Stone That the Builder Refused - Madison Smartt Bell [272]
In the event, it did not rain. The clouds broke up and through a rift in them a shaft of the declining sun stretched down to touch the green of the northern plain like a gilding finger. The cool breath of the evening serein carried them through the gateposts of Habitation Arnaud. There was a sudden stir in the grand’case, when they were spotted, and Cléo rushed off to look for Arnaud. The children slid down from their mounts and tottered around on rubbery legs, the smaller ones mingling with the small children of this place. Amid the flurry of arrival, Isabelle stood staring rather sourly at the chapel, where Moustique was garbling a service, before the sole audience of the rigidly upright Claudine.
“What is this mummery?” Isabelle said. She must be blistered from the ride, Nanon thought, for her tone was very sharp.
“He’s saying the mass for your late husband, Madame,” Arnaud said, with an equal sharpness at first, then breaking off in confusion. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I—I didn’t mean to tell you so . . .”
“Oh,” said Isabelle, putting two fingers to her lower lip. “Oh.” Everyone seemed to have stopped to stare at her.
“I never treated him well,” she said. “He was quite a dull man, I know, but never was unkind to me.”
Elise reached out a hand to her, but Isabelle, for whatever reason, collapsed instead on Nanon’s bosom. She wept. Nanon, surprised at first, began to stroke her hair and murmur. Elise’s hand still hovered in the air, until, with a quick self-conscious movement, she drew it back. She was hurt, as her eyes showed, before she turned aside. Nanon would have liked to comfort her too, perhaps more than Isabelle, whose burst of emotion had surprised her—the snuffle of wet sobs on the bodice of her dress. She softened herself to draw it all in. She had sheltered in the Cigny house on several occasions, sometimes for quite long periods, so she’d had good opportunity to observe their married life. If not for Nanon’s intervention, Isabelle would have had to present Monsieur Cigny with Joseph Flaville’s bastard: black Gabriel. That affair had been kept the most deadly secret; as for her frequent liaisons with white men, Isabelle had barely observed the form of trying to conceal them.
And yet one could not know another’s heart. Nanon and Doctor Hébert were not demonstrative, except when they were alone. At first she’d seen the doctor as a funny little fellow, harmless and easy enough to lead. By the time she’d discovered herself mistaken in that early judgment, she’d also realized that the doctor had strengths and advantages as a protector that no one could have guessed from a first impression. But the larger feeling had wanted a much longer time to take root and grow.
Claudine had appeared, with dry whispers and a few frail caresses. She led Isabelle into the house and settled her on her own bed. Nanon stayed with her for most of an hour, until she fell asleep. It was nearly dark when she quietly returned to the gallery, where the others had gathered around, though there was just enough light for her to see bats flickering across the sky above the yard. Arnaud was debating some point with Tocquet, who stabbed the tabletop with his finger as though it were a map.
“But the rumor is impossible,” Arnaud said. “Christophe cannot be at Vallière and Pont Français at the same time—there’s the whole Northern Plain between.”
“I’ll give you that,” said Tocquet. “He cannot be in six places at once, no matter what devil may possess him. But he may have raised irregulars in all those places, by riding the circuit or sending messengers—how many men did you say have disappeared from your place alone in the last days? And Christophe is only the emissary of Toussaint in the whole affair—”
“Toussaint was soundly beaten at Ravine à Couleuvre,” Arnaud said.
“He was not,” said Tocquet. “Leclerc may claim it, but I saw enough of it myself, and I know the outcome by certain report. Rochambeau was driven back to the ravine at the last, and he