked.

‘The commandant was uncommonly well.’

Elisabeth brought the pitcher of water. The water splashed a little as she poured, making a puddle on the table.

‘You are not usually so glad to see him,’ she said as she fumbled a rag from her apron.

‘He is not usually so sympathetic.’

‘You are sure it was the commandant you saw?’

Jean-Claude gave a muffled laugh, his mouth full of food.

‘We talked business,’ he said. ‘He was most interested in what I had to say.’

‘That’s good.’

‘You should be. With a little managing it should prove extremely profitable.’

‘For the commandant?’

‘For all of us. I mean us to be rich, Elisabeth.’

‘Rich? Here?’

‘There are riches for those with the appetite, even in a place like this.’ Jean-Claude took a final mouthful and pushed his plate away, stretching his arms above his head. ‘I promise you, we shall not rot in this stink hole forever.’

Elisabeth took the plate and placed it at the far end of the table. She swallowed.

‘Should you like apple pie? We baked too much for the baptism dinner.’

When he nodded she placed a large slice before him. There was a scorch on the wooden tabletop where some months before she had distractedly set a scalding kettle. Elisabeth traced the half-circle of it with a finger.

‘It went off well today, don’t you think?’

‘Did it? The infant certainly displayed strong lungs.’

‘I thought it went off well. The joiner seemed pleased.’

‘When isn’t he? That man is pleased by a plank of wood.’

She smiled, biting her lip. Then she took up the pitcher again.

‘Here, give me that. I should like to remain dry.’

Elisabeth let him take the pitcher from her.

‘I was surprised to see the seamstress there,’ she said, watching the flow of water into the cup. ‘She is not a neighbour.’

He shrugged.

‘It’s hardly a big town.’

‘You – I thought I saw you speak with her. Was she pleasant?’

‘She was amiable enough.’

‘Her daughters looked pretty creatures. I wonder at their ages.’

Jean-Claude glanced up at her, his spoon aloft. There was a speck of pastry on his chin.

‘Why are you so interested in the seamstress all of a sudden?’

Elisabeth coloured.

‘I – she’s new here. I was just curious. You have a crumb–’

‘I do?’

‘There. You have it.’

Pushing back her chair, Elisabeth rose, taking up her husband’s empty plate. Gathering the other dirty dishes, she pushed the door open and set them with the others for washing on the stoop. When she came back into the cottage, the door slammed behind her, causing the lamp to gutter. Jean-Claude turned round, one eyebrow raised, stretching his arms above his head.

‘It’s the hinge,’ she said. ‘The leather’s rotted.’

‘I’ll get more.’

‘Thank you.’

He leaned forward on his elbows, regarding her over his steepled fingers. His eyes crinkled.

‘Jealousy becomes you, you know,’ he said.

‘Jealousy? What in heaven makes you think I–’

‘Young widows. It hardly matters if they are not comely, or if they drag a bevy of brats behind them like bad weather. They always put colour in a wife’s cheeks.’

Elisabeth frowned. He laughed.

‘Don’t mistake me. I rather like it.’

‘Don’t.’

‘See how fetching your eyes are when they flash. You she-wolf, you.’

‘Stop it.’

He laughed again.

‘Come, Elisabeth. I only tease you a little. The seamstress is a plain Jane with a litter of squalling pups and the figure to prove it. I may be a dullard on occasion but I am not blind. Come here.’

She hesitated.

‘Come here,’ he said again, a fraction more sharply. ‘And be glad there are no pups here to spoil our pleasure.’

Slowly Elisabeth came round the table until she stood before him.

‘You think me foolish,’ she murmured.

‘Foolish and delightful.’

Taking her head between his hands, he kissed her. The tips of his fingers were hot and urgent in her hair, his elbows tight against her ribs. He had not kissed her like that in many months. She closed her eyes and her head filled with the widow’s soft arms and creamy skin and her heart-shaped face tipped up in invitation, cramming her skull until she was seized with anger, anger at the widow and anger too at the miserable doggedness of her imagination. It quickened in her, hot and sharp as desire, and she lifted her skirts where she stood, forcing her mouth against his as though she meant to devour him.

