The Seamstress

by Allison Pittman

  The dress I make for Marie-Thérèse is sweet, simple. Something I would have longed for in the days when all I could ever hope for were Laurette’s castoffs or some other garment handed down once the girl who wore it before me grew too tall or died. Working from my meticulous list of numbers, I leave generous amounts for tailoring and still find that my search yields enough material for me to fashion something for myself. Perhaps it is time for me to abandon the colorful patchwork style which has become my signature. In fact, I’m surprised my jailers have allowed me to continue wearing it, as they seem so intent on wiping out every other reminder of the monarch’s reign.

  I am pleased with my creations—all three, though I fold my own away. When Madame summons me to her room to see the finished product, I nearly weep at the image in front of me. Stripped of any regal accoutrement, she stands looking like nothing more, nothing less, than a woman. Middle-aged and thickened with the settling of marriage and children and years. Though the materials were scavenged, they are of good quality. The linen petticoat and stomacher are white, but not industrially so, the bodice and gown a pleasant print that might have been originally planned for drapery but works well as a summer gown. Even the servant’s skirts, cut to perfection with a ruche sleeve, have transformed into a garment worthy of the middle class. I’ve taken lengths of my knotting work, dyed the wool to match, and stitched it into a trim for the lapels and cuffs.

  “You look beautiful, Madame.”

  “It will do,” she says, but I know she is pleased. I hand her what I’ve made for Marie-Thérèse, and she holds the dress out as if the girl herself were in it. “And, couturière—”

  She is searching for something in her mind and I prompt, “Renée.”

  “Oui. Renée. I realize this might be too much to ask, but you are so very clever, and so very quick. I wonder if you might not have the means to make one more dress. Nothing so elaborate as this. Much more simple. And small.”

  “Small?” My heart races at the invitation. For though I am older, I am smaller even than the princess. She desires a dress for me. I am to accompany—

  “Quite small. For a child, close in size to my Louis-Charles.”

  It is a minute before I shift my thinking. “For Louis-Charles? But surely he has suitable clothing. Some of his play clothes are quite plain.” She says nothing, but understanding dawns. The king and queen have a daughter and a son. This new family which I have helped create will have two daughters.

  It is early morning, sun up yet still cool, when I venture into the garden to find the boy. His routine is to gulp down bread and chocolate before heading outside to play until called in for a more formal breakfast with the family. One of the men assigned to guard us has taken a shine to him, and I come across the two battling mightily, both armed with sticks, the guard with one arm behind him and Louis-Charles poised on an empty stone planter. I call his name three times before capturing his attention, and he makes the guard promise to be there upon his return so he—my little prince—can send him off to meet his Creator once the rush of blood has drained from his throat. The guard laughs and makes his promise, catching my eye as if searching for my approval.

  I grant him none.

  I’ve worked through the night, not knowing when the family has planned its excursion. I’ve not spoken to Madame and do not know how she plans to convince Louis-Charles to wear the dress, but as I kept my fingers centered in the glow of candlelight, an idea grew in the shadows around me.

  Though he’s not plagued with the ill health that stole his brother, the boy’s shoulder is bony beneath my touch as I lead him back through the courtyard toward the house. Once we are safely away from the ears of those who tend to us both inside the walls and out, I ask if he wants to hear a new adventure story.

  “Yes! Please! Does it have fighting and battles?”

  “It does indeed.” And I tell him an English tale of a man named Robin Hood, a famed thief known for being a gifted archer. “In one of the tales, he comes to participate in a competition, the prize for which is a bag of gold, but he knows if he is recognized, he will be arrested and thrown in prison.”

  “Like we are?” His eyes are full of wonder, without a hint of fear or shame.

  “Oh, nothing like this. He would be thrown into a pit, with no light, or food, or even a bed.”

  “What does he do?”

  “He disguises himself as an old woman.”

  “Why a woman?”

  “Because he couldn’t afford a better disguise. No money for a knight’s armor or a soldier’s uniform or even a fine suit of velvet. Nobody would suspect an old woman wandering around the king’s grounds, and everybody was shocked to see a crone win the prize. He had the bag of gold well in hand before anyone suspected.”

