VI: Sweeping Under Rugs
When Aimée woke, she wanted to die. Pain pounded behind her eyes and the room was painfully bright, even though it was only lit with a few warm candles to help the two nurses see through the gloom. Vision was blurred out of her left eye and her felt as if someone had smashed it with a bat. She groaned and struggled to rise.
A nurse in a black and white gown hurried over to her and began fussing, her fingers fluttering around like the wings of a spooked bird. "It'll be best if you stay lying down, dear," the nurse said, her voice quiet and soft as down. Aimée struggled to look at her through her obstructed vision.
"Where am I?" she croaked, her lip split and painful.
"Mayor Beaudet's home. I'm Sister Elliot and that's Sister Mary," the nurse said, nodding over her shoulder to her partner. Sister Mary brought over a porcelain wash bin and pitcher, a large cloth hanging over the side. Aimée discovered then that she was lying in only her underclothes under the bed-sheets.
Sister Elliot noticed as the girl's eyes widened in embarrassment, and she clucked her tongue, smiling comfortably. "Oh, don't be bashful, Miss, this is our job. We're all women here. Now then, let's get you cleaned up." Her hands were business-like as they removed the blanket and sheet. Removing Aimée's undershirt, she was unbothered by the girl's nakedness. She had been a midwife before a nurse of the church, and had seen a woman's chest countless times, seen women bring a hungry child to their breast without a second thought. It was all anatomy to her.
The water in the basin was warm and the cloth soothing as Sister Elliot gently scrubbed away the dirt and sweat that clung to Aimée's skin. As the damp warmth spread to her collarbone, the girl stiffened, remembering Anton's mouth forcefully pressed against it. Tears started to well up in the girl's eyes as she remembered what had happened in the garden…as she remembered where the pain had come from.
"Hush now, child," Sister Elliot said as the other nurse started to run a brush through her dusty blonde hair, tugging past the tangles. "You're safe in our care now."
Once the nurse was finished cleaning up her upper torso and stomach, she helped Aimée put on a clean chemise. Then, she picked up the basin and helped Aimée remove her ruined petticoat. The undergarment the nurses gave Aimée was of soft linen and ended halfway down her thigh, so it provided a little bit of privacy from the nurses. Across her left leg was a large purple bruise, no doubt left by Anton's harsh grip as he held her down in the grass.
Even though Sister Elliot was gentle as she cleansed the girl's legs, she winced as the cloth passed over the bruise. Then, towards her shins, Sister Elliot began to use a little more force to make sure Aimée was clean. When she was finished, the nurse tucked in the bed sheet around Aimée tightly, swaddling her in more linen and warmth.
"Your bruises will stay for a while," Sister Elliot explained as Mary finished brushing Aimée's hair. "Your father and the mayor want to keep you here for maybe about a week to make sure nothing else is broken or harmed, alright?"
"Alright…thank you both so much," Aimée said, her voice scratchy from her dry throat.
"Here child, drink some water," Sister Elliot handed Aimée a small porcelain cup filled with water. The girl gratefully downed it in one drink, the cool water spilling across her tongue and soothing her aching head and parched throat.
"Now, your father will probably stop in a bit after we leave you, but try and get some rest, dear. Your body needs it."
The two nurses turned to leave as Aimée sat up a little to sweep her hair around her head so it cascaded over her shoulder. She felt her body relax onto the down mattress. The room was in was starting to lose its sheer brightness as her eyes were starting to fully adjust. Her left eye was still nearly swollen shut, and it pained her to think of what she looked like in a mirror.
The room was cream plaster and oak, white sheets draped in front of the windows. Through the fabric, darkness was starting to wan into a dusky sort of light. Dawn was well on its way. There was a wooden cross on the wall opposite her, surrounded by a wreath of what looked like olive leaves. A dresser sat at the foot of the bed and a chair in the corner.
Overall, Aimée decided, the room was boring.
There was a soft knock on the door. Her voice was soft as she beckoned them to enter. Gérard walked in, and Aimée was amazed to see the sight of her father with dried tear stains on his cheeks, his eyes red and bloodshot.
"Oh, my dear child, thank goodness," he said, crossing himself as he hurried to her bedside.
Aimée's brows knitted together as she watched her father. She had never before seen him act this way, teary-eyed and thankful.
"I was so afraid when Anton burst in and said that you two were attacked," Gérard said, walking to the corner and pulling up the chair next to her bedside. "He said that it was a gypsy bandit that tried to rob him. When he refused, he said the madman attacked. I was so worried about you…I feared the worst."
Aimée's eyes darkened. "Wait…Anton said that we were attacked by a gypsy?"
Gérard leaned forward, his hair escaping from the ribbon that held it back, "Yes, don't you remember?"
"I…no. I don't."
