The Virgin Blue (17 page)

‘Good,’ I muttered. Then I glared at him. ‘How do they know I'm not pregnant?’

To my surprise Jean-Paul looked even more embarrassed. ‘Nothing, nothing, they just –’ He trailed off and fumbled with his shirt pocket.

‘What?’ I began to feel sick with disgust at what they might know. Jean-Paul pulled a pack of cigarettes from his pocket. ‘Do you know the machine for selling Durex just off the square?’ he asked at last.

‘Ah.’ Someone must have seen Rick buying them that night. God, I thought, what haven't they sniffed out? Does the doctor broadcast every visit? Do they go through our garbage?

‘What else have they said?’

‘You do not need to know.’

‘What else have they said?’

Jean-Paul gazed out the window. ‘They notice everything you buy in the shops. The postman tells them about every letter you receive. They know when you go out during the day, and they notice how much you go out with your husband. And, well, if you do not use your shutters they look inside, too.’ He sounded more disapproving of me not closing my shutters than of their looking in.

I shivered, thinking of the choking baby, of all those shoulders turned against me.

‘What have they said specifically?’

‘You want to know?’

‘Yes.’

‘There was the quiches and the craving. Then they think you are pretentious because you bought a washing machine.’

‘But why?’

‘They think that you should wash by hand the way they do. That only people with children should have machines. And they think the colour you painted your shutters is vulgar and not right for Lisle. They think you lack finesse. That you should not wear dresses without sleeves. That you are rude to speak English to people. That you are a liar because you told Madame Rodin at the
boulangerie
that you lived here when you didn't yet. And you picked the lavender in the square, and no one does that. In fact that was their first impression of you. It is hard to change that.’

We drove in silence for a few minutes. I felt tearful but wanted to laugh too. I had only spoken English once in public, but that counted for much more than all the times I spoke French. Jean-Paul lit a cigarette and opened his window a crack.

‘Do you think I'm rude and lack finesse?’

‘No.’ He smiled. ‘And I think you should wear dresses without sleeves more often.’

I blushed. ‘So did they have anything nice to say about me?’

He thought for a moment. ‘They think your husband is very handsome, even with the –’ He gestured at the back of his head.

‘Ponytail.’

‘Yes. But they do not understand why he runs and they think his shorts are too short.’

I smiled to myself. Jogging did seem out of place in a French village, but Rick was impervious to people's stares. Then my smile faded.

‘Why do
you
know all this about me?’ I asked. ‘About quiches and being pregnant and shutters and washing machines? You act like you're above all this gossip, but you seem to know as much as everybody else.’

‘I am not a gossip,’ Jean-Paul replied firmly, blowing smoke at the top of the window. ‘Someone repeated it to me as a warning.’

‘A warning of what?’

‘Ella, it is a public event every time you and I meet. It is not right for you to meet me. I was told that they are gossiping about us. I should have been more careful. It does not matter about me, but you are a woman, and it is always worse for a woman. Now you will say that it is wrong,’ he continued as I tried to interrupt, ‘but whether right or wrong, it's true. And you are married. And you are a stranger. All these things make it worse.’

‘But it's insulting that you feel their judgment comes before mine. What's wrong with seeing you? I'm not doing anything wrong, for God's sake. I'm married to Rick, but that doesn't mean I can't ever talk to another man!’

Jean-Paul didn't say anything.

‘How do you live with this?’ I said impatiently. ‘With this gossipy village life? Do they know everything about you?’

‘No. Of course it was a shock after big cities, but I learned to be discreet.’

‘And you call this discreet, sneaking off to meet me like this? Now we really
do
look guilty.’

‘It's not exactly like that. What offends them most is when it's in front of them, under their nostrils.’

‘Noses.’ I smiled in spite of everything.

‘Noses, under their noses.’ He smiled back grimly. ‘It is a different psychology.’

‘Well anyway, the warning hasn't worked. Here we are, after all.’

We were silent for the rest of the journey.

The cover was burned half off, the pages charred and unreadable, except for the first. Written in a spidery hand, in faded brown ink, was the following:

Jean Tournier n. 16 août 1507
m. Hannah Tournier 18 juin 1535

   Jacques n. 28 août 1536
   Etienne n. 29 mai 1538
   m. Isabelle du Moulin 28 mai 1563

      Jean n. 1 janvier 1563
      Jacob n. 2 juillet 1565
      Marie n. 9 octobre 1567

   Susanne n. 12 mars 1540
   m. Bertrand Bouleaux 29 novembre 1565

   Deborah n. 16 octobre 1567

Four pairs of eyes rested on me: those of Jean-Paul, Mathilde, Monsieur Jourdain – who to my surprise was sitting next to Mathilde drinking a highball when we walked in – and a small blonde girl perched on a stool with a Coke in her hand, eyes wide with excitement, introduced as Mathilde's daughter, Sylvie.

I felt a little sick, but I clutched the Bible to my chest and smiled at them.

