The Wardrobe Mistress

by Meghan Masterson

  “And men don’t disappoint their mothers and sisters,” I tell him in a teasing tone, but I mean my words.

  His fingers stroke along my wrist, his warm gaze seeking mine in a way that makes my pulse dance like a butterfly.

  “You haven’t spoken much about your sister to me yet,” I say. “Is she younger?”

  “Yes, by three years. I used to tease her mercilessly, I’m afraid, bringing frogs and grass snakes to the house to scare her. Claudine used to shriek with outrage, until one day when she was about nine, and she took the tiny grass snake from me and commented that it had a pretty green pattern on its back. We got along better after that, and used to roam through the orchard near our house together.”

  His story makes me smile, and I think his sister sounds interesting. “I am learning a great many new things about you today, Léon. Tell me something else. Please?”

  The tips of his ears turn red. “I hardly know what to say. I had a dog back home that I was very fond of. I had to leave her with my parents. I didn’t know if Monsieur Renard would appreciate a dog in his house.”

  “I haven’t had any pets,” I say wistfully. “Our cook had a black cat once, and I used to slip into the pantry to feed it cream.”

  “I found Octavia hiding underneath a collapsed fence.”

  “You named your dog Octavia?” I ask, entertained.

  “I’d been reading about the lives of the Caesars, and the name stayed in my mind. She was the sister of Augustus. Claudine thought it an amusing choice too.”

  “I like it.” I link my arm through his. “You’ve read many books, it seems. If you tell me your favorites, I’ll read them too. Papa has a well-stocked library; he may have some of them.”

  “Perhaps he will let me borrow a few books?”

  “I’m sure he would.” We talk of books for a while, and our childhoods after that. By the time we pay attention to our surroundings again, I realize we have looped back closer to my house, and that every person around us wears a tricolor cockade.

  “I’m going to make up some proper tricolor rosettes for us to wear,” I say. “It seems safer.”

  “Yes, it does. I’d like to show my support for the revolution, as well. I’d like it if change could be achieved without chaos, but it’s unrealistic not to expect a few riots. The Third Estate isn’t asking for anything small.”

  Chapter Seven

  JULY TO AUGUST 1789

  My parents are relieved Léon and I avoided the scuffle on the street over the rosettes.

  “Pierre told me that one man was nearly hung for resisting the removal of his black cockade,” says Maman. “Only the timely arrival of two passing soldiers saved him. It’s madness.” Her teacup clinks against the table when she sets it down too quickly.

  Papa leans forward over the dining room table, rumpling his hair. He has ink stains on his fingertips, and one smudged under his eye as well. He looks tired. I know he has been writing frantically over the past several weeks, essays as well as his usual poetry, and staying up far too late.

  “It can’t last for much longer,” he says. “The king seems to be taking the requests of the Third Estate seriously. Aside from recalling Necker, he also traveled to Paris from Versailles to meet with the mayor of Paris for the National Assembly. He seems to be engaging.”

  “They say he even placed a blue-and-red ribbon on his hat,” says Maman. “A crowd of people shouted ‘Long live the nation’ and the king seemed very pleased.”

  “He looks on himself as a father figure to the people. According to court gossip, he likes to refer to them as ‘his good people.’” It’s the kind of thing I would tell my uncle, and I automatically look for him before remembering he’s not present.

  Maman pushes her cup away and reaches for her knitting. “I am glad you’re being careful, Giselle. I know I don’t need to warn you to continue to be so, but a mother always worries.”

  I collect the dishes to take them to the kitchen for washing. “Don’t worry. I promise to stay away from riots and brawls of all kinds.”

  Papa rises from his chair. “I know you’re still watching things at court for Pierre. Be cautious there, too.”

  “What could happen?” I ask.

  “I don’t know,” he admits. “I just don’t believe it’s good for anyone to be too close to the royal family these days.”

  “To them, I’m only a servant. It’s nothing,” I say, to soothe his nerves.

