The Belles

by Dhonielle Clayton

  The boudoir is a jeweled caisse: all pink, cream, and gold, with the scent of roses wafting through the air, and three crystal chandeliers. Jeweled beauty-lanterns sail overhead, dusting the room with the perfect amount of light. Courtiers mill in and out of an adjacent tea salon, loitering until the ceremony begins.

  The details of a proper toilette ritual for a queen and princess took weeks and weeks of studying and endless days of exams from Du Barry. But the particulars of those lessons vanish from my memory as I soak in the enormity of this room. Alive with movement, teams of servants lug large sofas and toilette tables and gold-tiered stands of macarons and tarts. They arrange items on beautiful brocade cloths under the careful watch of a trio of well-dressed ladies. Lavish necklaces coil around their throats like collars, displaying their house emblems. Each emblem contains a chrysanthemum twisted inside the symbol of their high house to represent their relationship to the royal family.

  They turn their attention to us. A flush climbs up my entire body. They whisper behind fans and glance at me. I tell my heart to slow down.

  At the back of the room, a large screen is hooked around the silhouette of a claw-foot bathtub. A waist-high barrier isolates it from the rest of the space.

  “Your Highness,” the Beauty Minister calls out.

  “Yes, Madam Minister,” the princess’s voice echoes.

  “I have the new favorite, Lady Camellia Beauregard, here.” She pulls me in front of her and drums her red-polished nails on my shoulders. “And the rest of the noble crowd eagerly waits outside your doors.”

  Water sloshes as the princess climbs from the tub. Servants rush to her. The screen is removed. Flushed pink and tangled in a web of towels, she’s dressed in a bathing gown and doesn’t look like the Imperial Princess, heir to the House of Orléans. She looks more like a little girl ready to play dress-up. Her appearance is different again—pale white as a snowflake, with hair almost a mirroring shade, and bright blue eyes. She smiles sweetly at me. I relax a little. Everything will be fine.

  The princess waves me forward. I lean over the barriers and she kisses both my cheeks, leaving a warm wetness behind. “So nice to see you again.”

  I bow all the way to the floor. “Happy birthday, Your Highness.”

  “Thank you,” she says.

  The Beauty Minister clears her throat. “I will leave you here, Camellia, to get acquainted and witness the toilette ritual that only befits a princess and future queen. I’ll see you later this evening for the royal games and banquet.” The boudoir doors open, the Beauty Minister disappears, and a swarm of women floods inside.

  I study them: most are princesses from the royal family—nieces of the king and queen—and a few girls and women from high houses. When courtiers receive their appointments, their portraits fill every newspaper and beauty pamphlet. The monarchs shower favored families with land, titles, gifts, and notoriety.

  “Pay close attention,” Ivy whispers to me before slinking backward into the growing pack of onlookers.

  The women organize themselves by rank and wait patiently for their roles to begin. A few men squeeze into the group.

  A massive vanity is carried into the center of the room. Large mirrors reflect the beauty-lantern light. Enameled caisses expose glistening Belle-products, crested with rich, sparkling Belle-emblems. Glass canisters hold colorful liquids. Golden pins poke out of a pink velvet cushion. Carts hold tiers of pastries frosted in rose-petal pinks and pearly whites and apple reds, flutes overflow with jewel-tone liquids, and sugar-dusted strawberries and pomegranates sit in glass bowls. Vases spill over with flowers in a rainbow of colors.

  Sophia is led to a cushioned seat before the vanity. The towel on her head writhes. Out pops a teacup monkey.

  “Singe,” she cries out. “How’d you get in there?”

  The tiny monkey jumps from table to table as servants attempt to catch him. The ladies-of-honor screech until he’s safely returned to his small golden cage.

  “Why must you have that creature with us in the boudoir?” one of her ladies says.

  “Singe has a mind of his own,” Sophia replies.

  “The femme de chamber,” an attendant calls out. A petite woman steps forward with an open book in her shaky hands.

  Sophia gazes down into the pages of wardrobe choices. She plucks a sparkly pin from the cushion and pushes it into the pages. She does this three times. The group of women oohh and ahh at her selections. A maid shuffles in with a screen. Sophia steps behind it and disrobes, dropping the wet bathing chemise on the floor.

