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I said nothing.
"You knew Octavious was sleeping in his own room anyway, didn't you?" she said with a tone of accusation. "You're snooping around the house now. You're into every nook and cranny, I suppose."
"No, madame. I. ."
"It doesn't make any difference," she said, and then gave me one of her crooked smiles. "You can't tell anyone anything about this place and our lives or it will be known you were here and then questions will be asked and you'll have ruined everything. Then, instead of your baby having a good home and all that he or she needs, he or she will be labeled an
illegitimate child and it will all be your fault. You understand that, don't you?" she asked, sounding more concerned than threatening.
"Of course, madame. I don't mean to be snoopy. I just meant . . ."
"You'll learn for yourself one day," she said, and then sighed. "You'll learn just how hard it is to live with a man. Men are more than just physically different; they're more selfish. They want to be satisfied all the time, no matter how we feel. All they care about is their own raging lusts," she said, practically spitting the words.
She leaned forward and then in a loud, raspy whisper, she said, "It's because of their hormones. They overflow and it makes them throb all over until they get satisfied. That's what my father told me."
"Your father discussed such things with you?" I asked, unable to hide my surprise.
She shrugged. "My mother was too prudish to do so. She wouldn't even tell me about the birds and the bees. Do you know we had skirts on our piano legs because my mother thought naked piano legs were too suggestive?" She laughed a thin laugh and then screwed her face into a serious expression and added, "Of course, young people in my time weren't as concerned about sexual matters as they seem to be today.
"It was different then," she continued, looking around as if she could see the room twenty years ago. She smiled softly. "Things were less complicated. Everything was in its proper place. Courting was more civilized, proper. I so wanted it to be that way forever, but . . ."
I just stared at her, but she looked like she was gazing through me. It gave me the shudders because she appeared to be talking to herself more than to me. Something she saw in her own memory made her eyes hateful and small. She shuddered and twisted her lips into a crooked smile before continuing.
"Octavious has never forgiven me for our honeymoon," she said angrily. "He accused me of planning it that way. He said I should have known, have kept track with the calendar."
"Calendar?" I wondered aloud. "I don't understand." She blinked her eyes and then looked at me and smirked. Then she sat back, wagging her head.
"Girls like you drive me mad," she began. "You have your fun, but you don't know what's what with your own bodily functions."
I shook my head, still confused.
"Octavious accused me of having a period for three weeks instead of one," she snapped with impatience. "I know you know what a period is."
"Oui, madame," I said. "Of course."
"Well, sometimes mine's irregular and it just worked out that way after we got married and Octavious couldn't gratify his lust on our wedding night, nor the night after or the one after that. Is that spelled out simply enough for you to understand, or do I have to draw pictures?"
She looked away and then, when she turned back, there were tears in her eyes. "It's very difficult when your husband is not sensitive to your needs. It's just better for a man and a woman to have separate bedrooms. It was better for my mother and it's better for me. Does that satisfy your need to know? Does it?" she demanded.
"I'm sorry, madame. I don't have a need to know the private details of your life. I didn't mean to pry."
"Of course not. You didn't mean to come barging into my life either."
"No, Madame Tate. I did not," I said firmly. "It was the other way around. Octavious came barging into my life."
She glared a moment and then her face softened. "You're right. Of course. Anyway, we shouldn't be having this kind of nasty talk. We have to cooperate and help each other get through this ordeal," she said in a sweetened voice. "Have you had enough to eat?"
"Oui, madame."
"Good. Take your exercise then. Wait," she said when I started to rise. "I'll walk with you. I want to study how you walk."
"How I walk?"
"Yes. Pregnant women do walk differently. I've seen you rubbing your lower back when you walk sometimes. You have a sort of pregnant waddle."
"Oh," I said. I nodded and she followed along, keeping a step or two back so she could analyze and imitate me. I tried not to be self-conscious of my every move, but when someone is studying you under a magnifying glass, you can't help but think about every gesture, ever movement in your face, every twinge in your legs and back. I found I was even holding my breath at times.
But after a while, the walk through the house became more pleasant because she began to explain things, point to this work of art or this vase and tell me its history, who bought it and why. She explained why she held affection for certain of her household possessions. I noted that anything her mother bought, she spoke about with joy, but things her father bought seemed to resurrect painful memories. As she went on about them, I realized that most of the things her father had bought, he had bought to compensate for some sad moment or something he had done that had displeased her mother. She called them "Gifts of Repentance," and then added, almost casually, "That goes for my wonderful dollhouse, too." She looked mean, wrathful, when she said it.
