The sky was bright above them, perfectly puffed clouds creeping past the sun on occasion as the birds darted in and out of the tree branches. The girls stopped at the main street to peruse the shops. Marguerite peered in each window with a discerning eye. She saw nothing worth taking with her to Lyon. Anything interesting was too big and anything small enough was too dull to bother with. As they approached the street corner, her mood grew darker and darker. Why must she put up with this sort of arrangement? She was of age now, for heaven’s sake. She shouldn’t be made to do anything she didn’t want to.
“Vivienne, what do normal girls do when they turn sixteen?”
“Come again?” Vivienne looked completely lost.
“What do girls like, say, her”—Marguerite pointed to a maid with her hair tied up in a bright red scarf, carrying a basket of bread on her hip—“do when they come of age?”
“I suppose they get work in the shops or farms? Why?” Vivienne asked.
“Maybe that’s what I should do: get a job.”
Vivienne looked up at her friend with confused eyes. “Who would have you? Anyone in fifty départements knows your father. No one would take you for fear of his wrath! Don’t be ridiculous.”
“I wish you would stop mocking me. I’m a grown woman now, I should be able to do whatever I wish.” Marguerite was indignant and wanted to test out her newfound adulthood. “Let us ask this shop owner.”
She approached the counter where a kind-faced little man stood with an excited smile, obviously hoping for a big sale.
“Good sir, if you were to be hiring, would you consider employing someone such as myself?” Marguerite stood as tall as her little frame would allow, hoping to seem older.
“Excuse me, miss?” He was immediately crestfallen. “Why would a lady such as yourself want to work in a humble shop such as mine?”
“That is not the point. I merely asked if you would consider it.”
He hesitated, then answered, “No miss, I’m afraid I wouldn't touch that with a ten-foot pole. Your father would bring down the hounds of hell upon me.” Genuinely frightened now, he fussed with a display of hat pins. “It just isn’t right, miss. You should be marrying someone grand and setting up your own estates and parties.”
Marguerite huffed. “Well, if I’m not fit to work here then I suppose I’m not fit to shop here either. Come, Vivienne!”
“But Marguerite! I wanted those gloves.”
“Come!” She linked the other girl’s arm and dragged her out the door into pedestrian traffic once again. Marguerite stomped her foot like a child as she looked around the busy town. “There is absolutely nothing for me here!”
Outil had been waiting outside the door, and, upon seeing her mistress’s face, inquired, “Is anything amiss?”
“No, I’m fine, Outil. Go get the auto-carriage and meet us at the end of the street. I don’t feel like walking home.”
“There was a message while you were in the shop, Miss.” Outil stared across the street as she addressed her owner with her quiet female voice.
“From whom?”
“Madame Pomphart direct-telegraphed to my receivers that she is not pleased with your absence at her lesson today and that you will be severely reprimanded when you return home. I am to bring you there straight away.”
“Oh dear,” Vivienne twittered, “you didn’t tell me … ”
“Fine, Outil. Just go get the carriage.”
“Yes, miss.” Outil sprinted back down the road.
Marguerite felt the last of her happiness fly away like a butterfly on the late summer breeze. She looked around the small town while her friend prattled on about the tragedy of it all. Did Marguerite still think Pomphart wanted to marry Lord Vadnay? Was she just trying to get Marguerite out of the way? Wasn’t there any way she could reconcile and find a way to be happy with Delacourte?
All her words slipped from Marguerite’s ears and fell to the dusty walkway. The street she once thought so grand seemed small and crowded now. The shop signs seemed worn and as weary as she felt.
“Marguerite, I really did want those gloves. I’m just going to pop back and buy them. Don’t be mad?” Vivienne looked like a dog who’d been hit one too many times, afraid to ask for dinner.
“Of course.” Marguerite was too deep in thought now to care about gloves. She turned and slowly walked toward the street corner, her eyes fixed on the sea in the distance. It sparkled like a giant sapphire. Marguerite took in a deep breath of the thick, salt-touched air and wondered when she would taste it again. She noticed a man in front of her, dressed in a uniform, staring in the same direction. As she approached him he turned and tipped his head at her. “Fine day, isn’t it, lass?”
“Beautiful.” Her voice was far away and flat. She was wondering what lay in store for her on her last night at home.
“A lady as fine as yourself shouldn’t have such a long face. Is there a trouble I could administer to?” He was an older gentleman with a distinguished-looking white beard and crinkly smile lines around his eyes.
“Not unless you can save me from my evil governess who’s trying to send me away to boarding school for unmarriageable rich girls while my father plots to marry me off to the biggest poof in all of France. Meanwhile, my real love flies away to New France to be killed by savages.” She said it almost as if she were talking to herself.
He knit his brow and touched his beard. “It sounds like you’re craving a bit of independence?”
“YES!” She turned to him fully now, realizing this old man understood where her heart was.
“Come inside for a moment.” He motioned to the post office door.