  Servants bring in her garden dress, parading it in front of the onlookers, who fawn over it.

  The attendant steps forward. “Lady Gabrielle, princess du sang, and first lady-of-honor to Her Royal Highness, please step forward.”

  Sophia’s dress is handed to Lady Gabrielle, who ducks behind the screen.

  “Camellia, my ladies will introduce themselves, won’t you, girls?” Sophia calls out.

  Lady Gabrielle steps into view once more. Her eyes are bright, her skin the color of the warm fudge my sisters and I used to steal from the kitchen.

  “I am Lady Gabrielle Lamballe, a princess du sang, from the House of Orléans. Her favorite cousin.” She throws the room a smile. “I am the superintendent and first lady-of-honor. I call myself Lady of All Things.”

  “A pleasure to meet you, my lady,” I say as I curtsy.

  From lessons on royal society, I know Gabrielle advises the princess and oversees the other ladies.

  “Seeing you up close, you really are quite beautiful. The papers were right, for once.” Gabrielle stares me up and down. “Most Belles are incredibly boring. Like the last one. What was her name again?”

  “Her name was Ambrosia,” I say. The words sound too hard. Too protective.

  Gabrielle recoils like I’ve poked her.

  “We call her Amber,” I add to soften it.

  “Yes. Amber. Dull as plain vanilla.” Gabrielle smirks. “You look like you might be entertaining.”

  I can’t tell whether she’s paying me a compliment or an insult. I stutter out a thank-you.

  The next lady-of-honor doesn’t move from her spot, sprawled across one of the sofas. She barely turns to look at me, too busy pushing a strawberry crème tart into her mouth. “I’m Lady Claudine, Duchesse de Bissay,” she grunts out, and waves a hand in the air.

  “Mind your manners,” Gabrielle snaps.

  She flashes Gabrielle a smile full of food bits. “And Lady of the Dresses, though I haven’t been helping the Fashion Minister with Her Royal Highness’s wardrobe lately.” Her hair is a frizzy nest haloing her plump white face.

  “My lady,” I say, with another curtsy.

  “Don’t mind her, she’s just grieving the loss of her last marriage prospect,” Gabrielle teases. “Though she might never get another one if she doesn’t stop eating.”

  Claudine shoves two tarts in her mouth and licks her fingers loudly to make Gabrielle and the princess both cringe, as well as all the other people in the room. “I’ll just have one of her people”—she points a sticky finger in my direction—“fix me right up. Slim me down even smaller next time, so I have more room to grow.”

  “Or we could just make curves a trend again. You have a beautiful shape,” I say. “More women should covet your natural template.”

  Claudine winks at me. “I’d still like to see how small I could be.”

  Sophia steps out from behind the screen. The dress hugs her frame, a tornado of tulle and lace in emerald, turquoise, plum, cobalt, and gold. A mask of peacock feathers is fitted over her face.

  Everyone applauds and whistles and shouts out compliments. I join in. She waves her hand and the room goes silent.

  “Claudine, you know my mother has outlawed deep body restructuring,” Sophia says. “Being too skinny is forbidden.”

  “But we all know you’ll change that when you’re queen,” Claudine says, a satisfied smile spreading across her face.
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  Sophia’s eyes narrow. A strange energy seeps through the room. No one speaks up until the last lady-of-honor pokes her head out from behind a high-backed chair. She’s the youngest one, barely older than the little girl, Holly, from the carnaval night. She curtsies; her dress is reminiscent of a bluebell flower.

  “I’m Lady Henrietta-Maria.” She strokes the curls poking out of her long dark braid, and tucks a book into her dress sash. Her eyes glaze over with indifference. She’s all freckled, and reminds me of a caramel drop cookie. She gestures toward a puffy chair in the nearby corner for me to sit on, before retreating back to her place near the window. “I’m in charge of nothing.”

  “That’s not true, Henrietta-Maria. You are my beloved. Come here.” Sophia reaches her arms out.

  Henrietta-Maria scurries over to her. Sophia plants a kiss on her forehead. “Now, remember what I told you last week? You’re going to be the Lady of the Jewels.”

  Henrietta-Maria’s hazel eyes light up. “Oh, right, I forgot.”

