The Lady and the Unicorn (19 page)

I frowned at my embroidery. I was meant to be making a falcon for a cushion cover, but it looked like a snake with wings. And I had just stitched the wrong colour, red where it should be brown, and the threads had become all tangled. I sighed.

Then I heard footsteps, and someone said, ‘Oh!’ I looked up. Marie-Céleste stood across the cloisters from me, looking very confused. ‘Ah, Marie-Céleste, I am glad you're here,’ I called out. ‘You can help untangle my threads.’ It was as if she and I were at home on the rue du Four, working our needles in the courtyard while Jeanne and Petite Geneviève played around us.

But we were not there. I sat up straight. ‘What are you doing here?’

Marie-Céleste curtsied, and then she began to cry.

‘Come here, Marie-Céleste.’

She was so used to me commanding her that even now she didn't hesitate, except in choosing which way around the cloisters to walk. She reached me and curtsied again, wiping her eyes on her sleeve.

‘Have you come to get me out?’ I asked eagerly, for I could not see why else she would be here.

Marie-Céleste looked even more confused. ‘You, Mademoiselle? I didn't know you was here. I've come to see my daughter.’

‘Hasn't my father sent you? Or Maman?’

Marie-Céleste shook her head. ‘I don't work at your house now, Mademoiselle. You know that, and you know why too.’ She frowned in a way that was strangely familiar, like suddenly getting a taste in your mouth of an almond cake you'd eaten earlier.

‘Why else would you come here, if not for me?’ I could not let go of the idea that Marie-Céleste would be my means of escape.

Marie-Céleste looked around. ‘My daughter — they said she was out here. I know I'm not meant to come, and she don't even think of me as Maman, but I can't help it.’

I gazed at her in surprise. ‘The girl is your daughter?’

Marie-Céleste looked equally surprised. ‘Didn't you know? They didn't tell you? Her name is Claude, you know — like yours.’

‘They tell me nothing here.
Alors
, she's asleep in there.’ I pointed down a passageway towards my room. ‘Four doors along.’

Marie-Céleste nodded. ‘I'll just have a look at her, then, Mademoiselle.
Pardon
.’ She stepped across the cloisters and down the corridor.

As I waited for her I thought back to the day Marie-Céleste had said she would name her baby after me. Then I remembered something — I had been meant to tell Maman that Marie-Céleste had gone to tend to her mother, and would be back. I had forgotten. Maman had been so awful to me then and every day since that I spoke to her as little as I could. And so Marie-Céleste did not work for us any more. I am not used to feeling guilty, but now I felt sick with it.

When she came back out I moved over on the bench. ‘Come and sit with me,’ I said, patting the space beside me.

Marie-Céleste looked uneasy. ‘I should be getting back, Mademoiselle. My mother didn't know I was coming here, and she'll be expecting me.’

‘Just for a moment. You can help me with my sewing.
Regarde
, I'm wearing some of your work.’ I smoothed my bodice.

Marie-Céleste sat down warily. She must be angry with me. I would have to make things right if I wanted to get her to help me.

‘How do you know this place?’ I asked, as if we were good friends chatting. We had been, once.

‘Been coming since I was a girl. We live close by, and Maman used to work here. Not as a nun, of course, but she helped in the fields and with the cooking. Them nuns are so busy praying that they need the help.’

Now I understood. ‘And Maman got you from here.’

Marie-Céleste nodded. ‘She wanted a new maid and asked the nuns to find one. She came here three or four times in a year, your mother. She wanted to join, but of course she couldn't.’

‘And you named your baby after me.’

‘Yes.’ Marie-Céleste looked as if she regretted that, as well she might.

‘Has the father seen her?’

‘No!’ Marie-Céleste shook her head as if she were shooing away a fly. ‘He don't care nothing for me or the baby. He had me once and didn't care what happened after. Then two years later he has the cheek to come around and see me. Wants it again, and won't care again if there's another babe. Well, I showed him, didn't I?’ She clenched her hand into a fist. ‘Deserved all he got. If you hadn't poked your head out the window —’ She stopped, her eyes suddenly fearful.

