It was rude and disrespectful to raise her eyes to him, her mother had warned. Bold women certainly existed in the Middle Ages--Chaucer’s Canterbury Tales is evidence of this--but meek women were probably the norm, good Christian family ladies who wanted nothing more than to serve God and have children. Monsieur could rely upon his special attention, and for the cooking—well, he had his customers, who came from their homes to him year after year. You're always complaining that you can't keep anybody more than three months. There were moments when she thought of turning upon this man and talking to him. And like that gospel it meant something, something different from its phrases, something elusive, and yet something that in spite of the superficial incoherence of its phrasing, was largely essentially true. And yet that could not be: it was a confession only in the event of his death.
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