The Wardrobe Mistress Page 4

  “Such as the winegrower wounded by a passing carriage?” Though it happened the year before I was born, my father had told me about the time a man toiling in a field was run over by one of the carriages of the royal hunting party. Marie Antoinette had apparently been more sympathetic than any of the nobles, and rushed to help him. Afterward she donated enough funds to provide for his family for the next year, while he recovered from his broken bones.

  Pink roses bloom across her cheeks, and when she half-shrugs, the gesture is immaculately elegant. “Well, yes. Goodness, that was long ago. I was still dauphine. I had to help him; I felt such compassion. After all, I have the privilege of being able to afford to pay his yearly salary.”

  As the clock chimes noon, she gives me a tiny nod that manages to be regal, friendly, and dismissive all at the same time, and sweeps out of the wardrobe in a swirl of silk and rosewater, a train of attendants forming behind her.

  I know her schedule well, after four months in her service. It is Sunday, and she always dines publicly with the king after mass, and later in the day, noble ladies are presented to her, before evening card playing begins. Except for a brief stop to change into her evening attire, it’s unlikely she will return to her chambers until quite late in the evening. If I can find an unobserved moment, when all the others are occupied, I may be able to glance through the stack of sealed letters on the side table, ready to be sent, and see who they are addressed to. Last time I managed to do so, I had wondered whether my uncle ever opened any letters during his time in the Secret du Roi. Tracing my fingertip over the lavish spread of stamped wax, I knew I would never dare.

  “Fawning over the queen?” Geneviève crosses her arms. “I bet you want to be one of her favorites.”

  I match her stare calmly. Even though she has been complimented a few times by the queen for her exceptionally fast and tidy sewing skills, Geneviève is jealous every time the queen shows favor to any of the other under-tirewomen, which is not infrequent. She treats us well. I think Geneviève, who is always reading revolutionary texts, resists liking the queen and resents it when others do. “I want to get ahead in this job.”

  “Right. You fancy being the next dressmaker. Well, giving gifts to the queen and simpering over her boring stories shall likely help.”

  “I don’t mind talking with her. I don’t find it dull.” I pass her the pret de la nuit we are preparing, the covered basket containing the queen’s nightclothes. A clean nightgown and nightcap lie carefully folded inside. Geneviève needs to add the morning stockings, and then the basket will be ready for Madame Campan to present at bedtime.

  Geneviève slaps a stocking down on the table. “Giselle, you and I are the only two in the wardrobe. You can speak your mind to me.”

  “I am. Why do you serve her if you dislike her so much? Why are you here?”

  Her expression locks down, and she doesn’t answer for a moment. “There’s always enough to eat, and I can boast about living here during my weeks on shift.”

  “I like those parts too.”

  She laughs, more cheerful again. “Of course you do; anyone would.”

  “I also like how the queen’s rooms are so full of flowers that we are perfumed just from being present,” I confess. “My favorite is when she has a lot of lavender and violets piled in every corner.”

  “Mine is the orange blossoms and roses, for both the scent and the bright colors.” She smiles, and it’s somehow less brittle than before.

  “Come on, Geneviève. Let’s see if we can scrounge a pastry from the kitchen to share.”

  As we divide the chocolate pastry between us, I tell her all about the Réveillon riot, describing the excitement and the wine, and meeting Léon. I brush off the frightening parts, encouraged by Geneviève’s impressed reaction.

  “I wish I had been there,” she laments. “How lucky, to see change in the making.”

  “Are you a revolutionary?” I ask.

  She shrugs, pastry in hand. “In these times, how can anyone not be?”

  It’s a good point, and I nod agreeably.

  Geneviève gives me a thoughtful smile. “You know, you aren’t as much of a snob as you seem at first, Giselle.”

  “I seem like a snob?” I echo, dismayed.

  Geneviève giggles, not unkindly. “Well, I felt a bit defensive at first. I thought you were judging me. You seemed very serious, and you still speak to the queen so easily.”