Once Marguerite’s eyes had adjusted to the dim lighting she saw a desk perched in front of the familiar self-serve mailboxes where the automatons came to gather mail for their masters. There was a quill and quite a bit of paperwork stacked on the desk in front of a very uncomfortable-looking chair. The old gentleman motioned for her to take a seat in what was clearly his place as he rifled through the papers. Marguerite sat down gingerly, curious as to what he had in mind.
“Ahh, here we are.” He pulled out a piece of thick parchment. “Don’t often use this one anymore.” Marguerite gazed at the print as he laid the sheet before her.
“CONTRACT for GENTRY” was etched across the top in neat printing.
“What is this?” She looked back to the old man.
“This, my girl, is your ticket to independence.” He smiled a jolly grin at her. “Read this bit here and then sign on the line and you are free to do as you please.”
For a moment Marguerite was afraid the seemingly harmless old fellow might have some sort of dementia, but when she glanced at the paragraph he pointed to, she realized she was looking at a contract for the Daughters of the King program.
“I thought this was a program for poor girls with no dowries!”
“Oh no, miss. In the first voyages, the aerships were filled to the brim with the very elite of Paris.” His words brought back the image of Laviolette saying much the same thing, only without any decorum.
“But, how does it work? What would I do?”
“You sign here and report back to the docks at seven o’clock sharp tomorrow morning and you board the vessel. Simple as that. The King provides your food, shelter, dowry, and trousseau. You are free to bring a few personal items, but you will want for nothing.”
“It seems a bit of a fairytale.” Marguerite was still curious, but very skeptical.
“Oh, it gets better than that. Once you arrive in New France you are free to choose the fellow you would like to build a life with, or none at all. It’s a different world out there. Women are not looked on as hothouse flowers, of that you can be certain. They own shops, lead in government, run estates. New France may still be officially a part of the Old Mother Country, but she’s her own animal entirely.”
Marguerite’s thoughts were on fire. If what this man was tel
ling her was true, she may have found the answer to all of her problems.
“All I have to do is sign here and show up in the morning and you will take me to New France?”
“Yes, ma’am. We only have a few spots left on the ship. It must be kismet that you walked my way with your sad eyes this afternoon.” He smiled at her in such a sweet way she couldn’t help but trust him and think he would make an excellent grandfather.
She stood from her chair and removed her gloves. “Sir, you have a deal.” The quill felt like air in her hands as she picked it from the well and tapped off the excess ink. She scanned the long list of names under the actual contract and found a spot at the bottom. In beautiful script she added Lady Marie Ann Marguerite Vadnay.
She paused, looking at the page as she placed the quill back in its nest. There was room for one, maybe two more names. She wondered who they would be. Then she looked for a moment at all the names before hers. She wondered where they were now and if she would meet them.
“I see you are a woman who knows her mind.”
“Yes, I am.” Marguerite paused again. “Out of curiosity, what is your name?”
“I am Captain Oslow Moreau, at your service.”
Marguerite felt quite empowered now and much more herself when she replied, “Well then, Captain Moreau, I hope your word is good, because if I experience anything contrary to what you’ve told me I shall write my father immediately and he will have your head.” She was only half joking.
The old man twittered nervously. “Do not fear, all is just as I have said. I can’t imagine you will be disappointed.”
“Indeed. I shall see you at sunrise.”
“Yes, at sunrise.”
And with that, Marguerite turned and stepped back out into her drab little town with a whole new plan hatching under her very stylish hat.
Chapter Eight
“Where, exactly, have you been?” Pomphart was waiting for her at the main entrance.
“I was visiting the shops with Vivienne one last time before you banish me from my home.” She made no excuses as she handed her hat and cape to Outil.
“And what is that bot doing in this house?”
“That bot is my bot and I have told you repeatedly I will have her wherever I wish on my last day in my home.”
Pomphart made a move as if to slap Marguerite as she had the night of the ball, but quick as lightning, Outil was there between them.
“It is not proper for one lady to strike another regardless of station.” Her calm, mechanical voice cut through the contention, reminding both women of their manners.
Pomphart’s cheeks blazed red. She lowered her hand and declared, “I want this machine out of this home. Now.”
“Outil, did you have anything to attend to on the grounds?” Marguerite asked in her best sticky sweet voice.
“Yes, m’lady. There are several assignments that require my attention, but my first priority is to you.”
“Then you may be dismissed, but only until I summon you once more.” Marguerite didn’t care a thing about what Pomphart wanted, but she didn’t want to risk endangering her relationship with her father any further on their last night together.
Outil did not budge until Pomphart took a step back. Only then did the automaton move sideways and toward the door, handing Marguerite’s things to a maid standing at the ready.
“You will follow me.” Pomphart turned on her heel and marched forward without watching to see if Marguerite would follow.
Marguerite took a step in the same direction but was caught at the arm by the maid with her coat. “Don’t go with her, miss! She’s a wicked one. I don’t know what she’s been plannin’ but I guarantee you it’s not anything good!”
Surprised and touched in the smallest way by the concern of this common house worker, Marguerite patted her hand and assured her, “Thank you, but I’m fine. There isn’t anything worse she can do to me that she hasn’t already done, and this is our last night together.”
