Chapter 3

October 1572

Sidonie pinched the note between two fingers, holding it away from her body. The hand that had penned the note was unmistakable. She considered throwing it onto the fire, but that would only delay the inevitable.

It had been atop the pile of letters waiting for her when she returned from the market to the house in the shadow of the Louvre Palace that had until recently belonged to Uncle Claude. That would soon belong to another.

She had received a number of letters of condolence in the four days since Uncle Claude’s passing. But the other letters could wait. This particular note from Monsieur Hubert Dampmartin, the new physician for the arrondissement, could not.

When Uncle Claude had realised he was dying, he became concerned for the future care of his patients and immediately sent for a new physician. One week ago, Monsieur Dampmartin had presented himself at their door. A recent graduate of the Sorbonne, he could not have had more than eight and twenty years. His arrival had eased her uncle’s mind considerably, and for that she was grateful. But the memory of the way he had looked at her – his fixed, unblinking stare, his tongue flicking out to wet his lips – had stayed with her. There’d been something sinister beneath those seemingly innocuous gestures, something that most women would recognise as a warning.

She ripped open the note and quickly read its contents. Monsieur Hubert Dampmartin would call on her today. Hoping he had already attempted the visit earlier that morning and had found her not at home, she refolded the note.

Uncle Claude had stressed that after he died, she was to make Monsieur Dampmartin feel welcome and to ingratiate herself with his future household. After all, the house where she’d lived for the past ten and five years belonged to the guild and was now Dampmartin’s by virtue of his new position. Such was the need for physicians in Paris.

There were no servants to consider; her uncle had kept none. When Sidonie had first arrived in Paris, there’d been a maid-of-all-work who took care of the cleaning and cooking. But after the girl had married, Uncle Claude saw no reason to replace her. Not when he had another girl, albeit a relative, at his disposal. Other than a charwoman who came in three times a week to take care of the rough domestic chores, the responsibility of managing the household fell onto Sidonie’s young shoulders. So, while she certainly had the competency to manage the house of a physician, she was not certain she had the desire to enter formal service or to be the housekeeper of Hubert Dampmartin. A decision had to be made. But it would have to wait, for she desperately needed to wash the stink of the birthing suite and the streets from her skin.

As she bundled the missives into an orderly pile, one slipped through her fingers to land on the floor. It had thick paper and looked of excellent quality. It was addressed to her by name, yet she did not recognise the hand. The letter was folded and sealed with red wax that carried the impression of an upside-down tortoise. Or, more likely, the seal had been inverted when applied. Tugging off her soiled gloves and stuffing them into her pocket – with a silent reminder to scrub them later – she slid her finger under the wax seal and unfolded the paper, revealing large script full of elaborate loops and whorls.

Honourable Niece,

I greet you well and send you God’s blessing and mine. I was saddened to learn of the passing of your father’s brother, Monsieur Claude Montot. Although I had not seen Monsieur Montot in many years, we were related through the marriage of my dear sister, Sabine, to your father. May God keep them both. As my many letters over the years have gone unanswered, I do not anticipate a reply. Although, because you now find yourself without any remaining family, I would relish a visit and the opportunity to set eyes upon you. I have a modest home in the east of France in the town of Dole, of late in the County of Burgundy, although who can say if tomorrow our allegiance will be to the Holy Roman Empire, the French king, or even the Prussians. I daresay after the thrill of the city it would disappoint you, as it is a sleepy sort of a place, yet beautiful in its simplicity.

I remain, as always, your most affectionate aunt,

Baroness Eloise de Montargent

Sidonie had all but forgotten Maman’s sister. Her memories of her life before Paris were thin and insubstantial, like trying to see shapes in the clouds. Where her mother had been fair, Aunt Eloise had been dark, with thick black hair, and she’d possessed an intense stare that made one feel as if all her childhood secrets were being exposed. After coming to live with Uncle Claude, Sidonie neither saw nor spoke to anyone from Maman’s family again. When she’d asked after her aunt and grandparents, Uncle Claude refused to answer. On more than one occasion, she’d tried running back to them. She had been caught and returned every time, resulting in a week locked in her bedchamber with nothing to eat or drink except bread and water, and after the third attempt she did not try again. In time, she ceased to think about them.

Clutching at the thin strands of memory, she carried Aunt Eloise’s letter with her into the kitchen. How far was the journey to Dole? Could she visit her aunt and stay for the winter, returning to Paris in the spring? But then what would await her when she returned? Would Dampmartin even allow her back into this house?

She removed her cloak and set aside one of the pies for after her ablutions. Tossing a few pieces of coal and wood onto the central hearth, she put the water on to heat. Her supply of water was low; she would need to visit the public fountain the next day.

What had Aunt Eloise meant when she wrote of unanswered letters? Sidonie had never received a letter from her aunt, or anyone else for that matter. The only correspondence her uncle entrusted to her were bills of payment.

She poured the now warm water into the chipped earthenware basin and mixed it with lye, adding a few sprigs of dried lavender, before removing her clothing one piece at a time. First her waistcoat, followed by the overskirt, and then her gown, shoes and stockings, until the garments were all stacked neatly on a stool, her shoes resting alongside them on the floor. Shivering, she soaked her linen towel in water before rubbing it vigorously over her bare skin. Her back was to the open window above the kitchen door, but the path behind the house was seldom used and the window was too high for any passer-by to casually glance inside. It could not be shuttered, for the chimney was not sufficient to allow the hearth smoke to escape – something she knew from experience.

