A Lady Under Siege

43

Married life—all forty-eight hours of it—had profoundly changed Mabel. She was no longer a spinster, or a virgin, she was now fully a woman, and a wife. To her mind she had attained a status higher than Sylvanne, whose position in society was precarious, as a widow without protection of family. As Mabel bustled into her former Lady’s presence she resolved to hold her head high and seize the initiative. After an exchange of pleasantries she got straight to the point. “Madame,” she exclaimed, “I’ll speak plainly. My husband let slip a hurtful remark that quite rightly alarmed you. But within it lies a truth that’s been kept from you too long. Your Gerald was unfaithful. There, I’ve said it.”

Sylvanne felt as if the floor were cracking open beneath her feet. As calmly as she could, she asked, “How do you know that for certain?”

“Everyone knew it, my dear. The man wanted an heir, and you had failed to deliver, so he looked elsewhere.”

“Where, exactly? Don’t spare me particulars.”

“Alright, if I must.” Mabel began to itemize. “There were milkmaids, the kitchen help, any number of pretty girls plucked from farm lanes in the countryside—Oh Madame, the man was quite notorious.”

“To all but me, it seems. If you knew, why didn’t you tell me?”

“Oh my poor dear,” Mabel cried. “Don’t you know how many times I was tempted to tell you, especially here in our new circumstances, as you plotted revenge on his behalf? But I held my tongue, as a loyal maidservant should. Instead you discovered it inadvertently, by chance. My Gwynn has many fine qualities, but a discreet tongue is not among them.”

“I don’t believe you,” Sylvanne said softly.

“I think you do.”

“Not so many days ago you took orders from me.”

“Yes. And not so many years ago you sold me milk in the market. Now we’re as equals again, and I feel brave enough to speak the truth freely.”

The truth. Surrendering to it, Sylvanne felt her spirit break, and she began to cry. Mabel came to her and very tenderly embraced her. “There, there, my sweet Madame,” she cooed softly.

“Oh Mabel, what am I to do?”

“My dear, there is a silver lining, if you wish to see it,” Mabel gently suggested. “Take notice that your Gerald tried to make a child with so many other women, and yet always failed in it. What does that show us? That the fault lay with him, not you.”

”My mother said the same,” Sylvanne murmured. “That his family’s bloodline was feeble, while mine was chock full of fit and fertile maidens.”

“Of which you’re still a shining example, my dear.”

“I’m not a maiden anymore.”

“Compared to me you are, and yet I’m not too old either,” Mabel replied. A secretive smile pursed her lips a moment. “May I tell you something in confidence?” Without waiting for an answer she continued excitedly. “It’s said that sometimes a woman knows she’s with child from the moment of conception. Perhaps it’s wishful thinking, but I’m blessed with that sensation since my wedding night.” She let out a happy growl. “He certainly planted his seed deep!”

Sylvanne managed a smile. Seeing it, Mabel exclaimed, “That’s more like it, my love! Look how much I have gained by the move to this new place, and you could do likewise. That’s really what I’ve come to say, not to dwell on people and events dead and buried. I so love this new season of my life, and my place as wife! You cannot imagine how it thrills me to say that I cannot stay, that I’ve a husband who expects me home. Suddenly I have three sons to clothe and groom, and feed them thrice a day. The poor dears need a mother’s tenderness, and the back of my hand to knock some sense into their witless little heads! They take after their father and I love them to death already!”

With that, Mabel prepared to take her leave. “Come by for a wee chat some afternoon,” she said gaily. “I won’t confuse you with directions—just ask the way to Gwynn the poultryman’s—everyone knows it.” In a daze, Sylvanne heard herself making a promise to visit. They hugged, and then Mabel was gone, taking her enthusiasm and good cheer with her.

Alone within the stone walls of her room, Sylvanne thought of Gerald, her mind groping randomly among jumbled recollections of married life, sifting through them for signs of his infidelity. She felt angry at herself, and humiliated, for not perceiving what had been known by all. She stalked the room, pride battered, fists clenched, muttering that she was a fool, such a fool, with mounting force and conviction, until she was nearly shouting. So caught up was she in self-disgust that she had failed to notice Thomas had entered. He was in a state of high excitement, like a boy bursting to tell a secret.

“I could hear you in the hall, and thought you must have company,” he said. “Whatever troubles you, be gentle on yourself, my dear Lady.” Sylvanne restrained her emotions as best she could. “I need to speak to you, I can’t hold it inside another minute,” he gushed. “Last night our Meghan and Derek at last made love, and as witness to it, I must say, it was incredible! It ranks among the most splendid experiences of my life—so impassioned as well as edifying! I learned all manner of positions and potentialities for pleasure that I’d never imagined, let alone attempted! If I may plead an exception and address the Lady Meghan—”

To his great and sudden surprise Sylvanne exploded at him. “Shut your mouth about Meghan!” she erupted. “You promised me you would never speak of her again!”

“I said I’d do my best. Yet it became fundamental I get this off my chest.”

“I never want to hear that name again, do you hear me?”

“What is this?” he demanded, startled by her ferocity.

“Promise me you will never say that name again!” she cried.

“And if I do?”

Standing before him, her breast rising and falling in a deep ragged cadence, she looked ferocious and vulnerable at the same time. He thought of a hellcat, cornered. In a quiet, serious voice, she murmured, “It doesn’t matter. I’m nothing to you. I’m nothing to anyone.”

She was shivering, yet she stood proudly, bravely, with her head held high. He suddenly felt rise up in him a great pity for her and the circumstances he’d put her in.

“That’s not true. You’re something to Daphne. And to me.”

“I begin to see that women to men are mere playthings, to be fed lies and toyed with, like a cat scratches a half-dead mouse.”

“If I toyed with you, it was unintentional,” he said. “I’ve never lied to you.”

“Your stories might as well be lies, or fairy tales.”

“Those fairy tales cured my daughter. You listened to them. For that I owe you my happiness. What can I give you in return? What can I do to make you happy?”

She shivered severely, and her shoulders shook. Closing her eyes, she brought her hands to her face in a gesture of prayer, the tips of her fingers touching the wetness of her eyes. The idea of happiness seemed impossible to her at that moment.

He watched her, then moved to her, and placed his hands softly on her shoulders to sooth their tremors. He almost expected her to push him away, to reject his empathy, but instead she leaned toward him, and let her forehead rest on his broad chest. He said softly, “You need the same thing I need, and that is to be loved.”