The Wardrobe Mistress

by Meghan Masterson

  Looking up from the drawings, Geneviève stares at me, her eyes wide and puzzled and surprised. I know, because I can tell my expression mirrors hers. Who would have written such a note?

  I pick up an empty, unmarked envelope, its wax seal broken, wondering if it could have been delivered within. The envelope could have been delivered from anywhere, slipped into a stack of the queen’s correspondence.

  My uncle will be intrigued by my latest information. He likes a mystery, and lacking my sympathy for the queen, will be interested only in the puzzle of it. I hope he may help, for I can’t forget the fear flickering in her eyes, and I hope she receives no further notes.

  Chapter Eight

  AUGUST TO OCTOBER 1789

  As soon as he hears that I managed to read some of Marie Antoinette’s correspondence, my uncle leans forward in his chair, elbows on his knees. His eyes gleam with interest, and his already reddish complexion brightens further.

  “Do you remember the wording, exactly?”

  “I think so. Close enough, at least.” I recite it back to him three times before he is satisfied.

  “And do you know who it was written to?”

  “No, I didn’t have time to see the salutation. I’ve thought about it though, and based on the wording, I suspect it’s about Necker.”

  My uncle frowns dismissively. “What makes you say that?”

  “She was instrumental in his return to office.”

  This surprises him, and he straightens again, leaning back in the chair, eyeing me with a new respect that makes me feel clever and proud. “How do you know?”

  “It’s common knowledge among the servants at Versailles. The king said everyone would probably regret bringing him back, but the queen knew it would appease the people.”

  “Temporarily,” adds my uncle. “I shouldn’t be surprised, but I am. Louis has ever been indecisive and prone to sulkiness, so they say. And so do his actions.”

  “A girl from the kitchen told me she heard that the Comte de Provence remarked that trying to get Louis to make up his mind is like trying to hold a set of oiled billiard balls together.”

  My uncle barks with laughter. “I met Provence once. He made a sarcastic comment then, too. I like him for his wit.”

  “Uncle Pierre, this is not the most important thing.” Hearing the earnestness in my voice, he cuts his amusement off and watches intently. I tell him about the anonymous note threatening the queen. I’ve been anxious to discuss it with him, feeling that he is the only one who will truly understand. Geneviève, caught up in revolutionary furor, is not as sympathetic as I am, and my parents would react with equal amounts of empathy, but no theories as to the culprit. Léon wouldn’t like to hear of anyone facing secret harassment, even the queen, but he knows too little of court to provide helpful ideas. My uncle is the only one who can do that.

  He blinks rapidly in surprise, and harsh lines crease either side of his mouth as he frowns. “Someone is writing anonymous notes to the queen? In her own chambers?” He isn’t actually asking me. He stares into space, his brows pulling together and making his eyes narrow and cold. He transfers his gaze to me. “And you saw no one near her desk?”

  “No. As far as I know, I’m the only one who went near it all day, except for her. But I’m not certain it was written at the desk. It might have been delivered.”

  He clears his throat, a rough sound. “You will have to keep a better watch, then.”

  My spine stiffens. I resent the blame that crept into his tone. “I didn’t know threatening and anonymous notes would appear. I could hardly watch for something that no one expected—not even you.”

  For a heartbeat, he glares as though he’ll reprimand me for speaking so tartly to my elder, but then he subsides, leaning back in the chair again and sighing heavily. “I know. I’m sorry, Giselle, my dear. It took me by surprise. I knew you couldn’t be the only spy at court, maybe even in her household, but having proof of it is rather a disappointment.”

  “A spy or an enemy?”

  “Aren’t they the same?” He brushes my question away.

  “No.” My cheeks flush. “I don’t believe so. I don’t want to believe so.” That would make me the queen’s enemy, and the idea makes guilt stab along my scalp. I shift uncomfortably in my chair. I remember the way her fingers trembled as she took the shawl from me, her skin pale and taut, highlighting the dark hollows under her eyes and making her seem frail. She needs no more enemies.