My sister Jeanne has a toy she likes to play with — a wooden cup on the end of a stick, with a ball tied to the stick with a string. She tosses the ball up and tries to catch it in the cup. I felt as if I had been tossing and tossing the ball, and suddenly I caught it with the click of wood against wood.

Perhaps the convent was already having an effect on me. If I had been anywhere else and discovered such a thing I would have shrieked. Now, though, sitting in that quiet garden, I did not scream, or scratch out Marie-Céleste's eyes, or cry. I would cry later. I simply said very quietly, ‘Nicolas des Innocents is Petite Claude's father?’

Marie-Céleste nodded. ‘It was only the once, when he came to see your father about some painting. That was all.’

‘Then why were you with him in the courtyard the other day? Having him beaten, it looked to me.’

Marie-Céleste gazed at me fearfully and began to cry again.

I gritted my teeth. ‘Stop it. Stop that crying!’

She gulped and swallowed, then wiped her eyes and blew her nose on her sleeve. Marie-Céleste really is very stupid. If we were in Paris she would go straight into the stocks — or worse — for having a man attacked like that. But I was trapped in the convent — there was nothing I could do to have her punished.

That thought must have come to her too, for when she had stopped her crying she looked at me sideways. ‘What are you doing here, Mademoiselle? You never said.’

Of course I could say nothing of Nicolas. Marie-Céleste didn't know what I felt for him or what I'd done with him — or tried to do, and that she had already done. I hated her now, but I could not let her see that. I would have to sound as if I wanted to be here. I picked up my embroidery so that I could keep my eyes on it. ‘Maman and Papa decided it would be best for me to spend the last months before my betrothal here, better to learn the ways of the Church. When a woman marries, she's no longer pure in body as she was when she was a maiden. It is important that her spirit remain pure, that she not be seduced by lust into forgetting Our Lady and the sacrif Ice made by Our Lord Jesus Christ.’

I sounded just like Maman, except not so convincing. I didn't convince Marie-Céleste, I could see that — she rolled her eyes. But then, she had lost her maidenhead long ago, I was sure, and didn't place such value on it as my family did on mine.

‘He was asking about you,’ Marie-Céleste announced suddenly.

‘He? Who?’ My heart beat faster. I stabbed at the embroidery with my needle. Marie-Céleste frowned at the mess I was making of the threads. She held out her hand and I surrendered it to her.

‘That bastard artist,’ she said, plucking at the strings to untangle them. ‘Wanted to know what you looked like and when you would visit the Bellevilles.’

So Nicolas had indeed come to see me at the rue des Cordeliers. I knew it couldn't have been for Marie-Céleste. I gazed at her head bowed over my embroidery, deftly unpicking all my faults. How could I get word to him through her without her becoming suspicious? She was stupid but she could often guess when I was lying.

From my room we heard a cough and a yelp. Marie-Céleste looked at me anxiously. ‘You go to her, Mademoiselle,’ she begged.

‘But you are her mother!’

‘She don't know that. I come to have a look at her but I don't talk to her or hold her. It hurts too much after.’ There was another cough and Marie-Céleste winced as if someone had stepped on her toe. For just a moment I felt sorry for her.

I went to the doorway of my room and looked in. Petite Claude was shaking her head, rolling it along the pillow in her sleep. She frowned, then suddenly let go of the dream, and her face relaxed into a smile. Now that I knew, I was amazed I had not seen Nicolas in the girl — her pinched eyes, her chestnut hair, her strong jaw. When she smiled she looked like him, and like her mother when she frowned.

‘She's fine,’ I said when I came back. ‘Demons were visiting her in her sleep but they have gone now.’ I didn't sit down, but scraped my toe in the pebbles.

Marie-Céleste nodded. She had been rapidly sewing, and already my falcon looked less like a snake and more like itself.

Watching Petite Claude had given me an idea. ‘Has Nicolas helped you with the child?’

