The Wardrobe Mistress Read online

  A woman shoves past me, her elbow stabbing into the small of my back. “Réveillon deserves all of this!” she shrieks. “He wants to reduce wages—death to the rich!”

  I stumble again, victim to her battering-ram steps. In retaliation, I stomp my foot down on hers, raising my arms to make spears of my elbows.

  “Come on.” The man grabs my wrist, dragging me forward a couple of steps and then slides behind me, moving his hand to my shoulder, pushing me forward. His breath hisses through his teeth once, sharply.

  “What are you doing?” I try to plant my feet, but he’s strong, and if I don’t walk, he’ll probably push me over. “Stop at once.”

  He doesn’t reply until we have traveled all the way across the street, where the crowd thins. I hadn’t realized how many people had swarmed around me. The perimeter of the raucous crowd had grown quickly.

  “I’m getting you clear of the riot,” he says crossly. “Unless you’d like to be beaten and crushed?”

  “What? Of course not.”

  “Then stop insulting already-incited people and stamping on their toes. I took a blow meant for you, I’ll have you know. The woman whose toes you attempted to crush whacked me across the back with a heavy book.” Shaking his head, he raises a bottle of wine to his lips and swallows.

  “I’m sorry.” I promise myself it will be the last time I apologize to this stranger. Only a dozen words spoken, and half of them expressions of regret—how ridiculous. “Er, why do so many people have wine bottles?”

  “The mob raided Réveillon’s wine cellar. He’s rather a connoisseur, as it turns out. Apparently, there were nearly two thousand bottles stored away, all very good quality.” He tilts the bottle to me. “Would you like a sample?”

  More shaken than I want to admit, I reach for the bottle. My fingers tremble, and I grip the smooth glass tightly to quell the motion. It’s good wine, ranking among the best I’ve tasted, even given my uncle’s fondness for collecting exceptional vintages. Rich and smooth and intense, it washes away the tension, warming my insides. Even after one sip, I feel braver.

  “Apparently? Didn’t you see the wine cellar for yourself?”

  “No.” He grins sheepishly and pushes a strand of dark hair away from his forehead. “Someone pushed the bottle into my hands, shouting ‘share the wealth.’”

  My laughter makes his smile widen, which softens his sharp features, making him look less fierce. “Thank you for helping me out of the crowd, and for the wine. I only wanted to watch from the edge, but somehow I got swept into the thick of the fray. I’m Giselle Aubry, by the way.”

  “Léon Gauvain,” he says. “And you’re welcome. Even the edge of a riot can be dangerous. In fact, we should probably retreat a little farther. Unless you do want to start a fight after all?” He takes the wine bottle back from me, drinking again.

  “No, I’ve had enough for one day.”

  “Come on, then.” He marches down the street, away from the smoke and shouts of the riot.

  Scarcely hesitating, I follow. I’m afraid to linger near the crowd, but that isn’t the real reason. The air practically hums with exhilaration, and I’m not ready to go home yet.

  “Do you know what started the riot?” I ask. “I know Monsieur Réveillon made a suggestion about wages that wasn’t well received, but that was nearly a week ago.”

  “Was it? I suppose it takes time for the word to spread.” Léon passes the wine back to me.

  “I know about the wine now, but what about the smoke? Is the factory on fire?”

  “Just wallpaper, I think, although I didn’t see it well. I wasn’t eager to linger near a bonfire surrounded by a thousand raging men and women.”

  “A pity, as the wallpaper was already made,” I observe. While it would be worse to see the factory burned, the wallpaper is still a significant loss. “It seems almost unfair to the workers to burn it now.”

  He narrows his eyes. “Unfair? I’ll tell you what’s unfair here—Réveillon owns a mansion filled with expensive wine and first-edition books, while his workers labor long hours, six days a week, for less than fifty sous per day. And then he has the gall to suggest lowering their wages.”

  I don’t flinch back from his stare, although he leans closer and the corners of his mouth are tight with anger. “I do think it’s unfair. You talk of the laborers, and they worked hard to create that wallpaper. Now it’s destroyed. And Monsieur Réveillon didn’t suggest reducing wages, as a matter of fact. At least, not only that—it’s complicated. He said that if the price of bread would go down, wages could also be slightly decreased, and it would still stimulate the economy. The economy needs that.”

