Later, I wondered if perhaps his demeanor might suggest he feels the same as I about this arrangement. If I knew that he did, I might—might—find a small bit of comfort in that.
I have heard that his family built an impressive home closer, actually, to the American section. They are quite wealthy, Justine tells me. I am not sure what constitutes “quite wealthy” as opposed to “wealthy,” but by the way she emphasizes “quite,” it must be significant.
There is so much more I want to write, but the events of today have exhausted me. I arrived home late this afternoon; maybe it was closer to early evening. Grand-mère and Grandpère are at the opera, and Agnes knows that when my candles burn this late, I must be writing my letters.
Until the next letter.
All my love,
Your Genevieve Charlotte
* * * * *
“Miz Lottie, wake up. You needs to wake up fast.” Agnes alternately patted her face and shook her arm. “Your time be running out. Your grandmother on her way.”
Lottie’s eyes popped open at “grandmother.” Between yawns, she asked Agnes where her grandmother was on her way to and why Agnes whispered instead of using her usual loud voice.
“You got two man problems, and I knows your grandmother ’bout to march up here and talk about one of them.”
Gabriel? What could her grandmother have heard so soon? “Agnes, who are you talking about and why do you keep looking under my bed?”
“One of them problems ran in this house and is in yo room someplace.” She peered under the bed again. “That cat gonna be the death of me yet.”
Lottie put on the green robe Agnes must have placed on her bed and joined Agnes in the search for Henri. She heard pitiful mewing sounds coming from the shutters. She tried to draw the curtains open, but when the right side wouldn’t move, she bent down and pushed the lumpy bulge.
“How did you get in there?” She reached underneath the yards of fabric puddling on the floor, and whatever part of Henri’s body she latched onto, he did not appreciate it. With one angry yowl, he attempted to bolt, except that his back claws caught in the lining. “Agnes, hold the curtains.” Lottie grabbed Henri while Agnes hurried over and extricated his claws from the fabric. Before Lottie could walk to the balcony with him, he bolted out the one open French door and followed his usual escape route off the balcony, the roof overhang, the lemon tree, and out the back.
“Are all men this much trouble?” Lottie mused as she examined the four fresh claw tracks Henri had left on the inside of her forearm. They had already started to welt, a thread of blood running down the middle of each.
Agnes dipped a hand towel in the water in Lottie’s bowl and dabbed her arm. “Afraid you gonna find out soon, cuz your grandmother coming up here to tell you that man is coming for a visit.”
Suddenly the burning sensation Lottie felt as the water met the open wound was far less painful than the one in her stomach.
* * * * *
Miss Leslie’s Behavior Book did not address how a lady was supposed to hide the claw marks left by a cat in flight while in the presence of her possible future intended and grandparents.
Lottie wore a long-sleeved floral wool dress so the red welts branding her forearm could not be seen, but the fabric’s fibers irritated them even more. She smiled what she hoped was demurely then practiced her downcast eyes and waited for some relief from this enforced torture. The few times she did glance at Paul Bastion, being careful not to lapse into impropriety, he appeared to be as uncomfortable as she felt. His expression, though, seemed to lend itself to furrows on his forehead and even along the top of his cheeks. He looked as if he might have been born squinting at the doctor who delivered him. He had arrived for what Grand-mère had said would be a brief visit before dinner. With barely enough time to ready herself for this visit, Lottie had neglected eating breakfast. Her empty stomach had not read Miss Leslie’s guidebook. She hoped it would not announce itself during Monsieur Bastion’s visit.
They sat in the parlor as if marking the ends of a square, the two women sitting diagonally across, as did the men. After their initial introductions, conversations floated and popped like bubbles in the silence. Lottie mentally reviewed the pitfalls to avoid as related during her deportment lessons: monomania, perpetual contradictions, arguing about politics or religion or finances, tattling, reminding others they were once poor or that you were not, asking gentlemen about their professions, and criticizing others. Whatever did a woman do without another woman friend, with whom she could ignore all these rules and speak freely? Yet even with Gabriel she did not censor herself with society’s conventions. So were women not supposed to hold honest and comfortable talks with their husbands?