The Wardrobe Mistress

by Meghan Masterson

  “Yes, thank you, Monsieur Gauvain.” I lift my chin with nobility-inspired pride, and the corners of his lips quirk in response.

  “Are you two already acquainted?” asks Maman curiously. Her light tone doesn’t match the glint of intense interest in her eyes. I hope I’m the only one who notices. I think she might be a little amused, too. I suppose my reaction to seeing Léon was obvious.

  “Only slightly,” I reply. “Monsieur Gauvain was kind enough to escort me home on the night of the Réveillon riot. He’d been walking down the rue du Faubourg Saint-Antoine himself, and saw I was fearful of the crowd.”

  “How kind of you.” Her smile warms. “Such a dreadful event. I’m glad you were not hurt, and kept Giselle safe as well.” As she chats with him, I observe dryly that my parents warm to Léon quickly because of my uncle’s introduction, and it adds to the pleasant thrill of his surprise visit. When my aunt comes into the room, my mother goes to her side, and Léon and I are left alone by the blue velvet–draped window.

  “I didn’t expect to see you here,” I say quietly.

  “You don’t mind, do you? You never came to the shop, and I didn’t know which house you lived in. It’s fortunate you have a well-known watchmaker in the family, or I may not have been able to track you down. I asked Monsieur Renard about the ring timepiece, and used it as a premise to talk to your uncle. Before that, I managed to find out from the baker down the road that your uncle usually has family over for supper on Fridays, so I waited until today to call, in hopes that you would be here.” His grin flashes as bright as moonlight breaking through a haze of midnight clouds, and I feel like it kindles light inside me, too. “And you are.” He lowers his voice even further, to a rasp I can scarcely hear, although it shivers along my skin. “Good God, Giselle, it’s like you want a man to be a detective.”

  “You’re very confident, Léon. What if I’d been avoiding you?”

  He shakes his head, unfazed. “Then you wouldn’t have looked so delighted to see me here.”

  Happiness bubbles through me. I do want to know him better. My liking for him is much stronger than it ought to be, logically, given our short acquaintance. “All right, I will confess. It was a pleasant surprise. I did intend to visit the shop, but since the riot, I don’t walk alone anymore.”

  “Perhaps you shall be allowed to go walking with me.”

  His hopeful look sends a swirl of excitement through me. “I’d like that.”

  “I’ll ask your father. I almost wish they had offered me some of that brandy, for courage.” He brightens. “I think it helps, though, that I was introduced through your uncle. And I did enjoy our conversation about watchmaking. Is he a supporter of equality for the Third Estate?”

  The true answer is that I believe Uncle Pierre is waiting to see which side prevails, the revolutionary thinkers or the traditional royalists. My parents are slightly more liberal in their thoughts, but they’re being cautious as well. In spite of my attraction to Léon, perhaps I do not know him well enough to divulge family opinions on politics, not in this rebellious time. “Let’s not talk about politics here. I prefer walking and fresh air to broach that subject.”

  Léon nods, and when his eyes meet mine, I feel a jolt of heat, a connection, and a reminder that the spark between us earlier is real, not created by the wine or the riot. “I look forward to it.” His voice drops to a murmur. “Especially because I want to kiss you again, and unfortunately this room is not the place for it.”

  “We’ll see.” Realizing my coy laughter has caught the attention of my mother and aunt, I ask him in a louder voice about his apprenticeship. He answers easily, switching to a more conversational tone, but I see a glint of challenge in his eyes, and a thrill quivers through me. He looks like he is determined to persuade me to give a more positive answer. Even without the wine and dramatic excitement of the riot to spark passion, I want to kiss him again, more thoroughly this time. I wonder how it would feel to slowly trace my lips over the angular shape of his mouth, the Cupid’s bow arch of his upper lip.

  Later, when Léon courteously asks my father if he may call on me, I notice Maman subtly nudging his arm, and I suspect Papa’s cautious agreement is partly induced by her signal. Perhaps Léon and I didn’t appear as casual while speaking as we thought, but it’s just as well, if our friendliness helped grant us freedom to visit together again. As he departs the house, I can feel that the brilliance of my smile matches his.

