With a gasp of horror, Susanna saw Miriam's scissors slash ruthlessly through the expensive satin. "Miriam! How dare you! You have ruined it!"
"Wait and see," predicted Miriam. "There! We can cut it away here to show the lace petticoat, and have material enough to make gathers in the back."
All day long and half the night Miriam snipped and stitched, tried on and ripped out and stitched again, until the one candle in the room sputtered out and forced her to shut her smarting eyes.
"I don't know how you do it," her sister worried. "If I took out one of those seams I could never get it together again. How could you know this would look so well?"
"The thing is, I care and you really don't," said Miriam. "I wager you'd have worn your old brown homespun."
"'Twould have seemed more fitting," Susanna agreed, quite unruffled. "This grand lady you've made me into isn't I at all. I doubt James would approve. Tis scandalous low."
"James would just about burst with pride if he could see you, I know he would. Now stand still. This panel has to be shortened. And then you've got to fit my waist in tighter. I can't reach behind my back."
Even Susanna was impressed when Miriam tried on her yellow satin gown. The heavy shining silk molded her slim waist snugly in front, and fell back to reveal a handsome petticoat made from the salvaged portions of a frayed summer dress. In the back the material was gathered in three stylish Watteau pleats, smoothed flat to the waist, and flaring below. Sitting back on her heels, Susanna stared.
"I declare, Miriam, you do have a knack! I don't believe there's a lovelier gown in Boston, or even in Paris!"
To Felicité Miriam had given no inkling of what was going on; but, unable to wait another moment to display her creation, she intercepted Hortense on the way downstairs and drew her into the room, her finger on her lips. She had seen very little of Hortense all these weeks. It was like old times to share a secret with her again.
She could not have asked for a more satisfying audience. As she revolved slowly in the new dress, the French girl oh'd and ah'd, her black eyes dancing, her round face wrinkled with pleasure. Hortense, friendly and matter of fact, seemed not in the least overawed by Miriam's new status, or even conscious that she herself had been neglected. But once or twice as they talked, Miriam noticed a fleeting twinkle in her old friend's eye that brought an instant's discomfort. Could Hortense possibly be laughing at her? She checked herself, all at once aware that she had been prattling exactly like Felicité. Well, was that so amusing? If Hortense had any idea how starved she had been all her life for companionship she would not begrudge her a little fun now.
Indeed, Hortense herself said as much. "I'm so glad you are having a good time, Miriam. You do deserve it after all you have been through." Then, revealing that she was only human after all, a small touch of envy crept into Hortense's voice.
"You look so lovely in that dress, Miriam," she said wistfully. "I wish that just once in my life, just for my wedding, I could have a beautiful dress. But isn't that silly? Where would I ever wear it when the wedding was over? To milk the cows?"
Chapter 12
HOURS BEFORE the dance Felicité came in search of Miriam. "Come," she ordered. "Lucille is to dress my hair now, and while it is being done one of the other maids can do yours too. Maman says it is not necessary, but she needn't know till it is all done."
"You mean—powdered?" asked Miriam doubtfully.
"Of course. Every lady there will have her hair powdered. And I'll give you some cream and powder for your face, and a tiny beauty spot to put right there." Felicité's silvery laugh broke out at Miriam's uncertainty. "What are you afraid of, silly? We will make you look just beautiful."
"Can Hortense be the one to help me?"
"Hortense? But she is a little simpleton, a habitant! What would she know about doing hair? Maman's maids were trained in Paris. Come—we can watch each other in the mirror."
So Miriam sat for the first time for the elaborate toilette she had often watched Felicité undergo. It was more torture than delight. Seemingly for hours she held her head rigid and followed in the mirror the deft fingers of the maid. The curling iron hissed and steamed, as the heavy red hair was massed high on her head in countless curls and twists. Miriam's back and neck ached long before the intricate creation was finished to Felicités satisfaction. Then the maid brought the quail pipe, and Miriam covered her eyes while the white powder was blown into the red curls. Finally there was perfumed cream for her cheeks, powder, and a touch of rouge, and the little black beauty spot, which Felicité herself insisted on pasting just beneath her left eye.
