Camille’s Story, 1910

by Adele Whitby

  When I got to the kitchen, I saw that one of the scullery maids was putting the finishing touch on Monsieur Henri’s tray—a delicate rosebud in a crystal vase.

  “Where’ve you been all morning?” the head chef, Mrs. Plourde, called to me.

  “I was—I was unpacking,” I told her.

  “Ah, of course,” replied Mrs. Plourde. “And are the rooms to your liking?”

  “Oh, yes,” I began, but Mama interrupted me.

  “They’ll be fine,” she said. “Of course, we’ll take extra pains to avoid disturbing the family.”

  Mrs. Plourde nodded knowingly. “Can’t say that I’d like to live right under their noses like that,” she replied.

  That’s when I realized that Mama was trying to make sure no one would feel jealous of our new situation. She’s so clever, I thought.

  Mama arranged a dozen piping-hot madeleines in a basket lined with a crisp white cloth. Then she placed it by the edge of the tray. “Mind the cookies. They’re fresh from the oven,” she told me.

  “Just how Monsieur Henri likes them,” I replied. As do I, I thought, but I didn’t say it—even though it was no secret to Mama that he always shared dessert with me.

  “The tray looks ready,” Mama said. “Run along, Camille. You mustn’t keep Monsieur Henri waiting.”

  “Yes, Mama, thank you,” I said as I carefully lifted the heavy tray. In addition to the basket of cookies, it had a bowl of steaming asparagus soup and a plate piled high with ham and fresh vegetables from the garden. I could tell already that Monsieur Henri would be pleased.

  I don’t remember quite how it began, but for years now Monsieur Henri had requested that I serve his midday meal in his office every Tuesday. Monsieur Henri always said that eating at his desk allowed him to keep working without a break, but I can’t imagine that he was able to accomplish much, since we spent the entire hour chatting about everything but his work! Monsieur Henri was a wonderful listener; I can’t imagine that the silly stories of a servant’s daughter were that interesting to him, but somehow he made it seem like the rest of the world slipped away while we chatted together. It was easy to pretend, during our wonderful conversations, that Monsieur Henri was my grandfather—a silly daydream that I could never mention to Mama, or even write in my journal.

  As I approached Monsieur Henri’s office door, mindful of the heavy tray in my hands, I noticed that it was closed. That was unusual—Monsieur Henri always kept his door open when he was expecting his lunch. I frowned. How could I knock while I was holding the tray? It would never do to place Monsieur Henri’s food on the floor!

  While trying to figure out what to do, I realized that I could hear voices carrying through the closed door. It was Monsieur Henri and Madame Colette, and they must have been speaking very loudly for me to hear them so clearly. Later I realized that I should have turned around and left immediately. But in the moment, I was so stunned that I paused and—I’m ashamed to admit—listened.

  “The girl’s parents are dead—dead!” Madame Colette said shrilly, each word louder than the one before. “She is our responsibility now! Don’t you understand?”

  “Of course I do,” Monsieur Henri replied. “But it is complicated—”

  “On the contrary, it is very simple,” Madame Colette interrupted him.

  “Please lower your voice, my dear,” Monsieur Henri said. The rest of his words were a mumble. Then Madame Colette responded, also in a mumble, but whatever she said must have upset him, because I heard him answer, quite clearly, “What about Camille?”

  What about me? What about me? Had Monsieur Henri really said my name?

  “You act as if there is only one solution, and that it’s a simple one, but you have given no consideration to Camille, who will be most affected if—”

  Crash!

  The tray!

  Somehow, in my shocked astonishment, the tray had slipped from my hands, crashing to the floor with a terrible clatter. The carefully prepared vegetables had scattered across the hall; the ham sat in a greasy pool on the carpet; even the warm madeleines had crumbled into the puddle of soup. And worst of all, I’d broken the plate!

  There was an immediate silence from Monsieur Henri’s office. All I knew in that moment was that I had to get help.

  Mama, I thought. Mama will know what to do. I felt better the instant I realized that she was right downstairs in the kitchen. Mama could help me fix all of this.

