Daughters of the Storm (41 page)

France was without a king.

Chapter 1

Marie-Victoire shifted from one foot to the other. The wind was bitter and whipped up her skirts and through the folds of her shawl. She was tired too, and her legs ached, and there was a pain in her belly just where the child sat heaviest. She could feel it kicking inside her with all the abandon of someone who is warm and fed. ‘Trust it to wake up now,' she muttered, for she had hours of waiting still to endure. The sullen queue outside the baker's snaked down the street. Everyone had staked out his place and anyone who tried to jump the queue was harangued by wives and mothers driven to aggression by the prospect of hungry faces at home. The bread queues were a daily sight and Marie-Victoire was finding that she needed to leave her shop for longer and longer periods each day in order to obtain her ration. Not that it mattered, she thought miserably, the shop was not prospering and, after Pierre had left, her interest in it had dwindled.

Where was he and would he come back? And how many times had she asked herself the question? A thousand? She had received only one letter from him, which she kept under her pillow and read every day. The gossip on the streets didn't give many details but ran along the lines that the French armies were on the run, they had won a great victory, the troops were deserting. The rumours varied and she had found them confusing, bringing her hope one minute, despair the next.

Marie-Victoire fingered her dog-eared ration card proclaiming her entitlement to just two pounds of bread, and then pocketed it when she saw a tough-looking young woman next to her eyeing it. She cupped her hands round her belly in the familiar gesture of pregnant women and rubbed where it ached. The bread queue was a long way from the time when she had walked so blithely from the Hôtel de Choissy, determined to make her way with Pierre. A long, long way. And for what? It had all been so much harder than even her worst fears. Nobody had any money, certainly not in the Cordeliers. People wanted to sell their possessions in order to buy firewood, flour and sugar, and if they came into the shop it was to persuade her to buy yet another pair of stockings, or a chemise, or an apron. Without Pierre's careful counselling, Marie-Victoire had used up her money, including her emergency hoard from Héloïse, and her pride wouldn't let her apply to Héloïse for more. She had begun to understand a certain look on some women's faces. A look that spoke of vanishing hope and bodily exhaustion. Marie-Victoire had never imagined that she would be the same. But now she was.

‘When will it be born?'

The young woman who had eyed her earlier spoke with genuine interest.

‘In the spring, I think,' replied Marie-Victoire cautiously.

‘One more mouth to feed, is it?'

‘No, this is the first.' And the last, she added to herself.

‘I have four. Borne seven, though,' said the woman.

Marie-Victoire looked at her curiously.

‘So many,' she said. ‘Does your husband have work?'

‘Him!' The woman snorted. ‘He's gone. Didn't fancy having so many children to feed. Fucked himself silly and didn't like what came of it. I should have known.'

‘How do you manage?' asked Marie-Victoire, and a chill ran through her.

‘The usual way,
ma fillette.
Two sous against the wall, five lying down. Anywhere and everywhere, Jeanne will give you good value.'

She made a coarse gesture and hitched up her skirts to display a pair of surprisingly good legs. At that point, the queue moved forward and Marie-Victoire found herself clinging to Jeanne for support.

‘Here, lean on me,' said Jeanne, ‘I'll look after you.'

By the time they had obtained their loaves of coarse, lumpy bread and accused the baker of hoarding the best, a friendship had developed. Clutching their precious ration, they left the shop together. Marie-Victoire found herself thawing. It had been such a long time since she had engaged in anything so simple and satisfying as a gossip. Jeanne was happy to impart her knowledge of the area, and was prodigal with bits of information that Marie-Victoire stored up for future use. At the junction of the Rue St Benoît and the Rue des Sts Pères, they stopped.

‘Can I come and visit you sometimes?' Marie-Victoire asked. ‘I would like to see your children.'

‘If you like,' Jeanne was off hand. Then she said: ‘Yes, why not?'

