The hostess regarded her with suspicion that made Marianne avert her eyes. The fact is, Cecile Bouchette may be a simple country woman who lived on a farm with her husband and children, but she was well-acquainted with the ways of the world and the business of her husband afforded her many opportunities into the houses of the nobility, even if it was through the servants' doors. She may not have had an education but her memory was impeccable and she knew all the nobility names, their children and who was who's relative and who was doing what and with what all across the country. In short, she was the one everyone in the village came to for some entertaining and raunchy gossip.
De Villebois. She searched her memory far and wide but could not place a name like that among the nobility. She knew servants with this name and once upon a time, a doctor, who had died under mysterious circumstances about a day's ride East of here. It was impossible that this young woman was related to a de Villebois. Despite the ink marks on her hands, her hair had a healthy shine and natural wave in it that could only come from regular grooming and bathing. Her skin, albeit freckled in places, was milky and soft and the shape of her eyes and the contours of her face could only belong to an aristocratic lineage. And from the looks of her chin and her nose, a high born one, too.
"Please, call me Katherine," Marianne attempted to soothe the atmosphere and ease any suspicion.
Cecile regarded her one last time and relented. So, the young lady had a secret but Cecile had a natural talent of uncovering secrets.
"Very well, Katherine," she said with a slight mocking tone, "I am Madame Cecile Bouchette and my husband is Bertrand Bouchette. But you may call me Cecile."
...
To Cecile's amusement and surprise, Marianne ate like a wolf who had been starving for days and had accidentally stumbled on a chicken coop.
"Upon my word! I don't think I had ever seen someone eat this much other than my brother," she declared.
Marianne chuckled, "Forgive me, it's been a while."
"Evidently! Here, you'll need more, we can't have you looking like a lanky stick while you're staying here." She spooned more scrambled eggs and potatoes onto her plate. But it seemed that the young lady was more interested in the meats and the cheeses. How unladylike, thought Cecile. But she had to admit that there was something charming and beguiling about this mysterious stranger.
While Cecile had no doubts that she was of a noble family, it seemed that the young lady had never been properly instructed. Or she otherwise refused to be instructed. Her reserve, she was beginning to see, was not a product of the usual repressive upbringing of women in her rank, but it was rather a natural part of her personality.
The more she ate, the more agreeable she became. She sighed and moaned obscenely while savoring every bite on the table. The children laughed and began to imitate her, to Cecile's displeasure. Yet she couldn't help but feel a sense of pride that her cooking could elicit such a pronounced reaction from her visitor. Or perhaps the young lady fell on her head too hard?
She continued to observe her with curiosity. She had quickly warmed up to the children and they were all animatedly engaged in the most obscure of conversations over what is the true accurate shape and color of an apple. Was it round? No, it was heart-shaped, Colette yelled! No, it was square, Peter put in. It's obviously a circle, Lucille rolled her eyes, trying to impress their guest. The latter was so absorbed with them and entertained. It's actually a composite shape, she said. And she cut up the apple and began to show them some lines and explain what a composite shape meant.
Before long, Cecile found herself drawn into the conversation as well. What was the true shape of an apple?!
Suddenly Marianne blurted out, "Have you got any figs?"
"Figs?"
"Yes! They taste so remarkable with the goat cheese and I'm sure they would compliment this particularly scrumptious cheese you have here. Especially with the jam." There was a glimmer in those mysterious amber eyes now that made this stranger seem more strange and yet more familiar at the same time.
Figs and goat cheese. Goat cheese and figs… That was Cecile's mother's favorite thing to eat. Something she had passed onto her children. As far as she knew, no one had such a high regard for this odd mix except in her family. Even her husband was not too fond of it.
She cut up some figs and brought them to the table. Marianne thanked her heartily and began concocting the little treat she had learned from Porthos, exactly in the way Porthos had done. Exactly in the way Cecile's mother had done. She watched with fascination.
"What's that?" cried Lucille.
"Here, have a taste!"
She made some to all of them and they all sat there devouring it and voicing their opinions. Lucille saying she would have preferred apple over fig.