  “Slightly decreased.” He rolls his eyes at my too-diplomatic phrasing. “How do you know he said that?”

  “My uncle told me.”

  “And he knows Réveillon?”

  “They’re acquainted.”

  He throws his head back derisively. “No wonder you were about to get trampled. You’re one of them, aren’t you? Privileged and wealthy?”

  “No. My family isn’t so badly off as some, but we’re still Third Estate.” I do know more about the nobility than most, though. I wonder what he would think if he knew of my connection to Versailles, that I live there when on duty as one of the queen’s under-tirewomen.

  His brow tilts suspiciously, but he doesn’t question me further. “Pass the wine back.”

  Meeting his eyes, I take a deliberately slow sip before handing it back.

  He shakes his head, but the sternness in his expression melts back into amusement. I like the way his mouth softens, a smile blossoming at the corners of his lips. It makes his straight brows and sharp jawline seem less severe. “Where are you from, Léon? Your accent is not quite Parisian.”

  “Toulouse.” He lifts his chin with the air of someone who has seen much of the world.

  I realize he’s forgotten the bottle of wine in his hand and hasn’t taken any since I returned it. I snatch it back, laughing. “What brought you to Paris?”

  “I’m a watchmaker’s apprentice, at a shop not too far from here.” He reaches for the wine again, and this time his warm fingertips brush mine.

  “You work for Monsieur Renard?”

  “Yes.” He stares in surprise.

  “I know him, a little. My uncle used to be a watchmaker too. They worked together occasionally. My uncle designed a ring with a watch mounted on it, and the old king purchased it as a gift for his mistress, and I think Monsieur Renard was always a little envious. Uncle Pierre writes plays now, though.”

  “Your uncle must know everyone,” Léon observes.

  “Almost,” I concede.

  “Now that you’ve learned so much about me, I think it’s my turn to ask you a question, Giselle.”

  Inexplicably, I like the way my name falls from his lips, the second syllable dropping into a purr. “All right.”

  “Where did you learn to lift your head in that haughty way?” His eyes gleam wickedly. “Your uncle again?”

  “I do that?” I feel a little shocked, and thrilled, too. I can think of only one person I could be unconsciously imitating. In my three months as part of Marie Antoinette’s household, I’ve secretly admired her poise. Even though a revolutionary like Léon might not approve, I’m pleased to possess even a fraction of her elegance.

  “Yes. To the first man who bumped into you, and then the woman who clobbered me with a book, and again to me, at first.”

  “I can’t tell you.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t think you’ll like the answer, Léon.”

  “You have to tell me. I shared my wine with you.” His voice is teasing, but I can see by his expression that he really wants to know.

  “Not here,” I relent. “We have to move farther away from the crowd.”

  “How mysterious you are.”

  “I’m one of the under-tirewomen serving the queen,” I say at last, once we have found a quiet patch of street.


  He sighs. “I can see why you didn’t want any of the rioters to overhear that. Wait—you learned that haughty expression from the queen? In person?” He sounds faintly stricken.

  Annoyed, I shove at his chest and take the wine bottle again, sipping quickly to hide my distraction by the hard warmth of his body. “I suppose I must have. And don’t look like that. It’s a good job, Léon.” It’s a coveted position in the queen’s wardrobe, only a step below her ladies-in-waiting.

  “I’ll bet. How much do you make?”

  “What a rude question.”

  “In regular times, yes. But this is different—the majority of people can hardly afford food, and in Versailles no one wants for anything. Help me put this into perspective, please, Giselle.”

  “I have a salary of two thousand and one hundred livres per year,” I say reluctantly. Léon had said the wallpaper workers made fifty sous per day—a little over two livres. The comparison makes me squirm guiltily. If my family lived closer to Versailles, I’d make even more, but part of my income goes toward the cost of living in the palace while I serve the queen.

  Eyes wide, he ostentatiously takes the bottle back and takes a long swig. “Dear God. And plenty of days off, too, probably?”