  “That isn’t any kind of arrogance; I simply never know when to hold my tongue.”

  “Well, now we can have some lovely conversations. I think we shall be friends.”

  Chapter Four

  MAY 1789 (TWO DAYS LATER)

  On the fifth day of May, the Estates-General meets at Versailles. I rise before dawn, for the queen’s wardrobe is more complicated than ever. She will join the king at the ceremony to open the Estates-General, and the formality of the ritual means it will be no small task to dress her. She commissioned a gown from Rose Bertin to wear for the ceremony. Geneviève and I blink against the lamplight, grumbling sleepily as we hasten to the wardrobe to begin the preparations.

  We work in silence for half an hour, neither of us being particularly chatty at this early hour, but the quiet is companionable. Geneviève and I have found a routine in our work, easily sharing the tasks, and it has brought us closer.

  “This will be an interesting day,” says Geneviève at last. “I’m glad we’ll get to witness it. I pray that the Estates-General will be able to do something productive. We need change desperately.”

  “I hope so.” My reply is distracted; while polishing the queen’s shoes, I keep thinking how my uncle will expect a detailed report, running over his possible questions in my mind. So far he has seemed happy with whatever information I bring, no matter how small, but the opening of the Estates-General is a significant event and will surely interest him more deeply. I wish I could bring him an important tale, for once. I won’t be present at the ceremony, however, and will only be able to comment on things within the queen’s rooms. I wish I had the opportunity to witness more. I like being the person who knows everything.

  When Marie Antoinette is finally laced into her gown, Madame Campan clucks over her like a fastidious mother hen, and Geneviève and I exchange a look of dismay. The queen’s gown is stunningly beautiful, like all of Rose Bertin’s creations. Each fold of material hangs perfectly, and the graceful cut of the collar makes the queen’s neck look as elegant as a swan’s. But it’s all wrong for the occasion. It could hardly be less appropriate. The gown is purple satin over a white skirt, utterly royal, since purple is the color of nobility and white is the color of the Bourbon house. Even worse, the skirt swells to the floor, its hem dragging under the weight of embroidery and hundreds of tiny diamonds and bright metal sequins.

  “No necklace today,” the queen says to Madame Campan.

  Geneviève shoots a surprised glance toward me, apparently assuming, as I had, that she would deck herself out with jewelry to rival the glittering splendor of her gown.

  “This will be enough.” Her slender fingers drift over the shimmering diamond band fastened into her voluminous hair.

  “And a fan?” asks Madame Campan.

  “Where is the clutch of white ostrich feathers?” The queen casts her gaze around the jewelry table.

  “Here it is, Your Majesty.” Geneviève hands it to her with deference, voice polite and eyes lowered, but I detect a hint of disapproval in her tone, perhaps because I share the feeling. It is a terrible choice, another item of luxury, and white again.

  Marie Antoinette evidently picks up on the undercurrent of condemnation. She tilts her head in Geneviève’s direction. “Do you think it an ill choice?”

  I wish Geneviève would say yes, but her trademark bluntness doesn’t extend to the queen. She stares at the floor. “No, Your Majesty.”

  “It’s very luxurious.” As soon as I blurt the words, I clamp my mouth shut and match Geneviève’s humble
downward gaze.

  She turns to me, and her diamond-crusted skirt scrapes against the floor as she takes a step. “Yes, it is.” Her voice grows louder, sharper. “This is an important event, and I shall dress to treat it thusly. I have been dressing for court functions for decades, and setting the fashions for nearly as long.”

  “Yes, Your Majesty.” I make an apologetic bow.

  After she has departed and we are able to speak freely, Geneviève turns to me in horror. “No one will be paying attention to the ceremony at all. They’ll be calculating how much bread could be bought for each of the diamonds.”

  “Flaunting her wealth won’t be received kindly, no matter how gracefully she curtsies and greets the Estates-General.”

