Blanche stood before her small mirror, lacing her corset herself for the first time as best as she could. She could not do it as tightly as Muriel might-- but Muriel was nowhere to be found. Likely she had gone out early that morning for some herb or other. Blanche, freed temporarily from Muriel's scrutiny, did not feel put upon to attend her chores, and with her basket flew from the house and down the road, before her stepmother might return and detain her.
Once out of sight of the old shanty, Blanche relaxed her pace and lingered along the road, near Jean's stretch of farmland. He noticed her instantly: stopped where he worked the land, and waved a tentative greeting. Blanche felt in the moment that more than an expanse of grass parted them: it was her stepmother's ire: even his shyness for her was near-gone.
Languidly Blanche leaned against the gate and watched him continue his work. Despite his obvious pleasure at her unexpected company, he looked almost cheerless: shadows hollowed his blue eyes and pale cheekbones. He looked too as though he didn't eat enough, and he wasn't dressed properly. Would she trade one life of servitude for another? Would she leave Muriel's unkind abode for this sister shanty, trade herb-gathering at daybreak and boiling soap in the yard for cooking for and clothing this lonely man? She might, for her wiles: she could convince him to love her, if he did not already.
What would he offer in return? What would he give, or would it be as with Muriel, devoted servitude for heaps of abuse? What if he had not the courage to reach for her?
As if reading her fervent thoughts, Jean dropped his tools suddenly and went to her, standing opposite her on the fence. "Shall I come for you tomorrow evening?"
As she considered his words, her eyes dropped with sudden disappointment. "No. My stepmother won't allow me to go if she thinks you with me. We must meet on the road."
He glanced aside contemptuously. "Does she think to lock you away from the eyes of men? To support you-- herself a widow-- for the rest of her days?"
"I support her, Mr. Julliard," Blanche said. "And she'll never let me go."
"Don't be so sure of that." Jean watched her with burning eyes as she continued her progress down the road. She could feel his stare, but didn't linger longer lest someone see them together and mention it to her stepmother.
She went to the garden, which bloomed in seemingly perpetual profusion, seemingly waiting for her to appreciate its fertility and abundance.
Sent from Amanda's Treo @-'-,--