‘
Oui
,’ I said simply. ‘
Oui
.’

5
THE SECRETS

T
he mountains were the most obvious difference. Isabelle gazed at the surrounding slopes; the bare slice of rock near the summit looked as if it might tumble down at any moment. The trees were foreign, bunched together like moss, allowing here and there a bright flash of meadow.

The Cevenol mountains are like a woman's belly, she thought. These mountains of the Jura are like her shoulders. Sharper, more defined, less welcoming. My life will be different in mountains like these. She shivered.

They were standing by a river at the edge of Moutier, part of a group travelling from Geneva in search of a place to settle. Isabelle wanted to beg them not to stop here, to keep going until they found a gentler home. No one else shared her uneasiness. Etienne and two other men left them by the river and went to the village inn to ask about work.

The river running through the valley was small and dark and lined with silver birches. Except for the trees, the Birse was not so different from the Tarn, but looked unfriendly. Though low now, it would triple in size in the spring. While the adults debated, the children ran down to the water, Petit Jean and Marie dipping their hands in it while Jacob crouched by the edge, staring at the pebbles on the bottom. He reached in carefully and pulled out a black stone in the shape of a lopsided heart, holding it up between two fingers for them to see.

—
Eh, bravo, mon petit!
shouted Gaspard, a jovial man blinded in one eye. He and his daughter, Pascale, had run an inn in Lyons and escaped with a cart of food they shared with anyone who needed it. The Tourniers met them on the road from Geneva when their chestnuts were gone and they had only enough potatoes to last another day. Gaspard and Pascale fed them, refusing all thanks or offers of repayment.

— God wills it, Gaspard said, and laughed as if he had just told a joke. Pascale simply smiled, reminding Isabelle of Susanne, with her quiet face and gentle ways.

The men came back from the inn, a puzzled look on Etienne's face, his eyes wide and wild without lashes or brows to anchor them.

— There is no Duc de l'Aigle here, he said, shaking his head. No estate to lease land from or work for.

— Who do they work for? Isabelle demanded.

— Themselves. He sounded dubious. Some of the farmers need help with their hemp crop. We could stay for a time.

— What's hemp, Papa? Petit Jean asked.

Etienne shrugged.

He doesn't want to admit he doesn't know, Isabelle thought.

They stopped in Moutier. In the time left before the snow came, the Tourniers were hired by one farmer after another. On the first day they were led into a field of hemp that they were to cut and leave to dry. They stared at the tough, fibrous plants as tall as Etienne.

Finally Marie said what they had all been thinking.

— Maman, how do you eat those plants?

The farmer laughed.

—
Non, non, ma petite fleur
, he said, this plant is not for eating. We spin thread from it, for cloth and rope. Do you see this shirt? He pointed to the grey shirt he wore. This is made from hemp. Go on, touch it!

Isabelle and Marie rubbed the cloth between their fingers. It was thick and scratchy.

— This shirt will last until my grandson has children!

He explained that they would cut and dry the hemp, soak it in a pit of water to soften and separate the fibre from the wood, and dry it again before beating the plants to separate the fibre completely. Then the fibre would be carded and spun.

— That is what you will do all winter. He nodded at Isabelle and Hannah. Makes your hands strong.

— But what do you
eat
Marie persisted.

— Plenty! We trade hemp at the market in Bienne for wheat and goats and pigs and other things. Fear not,
fleurette
, you won't go hungry.

Etienne and Isabelle were silent. In the Cévennes they had rarely traded at market: they sold their surplus to the Duc de l'Aigle. Isabelle clutched her neck. It didn't seem right, growing things that could not be eaten.

— We have kitchen gardens, the farmer assured them. And some grow winter wheat. Don't worry, there is plenty here. Look at this village – do you see hunger? Are there poor people here? God provides. We work hard and He provides.

It was true that Moutier was wealthier than their old village. Isabelle picked up a scythe and stepped into the field. She felt as if she were lying on her back in the river and had to trust that she would float.

* * *

East of Moutier the Birse turned north, cutting through the mountain range, leaving behind a towering gorge of yellow-grey rock, solid in places, crumbling at the edges. The first time Isabelle saw it she wanted to drop to her knees; it reminded her of a church.

The farm they moved to was not by the Birse, but by a stream further east. They passed the gorge whenever they walked to or from Moutier. When Isabelle passed it alone she crossed herself.

Their house was built of stone they did not recognize, lighter and softer than Cevenol granite. There were gaps where mortar had crumbled away, making the house draughty and damp. The window and door frames were made of wood, as was the low ceiling, and Isabelle feared the house would catch fire. The Tournier farm had been built entirely of stone.

Strangest of all, it had no chimney; nor did any of the farms in the valley. Instead the low wood ceiling was false, and smoke gathered in the space between it and the roof, dispersing through small holes cut under the eaves. Meat was hung there to smoke, but that seemed to be its only benefit. Everything in the house was covered with a layer of soot and the air became dark and stuffy whenever windows and doors were closed.

