Page 9 of Beyond the Lavender Fields
She reached out and swatted his face with the sleeve of the shirt she worked on. “You are far from ready for that responsibility. I only wish you and your brother would leave the poor girls alone.”
Gilles pulled away, laughing. “It is simply for amusement.” That’s what Maxence always said. A fewlivresand a bit of fun. Though Gilles couldn’t say this evening’s game had ended pleasantly.
Maman mumbled something he couldn’t decipher. Holding the needle between her lips, she pulled a length of thread from the spool and cut it at her desired length. Then she held the needle toward the flame, eyes nearly crossing as she rethreaded it.
“Besides,” Gilles cleared his throat, “when I am ready, it means I will have a long list of girls from which to pick.” One of them had to be filled with the same determination and loyalty as Maman. He just had to find her.
She harrumphed and stabbed her needle into another tear. For a captain, his father did not do well at looking after his clothes. “I do not think those girls should be included on your list of potential mates.”
“Surtout pas! Some of them do not kiss well at all. I shall leave them off the list.” He waited for her laugh at his joke. She always caved to his teasing eventually.
Maman’s frown only deepened, and she attacked the repair with increased vigor. She stood abruptly, tossing the shirt to the table. “Would you like somechocolat?”
Gilles glanced at the remains of the fire. “Shall I stoke the fire?”
Without responding, she moved to the hearth. She set a piece of wood into the wavering flame, then caught up the bellows and coaxed it into a steady burn.
“Did I anger you?” Gilles asked tentatively.
She pumped the bellows and poked around with the iron until the fire rose to her satisfaction. Without looking at him, she made for the cellar.
A third person angry with him today. He wasn’t used to this. Gilles slid the discarded shirt over to his side of the table and sought out the needle. He’d mended his father’s shirts when on board his ship. Père had little patience for mending. Now Maman took out all his hasty work and remended his clothes every time he came home.
Gilles eyed his mother’s careful stitches, then began his own where she had left off. They did not come out as straight as those of Maman, but one could only tell on close examination. He hadn’t mended something in years. On land, this was women’s work.
His mother’s footsteps announced her return. They were not terse as Mademoiselle Daubin’s on the office floor earlier that evening, but soft, resigned. Milk lapped against the sides of the copper kettle she carried. She eased it onto the crane and swung it over the fire, which hissed and crackled against the cool sides of the kettle.
“Why do you do this if he does not care what the mending looks like?” Gilles brushed back a wave of curls that had fallen over his brow.
Jars rattled behind him as she brought out the container of liquid chocolate. “Because he does care. He ignores his own mending because he cannot do it well himself, but he likes to look nice as well as any of you.” She poured some of the chocolate into the chocolate pot and set it beside him on the table. Then she returned to the fire to stir the milk. “And that is not the only thing you boys inherited from him.”
Gilles paused his stitching and waited. But Maman did not go on. Once the milk began to bubble, she used a tea cloth to carefully pull the kettle from the fire. She added the scalded milk to the chocolate pot, then used a stirrer to mix it.
“What else did we inherit from Père?” Gilles stuck the needle into the cloth of his father’s shirt and dropped his work to his lap.
Maman set two cups in the middle of the table. She poured the thick, frothy drink into the cups before setting the chocolate pot aside. Gilles did not take his until his mother had sat and pulled her cup toward her. He copied her, breathing in the rich steam swirling off the chocolate before bringing it to his lips.
After a long sip, his mother sighed. “Your father was a shameless flirt as well. And still is.” She stared into her cup, a gentle smile on her face. “But he has one thing I wish you and Maxence would learn.”
Gilles took another drink. What could their father possibly do better than he or Maxence, besides sail a ship? He was loud, intrusive, and all too eager to start a fight. “And what is that?”
Maman met his eyes. “Respect.”
Gilles sputtered. “Respect? I assure you, respect is not something I lack. If you saw me at my work, you would—”
His mother put a hand over his. “That is not the respect I mean. I know you are respectful at thesavonnerie, and that is why Monsieur Daubin trusts you so.”
“How, then, is Père better than I am?” His father did not respect anyone at his work. Gilles saw that firsthand. Père demanded respect, to be sure, but respecting another person?
“Your father has always valued women. His mother, his sisters, me. We were not pieces in a game, things to be caught and tallied like a hunting prize.”
Gilles swallowed against the bitter taste lining his mouth. He did not think it was from the chocolate. Though she spoke gently, her rebuke rang clear through the kitchen. The fire crackled in the hearth. He watched it, not meeting her eyes.
That was not how it really went with Maxence’s games. The girls were always willing participants. Well, usually.
“We do not treat the girls like animals,” Gilles insisted.
“Oh?” She set her chocolate aside and took another needle from her sewing kit. “Is that how Mademoiselle Daubin felt this evening, or did she feel like a doe you were stalking in the forest?”
