The expression of utter disbelief her husband had worn upon discovering the Musketeer in the spare bedroom would have better fit that of a gasping fish. Once he had recovered enough to do more than gape at the scene before him, he had caught her at the elbow to pull her aside and attempted to deliver a lecture in a sharp, hissed voice without waking the man who lay beneath the haphazard covering of a blanket.
Bonacieux was nearer forty than thirty, and loomed over Constance in a way that reminded her forever that she had only just seen her twenty first birthday months before. Still, she had looked over her shoulder at the man she had pulled from that pile of straw and knew how easily a body could succumb to the cold between the setting sun and what smelled like several bottles of something cheap. She had a choice in so little, but she could no more have left that man to chance the cold than she could have become a dancer in a traveling troupe.
It simply was not in her nature.
Her hands were busy at the work of preparing a small breakfast for herself and her guest (if he could be termed that) when she heard the faint sounds of waking, stilling a moment as she listened before setting aside her knife and the loaf of bread fresh from the baker down the street. After wiping her hands on the apron tied around her waist, she headed to that spare room, empty since the arrest of their last tenant and too much a reminder of what she had hoped for and not yet been given. The last piece of her place as a proper wife.
"You're awake," she announced mildly from the doorway, peering in at the shaggy man in the Musketeer uniform still partway on the bed. "I wondered when you would be."
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Date: 2015-04-15 07:00 am (UTC)Bonacieux was nearer forty than thirty, and loomed over Constance in a way that reminded her forever that she had only just seen her twenty first birthday months before. Still, she had looked over her shoulder at the man she had pulled from that pile of straw and knew how easily a body could succumb to the cold between the setting sun and what smelled like several bottles of something cheap. She had a choice in so little, but she could no more have left that man to chance the cold than she could have become a dancer in a traveling troupe.
It simply was not in her nature.
Her hands were busy at the work of preparing a small breakfast for herself and her guest (if he could be termed that) when she heard the faint sounds of waking, stilling a moment as she listened before setting aside her knife and the loaf of bread fresh from the baker down the street. After wiping her hands on the apron tied around her waist, she headed to that spare room, empty since the arrest of their last tenant and too much a reminder of what she had hoped for and not yet been given. The last piece of her place as a proper wife.
"You're awake," she announced mildly from the doorway, peering in at the shaggy man in the Musketeer uniform still partway on the bed. "I wondered when you would be."