  As quickly as I could, I scooped up the tray and the china—especially the broken shards—and ran toward the stairs. I’d need a housemaid to help me clean up all that food, and we’d have to prepare a new tray for Monsieur Henri—and of course I’d have to make my apologies for the broken china—

  But beneath all the thoughts rushing through my mind, there was one sentence that kept repeating itself, over and over:

  What about Camille?

  I’d heard only snippets of Monsieur Henri and Madame Colette’s conversation, but somehow I just knew that something momentous had happened—and strangely enough, it had something to do with me. What I had heard made no sense, though. Who was this mysterious orphaned girl—and oh, how my heart ached for her; how terrible to lose both her parents—and how could her situation affect me? I was nobody, not even a servant yet—just a servant’s daughter, trying my best to help and not get in the way or make more work.

  Unlike dropping a tray full of food right outside Monsieur Henri’s office.

  Oh, what if he and Madame Colette opened the door and saw the mess before I could get back to clean it?

  The very thought pushed me faster until I was nearly running into the kitchen, where my luck got worse. Because it wasn’t Mama I saw as soon as I reached the kitchen.

  It was Bernadette.

  She took one look at me—I’m sure I was a mess, all disheveled from running, with strands of hair flying out of my cap—and the untidy tray and seemed to know exactly what had happened.

  “Disgraceful,” Bernadette said in a voice so cold that it sent chills down my spine. “Almost twelve years old, and you can’t carry a tray of food to the master of the house without destroying his property?”

  I bowed my head as tears of shame sprang to my eyes. “I’m sorry,” I said hoarsely. But I knew that Bernadette’s lecture had only begun.

  Then Mama whisked toward us as fast as her injured ankle would allow. “Oh, Camille, what have you done?” she asked sternly, taking me by the arm. “You’ll answer to me for this.” She caught Bernadette’s eye and shook her head ominously. I saw the hint of a satisfied smile flicker across Bernadette’s lips.

  Mama took me into the pantry and closed the door behind us. The moment we were alone, tears spilled down my cheeks. “It was an accident!” I sobbed. “I’m sor—”

  “Of course it was!” Mama said in a soothing voice, making me realize that her sternness in front of Bernadette was all for show. Mama dabbed at my cheeks with her handkerchief and kissed me quickly on the forehead. “You mustn’t mind Bernadette. Everyone in service makes mistakes at some point or another. What broke? The plate?”

  I nodded miserably as I explained what had happened.

  “That’s all right. You’ll make your apologies and they’ll take the cost of replacing it out of my pay, and it will all be over and forgotten,” Mama said. “Now, in the future, try to balance the tray in the crook of your left arm, steadying it with your left hand, while you knock with your right. See?” Mama demonstrated for me, smiling warmly. I tried to smile back, but my face felt all wobbly. She could tell right away that something was still troubling me.

  “What is it, Camille?” Mama asked in concern.

  “I was—I was outside Monsieur Henri’s office,” I began. “And I heard him talking to Madame Colette. It almost—it almost sounded like they were arguing.”

  A frown crossed Mama’s face. “Camille, you know better,” she said, and it hurt me to see the quick flash of disappointment in her eyes. “We must never listen at door
s. Never.”

  “I know!” I said right away. “It all happened so fast—you see, they were talking about a girl whose parents had died, and then I—I heard my name!”

  “Your name?” Mama asked in surprise. “No, no, Camille, you must be mistaken. There would be no reason for Monsieur Henri and Madame Colette to mention you.”

  “But I—”

  “No reason at all,” she continued firmly.

  “You’re right, of course,” I replied, already beginning to doubt myself. But I know I heard my name, I thought. I’m sure of it.

  I looked up at Mama, searching her pale blue eyes. “Do you know what’s happened?” I asked. “Who this poor orphaned girl might be?” Word traveled fast at Rousseau Manor, especially in the kitchen; sometimes the servants seemed to know more about what was happening than even the Rousseaus.

  “No. I haven’t heard a thing,” she said, shaking her head. “But whatever’s happening, we will be made aware when the time is right.”

  And as I looked into Mama’s familiar eyes, I was certain she was right—just as certain as I was that I had heard Monsieur Henri say my name.

