Guilt kept pace with her up the stairs. Isaac was not to blame--Felix was not to blame--if they had interpreted her reactions as encouragement. She had encouraged them, both of them.
Filled with wretchedness, she hurried to her only refuge.
“Hannah!”
Her abigail, her nurse, her dearest friend, was still seated by the window. She half rose in alarm as Miriam rushed into the chamber. “What is it, child? What ever is the matter?”
Miriam dropped to the footstool. “They had a blazing row. At least, I can hardly call it that since it was carried on in whispers.” Her smile trembled.
Hannah gave her a shrewd look. “And what was it they come to cuffs about?”
She gazed down at her hands. “They both kissed me. I wanted to... I would have... Oh, Hannah, I think I’m in love with both of them.”
“That’s not love, child,” said Hannah dryly, stroking her bowed head. “That’s lust. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again, what you need is a husband.” She folded her unhappy nurseling to her breast and rocked her.
Miriam knew she was right. She should never have embarked upon this adventure. She should have found a way to go home quickly and had her family find her a husband. Like a ripe plum, she was ready to fall into the hands of any determined seducer.
She pressed her fist to her mouth to stifle a sob. Her fingers smelled of sandalwood.
Chapter 18
When Miriam and Hannah went down next morning, rather later than usual, Felix was in the parlour attacking a vast omelette. As Miriam entered he sprang to his feet and came towards her, looking shamefaced.
“I must humbly beg your pardon,” he said. “My behaviour last night was utterly disgraceful. I can only say I had too little to eat and too much to drink. Dare I hope that you will forgive me?”
Just so must he have gazed at his nurse in pleading repentance when he was a mischievous little boy. He was irresistible, and Miriam was all too aware of her own share of blame. She held out her hand to him and he took it in both his. At breakfast-time, in broad daylight, his touch failed to stir her.
“You are forgiven. I should have thought of ordering omelettes last night, and the night before, then you would have had no excuse.”
“Last night we were all too tired to think, not to mention the uncooperative waiter, who is not on duty this morning, I’m glad to say. As for the inn at Langon, no doubt any omelette from that kitchen would have been stuffed with garlic. This one is excellent. Not last night’s cook, I suspect. Shall I order the same for you?” He led her to the table and seated her.
“Yes, please, but not quite so enormous.”
“Hannah?”
The maid also accepted, and urged him to eat his breakfast while it was hot. She appeared to regard him with indulgent reproof, no doubt precisely the way his nurse had. He obeyed, after pouring coffee for them. While he ate and they waited for their omelettes, they discussed the day’s route.
“We have to decide which of two passes to cross,” Miriam explained. “One involves something of a detour in France, the other in Spain.”
“The sooner we leave France, the happier I shall be.”
“The Col du Pourtalet, then. It is higher and less likely to be well guarded, too. I wish I knew whether it has been fortified since last I came this way.”
“We shall reconnoitre before we attempt the crossing. After my experience of a French jail, I’ve no intention of ever letting you see the inside of one,” he said seriously. “If it looks dangerous we will find another way, or Isaac and I will just have to manage without you. After all, I must uphold the chivalrous reputation of an English gentleman.”
She smiled at that, but she was far from certain that he was really joking. It might well rankle that she had not only rescued him from prison but also devised the plan that had foiled pursuit. Given the circumstances, she could not have acted otherwise, yet once again she had failed to conduct herself like a well-bred English lady.
“No need to decide now. We cannot expect to cross today. The road is difficult from here, climbing into the foothills, and we are starting late. For tonight we can stay at the inn at Laruns, or I have friends in a village at the foot of the pass. They would certainly put us up, though not in anything approaching luxury.”
“The closer to the pass the better,” Felix suggested.
He was taking his last bite when the accommodating waiter came in with two covered plates and fresh coffee. Isaac followed close behind.
Felix nodded to him noncommittally. “I shall go and choose our horses,” he said and departed.
While the waiter bustled about, Isaac remained standing by the door. He looked out of spirits, disheartened.
“An omelette for monsieur?” the waiter enquired on his way out. Isaac did not answer.
“If you please,” Miriam said distractedly. Flustered, she rose and went across to Isaac. “I owe you an apology. I did not mean what I said last night.”