...
Marianne helped Cecile clear up the table as the children went on to the field.
Her energy was much restored and her spirits were rising. For the first time since what felt like forever, she had actually enjoyed herself.
"Your children are delightful," she beamed at Cecile.
"They've taken quite a liking to you," replied Cecile. She was about to ask her where she picked up the taste for figs and goat cheese but her eyes flit to the bandage wrapped around her guest's forearm as she lifted up her sleeves.
"Oh dear, what happened here?" she grabbed her arm and stroked it gently.
Marianne flinched, startling Cecile.
"It…it was an accident," she said, turning away. She could feel a lump forming in her throat.
Cecile unwrapped the bandage. It was beginning to show signs of infection. The sight of it made Marianne almost nauseated. Cecile hurriedly brought some tinctures from the cupboard and soaked a towelette with hot water.
...
Marianne winced and groaned with pain. She bit her other hand to contain herself but Cecile gave her a cinnamon stick instead.
"Bite on this. No use in getting your other arm injured," she joked.
"I feel silly," she admitted afterwards, "How weak I must seem compared to the pain you will endure and have endured already," she gestured towards Cecile's belly.
Cecile chuckled, "They're very different kinds of pain, my dear. Besides, a dagger wound is not something trifle."
Their eyes locked. Marianne was sure that her hostess harbored suspicions about her. And yet she hasn't reproached her nor asked her anything.
"My brother is a solider. I have often had the misfortune of tending to him when he was at home. He's not too careful. Always running into danger and into all kinds of scrapes and mishaps with his friends. He thinks it's fun. What folly, if you ask me!"
Marianne smiled.
"Let's get you into a bath, shall we? The water will help with the wound and I daresay you could use it."
Her guest blushed again. She was right. She could even smell herself. How this kind person had even allowed her to sit at her dining table and sleep in her house looking and smelling like this was simply beyond her. What luck was it that had brought here of all places! The guilt washed over her again. She had begged God for death and instead, she was given a new beginning in this welcoming and kind place. But for how long?
Cecile began to gather the buckets to fetch water, but Marianne jumped up in time and collected them from her.
"I'll fetch the water," she said. Cecile was taken aback. What kind of a lady fetches water for her own bath! "I…I can't let you carry these in your…err, condition."
Cecile regarded her with a defiant look.
"I meant no offence! I only meant that you… shouldn't have to. You must rest and… Well, you have already made breakfast and…"
"There is no rest for people like us, Mademoiselle," replied Cecile sharply.
Marianne felt terrible. She had offended her hostess.
Seeing the look on her face, Cecile felt guilty. She had said too much. This young lady was only trying to help. In her naivety, she understood nothing of their way of life, of their struggles. But unlike many of the young ladies in her rank that Cecile had encountered or heard about, this stranger did not seem to recognize this inherent divide between classes. Cecile had to admit, there was a certain malleability about her that made her blend into whatever crowd she was put into. She was genuine, grateful and compassionate behind her exterior reserve.
"There's a running brook by the mill. You'll have to make multiple trips and take the buckets up the stairs," Cecile instructed her, attempting to test her resolve for this task.
Marianne nodded and set about her task.
...
Ahhhh! How good this hot water felt! Marianne felt her limbs unfold and the knots in her muscles unfurl. She was in heaven. For the past couple of days, it seemed that her life had been one terrible event after another. It was only a few days ago, she realized, that she was happily lounging under the sun with the man she loved. So much had happened since then it felt like an eternity had passed.
She couldn't help but think of him. In such a short time, she had found herself completely enraptured with this adorable and kind giant of a musketeer. She remembered the way he looked at her. With admiration, with tenderness, with pride, with desire. She felt so special with him. And she felt selfless. She knew she loved him for who he was, for his kindness, for his strength, for his temperament, for his generosity of heart and spirit. She loved the way his body felt on hers. The sheer warmth it emanated. She reveled in being in his arms, in feeling the force of his passions. The more she thought of him, the more she realized she could barely recognize the man who had fought with her in the stables. He seemed like someone else. Someone brutal, cold, possessive and discompassionate. He wouldn't even listen to her. And he regarded her with such contempt.