  Louis-Charles claps his hands. “Tell me more stories!”

  I touch my hand to his play-pinked cheek. “I will, soon. But perhaps one day—you are too young to deceive anyone as an old woman—but you might want to play Robin Hood and pretend to be a girl? I could make you a costume.”

  “Yes! Yes, mademoiselle! When?”

  Until this point I’ve held my voice low, and I summon him close to whisper. “Soon, but you must promise me to keep it a secret until then.”

  It is midnight when I look down from the window in my workroom and see a carriage draw into the side court. It’s large—larger by far than the one that brought me to Versailles with Madame Gisela. It is not meant for a tour through the streets of Paris but for a drive into the country. It is a conveyance easily overtaken.

  While I cannot extend any overture of a farewell, I also cannot hide myself away without seeing Madame and the children one more time. Since it has always been my custom to make clothing for myself from the scraps of what I fashion for the queen, I do not worry about appearing before her wearing the dress I stitched for myself over the past week. I hope Madame will perceive in it my loyalty to her, that she will recognize the patterns and fabric and know that—no matter the present circumstances—I remain what I have always been.

  Downstairs is quiet, restrained commotion. Whispered questions. “Do you have this?” “Have we thought of that?”

  I’m standing to the side, head down, trying to assume a profile of a household servant waiting for further instruction, when I feel a hand take mine. It is Marie-Thérèse, and before I can react, she is tugging me toward her mother.

  “Can la couturière come with us?” she asks. “So I’ll have someone to talk to?”

  “Her name is Renée,” Madame chastises. “And of course not. This is a family outing.”

  “S’il te plaît, Maman,” she simpers and is soon joined by her brother. I have to force myself not to startle at his appearance. Soft blond curls puddle on his shoulders, and only the mischievous twist to his smile speaks to the wooden sword–wielding boy from the garden.

  Madame looks to her husband, whose poorly tailored suit befits the lopsided wig and the sheen of sweat on his lip and brow. “Might be better, monsieur, given that she knows . . .”

  The idea that I might betray their plan brings me to a silent protest, but I say only that I wouldn’t presume to be a bother. “I’m content to keep my prayers for your safe journey hidden in my heart.”

  Madame eyes me, perhaps measuring the advantage of appearing to travel with a third child, knowing that my presence thwarts the calculations of anyone who might be following her movements. She glances one more time at Louis, who says, “Eh, bien,” with the enthusiasm of a man whose soup, while not quite hot, is warm enough for supper.

  The children each give my hands a squeeze, and I grip them tight. I’m given no instruction or permission to fetch my things. What I have in my pockets is what I’ll take—a needle and thread, small scissors, a handful of yarn, and the gold knotting shuttle. As I walk out to the waiting carriage, I realize not one of my fellow passengers carries even a satchel. There is one large hamper strapped to the back, which recalls Madame Gisela and the sumptuous
feast she provided for our humble table.

  We are joined by Louis’s sister Elisabeth, who eyes me with suspicion before deciding not to consider me at all. She and I are not strangers to one another, but I cannot recollect a single word exchanged between the two of us. She is ten years younger than the king but has never married, never wanting to divide her loyalties the way her sister-in-law was forced to do. I’ve heard that, in her youth, she was well pursued and courted, but now it seems spinsterhood has settled upon her the way it would any woman. Her face falls into a natural frown, and her figure into its equivalent.

  Quickly, Madame instructs me as to our ruse. Elisabeth has false papers that identify her as a Russian baroness, Louis is her supposed valet, and the queen governess to her daughters. Now, apparently, there are three, but only papers for two.

  “All the better that the boy doesn’t speak,” Louis says. “We’ll keep him hidden away.”

  For once, I feel too big for the space I take up in the world as the family crowds into the seats that must have been copious enough before the introduction of so many coats and skirts. Little Louis-Charles, at the insistence of his father, curls up at Madame’s feet and is told to close his eyes and rest, saving his strength for whatever adventures might come to pass. I whisper encouragement, reminding him how all good disguises rely on the perfect timing for true adventure.

