“Magnifique!” Martine pronounced. “The gown is perfect on you, and your lace will be the finest they’ve ever seen.”
Vienne touched the lace fichu she’d added to the square, low-cut neckline, grateful for the modesty it brought. She felt strange—dishonest, almost—wearing Martine’s saffron court gown, even though it was a relatively simple one. The revolution may have leveled the social classes, but as a lacemaker, Vienne was raised with one foot in the world of the working people and the other tiptoeing through the doors of the aristocracy, catering to their whims. As such, she’d never fully belonged to either realm. Well practiced at straddling two worlds, she now belonged neither to France nor to America. Untethered, like a loose thread, while every other strand was woven into place.
Martine’s manner turned wistful. With nail-bitten fingers, the young woman patted her own coiffure, shocked white from unnamed trauma.
“Come with me,” Vienne urged, for Martine was already dressed, as always, in court finery. “It would do you good to get out. Wouldn’t you enjoy dancing?”
“Oh no, I can’t leave.”
“You’re not in prison here, you know. Surely Paulette or Madame can sit with Henri while you’re out. It would do him some good, too, to have a little variation to his routine. Would you mind, Henri?” Still painfully quiet, he rarely initiated conversation but did respond when spoken to.
The boy frowned. “You both want to go? But why?”
Martine pressed her lips together and shook her head. “I don’t. I’m afraid I’ve lost all taste for gaiety. And I haven’t the strength to pretend otherwise.”
This, Vivienne understood completely. “Of course. Another time, perhaps.”
Footsteps sounded in the hallway, and Paulette rapped on the doorframe before poking her head into the room. “Mademoiselle,” she huffed, “your escort has arrived.”
Hastily, Vivienne bussed Martine’s cheeks, whispered good-bye to Henri, and followed Paulette down the stairs. Just inside the front door, Father Gilbert conversed in French with a tall young man in an American suit, complete with knee breeches and buckled shoes. Hat in his hand, his black hair shone like lacquer, and his brown eyes held golden flecks.
“I am Sebastien Lemoine, and I’ll be escorting you to the Binghams’,” he said in French, then bowed to her. His narrow features were animated with energy, and Vienne judged him to be a few years younger than herself.
“Enchantée.” She curtsied.
“The pleasure is mine. Shall we?” He offered his arm, and she took it.
“Find Eliza,” Madame mouthed, then crossed herself. Father Gilbert followed as they exited the pension and climbed into the waiting chaise.
The journey to the Bingham mansion was not long but afforded time enough for Monsieur Lemoine to share that he had arrived from France three years ago and was now in the employ of a Senator Robert Morris, who had personally financed much of the American Revolution and had lent his townhome at Sixth and Market for the use of President Washington and his family. Also a particular friend to French refugees, Senator Morris had helped finance a settlement for them in the woods in the north of the state. French Azilum, they called it, or Asylum in English. Place of refuge.
Vienne smiled politely but concluded she had no interest in such a place, for she could not imagine her livelihood would thrive there. Far better were her chances here in the city. And that, she reminded herself as the horses drew into a circular drive, was why she had come to the three-story mansion before her. To find buyers for her lace.
In a few blinks of the fireflies around her, she entered the double doors with Monsieur Lemoine, aware of Father Gilbert behind her. The bright hum of conversation met her ears, punctuated by the occasional clinking of goblets. Large parlors flanked the wide marble staircase of the vestibule.
At the base of the stairs, Monsieur Lemoine facilitated the introductions with William and Anne Bingham, while Vienne noted with some surprise the French influence in their home: bright red arabesque wallpaper, silk curtains, and painted ceilings above dentil moulding. From classical alcoves, the busts of Rousseau and Voltaire looked on.
Having greeted the hosting couple, Monsieur Lemoine led Vivienne and Father Gilbert into the enormous dining room. A gleaming table bore every dessert she could have wished to see in France: flaky vols-au-vent, trifles adorned with candied orange peel and pansies, exquisitely molded ice creams on beds of sculptured ice, candied almonds, fresh fruit. Fat tallow candles stuffed every candelabra and chandelier. Full-length mirrors doubled the space, the light, the imported furniture, and the people.
