“I swore I would keep it a secret. I keep my word, once given.” I shoot a stubborn glare at him. “It wasn’t easy, Léon.”
“I just don’t understand why you would support the monarchs in this.” Confusion blurs his features, and he twists the blankets too, wrenching them away from me without noticing. “You know how bad things are, and you’ve been spying on the queen for months. This sudden loyalty doesn’t make sense to me. I can’t suddenly change my whole opinion, even though it seems like you did. I need time to think about it.” He swings out of bed and reaches for his discarded breeches, lying in a heap on the floor.
I pull my shift over my head, viciously tugging the sleeves straight. One of the seams loosens with a tearing sound, but I’m too angry to care. I sit down on the edge of the rumpled bed and begin rolling my stockings up past my ankles. “Take all the time you need.” My voice sounds wire-tight. “But I didn’t change my whole opinion overnight. Give me some credit, please.”
He whirls around, fingers automatically finishing fastening his pants. His eyes flare with fresh outrage. Bare-chested, his hair standing messily on end, and a scowl marking his face, he looks like some kind of barbarian warrior. If my feelings weren’t smarting, I might have found it appealing.
“When did you change your opinion, then? You certainly didn’t indicate it to me, and I thought we knew each other very well.” He hesitates. “You promised to be honest with me, an oath you made on your own.”
“I wanted to tell you,” I say helplessly. “But I couldn’t—it wasn’t safe until they had actually slipped away in the night. I had to keep the secret until then, Léon. Don’t you see?”
He flinches as though I slapped him. The dark fire fades from his eyes as the tension drains out of his shoulders. Sorrow flickers across his face, and then he guards his expression, straightening once more, ready to walk away. “You didn’t trust me? Giselle, I’d do anything for you. I would have helped you, even, if I could, though God knows I can’t condone the king deserting his own countrymen. But I can’t control him, not any more than you can, and my loyalty is for you first. I would have helped you,” he repeated.
My voice scrapes my throat. “It wasn’t my secret to share. I wanted to trust you—I did trust you, always—but I had no power to share it until last night, until they were safely away—”
“Last night?” He strides forward and takes my wrists in his hands, pulling me roughly to my feet. His eyes stare into mine, shadowy and probing. “They fled last night—Giselle, that’s why you had the night away from the palace? That’s why you were free to arrange this?” He casts a pained look at the bed.
“Madame Campan said I shouldn’t be there, for my protection. I saw an opportunity to spend the night with you, and I took it. I wanted you—I thought you wanted me, too.” I stare at the floor, unable to meet his gaze any longer. “You seemed happy enough last night for us to be together.”
We stand close enough that his breath hisses across the sensitive skin of my neck, and that somehow makes the words more tangible, makes them hurt more. “Last night I thought I was your lover, not your convenient alibi. Last night felt right—as if I unlocked a new part of my life with you, and our time together was going to be glorious. But it was a sham.”
I dig my nails into his arms, clinging too tightly. “It wasn’t! I felt like you were my husband already. I love you, Léon.”
“Do you?” he asks. “You lied to me because you thought you couldn’t trust me. Even though, if I were to betray your secret and blow open the whole escape plot, you’d be implicated and most likely punished. I wouldn’t do that to you, and if you thought it was a risk, you must not know me at all.”
“I never thought you would betray me.” Tears streak down my face in hot bursts, salting my lips. “I didn’t think of it much at all, I confess. I got caught up in the secrecy, and I shouldn’t have.”
Our fingers are still wrapped around each other’s wrists. I’ve left nail marks in his arms, and he squeezes my bones together. He seems to realize, because his lashes flicker, veiling his eyes, and he slowly loosens his fingers. He pushes me away until I sit on the bed again.
“I don’t think we should get married.”
I stare at him in shock. My tears halt, but the burning in my eyes seems to double, scorching down my throat and into my lungs, squeezing tight. Inside, I am begging him to forgive me, to please understand, not to leave me. The words lock inside me, emerging only as a strangled gasp.