  The next morning, Mama and I woke up extra early for some additional work in the kitchen. Bernadette’s relatives, the Archambaults, were due after lunch, and we wanted to make sure that they felt welcome from the first moment they arrived at their new home. So we planned to surprise them with a basket of pain au chocolat as a welcoming present! While Mama prepared the special croissant dough, I carefully chopped up a block of bittersweet chocolate. Then she showed me how to make neat little parcels of dough with the chocolate tucked inside. The rich scent of butter and cocoa filled the whole kitchen while the pain au chocolat baked. When Mrs. Plourde told me to make some bread for the servants’ lunch, I tried to remember Mama’s directions exactly, since Bernadette was even more snappish than usual. That was very surprising to me, as I thought she would be happy to have her relatives joining her at Rousseau Manor.

  Around midafternoon, the bell rang to summon Bernadette upstairs. “They must be here,” she said distractedly, as she smoothed her apron skirt. “I’ll be right back.”

  I felt a surge of excitement as Bernadette hurried out of the kitchen. I couldn’t wait to meet the new family, especially the daughter I’d heard about. Perhaps she would join my lessons. We could have a little school! And most of all, I hoped that the new girl would be my friend. I’d never really known a girl my own age before; a friend of my very own seemed like a wonderful thing to have.

  A few minutes later, Bernadette returned to the kitchen, with her relatives trailing behind her. She clapped her hands loudly to get everyone’s attention. The servants immediately assembled into a line; I scurried across the room so that I could stand next to Mama.

  “I’d like to present Philippe Archambault and his family—Élise, Alexandre, and Sophie,” Bernadette announced. “As you know, Philippe will be the new groundskeeper, assisted by Alexandre. Élise will be joining all of you in the kitchen, preparing staff meals. I know that you will welcome them kindly.”

  Then Bernadette led her relatives down the line, introducing each member of the kitchen staff in turn. I craned my neck curiously, trying to get a better look at the newcomers while I stifled my disappointment. Little Sophie was only a baby cradled in her mother’s arms; she couldn’t have been even a year old! I loved looking after sweet little babies whenever the Rousseaus’ guests arrived with children in tow, and Sophie was as cute as could be, but she was hardly the playmate I’d hoped for. I was also surprised to see the boy, Alexandre. I’d thought that Bernadette had told Madame Colette he was fully grown, but he couldn’t have been much older than me. Neither one of the Archambault children were what I’d expected.

  “And this is our pastry chef, Marie LeClerc, and her daughter, Camille,” Bernadette sneered when she reached us. I smiled my brightest, but it lasted only a moment, because the faces looking back at me were cold as ice.

  “Welcome to Rousseau Manor,” Mama said as she held out the basket of warm pain au chocolat. “Camille and I made these for you. We thought you might be in need of some refreshments after your journey today.”

  Philippe and Élise exchanged a pointed glance, but I couldn’t figure out what they meant by it.

  “Thank you, but we won’t take time to eat,” Philippe replied. “We must get right to work.”

  “Surely not,” Mama protested. “I know that Madame Colette would want you to settle in to your new home.”

  “No, thank you,” Élise said shortly. “We don’t need special treatment. We’re here to work hard, not to be coddled and spoiled. I will be back shortly to prepare the servants’ dinner.”

  A smug smile settled on Bernadette’s face. “And that is why I spoke so highly of you to Madame Colette,” she said. “Come now, I will show you to the cottage, and then you can begin your duties.”

  Philippe and Élise followed Bernadette without another glance in our direction, but Alexandre looked over his shoulder at us curiously, as though he were confused by something. The whole encounter left me feeling unsure and unsettled, especially when I realized that they had left the pain au chocolat behind.

  “Wait!” I started to say, but Mama put her hand on my arm.

  “It’s all right, Camille,” she said in a low voice. “But you can have one if you want.”

  Within the hour, Élise returned, wearing a clean apron over her cotton dress and carrying Baby Sophie in a wicker basket. “I am here,” she said breathlessly, as though she had run all the way from the groundskeeper’s cottage. “I am ready to work.”

  Mrs. Plourde took a long look at Sophie. “With the child?” she asked bluntly.

