A Love Laid Bare by Constance Hussey

for.” Seeing Frances’ distress, the Frenchwoman’s
grave expression softened. “Rest now, and give the good God thanks
for saving your life—and your child’s.”
    “Yes.” Fatigue swept over her. Frances turned her
face into the pillow and slept.
     
    ***
     
    Months later, Frances maneuvered her unwieldy body
close to the edge of the well and braced a hip on its low stone
wall. She generally savored this task, her sole contact with the
world outside the Fournier’s cottage, even though carrying the
buckets of water grew more difficult each day. Throughout the
months that followed Frances’ rescue, Madame had kept her close and
busy. Frances was limited to one daily opportunity to exchange a
timid “ bonjour ” and smile with the other women at the well.
Today, however, it was hard to find her usual pleasure in the task.
Her back ached, the baby weighed heavily within her, and the air
was sharp and cold.
    Frances slowly lowered the bucket into the well,
waited for it to fill, and then began turning the squeaky crank. It
was an arduous job at any time, but this morning it was almost
impossible. The appearance of another hand beside hers on the
handle was welcome.
    “ Merci , Martine.” Frances said, smiling at the
young woman beside her. Martine was one of Madame Fournier’s many
great-nieces and was always ready to help when she saw Frances.
Whether it was due to their obviously similar age or simple
curiosity about a stranger, Frances was unsure, but whatever the
reason, she was grateful for it.
    Martine helped balance the bucket on Frances’
shoulder. She steadied it with one hand, and after bidding the
Frenchwoman good day, began to walk along the dusty street.
Whitewashed houses, leaning companionably against one another,
lined both sides of the thoroughfare, their facades brightened by
colourfully painted doors. The Fournier’s door was blue—the same
piercing blue as Richard’s eyes. Frances suddenly felt the pang of
loss more keenly than usual. She found it unwise to dwell on her
circumstances, however. Acceptance was difficult enough without
constantly brooding about it. There was no way to change
things.
    She lowered the bucket to the ground and breathed in
the fishy, salt-laden air. Rubbing her lower back, she sank onto
the bench that stood beside the door and arranged her shawl tightly
around her shoulders. The water was not needed immediately. There
was time to rest for a few minutes and think about her situation,
without Madame’s constant chatter and endless instruction.
    The poor woman had been horrified by Frances’ lack of
domestic skills. Gracious, Frances had not even known how to lay a
fire! Cooking, sewing, scrubbing—she had had to learn them all. She
studied her chapped, reddened hands and grimaced, but she had no
real regrets. It was a small price to pay for the knowledge that
meant never again being dependent on someone else to care for
her.
    At first, the hard physical labour and appalling sameness of the daily routine had sorely tried her patience.
Accustomed to walking, riding or sailing almost every day, reading
for hours at a time, she chafed at the restrictions and endless
lessons in housewifery. In desperation, Frances had taken to
reading Madame’s single book, the Bible. Not that she objected to
reading the Bible. Not at all, but when it was the only book
available….
    Frances had by now read it end to end several times,
and she often read aloud to Madame and Jean-Claude of an evening.
She found solace in the timeless, wise words when homesickness
threatened to overwhelm her. The loss of her father was a void only
now beginning to fill. She missed Rose and Thomas—and Richard,
always Richard, no matter his betrayal. Somehow, she had to get
home, but the sense of urgency she had felt so strongly at first
had faded as the precious child grew inside her.
    Which is just as well, Frances, since Jean Claude
won’t risk crossing the channel or attempt to send a letter