“It is I who owe an apology.” His response was reserved. “You were correct in saying that I took advantage of your agitation and I most deeply regret it. However, I beg you to believe that no thought of revenge entered my mind.”
“I do believe it.” She held out her hand. He bowed stiffly and her heart sank.
“Miss Miriam, come and eat your breakfast, do. Good morning, Mr. Isaac. Still no sign of that horrid lieutenant, I hope?”
“Good morning, Hannah. I have already checked this morning and there’s no sign that I can see. I suspect he would have arrested us by now had he arrived.”
He spoke cheerfully to Hannah, but when Miriam engaged him in a discussion of the route his manner remained reserved, though she thought he was making an effort to appear natural. She was painfully conscious of every change of tone, every shade of expression, every motion of his strong, slender hands.
He agreed that they should try to reach the village of St.-Jean-d’Ossau by nightfall and attempt to cross the Col du Pourtalet the next day. “Will there still be snow in the pass?” he asked.
“I’m not sure. It never melts on the high peaks.”
“I own that, being merely a counterfeit Swiss, I am looking forward to a closer view of the mountains. They are impressive even from here.”
She smiled at him. “The sight is as awe-inspiring as one’s first view of the sea.”
“Miriam!” Felix was back. “Does
escarpé
mean steep? I thought so, from the fellow’s gestures. And I take it
précipice
is the same as the English? It’s a dashed good thing their horses are better than their food. I have picked a prime team.” He turned to Isaac and said with polite formality, “Since the berline is heavy, when we descend steep hills one of us will have to be ready to brake with the skid pan while the other drives. As we have not needed it so far, perhaps you would like me to demonstrate its use?”
Isaac’s mouth tightened momentarily. “It seems advisable,” he conceded.
They went out, together yet further apart than they had been for three days. Miriam sighed.
She saw little of either of them as the road climbed into the foothills of the Pyrenees. After crossing a ridge, they followed the course of the Gave d’Arrau--a deep gorge with rushing streams tumbling down its sides to join the torrent. Forested slopes of beech and chestnut were just beginning to turn a dozen different shades of green and always the snow-capped, cloud-wrapped peaks barricaded the horizon. Though she had seen it before, the spectacular scenery distracted her from her despondent reflections, but the unhappiness lingered.
South of Laruns, the road was little more than a cart track. One mountain grew ahead until its precipices, snow-fields and slopes of scree seemed close enough to touch. When there seemed to be nowhere to go but straight up, they swung eastward across the flank of the Pic du Midi d’Arrau, and a mile or two farther on they came to the tiny hamlet of St.-Jean-d’Arrau.
In the dusk, smoke rose into the thin, frosty air from the chimneys of slate-roofed stone cottages. A score of the humble dwellings clustered around a whitewashed church, with perhaps half a score more scattered across the slopes. Long-fleeced sheep with curved horns grazed in the meadows all around, new lambs skipping about their mothers.
Miriam opened the hatch and directed Felix along the narrow, stony street to a group of three cottages standing slightly apart from the others.
“Are you sure?” he said dubiously. “None of those houses looks large enough to take in guests.”
“There are three Jewish families. Between them they will find room for us.”
“And the rest of the village?” he asked, driving on. A group of children paused in their singing game to watch the carriage pass.
“Basques. They do not consider themselves French, though most of them will speak French with strangers. Many are equally fluent in Spanish and they take little notice of the border. We ought to consider hiring a Basque to guide us to Pamplona.”
“An excellent notion.” Chickens fled squawking and a dog barked a warning as he stopped the berline beside a neat picket fence. “Will this do?”
“Yes. I shall go to the Abravanels first.”
Isaac sprang to the ground from his post at the rear to hand her down. Followed by Hannah, Miriam picked her way between beds of winter vegetables towards the door of the center cottage, noting the mezuzah on the doorpost.
A boy of ten or so in a woollen coat and a beret dashed around the corner of the building, skidded to a halt when he saw the visitor, then ran into the house shouting.
A moment later he rushed out again, his seven-year-old sister after him. “
Bon soir, Tante Miriam,”
he said importantly. “We are very happy to see you.”
