“It is not a secret meeting, is it?”
It was Lukas’s turn to blush, and he did, with great coloring. “You keep your tongue, if you know what’s good for you.”
“I do know all that is good for me, Master Lukas.” I cocked my head and tried a guess. “You have met with a priest? Have you been baptized against your father’s will? Have you consorted with papists?”
“You know nothing of which you speak.”
“I know it is easier to live here when you take on their mantle as your own. I, too, have been baptized. Let us speak in English.”
He did. “I have naught against my father. I believe there is more than what he sees in the Bible. There is much that is worthy here, and very old.”
I thought for a moment, not knowing how to reply to him, yet not wanting to leave his presence. I asked the one thing that might be of mutual interest. “Have they surrendered your sister to the priests for a doxy?”
“No!” He threw the pear against the building, smashed pieces flying. “None of these fellows would! If they hold aught in their hearts, it is well reined and, and—”
“And yet you do not want it known that you have become a Catholic? Others of your community would condemn you.”
“As would your sister.”
I shifted the weight of the basket. “Why do you care?” My own heart leaped at the potency of that thought. It might be that he would wish for me to be near him, to long for my kiss upon his cheek. If I held my breath he might see in me some true beauty I might become. Perhaps if he did not, I could convince him of it. “Reverend Johansen and Master Hasken escaped with their souls intact, I suppose.”
“I must go,” he said, adjusting his hat.
“If you come here, taking instruction, others might hear of it.”
“Not if you don’t tell them,” he said, but this time without a sneer, it was more a look of pleading.
“I carry a thousand secrets already. What is one more?” As I saw his face relax and his shoulders drop into their normal place, I added, “I have need of paper and ink. If you are engaged in study with priests, you might find paper and ink. And a post.”
“They send out a post every month. Some to Rome, some to Paris, some to the colonies in New France.”
“One more post is a small thing. I might keep your secret.”
“I will get you the things to write a letter. When you have it, place it in that black-painted wooden box, there. Put the ink vial under this bayberry next to the wall.”
“When?”
“You will have to trust me. I will get it to you.”
I half closed my eyes, saying, “You will have to trust me, too.”
He did not look happy as he strolled away. Myself, I had quite a grin. All I had to do was wait for the paper to appear. It was a change of the prevailing wind.
Lukas was true to his word. A small cloth-wrapped bundle appeared between the layers of my folded clothing—for now I had two sets kept in a neat stack under my cot that I could interchange or wear together when it turned cold—and I could tell by the sound without opening it that it held paper. I was pleased to find three small sheets, each about eight inches square, and a vial of ink for which I would have to find a stand before I could uncork it and use it. I would also have to find a large feather to make into a quill, but I had seen Pa do it often.
Donatienne watched me wrapping the papers back into the cloth.
I said, “It is a gift.”
“We are not allowed such gifts.” Donatienne turned to the window. “Marie? I feel you are lying to me.”
“If I had stolen it, why would I let you see it now? It was a gift, I tell you.”
“Then who gave it to you?”
“A man I know.”
She clasped her hands on her mouth. “A man?” She walked around in a small circle, almost as in a dance step. “What man? What did he ask in return? If anyone has done anything to you, Marie, you must tell me at once.”
“All he asked in return is that I tell no one of his plans.”
“Plans for what? Escape?”
I could not defend myself without breaking the promise. “I cannot say.”
“Did you know, Marie, that I am sixteen. Next year they will find someone for me to marry. If I am not in good favor, they may not look for a husband for me. They may think working my life away in a factory is good enough.”
“I promised I would not tell. If you guessed, I could say what it was not, and not break my word.”
“Was it a plan to escape?”
“No,” I said firmly.
“Did he want to kiss you?”
“No. He wants to, to, change to Catholic.”
“He made you promise not to tell that?”
“He was afraid I would tell his family. He wants to become a priest. He may go to divinity school in Paris. He told me.”
“Are you making this up, again?” When I shook my head, Donatienne smiled and smoothed her dress.