  “One week of work and then two weeks of leisure,” I mumble. “Sometimes more, if I’m wanted as a substitute for one of the other wardrobe women.”

  “I don’t know if I should be impressed or disappointed.”

  “It’s not all easy,” I say defensively. “The hours are very long—we rise before Her Majesty to prepare her clothing for the day, and can’t retire until she does, which is often very late. I sew for hours each day. And there are so many rules and intricacies of court etiquette. It’s a good thing I’m only in the background, working with other ladies, because I could never hope to master it all.”

  “Do you see the royal family often?” he asks. “Does the king roll his eyes over the plight of the Third Estate, dismissing them with his mouth full of delicacies?”

  I laugh at his specifics, but it also makes me feel worldly to know so much about court. “No. I’ve only seen him a handful of times, and never spoken to him. He likes languages and locks. It’s terribly boring.”

  “Locks? How strange. And the queen? Does she throw away her gowns after wearing them once?”

  “No, they’re immediately cleaned and put away in the wardrobe. She wears them again, usually. Even though she decreased the amount of occasions that full court dress must be worn, she still has to change several times a day for different functions.”

  Léon wrinkles his nose. “No wonder she needs several under-tirewomen. Does she pity her subjects who are starving?”

  “She doesn’t speak of politics to me,” I say cautiously. “She’s a kind woman, though.” Seeing his brows arched in disbelief, I hasten to add, “It surprised me, too.”

  “This is very interesting,” says Léon. His voice sounds warm, soothing my ears as the last of the riotous din fades away behind us. “I like hearing about the royal family. The more you tell me about the palace, the better understanding I gain about the need for change.”

  “What changes do you want to see?”

  He smiles and tugs at his dark hair, which curls a little over his forehead. “There are a great many—I hope you don’t regret asking. For a start, I want the Third Estate to have the appropriate amount of representation in the government, and I want the disparity between wealth and poverty to be narrowed. People toil all day, for weeks on end, and yet have scarcely anything to show for it and can’t even afford bread.”

  As he speaks, his passion for the ideals shows in his face, sparking in his eyes and lifting his shoulders with pride. His hands flit through the air in constant, thoughtless gestures as he describes the improvements for society.

  “Can you imagine if the people had adequate representation?” he asks. “Not like now, Giselle. Proper, proportional representation, and real input in the governing of the country. Why shouldn’t we have our opinions heard? We live in France just as much as the king—even more, I think. Versailles must be like a paradise, but an isolated one, closed away from the realities.” He looks to me for confirmation.

  “You’re right,” I admit. “I don’t have freedom to roam the palace, but the parts that I do see are opulent. Have you ever had hot chocolate infused with orange blossoms, Léon? The queen has it every day, a delicacy that starving people could scarcely imagine.”

  “You understand perfectly. How could someone who regularly dines on such luxuries understand the true depth of the problem? Of course the king doesn’t understand. He couldn’t possibly, and that is the heart of the problem.”

  Regret stabs through me when we reach the lane before my house. When we started walking, we ended up going in the right direction, and since I knew my parents would worry if I didn’t return soon, I kept to that course. Léon hardly seems to notice where we walked. I wish the conversation didn’t have to end already.

  “I live just over there.” I point vaguely toward the row of shimmering yellow lights gleaming in the windows facing the street.

  “Oh.” He sounds disappointed. “You let me talk too long about revolutionary ideas, and now I don’t have time to find out more about you, let alone think of a way to kiss you.”

  My heart hammers in my chest, and I feel suddenly breathless at the thought of his mouth on mine. I strive to keep my tone light, matching all of our earlier banter. “Are you drunk, Léon?”

  “Yes, a little,” he says frankly. “Watchmaker’s apprentices don’t often get much to drink. Are you?”

  I part my lips to say no, but as I shuffle a step closer to him, the world spins more than it ought to, and it almost makes me giggle. I suddenly want to touch his face, explore the angular slope of his cheekbones. “Yes, I think I am.”

