Queen of Swords
Page 33
“He is no slave,” Jennet said, her voice catching in her throat. “William, please fetch your mistress.”
“Indeed,” said Mme. Poiterin. “Fetch her so that I can tell her what I think of people who hide runaway lunatics and abducted children.”
“Fetch Mrs. Livingston now,” Jennet said. A great calm had come over her, a detachment so complete that she seemed to be watching the scene from outside her own body.
Jennet held her ground as the old lady thumped across the room. Her face was red with exertion and choler, and one small fist in its black kid glove was pressed against her bosom.
“I’ve come for my great-grandson,” she said, in French. “Produce him immediately and perhaps the law will go gently with you.”
“You have no great-grandson here,” Jennet said. “My son is none of your blood.”
Jennet was not tall, but Mme. Poiterin was shorter still, a small hill of beaded black brocade topped with an elaborate construction of black lace and wool in the shape of a stovepipe. Jennet thought of it belching smoke, and she found herself smiling. Unadvisedly.
Mme. Poiterin was small, but she was surprisingly strong and very quick. Her slap made Jennet stagger.
“How dare you laugh at me! You should be cowering in shame and fear.”
“Madame!” Mrs. Livingston stood in the door of the drawing room with William behind her. “What do you mean, forcing your way into my home and assaulting my guest? Have you taken leave of your good sense?”
“The constables are on their way,” said Mme. Poiterin. “They will arrest this—this woman for the assault on my slave and the stealing away of my grandson’s child.”
“They will do no such thing,” said Mrs. Livingston sharply. “You are not yourself, madame, or you would not intrude into a private home without invitation. You must leave immediately, or I will have you arrested for trespass.”
For one moment Mme. Poiterin’s mouth made a small, pale circle in her face. “You may forget who you are, madame, but I do not. I remember you on your knees taking up my hem, when you hadn’t two coins to rub together. You would not dare have me arrested.”
Jennet had to admire Mrs. Livingston’s ability to remain calm—to maintain her regal bearing—in the face of such provocation. She merely shook her head, and spoke very quietly. “I would dare that much, and more. What my husband will do, I can only imagine. Do you think the first families will stand behind you when they hear about this outrageous behavior?”
The old lady’s hand tightened its grip on her cane, and it seemed to Jennet that her color climbed even higher. “You are hardly the person to judge what the first families will do, as you have never belonged and will never belong. I tire of this. Give me the boy, and I will go.”
Jennet pulled herself up to her full height and walked to the middle of the room, where she was positioned between Mrs. Livingston and Mme. Poiterin. “I never bore your grandson a child. The boy is mine and my husband’s.”
The whole of Mme. Poiterin’s face, powder white and round as a penny, trembled. “That is a lie.”
Anger was an odd thing, Jennet realized. It could come like a flare, throwing everything into stark relief. Now she felt a click in her mind, like the snapping of fingers. Blood rushed up her neck and down her arms to her hands and immediately ebbed, leaving her trembling in a white anger. The image of her father came to her, and his voice: It is better to dwell in the wilderness than with a contentious and angry woman.
“Get out,” Jennet said. She felt the anger gathering in her throat, pushing up and up, but her voice sounded oddly calm to her own ears.
In the soft folds of the old lady’s cheek, a muscle twitched. “You ill-bred slut,” she said. “I know all about you. You dare to deny me?”
“Madame,” said Mrs. Livingston. “I suggest you spare yourself further embarrassment—”
“I have recourse,” Mme. Poiterin said. Her mouth jerked as if she might spit in Jennet’s direction. “I can report to the authorities what I know to be true. She”—she pointed at Jennet—“and the whore-master she calls a husband are spies. They are spies, do you hear me? My grandson has proof. They will hang, and then the boy will be returned to his rightful place with me.”
Jennet’s skin felt too tight on her face, as if it would suddenly split and a new Jennet—one capable of terrible things, her father’s daughter—would push out into the light. She bore down on her anger, for her son’s sake.
“Madame,” she said slowly. “My husband and I are not spies, and never have been. But if they hang men for piracy and theft and murder, then your grandson will hang, when I give evidence against him. Shall I tell you what I know about his dealings? Then you can decide if you care to go to the authorities with your stories.”
The old lady pressed a hand to her chest. “I don’t have to listen to this.”
“No?” Jennet said. There was a knock at the door, and men’s voices raised in concern. “Then let me tell the constables what I have seen with my own eyes. Mrs. Livingston, please, open the door.”
Chapter 38
It was dark by the time Hannah made ready to leave. Luke only relented on his intention to walk her back to the rue Dauphine when he saw that Leo was waiting with a lantern.