When Miriam returned to her room Susanna was already dressed, sitting at the desk writing the daily letter that would never reach James as though this were any ordinary evening. The startled eyes she lifted to Miriam were disconcerting.
"Felicité says to come quickly," Miriam hurried to say. "There is still time to fix your hair too."
"Thank you," answered Susanna. "My hair is already done." It lay against her head in two smooth dark wings, and was coiled in a neat bun at the back of her neck.
"You can't leave it like that!" Miriam's exasperation flared. "After I worked so hard! You won't look like the others."
Susanna stood up from the desk slowly. "I am not like the others," she said quietly. "I am an Englishwoman. I have done my hair like this all my life, and I have no intention of doing it any differently."
The rebuke in Susanna's voice was too much for Miriam to bear. Furious tears threatened the powder and rouge. "Oh go ahead then," she stormed "Look like a—a habitant! 'Tis all right for you to throw away your chances. But I'm young, and I know what I want!"
"What do you want?"
"I want to be a part of life, not forever waiting and looking on at other people. I want to wear clothes that I can be proud of. And I want—oh stop hatcheling me! It is almost time to go and I have to get my dress on."
Susanna started to reply and then abruptly changed her mind. She stepped forward and silently eased Miriam's dress off her shoulders so as not to disturb the glistening structure. Miriam, somewhat mollified, accepted the gesture as a peace offering. There was no time now for argument or even for thinking. Susanna held the yellow gown for Miriam to step into, and bent to adjust the intricate fastenings. Then she stepped back to inspect her younger sister.
"Of course, they say the English ladies in Boston powder their hair," she conceded. "You are a picture, Miriam. I declare, you take my breath away."
Miriam felt a rush of gratitude. "Don't mind the things I said, Susanna," she returned generously. "You look beautiful, really, just the way you are." And all at once, looking at her sister in the perfectly fitting red silk, Miriam realized that it was actually true. What was there about Susanna that, standing there so plain and severe, without knowing or caring, she had a beauty not one of them could touch? For an instant a hint of misgiving quivered in Miriam's mind. She whirled anxiously to the mirror and there found the reassurance she needed. Yes, the girl in the mirror was everything she had ever dreamed or longed for. The dreams that had begun that October morning in Felicité's borrowed gown had all come true at last.
"They will be waiting for us," she murmured, embarrassed lest Susanna read her mind. So the two Willard sisters, each unshaken in her own choice but united once more in affection, linked arms and went down the stairs together.
Felicité was standing in the middle of the hall, a pink and white confection. Even more flattering than the mirror was the astonishment that rounded the little red Cupid's bow of her lips.
"Meeriam! Your dress! What did you do to it? Isn't it beautiful, Maman? Would you ever dream it was my last year's second-best?"
Madame did not bother to answer. Ice-blue eyes narrowed, she studied the two English women, taking in every detail, dwelling thoughtfully on the folds that had been gathered so carefully to reveal Miriam's neck and shoulders. Finally she turned to her daughter.
"I forgot something, Felic
ité," she said airily. "You look a little plain in that dress. I think you may wear the necklace tonight."
"Maman! Grandmére's necklace?" With a torrent of endearments Felicité threw herself at her mother in an ecstatic embrace that threatened to undo all the labor of the Parisian maid. Madame gave her an impatient push. The necklace was brought, lifted reverently from its blue velvet box, and fastened about the girl's plump white throat. Felicité, who had looked anything but plain before, was now positively dazzling. Miriam gasped. Conscious of her own bare throat and arms, she glanced at Susanna. Her sister's lips twitched ever so slightly, and in Susanna's dark eyes Miriam surprised a gleam of something that was certainly not envy.