  Chapter Five

  JUNE 1789

  Through the last week of May, I have little to share with my uncle aside from Marie Antoinette’s continuing air of despondency. She tends to be rather reserved at the best of times, but now she grows quieter, often gazing into the folds of her velvet skirt or out the window to the sprawling green lawn. She asks to be read to more than usual, and wakes in the mornings with dark circles under her eyes.

  I know she worries over her seven-year-old son, Louis Joseph, more than the volatile political situation, and with good cause. No longer strong enough to walk and increasingly hindered by the deformity of his spine, he’s forced to use a wheelchair upholstered in green velvet and pillowed with white wool cushions. On the fourth day of June, he succumbs to his illness. This occurs during my time off, and the queen is not at Versailles in any case, having gone to the Château of Meudon, which is the official residence of the dauphin of France, but hardly used. Near to Versailles and situated on a hill, Meudon is said to have one of the most stunning views in Europe. I like to think that the beauty of the setting provided some comfort to the dying boy and the grieving mother. Feeling sympathy for the queen, who loves her children greatly, I’m relieved to not witness her immediate sorrow. I wouldn’t report her personal grief to my uncle, in spite of the calm, nonjudgmental manner in which he receives all my news.

  Returning to Versailles, I’m immediately whirled into a tempest of high emotion and political drama. The Estates-General has been meeting at Versailles since early May, and it’s no secret that they’re no closer to reaching an agreement with King Louis in June than they were a month ago. Frustrated by the lack of progress, leaders of the Estates-General apply pressure to the king, even after the death of his eldest son.

  “I feel such pity for Their Majesties,” Madame Campan confides to me privately. “The poor queen—I’ve never seen her eyes so red and swollen. I wish she didn’t have to leave her private chamber and face the court during this time. She ordered the portrait removed from the Salon de Mars, you know, the one that showed the late dauphin next to an empty crib. It seems cruel that she should lose two children when she already carries such burdens. You never met Madame Sophie, did you? It’s nearly two years exactly since she passed away at eleven months.”

  “I pray that her other two children remain in good health,” I murmur sincerely. Madame Royale, the eldest, is healthy and clever, and the other son, Louis-Charles, is by all accounts bright and eager to please.

  Madame Campan crosses herself. “The king is having a horrid time of it too, though it’s more difficult for him to show it. He refused to receive the Third Estate on the day of his son’s death, and the next two days after. And well he should—he is in mourning! The next day, the representatives insisted on visiting him. Quite unsympathetic. I’ve never heard the king sound so bitter, in all my years at court. ‘Are there no fathers among the Third Estate?’ he asked. They all shuffled their feet awkwardly but would not leave.” Her mouth twists into a frown.

  I feel torn. I know heart-wrenching grief tears at the king and queen. I’ve witnessed it myself. Last night he visited her chamber while I was still in the wardrobe, folding her clothes. They sat on the bed together and wept, no longer monarchs but simply heartbroken parents. I feared they’d hear me and feel watched again, so I stayed up later than usual to finish tending to the dresses after he’d gone and Marie Antoinette had fallen into an exhausted sleep. But I also know from my conversations with Léon that the need for change is so great that the Third
Estate cannot afford to waste time. In the letter I received from him yesterday, he’d written about the desperate situation of France’s farmers.

  I spoke with a man who came to Paris from the countryside, hoping for work, being entirely in debt due to the poor harvest last year and the impossible level of taxation farmers are faced with. Along with owing the government and the church, they also pay taxes to their landowners. It’s contemptible to pay to spend backbreaking hours of labor to grow the crops, which are also then taxed. At least farmers can hope to grow their own food. Factory workers in the cities must rely on purchasing bread, and you know the cost has doubled over the last two years. I pray the king will come to understand how urgently change is needed.

  Thinking of you, as always, and counting the days until I can hear your voice again.