“I don’t know if I can move past this.” Léon looks older all of a sudden, with shadows smudged along his skin under his eyes and cheekbones. “I always knew I felt more strongly about the revolution than you, and I accepted that. But you helped the opposite cause and used me while you did it. This tainted our love—I know you didn’t mean it to, but it did. I can hardly describe how I feel, but I know it would be a mistake for us to wed now. We wouldn’t be happy.” His voice twists with sorrow and bitterness. “I’m sorry, Giselle.”
He pulls his shirt over his head, crams his feet into his boots, and snatches up his coat, all the while avoiding looking directly at me. Even in my haze of shattered dreams, I see that his skin has grown very pale, and he bites his lip while his eyes glitter, with fury or tears, I can’t tell.
Léon pauses before opening the door, and for a hollow heartbeat, I think he will turn around and say that we will see each other, that this isn’t over. Instead he visibly steels himself, spine stiffening, and slips out the door quickly and quietly.
It takes me a long time to get dressed. My body seems to have turned to stone, a statue of shocked sorrow and horrible self-guilt, because I made mistakes and they cost me my love. Once I thaw my fingers and manage to move again, I can’t flee the room quickly enough, escaping the reminders of our night together, the tousled sheets, the two indents in the pillow, the faint scent of him lingering in the room.
I walk around for hours, afraid to go home and face reality, the consequences of my actions. At some point, people begin shouting about the noticeable absence of the monarchs, outraged and baffled. It acts as my cue. Hating the sunshine, for it feels like the day should be full of thunderstorms, I go home and tell my parents of my role in the plot and of my broken engagement.
The following days pass very slowly. I almost feel I can count the passing of each wretched moment by the pain in my head, throbbing with each pulse of my wounded heart.
Chapter Sixteen
JUNE TO JULY 1791
A pool of sunshine spills into the parlor. I drag one of the chairs to its center, taking comfort in the warmth as I embroider a handkerchief. Desperate to keep my mind and hands busy, to lose minutes in concentration on a menial task, I design an elaborate pattern of violets. I considered roses, but red reminds me of tricolor, and revolutionary notions drag at me now, shadowing me in soul-sick weariness. I don’t want to think about anything. Not about the queen, not about Léon, not about myself. I want to think of nothing but how precise I can make the tiny purple stitches.
Maman finds me after a while, giving me a gentle smile and a cup of tea. She seems to sense that I don’t wish to speak, so she ruffles my hair, an affectionate gesture that has fallen out of habit since I was much younger, and leaves me alone with the quiet sunshine. I appreciate her understanding.
The next interruption is far less welcome: a knock on the door. The needle jabs my finger as I twitch with surprise, and I freeze, listening with anticipation and trepidation, hoping the visitor is Léon, fearing that it is not.
My uncle’s smooth voice rings through the hall. Disappointment stabs through me so deeply that I feel ashamed for letting my hopes rise for Léon’s presence. I remember the bitterness etched over his face when we parted, the way he wouldn’t quite look at me, and I have to clench my lips together to keep fresh tears from starting.
“Good afternoon, Félix. I hope you’re well. We haven’t visited in some weeks,” says Uncle Pierre.
“We are all well,
thank you.” Papa expresses his greetings for Eugénie and her mother, and they make small talk for a moment. I continue sewing, not looking up. By counting stitches and taking even, measured breaths, I bring my emotions under control again.
“Are you settled into your new house?” asks Papa.
“Oh yes, it’s very comfortable.”
“And the location?” I hear distaste in my father’s tone. “Across from the remains of the Bastille, isn’t it? It seems like a rather maudlin landmark to live near.”
“There is hardly anything left of it now.” Pierre sounds dismissive. “Once the workers are finished clearing away the last of it, I daresay the view will be splendid.” He clears his throat. “I wanted a word with Giselle. Is she home?”
“She is. I’m not sure she’s up to visiting, however. She’s not well today.”
“I am sorry to hear that. Perhaps, if I call back later?”
