Armand’s First Letter. Amelia’s First Letter. Cathy’s First Letter.

22 September 1023, Bois-de-Bas, Armorica

Amelia,

I wish to put two spoonfuls of salt in your tea. I have found myself in hot water, and I do not like it.

This past Saturday, Amelie came by to remind me that I was expected at the Church on Sunday, “Sonnedi“, she said, with dinner after followed by a trip to the Hot Springs.

“So that you and few of the other women can get to know me better,” I said.

“Mais oui!” she said cheerily.

I had been dreading this.

I expect to live out my days here in Armorica, and I do not wish to spend them living yet another lie. But I also know what it is to suffer a small town’s judgment, and I do not wish to subject myself to that again. I had hoped to live quietly here, saying little and answering few questions.

And now your cousin’s wife had invited me into what is clearly the heart of Bois-de-Bas society—though I do not like to think what my mother would have called it. Amelie’s friends would have questions and it would be rude not to answer them.

I told my share of bald-faced lies in Nexing Cross until the folk of Nexinghamshire got used to the answers and stopped asking. But if I am equal to that, I am less practiced at polite demurrals.

I cast about for a reason not to come along, to put her off—but she knew, the whole town knew, that I was just waiting for my brother and had at present no other occupation.

“I will be there,” I said.

I must have sighed, for she cast me a quick glance. “What is wrong, ma chérie?“

I could not tell her the full reason, not without speaking of my shame, so I gave her the lesser part. “The Hot Springs,” I said; “No woman would ever bathe in public like that in Cumbria.” I did not mention the disrobing, and I did not have to.

“And perhaps nowhere but Bois-de-Bas, n’est-ce pas?” she said. “But we in Bois-de-Bas, we do things our own way. Were we not the first to stand against Le Maréchal?” And she nodded decisively.

And so I went to Mass at the church, and had dinner on the green with the Tuppennys and the Frontenacs, listening quietly to their chatter; and then off we went to the Hot Springs.

Once in the grotto, Amelie and Elise led me through the water and into a smaller nook off to one side. Do not imagine me swimming, for I cannot. I do not how they keep the wood from rotting, but in addition to the benches all around there is a kind of deck of planks to walk on, with small gaps to allow the water to flow freely.

Several other women joined us, and Elise said, “Now, Cathy, tell us.”

“My name is Cathy Gamble,” I said, looking at the faces through the steam, “but you all know that. My brother John plans to do business with Mr. Tuppenny.”

There was a pause. “And your brother, where is he?” asked a somewhat older lady whose name I do not remember.

“In Nexinghamshire, selling our house. He will be coming as soon as that is finished.” They seemed to want more, so I continued, “He has many things related to his work that he wishes to bring, and that will cost a great deal.”

“And so he sent you on ahead to prepare?” said another.

I felt a slight panic, Amelie, for of course John did not send me at all, you did, and he would much have preferred to leave the packing-up to me.

“I came ahead,” I said. “Amelie has already found us a place to build a house.”

There were many nods, but also a few sharp glances. They knew, I think, that I wasn’t telling the whole story.

“And what will your brother do here?” asked a third. That was safer ground, so I explained that he is a wizard—there were a few raised eyebrows—and makes things that work by magic, but that they only work for him. “If he could make them work for other people he could sell them, and we wouldn’t have had to sell our house in Cumbria. Mr. Tuppenny should be able to help with that.” Again I thought of my mother’s reaction. A Gamble, engaging in trade! But my brother has never cared for the proprieties, and I can no longer afford to.

“And you will help him?” asked Amelie.

I looked down. “I always have. I—” I hesitated; and then said, “He expects me to.”

Pursed lips, frowns, all around me. My heart sank.

And then one of them—Mme. Poquêrie, I later discovered—said, “And you do not wish to.”

It was not a question. And it was suddenly all too much: the heat of the water, and the steam, and the looks, and the fear of them knowing what I really am, and my brother’s constant demands.

“My brother thinks of little besides his creations,” I said, staring at the steaming water. “I have spent my time since my girlhood keeping house for him as best I can, for I am always called aside to help him with this and that. And none of his projects have ever gotten finished, because they cannot be, while our house goes to wrack and ruin around us.”

“Does he treat you cruelly?” asked a woman with bright green eyes.

“What? Oh, no, never that. He treats me—” I had to stop and gather myself. “He is fond of me, but…I sometimes…I…” I shook my head. “Like a wrench, or a hammer,” I said at last. “Something to be picked up and put down again.”

More pursed lips, and many pointed glances shared across the water.

I had never put it into words before. Conversation went on quietly around me for a time, and then Elise touched me on the shoulder.

“It is time to go,” she said.

And so I went back to the Grier’s house.

I have been berating myself all the days since. I avoided speaking of my deepest shame, but these are all women who work hard. I fear that it will soon be all over town that I am an unnatural sister, and a woman who hates hard work. That is shame enough for Bois-de-Bas.

Cathy

Next letter

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Photo by 🇮🇳Saif Ali on Unsplash