  “It was brave of you to speak up. Foolish, but brave.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” I say. “She won’t learn from it.” It gives me a sad little pang to say that. Secretly, Geneviève and I often mock the court, even the queen. With her, I sometimes say harsher things than I would to anyone else. But it hurts me to truly admit that Marie Antoinette might not realize the danger of misunderstanding the dire need of the people of France, that she might not be clever enough to change her ways.

  “Probably not,” says Geneviève calmly. “Well, I suppose we had best get out the day’s sewing.”

  Later Madame Campan’s quick steps echo across the decorated floor of the queen’s apartments, where I am sitting by the window and sewing new ribbon onto a ruffled petticoat.

  “Hurry, Giselle. I found us a place to watch the procession.” She tugs at the corner of the petticoat. “Leave that for now. I thought you’d like to see our queen in her finery at the ceremony.”

  “Thank you, Madame Campan.”

  “Where is Geneviève?” she asks, already heading for the door.

  I quicken my pace, my mint-green skirt flying behind me as I catch up to her. “She went to fetch clean items from the laundress.” She should have been back a few minutes ago, but I suspect she paused on the way to flirt with the soldiers. Geneviève likes uniforms.

  “We don’t have time to wait. Perhaps she’ll find a place to watch from.” Madame Campan straightens the yellow sash at her waist, and her already hasty pace quickens, her heels rapping in a staccato rhythm on the tiled floor.

  She leads me to a quiet alcove near a window taller than I am, where we can watch discreetly from around the edge of the blue velvet curtain as the king and queen walk across the courtyard outside. My gaze is immediately drawn to them, and not just because of the deferential space cleared for them as they slowly march through together. In her purple and white satin trimmed with a ransom of diamonds and paillettes, Marie Antoinette stands out like a swan among ravens. The king matches her, dressed in his fancy velvet jacket and with a few jewels of his own. Across the distance, her elegance lends him dignity.

  The crowd of Third Estate onlookers shuffle, shoulders hunched in resentment. A few whisper to one another, faces sneering. They’re all dressed in somber, plain colors; black, gray, brown, dark blue. Sensible clothing for those who cannot afford a diverse wardrobe and make do with the same coat for all occasions.

  “She looks every inch a queen,” murmurs Madame Campan fondly.

  “Yes.” By keeping my response to one syllable, it helps to hide my sour tone. I admire the queen’s beautiful gown—who could not?—but seeing the contrast of her with the people makes me cringe.

  “Oh—look—the sun is coming out even though it’s still raining a little.” Madame Campan gestures, forgetting her fingers clutch the edge of the curtain, making the whole fall of cloth wiggle. “Look at the rainbows.”

  As a sunbeam overpowers the thinning rain clouds, it lights up the droplets cascading over the courtyard and through the air like diamonds. And the diamonds themselves catch the light and shatter it into hundreds of colors, rainbow pinpricks after the other, hovering around the queen, dancing with each of her steps and floating away from the people as she progresses through the courtyard.

  “It is like she is made of light,” says Madame Campan poetically.

  It’s like she is stealing the light from everyone else, I think. Some of the people below seem to see it that way. They mutter and stamp, and while a few wear smiles of enjoyment, others have sullen expressions.

  “No one could have planned such an effect,” adds Madame Campan. “Not even Rose Bertin, though she will be so pleased to know how the dress looked today.”

  And so will the queen’s detractors, I think. She has unwittingly given them more ammunition for their hatred of her.

  * * *

  While she was out, Geneviève did glimpse the excitement of the procession, and we happily compare notes back in the queen’s apartments.

  “Did you see the Duc d’Orleans?” she asks.

  “No, why?” The duc is the king’s cousin, although they appear to have very different ideals.

  “He wore a bourgeois outfit.” Her eyes light up, entertained. “I wish I could have seen the king’s face when he noticed his cousin dressed like a common merchant instead of wearing sumptuous court garb. Seeing the crowd’s gleeful reaction was good, though.”

  “How very Third Estate of him,” I say mockingly, and Geneviève giggles with hectic laughter.