But could she blame him? Can she honestly say he acted out of a lack of affection for her? No, quite the opposite. He acted exactly as anyone would if the person they loved had betrayed them. And despite all her intentions, she had betrayed him. That was a fact. She sank deeper into the water.
He had wanted to marry her. To make her his wife. His wife. She had only thought of being his mistress. She never allowed herself to go further than that. She knew what musketeers were like. The mistress of Porthos. The wife of Porthos. She toyed uselessly with the idea. There was no point. It was all over now anyway. Now she had other things to think about.
What will she do here? How will she live? Cecile's husband was right, they can't keep her here forever and no one can find out about who she was.
There was a gentle knock on the door and Cecile poked her head in. Marianne instinctively covered her nude body.
"I brought you these for your bath, fresh from the garden," she said as she sprinkled fragrant rose petals into the bath.
Without waiting for an invitation, she brought a stool and sat behind Marianne, combing and untangling her hair. How nice it felt! How comforting!
"I would usually bring pine cones and rosemary. That's what my brother likes. This is usually his room."
Marianne's heart leapt. Pine and rosemary… It reminded her fondly of Porthos.
"Your brother, the solider?"
"Yes. He's a musketeer, actually," said Cecile proudly.
Marianne's body tensed and she grimaced, her hand reflexively covering the wound on her forearm. A musketeer! No, it can't be… the regiment was large enough that she could mean any one of them.
Cecile was surprised by this strange and sudden reaction. Ah, so there was a connection there.
"Do you know any musketeers, Mademoiselle Katherine?"
"I… can't say that I do. At least, not closely. That is, I have seen them in court. I mean, not in court," Oh God… in court! She was supposed to be a peasant girl, not a courtier! "In stories, from friends who have, err, served at the court." Served in the court. Yes, that's what servants did, they served. At the court. Good God, Marianne, you giant imbecile! She brought her hands to her cheeks in an attempt to hide her the flaming red that came over them.
"Ah! I'm sure your friends have many exciting stories to tell, then. Mine do. They're all over the country, you see. It is fascinating isn't it, how much servants know about their masters?"
Marianne swallowed with difficulty, "Yes. Very. Do you know...?"
She turned around abruptly to face Cecile, accidentally spilling water onto the floor.
"While I was bringing the water, I noticed a malfunction in your mill," she said matter-of-factly, catching her hostess completely off-guard.
"I…Well… Yes, it hadn't been functional for more than a year now. The blacksmith took a look but he said it was hopeless. We have to replace it and the money hasn't come around for it yet."
"I shall take a look at it tomorrow, then, if you will allow me."
Cecile wasn't sure if the young lady in front of her was simply out of her mind or joking. She looked in her eyes searchingly for some sign but she could find nothing. No, the girl was dead serious.
"If you…wish?" she limply replied.
"Good," replied her guest and reclined back into her bath, placing herself comfortably underneath the comb that Cecile still held in midair. And with the same tone which now Cecile thought sounded more authoritative and reassured, she said, "I also noticed that the kitchen gate was loose. I will take look at that tomorrow as well. and I may have an idea on how to make it easier to transport water to and from the brook by way of the mill."
Marianne closed her eyes and exhaled. Victory!
On her end, Cecile felt utterly defeated. For a moment, she was so close to finding the truth about this strange girl. As she usually did with her victims, she had her completely in her grip, she put her completely at ease and began talking of things that were not completely relevant, allowing her companion to fill in the blanks naturally for her. But not only had this young woman succeed in redirecting the conversation, but she left Cecile herself completely flabbergasted.
Worse, she found herself ever more drawn to this stranger, ever more susceptible to that innocent charm of hers, that natural wildness. And for some inexplicable reason, she found herself growing fond of her.
"Well you're a strange cat, aren't you?" she said inaudibly to herself under her breath.
But Marianne caught wind of it and sighed, succumbing to the scalp rub her hostess was giving her, "More than you know!"