Heads turned, and gazes fastened upon Vienne as she made her entrance. Did they admire her gown? Or hate it?
“Is it polite to stare at strangers in this country?” she whispered to Monsieur Lemoine.
His lean face warmed with a smile. “You’re too modest, mademoiselle. But tell me, how did you come upon such finery? I was told you are a lacemaker. Of the working class.”
“I borrowed the gown from a friend.”
“And is this friend a member of the Versailles court?” Raising an eyebrow, he laughed.
She gave him a pointed look. “Lady-in-waiting, as it happens.”
“Why did you not bring her, too? She would have been welcome.” He signaled a waiter and plucked a goblet of wine from the tray. “Thirsty?”
She declined. “Her son is unwell, and she won’t leave his side.”
Monsieur Lemoine sipped his wine. “A pity.”
Father Gilbert laid a hand on Vienne’s arm. “My dear, if you’ll excuse me, I believe I see an old friend. May I leave you with this young man here?”
“By all means.”
Vienne watched as the older man made his way across the room and exchanged a few words with another gentleman. With a cry of recognition, the second man threw open his arms and embraced Father Gilbert. Both gentlemen stood straighter upon releasing the other. She hoped it was happiness, not envy, that tightened her throat.
Monsieur Lemoine touched Vivienne’s elbow. “I believe you know Armand de Champlain?”
“Do you?” She turned to him and felt the pinch of whalebone stays laced tight against her middle.
“I make it my business to know all the refugees who arrive in Philadelphia. I met him a few days ago at Senator Morris’s office. He’s headed this way.”
Vivienne started at this last sentence and turned. Armand’s aristocratic red-heeled shoes clicked over the floor as he approached. After the men greeted each other, Monsieur Lemoine stepped a polite distance away to afford them a modicum of privacy.
Lines bracketed Armand’s mouth as he smiled, and his appraising gaze swept from her hair to her hem. “The very likeness,” was all he said, and she knew he saw Sybille in her place.
She had not meant to look the part of a courtesan. The small degree of warmth she had felt on seeing Armand quickly cooled. Her fingertips grazed her fichu to be sure it was still in place. “You are fully recovered from the voyage, I see.”
“In body, yes. But my heart . . . I miss her, Vienne, more than words can tell. She would have dazzled everyone here with her beauty and grace. As you do. She would have made everything right just by being at my side.” Violin music floated between them. “Say you’ll dance with a lonely old man?”
The suggestion crawled over her skin. Vivienne had softened toward Armand during the crossing, and some days she’d even pitied him. But she could not put herself in the arms of the man who betrayed his wife to sin with Sybille.
“I have other matters to attend to.” She looked at Monsieur Lemoine, and he joined them.
“But how are you faring at the pension? Do you have all you need? May I help in any way?” The same questions Armand had asked at Le Havre and during their journey across the sea.
“I am managing, Armand.” But she could not be distracted from her purpose here tonight. “If you’ll excuse me. Monsieur Lemoine, I need to find Eliza Hamilton. Do you know her? Co
uld you introduce us?”
He surveyed the room. “Of course. Follow me.”
Armand remained behind while Monsieur Lemoine led her to a woman who was breaking off her conversation with someone else. Hunger walked beside Vivienne, prodding with sharp jabs to her middle, for she had strictly rationed her food until her means could be secured. The monsieur introduced Vivienne to Eliza, then left the two ladies alone to speak.
Quickly, Vivienne dropped a curtsy, then extended her hand in the American way, flushed at her awkward mixing of customs.
“You’re among friends here, my dear.” Eliza Hamilton’s warm smile was disarming. Her chocolate-colored gown echoed her soft brown hair. “Tell me, how did you come to be in America? That is, if you have the heart to describe it.”
Touched by the compassion in those few words, Vienne quietly explained, “I left to save my life.”
“What charge did they have against you?” Eliza’s voice was gentle.
With a rueful smile bending her lips, Vivienne pointed to the billows at her elbows. “I made lace.”
Faint lines grooved Eliza’s brow, as if unsure Vienne’s English could be trusted. “You made this lace? You made lace,” she repeated. “And this put your life in danger?”