"Well, he ran for help, and then we found Javert carrying you through the-"
"Javert? The guard?" The serious Javert carrying her?
"Yes, the bearded fellow. At first, I wasn't so sure about him. Didn't think he responded well to those stated above him, but he was a godsend. He carried you through all of Beaudet's estate, bringing you back to safety. He must've fought off the gypsy that attacked you."
Aimée looked at her clasped hands as they sat in her lap. "Well…it seems like I've had quite the night.
"You have indeed. Now, I'll let you sleep." Gérard stood and leaned over, pressing a curt kiss on her forehead. As he stood back up, he ran a finger across her bruised face. She fought off the urge to wince in discomfort.
"At least I never left a mark," she swore she heard him murmur as he turned to leave.
When the door creaked closed, Aimée started to cry again. She was no fool. Anton had lied about everything, and they were eating it up. A gypsy bandit? In Mayor Beaudet's own private garden? How ridiculous! Frustration bit at her more than the pain did.
In the midst of her tears, she heard three sharp knocks at the door again. Wiping her good eye free of tears as best she could and pulling the blanket up over her chest, she said, "Yes? Come in."
There was a long pause behind the door, and for a moment Aimée wondered if there had been a mistake or if her ears were playing tricks on her. But just as she was about to lay back down, the knob turned. When the door finally swung open gently, Aimée was actually happy to see who came in.
Javert stepped in and then cautiously closed the door behind him. Then, he stood awkwardly in the room, his hands behind his back. His green eyes darted all around the space, but never seeming to want to fall on her lying in bed.
In his head, Javert was rapidly starting to think of why this visit had been a mistake. He was hoping to slip in while she was asleep, see that she was alright, and then leave. But, now that the girl was awake, it was a whole different matter.
"Hello," she finally said, filling the silence. This got Javert's eyes to settle on her. Her heart skipped for a moment as she saw how much pure worry swam through them. Even though she had only known him for a short while, the guard's demeanor was completely unlike him.
Seeming to catch himself, Javert looked away and gave her a little bow, "How are you?"
"Just peachy," she said, her voice flat.
Javert looked at her blankly for a moment, "I…that's not what I meant, mademoiselle."
Through the pain and fear, through everything she had gone through that night, Aimée gave Javert a little smile. "I know that's not what you meant. Please, sit down."
Javert walked over to the chair, pulled it a couple of feet away from the bed, and sat down, his back as straight as ever and his feet firmly planted on the wooden floorboards. He was wearing a clean white shirt along with his navy uniform pants.
"Where's your coat?" Aimée asked, ignoring his stiff awkwardness. She was starting to accept it, knowing that was just how the man was.
"I misplaced it," Javert quickly answered, wondering why he was lying. Was it so bad to tell her that he had wrapped her up in it as he carried her to safety?"
"You misplaced your uniform jacket?" Aimée asked skeptically.
Javert just looked at her, his mouth a hard line.
She heaved a sigh, "Whatever you say, Javert." She glanced at him as best she could, looking to see how his informal name affected him. Javert stayed still as stone, not seeming to notice.
He was too busy looking at her bruised face. Javert knew he shouldn't stare, but he couldn't help himself. One of her roiling blue eyes was shut behind swollen purple lids and her bottom lip was split down the middle. Her cheek was a mottled pile of red and purple against her otherwise pale skin. The sides of her face clashed like night and day, beauty and pain.
Javert felt a surge of rage shoot from his toes and crackle behind his eyes as he sat next to her bed.
"I look hideous, don't I?" her voice was small and sheepish.
Javert snapped to attention from her voice. He shook his head. "No. You don't look hideous, you look hurt."
Aimée was surprised to hear a softness to his voice that didn't match his gaze or stiffness.
"What happened," Aimée softly demanded, looking at the corner of Javert's mouth. There was a cut there, almost hidden beneath the bristles of his beard.
Javert looked at his shoes for a moment. He realized that everyone believed Anton's story of a gypsy bandit. He was expected to do the same…expected to sweep everything under the rug and forget it happened. Javert's own job could be at risk. He knew Beaudet didn't believe the gypsy claim, but was it his place to be spreading the truth around? A guard gossiping about the mayor's own family….
Finally, pushing aside whatever reservation he had, Javert raised his eyes and started talking.
"Anton Beaudet attacked you in the garden. I believe he was trying to rape you. I heard your cry for help, so I made my way to where you were. He struck you and you fell unconscious before I could reach him. Then, after I ordered him away, the young idiot attacked me. So we fought. Anton ran back to the house, leaving you there in the grass so I picked you up and carried you back to your father."
Javert sounded like he was reciting something to an army general, his voice flat and even somewhat boring.