  As it happens, the first adventure occurs within an hour, when we are stopped at the gates.

  “Papiers.” The voice is rough and uncultured, and the command is repeated three times with growing impatience as Elisabeth fumbles through her portfolio in search of the handful of crisp, folded sheets. “Baroness.” At first I think he is saying the word with exaggerated disdain, but then realize the overpronunciation of each syllable speaks more to his ability—or inability—to read. The next word frustrates him, and I hear the rustle of paper and quiet counting.

  The command “Ouvrez!” accompanies a rap on the carriage door. Madame smooths her skirt and tucks her feet closer as Louis complies. A thick, unshaven face fills the doorway, and the man’s meaty finger points at each of us—“Un, deux, trois . . .”

  I hold my breath. Six passengers. Five papers. He sounds out the unfamiliar names, to which each responds. Elisabeth, the baroness. Louis, the valet. Marie, the governess. Thérèse and Charlotte. Charlotte, of course, and before the muffled squeak from within Madame’s skirt can make its way to the misshapen ear of this flat-faced citizen, I blurt, “Oui. C’est moi.”

  He grunts, counts one more time, and hands the papers to Elisabeth.

  “Dieu merci,” she says, breaking her words to sound like those of a foreign tongue. “Finally to be free of this godforsaken country.”

  We drive on and on. How long, I cannot say; my two sleepless nights soon overtake me and my head is touched to Marie-Thérèse, where I fall into a deep slumber. Surely, though, hours have passed when I wake, because the sun is up, the carriage hot. A piercing hunger reminds me that I haven’t eaten in more than a day, but whom to tell? I can only hope that one of the children will soon be hungry, too, and I might benefit from their indulgence.

  The road is rough, but our bodies have adapted. Louis-Charles is fast asleep on his mother’s breast. Across from me, Louis and his sister sit anxiously apart, eyes cast to their feet. “We will have to rest the horses soon,” he says. “They can’t keep this pace for much longer.”

  “In an open field?” Elisabeth says. “We’ll be sitting targets.”

  “Non,” Madame says. “It has all been arranged.”

  But we do stop once, in a copse of trees hidden from the road, where at last my hunger is sated by a simple meal of bread and cheese and fruit. There is a stream nearby, where I take the children to drink and wash our faces, and here Louis-Charles is permitted to change into his little-boy clothes again, much to his delight. We play thieves in the forest, chasing each other from tree to tree, and when we are called back, Madame smiles and declares what a good thing it is to escape from being cooped up in such a small place.

  We stop again, under less ideal circumstances, when a harness breaks, and the driver must spend the last hours of daylight in repair. There’s plenty of food left to eat, but we dare not wander off in the growing shadows. Instead, I gather the children to me and tell them it was just such a circumstance that brought me to Versailles all those years ago.

  “I’ve not heard that,” Louis says, surprising me that he’d been listening at all, given how low his chin sank to his chest.

  “It’s true,” I say. “My guardian, Gagnon, fixed the wheel that night.”

  “And where does he live?”

  “Mouton Blanc.”

  “Ah,” Louis says. “Good sheep there. Good wool.”

  “Yes.” I touch the tips of my fingers to each other, remembering the feel of it, the tufts falling from my carding boards.

  “Did you ever want to go back?” This from Louis-Charles, who is trying to fashion an arrow from a stick, a sharp rock, and a bit of string I gave him.

  “Sometimes.” How Bertrand would have loved the place. “But people change. Places change. I don’t even know what’s become of my . . . family there.”

  “You’re free to, if you like,” says Louis. “You needn’t accompany us all the way to—”

  “Of course she must,” says Madame. “What if someone were to see her? Ask her? She could ruin everything.”

  “I’d never betray you, ma Reine,” I say, and she looks uncomfortable with the title, like another gown that no longer fits as it should.

