The Virgin Blue (25 page)

There was a silence; Isabelle knew what they were all thinking: they were remembering the Tournier chimney.

Marie hung at Gaspard's elbow, waiting for him to tickle her. He reached out, chucked her under the chin, pulled her ears.

— Eh, you want a chimney,
mon petit souris
, is that what you want? You don't like this smoke?

— It's Maman who hates it the most, Marie replied, giggling.

— Ah, Isabelle. Gaspard turned to her. You don't look well. Are you eating enough?

Hannah frowned. Etienne spoke for her.

— There is plenty to eat in this house for those who want it, he said gruffly.

—
Bien sûr
. Gaspard swept his hands in front of him as if smoothing ruffled cloth. You have had a good hemp crop, you have goats, all is well. Except you lack a chimney for Madame. He nodded at Isabelle. And Madame gets what she wants.

Isabelle blinked and peered at him through the smoke. Again there was silence until Gaspard laughed uncertainly.

— I joke! he cried. I'm teasing you, that's all.

After he left Etienne paced around the room, looking at the fire from every angle.

— The hearth will go here, against this wall, he explained to Petit Jean, patting the wall furthest from the door. We can build through the roof there. You see? There will be four pillars here – he pointed – holding up a stone roof that will lead the smoke up and out the hole we cut at the top.

How big will the hearth be, Papa? Petit Jean asked. As big as the one at the old farm?

Etienne glanced around before his eyes rested on Marie.

— Yes, he said, it will be a big hearth. You think so, Marie?

He rarely spoke her name. Isabelle knew he hated it. She had threatened to put a curse on their crops if he didn't let her name the baby Marie. In all the years she had been with the Tourniers it had been the only time she dared use their fear of her. Now that fear was gone; instead there was anger.

Marie frowned at Etienne. When he continued to look at her with his cold wide eyes she burst into tears. Isabelle put her arm round her daughter.

— It's nothing,
chérie
, don't cry, she whispered, stroking her hair. You'll make it worse. Don't cry.

Over Marie's head she saw Hannah perched in the far corner of the room. For a moment she thought something was wrong with her. Her face looked different, the web of wrinkles more pronounced. Then she realized it was because the old woman was smiling.

Isabelle began to keep Marie close to her, teaching her to spin, having her roll up balls of thread, knitting little dresses for her doll. Isabelle touched her often, gripping her arm, stroking her hair, as if to reassure herself that the girl was still there. She kept Marie's face clean, scrubbing it with a cloth every day so that it shone through the gloom of the smoke.

— I need to be able to see you,
ma petite
, she explained, though Marie never asked for an explanation.

Isabelle kept Hannah away from the girl as much as she could, placing herself physically between them.

She did not always succeed. One day Marie came to Isabelle with shiny lips.

—Mémé spread pig fat on my bread! she cried.

Isabelle frowned.

— Maybe she will give you some tomorrow, her daughter continued, to fatten you too. You are becoming so thin, Maman. And so tired.

— Why does Mémé want you to be fat?

— Perhaps I'm special.

— No one is special in the eyes of God, Isabelle said sternly.

— But the pig fat was good, Maman. So good that I want more.

One morning she woke up to the sound of water and knew it was finally over.

Etienne opened the door to let in sunlight and a warmth that lifted her body. Everywhere the snow was melting and forming rivulets that ran down to the stream. The children burst outside as if they had been tied up, running and laughing, dragging clods of mud around on their shoes.

Isabelle knelt in the kitchen garden and let the mud soak her knees. She was alone for the first time in months, all of them so busy with spring's arrival that they left her unguarded. She bowed her head and began to pray out loud.

— Holy Mother, I cannot live through another winter here, she murmured. One winter like this is all I can survive. Please, dear Virgin, do not let this happen again. She pressed her arms across her stomach. Keep me and this baby safe. You are the only one who knows.

Isabelle had not been to Moutier since Christmas. All winter Hannah had taken the bread to be baked. When the weather was fair Etienne had taken the children to church, but Isabelle was always left behind with Hannah. When they heard the pedlar's whistle for his spring visit, Isabelle expected to be told she could not go, to be beaten even for asking. She remained in the garden, planting herbs.

Marie came to find her.

— Maman, she said. Are you coming?

— No,
ma petite
. You see I am busy here.

— But Papa sent me to find you, to say you can come.

— Your father wants me to come to town?

— Yes. Marie lowered her voice. Please come, Maman. Don't say anything. Just come.