  * * *

  The next day, Léon stops by, bringing a book. “This is one of my favorites, as you can see.” His thumb glides along the bent edges, crossing over the cracked spine, tracing the embossed title: Robinson Crusoe. “My father read it to us when we were children, and I’ve reread it many times since. It’s an adventure story.” He smiles shyly. “I hope you like it. The translation of this copy is decent.… I can’t stay long. Monsieur Renard needs me back at the shop. But I wanted to bring it to you, after our conversation yesterday. I liked talking about books.”

  “I enjoyed it too. Thank you.” After he reluctantly departs, I find a note tucked into the corner. Léon’s writing is smooth and sure, with no wasted blots of ink.

  Giselle—I confess, at first I thought to try to impress you by bringing something by Voltaire, or maybe even older poetry, like Petrarch. But then I realized I wanted you to know what stories make me the happiest, and this is one of them. I hope you shall escape in your mind to a sea-swept beach when reading this, just as I do.

  I slip the note into the pocket of my gown, smiling. His endearing honesty is far more impressive to me than any list of highly regarded books.

  * * *

  When I tell her of witnessing the street fight over the rosettes, Geneviève is appalled by the resistance of the people with black rosettes, instead of sympathetic.

  “What fools.” She fluffs the underskirt of a dress with rather more vigor than necessary. “Don’t look at me like that, Giselle; I’m not heartless. I’m practical. It’s madness to resist a crowd of revolutionaries. They have more energy than a pack of hunting hounds, and just as much viciousness, although maybe it’s justified. I would have taken the rosette with a smile, no matter what I thought.”

  “It’s easy to say that when you do fervently support the tricolor.”

  Geneviève grins at me, pushing a frizz of red hair behind her ear. “And what about you? I saw you sewing a rosette after supper yesterday.”

  “I decided to make one for myself, to wear on my days off.” We both know that wearing a tricolor ribbon at Versailles right now would likely result in our immediate dismissal. I don’t wear my Bastille necklace here either, although I’ve seen ladies of the court wearing similar items, though much fancier. One locket appeared to be set with a Bastille stone, and tiny diamonds spelled out the word Liberté. Another woman wore a complex and slightly ridiculous headdress with white satin towers to represent the Bastille. Against this, my simple locket can hardly be noticed, but I remain cautious. “I’m sewing one for my friend Léon as well.”

  “Your special friend Léon?” Geneviève giggles when the faint burn of rosiness spreads across my cheeks and an unbidden smile bends my lips. “The dark-haired revolutionary you told me about, the one you met at the Réveillon riot?”

  “The very same,” I admit happily. “We have been seeing each other for a while now.”

  “Good for you. I liked the story of how you met; it’s very romantic. We should meet up one day, back in Paris. I could introduce you to my fiancé, Étienne. He’s a revolutionary too—he’ll get along with your Léon.”

  “I’d like that.” When we first met, Geneviève’s prickly way of speaking and direct manner had been off-putting, but the more we work together, the more I enjoy her company. We are indeed friends now. Her blunt honesty is refreshing, and we find ways to make the repetitive tasks of caring for the queen’s wardrobe entertaining. A couple of times we have sneaked out of bed in the middle of the night to roam the dim and mostly empty halls of
Versailles, exploring the long corridors, avoiding the corners that stank suspiciously of urine, and searching for secret passages. We haven’t found any, but we have learned new shortcuts around the palace.

  The first time we slipped out to explore, we ran down a long marble-tiled hallway so quickly that our feet skidded on the floor, and we suppressed giggles of hilarity, speaking in whispers that were probably too loud. I hushed Geneviève in earnest when I noticed a slight figure through the window, crossing the garden like a gray-cloaked ghost. The woman entered through the side door down the hall from us. Even though she walked in the opposite direction, we recognized her at the same time. Neither of us could mistake Marie Antoinette’s long neck, proudly lifted head, and elegant steps. As the queen rounded the corner, we caught a glimpse of her loosely belted gown, sliding slightly off her shoulder to show the delicate arch of her collarbone. It was lucky she never deigned to turn her head and look toward us, for we certainly must have been within sight, although the darkness in our section of the corridor, away from the moonlit window, helped to shield us.

