7.

"Shall I–"

"Do you think I'd trust you not to scorch these fine laces?" Clotilde interrupted her with a sour expression on her face.

"We did iron our clothes in–"

Clotilde's sarcastic smirk and a side glance cut her off in mid-sentence.

"Madame always irons the more delicate clothes herself," Claire intervened. "She doesn't even use the charcoal iron for these," she added, replacing the flat iron the older woman used with the re-heated one. She set the cooler one back on the iron-stove again and moved a pile of starched white clothes closer to the ironing table.

"I don't trust the charcoal," Clotilde's dry voice added, as she tested the iron's temperature. "They are good for sheets and plainer table linens but I'd rather have the iron cooling down than risk any performance inconsistencies," the woman explained in a meticulous but stiff manner.

"Madame has her own starching recipe, too."

Eliane fought hard to keep a straight face at Claire's words and only the older woman's stare on her helped her achieve it. Even though she couldn't have seen the girl rolling her eyes behind her back, Clotilde must have caught the faint sigh of exasperation in her voice, for her knuckles grabbing the wooden handle turned whiter than the fabric she pressed.

A warm smell of lavender filled the room.

"Her whites gleam brighter than anyone's in the village," the girl rushed to say, sensing the change in her posture.

"It's almost noon and you haven't dusted the library yet. Do I have to remind you every time? Don't think I don't know you stall on purpose just to avoid it–"
Eliane opened her mouth to offer to do it herself, but the woman stopped her with a glance.
"Next time you'll take out all the books, too. Not just the surfaces," said Clotilde, clearly happy with herself. The girl grabbed some cloths and left the room with her shoulders slumped.
"My starching recipe is a secret."

Eliane furrowed her brows, puzzled. She wasn't interested in any starching recipe from Clotilde.

"Claire's sister asked for it the last time she visited her. I told her it belongs to the Chateau Bertillon," Clotilde's voice was laced with pride but then she frowned. "I'll give it to the mistress of the house, if she's worth it."

Eliane's cheeks turned red. She wasn't going to get the recipe any time soon.

"I don't know what young Bertillon was thinking when he married a woman he hadn't seen before," she mumbled between her teeth after a while.

Eliane raised an eyebrow in question and feigned a defiant smile, unwilling to allow the older woman to intimidate her.

"What? Why are you smiling? Do you think he's old?" The older woman chuckled and wiped the little beads of sweat off her forehead with her sleeve.
"Your plans are transparent, girl. But you'll grow old here waiting. Don't say I didn't warn you–"

Eliane's curiosity was piqued but she remained silent.

"The rumors are not true, you know." She was playing with her. It was obvious.
"Sometimes, Pierre has a glass too many at the tavern and talks more than he should but if you're counting on the Bertillon money…You won't be the Bertillon widow anytime soon." She lifted her eyes to Eliane's flushed face and shook her head, satisfied.
"The headaches he has are just that– headaches. The old master died young, that's true. But it was his heart that betrayed him, a wonder for such a heartless man, may he rest in peace." Her lips were compressed into a thin line and she concentrated on her ironing.

Eliane sank into a chair, deep in thought. So that constant grimace on his face was one of pain? Not disapproval? Or contempt?

"How long has he had those headaches?" she asked when the woman didn't go on.

"Ever since he came back–" Her voice faded but Eliane knew what she meant: from prison.

"Oh…" She inwardly made the calculations. Five years was a long time. "Has he seen any doctors? The town's physician is quite efficient."

Clotilde let out a sigh and waved her hand as if she found the mere idea ridiculous.

"You don't know the Bertillon men, girl." Her smirk was laced with bitterness. "He said he has and that's it. He prefers to writhe like a pig rather than admit he's wrong. Stubborn heads, all of them. It's in the blood. I've known three generations and Étienne is the best of them."

Eliane's eyes went wide with surprise. If a convicted murderer was the best, she didn't want to think of the worst Bertillon man.

Clotilde laughed at Eliane's thoughts, clearly mirrored on her face.

"This land is blessed and cursed at the same time. It's so beautiful but it can't keep its men here. They all leave this wretched place. Not just the poor. Even my Gilbert left– silly boy… He had everything here." Her frown became deeper and she moved to the stove to change her flat iron.
"Gilbert's my son," she explained, seeing the puzzled look on Eliane's face.
"You haven't seen him, he left seven years ago… At least, he's following Bertillon's advice. He's studied his craft. He's a skilled craftsman, not a farmer or a filthy sailor."
Her face contorted in a grimace of repulsion even though her husband had been a seaman himself. Or maybe exactly because of that.

