The Virgin Blue. Tracy Chevalier

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      Etienne dropped his hands. The mention of his mother was enough to tame him.

      —Have you asked them?

      He was silent. His broad shoulders sagged and he stared off into a corner.

      —You have not asked them.

      —I’ll be twenty-five soon and I can do what I want then. I won’t need their permission then.

      Of course they don’t want us to marry, Isabelle thought. My family is poor, we have nothing, but they are rich, they have a Bible, a horse, they can write. They marry their cousins, they are friends with Monsieur Marcel. Jean Tournier is the Duc de l’Aigle’s syndic, collecting tax from us. They would never accept as their daughter a girl they call La Rousse.

      —We could live with my father, she suggested. It has been hard for him without my brothers. He needs—

      —Never.

      —So we must live here.

      —Yes.

      —Without their consent.

      Etienne shifted his weight from one leg to the other, leaned against the edge of the table, crossed his arms. He looked at her directly.

      —If they don’t like you, he said softly, it’s your own fault, La Rousse.

      Isabelle’s arms stiffened, her hands curled into fists.

      —I have done nothing wrong! she cried. I believe in the Truth.

      He smiled.

      —But you love the Virgin, yes?

      She bowed her head, fists still clenched.

      —And your mother was a witch.

      —What did you say? she whispered.

      —That wolf that bit your mother, he was sent by the devil to bring her to him. And all those babies dying.

      She glared at him.

      —You think my mother made her own daughter die? Her own granddaughter die?

      —When you are my wife, he said, you will not be a midwife. He took her hand and pulled her towards the barn, away from his parents’ hearth.

      —Why do you want me? she asked in a low voice he could not hear. She answered herself: Because I am the one his mother hates most.

      The kestrel hovered directly overhead, fluttering against the wind. Grey: male. Isabelle narrowed her eyes. No. Reddish-brown, the colour of her hair: female.

      Alone she had learned to remain on the surface of the water, lying on her back, arms stroking out from her sides, breasts flattened, hair floating in the river like leaves around her face. She looked up again. The kestrel was diving to her right. The brief moment of impact was hidden by a clump of broom. When the bird reappeared it was carrying a tiny creature, a mouse or a sparrow. It flew up fast then and out of sight.

      She sat up abruptly, crouching on the long smooth rock of the river bed, her breasts regaining their roundness. The sounds arose out of nothing, a tinkle here and there, then suddenly joined together into a chorus of hundreds of bells. The estiver – Isabelle’s father had predicted they would arrive in two days’ time. Their dogs must be good this summer. If she didn’t hurry she would be surrounded by hundreds of sheep. She stood up quickly and picked her way to the bank, where she brushed the water from her skin with the flat of her hand and wrung the river from her hair. Her shameful hair. She pulled on her dress and smock and wound her hair out of sight in a long piece of white linen.

      She was tucking in the end of the linen when she froze, feeling eyes on her. She searched as much of the surrounding land as she could without moving her head but could see nothing. The bells were still far away. With her fingers she felt for loose strands of hair and pushed them under the cloth, then dropped her arms, pulled her dress up away from her feet, and began to run down the path next to the river. Soon she turned off it and crossed a field of scrubby broom and heather.

      She reached the crest of a hill and looked down. Far below a field rippled with sheep making their way up the mountain. Two men, one in front, one at the back, and a dog on each side were keeping the flock together. Occasionally a few strays darted to one side, to be herded quickly back into the fold. They would have been walking for five days now, all the way from Alès, but at this final summit they showed no signs of flagging. They would have the whole summer to recover.

      Over the bells she could hear the whistles and shouts of the men, the sharp barks of the dogs. The man in front looked up, straight at her it seemed, and whistled shrilly. Immediately a young man appeared from behind a boulder a stone’s throw to her right. Isabelle clutched her neck. He was small and wiry, sweaty and very dark from the sun. He carried a walking stick and the leather sack of a shepherd and wore a close-fitting round cap, black curls framing the brim. When she felt his dark eyes on her she knew he had seen her in the river. He smiled at her, friendly, knowing, and for a moment Isabelle felt the touch of the river on her body. She looked down, pressed her elbows to her breasts, could not smile back.

      With a leap the man started down the hill. Isabelle watched his progress until he reached the flock. Then she fled.

      —There is a child here. Isabelle placed a hand on her belly and stared defiantly at Etienne.

      In an instant his pale eyes darkened like the shadow of a cloud crossing a field. He looked at her hard, calculating.

      —I will tell my father, then we must tell your parents. She swallowed. What will they say?

      —They’ll let us marry now. It would look worse if they said no when there is a child.

      —They’ll think I did it deliberately.

      —Did you? His eyes met hers. They were cold now.

      —It was you who wanted the Sin, Etienne.

      —Ah, but you wanted it too, La Rousse.

      —I wish Maman were here, she said softly. I wish Marie were here.

      Her father acted as if he had not heard her. He sat on the bench by the door and scraped at a branch with his knife; he was making a new pole for the hoe he had broken earlier that day. Isabelle stood motionless in front of him. She had said it so quietly that she began to think she would have to repeat herself. She opened her mouth to speak when he said:— You have all left me.

      —I’m sorry, Papa. He says he won’t live here.

      —I wouldn’t have a Tournier in my house. This farm won’t go to you when I die. You’ll get your dowry, but I will leave the farm to my nephews over at l’Hôpital. A Tournier will never get my land.

      —The twins will return from the wars, she suggested, fighting tears.

      —No. They will die. They’re not soldiers, but farmers. You know that. Two years and no word from them. Plenty have passed through from the north and no news.

      Isabelle left her father sitting on the bench and walked across their fields, СКАЧАТЬ