"Oh my God, you two fought? Are you alright?" Aimée asked, suddenly concerned for Javert.
Javert blinked, surprised. "Yes. I'm fine. Anton, however, I'm not so sure."
Aimée managed to laugh at his answer, and Javert was relieved to hear that her laughter was still strong, even though she looked so weak on the bed. "I hope you kicked his teeth in."
"Very nearly, mademoiselle." Javert said as he felt his own smile start to grow.
"I wish I could've seen it. I bet he ran like a frightened dog."
Javert was silent as he watched her, suddenly transfixed on her hair. Even with it unwashed and drug through the grass, it still shone with a dusty blonde glow. It had been brushed, that much he could tell, yet he could still see flecks of mud in the strands. Her laughter brought healthy color to her un-bruised cheek and her teeth were still even and white behind chapped lips.
She is the most resilient woman I've ever met, Javert heard himself think. Most men he knew could not bounce back after an attack this quickly. She deserves much better than that pig of a boy.
"So…besides everything else, did you enjoy the party?" Aimée asked suddenly.
"Yes…yes I did."
"Good. You looked so out of place there, I thought I'd try and cheer you up."
Javert's mind was cruel to itself as he interpreted pity from Aimée's words. He tapped his heels against the wood to try and fill the sudden silence. It was a while before he realized that it was his turn to speak.
"I'm not used to grand parties," he said stiffly.
"What are the shipyards like?" Aimée asked, drastically changing subjects as she picked up on Javert's unease.
"What do you mean?"
"I mean, what are they like? I used to wonder about them when I was a little girl, walking past them and hearing the chants of the workers echoing like a song over the waves."
Javert was surprised at Aimée's sudden vivid memory.
"The inmates sing to boost morale," Javert said, speaking of the prisoners like they were animals being observed, "And also to find a rhythm when pulling in ships."
She was quiet, but by the look on her face, Javert knew he was expected to keep talking. "The salt water soaks your clothes and gets into your skin, drying it out if you don't wipe yourself off at the end of the day. No matter what I eat, I always taste salt."
Aimée winkled her nose, "Even in the pastries?"
"I do not have pastries very often, so I don't know about those."
"And the ships…are they big up close? I always wondered what it would be like to set sail across the ocean, to the west. They say that there are marvelous things in that country over there. Amerilla? What's it called? I'm no good at geography."
"America," Javert snorted bitterly, "A bunch of rowdy anarchists."
"As long as they disliked the lovely Brits, I'm happy with them."
Javert smiled at Aimée, his biggest smile yet, although it was hardly noticeable to her.
"The boats are large. Bigger than anything I know. I've sailed before. It was an awful experience. The floor lurches and your stomach grows ill every single day."
"Where did you sail to?"
"Morocco. I used to be a traveling guard with a large merchant ship. Whenever the king needed spices or silk, we would set sail. "
Javert noticed that Aimée was watching him with wonder, her uninjured eye wide and shining. He cleared his throat, unused to talking this long.
"Keep going!" Aimée pleaded, "Tell me about Morocco!"
"A dirty place. The market is packed with savage people with skin as dark as the earth. They're all shouting and haggling while pickpockets snuck their hands into your purse without even making a sound. Monkeys dashed through the streets and camels would groan to each other with big baskets on their humps."
Aimée didn't know what a camel was, but it sounded fascinating. Javert's brow had furrowed as he remembered the chaos of the African market. "By the time I was back in France, I kissed the wood of the dock the second we made in to port."
The sky behind the white curtain had grown from light gray to a weak orange as the sun started to rise. Javert felt disappointed, he was supposed to be back at the shipyards within the hour. He stood.
"Where are you going?" Aimée asked, not hiding the disappointment in her voice one bit.
"I have to get ready to work."
"What? Today? But you look like you haven't had any rest! Talk to the mayor, he'll give you the day off."
"I don't want the day off, I want to work." Javert replied, returning the chair back to its corner. He wanted to watch the inmates toil away and picture Anton in their midst, the frayed rope shredding his baby-soft hands.
Aimée frowned. "Well, I wish you good luck today. Make sure you get rest."
Javert gave her a nod.
"Get well soon, Mademoiselle Aimée."
She gave him one last smile and a small wave as he stepped through the door and closed it behind him. Once outside of Beaudet's mansion, Javert climbed into a carriage, his dress coat slung across his arm. Reaching into the pocket of the coat, he pulled out his stained handkerchief. Sighing loudly through his nose, he tucked it into the pocket of his navy blue pants as the carriage jostled him towards his meager home so he could start a long day of listening the chanting of inmates and the crash of waves.
The days were growing to be horribly long for Aimée as she rested in Beaudet's home. Sister Elliot had tried to keep her occupied with stories and small talk, but she found herself staring at the ceiling, wondering what it was like outside. Sister Mary would open the window
for her every morning when the nurses would come and wipe her down with a warm cloth. Each day, the sky and grass became even more inviting.