That month she did not bleed. For ten days she waited for the cramps, twisting a rag between her legs, but they did not come. She rinsed the unstained rags and folded them and placed them back in the chest beneath the bed. When the tingling came in her breasts she pulled the strings of her bodice tight, fastening them at her waist with a fierce knot. She said nothing to Jean-Claude. Then one evening, as she prepared supper, the sickness came upon her so strongly that she barely had time to make it to the porch. When he came after her she was leaning on the splintered rail, doubled up with the force of it.

‘Are you all right?’

‘I – I am better now,’ she murmured. ‘Go back in. I shall be there directly.’

He turned away. Then he turned back.

‘So you are with child again.’

She was cold, her legs unsteady. She pressed a hand to her clammy forehead, pushing away the tendrils of hair, and looked up at him, her neck trembling slightly beneath the sudden weight of her head. He looked back at her, his arms crossed over his chest. He did not smile.

‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘Maybe.’

‘You are late?’

She hesitated. Then she nodded.

‘How late?’

‘Three weeks. A month perhaps.’

One hand clamped to his jaw, Jean-Claude stared out over the yard. She could hear the rasp of his fingers against his ill-shaved chin.

‘And so it begins again.’

Elisabeth leaned into the rough rail of the porch, waiting for the dizziness to pass.

‘What?’ he demanded. ‘You expect me to dance for joy?’

‘I – perhaps this time–’

‘Why should this time be any different?’

Elisabeth was silent. Beneath her, the weeds glinted with silver threads of bile.

‘We have been through enough,’ he said. ‘I cannot believe you want this any more than I do.’

She felt the clatter of his boots on the porch in the palms of her hands, his warm hand on her shoulder. She did not look up.

‘Go to bed,’ he said more gently. ‘I can get supper in town.’

She let him take her arm, lead her into the house. When he was gone she lay on the bed, her bodice still laced. The sickness was not yet passed. She could feel the oily swirl of it at the base of her throat, the dull ache in her belly. She closed her eyes, feeling the room tip queasily around her, but she could not banish the image of him, the frown between his brows, his eyes sharp with a fear that caused her heart to turn over.

When dusk came the
platille
was streaked with pink like the inside of a shell before it faded to dusty grey and then to black. The room was very dark, though it thrummed with the night chorus of the frogs. Like being swallowed, Elisabeth thought, and unseen in the darkness she wept, the tears sliding into her ears.

Some time later she rose and made her way unsteadily into the other room. The sickness threatened her but she stretched her neck away from it, breathing carefully and swallowing the curdle in her throat. The supper fire was all but burned out. Elisabeth pushed away the blackened wood, sending up pale spirals of ash, and blew on the dying embers, coaxing a tiny reluctant flame for the tallow lamp.

The wick caught, sending shadows leaping against the wall. In the corner, by the table, was the basket containing the few necessities Guillemette considered indispensable for any midwife. Clean rags, bear grease as lubricant and emollient, flasks of syrup to purge and nourish the newborn infant. And tucked in beside them, in an earthenware jar, the tincture of belladonna to cleanse the womb and bring down a stubborn afterbirth.

Setting the lamp on the table, Elisabeth took a cup from the shelf. Then she squatted down before the basket. The sickness and the shadows ducked and slipped about her and she put one hand to the floor to steady herself. On the table the lamp hissed. Slowly she reached in and took the jar from the basket, cradling it in both hands. The jar was savage-made, its mouth stopped with a bung of soft wood. When she held it to the light, she could see the shallow indentations in the earthenware made by the tips of the savage’s fingers and she slid her own fingers into them, feeling the fit of it. She thought of the story Jean-Claude had told her of the savage nation of the Taensas, whose temple had been struck by lightning during a great storm and had immediately burned with great force, reducing their idols to ashes. Making horrible cries and all the while invoking their Great Spirit to descend and extinguish the flames, the savages had seized their children and, strangling them, had cast them one after another into the fire. Ten infants were dead before Jean-Claude and the rest of the expedition were able to restrain them. Afterwards the chief had turned furiously upon the white men.