  Eyes meeting in astonishment and silent accord, we crept back to our room before launching into speculation as to where she could have been.

  “An assignation with a lover,” Geneviève declared. “What else could it be? I wonder if Count von Fersen is at court now.”

  “It might not be. What if she is having secret meetings with royalists?”

  “She didn’t look dressed for that.”

  “She couldn’t dress herself properly, not without waking her ladies. Insomnia, perhaps?”

  “I still think it’s a lover. Von Fersen, probably. I wouldn’t blame her one bit. I can’t imagine being married to Louis would be remotely satisfying.”

  I wrinkled my nose. “He probably makes awful puns about locks and keys.”

  Geneviève let out a burst of shocked laughter. “Giselle! Why must you put such things in my head?”

  “Sorry. You know, it’s rather nice that she gets out on her own sometimes at night. It makes her seem more relatable. Everyone wants love—it’s natural.”

  “Yes. I judge her for a lot of things, but this is one thing I can’t.”

  In that moment I knew that I would never speak of this to my uncle. The queen deserved this secret. Though I had little proof, I shared Geneviève’s suspicion about her having a lover. Maybe my happiness with Léon influenced me, but I felt that everyone deserves some romance. My uncle preferred political information, and anyway, I doubt he would approve of my sneaking around at night.

  * * *

  Geneviève and I go exploring one more time after that, hoping to see the queen again. Instead we encounter the Comte d’Artois, drunk and mumbling to himself as he staggers down the hall in a red velvet jacket and white satin culottes. We hide behind the corner of an enormous and elaborately carved mahogany clock, ducking into the shadows and pressing our hands to our mouths to stay quiet until he has passed.

  Unlike our sighting of the queen, which rather impressed us, this seemed a hilarious secret at the time. However, now that Artois has fled France, escaping the people’s hatred of him and his unwavering royalist beliefs, it seems almost sad, a trifle pathetic.

  After Geneviève disappears to visit one of her friends from the kitchens, leaving me alone in the room, I stroll toward the queen’s desk. It’s been a while since I had anything interesting to report to my uncle. Perhaps I’ll see who she receives letters from in the pile of correspondence. I carry one pearl-gray glove in my hand so that I may have the excuse of searching for the other if anyone comes by, but since Madame Campan has gone to meet with the dressmaker Rose Bertin, now that the queen’s mourning period for the young prince is ending, I think I’m safe. The rooms are quiet, patched with sunlight, and two of the queen’s white cats sleep on a chaise longue, their luxurious long fur piled together so it’s difficult to tell where one cat begins and the other ends.

  Marie Antoinette spent at least an hour writing letters this morning, as has increasingly become her habit. I’ve never managed to see any of her letters before; she seals them at once and sends them away. This morning, however, she sat at the desk a little too long, and had to rush to have her hair done in time to join the king for another court function, and perhaps she didn’t have time.

  I nudge the papers on the desk, uncovering the half-finished one underneath. The queen’s handwriting is as elegant as expected, written with rich, dark ink. I have to squint to make out some of the letters. I’m afraid to lean over the desk in case someone comes in and catches me snooping through the papers.

  I am trembling—forgive me this weakness—at the idea that it is I who am bringing about his return. My destiny is to bring misfortune, and if vile scheming makes things go wrong for him once more, alternatively if he diminishes the authority of the king, I shall be detested still further.

  Heels click on the floor, growing louder and nearer. I slide back one step and look at the cats, like I’d been doing that all along. One of them peers at me, its green slit of an eye sleepy and disdainful.

  “Hello, Giselle,” says Madame Campan, coming into the room. “Is everything all right?”

  “Yes. Just collecting a stray glove.” As I lift it in demonstration, the fragrance of violet and hyacinth drifts through the air. The queen has dozens of pairs of gloves, all in light colors, and exquisitely scented by Jean-Louis Fargeon, her perfumer. “How was the meeting? Is the queen having some new dresses made?”

