Stone That the Builder Refused - Madison Smartt Bell [389]
When Maillart had departed, Isabelle sat for several minutes, crosslegged on the rumpled bedclothes, stirring the chain around the pendant in the palm of her hand with a fingertip. At last she rose, slipped on a robe, and went down to the boudoir she had occasionally shared with her late husband. There she rang for a maid to assist her in dressing and arranging her hair. Héloïse came in with the maid, to ask permission to go with Sophie and Robert and Paul to the beaches on the road to Picolet. Isabelle refused, a little curtly.
“And tell the others they are not to go either—not alone.” She cocked a critical eye at herself in the mirror before which she sat, at the same time catching a glimpse of Héloïse behind her, as the girl’s face crumpled in a sulk. Isabelle clicked her tongue, then forced herself to relax the expression that had furrowed the space between her eyebrows.
“Ou prêt, madamn,” the maid informed her, her face floating above Isabelle’s in the mirror’s shadow, impassive. You are ready. Isabelle dabbed a little scent on a handkerchief, and in her vexation crushed it in her hand. She could hear Héloïse crying in the garden.
Paul and Robert interrupted her as she was collecting her parasol in the foyer, but she began lecturing them before either could speak.
“I will not have you go so far alone,” she said. “It isn’t safe along that strand—not for young children.”
“I’m twelve years old,” Robert said hotly.
“And by the grace of God you may live to manhood,” said Isabelle, with an air of finality. It was not the risk of drowning that concerned her in that place. Because there was little danger of an attack on Le Cap by sea, Fort Picolet was undermanned by the quite drastically weakened French army, and there were rumors of black rebel marauders crossing the headland from the numerous unsecured areas in the direction of Pont Français and Acul.
Robert stamped his foot and opened his mouth to snap a retort, but Paul nudged him and spoke in his place, with that silky politeness of which he was capable. Four years younger than her own son, Paul had much more self-control, and Isabelle mistrusted him a little for that; Robert had his hot temperament straight from her.
“Madame, we never meant to go alone,” Paul said. “We would meet Moustique and Paulette at Morne Calvaire—maybe Fontelle too—they will be with us on the beach.”
Isabelle hesitated. Her mind was not much attached to this problem; she wished she could have slipped out of the house unnoticed. Nanon’s silhouette appeared at the opposite end of the hall, framed in the doorway to the garden. Héloïse leaned into her, stifling her sobs against her skirt. “I can go with them,” Nanon said. “I think I ought. They are too confined here, really, and a sea bath would be a good thing for the little ones.”
“Well, if you would undertake it . . .” Isabelle let her resistance slip. She forced a bright jingle into her voice. “Only take care that no one is abducted! And don’t be too long in the full sun.”
As she spoke she crossed the hallway to give Héloïse a pat on the head. In the same impulse she kissed Nanon’s cheek. “Elise has gone out?” she whispered.
“Yes,” said Nanon. “Since half an hour. She has gone to see to the work in her own house.”
As the distance was short, Isabelle went on foot, carrying the parasol with its handle wrapped in the scented handkerchief, though in truth she was so accustomed to the smell of ordures and decay and stale smoke that she seldom troubled to raise the scented mask to her face. In Elise’s garden, some freshly planted flowers struggled to bloom. Hammers clattered on the second-story wall, where Michau supervised a gang of four carpenters. When Isabelle appeared in the gateway, Michau pointed her to a rebuilt room on the ground floor at the back, where the doctor was now storing some of his salvaged books and journals and herbs and specimens. Elise sat there at a round three-legged table, perusing