  He chuckles, and the low, happy sound unleashes an echo of laughter from me. It’s dark enough now that I can’t see him clearly, but his teeth gleam as he smiles and his blue coat blends in with the shadows. One of his hands reaches forward, fingertips stirring the strand of chestnut hair that falls over my shoulder. My scalp immediately tingles, the sensation spreading all the way to my toes.

  “You have pretty hair, Giselle.”

  “I don’t believe you can see it in the dark.”

  “I noticed before.” His hand follows the length of my hair, fingertips brushing along my neck to my ear slowly, almost uncertainly.

  The wine makes me forward, or maybe it’s Léon who takes away my reservations. Leaning into his hand until his palm cups my cheek, fingers curling delicately behind my ear, I slide forward and brush my lips over his easily, because we’re close to the same height. He smells like woodsmoke and leather; the warmth of him makes my breath catch in my throat.

  I retreat, pleasantly surprised by the brief sensation. This is the first time I’ve kissed anyone, and I like it.

  Léon catches my wrist. “Wait, Giselle. I wasn’t expecting that. Can we do it again?”

  This makes me smile. “Next time, maybe.”

  “Tomorrow?” he asks hopefully, fingers playing with the edge of my sleeve, gently touching my wrist.

  “No, I have to go back to Versailles in two days. I’ll find you at the watchmaker’s shop after.” Tugging my hand free and taking a couple of steps toward my house, I pause to look back at him over my shoulder. “I’m glad I met you, Léon.”

  “So am I, Giselle.”

  My parents had heard of the riot, and rushed to me the moment I opened the door, relieved. Trying very hard to appear dignified and calm and not at all tipsy, I reassure them that I’m unharmed, and though I saw the riot from a distance, I took a long detour home to be safe.

  “Still, you must be shaken,” says Maman. “Your color is a bit high. Perhaps you ought to retire early tonight.”

  I take her advice, gratefully pulling the white coverlet over me and stretching my legs against the sheets. The adventure has left me weary
and simultaneously full of excited energy. I want to reflect on everything, the scene of the riot, the way the meaning of Réveillon’s words exploded out of control, and especially Léon, with his shining dark eyes and sharp voice, but the excess wine drugs me into a deep sleep almost at once.

  Chapter Three

  LATE APRIL 1789 (THE NEXT DAY)

  Compared with the splendor of Versailles, the house always feels strangely small and delightfully cozy at the same time. The sphere of gold lamplight spilling over the curtains and making the carved wooden furniture gleam gives the parlor an aura of warmth. It feels soothing after the tense excitement of the Réveillon riot.

  “Eugénie and Pierre and Marie-Thérèse are coming for supper,” says Maman, referring to my cousin and maternal uncle and aunt, who live just down the street. “They want to see you before you return to Versailles tomorrow.”

  “I’ve missed Eugénie.” She’s been away in the country for a few months, visiting family on her mother’s side. Though only twelve, four years younger than I am, my cousin Eugénie is my dearest friend. We grew up together, and our families are very close. I can’t wait to tell her all about Versailles. Since I started working in the queen’s household, I haven’t seen my aunt and uncle, either.

  Eugénie barely steps through the doorway before a lightning-quick smile brightens her face, and she rushes to embrace me, her fair hair waving about her small cheeks the volume of her blue-striped skirt making her seem even more petite.

  “Did you see the Hall of Mirrors?” she asks.

  “Not yet. The days are so full, and there are separate corridors for the servants. They’re faster, especially when crowds are viewing the parts of Versailles that are open to the public.”

  Her golden brows arch. “Secret passageways?”

  “Not that I know of, yet.”

  “Well, have you tried on any of Marie Antoinette’s dresses?”

  “I would never dare! Although, the idea is tempting, I must admit.” Alone in the wardrobe, I’d held a pale rose gaulle gown to my chest, admiring the layers of draping muslin and the wide white sash to be tied around the waist. The queen herself had begun the fashion of simpler dresses such as this, and although they were at first derisively compared to a chemise and condemned for not using French silk, I like the airy, light quality to them, the flattering softness. Holding the queen’s gown, I knew I would never wear it—she is so thin, I don’t believe it would even fit me—but I’ll sew my own version someday, and improve on the design, too.