  “I meant in this case,” amends my uncle quickly. “Giselle, of course I did. You are merely watchful, and useful to her, nothing more. But whoever wrote the note may be close to her, and quite malicious.” He has leaned forward again, watching me with contrition written in his eyes.

  I manage a small smile. “I daresay I’m more equipped to talk of gossip and fashion, not mysteries like this one.”

  “That’s all I ask of you,” he says gently. “I’m sorry for making you feel as though I wanted more. After all, this is just a game between us, isn’t it? I miss the days of the Secret du Roi, and you were always so curious about them.… Here we are, arguing over information that benefits us not at all, providing fodder only for a nostalgic family interest.”

  Feeling calmer again, I shrug. “Well, perhaps we can attempt to solve this mystery, for amusement’s sake. We may never know if we are right.”

  “She has so many enemies, the culprit could be anyone. But we can exercise our minds in an attempt to solve this. Tell me about fashion and gossip. There may be a clue there we haven’t recognized. Tell me everything, and then let me think.”

  I tell him about the queen’s new wardrobe, now that her mourning period for her son must end, and how she has ordered very little from Madame Bertin, instead hiring Madame Éloffe to rework many of her old gowns for a smaller cost. He grows bored when I describe some of the items, and fidgets with his sleeve, his attention wandering.

  “I don’t think you understand,” I say. “I should have summarized better. I’m not telling you that the queen hasn’t requested to have any red ribbon sewn to her gowns or that she’s adding Alençon lace to a blue-and-black-striped satin redingote because I’m overly excited about the details of her fine clothing. I’m telling you because she is studiously avoiding revolutionary colors.”

  His attention perks. “She is?”

  I can’t help laughing. He knew so little of fashion, for a worldly man. “Yes. She is mostly wearing the opposite of revolutionary colors, and bringing out her jewels again more often. Most other women in Paris are dressing themselves in sang de Foulon red, and wearing blue-and-white ribbons, but the queen is avoiding all three colors and certainly not mixing them.”

  “One could hardly expect her to support the revolutionaries,” muses my uncle, “but she ought to portray a slightly more neutral position. She’s being threatened daily, for God’s sake.” He pauses. “Wait—sang de Foulon red? Is that why Eugénie keeps pestering me for yards and yards of red ribbon?”

  “It’s very fashionable,” I say persuasively. I purchased some red ribbon of my own with my wages, and I already shared some with my cousin, but I don’t want to get her in trouble. “And trimming gowns with red ribbon is a very economical way to make them over and bring them into style again.”

  “Red ribbon named after the blood of a murdered man,” grumbles my uncle.

  “I didn’t name it, and neither did Eugénie. Red is very popular these days. It’s becoming safer to wear revolutionary colors like red and blue than not.”

  “I believe you, and if the queen eschews it, all the better to wear it. The way things are going, I think it might be better to wear the opposite of the queen’s fashion, rather than letting her set the style like she used to.” He grimaces. People must have praised the queen’s elegance once, but lately everyone only remembers her extravagance. “I’ll let Eugénie have some ribbon, then.”

  Pleased, I excuse myself from his study to go and meet with her. We made plans to sew red r
ibbon to the hems of our skirts this afternoon, so his agreement could hardly be timelier.

  * * *

  Late in August, the queen continues her post-mourning habit of dressing to remind everyone of her royal bloodline, and greets the mayor of Paris, Monsieur Bailly, and the popular general Marquis de Lafayette, who have come to Versailles as representatives of the people of Paris, in an everyday gown cascading with diamonds. I know that most of the larger stones have been plucked from the purple-and-white gown she wore to the opening of the Estates-General and sewn into this one, but this knowledge is not common, and her opulent gown draws all eyes. The skirt sways and shimmers with each step, and as the queen bends her head, the eardrops swallow and then project the light like chips of ice, enhancing her grace and sparking scowls on many faces in the audience. People don’t want to be reminded of the queen’s beauty and delicacy, her vast wealth, and the blue blood that runs in her veins, nearly visible under her translucent skin, which has never seen the harshness of a summer of labor. They want to see someone with wise eyes and calloused hands, someone who understands their plight and cares to help.