  “A few, though more of them shall be made over by Madame Éloffe.” Madame Campan’s voice drops lower, even though we’re alone. “Poor thing, I think the queen would like to stay in mourning longer. A mother’s sorrow may last forever, but the official mourning period does not, and she has a public image to maintain. Do you want to see the list of new items?”

  “Yes, please.” I love seeing the latest fashions and learning how they are made, poring over the swatches of fabric and lace, reading the descriptions, and tracing my fingertips over sketches. It is a rare treat to see the list, usually deemed by Madame Campan to be above the tasks of tirewomen like myself.

  “Come sit by the window,” says Madame Campan kindly. “You did such a tidy job of mending the worn hem on the queen’s skirt yesterday, I thought you might like to see the new train designed by Madame Éloffe.”

  I thank her, already skimming over the list with interest, silently praising certain items and imagining how I would have redesigned others. As I near the last new dress, I notice the colors aren’t exactly revolutionary. There’s hardly any white, blue, or red to be seen, mostly an array of greens and purples and grays in solid colors, sometimes decorated with stripes. All of Paris might be going wild for tricolor, but not the queen.

  * * *

  Near bedtime, when Geneviève and I are laying out the queen’s voluminous nightdress and slippers, Marie Antoinette rushes into the room, her face whiter than usual. At first I think she is angry, with the grim set of her mouth, but then I see her eyes show too much white at the corners, her gaze darting and indirect. She is afraid.

  “Is there anything we can help with, Your Majesty?” As I speak, Geneviève and I both sink into a deep curtsy.

  “No.” She licks her lips. “Well, perhaps. Did you see anyone in my rooms today who should not have been here?”

  Solemnly, I shake my head. “No one.” Geneviève echoes the same response.

  “Are you certain? Not near my desk?”

  A frisson of alarm and guilt prickles over my skin, and I’m glad of the nightgown to hide my suddenly nervous fingers. “No, Your Majesty. I saw no one. I’m sorry.”

  Marie Antoinette gnaws on her lower lip, eyes to the ground. At last she seems to resolve something in her mind. Straightening, she looks directly at me, her confidence mostly restored. “Fetch me a warm shawl, Giselle. It feels damp in here tonight.”

  I bring a soft knitted one, the yarn woven from long Angora rabbit hair.

  “Thank you,” says
the queen, taking it quickly from me and wrapping it about her shoulders, though she has not yet changed into her nightdress. “Send Madame Campan in. You and Geneviève can go for the night.”

  Madame Campan already hurries into the outer chamber, a worried line etched between her brows. The lamplight turns her hair pale.

  “The queen has asked for you,” I say.

  “What happened?” asks Geneviève sharply.

  Madame Campan glares at her impertinence, but she does answer. “The queen found an anonymous note on her desk. It’s not kind.” She sighs, taking one step toward the queen’s bedchamber, then whirls on us fiercely. “Do not say a word. Your jobs depend on it.”

  Geneviève and I both promise. As soon as Madame Campan is out of sight, we hurry to the massive expanse of the desk, hoping the offending note remains. One of the cats strolls across the desk, sniffing at the papers curiously, batting at a bent corner. Geneviève pets it absentmindedly, her eyes roving through the pages of script.

  I find it first, maybe because I am already familiar with the desk’s contents. “Here it is.” The note is short, written in messy capital letters, as if someone tried to disguise their hand.

  It is long past time you paid your debts, Madame Déficit. The consequences are mounting. How many more do you need?

  A bold signature reads Dame de la Révolution. Underneath, two sketches fill the rest of the page. One depicts the Bastille, half-demolished, with a cannon and crumpled human figures lying in front of it, clearly meant to represent corpses. The other is of an eyeless head mounted on a pike. At first I think it must be an illustration of de Launay, the late governor of the Bastille, but seeing how it is set aside from the other drawing, its mouth stuffed with hay, I realize it may be Foulon, the man who was appointed Controller-General of Finances after Necker’s dismissal. Allegedly corrupt, and hated by varying groups for both his severity and his wealth, he was captured by a mob and murdered in mid-July. Afterward, the most fashionable color of the season became sang de Foulon. The striking crimson color is pretty, although its patriotic popularity feels a little macabre to me.