Sighing, I put my sewing aside and rise to my feet. My head feels heavy, temples throbbing, but I’d rather face the inevitable conversation with my uncle now instead of delaying. I want to get it over with, not let the dreadful anticipation build.
I clear my rusty throat. “Hello, Uncle. I’m well enough to speak for a few moments.”
He smiles, but his eyes glint with steel. “Thank you, my dear. Should we go to the study?”
“The parlor will be fine.” Without looking back to see if he follows, I return to my sun-splashed seat and pick up my sewing again. It makes me look unconcerned, bending my head over nonurgent embroidery while he paces around the room, clearly waiting for me to speak first.
After a while he admits defeat and sits down opposite me. “I’ve heard some extremely interesting news.” His voice carries an edge of a quality akin to slyness.
My detached façade flickers. I’m certain he knows about the queen’s departure, that he possibly suspects my role in it. Determined not to react, I find my fingers tightening around the cloth anyway. “Yes?” Striving to sound tranquil, I look up, letting my brows arch in a display of mild curiosity.
He reaches into the pocket of his waistcoat and pulls out a folded piece of paper, which considerably increases my bafflement. Opening it slowly, he proffers the paper, and I see that it is an assignat, a form of paper money that came into circulation a couple of years ago, issued by the National Assembly.
“It’s odd, don’t you think, that a bill as new as this would still include the king’s portrait?” He peers at the profile of King Louis, then back at me. “This money was created after the start of the revolution, after hatred of the king was well rooted, and yet, here is his face.” His shoulder lifts in a shrug. “I suppose tradition clings in ways we do not expect. It’s just as well, for having the king’s likeness can be very useful, as it turns out. A postmaster in Varennes, one Monsieur Jean-Baptiste Drouet, recognized the king’s profile when he looked upon the face of a supposed butler passing through Varennes. This butler was part of the retinue of a Russian countess, I’m told, and she had children and other servants with her as well.”
He still holds the assignat toward me. The paper drapes crookedly over his palm. I take it from him, studying the profile of the king. The soft bullfrog swell of his chin and his sloping nose really are quite distinctive. What a pity, since it triggered his recognition.
“You needn’t carry on with the long-winded story,” I tell my uncle tartly. “I’m quite intelligent enough to make the connection that the man truly was the king, and the queen and their children were there too. I’m aware they left Tuileries, after all.”
His teeth show in a cool smile. “Of course. I beg your pardon, Giselle. It’s such a good story. I get caught up in the telling. They say that, when the king’s disguise was caught out, the queen herself straightened up like the empress of the world and peered down her Hapsburg nose at the onlookers and said, ‘Since you recognize your sovereign, respect him.’ And the mayor, who had been called to the scene as soon as suspicion was aroused, made a chagrined bow. It did not stop him from doing his duty, however, and the flight of the monarchs was halted.”
“It sounds in character for her,” I say numbly.
“You would know,” replies my uncle. “You know her rather better than most people have had the opportunity to. Or the desire to.”
Remaining silent, I pick up my needle again, but it’s useless. I can’t focus. I set it back down, this time on the side table instead of my lap.
Uncle Pierre’s voice drops. He narrows his eyes, abandoning the show of light chitchat. While the earlier pretense was still glazed with malice, his anger rings unmistakably now, not contained by the low volume. “I know you helped them escape, Giselle.”
I haven’t the faintest idea how he knows, but a sick feeling coils in my stomach, tugging my limbs taut. Moving with the tension pulling me apart, I rise to my feet. I’m tall enough that we are almost the same height, and as his eyes bore into mine, I stare back. My brows draw closer together, scowling with me, and I’ve never been so glad of the fierce dark shape of them. Perhaps I don’t have a delicate face, but I can stare down my bullying uncle enough to make him blink and rock back one step.
“Their lives were in danger,” I say coldly. “You know this. I told you about several incidents of death threats and assassination attempts.”
“And so you chose to protect them instead of your family? To keep this secret from me?” He waves his hand, palm flexing in frustration.
