by Matilda Hart
“Oh lord.” Joan said, rolling her eyes. Constance Fleury always insisted on being called ‘Auntie’, but Joan knew deep down that what Constance really wanted was for her to call her ‘mommy’. Perhaps she thought it was her job, being the sister to Marie. Joan had no intention of finding a second mother, and certainly not a woman as opinionated and judgmental as Constance. She thanked the heavens that since she had grown, the visits from London had become less frequent.
“Your Auntie loves you, Joan. You know that. Be kind.” Pierre implored as they walked towards their home, a short distance from the gardens.
“She’s always judging me.” Joan said, as she wiped some dirt from her brow.
“That’s because I haven’t done my job. I’ve let you do as you please. Sometimes I wonder if I have a little peasant girl that lives with me.” Pierre said this with a smile, but it truly did worry him now that his daughter was of marrying age and wasn’t quite put-together as a girl should be. Of course, he would be pleased to keep Joan with him for all of her days, but he wanted better for her. As long as it didn’t involve the French court, that is.
“You let me be myself, Papa. All these years, I’ve been able to play with my friends, roam around. I’m grateful for that.” Joan took her father by the hand. Although the high-born of Versailles might consider it gauche for a father and daughter to hold hands, Joan and Pierre frequently did it anyways.
“Well, now I rely on Constance to fill in the gaps of my parenting.” Pierre said.
As they approached their little home, Pierre felt every muscle in his body finally relax. Coming home meant no more business meetings, no more haggling over sketches or endlessly discussing the various kinds of stone that could be imported from Germany or Belgium.
Versailles was an exquisitely designed city - Pierre, himself, had a hand in the design and construction of many of the grid-like streets and buildings - but nothing compared to living in Le Hameau. Whenever Joan stepped back into the rustic little village, she found that she could be grateful to the government for at least one thing.
Their little home was practically a gift from none other than Marie Antoinette herself! Although not truly. The Queen’s Hamlet was one of the dead monarch’s favorite commissions back in the day; a quaint little escape for her from time to time when even she couldn’t take the bombast and conniving nature of palace life. And for Joan growing up, Le Hameau was her fairytale land.
“When does she arrive?” Joan asked her father as she opened the front door. She knew that she should probably make herself more presentable before having to deal with Constance, but she simply couldn’t muster the inspiration.
“I believe any moment she may arrive. We’ll no doubt be able to hear the carriage from miles away.” Pierre began a fire, but stopped to place a hand on his aching back.
“You know, you could hire someone to do all of these things.” Joan said. She admired her father for living the simple life that he did, but she wondered if actually spending some of his wealth might not improve his life in many ways.
“Best to save.” Pierre replied.
Indeed, within the next few minutes Constance’s ample coach could be heard barreling down the cobblestone streets. Not only was the carriage so large in size that it created considerable sound, but the size of the woman within was weighing the carriage down, creating a more dramatic sound as it rolled over the stones.
“Joan! Pierre! My sweet pets…” Constance exclaimed as she alighted from the coach. She flung her arms up into the air in glee. Adding to her aunt’s considerable size was the way in which she dressed. Constance wouldn’t be caught dead in gowns that didn’t use at least a hundred yards of fabric, and her hats were like miniature tropical rain forests, with a tangle of twigs and flowers and birds. Her face was quite plastered in paints.
“Good evening, Auntie.” Joan said politely.
“Come into these arms.” Constance cooed. Sometimes within her aunt’s arms Joan feared that she might suffocate in her bosom. She took a deep breath and accepted Constance’s embrace. “There, there, my girl.”
“Might I go prepare the tea now?” Joan asked, after the embrace had gone on for too long.
“Don’t be silly child. I’m taking you to a coffee house.” Constance replied.
“Come now. Don’t be so extravagant.” Pierre replied.
“There’s nothing extravagant about it, Pierre. It is au courant. You should see the streets of London. They are just littered with cafes now.” Constance explained.
“I have no doubt.” Pierre said, slightly disappointed. He was not a fan of coffee, and much preferred the gentle delicacy of tea. Taking tea with his daughter every afternoon was the highlight of Pierre’s day. He would discuss what projects he had worked on so far - he was known to keep working well into the night - and Joan would talk about what adventures she had gone on with her little gang. On that day, Constance was usurping his happiness.
*************
“Eighteen years old, and just look at you.” Constance said as she slurped her coffee and voraciously ate a large, buttery pastry. The flakes from which were on her chin.
“I’m not eighteen until tomorrow.” Joan explained.
“No excuse! How do you plan to fix yourself?” Her aunt asked.
“I don’t plan on fixing myself in any way.” Joan replied, taking an indignant sip.