“Bon soir, Aaron; bon soir, Sara.” She hugged the little girl, a pretty child with her black hair in a long plait who hurried on to hang on Hannah’s arm, prattling in French.
“Maman says please to come in at once, out of the cold,” Aaron went on. “I have to close the shutters because Papa is away.”
Miriam explained that she had two friends with her. In no time the horses had been turned loose in a meadow and the travellers were warmly welcomed into the kitchen that formed the greater part of the cottage. From the low ceiling hung strings of onions, garlic, and dried peppers, and a pot bubbling over a blazing fire filled the room with savoury aromas. Esther Abravanel, a wiry, grey-haired woman, begged her guests to take a seat on the benches at the long, scrubbed-pine table.
Felix and Isaac looked around with somewhat uneasy interest. Miriam realized that neither had ever visited a peasant home before. A week ago she would have quailed at the prospect of exposing the Abravanels to their contempt. Now, though they were once more at odds with each other, she trusted both to conduct themselves with gentlemanly courtesy.
Esther sent Sara and her still smaller sister out to chase the chickens into their coop for the night. The oldest girl, in her mid-teens, was stirring the pot hanging over the fire. Her cheeks were pink, whether from the flames or from bashfulness, and she kept stealing peeks at the two handsome gentlemen. At one corner of the table Simeon, a lanky boy a year or two older than Aaron, was studying an ancient, well-thumbed Hebrew text, by the light of the only candle. Isaac, sitting beside him, was soon involved in clarifying some obscure phrase.
Miriam and Esther exchanged news. After shedding a few tears for Amos Bloom, Esther explained her husband’s absence. Isidore Abravanel had taken a mule-train laden with the entire village’s winter production of sheepskins down to the tanner in Pau. With the proceeds he would purchase such staples as flour and salt, and if his bargaining was successful perhaps some sugar and coffee. He was expected back in three or four days.
Felix looked aghast at the idea of coffee and sugar as dispensable luxuries, Miriam noted with amusement.
She had just begun to disclose that she and her companions were on their way into Spain when emissaries from the other two Jewish households arrived. The young wife, baby on her hip, and the old widow at once offered the hospitality of their cottages. Isaac and Felix gratefully accepted.
However, Esther insisted that they must stay to supper. Soon a stewed chicken arrived from one neighbour and three loaves of coarse brown bread from the other, to go with the thick vegetable soup cooking over the fire.
“Will they go hungry?” Felix asked Miriam in a low voice, in English. “I’d rather do without...”
“You cannot refuse what is offered without insulting them.”
Isaac had overheard. “Hospitality is a religious duty,” he said, “but there is no duty to deprive oneself or one’s family. You can eat with a clear conscience.”
“And you must eat well, to show you appreciate the food,” Miriam added.
“Good. I am still making up for two days of starvation.”
Isaac seemed surprised and approving of Felix’s concern, while the idea of hospitality being a religious duty appeared to intrigue Felix. Miriam hoped that the breach she had inadvertently caused was beginning to heal.
Isaac was invited to say the blessings at supper, but he gracefully deferred to Simeon, to the lad’s grave pleasure. Felix pleased Esther and her eldest daughter, Rachel, with his compliments on the soup, especially when he returned for a second helping. Aaron wanted to know about the horses; Sara and little Naomi, round-cheeked and curly-haired, chattered about the doll Papa had promised to bring from Pau.
After a few minutes, the children started addressing the men as Uncle Isaac and Uncle Felix. Amid the cheerful family atmosphere, Miriam felt her heavy heart begin to lighten.
To sit up late, wasting candles and firewood, was unthinkable. As soon as the meal was over, Hannah and Rachel washed the earthenware dishes while Aaron and Simeon escorted Isaac and Felix to their respective lodgings. Returning, the brothers spread straw pallets on the kitchen floor, for Miriam and Hannah were to share their bed in the tiny chamber above._
The boys regarded it as a great treat. Sara and Naomi had to be forcibly restrained from joining them.
After retiring so early, Miriam found it no hardship to rise at dawn with the rest of the household. She had breakfasted and was affixing a piece of court plaster to a sore finger presented for her inspection by Naomi, when Felix and Isaac arrived together.