Sometimes during that first winter, when Isabelle wrapped her hair in greasy, grey linen, or spun endlessly, trying to keep her bloody fingers from staining the coarse hemp thread, or sat at the table in the dim smoke, coughing and gasping, knowing the sky outside was low and heavy with snow and would remain so for months, she thought she would go mad. She missed the sun on the rocks, the frozen broom, the clear cold days, the huge Tournier hearth that had radiated warmth and sent the smoke outside. She said nothing. They were lucky to have a house at all.

— Someday I will build a chimney, Etienne promised on a dark winter day when the children could not stop coughing. He glanced at Hannah, who nodded.

— A house needs a chimney and a proper hearth, he continued. But first we must grow crops. When I can I will build it, and the house will be complete. And safe. He stared into the corner, not meeting Isabelle's eye.

She left the room, entering the
devant-huis
, an open area between the house, barn and stable, all covered by the same roof. There she could stand and look outside without being buffeted by the wind or swept with snow. She took a deep breath of fresh air and sighed. The door faced south but there was no brightening, warming sun. She gazed across at the white slopes opposite and saw a grey figure crouched in the snow. Stepping back into the darker shadows of the
devant-huis
, she watched as it loped into the woods.

— I feel safe now, she said under her breath to Etienne and Hannah. And it has nothing to do with
your
magic.

Every few days Isabelle walked the frozen path past the yellow gorge to Moutier's communal oven. At home she had always baked bread in the Tournier chimney or at her father's house, but here it was baked in one place. She waited for the oven door to open, for the wave of heat to reach her as she slid her loaves inside. Around her women wearing round wool caps talked quietly. One smiled at her.

— How are Petit Jean and Jacob and Marie? she asked. Isabelle smiled back.

— They want to be outside. They don't like staying in so much. Back at home it wasn't so cold. Now they fight more.

—
This
is your home now, the woman corrected gently.

God will look after you here. He has given you a mild winter, this winter.

— Of course, Isabelle agreed.

— God keep you, Madame, the woman said as she stepped away, loaves tucked under her arms.

— And you.

Here they call me Madame, she thought. No one sees my red hair. No one knows about it. Here is a village of 300 people who never call me La Rousse. Who know nothing about the Tourniers other than that we are followers of the Truth. When I walk away they won't talk about me behind my back.

For that she was grateful. For that she could live with the rough, steep mountains, the strange crops, the hard winters. Perhaps she could even manage without a chimney.

Isabelle often met Pascale at the communal oven and at church. At first Pascale said very little, but slowly she became more talkative, until eventually she was able to describe her past life in detail to Isabelle.

— In Lyons I worked in the kitchen as much as I could, she said as they stood among the crowd outside church one Sunday. But when Maman died from the plague I had to start serving. I didn't like being around so many strange men, touching me everywhere. She shuddered. And then to serve so much wine when we are not meant to drink it, it seemed wrong. I preferred to stay hidden. When I could. She was silent for a moment.

— But Papa, he loves it, she continued. You know he hopes to take over running the Cheval-Blanc if the owners leave. He stays friendly with them, just in case. In Lyons the inn was called the Cheval-Blanc too. He sees it as a sign.

— And you don't miss your old life?

Pascale shook her head.

— I like it here. I feel safer than in Lyons. It was so crowded and full of people you couldn't trust.

— Safe, yes. But I miss the sky, Isabelle said. The wide sky you can see all the way to the edge of the world. Here the mountains close up the sky. At home they opened it.

— I miss chestnuts, Marie announced, leaning against her mother. Isabelle nodded.

— When we always had them, I didn't think about them. Like water. You don't think about water until you are thirsty and there is none.

— But there was danger back home too, yes?

— Yes. She swallowed, remembering the smell of burning flesh. She did not share this memory.

— Their round caps are funny, don't you think? she said instead, gesturing at a group of women. Can you imagine wearing one on top of your headcloth?

They laughed.

— Maybe one day we will wear them, and new arrivals will laugh at us, Isabelle added.

From the crowd Gaspard's voice boomed out: — Soldiers! I can tell you two or three things about Catholic soldiers that will make your hair stand up!

Pascale's smile faded. She looked down, body rigid, hands clenched. She never talked about their escape, but Isabelle had already heard Gaspard describe it in detail several times, as he was repeating it now for a new friend.

— When the Catholics heard of the massacre in Paris they went crazy and came to the inn ready to tear us apart, Gaspard explained. Soldiers burst in and I thought: The only way to save ourselves is to sacrifice the wine. So quick as that I offered them all free wine.
Aux frais de la maison!
kept shouting. Well, that stopped them. You know Catholics, they love their cups! That's what gave us good business. Soon they were so drunk they had forgotten why they came, and while Pascale kept them busy I just packed up everything we had, right under their noses!