“It’s simply unbearable, Pierre. Look at the way she’s eating that baguette. Ripping it apart as though she were a beggar on the streets! What do you think will be her future if she behaves in this way? She’s got smudges of dirt on her face.” She turned to her niece with her brow wrinkled. “Joan, what you face is social exile. You’ve never learned how to behave like a lady, and your father, bless him, has never taught you how to act as though you were a woman of means. You are one, after all.” Constance rolled her eyes and looked to the heavens. Of all the unfortunate effects of Pierre’s parenting, his not being more conspicuous with his wealth was the most offensive to her.
“That doesn’t mean I need to flaunt it like a peacock.” Joan protested.
“Yes, it most certainly does. Young girls in London, they know how to comport themselves. There’s a certain skill that you must have to attract a good match, and it must be learned. When you are properly trained, you’ll be able to enter into society and find a suitable husband that will get you out of the country and into the world.” That last statement was said with such flourish that Constance felt the need to whisk her hand into the air as though she were a performer on the stage.
“But why can’t I live here?” Joan asked. In all sincerity, she knew not why it was so important for her to be ‘trained’, as her Aunt put it.
“Listen, Joan. And you too, Pierre.” Constance became quite grave. “You are a wild girl. You crave freedom. I know. We have similar spirits. You have the heart of a young lioness. But the only reason that I enjoy the considerable freedom and enjoyment of life that I do is because I married well - and then he died.” That last statement was said with a comically low level of sadness. “In Angleterre, you can become the woman that you were meant to be. But only if you marry well. And only if you are trained to become a young lady.”
“You will go, Joan.” Pierre said.
“But Papa!” Joan protested.
“Your aunt is right. There’s no life for you here. I’m just weighing you down.”
“It’s not true. I love it here!” Joan protested.
“There will be no more argument, Joan. You will leave in the morning.” Pierre said with finality.
“I’m glad you have such good sense, Pierre.” Constance said with her head held high.
“My life is over.” Joan said solemnly, staring down at her coffee as though it were a black hole that she could jump into and disappear.
“My dear, your life has begun.” Constance flung her arms in the air once more; something that Joan was beginning to see as a pattern.
But the followin
g morning when Joan awoke in her bed, her birthday felt more like a day of death. Every step of her morning toilette was performed in a haze, like she could feel her former life disappearing.
“Au revoir, Papa.” Joan said, hugging her father in the cool morning air.
“Goodbye, my treasure.” Pierre said. There were tears in his eyes. Sending his daughter off was the last thing in the world that he wanted, but he knew it was best. His possessive love of Joan would no longer bar her from being successful in the world.
“I shall write to you every day.” Joan said, giving her father a tender kiss on the cheek. “There’s still time for you to change your mind.”
“Go, before I do!” Pierre said, giving her a slight push towards the carriage. “And Joan—“
She turned around to face her father one last time.
“Happy Birthday.” He said.
“Thanks, Papa.”
“Come come, now. We have a lot of ground to cover. Water too!” Constance said as they stepped into the ample carriage.
And with that, the journey began. Joan watched the streets of Versailles through the carriage windows, and hoped to set it all to memory as though it were a painting in her mind. Her beloved Village was to be a thing of the past. It brought Joan great sadness to think of it.
“Now, lets get started. Sit up straight over there!” Her Aunt commanded.
And so it began.
Chapter Two
“Watch where you're going!” An old woman hollered.
Joan had not been in London for more than two days before she counted that she had been knocked in the street a total of ten times.
“I can’t breathe.” Joan said to Constance. Indeed, she was prone to coughing fits for the first time in her life.
“You’ll get used to it, dearie.” Constance said. For all of her wealth and pomp, Joan’s aunt was clearly a tough woman. You had to be on the streets of London; bustling with people from all stations of life. Constance barreled through the streets as though she would take out anyone that got in her way. It seemed like a smart tactic.
Joan looked down at a dog that was relieving itself in the street, and she scarce wanted to check the bottom of her shoes for fear of what she might find there. The smell of the city was the worst part of the whole ordeal. Joan wasn’t sure exactly how a city could smell like a latrine to the extent that the streets of London did. She tried not to breathe.
“Simply push ahead!” Constance instructed.
“Learn how to walk, you fool!” A young man yelled. Joan had knocked him with her shoulder, trying to push through the crowd.
“That is the 11th person that I have run into like that. I can’t move.” Joan said as she tried to keep up with her aunt. She thought that maybe the best tactic was to walk behind her aunt so that the large woman could act as a kind of shield.
“We’re almost there. See! Right up ahead.” What Constance was pointing at was Mrs. Pedigree’s Dressmaking Shoppe. They were scheduled to be there at noon for a fitting. Looking around at the kind of restrictive and fastidious dresses that most women were wearing, Joan dreaded what she was in for.
Constance entered the shoppe and a pleasant jingle could be heard from the door.