“Julia must have sent him back for me,” Hannah said. “She went ahead home with Rachel a good while ago.”
“Indeed,” said Mme. Poiterin. “Fetch her so that I can tell her what I think of people who hide runaway lunatics and abducted children.”
“Fetch Mrs. Livingston now,” Jennet said. A great calm had come over her, a detachment so complete that she seemed to be watching the scene from outside her own body.
Jennet held her ground as the old lady thumped across the room. Her face was red with exertion and choler, and one small fist in its black kid glove was pressed against her bosom.
“I’ve come for my great-grandson,” she said, in French. “Produce him immediately and perhaps the law will go gently with you.”
“You have no great-grandson here,” Jennet said. “My son is none of your blood.”
Jennet was not tall, but Mme. Poiterin was shorter still, a small hill of beaded black brocade topped with an elaborate construction of black lace and wool in the shape of a stovepipe. Jennet thought of it belching smoke, and she found herself smiling. Unadvisedly.
Mme. Poiterin was small, but she was surprisingly strong and very quick. Her slap made Jennet stagger.
“How dare you laugh at me! You should be cowering in shame and fear.”
“Madame!” Mrs. Livingston stood in the door of the drawing room with William behind her. “What do you mean, forcing your way into my home and assaulting my guest? Have you taken leave of your good sense?”
“The constables are on their way,” said Mme. Poiterin. “They will arrest this—this woman for the assault on my slave and the stealing away of my grandson’s child.”
“They will do no such thing,” said Mrs. Livingston sharply. “You are not yourself, madame, or you would not intrude into a private home without invitation. You must leave immediately, or I will have you arrested for trespass.”
For one moment Mme. Poiterin’s mouth made a small, pale circle in her face. “You may forget who you are, madame, but I do not. I remember you on your knees taking up my hem, when you hadn’t two coins to rub together. You would not dare have me arrested.”
Jennet had to admire Mrs. Livingston’s ability to remain calm—to maintain her regal bearing—in the face of such provocation. She merely shook her head, and spoke very quietly. “I would dare that much, and more. What my husband will do, I can only imagine. Do you think the first families will stand behind you when they hear about this outrageous behavior?”
The old lady’s hand tightened its grip on her cane, and it seemed to Jennet that her color climbed even higher. “You are hardly the person to judge what the first families will do, as you have never belonged and will never belong. I tire of this. Give me the boy, and I will go.”
Jennet pulled herself up to her full height and walked to the middle of the room, where she was positioned between Mrs. Livingston and Mme. Poiterin. “I never bore your grandson a child. The boy is mine and my husband’s.”
The whole of Mme. Poiterin’s face, powder white and round as a penny, trembled. “That is a lie.”
Anger was an odd thing, Jennet realized. It could come like a flare, throwing everything into stark relief. Now she felt a click in her mind, like the snapping of fingers. Blood rushed up her neck and down her arms to her hands and immediately ebbed, leaving her trembling in a white anger. The image of her father came to her, and his voice: It is better to dwell in the wilderness than with a contentious and angry woman.
“Get out,” Jennet said. She felt the anger gathering in her throat, pushing up and up, but her voice sounded oddly calm to her own ears.
In the soft folds of the old lady’s cheek, a muscle twitched. “You ill-bred slut,” she said. “I know all about you. You dare to deny me?”
“Madame,” said Mrs. Livingston. “I suggest you spare yourself further embarrassment—”
“I have recourse,” Mme. Poiterin said. Her mouth jerked as if she might spit in Jennet’s direction. “I can report to the authorities what I know to be true. She”—she pointed at Jennet—“and the whore-master she calls a husband are spies. They are spies, do you hear me? My grandson has proof. They will hang, and then the boy will be returned to his rightful place with me.”
Jennet’s skin felt too tight on her face, as if it would suddenly split and a new Jennet—one capable of terrible things, her father’s daughter—would push out into the light. She bore down on her anger, for her son’s sake.
“Madame,” she said slowly. “My husband and I are not spies, and never have been. But if they hang men for piracy and theft and murder, then your grandson will hang, when I give evidence against him. Shall I tell you what I know about his dealings? Then you can decide if you care to go to the authorities with your stories.”
The old lady pressed a hand to her chest. “I don’t have to listen to this.”
“No?” Jennet said. There was a knock at the door, and men’s voices raised in concern. “Then let me tell the constables what I have seen with my own eyes. Mrs. Livingston, please, open the door.”
Chapter 38
It was dark by the time Hannah made ready to leave. Luke only relented on his intention to walk her back to the rue Dauphine when he saw that Leo was waiting with a lantern.
“Julia must have sent him back for me,” Hannah said. “She went ahead home with Rachel a good while ago.”