Isabelle looked at her face, blue eyes bright and level, blond hair light on top and dark underneath as her father's had once been. The red hairs had begun to appear again, one per day that Hannah herself now pulled out.

— You are too young to be so wise.

Marie twirled round, plucked at the new lavender bush and ran away laughing.

— We are going to town, all of us! she shouted.

Isabelle tried to smile when they reached the crowd gathered at the pedlar's cart. She could feel people staring at her. She had no idea what the town thought of her, whether or not Etienne had encouraged or stifled the rumours about her, or if people talked of her at all.

Monsieur Rougemont approached.

— It is a pleasure to see you again, Isabelle, he said stiffly, taking her hand. We will see you on Sunday as well, I hope?

— Yes, she replied. He would not treat a witch like this, she thought uncertainly.

Pascale came up to her, face tight with concern.

— Isabelle, have you been ill?

Isabelle glanced at Hannah, standing next to her, uncomfortable.

— Yes, she said. Ill with the winter. But better now, I think. 194

—
Bella!
she heard behind her and turned to see the pedlar hanging over her on his cart. He reached over, took her hand and kissed it. Ah, a joy to see you, Madame! A joy. He held on to her hand and, scrambling among his things, led her round the cart, away from Etienne and Hannah and the children, who watched them but did not follow. It was as if the pedlar had placed a spell on them that froze them in place.

He let go of her hand, squatted on the edge of his cart and looked at her closely.

— But you are so sad,
Bella
, he said softly. What has happened to you? How can you be so sad with such beautiful blue cloth to look at?

Isabelle shook her head, unable to explain. She closed her eyes to hide her tears.

— Listen,
Bella
, he said, still quietly. Listen. I must ask you something.

She opened her eyes.

— You trust me, yes?

She looked deep into his dark eyes.

— Yes, I trust you, she whispered.

— You must tell me what colour is your hair.

Isabelle's hand moved automatically to her headcloth.

— Why?

— I have a message maybe for you but I know only for sure when you tell me the colour.

Isabelle shook her head slowly.

— The last news you gave me was that my sister-in-law is dead. Why would I want to hear more from you?

The pedlar leaned closer.

— Because you are sad now and this message may make you happy, no more sad. I promise you,
Bella
. No bad news. Besides – he paused, looking at her face. It has been bad, this winter for you, yes? You hear no worse than what you have lived.

Isabelle looked down at the mud outlining her shoes. She took a deep breath.

— Red, she said. It's red.

He smiled.

— But that is beautiful, no? The colour of the Virgin's hair, may we bless her. Why to be ashamed? And it is the good answer too! Now you can have the message. It is from a shepherd I meet in Alès in the winter. He describes you and asks me to watch for you. He has black hair and a scar on his cheek. You know?

Isabelle froze. Out of the smoke, the exhaustion, the fear clogging her thoughts, came a glimmer.

— Paul, she whispered.

—
Si, si
, that is his name! He says to tell you – the pedlar closed his eyes and thought – he still looks for you in summer near the source of the Tarn. He looks for you always.

Isabelle began to weep. Luckily it was Marie rather than Etienne or Hannah who came to her side and took her hand.

— What's wrong, Maman? What did that bad man say to you? She scowled at the pedlar.

— He is not a bad man, Isabelle said through her tears. The pedlar laughed and tousled Marie's hair.

— You,
bambina
, are like a little boat, a gondola. You rock up and down and hold to the water and you are brave but very small.

He continued to run his fingers through her hair until he found a red strand that Hannah had missed.

— You see, he said to Isabelle, not shameful. Is beautiful.

— Tell him I am there always in my mind, Isabelle said.

Marie looked between them.

— Tell who?

— It is nothing, Marie. We were just talking. Thank you, she said to the pedlar.

— Be happy,
Bella
.

— I will try.

The day before Good Friday the hearth arrived.

Etienne and the boys were ploughing while Isabelle and Hannah cleaned the house, ridding it of the winter smoke and darkness. They scrubbed the floors and walls, scalded the pots, washed the clothes, changed the straw in the bedding, mucked out the barn. They did not whitewash the walls yet. All the houses in the valley whitewashed their rooms once a year in the spring, but the Tourniers were waiting until after the chimney was built.

Isabelle was stirring a vat full of steaming clothes when she saw the cart approaching, the horse straining against the load.

— Marie, go tell Papa the granite has arrived, she said. Marie dropped the stick she had been pushing among the sodden cloth and ran towards the fields.