From the moment they left the carriage and stepped out of the snowy street into the brilliantly lighted ballroom of the Governor's mansion, Miriam drifted in a dream world, apart from any reality she had ever known. Under crystal chandeliers ablaze with candles, across a shining floor boarded by velvet hangings, dream figures wheeled to the heart-catching music of violins. Women in flower-like satins and frothy lace rested their hands delicately on gold-braided shoulders. The very air she breathed was perfumed and intoxicating.
Nothing that happened in this dream world was improbable. It was not unbelievable that Monsieur Du Quesne, who had barely nodded good morning for weeks, should bow low to kiss Susanna's hand and then her own, nor that strange young men should click their heels and offer their arms for one dance after another. It seemed altogether natural that her feet should move of their own volition in the steps that Felicité had coached.
That she herself, so intriguingly different from the others, so blazingly alive and radiant, was a phenomenon in this place, she did not stop to reason. The admiration made her lightheaded, as though she had tasted the wine Susanna had forbidden her to touch. She forgot Felicité and Madame Du Quesne, forgot that these people were enemies and that she was a prisoner. She even forgot Susanna, who, refusing to dance, was still surrounded in spite of herself by a small court of admirers.
She could not even be surprised when she tilted back her head as an especially tall young man was presented, and looked straight into the bold black eyes she had never forgotten.
He cannot possibly recognize me now, she thought, preening herself as his arm encircled her waist and they moved across the floor. But Pierre Laroche's first words were shattering.
"I see the girl who can rim like an Indian can dance as well," he said, and laughed to see the blood rush into her cheeks.
"I can't fancy what you can be talking about," Miriam attempted, in Madame's best manner.
"Oh yes you can," he chuckled. "You were not so high and mighty when you tore into that soldier like a little wildcat."
"'Tis unfair of you to remember that," Miriam protested. "I am not in the least that sort of person actually."
"No? They are changing you fast, I can see that. What a pity about your hair. A crime to put out those lovely flames with a mess of powder." His fingers rested lightly against the white curls.
Miriam did not know how to deal with such conversation. "How do you come to be here?" she asked hurriedly. "They said you were a coureur de bois."
"So you inquired about me?"
"I—I remember that someone spoke of it. I thought that all the coureurs were gone in the winter."
"Take a good look at me. Do I look like a coureur? You have failed to notice my new uniform."
Indeed, now that she ventured to look straight at him, she recognized the white coat with its brilliant facings and the gold insignia of an officer.
"I have joined the forces of His Majesty. For one year only. I am no soldier, you understand. King Louis is welcome to settle his wars without me. But when the English interfere with my business, that is another matter."
He ignored the stiffening of the yellow-satin back against his hand.
"My mother, bless her soul, thinks I am prepared to settle down at last and be a gentleman, but she is mistaken. No honest coureur can stay harnessed for long. One year I have promised her, till we get rid of the English who are moving in on our good beaver land."
"What makes you so sure you can accomplish that in one year?" Miriam could not resist scoffing.
"Ha! Less than that perhaps! Do you think any French soldier is not a match for at least three Englishmen? And when the coureurs de bois lend a hand—poof! The war is as good as over!"
"You take a great deal for granted. You may get a surprise," said Miriam, her temper rising.
"But who is to surprise us? A handful of yokels who don't even have uniforms to wear? It will be like going out to flush an army of woodchucks."
"How dare you!" Miriam flashed, her pride finally stung out of hiding. "Let me go at once! I will not listen to such talk!"
Pierre threw back his head and laughed so boisterously that other dancers turned their heads to stare.
"Tiens!" he conceded. "No doubt the English are heroes to a man. I merely wanted to see behind that disguise of yours. There is plenty of wildcat still left. Now that I'm sure of it you need not have your eye on any more partners. Now you will have supper with me. Uniform or not, I am still a coureur, and I enjoy eating with savages."
Chapter 13
THE HOUSE was very quiet next morning when Miriam made her way to Felicité's room. It was almost noon. Even allowing for the scandalous hour they had come in, Felicité could not possibly still be asleep. The silence of the hall, however, encouraged the uneasy doubts that had been nibbling at the edge of her pleasure. It reminded her of the utter silence in which the four women had ridden home last night, a silence which at the time she had been far too enraptured to heed. She knocked on Felicité's door, and then, as always, opened it and peeked inside.
