Queen of Swords
Page 13
But you need not fear, I will not divert from the plans we made so carefully, though my heart will break anew every time I must give him up again.
You must know also that I have nothing to report about Honoré Poiterin, as his grandmother forbids him all contact with me until I am deemed free of sin and properly chastised. He did not seem at all put out by this restriction, and indeed it was a huge relief to me. I need not tell you, though, to watch for him. He is close by, so Titine and her aunt Amazilie tell me.
I see very little of Mr. Preston’s sister, who is bedridden and so afraid of Madame P that she shakes at the mention of her name. I depend on Titine and Amazilie and on Amazilie’s grown son Tibère, who have taken on our cause as their own. Because they are kind, good people, but also because they hope that the resolution of our troubles may also mean that Titine’s mother might return to her home in New Orleans, which H.P. has taken from her at his grandmother’s urging. Titine will carry this letter with her every day until Hannah comes to the chapel. I hope that I have learned the code correctly and that you will be able to read this with less difficulty than I have had writing it.
I think of you hourly and with great love, my one true husband. Your devoted wife,
Jennet
Chapter 16
When Titine came to report on her first meeting with Hannah, Jennet had been so light-headed with relief that at first she had simply failed to comprehend the bad news: Hannah had arrived safely in New Orleans, but she was sick with swamp fever. How sick, Titine had refused to speculate; instead she had consulted with her aunt Amazilie, filled her apron pockets with herbs and medicines, and gone straight back to the city. And never returned.
By the second day it was clear to them all that Titine had been abducted, or was dead at the hands of common thieves. It was then that Jennet allowed herself to contemplate the full weight of the facts: Titine was gone for good, and Jennet was responsible for this. Add to that, news just as bad: Titine had disappeared before she had thought to tell anyone where Hannah was hidden in the city. Hannah was stranded someplace, ill unto death, without money or papers. In the pack that Titine had brought back to Maison Verde for safekeeping was the letter Jennet had written for Luke, in code.
Luke was missing, too, and there was no word of him. In short, all their plans had gone wrong.
Despite all this, Jennet had no choice but to present a calm and benign expression to the world in general, and to Mme. Poiterin in particular. Her daily routine did not change with Titine’s disappearance, except that Amazilie was now required to accompany her to Mass and confession every morning, followed by Mme. Poiterin’s men.
And so Jennet concentrated on her son. When Jacinthe brought him, Jennet could put everything else away for that short time. She set herself the goal of making him remember, if only by touch and voice, who his mother was.
It was Jacinthe who suggested, shyly, almost apologetically, that Jennet put her son to the breast.
“Let him suckle,” Jacinthe had told her. “Let him pull hard, the milk will come back.”
“But…” Jennet, afraid to take Jacinthe at her word, had hesitated and asked the more crucial question. “Surely Madame will object?”
Jacinthe blinked at her and put a long hand on her own high rounded belly. “Madame got another great-grandchild coming,” she said. “This one will need to suckle, too.”
Jennet had the idea that Mme. Poiterin was not likely to acknowledge Jacinthe’s child as her own blood, but she did not say so. Instead she put her son back to the breast and let him draw. The pain, at first, was exquisite, but it was not long before her milk came back, and in such abundance that she was swollen with it when Jacinthe brought the boy later than usual.
The joy of having her son back in this particular way was enough to offset the unpleasant nature of her afternoon duties, when she was expected to arrive at Larivière at three every day to take coffee. Or rather, she had been summoned to read aloud while the old lady took coffee and ate a multitude of sugary little confections called pralines. Jennet might have taken some satisfaction from the simple act of reading well, if Madame had not interrupted constantly to correct her French pronunciation or to lecture.
The old lady used the newspaper reports as a way to launch into her daily catechism, which began with a biting critique of everything having to do with Americans. She found them to be vulgar, brazen, uncouth, greedy; she deplored the garish houses they were building in the sprawling new suburbs that clung to the city like leeches, and most of all, she resented their insufferable interference in Creole business and society. Beyond all that, she disdained their inability or stubborn refusal to learn French, the only language that Mme. Poiterin cared to hear spoken around her. New Orleans would always be French, could be nothing less than Creole.
The reports of Commander Patterson’s raids on Barataria and his routing of the Lafitte brothers made the old lady so angry that her plump hands shook. The Lafittes had offered their services to the Americans—why they should do such a thing she could not imagine—but instead of showing their gratitude that men of courage and wide experience were willing to assist them, the American navy had destroyed the village at Grand Terre, taken dozens of prisoners, and confiscated half a million dollars in property.
She had no doubt, Madame said darkly, that the milled soap and Belgian lace and embroidered fabrics she had ordered from France were now in the possession of an American woman with a loud voice and no sense of style. The only comfort was the fact that the Lafittes had eluded Patterson, and would soon be back in business.