  “Sophie is very well behaved,” Élise assured her. “You will soon forget she is even here.”

  “All right, then,” Mrs. Plourde replied, but she didn’t look convinced. “You’ll find vegetables in the pantry; you probably have enough time to make soup. Camille is making the bread, so that should be ready by supper.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Plourde,” Élise replied.

  I continued to knead the dough silently, watching out of the corner of my eye as Élise set the basket in the corner. She placed a simple rag doll in Sophie’s hands and whispered something to her. Then Élise filled her apron with onions, carrots, and celery. She looked around the kitchen helplessly for a moment.

  “The knives are over there,” I told her, trying to be helpful. “In the drawer beside the stove.”

  Élise looked at me in surprise. “Thank you,” she said coldly as she hurried off to get a knife. But by the time she had returned, Sophie had started climbing out of the basket!

  “No, Sophie!” Élise said sternly. “You stay in the basket. Stay here!”

  “Mama!” Sophie cried, holding her arms out.

  Élise shook her head. “Mama is cooking,” she told the baby. “Mama cannot hold you right now.”

  “May I hold her?” I asked.

  “That won’t be necessary,” Élise told me. “Sophie always minds me.” Then she crossed the kitchen and started a fire under the enormous stockpot.

  I kept kneading the loaves of bread, watching Sophie out of the corner of my eye. While Élise melted butter in the pot and chopped the onions, Sophie was good as gold, hugging her doll. But all too soon, Sophie grew bored and began to climb out of the basket again. I glanced anxiously at Élise, who had her back to Sophie as she stirred the sautéing onions. It would be so easy for me to tend to Sophie . . . but Élise had already told me not to interfere.

  Just as I began to call for Élise, Sophie managed to tip over her basket! With a triumphant giggle, the baby began to crawl across the room. “Élise!” I cried urgently as I rushed over to Sophie and scooped her into my arms. The busy kitchen, full of sharp objects and boiling pots, was no place for a baby to crawl around.

  Élise dropped her spoon at once. “Naughty girl!” she scolded Sophie. “Naughty! Mama said to stay in your basket.”r />
  “I would be happy to—” I began.

  “It’s not your concern,” Élise interrupted me.

  I turned away, stung. Why did Élise dislike me so much? I was only trying to help!

  Behind me, I could hear Élise whispering urgently to Sophie, begging her to stay in the basket. Suddenly, the bitter smell of burning onions filled the air. I wrinkled my nose.

  “Who is burning the meal?” Mrs. Plourde barked.

  Élise gasped and rushed back to the pot. She turned down the heat right away, but it was too late; a smoky cloud hung over the stove.

  “I need to start again,” she told Mrs. Plourde.

  But the cook shook her head. “No time for that,” she said.

  “I understand,” Élise said. She tried to scrape the burned bits off the bottom of the pot, then added a pitcher full of water. “Oh!” she suddenly exclaimed. “I forgot the carrots and celery!” She tossed them into the pot in such a hurry that water splashed over the side.

  I frowned a little. I’d seen Mrs. Plourde make soup hundreds of times; she always sautéed the onions, carrots, and celery together before adding water, herbs, beans, and lots of salt and pepper. I'm sure Élise's way will taste just as good, I told myself.

  “Mama-mama-mama,” Sophie began to chant. “Mama-mama-mama-mama-mama-mama-mama—”

  “Sophie, hush!” Élise snapped.

  Mama and I exchanged a glance. I could tell that we were both thinking the same thing: This was never going to work!

  “You’ve got to help with the baby, Camille,” Mama whispered to me.

  “I tried!” I replied. “But Élise doesn’t want me to hold her.”

  “Mama-mama-mama-mama,” chanted Sophie.

  “Élise?” Mama called across the kitchen. “Camille is wonderful with children, you know. She—”

  “Mama-mama-mama-mama-mama—”

  “—would be more than happy to—”

  “Mama-mama-mama-mama-mama—”

  “Sophie!” Élise yelled. “Be quiet!”

  The kitchen was completely silent for a moment. Then, to my astonishment, Sophie threw the little doll at her mother.