  “Some call him the people’s prince,” she says after a moment, growing sober. “What do you think of that?”

  “It’s interesting,” I reply. “What do you think?”

  She only smiles like she has a secret, and shrugs in an elaborate, casual motion. “God knows what will happen. But something has to change; that’s for certain.”

  “What is the Third Estate?” I ask quietly, guessing Geneviève must be thinking of the text. We have both read it several times, and can practically quote passages to each other. It helps to pass the time while pressing stockings.

  “Everything,” she replies promptly. “What has it been up until now, in the political order?”

  The answer comes quick to my lips. “Nothing. What is it asking for?”

  “To become something.” Geneviève tilts her head, a stubborn glint in her eye.

  * * *

  Though I think of Léon frequently, blushing over the memory of our brief kiss and his passionate way of talking, my first week at home passes without my visiting the watchmaker’s shop. Since the Réveillon riot and the continued malcontent throughout Paris, my parents don’t let me wander alone. I consider fabricating a reason to visit the shop, perhaps with my father to escort me, but the longer I wait, the more it seems like a fool’s errand. The spark between us might have been created by the adventurous setting or the indulgence of the wine.

  One day I stroll into the parlor of my uncle’s house and find Léon seated in the high-backed and yellow-cushioned chair by the window, deep in conversation with Uncle Pierre.

  Léon rises as I enter the room, eyes gleaming in a way that’s instantly familiar, direct and full of mischief. The sharpness of his cheekbones and straight nose reminds me of a hawk, but no bird of prey ever carried such warmth of expression.

  My uncle stands too, though I scarcely pay attention to him. Léon’s unexpected presence snatches all my attention. I falter in the doorway, swept with memories of my reckless behavior last time I saw him. I sipped wine from a bottle. I kissed him. And as my pulse flutters with excitement, I know I would do it again, given the chance. The rioting nighttime street provided the freedom for me to indulge in my desires, but as they all come flooding back even in the austere surroundings of my uncle’s parlor, I learn the setting wasn’t the trigger for them. Léon himself is the spark.

  Maman bumps into my elbow. “Excuse me, Giselle.” Her gentle voice carries a hint of reprimand.

  Realizing I still hover in the doorway, blocking the way for my parents, my cheeks and ears scald with embarrassed heat, and I hasten forward, avoiding eye contact with everyone. I feel a sudden respectful kinship with Marie Antoinette. It’s an incongruous time to think of her, but she
is often in my thoughts now that she has become such a central figure of my life. I imagine she must have felt this same dazed exhilaration when she was young and full of gaiety, when she met von Fersen at a masked ball.

  “Good afternoon,” says Uncle Pierre. “I’m glad you’ve arrived, though not so much as Eugénie will be, once she returns from her music lesson. She was quite anxious for a visit with you.” He grins at me. “May I introduce Léon Gauvain? He is apprenticing with Monsieur Renard—you remember the watchmaker?—and wanted to speak to me about the mechanical device I invented to maintain accuracy in pocket watches.”

  Papa greets Léon politely. “Watchmaking? A fine trade.”

  “I enjoy it,” says Léon. “I like the precise art of it, but I’m interested in the innovative parts as well, such as the miniature watch set into a ring that Monsieur de Beaumarchais made for Madame de Pompadour. I’m fortunate he agreed to share his insights with me.”

  Papa chuckles. “No wonder you persuaded him to talk about his past life as a watchmaker. Pierre loves talking about that ring. It brought him into court circles at Versailles.”

  “It did change the course of my career.” Shrugging complacently, Uncle Pierre pours brandy from the sideboard for himself and my father. “It’s chilly today. Here’s something to cut through the dampness.”

  “I trust you’ve been well, Mademoiselle Aubry?” Léon takes my fingertips lightly in his own and makes a small bow over my hand. The elaborate elegance of the gesture would not be out of place at Versailles, although the etiquette isn’t quite proper. I see laughter glinting in his eyes and realize he is teasing me about the queenly head tilt I learned at court.