You must know also that I have nothing to report about Honoré Poiterin, as his grandmother forbids him all contact with me until I am deemed free of sin and properly chastised. He did not seem at all put out by this restriction, and indeed it was a huge relief to me. I need not tell you, though, to watch for him. He is close by, so Titine and her aunt Amazilie tell me.
I see very little of Mr. Preston’s sister, who is bedridden and so afraid of Madame P that she shakes at the mention of her name. I depend on Titine and Amazilie and on Amazilie’s grown son Tibère, who have taken on our cause as their own. Because they are kind, good people, but also because they hope that the resolution of our troubles may also mean that Titine’s mother might return to her home in New Orleans, which H.P. has taken from her at his grandmother’s urging. Titine will carry this letter with her every day until Hannah comes to the chapel. I hope that I have learned the code correctly and that you will be able to read this with less difficulty than I have had writing it.
I think of you hourly and with great love, my one true husband. Your devoted wife,
Jennet
Chapter 16
When Titine came to report on her first meeting with Hannah, Jennet had been so light-headed with relief that at first she had simply failed to comprehend the bad news: Hannah had arrived safely in New Orleans, but she was sick with swamp fever. How sick, Titine had refused to speculate; instead she had consulted with her aunt Amazilie, filled her apron pockets with herbs and medicines, and gone straight back to the city. And never returned.
By the second day it was clear to them all that Titine had been abducted, or was dead at the hands of common thieves. It was then that Jennet allowed herself to contemplate the full weight of the facts: Titine was gone for good, and Jennet was responsible for this. Add to that, news just as bad: Titine had disappeared before she had thought to tell anyone where Hannah was hidden in the city. Hannah was stranded someplace, ill unto death, without money or papers. In the pack that Titine had brought back to Maison Verde for safekeeping was the letter Jennet had written for Luke, in code.
Luke was missing, too, and there was no word of him. In short, all their plans had gone wrong.
Despite all this, Jennet had no choice but to present a calm and benign expression to the world in general, and to Mme. Poiterin in particular. Her daily routine did not change with Titine’s disappearance, except that Amazilie was now required to accompany her to Mass and confession every morning, followed by Mme. Poiterin’s men.
And so Jennet concentrated on her son. When Jacinthe brought him, Jennet could put everything else away for that short time. She set herself the goal of making him remember, if only by touch and voice, who his mother was.
It was Jacinthe who suggested, shyly, almost apologetically, that Jennet put her son to the breast.
“Let him suckle,” Jacinthe had told her. “Let him pull hard, the milk will come back.”
“But…” Jennet, afraid to take Jacinthe at her word, had hesitated and asked the more crucial question. “Surely Madame will object?”
Jacinthe blinked at her and put a long hand on her own high rounded belly. “Madame got another great-grandchild coming,” she said. “This one will need to suckle, too.”
Jennet had the idea that Mme. Poiterin was not likely to acknowledge Jacinthe’s child as her own blood, but she did not say so. Instead she put her son back to the breast and let him draw. The pain, at first, was exquisite, but it was not long before her milk came back, and in such abundance that she was swollen with it when Jacinthe brought the boy later than usual.
The joy of having her son back in this particular way was enough to offset the unpleasant nature of her afternoon duties, when she was expected to arrive at Larivière at three every day to take coffee. Or rather, she had been summoned to read aloud while the old lady took coffee and ate a multitude of sugary little confections called pralines. Jennet might have taken some satisfaction from the simple act of reading well, if Madame had not interrupted constantly to correct her French pronunciation or to lecture.
The old lady used the newspaper reports as a way to launch into her daily catechism, which began with a biting critique of everything having to do with Americans. She found them to be vulgar, brazen, uncouth, greedy; she deplored the garish houses they were building in the sprawling new suburbs that clung to the city like leeches, and most of all, she resented their insufferable interference in Creole business and society. Beyond all that, she disdained their inability or stubborn refusal to learn French, the only language that Mme. Poiterin cared to hear spoken around her. New Orleans would always be French, could be nothing less than Creole.
The reports of Commander Patterson’s raids on Barataria and his routing of the Lafitte brothers made the old lady so angry that her plump hands shook. The Lafittes had offered their services to the Americans—why they should do such a thing she could not imagine—but instead of showing their gratitude that men of courage and wide experience were willing to assist them, the American navy had destroyed the village at Grand Terre, taken dozens of prisoners, and confiscated half a million dollars in property.
She had no doubt, Madame said darkly, that the milled soap and Belgian lace and embroidered fabrics she had ordered from France were now in the possession of an American woman with a loud voice and no sense of style. The only comfort was the fact that the Lafittes had eluded Patterson, and would soon be back in business.