"Go away!" ordered Felicité. "I have a headache. I don't want to see anyone."
Miriam shut the door. Across the hallway Hortense, with an untouched breakfast tray, was just emerging from Madame's chamber, and from the twinkle in her eye Miriam saw that she had overheard.
"Mademoiselle is out of sorts this morning?" whispered Hortense. "Are you surprised?"
Miriam did not answer. She wanted to stay wrapped in her rosy dream. But even more she wanted to talk to someone, so she tiptoed down the stairs after Hortense, through the quiet rooms, into the familiar kitchen.
"Why shouldn't I be surprised?" she demanded, when it was safe to speak out loud.
"Oh, stop pretending, Miriam. Sometimes lately you sound just like Felicité. Did you think we would not all know how Madame is very angry?"
"She did act queerly last night," Miriam admitted. "I guess I wasn't paying much attention."
"Maybe you should pay attention. Lucille, she helped Madame undress last night, and she told us the whole thing. Such a to-do! Madame, she was raging at everyone. She even slapped Lucille for breaking a drawstring. She swore she'd send you and your sister back to the Indians this morning. Felicité was crying her pretty eyes out. Monsieur, he finally got them quieted down. But Lucille said Madame would surely like to scratch your eyes out!"
"But why, Hortense? Madame invited us. She gave us the dresses. Was it wrong that I had a good time? Did she expect that no one would dance with me?"
"She never expected what happened, that's certain. According to her, you made eyes at every man there. And those old gowns you fixed up so they looked better than their brand-new ones. Madame says you did it on purpose, to humiliate her."
"The idea! I did no such thing!"
"No? Don't glare at me. I am just telling you what I heard. Madame said you put on airs like the Queen of France. Miriam, you know what is really the matter. You think we have not heard that too? You think we don't know about that handsome Pierre Laroche?"
"Maybe you know more than I do," Miriam answered crossly. "Go ahead, what did they say?"
"Felicité said he danced with you seven times. And when he was dancing with the others he looked at you and didn't hear what anyone said. You think Felicité would like tha
t?"
"But Felicité has so many beaux! What difference would just one make? Do you think she is in love with him, Hortense?"
"Oh—love!" Hortense shrugged her shoulders. "What would Felicité know about love? It is Madame. Pierre Laroche—so rich, so handsome! All the mamans have an eye on Pierre for a long time. You think they would enjoy it that an English girl walks off with him right under their noses?"
"I didn't walk off with him! He just kept coming back. He—oh Hortense, everything happened so fast. It was so exciting. I never stopped to think. Oh dear! If I spoiled the party for Felicité, I'm sorry."
"Very sorry?" prodded Hortense, with such a shrewd twinkle that Miriam had to laugh. Suddenly, looking at each other, both girls were overtaken by helpless giggles, just as in the early days together. They clung to each other, weak with laughter.
"All the same, I'm scared now," said Miriam finally, wiping her eyes. "What do you think I ought to do? Apologize to Madame?"
"I think you should stay well out of Madame's way for a day or two."
"May I stay down here with you?"
Hortense clapped a hand over her mouth. "Peste! I forgot Madame wanted an ice pack for her forehead. Come back later, Miriam. If you like, we can walk to the baker's together."
Miriam was still suppressing a giggle as she climbed the stairs to her own chamber. Though her conscience did prick her, the joke was too delicious not to relish. She hurried to pour out every detail to a sober Susanna, who found nothing amusing in the recital.
"'Tis very unfortunate," Susanna shook her head. "I should never have consented to our going. This is a shameful way to have repaid Madame's kindness."
"Don't preach, Susanna. Madame hasn't a drop of kindness in her, and you know it. She treats us as though we were Indians. All that generosity is only a pose before her friends. If it weren't for James's agreement with Monsieur you'd have been put to work in the kitchen the way I was."
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