  The sun has disappeared when we climb into the carriage, and darkness cloaks us so completely that, coupled with the silence, I can almost imagine I’m traveling alone. I suppose Louis, Elisabeth, and Madame assume the children and I are sleeping, because their conversation is free with details. We are to leave France entirely and cross the border to Germany. I think about the story Madame told about stopping at the border and stripping naked, and my mind dances with the farcical idea of all of us engaging in the same, which makes me picture the pale, portly Louis in a state of undress, and I am almost too late to trap my giggle beneath my hand.

  When we next feel the carriage slowing to a halt, the driver says, “Sainte-Menehould, monsieur.”

  “Can we not go on?” Madame asks with a quake of unease.

  “We must change the horses,” says Louis. “If we can find a team tonight, we’ll not tarry.”

  Louis-Charles is deep in sleep. I offer to wait with him so he can remain undisturbed while the others go into the public house for a late supper, but Madame won’t bear to be separated from him for a minute. She holds him as Louis hands her gently down the carriage steps. Marie-Thérèse is treated with equal attention, and I am almost embarrassed to witness such a tender moment.

  We’ve stopped outside a familiar sight. Not specifically familiar, as I’d never even heard the name of the town before hearing it uttered by the driver, but a place that—for the first time since leaving Mouton Blanc—hearkens to home. Despite the distance of space and years, I might well be standing outside Le Cochon Gros. Orange light from cheap candles beneath thick domes. The songs pouring through the open doors are new, lyrics about freedom and humanity that I could never imagine rising above the long, rough tables of Saumon’s inn, but the spirit is the same. Fueled by wine and fraternity.

  Madame holds the children closer with each step, and Elisabeth looks around her with utter disdain. Thankfully, the low lights and the dense crowd afford us very little attention. Now that I am inside, the lyrics to their song are far more distinctive. They sing about the Bastille, the towers falling brick by brick into the hands of their brothers. The walls of injustice crumbling in their grip. Guns and bullets useless against the thick skin of revolution. And how the royal heads will roll.

  Nearly every eye in the place is turned on one man, who stands upon his chair, one boot on the table, glass raised high. He waves his hand for silence at the waning notes of the
last chorus. “We look to l’anniversaire of our freedom!”

  A thick cheer goes up, and at that moment he turns, confirming a dreadful suspicion I’ve had since my first glimpse of his back, the cascade of black curls spilling from his red cap. The proud voice, the braggart’s inflection, and now those glittering black eyes that would find me if an ocean stood between us.

  He allows only a flicker of recognition to cross his face before resuming his pontification with even greater animation than before, protecting us by weaving a distraction with his words.

  I make my way to Louis and boldly tug his sleeve. “We have to leave.”

  “When I’ve word the horses are ready.”

  “We should not wait.” Somehow, I’ve become someone who contradicts a king.

  At a dark table in a far corner, Marie-Thérèse and Louis hungrily take in a bowl of a surprisingly hearty stew. Madame and Elisabeth won’t touch a bite, and Louis-Charles nibbles on a crust of broth-soaked bread. I pick at the vegetables, my stomach too twisted for meat. We drink an entire bottle of wine. Elisabeth wrinkles her nose at the quality, but this, too, brings a wave of nostalgia.

  Marcel hasn’t so much as glanced our way again, and I might consider his efforts to hold the attention of the crowd heroic if I didn’t also know how much he loves an audience. It seems an eternity before one of the servers alerts Louis to our driver, waiting at the door.

  “Good, good,” Louis says, shaking a handful of coins from a leather pouch. It’s clear he has no clue as to the amount owed for our simple meal and wine, and his performance with the currency begins to draw strange looks from the other patrons. Madame keeps Louis-Charles to her hip, plants a hand on Marie-Thérèse’s shoulder, and moves like a barge through the room, Elisabeth in her wake. I know my place, though, and whisper to the king, reminding him to put the coins in the server’s hand, not on the table, and to add a few extra—not too many—to show gratitude for faithful service. Too much, and we’ll be targets for thieves. Or worse.

  Louis walks ahead of me, and I’m just about to the door when I feel a hand grip mine, pulling me close in a shadow behind a pillar of empty casks. It happens so quickly I am hardly aware of his intent. Those around us are, though, and they hoot in appreciation.