  “Go fetch the jewelry boxes.”

  The little girl skips off.

  “Camellia,” Sophia says, turning to me. “I love my ladies and court so much. They’ve been so supportive and loyal. I like to reward those who are good to me.”

  Henrietta-Maria returns pushing a cushioned cart covered with tiered jewelry stands, each dripping with bracelets, earrings, and necklaces. The gems twinkle under the beauty-lanterns.

  Sophia’s court ladies remove their own jewelry. Servants mill around, collecting the pieces in velveteen boxes. The women clasp their hands in anticipation.

  “Pick something new,” Sophia says.

  The women rush forward, swarming over the jewelry cart and fussing over who will get which piece. Gabrielle orders them around.

  “Your Highness is too kind,” one says.

  “So magnanimous,” says another.

  “Camellia, would you like a necklace?” Sophia asks.

  “You are too gracious, Your Highness. I couldn’t accept,” I say.

  “You can, and you will.” She has the cart brought closer to us. “Pick one.”

  My fingers glide over the glistening pieces as if they’re petit-cakes ready for tasting. I choose a necklace with a cherry-size ruby. She helps drape it around my neck. The clasp pinches so hard it feels like the prick of a needle. I flinch.

  “Sorry, favorite. My jewelry has a tendency to bite.”

  Her ladies-of-honor chuckle and swap glances.

  “Out,” Sophia says to the crowd. “Please leave me, now that you’ve gotten your gifts. I want a little privacy. It is my birthday, after all.”

  “Your makeup is not done, Your Highness,” the attendant replies.

  “Camellia will tell me if it’s beautiful. I do not need all of your opinions today.” She shoos everyone—except her ladies and a handful of servants—from the room. They grumble as they file out. “You, too, Ivy.”

  I’m not ready for her to leave me here yet, but she exits with the group. After the doors shut, the girls resume their conversation.

  “You know Patrice is bringing her new lady tonight,” Gabrielle reports to Claudine, who grunts in response.

  “I hear she’s a wonderful singer.” Sophia makes a chirping sound. Gabrielle bursts with laughter.

  “Are you ready to see her with someone new?” Gabrielle asks.

  “Well, I have to be, don’t I?” Claudine snaps.

  Gabrielle plucks the tart from her hands, and they fuss back and forth until Claudine orders the servant to bring her another. “I’m grieving. Just let me be.”

  “You’ll embarrass the crown. You’re already embarrassing all of us in front of the Belle,” Gabrielle says.

  “It’s Camellia,” I remind her. “Or Camille, which I prefer.”

  She jumps back like I’ve hit her.

  Claudine grins at her. “Forgetting names already, superintendent Gabrielle?”

  “I don’t forget anything.” Her eyes hold annoyance. Sweat slicks my neck. Little quivers pulse through my hands. I hold my dress skirts and don’t break eye contact until she looks back at Claudine.

  Gabrielle orders the servants around, telling them how the princess will wear her hair for the evening—three single plaits twisted into a low bun—and she tells the other ladies-of-honor how to drape her with jewelry. Her slender brown arms wave about like wings as she doles out every command.

  A body-length mirror is set before Sophia. She turns around and around, then slaps her hands against her legs. “I hate this look.”

  Her ladies-of-honor spring into action. They fuss over her like it’s a competition to tell her how beautiful she is. Even the little one lingers at the edge, holding swansdown puffs, ready to spray Sophia with a perfume atomizer. Sophia’s maids glue extra feathers onto the gown, creating trailing folds like a peacock’s tail. They sew sparkling charms along the sleeves. A diadem is placed in her hair.

  “I need to be the most beautiful girl at my party.”

  “Of course you will be,” Gabrielle says.

  “Why would you think otherwise?” Claudine adds.

  “Henrietta-Maria, tell them to bring out the beauty boards,” Sophia orders. Henrietta-Maria skips all the way to the door, then disappears into an adjacent room. When she returns, she’s trailed by a team of servants holding canvas boards and easels.

  “Camille,” Sophia barks.

  I leap up from my chair.

  “What do you think of these? I had my beauty cabinet make them up. And my mother continues to meddle and edit them.”

