Louisa Rawlings Read online

  “I beg you, Topaze. Don’t take the Lord’s name in vain.”

  Topaze handed her packages to the older children and crossed to a corner of the room. She knelt to the frail woman who lay on a strip of mattress on the drafty floor. “I’m sorry, Maman. I forget sometimes. I’ll try to do better. How do you feel today?”

  Madame Givet struggled to sit up, but Topaze restrained her. “Much stronger,” said the woman. “You see? I feel sure it won’t be long before I’m fit again.”

  “And just wait till you see the supper that Michel and I have brought. So many good things to eat.” Topaze stroked Madame Givet’s sallow cheek. “That should put a few roses in your smile.”

  “Monsieur Baïse paid you well today, then?”

  “But yes! There was a rich marquis staying at the tavern. He was so hungry, I thought I’d never leave the kitchens all day. Cooking. Scrubbing. Oh, what a deal of work. Monsieur Baïse was a tyrant!”

  Madame Givet sniffed. “But you smell of fish.”

  “I had to clean a whole barrel of them.” She giggled and inhaled her sleeve. “Damnation, but I smell as though I’d climbed into the barrel itself! I’m sorry,” she added quickly, as Madame Givet frowned. “I don’t mean no harm by my swearing.”

  “But it’s not good for the little ones to hear. Michel was no trouble today?”

  “Monsieur Baïse says he’ll make a right proper footman some day, he’s so good at fetching and carrying. But he wants to be a carpenter, Maman. I think we ought to let him go to Guillaume. I can make enough at the tavern without him. Now you rest while Michel and I get a fire going for supper. ’Tis cold in here.” She tucked the thin blanket more closely around Madame Givet.

  “Small wonder you’re cold. What happened to my jacket?”

  “Some damned…some wicked thief took it, while I was at work.”

  Madame Givet sighed. “And now you’ll be colder, my poor Topaze.”

  “It doesn’t matter, Maman. It was old and torn. And soon we’ll have enough money to buy a new one for you.” She fingered the threadbare sleeve of Madame Givet’s bodice. “We’ll give this one to the beggars. We won’t need it. Just you wait and see.”

  While Michel started a fire in the small hearth, Topaze poured some water from a large bucket into a pot to which she added the vegetables they’d bought. The children squealed in delight as she prepared supper, commenting on every item that went into the pot, sniffing at the fish and the bacon as they fried, smacking their lips in hungry anticipation. The dim room rang with happy laughter.

  I’ll not eat any of the fish, Topaze decided to herself. It would be her penance for tonight. She would burn in Hell for her lies and wickedness and thievery, as the man with the scar had said. She was sure of it. But how could she tell Maman that she and Michel hadn’t worked for Monsieur Baïse for many weeks? Hadn’t even been near his tavern since that day when the vile man—blast his soul!—had tried to sell her as a whore to a patron? And, failing that, had thrown her down and tried to rape her himself? After that she hadn’t been able to find another job that paid well enough. And then Maman had fallen ill and couldn’t take in washing as before. Little Anne-Marie was learning to mend. It brought in a sou or two, but that was all. No. She couldn’t tell about Monsieur Baïse. Maman had enough grief, enough burdens. She didn’t have to know where they were getting money.

  One of the little ones, a boy of five, pulled at Topaze’s sleeve. “Monsieur Sarthe downstairs hit me today. And I didn’t even cry.”

  Topaze stirred the soup. “What a brave lad you are, Matthieu. But try to keep away from Monsieur Sarthe. He’s a villain.”

  Madame Givet turned on her mattress and sat up. “If we had a man to defend us, he wouldn’t dare to touch the children.”

  “I’ll soon be a man,” said Michel, tapping his chest. “And then no one will harm us.”

  “Pray God it be so,” whispered Madame Givet, and crossed herself. “Have you been to the shipping company this week, Topaze?”

  “Alas, Maman. The clerk says they can’t pay indemnities until they’re certain that Papa’s ship has gone down. And even then, it won’t be much. Not for a common sailor.”

  Madame Givet sighed and looked about the cold and cheerless room. “I miss our old cottage. Couldn’t they manage a gold louis or two, at the very least, just to see us through the winter?”

