Трейси Шевалье - The Virgin Blue

Pascale struggled for a moment, then said simply: – May God watch over you this winter.

Isabelle smiled wanly.

– And you as well.

– You will come to our house between the services?

– Bien sûr .

– Good. Now, Jacob, what do you have for me this time, chéri ?

He pulled from his pocket a dull green stone shaped like a pyramid and handed it to her.

Isabelle turned to go in. When she glanced back she saw Jacob whispering to Pascale.

After the morning service Etienne turned to her.

– You and Maman will go home now, he muttered.

– But the service at Chalières -

– You're not going to it, La Rousse.

Isabelle opened her mouth but stopped when she saw the set of his shoulders and the look in his eyes. Now I won't see Pascale, she thought. Now I won't see the Virgin in the chapel. She closed her eyes and pressed her arms against the sides of her head, as if expecting a blow.

Etienne grabbed her elbow and pulled her roughly from the crowd.

– Go, he said, pushing her in the direction of home. Hannah stepped to her side.

Isabelle held out her hand stiffly.

– Marie, she called. Her daughter jumped to her side.

– Maman, she said, taking the outstretched hand.

– No. Marie will go to church with us. Come here, Marie.

Marie looked up at her mother, then over to her father. She let go of Isabelle's hand and went to stand halfway between them.

– Here. Etienne pointed to a spot next to him.

Marie looked at him with wide blue eyes.

– Papa, she said in a loud voice, if you hit me the way you do Maman, I'll bleed!

Etienne's anger made him taller. He took a step towards her but stopped when Hannah put a warning hand out and shook her head. He glanced at the crowd: it had gone quiet. Glaring at Marie, he turned and strode away in the direction of Gaspard's house.

Hannah turned down the path that led towards their farm. Isabelle didn't move.

– Marie, she said, come with us.

Marie remained standing in the same spot until Jacob came up to her and took her hand.

– Let's go to the river, he said. Marie let him lead her away. Neither looked back.

Jacob played with Marie while the cold trapped them indoors, inventing new games with his pebbles. He taught her to count, and to sort them in various ways: by colour, size, origin. They began outlining objects with the pebbles. They laid a scythe on the floor and placed pebbles all the way round it, then picked up the tool and left behind its outline in stone. They did this with rakes, spades, pots, the bench, smocks, breeches, their hands.

– Let me outline you, he suggested one evening.

Marie clapped her hands and laughed. She lay on her back on the floor and he carefully pulled at her dress so that the pebbles would outline its full shape. He chose the pebbles carefully: Cevenol granite around her head and neck, white around the dress, dark green for her legs, feet and hands. He was meticulous, following the lines of the dress, even marking the cut of the waist, the tapering of the arms. When he was done he helped Marie up without disturbing the pebbles. They all admired the outline of the girl, arms and legs spread on the dirt floor. Isabelle glanced up and noticed that both Jacob and Etienne were looking at it intently. Etienne's lips were moving slightly.

He's counting, she thought. Why is he counting? A wave of fear swept over her.

– Stop it! she shouted, rushing into the outline and kicking at the stones.

The dark months after Christmas were the hardest. It was so cold that they opened the door only once a day, to get wood and hemp. Often the sky was grey, full of snow, and it was almost as dark outside as in the house. Isabelle would look out, hoping to escape for a moment, but found no comfort in the heavy sky, the smooth surface of the snow broken here and there in the distance by the black tops of firs or scabs of rock. When the cold touched her it felt like a metal bar pressed into her skin.

She began to taste metal as well, in the hard rye bread Hannah baked once a week in the communal oven, in the mushy vegetable stew they ate day after day. She had to force herself to eat, try to ignore the taste of blood, hide her gagging. Often she let Marie finish her food for her.

Then her arms and legs began to itch, in the creases on the inside of the elbow and behind the knee. At first she scratched at her skin through the layers of cloth: it was too cold to undress and pick off the lice. But one day she discovered blood seeping through the cloth, pulled up her sleeves and studied the sores: dry, silvery skin flaking away, rough patches of red, no trace of lice. She hid the rusty stains, fearful of what Etienne would accuse her of if he saw the blood.

She lay in bed at night, staring up at the dark and scratching with as little movement as possible so that Etienne would not notice. She listened to his even breathing, fearful of his waking, preferring to stay awake so that she would be ready – she did not know what for, but she waited in the dark for something, scarcely breathing.

She thought she was being careful, but one night he grabbed her hand and discovered the blood. He beat her and afterwards took her violently from behind. It was a relief not to have to look at his face.

One evening Gaspard came to sit at their fire.

– The granite is ordered, he told Etienne, pulling his pipe from his pocket and taking up his flint. The price is agreed and he has the measurements you gave me. He will bring it before Easter. Now, do you want more? For the chimney itself?

Etienne shook his head.

– I cannot pay for it. And anyway, the limestone here will be good enough for the chimney itself. It is the hearth that gets the hottest and needs the hardest stone.

Gaspard chuckled.

– They think you are crazy, down at the inn. Why does he want a chimney? they ask. He lives in a fine house as it is!

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.