“There now, you survived.” She said with a sigh as she removed her gloves and looked about with a smile of recognition. “Now, it’s time to make a lady out of you.”
“Madame Fleury!” Mrs. Pedigree proclaimed. “Right on time.” Mrs. Pedigree certainly lived up to her name when it came to her appearance. She was an impeccable woman, with perfectly coiffed silver hair and an straight, upright bearing.
“Poppy!” Constance greeted Mrs. Pedigree with her given name. “You look divine, as always.” In the French style, Constance gave her friend a kiss on both cheeks. “This is my niece, Joan.”
From the look on Mrs. Pedigree’s face, it was evident that she had a demanding task ahead of her. She looked Joan up and down with an eye of disapproval; even shock.
“My word.” Mrs. Pedigree said. “Your aunt was not exaggerating in the slightest.”
“A pleasure to meet you.” Joan replied, feeling unbelievably self-conscious. Since coming to London, Joan immediately felt as though she were a fish out of water. The looks that she inspired on the streets had made her feel not so much like she was from a foreign country, but was perhaps from a distant planet.
“Lets get you fixed up, then.” Mrs. Pedigree said, leading Joan to the fitting room in the back of the shoppe.
Joan was placed on a little pedestal, so that all in the room could examine her. There were a whole team of old biddies there, with scissors and supplies draped around their necks on strings. As they all looked at Joan, no one spoke. One even shook her head.
Adding to the feeling of interrogation were the triptych of mirrors that were in front of where Joan stood. As she looked at herself, she silently said goodbye to the loose, comfortable skirt that she was wearing - perfectly flattering in her estimation. Her flowing blouse and worn, comfortable flat shoes would have to go as well. The long, loose braid that haphazardly fell down her back would need to be affixed into a secure bun atop her head, with tight ringlets bouncing around her temples. The considerable amount of time it would take to achieve that hairstyle each morning horrified Joan.
“Come then. Lets give you some shape.” Mrs. Pedigree said, all business.
The team of serious ladies strapped a corset onto Joan, and pulled the strings as tight as they would go.
“Tighter!” Constance said, like a cheerleader on the sidelines. “The girl has an unfortunate silhouette.” She explained.
“Most unfortunate. All straight up and down.” Mrs. Pedigree concurred.
“Ah!” Joan cried as they pulled the strings even tighter. “How am I going to be able to breathe?”
“You’ll get used to it.” Mrs. Pedigree said. “According to my recollection, I’ve not killed one of my clients yet!” She said with great glee. All the women were laughing in unison. Joan thought that perhaps there was a first time for everything.
Next, they fitted Joan in a robin’s egg blue empire-waist gown; the fabric of which was so heavy that Joan wasn’t sure how she’d be able to walk down the street.
“Oh, how I love the beading. And the ruching around the décolletage.” Constance cooed.
“What décolletage?” Mrs. Pedigree said and forcefully stuffed the girl’s bosom with padding.
Not only could Joan not breathe, but there were then bust pads pressing uncomfortably against her chest.
“Poppy, you’ve outdone yourself!” Constance said as she examined the final product.
“I have surprised myself.” She said, as she wiped some sweat from her brow. When Joan looked at herself in the mirrors, she couldn’t believe her eyes. She couldn’t quite recognize the young woman staring back at her.
The walk to the carriage was an exercise in composed suffocation. Navigating the streets and crowds of people while sucked into a corset gave Joan the sensation of her first panic attack. The ride in the bouncing and bumpy carriage to Constance’s estate made her feel even more faint.
“Here is my humble abode.” Constance said when the carriage pulled up to the grounds. ‘Humble abode’ was certainly not how Joan would describe the lavish and opulent mansion in which her aunt ensconced herself. The King of England would find himself quite comfortable there.
“There are gardens in the back, which I know you’ll find pleasing. And here are my little helpers.” Constance said, motioning to the army of servants that stood at attention on the front steps.
“This is Abby, and she’s going to have you ready for our little dinner party this evening.” Abby stepped forward and gave a small curtsy. She was a tiny girl, no older than Joan. Her skin was a perfect rosy ivory, and her hair was tightly fixed into a bun at the nape of her neck.
“G’day ma’am.” Abby said.
“Aunt Constance, I scarcely think that I could—dine tonight.” Joan m
anaged to say, half ready to pass out and not sure how it would be possible to eat anything.
“Oh hush, child. Learning how to properly dine with people of rank and distinction is one of the most fundamental parts of your education.”
Joan was furious. She felt like a puppet, and hadn’t the slightest interest in learning how to ‘properly’ eat and make conversation with people that she had nothing in common with. Joan was known for losing her appetite in an atmosphere of pomposity.
“But—“ Joan tried to go on. More importantly, she needed to lye down.
“Now, then. It’s all settled.” Constance said, and disappeared into the front entrance to the estate, leaving Joan breathless on the steps.