  Only for a price, thought Topaze. The shipping clerk had been very agreeable to an advance. And very explicit: an hour alone with Topaze, among the coils of rope in the little room behind his office. She’d refused him, of course. His demand had dismayed but scarcely horrified her. Except for Papa, she’d never known a man to have any deeper feelings toward a woman than lust. Wasn’t it a natural condition? Maman had been fortunate to have a man who loved her; Topaze prayed that—if Papa’s ship never returned—she could just find a man willing to support her and Maman and the children. It would be enough.

  Supper was a rollicking meal. They dined by the light of a smoking rush candle, crowding around the long trestle table. There wasn’t room enough on the three small benches for all the children; Topaze sat with the two youngest on her lap. She was glad that no one noticed she abstained from the fish. She hadn’t really wanted to tell another lie about that. Even Maman managed to come to the table and sit with them for a few minutes, while Topaze spun extravagant and amusing tales.

  To the accompaniment of much laughter from the children, she mocked herself and the fish smell of her clothes. It was too cold to take off her garments for airing, of course; as for washing them, that was out of the question, even if they’d been able to spare the soap. It didn’t matter to Topaze. The little ones were fed and happy, and Maman was beginning to look better.

  They saved out some of the bread for breakfast. Spread with the bacon fat, it would fortify them against another cold day. Then—at Madame Givet’s direction—they knelt and said their prayers, put out the rushlight, and lay down on a straw-covered corner of the floor. The three youngest children crowded onto the pallet with Madame Givet; Topaze and the rest curled up together, arms and legs entwined, and bade one another good night.

  In the dark Topaze stroked Anne-Marie’s soft hair, kissed Matthieu on the forehead. Even huddled as they were, and covered by a few thin burlap sacks, she could still feel the cold that seeped in through the edges of the single window. Dear Virgin Mother, she thought, how long can the little ones endure? Papa’s ship was five months overdue; in that time, they’d had to leave their nice cottage, sell off their furniture and clothing bit by bit. It had become a struggle to survive. Every day she risked being caught, sent to prison for thievery. And still the children were cold and hungry.

  She thought of Philibert the baker. Perhaps he could be persuaded to be generous. She didn’t really want to marry him, but if she must… She sighed in the darkness. She’d wait another week or so. If there was still no news of Papa’s ship, she’d accept Philibert. For the sake of the little ones.

  Chapter Two

  “Topaze, there was a man asking for you this morning.”

  Topaze turned in surprise, then nodded at the stooped old man who stood in the doorway of a little shop. “Good morning, Monsieur Parmentier. Asking for me?”

  Monsieur Parmentier was a cobbler; his shop was on a side street, just a few steps from the thronging square that fronted the Church of Sainte-Croix. He stepped back from the open doorway, waving his hand in the direction of a small brazier within. “Come inside, ma petite. Warm yourself for a few minutes. Your face is red from the cold.”

  Topaze accepted his invitation with alacrity. In truth, her face was red from the scrubbing she’d given it, hoping to rid her skin of the smell of fish. She’d had to crack a film of ice from the bucket of water this morning, it was so cold. And still the smell persisted. In her hair, in her clothes. She held her hands to the warming coals. “Who was he? The man who asked for me?” News about Papa? Oh, let it be so!

  Monsieur Par
mentier returned to his bench and picked up a half-finished shoe. “Young. Well turned out. And exceeding tanned, by my faith! As brown as a nut.”

  At this last, Topaze gasped. “Tanned? Did you say tanned? With a scar on one cheek, and eyes as cruel as the devil himself?”

  “No. No scar. A very comely man, to my way of thinking.”

  Thanks be to Sainte Thérèse. Not the man with the scar, but still… What could he want? Asking for her near the square where she’d stolen the purse! “How…how did he ask for me?”

  “He spoke of the color of your hair. The color of your jacket. Said the girl he was seeking was small—and so you are, my little one. He said you were with a boy of eleven or so. I knew at once he was describing you and Michel.”

  “And what did you tell him, Monsieur Parmentier?”