  “She doesn’t need the help of the papers to make herself look like a fool,” whispers Geneviève to me.

  Although Geneviève uses the term habitually, and calls someone a fool at least twice a day, I agree with her. Even more so in early September, when a group of eleven women, mostly artists or the wives and daughters of artists, come to the Assembly at Versailles to express their concern over the state of the French economy. Their clean, unpowdered hair, simple white bonnets, and floating ivory dresses making a stark contrast to the queen’s ostentatious finery. I didn’t see them during the Assembly, since I couldn’t shirk my duties and enter the hall, but I did manage to glimpse them strolling proudly through the courtyard on their departure from Versailles. I would have loved to witness their generosity at the Assembly. They declared they cared more about the nation’s financial health than they did for their personal finery, and placed heavy cases stuffed with jewelry on the table at the front, before the Assembly’s stunned eyes.

  “I would have given an entire month’s wages to have been there.” Geneviève clasps her hands fervently, and for once no trace of mocking amusement lurks around her mouth or in her eyes. I’ve rarely seen her so serious. “I’m sewing a modest white muslin fichu for myself now. Those generous ladies all wore them. I think it looks ever so elegant. Simple clothing makes everyone look so much cleverer and graceful, don’t you think?”

  “Like classical heroines.” I’m rather taken with the floaty white dresses, and have already begun sewing one for myself. Even with the tightening budget my family is living on, I can justify it, for the latest fashion is to wear a simple white dress with a muslin scarf, tied into a debonair careless knot, with touches of blue and red to support the revolution and override the plain white, which is historically a Bourbon color. One can wear the same dress several days a week, with different scarves and belts and rosettes, and no one would never know it was the same garment being recycled.

  * * *

  On the morning of October fifth, a chestnut horse gallops to Versailles, its sides heaving and speckled with white foam. Pulling the horse to a sliding stop, its hooves clattering on the patterned stone of the courtyard, its rider leaps from the saddle. His cheeks glow red from the whip of the chilly autumn wind, and his coat and trousers are spattered with mud from the hard ride along the damp roads.

  I watch from the window on the second floor, my arms full of the white linen cloths Madame Campan sent me to fetch. The courier barks a command to the nearest of the royal guards, who immediately hurries away, beckoning to one of his comrades. Whatever information the courier has brought, it must be of vital importance. I haven’t seen a royal guard move that quickly since I’ve been at Versailles. Wishing I possessed the ability to read lips, I hurry back toward the queen’s chambers, regretting the detour I’d taken on my errand, wanting to enjoy strolling down the long hall with its marble floors, stately windows, and walls decorated with carved wood and gold leaf.

  The news explodes through the castle, spreading like smoke into every corner, where people huddle to whisper together, their words hissing through the air. A random footman stops me at the bottom of the stairs, quite close to the queen’s chambers.

  “The women of Paris are marching to Versailles.” His hushed tone belies the tightness of his fingers on my shoulder. “Lafayette sent the courier as a warning. The people are out for blood, they say. Seething over the lack of bread. They’ve had enough, and are coming here to demand something be done. He says revolutionary men follow behind the women. It’s a mob.”

  I pry his fingers from my arm, noticing his wide eyes, the whites flashing as he darts nervous glances through the high-ceilinged hall, as if he expects an angry pitchfork-bearing mob to burst through the doorways at any second. “Something will be done,” I say, trying to sound firm. “We will be safe.”

  His uncertain glance tells me he’s not convinced. He looks younger than me.

  “Just put on some tricolor when they get here, if you’re worried for yourself.” I sound impatient, I know, but I must find Geneviève.

  The footman blinks in surprise and confusion. “I don’t have any. Do you?”

  Uncertain whether his reaction will be supportive or not, I gesture for him to continue down the hall. “Go on—spread the news! Everyone must know.”

  Spurred by a renewed sense of purpose, he rushes down the hall, his boot buckles jingling with each heavy step.