“Yes, miss. Just … be careful!”
Marguerite nodded and followed after Pomphart, who seemed to be heading to the kitchens. She caught up with her and wondered at their winding path through what was now turning into the serving areas. As a child Marguerite had been permitted to explore the entirety of the house any time she liked, except the quarters where the servants worked. She would pop into the kitchen for a treat now and then, and she knew where everything was, in general, but she hadn’t been through many of the lower halls. She couldn’t imagine where the old hag was taking her.
On their left and right, frightened house servants paused to bow and move out of the way, not used to seeing the lady of the house in their domain and none of them enjoying the site of Pomphart. When they finally slowed, it was in front of a small door off a corridor between the kitchens and the pantries. It was not a direct route and so was not often used. Not a soul could be seen or heard for several twists and turns.
Pomphart looked up and down the hallway before she took a key out of her skirts and fitted it in the keyhole. With a bit of jiggling the door eventually swung open, revealing a stone passageway leading under the house.
Marguerite stiffened.
“After you,” Pomphart hissed and held out her hand toward the stairs.
“What is down here?” Marguerite was slightly hesitant, but wanted to know more about this secret passage than she cared about Pomphart’s motives. She took a step into the passage and down one stair.
Quick as a wink, Pomphart slammed the door behind her. Blackness fell like a curtain over Marguerite’s eyes. She suddenly felt off balance and stumbled as she tried to turn on the small step and push the door back open.
“What are you doing?” She could hear the lock turning in its mechanism as she banged on the thick wooden door.
“I’m preparing you for your new life, m’lady. They won’t put up with your attitude in Lyon!” The way her voice was muffled through the door put a note of panic into Marguerite’s chest. She continued to bang and shove, but if she could barely hear Pomphart and they were merely inches away from each other, then the hopes of anyone else hearing her and coming to her aid were very slim.
She gave up pounding, leaned her head on the door, and could barely make out the sound of receding footsteps. How could she have been so foolish? What was Pomphart thinking? She pounded again just for emphasis. “I hate you, Pomphart!”
Marguerite wasn’t the type to cry in this kind of situation. She took a deep breath and started calculating. The servants would be most busy in the next hour or so when dinner was being prepared. If she could save her energy until then, maybe someone would hear her when passing by the main hall. She definitely did not want to wait here for Pomphart to come collect her repentant pupil. She carefully turned and sat on the top step. Deep, cold blackness lay before her on all sides. By the light coming through the bottom of the door, she could just make out the rough-cut stone walls and the stair on which she sat.
The thought of what might be lurking below her perch made Marguerite shiver, so she steeled herself against the idea and focused on the problem at hand: how to tell what time it was. She supposed she could listen for the scurry of their feet, but she wished now that she carried her own timepiece. She had read in a fashion report that it was the latest trend in Paris for women to carry their own pocket watches, some even as bold as to wear a delicate wristwatch concealed by their gloves. She wished now that she had purchased one on the spot. She might’ve been able to read it by the slit of light under the door.
Marguerite unconsciously reached for the one thing she did have— the cricket. It felt small and familiar in her hand. She took it out to hold in her lap, careful not to spring the mechanism, but she wasn’t careful enough. Her finger slipped off one of the legs and landed squarely on the trigger button on its side. The tiny creature sprang immediately into action, flying off of her hand into the abyss.
“Drat! No!�
� Marguerite lurched forward in a vain attempt to capture it before it fell. Her hand grabbed nothing but air just before she heard the plink … plink … of its brass body bouncing away.
“No, no, no!” Tears sprang into her eyes. How would she ever get it back?
Suddenly, the very moment she heard the fourth bounce, a light sprang up from the little bug’s position, illuminating the entire stairway and most of the room below. With the way clearly lit, Marguerite sprang to retrieve it.
She scooped it up like a precious stone and cradled it to her breast, tears freely falling down her cheeks. She turned it over in her hands, carefully examining the light shining out of its eyes.
“What magic is this?” Her heart fluttered when she thought of Claude and the time he must have spent crafting the tiny creature. “No wonder he didn’t want me to lose you! I wonder what else you can do.”
She looked up and pointed the cricket’s face at her surroundings. The room below her was made of solid stone and smelled musty from being cradled in the earth for decades with no ventilation. Wooden beams lined the ceiling and cobwebs hung in all directions. Large trunks lined the walls and a few were scattered about the floor. Archaic metal contraptions covered in dust and more webs from spiders long dead were stuffed in corners here and there.
“This must be some sort of storage room. I wonder how long these things have been down here.” She quickly calculated dates in her mind. The estate was at least two hundred years old. “There could be anything down here!” She spoke in a whisper to her cricket as she scanned the forgotten treasures before her, trying to decide what to investigate first.
A rust-colored trunk near the foot of the stairs seemed newer than the others. She carefully picked her way down the steep stone steps and bent to inspect the lock. It wasn’t latched so she tried pushing the lid up with the palm of her hand. It popped up easily, letting loose a cloud of dust and dead bugs.
The Perilous Journey of the Not-So-Innocuous Girl Page 6