Cheered by the encounter, Marie-Victoire returned home. Yet, all too soon the silence and loneliness claimed her again and, during the following weeks, she found herself slipping back into a semi-comatose state from which she had difficulty rousing herself. The nights were the worst. Then, sleepless, she tried to forget the feel of Pierre's warm back and the sound of his breathing, only to rise wearily in the morning to fetch wood and water. These were things that she had to do, but as her body grew heavier and her mind duller, Marie-Victoire found them harder and harder. There were days when she did not bother to open the shop, but lay on her mattress, fingering her rosary and gazing at the ceiling. From time to time she heard the tocsin pealing but, her curiousity at its lowest ebb, she never bothered to find out why.

The price of food rose and then, as a cold spell gripped the country, spiralled. Violence in the streets became commonplace and Marie-Victoire never went out after dark – not that she wanted to. She took less and less interest in what she ate or wore and had to force herself to queue for bread. Sometimes her state of mind worried her, but not even the thought of Pierre's disapproval was sufficient to jolt her back into activity. She was cold, always cold, and the baby bothered her.

‘After it is born,' she promised herself, ‘it will be better.'

One day in late January she was stretched out on her mattress, wondering if, after all, she should return to the Hôtel de Choissy and throw herself on Héloïse's mercy. Darkness was already setting in. It was freezing and the footsteps outside in the street rang on the cobbles. She had no more rushlights or wood for the fire. She contemplated going out to beg for food since she had not eaten all day, or the day before, but she felt sick at the thought. Her back ached and her feet were like blocks of ice. She eased herself on to her side and wished that she was dead.

There was a knock on the door. Marie-Victoire sat up. The knock was repeated. She dragged herself upright, flung her shawl round her shoulders.

‘Who's there?'

‘Jeanne.'

Marie-Victoire opened the door. Puffs of dust rose in the draught. Hugging her shawl tightly around her, Jeanne walked in.

‘I thought I would see how you were doing. I haven't seen you around.'

Marie-Victoire shrugged and, to her shame, tears of despair trickled down her cheeks.

‘Here, let's look at you.'

Jeanne swung her round to the light and stared at her.

‘You seem poorly.'

‘I feel it,' Marie-Victoire admitted.

‘You're not starting?'

‘I don't know. My back is hurting and I'm losing.'

‘Ah, well,' said Jeanne knowledgeably. ‘I should think you are.'

Marie-Victoire wiped her tears with a grubby hand. The arrival of Jeanne had made her feel better.

‘I think there is half a bottle of beer somewhere,' she said.

‘Let's drink it,' said Jeanne, hunting on the shelf. ‘It's a good thing I decided to look you up. Is there any news of your man?'

‘None.'

She sounded so desolate that Jeanne paused in her search. ‘You've got it bad,' she said. ‘I can't remember feeling like that.' ‘Come on, then, down with it.' She poured the beer into a cup and gave it to Marie-Victoire. ‘Looks flat to me, but it will do.'

After the first mouthful, Marie-Victoire knew that she was going to be sick. She set down the cup and stumbled to the door and retched. Suddenly, she felt moisture gush down her legs. She clung to the doorpost and clutched at her belly.

‘Dieu,'
she gasped as a pain cramped her muscles.

She allowed Jeanne to guide her over to her mattress and to lie her down. Jeanne flipped back Marie-Victoire's skirts and ran her hands over the swollen body. Marie-Victoire moaned and prayed for oblivion.

Mercifully, it came

Some time later Marie-Victoire raised herself on to her elbow. Jeanne was perched at the end of the mattress watching her. To her surprise, the room was growing light.

‘How long?' she managed to whisper.

‘You've been at it some time,' replied Jeanne. ‘But you've got a little way to go yet.'

Marie-Victoire slumped back and closed her eyes.

‘It was good of you to stay,' she muttered through her raw lips. ‘What about your children?'

Jeanne laughed. ‘They are used to looking after themselves.'

The pains resumed. ‘
Dieu... Dieu...'

‘No good calling on him,' said Jeanne.

Marie-Victoire laboured on. At the moments when she felt she could take no more, her mind wandered through the woods and fields that Pierre had told her about in his letter.
I'll find him there...
But always the iron band tightened once more round her stomach and she knew she had lost him.

‘Pierre,' she pleaded. ‘Come back.'