  “Why, not a thing. I pretended not to know you.” He smiled benevolently. “It seemed the wisest course. Perhaps I’m mistaken, but I think if you went to church, ma petite, you’d have much to confess.”

  She bowed her head in shame. “God bless you, monsieur. You have my gratitude.”

  “Wait,” he said. “Before you go, you should know that he went toward the square. You’re very generous with your smiles and greetings, Topaze. Many people know you. There may be those in the square who won’t be as discreet as I.”

  “I understand.” She left his shop and took a narrow street that led away from the square. She tried to reassure herself: The man had nothing to do with that devil whose knife she’d stolen; it was only a coincidence that both were deeply tanned; Bordeaux was filled with travelers from the tropics. Still, the very thought of that wicked-looking man made her uneasy. And she was carrying his knife. She hadn’t wanted to leave it in the room with the little ones this morning. She took it from her pocket, loosened the neckline of her jacket, and dropped it down the front of her chemise. She’d laced her bodice tightly today; the knife rested on her bosom, just above her snug stays.

  She resolved to keep far from Sante-Croix today. Bordeaux was large; whoever the man was, he’d soon tire of looking for her. It was more important to put food on the table. She was alone. Despite his protests, Michel had been bundled off to apprentice himself to Guillaume the carpenter. Topaze frowned. Picking pockets was far too dangerous without a partner. She’d try a different game.

  She wandered down to the harbor. There were always carriages about, and heavy wagons loaded with goods destined for ships or warehouses. She and Michel had become quite adept at pretending to be hit by a lumbering horse, a turning wheel. What luck! A handsome coach was coming down the street, its matched pair of grays snorting steam into the cold air. As they dashed past, she spun about and shrieked loudly; the nobleman within leaned out, cursed, and tossed her a handful of coins, to be rid of her. She put them safely away, and moved on to another street. This time—when she dodged a heavy wagon filled with casks of rum, and collapsed to the cobblestones moaning—it took a quarter of an hour’s arguing to convince the driver that he owed her something for her pain. It was only when she threatened to take him to law, couching her threat in legal-sounding nonsense, that he grudgingly handed her a livre. She spent the rest of the morning seeking fresh prey, with no success.

  She sighed. It hadn’t been a very profitable day. She was cold and hungry. And covered with mud. In one of the streets, a water seller had dropped his copper pail onto the dirty cobbles as she passed; before the water had had time to freeze, a small carriage had come flying by, splashing her from head to foot with the filthy water. And the damned coachman hadn’t even stopped to see what he’d done, let alone give her a sou!

  I’ll go home, she thought. The afternoon was still young. And Guillaume might have let Michel go early on his first day. With her brother’s help, there was yet time to supplement her “earnings” with a stolen purse or two.

  She made her way down a crooked alley, between two rows of dingy shops. She looked with longing into the dirty windows. Goods were cheap in this part of the city, but still too dear for her meager purse. A shop door opened just ahead of her. She glanced up and gasped aloud, her heart thudding in her breast.

  The man with the scar stepped into the street.

  She turned to flee. Behind her a man had just emerged from another shop. His face was as darkly tanned, though his hair, beneath his tricorne, was blond and sun-bleached. Ignoring Topaze, he pointed down the road and spoke over her head. “The draper thinks she lives in that direction, Lucien.”

  Fearing the worst, Topaze turned again to the man called Lucien. He was smiling in triumph, his teeth white against the bronze of his skin. “She’s saved us further trouble, Martin,” he drawled. “For here’s the little chit herself.” He came toward her.

  “Hellfire,” she muttered. Eyes wide with fright, she looked over her shoulder to see Martin advancing. She was trapped—an animal caught in a cage—between two men who were determined to have her, who had clearly searched for her half the day.

  Lucien lunged. Topaze made a desperate move to elude his strong grasp, but it was useless; she felt herself held fast. His hands pinned her arms to her sides. She struggled for a moment, then kept still and glared at him with all the venom in her soul. “Damn you. Damn you,” she said. “Leave me be. I don’t have your knife no more.”