"They think they are not men unless they see the world, unless they try to conquer it," she said more to herself and let out a sigh of exasperation. "If they survive, they come back only when they're old and tired like my Pierre, or drained and hopeless the way he is." Her eyes lifted upwards and Eliane knew she meant the master of the house.

"So, don't count on your lover coming back. You won't be a wealthy widow any time soon and if he comes back for you, don't be sure you'll still like him."

"I don't care for Romain Simonot," said Eliane, "not anymore," she added in a lower voice when she met the other woman's eyes questioning her honesty.

Clotilde shrugged her shoulders and went back to her work.

They stayed like that for a while, in complete silence, each in her thoughts. Eliane looked at the woman's rigid posture, at the net restraining her tight bun at her nape, the lace around her neck and cuffs, her lips drawn down in a grimace that made her look older than her age. Indeed, she made a strange couple with her husband.

Eliane had stood to leave when Clotilde's voice stopped her at the door.

"I know what he's done and what he looks like, girl. That doesn't mean he doesn't deserve a real wife." Her tone was serious, unrelenting. "André Dusoulier would have been a better choice for you. You should have accepted his proposal."

At this, Eliane straightened her shoulders, pursed her lips, clenched her hand into a fist and exited the laundry room in short wooden steps.

SHE WAS UNDERWATER again. She was deep, so deep that her toes touched the sand. But when she tried to move, find her way up spreading her hands, she made a twirl around herself and then her fingers touched the sand, too. Now, it wasn't so dark anymore. She took a handful of sand and looked at it as it flew away from her fingers. It was beautiful. A little sea snail shell was left on her palm. It was almost transparent, thin and bright white but it had a splash of red, like a blot of red ink on the top of the whorl. She balled her palm into a tight fist to keep it inside and even though she knew she had to find her way up soon she was serene, calm.

"Eliane."

She felt the urgency in Romain's voice.

"Eliane!" The anxiety, the fear, the blame. It was all there. She knew he was afraid of the sea– what was she doing on that slippery rock challenging him? She looked at the surface of the water above her, knowing she had to move but her dress was too heavy, it was keeping her down. Her sleeves were tight, they were in her way. The shell prickled in her palm but she clenched it harder, determined to keep the little treasure with her. And it wasn't really bad down there. She liked the way she could hear her thoughts.

"Eliane!" Romain kept calling her but this time his voice wasn't as muffled as before. She stirred at the urgency of his tone. Her eyes looked up again. As always, the same strange face was looking down but he couldn't see her. She could see its shape but it wasn't clear. She knew what would happen next. A large outstretched palm would try to grab her but she was at the bottom of the sea. He would fail but she wasn't afraid. She had seen the dream too many times to be afraid anymore. She knew he would dive for her, she would hear the splash first, she would feel his arm around her waist pulling her towards him, his hands on her rib cage as he pushed her towards the surface with one forceful, fluid movement. Then it was the air again, almost painful, burning her lungs. After that, they were out on the beach and Romain's sweet, worried face was over hers.

But why did he still call her name?

Eliane opened her eyes with difficulty, trying to adjust to the dimly-lit room.

The male voice from the other side of the wall wasn't Romain's.

A thud was heard and the heavy door shuddered violently.

"What the hell? Stay back," she heard the voice say.

There were more voices but she couldn't make out what they were saying. They sounded so distant but so very real at the same time. Certainly not part of her dream. The thud either. Eliane had reluctantly half-opened her eyes again when the door burst open and the armchair behind it crashed into the opposite wall.

()()()()()()()()

Hello everyone!

How are you? How's the holiday spirit messing with your lives?
Happy? Sad? Depressed? "What holidays?"
Share that in your reviews! (hint, hint…) or in PMs.
I love talking to people from all around the world- it makes my world feel smaller (no, that's not a bad thing!) and cozier.

If you seek for last-minute present ideas, my opinion is that books and mugs are the best ones!
I don't have mugs to share but I could shamelessly remind you that if you are in the mood for a romantic comedy there is always The Falconer on Amazon (search for Chapucera and Alexandra Rivers as the authors.)

I also have virtual chocolate (Belgian ;-) ) and all kinds of tea for readers and reviewers. Coffee, too, because I dearly need it.
You can find me on FB (Alexandra. Rivers.3760, remember?)
Share what your favorite presents are and I'll let you be till next week.

If I feel the need to be on Santa's good side, I may post a new chapter before the Friday's regular. I'm not sure...
I know that for the time being they look as if they take one step forward and ten backwards but the next chapter will set new ground rules between our heroes.

As always, my thanks to TOWDNWTBN and Vale.

Take care of yourselves!