A little later she screamed. Jeanne busied herself between Marie-Victoire's legs and, to the sound of her mother's distress, Marie-Victoire's daughter fought her way into the world on to a crumpled heap of sheets. She lay there with her tiny mouth open, as if registering surprise at her arrival, while Jeanne cut the cord and wrapped her in a torn-up shift. Then she placed the baby in her mother's arms.

Marie-Victoire peered down uncertainly, and quite suddenly the pain was only a memory. Peace stole through her battered body – a calm so perfect, so profound and so joyous that she never forgot it. The baby mewed, flicked her big, blue eyes open for a moment and settled back into her mother's arms. Her tiny, still bloody crown peeped out of the wrappings and Marie-Victoire lifted her free hand and stroked it gently.

Jeanne scooped up the afterbirth, wrapped it in a piece of sacking and took it away. Next she attempted to straighten the sheets and rub away the stains. She went out into the street and returned with a fresh pitcher of water, and proceeded to bathe Marie-Victoire's face and thighs with a rag.

‘I ought to bind your stomach,' she remarked as she worked, ‘but I am too tired.'

Marie-Victoire looked up and saw how weary her friend looked. Jeanne's hair had tumbled out from under her dirty cap and her skirts were stained.

‘You have done enough,' she said gratefully. ‘How can I ever thank you?'

‘Don't,' said Jeanne. ‘I'll call on you one day.'

She dipped a crust of bread which she had found in her pocket into the water and held it to Marie-Victoire's lips.

‘Eat,' she commanded. ‘Then feed the baby.'

Marie-Victoire obeyed. She placed the baby to her breast and, after a moment, felt the first tug at her nipple. The baby sucked sleepily at first and then with increasing urgency, and Marie-Victoire gave herself up to these new sensations with increasing wonder and delight.

‘What will you call her?' asked Jeanne, bending over to look more closely.

‘Marie, after my mother,' replied Marie-Victoire, tracing the curve of the baby's chin with her finger.

‘Marie it is, then,' said Jeanne. ‘Now I must go. Will you be all right?'

Marie-Victoire watched Jeanne let herself out and resumed the contemplation of her daughter. She remained like that for some time, before falling into a deep sleep, still clasping Marie.

*

Marie-Victoire was never again to feel the rapture of that moment when she fell in love with her baby. Lack of food and warmth drained her already depleted body, her nipples were sucked raw, and she worked herself up into a pitch of anxiety over Marie who was always hungry and restless. Tired as she had been before the birth, she was doubly so afterwards. And never had she been so alone as on those endless freezing nights, when she dragged herself upright to nurse a hungry Marie.

By the time Marie was a month old, Marie-Victoire had plunged, once again, into a deep depression. It was only by the greatest effort of will that she forced herself to take care of the baby. That much did register in her mind, but all other considerations disappeared. Once again, Jeanne came to the rescue and whisked Marie away to her minute room on the Rue St Benoît, where she was welcomed by Jeanne's children. It worked and she began to thrive. When Marie-Victoire felt better, thanks largely to Jeanne's good-natured bullying and practical help, she often wondered why she had chosen to befriend her so thoroughly.

But she was too grateful to protest. Instead she took a coin she had discovered knotted into her skirt hem, slipped into the nearest church and lit a candle in front of the Virgin. She felt guilty about it, knowing she needed the money and that Pierre would have disapproved, but she wanted to make this gesture in recognition of her safe delivery. Besides, she felt different. Becoming a mother had changed her. She could not explain how exactly. Perhaps it was something to do with understanding a different kind of love. Perhaps it was a greater reverence for life. Perhaps, now that her health was restored, it was a renewed desire to cling on to it. But she wanted to tell the Virgin that she understood the blessedness of giving birth, and was grateful. Reassuring and serene, the Virgin's painted face shone into the incense-laden gloom of the church and Marie-Victoire knelt at her feet for a long time and felt at peace.

She thought of Pierre less each day. He belonged to another part of her life that was over now, rather like La Joyeuse and, as she hoped, Jacques Maillard. It did not mean that she had forgotten Pierre, or that she did not long for him to return, only that the initial tearing sense of loss had faded into a dull ache. Marie-Victoire told herself it was for the best: she could no longer afford to suffer so intensely for someone who wasn't there. Life was too hard, and she must concentrate on finding food and work.