A Sitting in St. James - Rita Williams-Garcia Page 0,2

around the hardened edge. She drew blood, dropped the cabbage, then sucked her bloody finger.

The broker said, “My master commanded me to say, ‘Better to stick your finger than lose your head.’” Clearly, he had her. At the least, he had succeeded in wiping away her impertinence.

“Mademoiselle Sylvie Bernardin de Maret Dacier, you are an orphan, no longer under the protection of the Royal Family. Monsieur Bayard Guilbert is the lord of profitable sugar plantations in the New World and he sends me to make his offer of protection and marriage. Do you accept?”

At thirteen, she knew it was improper for a girl to decide her own fate, especially in affairs of marriage, even with the smell of spilled blood in the streets. In good times she had expected a proper negotiation for her dowry—a prosperous vineyard and manor house with so many cottages, a fair annual income, and her mother’s jewelry. While she didn’t expect the same royal situation due Marie-Thérèse Charlotte, her imprisoned friend, she was certain to receive an advantageous negotiation on her behalf. But hastily she must decide: convent, guillotine, or plantation lord’s wife? For the moment, she was safe, hidden in the convent in a novice’s habit. But even she had heard the shouts for blood in the streets. And for how long would she be safe?

The broker smiled. He had her answer. Without intending to, Sylvie touched her neck.

He held out his hand. “You must come now.”

She stood firm and crossed her arms. “No,” she said. “First, he must register me as his wife. The vineyard must stay with my family. And I must see the contract.”

He couldn’t believe her demands. Her mouth. “Are you blind to the thirst for blood? There is no time for a contract.”

“Then there is no bride.”

He didn’t know which he feared more, this thirteen-year-old girl or his master. He wanted to slap her, but he dared not touch her.

The broker changed his tone. “I will do as you ask, mademoiselle, but what you ask will take time. Please be ready to leave when I call tomorrow, or the next day.”

“Come with the marriage contract in hand. You tell your master I can read and will read it carefully. And for the marriage contract I am Sylvie Bernardin de Maret Dacier.” She recited her date of birth, the name of the convent, the names of her parents and grandparents, the name of the vineyard and its region. She made him repeat everything back, her arms crossed, her brow lifted in complete insolence. Then she sent him on his way.

Sylvie’s heart remained proud, and she even congratulated herself on delivering her demands. That wave of triumph, however, dissolved swiftly. The nun who served her bread, potatoes, and green vegetables that evening relayed to Sylvie a horrific sight that left her shaken. A young girl, believed to be a friend of the court, had been dragged away screaming for her life.

Although hungry, Sylvie could not eat.

Two days later the broker returned with a sheet of rolled-up paper and a plain dress. One fit for the scullery maid’s daughter in the queen’s country home. It was not the gown of a nobleman’s daughter. Sylvie was put off by the look of it—a heavy linen dress, too big for a girl with buds for breasts and barely hips.

The broker anticipated her expression and said, “It isn’t safe to walk the streets in high fashion.”

Yes, she thought. The young girl seized by the mob was likely dressed as a young lady and not a peasant. Still, Sylvie couldn’t help herself. Even when she took the garment, she gave the dress the look she had given the cabbage, the broker, and anyone for that matter she deemed beneath her notice. “Where does it come from?”

All he could think of was how he wanted to be outside the bed chamber on her wedding night to enjoy her screams. This thought made him patient with her. “Mademoiselle, the master offers you protection and you care where the dress comes from. Change and leave all behind. As you can see, I have your contract,” he said, holding up the rolled paper.

Sylvie appeared before the broker wearing the scullery maid’s dress and carrying a small, plain bag. The convent doors closed swiftly behind them, a reminder or omen. Once again, young Sylvie Bernardin de Maret Dacier had left one place of protection for another.

She looked at her soon-to-be husband, who had not been waiting in a carriage but on