Hastening to finish, she removed her cap and unbound her hair, using her fingers to comb through any tangles before rubbing it clean with the damp towel. Her hands she left until the end. After so many years of keeping them covered, even she was sometimes shocked by the scars on her left palm. Where once the skin had been smooth, now it was a tangle of faded and raised skin scored in lines of silver and red. It pained her to gaze upon it, although she felt no inner sense of revulsion. Her shame was twofold – the reaction it provoked in others, and the painful memories it stirred. She had just finished cleaning her fingernails when she heard a sound by the kitchen door. It was probably nothing, she tried to reassure herself, most likely a careless individual stumbling home through the alley, or two mongrels fighting. Glancing over her shoulder at the window, she saw nothing other than the usual view of the neighbouring building.

Her eyes never left the window as she grabbed the drying sheet and wrapped it around her naked body. When a man’s face appeared on the other side of the mottled glass, she stifled a scream. He wore the black-and-yellow hat favoured by Paris physicians, pulled down over his brow, casting shadows across his familiar features and moulding them into something sinister.

‘Get away!’ she said, shriller than intended.

His head disappeared from the window, but in the space of time it took to draw a breath, the handle of the door began to rattle.

‘Unlock the door,’ called Monsieur Hubert Dampmartin.

‘I will not!’ She fumbled while reaching for her cloak, her trembling fingers unable to secure the clasp. She had only just pulled the sides together to cover herself when he walked into the room, brandishing a key. ‘Get out of my house!’

Dampmartin’s clothing hung on his scrawny frame like an ill-fitting costume. Traces of his youth were present in the roundness of his cheeks and the thin, downy hair that covered them. But his eyes were that of a man, sharp and cold as they raked up and down her body before resting on her unbound hair. His mouth curved in a sneer. ‘You cannot order me to leave my own property.’

Sidonie’s heart raced, and beneath the cloak her skin was damp from both the water and perspiration. This was not how it should be. She was respectable and obedient, the daughter of a surgeon, the niece of a physician and a baroness . She forced herself to remain still, to resist the urge to run or plead. Despite her compromised state, she infused her voice with as much dignity as she could muster. ‘You will leave this place, monsieur. I shall receive you in the morning.’

He laughed just once, but there was no joy in the sound. ‘You will receive me now. At my convenience. In my house.’ He closed the distance between them, picking up a strand of her wet hair and rubbing it between his bony fingers. She tugged it from his grasp, slapping his hand away. ‘Your uncle was too lenient with you,’ he said, twisting her hair and wrenching her head back. ‘He gave you too much freedom. That will cease once we are married.’

Married? To this man, with his predatory eyes and violent hands? The thought was despicable. ‘I will not marry you!’

‘Monsieur Montot and I reached an agreement.’

‘Uncle Claude would never.’ As soon as the words left her mouth, she knew them to be false. A niece in name only, she had been a servant in action, and her sole purpose had been to serve her uncle. That was why he’d made no provision for her in his will; she was just another piece of property, to be given to the next man along with his other assets. Shock mingled with anger at herself for failing to see the truth, until its consequences stood before her in what had once been her own kitchen.

‘It was his decision. He knew what was best for you. Without a firm hand, you are vulnerable, easily led astray. Wanton. Displaying yourself before the open window like meat in a butcher’s display.’ Dampmartin’s fingers slipped down her neck to play at the edges of her cloak.

She grabbed his hand and shoved it away forcefully. ‘I make decisions for myself.’

‘Do you, Sidonie?’ He stared pointedly into her eyes as he said her name with a possessive familiarity. ‘You have no father, no family, no home, no money. You should fall to your knees in gratitude that I or any respectable man would have you.’

She thought she would have more time. More time to determine her future, to have a say in her future. ‘I have skills – reading, arithmetic, housekeeping. I could find work.’

He stepped to one side, gesturing towards the front door. ‘Then leave. Go now. Find work with no references and only the clothing on your back. For as per the wishes of Monsieur Montot, I own everything inside these walls. He was confident in your obedience. You were his assistant, his housekeeper, his servant. You saved him a great amount of coin over the years. You will save me a great deal too, although the only way I can keep you is to marry you. This arrangement is weighted in your favour.’ With a quick movement, he penetrated her cloak, pulling her left arm into the light. ‘Would another man accept a wife with such a hideous deformity?’

She slapped him across the face, leaving a red impression on his cheek. He tightened his grip, twisting her arm painfully until her back pressed against his chest, before throwing her to the ground. She landed hard, bruising her shoulder and hip on the stone floor.

He stood over her, one leg on either side of her body. ‘Monsieur Montot said you were a sensible girl. A good girl. But if you behave like a beast, then I will treat you like one. We marry once the banns are read.’

He stepped over Sidonie on his way out. As soon as he left, she pulled herself up from the floor and limped to the door, locking it and throwing the bolt. There was no one in Paris she could turn to for assistance, no one willing to take her in if she asked for help. She had no friends here. In truth, nothing kept her here. She had run before, as a child, and Uncle Claude had always brought her back. But now he was dead; there was no one to bring her back. Except for Hubert Dampmartin , she thought, rubbing her shoulder.

Any delay would increase the risk of pursuit. She must move with haste. Her purse was where she had left it, underneath her folded chemise. She poured out the coins, counting each one. It was not much, but it would have to be enough to get her to Dole and Aunt Eloise.