The Chocolatier's Wife (97 page)

Go
find
a
widower
and
keep
your
eyes
off
my
William.
Good
Lord,
you
may
well be
old enough
to have
changed
his nappies!

The
breeze
rustled
a
bit,
and a
twig
was
hurled,
spear
-
like, from
a
tree. William
batted
it
away,
and
Tasmin
forced
herself
to
calm,
realizing that she was upsetting her little protectors.

She
settled
on
the
stone
bench,
rather
than
the
delicate,
padded swing
that
M
a
dame
Gervaise
had
made
her
domain, and
William, wisely, investigative measures or
no,
sat next to her.

They
spoke
pleasantries
a
little
longer, comparing
notes
on
their
lives. William
tried
to
bring
Tasmin
into
the
conversation,
and
Madame
Gervaise, sulking
genteelly,
pretended
to
go
along.
Finally,
and
much
to
Tasmin’s relief, William
turned the co
n
versation
to the reason
they had come.

“You
have
heard
the
sad
events
that
passed
with
the
Bishop,
of course.”

“Oh, I
did
indeed.
I
was
terribly
upset,
especially
at
the
thought
that you
might
be
held
accountable
for
such
a
terrible
thing.
We
both
know
you could not possibly have
anything to do with such a
horrid
crime.”

“What
we
found
striking,”
William
said,
for
Tasmin
had
quite
given
up on
the
idea
of
talking
to
the
woman
at
all,
“is
that
we
were
reminded
of
your own dear husband’s death. It
was rather
sudden, as I
recall.”

“It
was
a
terrible
tragedy,”
she
said
with
a
long
sigh.
“He
was
taking
his evening
stroll
along
the
tower
wall.
He
loved
to
go
up
and
take
a
look
about
the
horizon,
you
know.
I
think
he
missed
the
sea
greatly
and
liked
to
pretend that
he
was
on the
quarter
deck
again,
searching
for signs
of
the
enemy
on the
horizon.”
She
turned
pensive
as
she
spoke,
her
face
grew
grave,
and
she seemed,
finally, a
real
person.

These
masks
we
all
wear,
Tasmin
thought, thinking
of
William’s
mother
as
well
as
the
woman
before
her.
Did
the mask of
how
these
women
wanted
to
be
perceived
slip
because
they
were thinking
of
things
close
to
their
heart? Or
was
it
because
it
seemed
people so
rarely
listened
to
what
they
had
to
say?

“He
fell
off
the
rampart. They wanted
to
call
it
suicide,
but
I
knew
my
husband
be
t
ter
than
that.
He
was
by himself,
though,
so
he
couldn’t
have
been
pushed,
and
it
was
good
weather, so he didn’t slip. He was a man of the sea; they are always careful of their footing,
are
they
not?”
She
seemed
to
plead
this
last
to
William, who
had leaned forward to listen to her all the more
intently.

He
smiled
his
kind
smile,
and
nodded.
“Did
he
ever
take
a
drink with him?”

Madame
Gervaise
smiled.
“Coffee,
of
course.
Straight
and bitter,
like they had it at sea when they could.”

Tasmin
had
never
tasted
coffee,
and
she
wondered
if
the
flavor of
the brew
could
have
covered
the
taste
of
some
poison. She
knew
the
effects
of coffee,
knew
what
you
could
mix
with
it
to
turn it
deadly, but
she’d
never actually drank
it.
She put that aside to ask
William
later.

“Did
you
have
any
new
servants? Or
any
visitors?
Someone
who
saw him
just b
e
fore he died?”

“Are
you
asking,
my
dear
William,
if
there
was
any
way
someone
could have
po
i
soned my husband’s coffee? Or
pushed him
over
the side?”

He looked a
bit sheepish. “Yes, I’m
afraid
so.”

“Part
of the ritual was that I
made the coffee for
him,
every
day. From
a preparation
of
your
own
mother’s.
She
certainly
had
nothing
against
him, and
I
could
hardly
live
without
him. My
life
has
not
been
improved
by
his death, in
the least.”

“Of course not,”
William
said.
“I
am
sorry.”

“Don’t
think
of
it.”
She
chewed
her
lower
lip.
“He
was
quite
alone
at
the time,
so I
don’t
know
how he came to fall.
All I
know
is that I
miss him.”

“I am so sorry.” The words were the first
Tasmin had said for ages, and they
were
heartfelt.
She
knew
she
would
not
have
truly
missed
William
if
he had died at sea.
R
e
gretted him,
yes, but it would not have
changed her life.
She
would
not
have
known to
feel
lonely
for
his
voice,
and
now,
knowing him,
she
could
not
imagine
how
she
could
go
on
should
something
happen to take him
from
her.
The very
idea surprised her.

William
looked
down
at
his
hands
for
a
moment.
They
all
sat
there, each
feeling
the
weight
of
Madame
Gervaise’s
loss
in
their
own
way.
When a
respectable
time
had
passed,
he
asked, “Did
you
ever
meet
Admiral Lavoussier
before your husband’s death?”

She
shook
her
head.
“But I
will
tell
you
the
truth
of
him,
if
you
promise not
to
tell
where
you
got
it
from.
He
came
to
the
Bishop
with
some
sad
tale. I
never
knew
more
than
the
gist
of
it,
that
Lavoussier
had,
when
he
lost
the
Pandora
,
lost
his
chances
at
some
promotion.
He
begged
the
Bishop
to intercede
with
the
governor
on
his
behalf,
and
with
the
Admiralty, as
the Bishop
had
done
for you,
to
get
this
post.
It
is
said
the
Bishop
took
pity
on him.
He was,
after all,
a
man
of God,
and
a
powerful one.”