So at twenty years old, Jeanne now sat at the edge of the sea, world weary, tired, hungry and cold. Sofie had been taken at a little over a year old, stolen from her as she worked in the garden. There was no trace, no one had any idea what had happened or even why. Thomas had seemed nonplussed at the time, but went through the motions of caring and trying to find out what had happened. His actions chilled her. At fifteen, she was still a child in many ways, but she had an edge to her now. She still had not had the privilege of a friend, but she had seen the eyes of the other women in town when she went in to sell eggs and the eyes told her what she needed to know. They pitied her. They dripped sorrow and sometimes she caught a bit of the sorrow and wrapped it up in her gaze, carried it home and pondered it. Contemplated it. Wallowed in their sorrow, her tears falling on Sophie’s empty cradle. She wanted to curse someone, but who? Her mother, though at fault, had had little choice. She had needed the work Thomas offered, and had had no way to pay him. Thomas, though happy to help, had seen nothing wrong in accepting the offer of Jeanne as a way of saying thank you. God could be at fault, but there was little place in her life right now for God at all, and especially not for a God who allowed little children to suffer.

With Sofie gone, Jeanne had hardened, gotten more practical, worked, kept her head down, did as she was expected to and things improved for Thomas. He made note of the hardness in her eyes, saw that she had an edge to her and at some level seemed to realize that she had lost her innocence.

However horrid the circumstances, he had to admit Jeanne changed for the better in his eyes after Sofie’s disappearance. She didn’t care what happened at night, kept the house tidy during the day, cooked practical, hearty meals for him and stayed quiet and to herself. She seemed less sad now that Sophie was gone. He didn’t question it, just stayed home a bit more.

For five more years, she lived with Thomas and was his wife. She cared less about her life and did what she knew he wanted her to do. There was little left over. He was home more, watching her, and she kept her head down, eyes averted, and worked. The work was work now practical. She shelled peas, she baked hard bread that would last. She made stocks from the bones in the meat he shot and hung in the larder. She mended, but with quick, strong stitches. She swept efficiently, brushing the straw over the wooden floor with swift, brutal strokes that frankly intimidated Thomas. She tried to avoid sweeping when he was home. She felt no malice toward him. In fact, her feelings toward him were similar to those of an unexpected house guest. She was distant, polite, and unassuming toward him. She always offered him coffee when he arrived home in the late afternoon, and said nothing to him as she extended the mug. She never asked where he had been or what he had done. She had no idea what occupied his time, and did not care.

Giving birth renewed her innocence, briefly. Holding Sofie reminded her of her childhood which she had so recently left behind. She adored Sofie. She held her constantly, rocked her, brushed her soft hair, made small dresses for her round, tiny body. Sofie annoyed Thomas. Jeanne knew this. He tensed when he saw her feed Sofie, looked away when she cooed at her. He stayed out later, left earlier. She didn’t mind. Time in the small cottage alone with Sofie gave her all she needed. She made the little home warm and neat, swept and dusted and mended things as Sofie slept, sat and rocked Sofie when she awoke. The new joy she felt in Sofie helped her reclaim some of her lost sense of self, some of her fragile but still alive sense that she could, if she tried, hold on to some of who she was and what she needed. At night, she clung to Sophie tightly, more tightly than necessary, and tried to stay far to one side of the bed. She prayed, quietly so as not to annoy Thomas, in a hushed voice that did annoy him more than she realized. He had had no idea what being married to a child bride would be like when the idea was offered to him by Annette. He had lost his first wife just one year ago. A good woman. Solid, hardworking, practical.

Jeanne was 13 years old when he married her, mischievous, lazy, airy. She had no sense of how to run a house, no idea what a wife might be required to do. She couldn’t cook, couldn’t chop wood worth a damn. Screamed and cried when he went near her, no matter how gentle he tried to be. After she got pregnant, he gave up and started visiting prostitutes in town. Almost worse than being single, having a worthless child as a wife. He felt guilt, extreme guilt, for feeling this way. He brought little sweets home to her when he went to town, and flowers, she liked flowers. And he tried to remember that she was young, and impressionable, and that none of this was her fault. But then he’d enter his home; his own home, that he had built with his and his first wife’s hands, and he’d see her, sitting in the rocking chair that his first wife had sat in, rocking Sofie, holding Sofie like a doll, combing her hair and kissing her forehead, and he’s shudder. Did he have to live with her forever? Wasn’t there a way out? Was this really what he was going to come home to every night until…until when? And dinner. She had no idea how to cook for a man. She tried, when she realized that it was expected, to do as her own mother had done. But she had never been responsible for feeding anyone. She had helped her mother, but it seemed that she had only had to do what she liked to do and nothing more. So instead of full dinners, he had often been served little muffins and puddings.