She gently placed the bucket down on the table, proud that she had not spilled a drop. She pushed back the long auburn locks that were now sweaty around her forehead. She considered her words. Her mother was chopping carrots and leeks.
“Monsieur Marchant is back this summer.”
“I heard.” Her mother frowned. She brushed away a strand of dark hair with her forearm.
Once, Juliet figured, her mother had been beautiful, but three living children and one dead had taken their toll. The woman’s blue eyes were framed with dark pockets of flesh from sleepless nights, and her clothes hung on her skeletal frame. Juliet was surprised to see her mother indoors on a day like today. Normally she was out tending to her large garden that was mostly herbs—rosemary, nutmeg, lavender, basil—but there were other, more exotic herbs, too: acacia, ginseng, hibiscus, elecampane, and mugwort. While her tan fingers were nearly raw from scrubbing, there was a subtle elegance to her that hinted at another time and station. Although she’d never seen one, Juliet imagined that her mother held herself like a grand ballet dancer. There was a backstory between her parents that was now told only in glances and whispers.
During the daylight, Juliet’s mother walked the rows of her garden examining the plants, not unlike a farmer. While Juliet’s father studied his corn looking for broad problems with the crop like too little water or the subtle signs of infestation, Juliet’s mother delicately touched any plant that did not appear to be thriving with the intimacy of a doctor examining a patient.
After drying the herbs with paper for a fortnight, her mother then stored them. Juliet’s mother sold some of those herbs as a paste or oil to the town apothecary. In the night, women often arrived at the LaCompte house at all hours, knocking softly on the big wooden door.
During these visits, which usually accompanied the moon at its fullest, Juliet’s mother sent Juliet and Delphine upstairs, but they would sit quietly on the stairs and watch as their mother led the visitor into the kitchen, pulling down various bottles of dried herbs and oils and talking in hushed tones. The stories were the same: An old woman sick with grief over a straying husband, a wicked woman, a ruined crop. The younger ones concerned with bleeding—or not bleeding, as the case might be. Always, there was an air of urgency in these night visits, their bodies stinking of sweat and blood with dirty nails and feet. Juliet’s mother knew the exact tincture to set things right again with these broken women.
When they went into town, Juliet noticed how women parted for her mother, nodded to her in deference, or presented a basket containing extra vegetables in season. Juliet would see a familiar woman from the evening carry out a rabbit wrapped in paper as an offering of sorts in the daylight. While the farm wasn’t as fruitful as it could be, Juliet knew that her mother’s night magic kept the family fed, especially during the winters, but there was a risk to it as well. There were places in Challans where her mother didn’t shop. More than once Juliet heard the term la sorcière hurled at her mother as they walked past. Juliet didn’t understand how herbs could be dangerous business in the country, but she’d heard of other sorcières who’d been accused of “murder” when spells had failed to help medical ailments. The accused sorcières were then dragged into the street and tied to a crude stake and burned.
Once Juliet even overheard her father telling her mother—his voice feverish—of a young witch forced to sit naked on hot coals until the townspeople were sure she wouldn’t be able to “fornicate with the devil” again.
With their often delicate financial state, Juliet knew how to proceed. “Marchant said he’ll pay you again if I can pose for him.”
“Did he?” Her mother wiped her hands on her apron.
“He said that I could come over tomorrow morning.” Juliet walked over and picked at the carrot and leek pieces her mother had discarded, hoping to appear helpful.
“I don’t think it is appropriate for a girl your age to pose for him anymore. It was one thing when you were a child, but now I don’t think it would look good. The Bussons might get the wrong idea.”
Juliet shivered at this thought. Over the winter, Juliet’s mother and father had settled on the eldest Busson boy, Michel, for Juliet. The boy, seventeen, was thin and pale with red hair. Juliet couldn’t imagine a worse match for herself, yet his parents owned the land that Juliet’s parents farmed. That the Bussons had even considered this match was surprising given the LaComptes’ lower status. Juliet must have made a face because her mother grabbed her chin and directed Juliet’s gaze toward her. Her mother’s hands were warm and wet.
“It doesn’t look right. You’re marrying Michel Busson next year.” Her mother’s chin was firmly set. “Help me scrub the potatoes your father brought in last night.”
Juliet looked at the pile of potatoes stacked like stones next to the window. She walked toward them, feeling the breeze blow through her dress and up her legs as she passed by the open door. She grabbed a kitchen rag, poured some water from the bucket into a smaller bowl, and began scrubbing the dirt from the potatoes. She looked back at her mother, her green dress dirty from the garden. Juliet thought of Madame Marchant and her pristine blue dress.
“Have you ever been to Paris?” Out of the corner of her eye she caught her mother turn pale at the question.
“That’s an odd thing to ask.”
“Why?” Juliet saw the change come over her mother’s face at the mention of Paris. Juliet was becoming more and more preoccupied with thoughts of city life. She liked the feel of the earth and grass between her bare toes and the quiet life she had always known here, but she was beginning to feel that she was missing something or was destined for something more than gangly Michel Busson and a life drawing water from a well. Her mother was mysterious about her past before she’d met Juliet’s father. While Juliet knew everyone from her father’s side of the family—her grandmother who was still alive, and her uncle and cousins—she had no knowledge of any family on her mother’s side, living or dead. It was as though her mother emerged from a clamshell like the painting she had seen Marchant paint last summer.
“I lived in Paris a long time ago.” Her mother gathered an onion and began slicing it with sweeping strokes.
“You never told me.” Juliet had not expected an answer, and she certainly did not expect the answer she got. “Did you like it?”
“No, not really. It is a harsh place. You would not like it there. Trust me. Michel Busson will inherit his father’s farm. You will have a good life here, a safe life. You’ll never worry about starving or being cold. Paris is a hard place—it’s full of tricksters and charlatans. This painter…” Her mother shook her head. “Don’t get ideas, Juliet. No good can come of it.”
“I don’t want a safe life. I want to go to Paris.” Juliet was still making circles with the rag in a halfhearted attempt to clean the pot and make sense of what she had just learned from her mother when she heard the knock at the door. Juliet turned to see Auguste Marchant standing in the doorway. He had put on a brown jacket for the occasion.
“That’s because you’ve never known anything but a safe life. You can’t imagine the suffering.” Her mother was about to say more, but she looked up to see Marchant in her doorway. She did not seem surprised.