  He laughed. “My knife. Ah, yes. I’d almost forgotten about my knife.” He shifted his hands so that he was now holding her wrists together in one hard fist. With his free hand he patted her apron pocket, the two side pockets of her skirt. “Not there? Alas.” Smirking wickedly, he put his palm against the front of her jacket. His insolent hand rubbed across her bosom once. A second time, and less gently. Then it stopped at the middle of her breasts, where the knife rested. “Well?” he asked, his dark eyebrows angling more sharply into the smooth expanse of his forehead. “Do you want me to fetch it out?”

  “I can’t do nothing without a free hand, damn your liver!”

  “Of course. But don’t try to run away.” He released one of her hands, but kept the other firmly in his grasp. As she fished out the knife and handed it to him, he bobbed his head in a mocking salute. “Thank you. For the knife you said you didn’t have.” He put the penknife into his own pocket, and caught at her free hand again.

  “Bastard!” she hissed.

  He smiled over her head at the other man. “You see, Martin? I told you she was a most convincing liar. It will be to our advantage, I think.”

  The man called Martin came around to stand beside the one he’d addressed as Lucien. Topaze frowned at him, studying his face. Soft and young, with warm brown eyes. Far more handsome than the gaunt-faced devil who grinned beside him. He seemed civilized. Reasonable. Possibly sympathetic. She softened her expression, composed her face into a mask of helpless grief. “Monsieur,” she whispered, “I appeal to you. What have I done? The man has his knife again. I didn’t mean to take it. I swear it. What further can you want of me?”

  Martin seemed torn, swayed by the tears Topaze had managed to squeeze out. “Really, Lucien…”

  Lucien snorted at Topaze, ignoring Martin. “Brava! A beautiful performance, girl. But there’s not a shred of conscience in your dishonest, thieving soul, I’ll wager.”

  Her fear was becoming hot anger. She wriggled furiously in his hold. “What the devil do you want of me?”

  “Keep still.” Lucien pulled a handkerchief from his pocket, spit on a corner of it, and began to wipe the dirt from Topaze’s face. “By Lucifer, what a mess!”

  “Damn you!” She grimaced and squirmed, shaking her head from side to side.

  “Keep still, I say. And stop making faces.”

  For answer, she stuck out her tongue at him.

  He laughed in delight. “She’s saucy and fearless, Martin. You’ll grant me that, eh? I tell you, you should have seen the game she played in the square. Just a slip of a girl, but I’ve never seen a bolder one.”

  She scowled at him. “Do you mean to turn me in because of th
e purse? You whoreson, it’s long gone. They’d laugh you out into the streets if you tried to prove I took it!”

  He finished wiping her face and put away his handkerchief. “Look at her, Martin.” He studied her intently, his blue eyes scanning every curve and pore. She found it unnerving. She had never been examined in so personal, so intimate a fashion. She felt exposed. Naked. Yet his perusal was cold and dispassionate as well, as though he were looking over a horse he meant to buy. “I tell you, Martin,” he said at last, “it’s remarkable. Tell me how old you are, girl.”

  “Go to the devil.” She drew back her foot to kick him, but he jerked her sharply away.

  “Not today, you imp. I haven’t forgotten yesterday. If you kick me again, you’ll regret it.” Though he continued to smile, there was something in his eyes that froze her, rooted her to the spot. Her struggles subsided. “Now,” he said, “I asked how old you are.”

  She stared at him. She would give him nothing, damn his black heart.

  He seemed unconcerned by her silence. “I knew a man once who could tell the age of everything. An apple by its smell, a tree by the thickness of its trunk, and a girl”—his mouth twisted in a mocking smile—“by stripping her bare.”

  “I do protest, Lucien!” sputtered Martin.

  “But if it’s the only way, my friend…” Lucien’s eyes were on Topaze’s bodice. “Well?”

  “A pox on you.” She watched in horror as his free hand went for the top of her jacket. “Damn you,” she cried. “Nineteen, near as I know!”

  He grinned and dropped his hand. “Thank you. Your name is Topaze, I think they said.”

  “So what if it is? You’re hurting my wrists.”

  “I’ll let you go, if you promise not to run. We mean you no harm. We have a…modest proposal for you. In the way of business.”

  She gasped her outrage. If Papa could hear them now! “I aren’t no whore, you damned gallows bird!”