Marie-Céleste snorted. ‘He threw some coins at me. Weren't nothing, though.’

I didn't care what Nicolas did or didn't do for his daughter — as far as I could see, Marie-Céleste had got into her own trouble. I didn't say so, though. ‘He should be giving you more than just a few coins,’ I said, strolling up and down in front of the bench. ‘He has designed tapestries for my father, you know, that will bring him money and are sure to bring him fame. He should be paying something for Petite Claude.’ I let her think on that while I took a little turn around the square of roses. My thumb ached pleasantly from where I'd pierced it on the thorn. When I came back to the bench I said, ‘Perhaps I could help you get money from him — get him to pay for Petite Claude so that she may leave here and stay with you and your mother.’

‘How?’ Marie-Céleste asked quickly.

I brushed a fly from my sleeve. ‘I could tell him my father won't pay him for the tapestries until he does.’

‘Could you really do that, Mademoiselle?’

‘I will write a note now, and you can take it to him.’

‘Me?’ Marie-Céleste looked put out. ‘Why don't you, Mademoiselle? Or one of your ladies?’ She looked around. ‘You must have one with you. Probably Béatrice — your mother always meant her for you, didn't she? She'll be surprised to be living here again.’

‘Again? Has she before?’

Marie-Céleste shrugged.
‘Bien sûr.
She grew up here, same as me.’

I'd not thought of it before, but Béatrice did seem familiar with the convent and its ways — she knew where things were and even some of the nuns.

‘She can take the note for you, Mademoiselle,’ Marie-Céleste added.

I had forgotten that Marie-Céleste didn't know I was imprisoned here — she thought Béatrice and I could come and go as we pleased. And she mustn't know. If she did she might not help me to reach Nicolas.

‘I'm not meant to leave,’ I said. ‘Nor Béatrice. It's part of the purif Ication of the soul before the betrothal. I don't see other people, especially not men.’

‘But I can't go to him — not after what happened. He might beat me, or worse.’

It's no more than you deserve, I thought. ‘Leave it in his room, when he's not there,’ I suggested. When she continued to look dubious I added, ‘Do you want me to tell Papa that you had his steward beat the very artist my father admires?’

Marie-Céleste knew she was trapped. She looked as if she might cry again. ‘Give me the note, then,’ she mumbled.

‘Wait there.’ I hurried to my room before she could change her mind. I rummaged through my bag for more paper, then knelt on the floor and quickly wrote a note, telling Nicolas where I was and begging him to rescue me. I had no sealing wax but that did not much matter — Marie-Céleste certainly couldn't read it, and I doubted she knew anyone else who could.

I wasn't quiet enough. As I was finishing Petite Claude sat up on the pallet and began to cry and rub her eyes. Her dark red curls swirled around her face. She looked so like Marie-Céleste that I wanted to laugh. ‘Come,
chérie,’
I whispered, picking her up. ‘Come and see your silly mother.’

When we came out, the nuns were coming back from Sext and Marie-Céleste was standing with Béatrice. They looked peculiar together, a giant with a doll. It was hard to picture them here as girls. They jumped apart when I got to them, and Marie-Céleste would not look at Petite Claude. ‘Take her for a moment,’ I said, handing the baby to a surprised Béatrice. ‘I'm going to walk Marie-Céleste to the gate.’

Béatrice gave me a look with her doggish eyes. ‘They won't let you out, you know.’

I made a face at her and tucked my hand through the crook of Marie-Céleste's arm. When I was sure Béatrice couldn't see I stuffed the note into her hand. ‘Do you know where he lives?’ I whispered.

Marie-Céleste shook her head.

‘Steward will — he sent messengers there for Papa. Find out from him — I'll have him punished if he doesn't tell you.’

Marie-Céleste nodded and pulled her arm from my grasp. She looked weary. The thought of sharing the same man with her disgusted me. How Nicolas could have wanted her — especially if he could see her now, with her red nose and her small eyes and her scowl — I did not understand.