  Léon

  * * *

  A couple of weeks after the death of the dauphin, both sides reach snapping points of frustration, and the king orders the meeting hall to be closed. Outraged and determined, the Third Estate chooses a more patriotic name for itself, becoming the National Assembly and adjourns to one of the tennis courts at Versailles to continue their meetings. They swear not to disband until a constitution is made.

  When I share this information with my uncle, he leans forward in his chair, resting his chin on his hand. It is an intent pose, and the glitter of interest in his eyes shows me that he listens very closely.

  “And what do the king’s advisers say?” he asks. He knows that Louis always asks for advice. It’s one of his habits.

  “Jacques Necker presses the king to make concessions to diffuse the situation.”

  Pierre nods approvingly. “Necker is very popular with the people. I’ve never known a finance minister to be so well liked. I hope the king will listen to him. Who opposes the concessions?”

  “The Comte d’Artois and the Comte de Provence,” I say, referring to Louis’s brothers. “They urge him to apply his authority as king.”

  “That’s not surprising.” My uncle rubs his forehead. “If the king loses some of his power, so do they. And the queen?”

  I hesitate. “She sides with the princes of the blood.”

  “Pah,” my uncle scoffs. “She is ill liked enough, and this will only make it worse. Artois is hated by the people. The two of them allied only worsens each other’s public image.”

  “The queen has never been overly political,” I defend her. “And it’s different now. She’s lost her confidence.”

  His brow arches, and he leans forward again, eagerness written all over his face. He likes personal information such as this. If not for the political unrest, I’d almost believe his obsession with the royal family is merely love of gossip. This is my chance, though, to help him see that the public perception of the queen differs from her true self. I wish others could see through her shield of elegance and understand her kindness, her devotion to her children, her love of beauty.

  “She grieves deeply for her son, and she’s aware of the odious view the people have of her. She endures it, but it takes a toll.” I search for words. I don’t think I can tell my uncle that Marie Antoinette believes herself to be ill-fated. Such a glum superstition is too personal, and I only know from overhearing a whispered conversation between her and Madame Campan.

  “How do you know?” asks Uncle Pierre, pressing me for details. He always does. It must be a lingering habit from his time during the Secret du Roi.

  Omitting the conversation I heard, I think of another example. “When Léonard was dressing her hair the other day, she looked very weary, like a shadow of herself, and her skin was as thin and brittle as paper. She looked at her reflection in the mirror and saw Léonard fussing with hairpieces—her hair has grown quite thin—and she said, ‘If I began my life again…’”

  “Yes?” prompted my uncle.

  I shrug. “That is all. She sighed and then asked Léonard to cheer her up with a story.”

  “Does she drink?”

  I feel a flash of irritation. “Not at all. The gossips like to paint a picture of her as a drunken whore, indulging in orgies and wine simultaneously, but it’s well known among the servants that she now abstains from liquor of all kinds. And she is more prudish than wanton. She wears a shift in the bath, for heaven’s sake. She couldn’t possibly be more modest.”

  “I know it’s frustrating to hear obvious lies,” says Uncle Pierre soothingly. “Clever people, like you and I, always see straight through them.” The impatient lines of his face relax. “Gossip is a weapon, and it’s used against her. You’re doing very well, though, Giselle. If the Secret du Roi still existed, I’d recommend you to the Marquis de Ruffec—Charles-François de Broglie, you know, who was the leader of the network, reporting directly to the king. I’d tell him that you’d be a valuable member.”

  His praise makes me straighten with pride. “I’m glad you understand about the gossip.”

  “Of course I do. Every spy should. Speaking of gossip, I’ve been hearing some from Eugénie—she says that Léon Gauvain has called on you several times.” He smiles. “Anything to tease you about there?”

  I shake my head, though I feel my cheeks color a little. “I like him.” Ever since I began spying for my uncle, I can talk to him frankly, even more so than to my own father. It is a strange effect of the arrangement. Still, I hesitate to talk about my private feelings too much. Léon makes me feel beautiful, even when I’m worrying that my brows are not as delicate and arched as the queen’s, and I could talk with him for hours. I wish I could see him every day. These are my secrets, though, and I cherish them close to me.