“Yes. The laceworkers in Chantilly were all executed, every one of them. My aunt made lace, too, and she was killed for it, along with several women in our manufacture. Some of them were only girls.” She had not planned to reveal so much. “I escaped alone.” Her empty stomach cramped.
Eliza took Vienne’s hand and squeezed it. “My dear child. If only I could comfort you with mere words. May the Good Shepherd keep you in His tender care.” Tears shone in her dark eyes, dissolving a knot in Vienne’s chest. “What will you do, now that you are here? Do you have means?”
She had been warned of the American habit of asking after private finances. But this conversation was exactly why she had come. “I have lace.” She explained how she had smuggled it into Philadelphia, what it was worth, and her inability to sell it through the shops at which she’d inquired.
Eliza scanned the crowd, and then she brightened, signaling someone. Vienne turned to find Anne Bingham gliding toward them, her plum-colored satin skirt skimming the hardwood floor. In the next moment, Eliza retold Vienne’s tale to the hostess.
Anne touched the lace at Vienne’s sleeve. Candlelight made a corona of her upswept hair. “You made this?”
“This and more, which I spirited out of France.”
Anne stood back to take in the gown from head to toe. Lace trimmed the neckline, sleeves, and the edges of her skirt. “Gorgeous,” she whispered. “Simply stunning.” Crossing one arm over her middle, she cupped her elbow and tapped her chin. “Come back Thursday at two o’clock sharp. Bring everything you have. If I don’t miss my guess, you’ll sell it all to my ladies’ club by the end of the afternoon. And don’t you dare drop your price one cent less than what the lace is worth. I daresay it’s among the last French lace we’ll see for quite some time.”
Eliza squeezed Vivienne’s hand. At the gentle pressure, bittersweet relief pressed into her. She bowed her head, grateful to hide the tears glossing her eyes. “Thank you.”
Chapter Seven
When square-toed black boots edged in beside Eliza’s hem, Vivienne looked up to find two gentlemen facing her. The elder of the two, if one could judge by the hair receding from his high brow, took Vienne’s hand gently, without shaking it, and swept her a gallant bow.
“Alexander Hamilton, at your service.” He released her, then presented his friend. “William Delaney. A veteran of the American Revolution. A true patriot and lover of liberty.”
Mr. Delaney bowed stiffly, regarding Vivienne with intensely blue eyes. She curtsied as she gave her name. His jaw tense, he held his broad shoulders back in the impression of one still in military service.
“Liam, so lovely to see you again.” Eliza clasped his hand. “How is your sister?”
A smile transformed his sun-bronzed face from severe to almost charming. “’Tis a pleasure to see you again, too, Mrs. Hamilton. Tara is as stubborn as ever, which can only mean she’s in good health.” His jacket pulled at the shoulder seams, and the sleeves hung an inch short at the wrists. Either he’d borrowed the suit from a smaller man, or he’d outgrown it since he’d last had reason to wear it. Vienne wondered why he had come and if his discomfort, like hers, was the price for his present purpose.
As Mrs. Bingham whisked away to engage another guest, a wiry man noticed the Hamiltons and strolled over from the buffet, candied almonds cradled in his palm. He popped a few of them into his mouth, chewing noisily. This was Charles Whittaker, a prominent Philadelphia attorney, Eliza explained.
“Liam came to my office today, apprising me of the sentiments among the rebels in the western part of the state,” Hamilton supplied. “Advised me to repeal the whiskey tax.”
Mr. Whittaker nodded, and the yellow glare of candlelight slipped up and down his spectacles. “The excise tax was folly from the start. An oppression of frontiersmen already besieged with trouble.”
In moments, the men’s voices rose in pitch and volume, turning heads, drawing an audience. But from across the room, a fiddler’s jaunty tune jerked Vivienne’s attention. At once, she lost her appetite. Heart banging she looked around, astonished to find some of the guests actually raising their goblets and singing along with the “Ça Ira.”
“My dear,” Eliza murmured, “are you unwell?”
“That song. Do they know what they are singing?”
Mr. Hamilton held up his hand, breaking off his conversation. “Do tell us, mademoiselle, what this song means to you.”