  I circle the boards. They feature different looks—nose shapes, hair and eye colors, facial structures, hair textures, body shapes, and skin tones—matched with fabric swatches and rouge-stick smudges and nail lacquer.

  “They’re lovely,” I say. And boring.

  Sophia rushes up to me so fast, I take a step back. She cups my hand in hers. “I don’t want to just be beautiful. I want to be the most beautiful.” She doesn’t blink, and her eyes stretch open so wide, it’s as if she’s trying to take me completely in. “I need to make the beauty-scopes this week. It’s my birthday.”

  I’ve never seen her in the scopes. Not once. It’s as if the newsies purposefully ignore her. But her sister, Charlotte, used to frequent them until she became ill.

  “I have a secret for you,” she tells me. She leans close to my ear. Her bottom lip grazes it. “I wanted you. My mother wanted your sister.” Her words burn all the way down my neck into my chest like a scalding hot tear. “Your sister couldn’t give me what I want, but I know you can. I knew from the night of the Beauté Carnaval.” She pulls back and stares at me again. I feel frozen in place, like a butterfly pinned under a glass frame.

  I open my mouth to ask her what really happened with Amber, but a chime sounds.

  An attendant approaches. “Your Highness, your party will begin momentarily. It’s time to go to the gardens.”

  She puts her hand up. “One moment.” She turns back to me, touching my cheek. “Give me a type of hair no one has ever seen before.”

  Her challenge thuds in my stomach. Sweat creeps along my brow, and my cheeks flush. “Shouldn’t we wait for our first official beauty appointment together?”

  “No, I want this now, Camellia. Before my party. I have a feeling my parents are going to introduce me to suitors tonight. Everyone’s gossiping about it.” She bats her eyes at me. Her teacup monkey, Singe, starts to stamp his feet and reach his paw through the cage bars. “See, Singe agrees.”

  My stomach knots with worries. Ivy hasn’t taught me what the princess likes yet. The word no bubbles up on my tongue. I think of Amber. I think of all I did to get here. I think of how much I wanted to be the favorite.

  “Let’s see if I was right about you,” Sophia says. And the challenge—and threat—are clear in her eyes.

  “I’ll need my beauty caisse, Your Highness,” I say.

  “Gabrielle,” Sophia says.

  Ga
brielle releases a deep sigh, then slides off her chaise and leaves the chamber.

  Sophia sits at her massive vanity. Jeweled beauty-lanterns cluster overhead. I remove the diadem and set it in front of her. I undo her low bun and unbraid her three single plaits. Hair bounces around her face like a soft cloud of white-blond curls. I run my fingers through it. I feel her eyes watching my every move. I think about all the pictures I’ve seen of her. She always leans toward shades of honey and gold.

  “Should I have Belle-rose tea brought out to you?” I ask.

  “No, I’m trying to go without it. I like to be alert for small changes.”

  Gabrielle returns with Bree, who tows my beauty caisse. She winks at me, and I smile. Bree works quickly to unhook the hundreds of clasps and fan open the compartments. I run my fingers over hair-paste pots, letting the tiny clicking melody of their lids soothe my fears. I pluck a sunflower yellow and a silvery white from the tray.

  “Bree, will you dust her, please?” I ask, trying to buy myself more time to make a decision.

  “Yes, my lady.” She takes a bei-powder bundle from a drawer and sprinkles it over Sophia’s hair and scalp.

  The latest hair trends are adding colored highlights, or mixing hair colors like black and red. I can’t do any of those. They’ve been plastered all over the pamphlets. I look up into the skylight windows. The sun bleeds across the sky, leaving a garish trail of reds and oranges and yellows. An idea zips through me.

  I use a brush to paint the roots of Sophia’s hair with the golden color. It drips like honey down the length of her strands. I dip the ends of her hair into the silvery pot of color and spread the color upward toward the middle.

  Sophia grins at me. She takes a deep breath and closes her eyes.

  The arcana wake up inside me. I tug at the strands of hair, and they fall down to her waist. I twirl one around my finger to put a loose wave in her hair. The golden color fades into silver halfway to the bottom.

  Her face is red and sweaty, and she pants.

  “Your Highness, are you all right?” I ask. “Would you like tea after all?”

  “No, no.” She waves a hand in the air. “Continue. I’m fine.”