"Can I please leave?" Aimée found herself asking on the fourth day. "I'm not even that hurt…just a couple bruises."
Sister Elliot looked at Aimée's discolored face for a few moments. "I think we should wait a few more days. Just to be sure."
Aimée's face turned sour. She realized that she wasn't being kept there for her personal health. They were watching over her until her bruises lightened. No doubt the mayor and Gérard wanted to avoid the scandal of the townspeople seeing her with a horrible, beaten face.
Gérard had left the estate in order to care for his wife, now very pregnant and starting to feel the baby's kicks. When Melanie had heard of her daughter's attack, she desperately tried to take a carriage over to Beaudet's home, but the moment the woman stood, she bent over a washbasin, retching. Pregnancy was not being kind to her. Anna started to stay the night with her, fussing and fretting over cold compresses and the changing of sheets. Melanie's usual glow was replaced by sallowness and a fine film of sweat clung to her skin.
"What do you mean, Mama's sick?" Aimée demanded when Beaudet came in and passed the message on to her. It was the first time he had stopped by to check in, even though it was his home she was being kept at.
"Her pregnancy has taken a bad turn, Mademoiselle Lamenté," he said, wringing his hands in front of him and looking at the ground. Beaudet hated to relay bad news, and most often relied on his servants to take care of matters like these. However, when Gérard asked him to relay the news to his daughter, Mayor Beaudet felt guilty, knowing that his party and nephew was what separated the family in the first place.
Aimée struggled to get up, her muscles lazy and weak from staying in a bed for days on end. She hadn't even been permitted to walk around the house. What if one of the mayor's political guests might see her?
"I'm going home. This is enough," she said in a tone more mature than her looks portrayed. "You've kept me here long enough."
"I've kept you here? No, I thought you greatly needed the rest, hence why I haven't come to visit you. Your father told me to keep you here." Beaudet looked at Aimée then, unfazed by her wearing a simple chemise. "He no doubt wanted people to avoid seeing what my nephew did."
Aimée stopped getting up, now sitting in bed. Her eyes were questioning as she looked at Beaudet. "You mean you do not believe that shit about a gypsy?" She hadn't meant to swear, but days of brooding and stewing in anger had made her politeness run dry.
The mayor laughed. "Do you think I would be mayor of the town if I was so stupid, Mademoiselle? No…I know about my nephew. I know he's a pig. But, I also know your father is less wise to Anton than I am." Beaudet stood from his seat. "It is my fear that, even after what happened, your father is too consumed by a business partnership to see the danger of an arranged marriage to my nephew."
"What are you saying? You mean he's still going to try and make me marry Anton?" An uncontrollable shiver ran down Aimée's spine and her face paled.
Beaudet nodded.
"What? How can you let him do this! He's your nephew, tell my father the truth!" Aimée was absolutely livid and her heart started to thunder against her chest.
"My hands are tied, mademoiselle."
"Like hell they are!" Words were spit from her mouth like fire. "You're the mayor! Can't you have someone arrest Anton?"
Beaudet looked at the girl. "My dear, if only you knew how much I would love to do that. But I can't. You're just a child. You don't know how society or politics work."
"I know enough to assume that potential rapists should be put behind bars." She pointed to her swollen eye, only now starting to fade, "He did this to me, knocked me out. And you're still going to let my father sell me to him for business."
"I have no control over your father's affairs. You are his daughter, not mine. If he wants you to marry Anton, that is his choice. I'm not going to hover and tell your father what he can and cannot do. The best I can do, Mademoiselle, is provide servants to you that could protect you in your home."
Aimée's eyes were dark as she glared at the portly man. She wondered how she could've ever laughed in his presence. "You are a coward, Monsieur Beaudet," she said then, the bold words slipping quietly from her mouth before she could control them. "You see danger and let my father lead me to it like a lamb."
The mayor hid the dull hurt in his chest well behind a mask of control. He looked at the girl, young and beautiful behind her wounds and anger, and felt a lonely creak through his body. Beaudet was now unwed, a widower before he could be blessed with children…and oh, how he had desired children. He couldn't interfere with Gérard's own family, it simply wasn't his place. Deep in his heart, he knew that it is wrong to stand aside and let Gérard hand off his daughter to a predator like his nephew, but he should not include himself with private affairs that could be considered scandalous. The public wouldn't like it. And besides…Gérard wanted Beaudet's finances, not a friendship. Why should he be concerned with marital affairs?
The mayor sniffed once, turned, and said, "Sister Elliot will help you get dressed so you can return home to your mother," before he left Aimée, still sitting and fuming on the bed.