My lip curls. “We are safe enough. No one is sending us daily threats. No one is calling for your blood.”
His voice slips to a low volume, but it doesn’t sound soft. “Have you forgotten the Réveillon riot? That man and his family were targeted and nearly lost their lives. It could happen to any of us. Feudal privileges have already been abolished. Marat’s bloody pamphlet, L’Ami du Peuple”—he rolls his eyes at the title—“rages against aristocrats. The threat is all around; a mob could storm the house any day, taking what they want and caring little for the consequences.”
“You exaggerate, Uncle. We aren’t titled. And if some starving people are envious of your lavish house across from the old Bastille, it’s not because of me.”
His hands twist. “And yet you would take such extreme action to help them escape to Austria? You thought the moral scales balanced, to let them abandon their country and suffering people in order to protect their wretched lives?”
“Not Austria. Montmédy.”
Perplexity wrinkles his brow. Understanding dawns on him, lightening his expression. He knows where Montmédy is, of course, and knows the citadel is fortified and held by royalists. He throws back his head, and merry laughter bursts from his throat.
“Your hilarity seems misplaced.” I watch him, baffled, feeling as though I have missed something important. I don’t like it—the longer our conversation goes on, the more it seems like a cunning verbal chess game.
“I thought they’d flee to Austria, to beg for aid of the queen’s brother. The obvious routes would take them through Varennes, to the east, or Compiègne, in the northeast. I had people watching in both cities. I meant to find them first.” He shakes his head, eyes gleaming with ironic mirth. “I was wrong, utterly ill informed, and yet they passed through Varennes anyway.”
“What do you mean, ill informed? By whom?” My voices rises, shockingly panicky and shrill. I wish I could bite my tongue, take the sound back.
“Another of the queen’s women. She was dismissed a day or two before the event, but she suspected a flight, and had passed some information on to me. Her name was Geneviève. I assumed you must have been acquainted with her, but I found out from Eugénie that she is your good friend. I am sorry for that—mistrust and betrayal among our family is enough, without tarnishing friendships, too. But I had to hire her. I needed this information, and you weren’t providing it. You succumbed to the queen’s charms, and I could no longer trust you.”
My cheeks burn. I feel like I’ve been slapped. I wish Genev
iève had told me. Perhaps she would have, on the night she confessed to the notes, if not for my strongly disapproving response. Tightness clutches at my throat.
“How did Geneviève know? I was careful to keep the plan from her.” The words leave my mouth stiffly.
“She didn’t know the exact date, but her sudden dismissal was taken as a clue. A correct one, as it turns out. She knew the queen disliked her and suspected her. Her days at Tuileries were numbered. I believe she had been watching Count von Fersen’s household as well. He was instrumental in the planning, was he not? Geneviève befriended one of his footmen.”
The more I hear, the more ludicrous it seems that any of us, Madame Campan, myself, the queen, ever believed the monarchs would truly make it to safety at Montmédy. There are no secrets in the palace, and besides, the plan was ill formed, too spontaneous and dependent on luck that they would not be recognized, that they would make good time, even though each of the royal party brought too many belongings, weighing down the too-large coach. My fingers start to tremble as anger snakes through me, coiling around my heart, spinning the blood to my ringing ears.
“You’ve taken far too much pleasure in telling me of this betrayal.” The words burn my throat, hoarse and dry. “I deceived you—I won’t deny that. It wasn’t kind of me, when we had a partnership. If I truly believed your life was at risk, as the queen’s was, perhaps I would have chosen differently. But we are still family, and I won’t listen to you taunt me any longer with my failure. I don’t need you crowing over me that you managed to outsmart me. I’d like you to leave now.”
Uncle Pierre’s face changes during my speech. As my voice gains strength and clarity, his eyes grow narrow, his mouth opening with outrage. Pink blotches appear high on his cheekbones. His manners are still too good to interrupt, but only barely.
The Wardrobe Mistress Page 18