Spirit of Lost Angels by Liza Perrat Page A

and scamper from the storm, back to Armand with my head bowed low.
    Raindrops snaked between his lips and mine, as his hand cupped my breast, his fingertips kneading my nipple.
    Lightning painted luminous veins in the sky and thunderbolts Nature only utters in her wildest mood cleaved through the valley as I arched myself towards him, his hardness pressing against me.
    Léon’s fingers fumbled as he tore his breeches off. I felt I would burst if I could not have him, right then.
    In a single jerk, I felt Léon’s weight lift off me, and I looked up into the glowering face of my brother.
    ‘ Mon Dieu !’ Grégoire stared from Léon to me. He jabbed a fist at the bleak sky. ‘Someone up there, besides me, is angry.’
    He swung his other fist into Léon’s face. ‘Get away from my sister! And don’t go near her again. You know she’ll never be yours.’
    My brother turned to me, still lying, half-naked, on the soaked earth. ‘And you, get up now before I hit you too. I’ve a mind to go and tell your husband what you do down at the riverbank with his son.’
    Angular sheets of sleet pummelling the trees like tap-dancing horses, I scrambled to my feet, my belly like some guilt-laden weight throwing me off balance. ‘I’m s-sorry, Grégoire.’
    I felt the tremor in my voice, faltering and tinged with premonition, and I found my fingers feeling about my neck for the smooth, comforting bone of the angel pendant.
    My tears came fast. ‘S-so sorry. It w-will never happen again. Please say nothing to Armand.’
    Grégoire was no longer looking at me, or listening to my pleas. Sodden and scowling, he faced Léon, as if preparing for a duel on the banks of the Vionne River.
    ***
    The rain fell incessantly for weeks. It destroyed the harvest.
    ‘Nature’s punishment, n’est-ce pas , Victoire?’ Grégoire said one day, casting a grim look at the storm pelting the fields and flattening the crops.
    My brother kept punishing me with his words, but thankfully he’d not said anything to Armand. My belly swelled more. I didn’t speak to Léon, and avoided his eyes and those of his wife, as we sat around the hearth in the evenings.
    ‘This autumn cold has destroyed almost all my wheat and vines,’ Armand said. ‘I fear too, the price of wood, chickens, beef, eggs and butter is rising beyond our means.’ He sighed. ‘And nobody can afford to buy my barrels of wine.’
    I patted his arm. ‘Don’t worry, Armand, together we will think of something.’
    In November of 1780, as my husband continued to knit his brow over our financial plight, I gave birth to our daughter, Madeleine, just fourteen months after Rubie had been born.
    Where are you now, my child — that little girl I can only speak to in my dreams? Are you walking yet? Who are you smiling for? I pray she’s nice, your new mother, and that she might read to you from Les Fables de Jean de la Fontaine , as I will, to Madeleine. I hope she’ll teach you to read and write, because Maman always said it is one of the best gifts a parent can bestow a child.
    Despite his happiness over the birth of our daughter, graced with the dark Bruyère beauty, Armand grew steadily more concerned about our finances.
    ‘What with the Church tithe, the royal and seigneurial taxes, saving seed to plant next year and having enough to fill our bellies, I don’t know what we are to do, Victoire,’ he said. ‘The harvest was so poor we have barely any flour to make the bread.’
    Perhaps it was my guilt over Léon, or maybe Rubie, that decided me to try and help our dire finances.
    ‘I can do something, Armand,’ I said on impulse. ‘I could sell my milk to the rich people.’
    So, like many commoners, I became a wet-nurse.
    ***
    ‘Hush, my child,’ I soothed, when Madeleine shrieked with the hunger, as the babies of the wealthy suckled all my milk.
    She began to cry less and less. Her little limbs shed their womb fat and the roses in her cheeks paled.
    Armand flung an arm in