Armand appeared on the fringe of the gathering, face drawn in grave lines. He, at least, knew what she felt. Alone, though surrounded. Shadowed, despite the constellations of light thrown by crystal chandeliers. “Tell them. Tell them what I do not have the language to say,” he urged. His shoulders pulled a little higher as the chorus gaily condemned men like him.
Drawing a fortifying breath, she spoke. “This was the anthem of the people. The cheerful rallying cry among citizens who styled themselves ‘patriots’ of France. The song says ‘to the lampposts,’ but they were really taken to the guillotine. With great relish, I might add.”
Mr. Whittaker waved her comments away with one bony hand. “Because the excesses of the French monarchy drove them to it. Versailles represented a deplorable waste in a country already mired in debt.” He sipped from his goblet.
Frowning, Mr. Hamilton crossed his arms. “Much of that debt came from supporting America in the war, not from court luxuries, though I cannot deny their mode of living a superfluous one. Still, if it weren’t for Louis XVI and the Marquis de Lafayette, we might still be British subjects right now.”
Mr. Delaney chuckled without mirth. “The French hatred of the British worked in our favor, I’ll give you that.”
With a few short sentences, Vivienne quietly translated the English to French for Armand’s sake.
“All the more reason for America to fight alongside France now.” Mr. Whittaker grew red in the face. When Vienne turned to Armand again, Mr. Delaney stayed her. “Allow me,” he said and encouraged her to participate in the conversation while he translated.
“My good man, you suffer from selective memory loss,” Mr. Hamilton seethed. “The French heroes who helped us win our war are now victimized by the revolution. For advocating a constitutional monarchy, Lafayette is imprisoned. Those revolutionaries exalt liberty to the exclusion of order, religion, even common morality. No, Mr. Whittaker, the United States cannot stand up for that, no matter how often or how fervently you and your Democratic-Republican Society say otherwise.”
“Society?” Vienne interrupted. “What society?”
Mr. Whittaker pushed his spectacles up the bridge of his nose. “Fashioned after the clubs des Jacobins in France. Gatherings of like-minded people passionate for the cause of French libert
y, equality, and fraternity.”
Vienne’s mouth went dry. A glimpse of Armand’s blanching face proved that he understood Mr. Delaney’s translation perfectly.
Jacobins were the radical revolutionaries bent on rolling the heads of anyone not enthusiastic enough about their new government and the leveling of wealth. They were enemies of the French court, aristocracy, and anyone associated with them. It was a Jacobin who’d arrested Tante Rose, Jacobins who condemned her to death. And if what Mr. Whittaker said was true, Jacobin societies had spread across the ocean. The news sent a chill through Vivienne.
Tucking a few almonds into his cheek, Mr. Whittaker continued. “There are thirty-five sister societies like ours at present in America, but the one here in Philadelphia was the first. We are professionals, craftsmen, tradesmen, and French citizens in support of the French Revolution.”
“And what exactly do you do?” Mr. Delaney asked. “In support of the revolution?”
“We vow solidarity. Correspond with Jacobin clubs in France, and influence as many as we can here. Shall we Americans, who have kindled the spark of liberty, watch the bright flame burning in France go out?”
Vienne shook her head. “It’s not a bright flame of liberty. It’s a raging wildfire of bloodthirsty discontents. The guillotines know no rest in Paris.”
Whittaker shrugged. “The end justifies the means. I still say the royal couple, mostly the queen, is to be blamed for the dissatisfaction that bred the revolution. Marie Antoinette spent—what was it?—five hundred thousand livres in one year on her wardrobe. And what of her artificial village, Trianon? Not to mention all that flour to powder towering wigs when people starved for lack of bread. And what did the oblivious queen say? ‘Let them eat cake!’”
“She never said that. She never said that.” Heat flashed through Vivienne. How many other vicious rumors had winged their way across the ocean? “Her spending was excessive for a time.” Without realizing it, she’d slipped back into her native tongue. The low timbre of Mr. Delaney’s voice echoed her words in English now for the benefit of those gathered. “But she scaled back dramatically and was famous for her generosity to the poor she encountered. Did you know she even adopted children into her care? And let us not forget that Louis XVI and his queen came into power when France was already in dire financial straits, even before they sent funds for your American war. Surely you don’t believe one woman could have plunged a nation so thoroughly into debt single-handedly?”
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