  “Where were you?” Geneviève links her arm with mine, dragging me into the shadowy corner near the wardrobe room. “Did you hear?” Her whisper is scarcely audible.

  “Yes.”

  The king and queen move toward us, their gazes focused on the window. I hadn’t realized they were in the chambers, but it explains why Geneviève is whispering.

  Though they aren’t watching us, we grab the nearest cloth item, which turns out to be a blanket draped over the back of a chair, and fold it together, careful to keep our eyes down. I don’t need to remind Geneviève to be quiet. We both silently work, but I know she is straining to hear them just as much as I am.

  Marie Antoinette twists her ring-laden fingers, biting her protruding lower lip fretfully. “We must thank the Marquis de Lafayette for his loyalty. I’m grateful that he sent a courier to warn us.” Under her relief, her voice has a slight edge, probably because Lafayette had been an early supporter of granting the Third Estate greater representation.

  The king bends his head close to hers, clucking soothingly, rather like an overlarge hen. “There, there.” The voluminous velvet sleeve of his jacket billows as he raises his hand and pats her shoulder, the motion gentle and rapid. He scarcely touches her, but I see her shoulders shake as she exhales, calming. “We have friends yet.” He clears his throat. “Besides, I don’t believe the mob will reach Versailles. It’s a six-hour walk. Boisterous as they are, the people must have better ways to spend the day.”

  Geneviève rolls her eyes, clearly indicating her opinion of the king’s naïveté.

  My own optimism that something will finally be done to alleviate the tension over bread fades a little too. While I secretly hope that the angry mob does not march all the way to Versailles, the fact that the king seems to regard their actions as caused by feistiness and high spirits makes me grind my teeth. Léon will have a great deal to say about this. Thinking of Léon sends a stab of loneliness through me, spiked with fear. I don’t truly believe that harm will come to me if the mob arrives at Versailles, but another riot isn’t a welcoming event. If it has to happen, I wish I could see it with Léon. At least I can comfort myself with the knowledge that he and my family are safe in Paris.

  As the day wears on, Madame Campan tries to get the tirewomen to perform our tasks as usual, but everyone is distracted, including the first femme de chambre herself. While sewing, far more slowly than usual, I notice Madame Campan folds the s
ame freshly repaired chemise seven times before finally thrusting it back into the mending basket. Sometimes, because we are quieter than usual, the shouts of the royal guards drift through the shuttered windows as the men mobilize at the palace gates to prepare for the arrival of the mob.

  “I wonder how many guards are posted.” Geneviève leans close so I can hear her whisper. “The revolutionaries marching here will have members of the national guard with them.”

  I nod solemnly. It seems likely. The national guard, a citizen’s militia was formed shortly before the fall of the Bastille with the goal of defending Paris from outside threats, as well as the dangers within caused by the revolutionary tensions. It is also filled with representatives of the Third Estate, people who are growing increasingly frustrated with the incompetence of the king and the pressing issues affecting daily life. The national guard has already proven to be itself revolutionary at times, siding with the people instead of following the orders of the king. It’s an unpredictable entity, and all the more because it is commanded by the Marquis de Lafayette, ostensibly a royalist, yet also famous for aiding the revolution in America.

  “The national guard might outnumber the royal guard,” I murmur back. It’s impossible to predict how many men may have joined the national guard at the last moment, caught up in the passion for change and the excitement of facing the king and queen at Versailles to demand a solution to the bread shortage and prices that cost as much as blackmail. Even Léon has talked of joining, although he seems to have decided to wait until he finishes the current year of his apprenticeship.

  “Étienne joined the national guard.” Geneviève’s brown eyes gleam with pride for her fiancé.

  This is another good indication that the national guard is turning away from tradition and the king’s command, at least some of the time. Like Geneviève, Étienne is a fervent revolutionary. He would not join unless it matched his ideals. Étienne must be one of the revolutionaries who admires Lafayette for his role in the American Revolution, and for his earlier efforts to have the Third Estate represented fairly at the Estates-General.