  “Watchmaking is a good trade, even if I do say it myself. Is he a revolutionary?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good. I think you and I both know that it is rapidly becoming the safest thing to be. Outside of Versailles, of course. Keep your eyes and ears open at court, Giselle. It shall be very interesting to see whose advice the king decides to accept. I know there’s nothing we can do about it either way, but I can’t help feeling curious.” He reaches for a stack of papers on his desk, sweeping them together, and one of the pages flutters to the floor. I glimpse writing in a bold, unfamiliar hand, only a few lines, and I don’t read any of the words, except that it’s dated from April. I don’t mean to pry into his correspondence, but the letter is written with rich scarlet ink and lures the gaze. My uncle pinches the paper between his fingertips and shuffles it meticulously back into the pile, muttering about too much paperwork.

  “May I ask you a question, Uncle Pierre?”

  “Yes.”

  “Am I obtaining the right kind of information? We’ve never discussed the purpose of my information, so I tell you everything I think might be remarkable, but I’ve little notion if it’s what you seek.”

  Dropping a paperweight onto the stack of letters with rather more force than necessary, he turns his attention back to me. “You’re doing very well, Giselle. I myself do not know what information I seek.” His mouth curls in a wan smile. “Anything to keep this old politician’s mind sharp. I’ve a vague idea of setting my next play at court, maybe a historical setting.”

  “I’d enjoy that.

  “When it’s the right time.” He centers the paperweight, twirling it slowly. “The plot isn’t fully formed in my mind yet.”

  * * *

  We don’t have to wait long to learn whose advice Louis will follow. The king dismisses Necker and replaces him with Breteuil, a baron known for being notoriously conservative.

  Scarcely four days later, furious at Necker’s removal from office, a horde of revolutionaries advances on the Bastille, the eight-towered stone prison, attacking it as an ancient symbol of tyranny, and also, more practically, to obtain the gunpowder and weaponry stored inside, spurred on by the recently increased presence of the royal army.

  On the day of the storming of the Bastille, I’m at Versailles, where the queen devotes her day to her children, and I to sewing. Surrounded by gi
lded paneling and tiled floors, we know nothing of the chaos rending Paris. We learn only the next morning, when the news is broken to King Louis, who is still lying in his crimson-blanketed bed.

  “Is it a revolt?” he’s said to have asked, frightened out of drowsiness.

  “No, Sire. It is a revolution,” came the reply. The conversation is repeated in the servants’ corridors, and likely the noble ones too, throughout the day, a mantra of dread and wonder.

  When the queen was informed, I was alone in the wardrobe, polishing one of her delicate heeled shoes, and the sound of voices reached me easily, as dark and sober as distant thunder.

  “The Bastille is under attack,” says the man. I can’t tell who it is, but someone titled would have been sent to tell the queen. He must be someone important. “There’s no doubt that it will fall.”

  Marie Antoinette’s voice sounds thin. “Is this because of Necker’s dismissal?”

  A pause. “He was very popular with the people. They didn’t like to see him go.”

  I clutch the shoe between my fingers, ears straining.

  The queen sighs, but apparently appreciates his diplomatic honesty. Her voice cracks, though. “Thank you for telling me personally. I must see the king now.”

  The voices fade as they move toward the antechamber. I rub a fingernail mark out of the shoe, wondering if the queen’s cheeks burn with guilt, since she advocated Necker’s dismissal.

  Later Madame Campan orders hot chocolate infused with orange blossom to soothe the queen, who seems glumly unsurprised but still horrified by the news. I try to think of small ways to comfort her. Her gray eyes look wide and ghostly with fear. Seeing her hands tremble, I fetch one of her soft woolen shawls and place it near her. She reaches for it blindly, burying her fingers into the purple folds, turning away from the brightness of the open window. Moving quietly, I cross the room and partially draw the curtains to make her feel that the room is private and safe.

  I long to see Léon, desperate to hear his account of the storming of the Bastille. He’ll know the details. Within the walls of Versailles, the event is an affront to tradition, a terrible symbol of chaos and danger. In Paris, I wonder if it’s something more, a herald of progress and much-needed change.