It was Armand’s day to drive to Honfleur for supplies. He hobbled into the yard just as she straightened the long reins over the horse’s broad back. Armand stopped next to the wagon and held up a slip of paper. “You sure you need all this?” “If you want me to bake you fresh bread,” Honneure replied evenly. She was learning to deal with the irascible old man, hopefully for not much longer. “Otherwise buy three loaves.” “They’ll be stale by week’s end.” Honneure shrugged. “Suit yourself.” The old man climbed into the wagon without another word. Honneure knew she would have everything she had asked for. He treated her like a slave, not a wife, it was true, but the arrangement suited her. He asked no more from her than her labor, and she slept alone in her little room. He did not seem to mind her company but did not solicit her conversation. The circumstances were bearable. Honneure waited until Armand had rattled out of sight in the direction of Honfleur. Then she hurried along the road to the widow’s house.
