by Adele Whitby
Oh, no! I thought in horror as the rag doll arced through the kitchen. It’s going to land in the soup!
But what happened was much, much worse; the doll bounced off the pot, grazed the fire, and burst into flames as it fell to the floor!
“Out of my way!” Mrs. Plourde bellowed as she charged across the kitchen. She stomped on the doll as hard as she could until the flames were extinguished, leaving a charred mess on the floor. I was sure that Sophie’s wails could be heard throughout all of Rousseau Manor.
Then Mrs. Plourde turned to Élise. “The kitchen is no place for a baby,” she said sternly, shaking her spoon. “You’ll need to make other arrangements, or I’ll ask Madame Colette to make them for you.”
“Yes, Mrs. Plourde,” Élise said meekly, her head bowed.
I tried to catch Mama’s eye again, but she wouldn’t look at me.
But from the expression on her face, I knew that Mama felt just as worried as I did.
That night, Mama and I had the evening free to tend to our laundry. It had been a dreadfully dull chore to toil away at the washer all by myself while Mama was laid up with her broken ankle, but I was glad to make sure that we always had clean, fresh clothes. I was both surprised and delighted when Mama felt strong enough to limp down to the basement and keep me company; she could make even the laundry fun!
She perched on a tall stool across from me and watched as I added the soap flakes to the water. “Not so much, not so much!” she scolded me with a grin. “You’ll be rinsing for days!”
“I wouldn’t need so much soap if someone were less sloppy with the butter,” I scolded her right back, until we both dissolved into giggles.
All of a sudden, Mama’s smile faded, and she held a finger to her lips. I listened carefully until I could hear it too: the sound of someone crying. Bernadette was strict with the staff; there was to be no crying at Rousseau Manor, no matter what happened. So the servants learned quickly to find a private hiding place to tuck themselves away if they ever needed to have a good cry. The basement, though, was the worst sort of place—it wasn’t a bit private, not with the laundry and the larder and various storage rooms.
But someone new to Rousseau Manor might not know that.
Mama slipped off the stool, wincing slightly as her feet hit the ground. I followed her around the corner, and there we found Élise, leaning against the wall, her shoulders shaking with sobs.
Instantly, Mama wrapped her arms around her. “There, there,” she said soothingly. “There, there. Whatever’s wrong surely isn’t worth this much upset.”
Élise tried to speak, but just shook her head as the tears cascaded down her cheeks.
“What happened?” Mama asked, her voice full of kindness. “You can trust us, Élise. Whatever it is, Camille and I will do everything we can to make it right.”
“I—I—” Élise gulped.
“Deep breath,” Mama reminded her.
Élise inhaled and exhaled. When she spoke again, her voice was calmer. “Dinner was a disaster!” she said. “I am so humiliated!”
“Oh, gracious, no!” Mama disagreed. “My dear Élise, what do you think the servants usually eat? Blanquette de veau? Soufflé au fromage? No, no, a simple meal of soup and bread is all we require.”
“It was inedible,” Élise said stubbornly. “You’re trying to make me feel better, but I know the truth. I heard the footmen—what are their names again? The tall one, he said that it was slop not fit to feed the pigs, but since he was just a footman he might as well choke it down.”
I grimaced. That did sound like something Jacques would say. And it’s true that the soup wasn’t very tasty, what with the burned onions, undercooked carrots, and thin, watery broth. But it was nourishing, with all those vegetables, and that’s what mattered most of all.
“I’m not suited for this kind of work—not at all!” Élise continued as another tear slipped down her cheek. “I’ve only ever cooked for my little family, not a staff of thirty! I don’t know the first thing about cooking for so many people!”
My frown deepened. How could that be true? Hadn’t Bernadette told Madame Colette that Élise used to work in a restaurant?
Surely Bernadette wouldn’t have lied to Madame Colette?
“You mustn’t look at it that way,” Mama told Élise. “Why, really, we’re just a large family, after all. And I promise you that we’re all quite used to simple foods. Now, tomorrow you’ll be able to get your start bright and early, and I’ll make sure that the scullery maids assist you with chopping and tasks like that. We may be a large family, but that just means that we have more hands to help out.”
A look of hope brightened Élise’s face. “Really?” she asked. Then she shook her head. “No, I won’t be able to learn fast enough. I know it. And with Sophie—”
Élise’s face crumpled up like she was about to start crying again, so I spoke quickly. “Please, Élise, I’d be so happy to watch her for you,” I said earnestly. “She’s such a sweet baby, and I love babies!”
Mama put her arm around me. “If you give her a chance, you’ll find that Camille is kind and responsible to a fault,” she promised Élise. “I would trust her with my life.”
“And I’m a disaster in the kitchen,” I pressed on. “Ask anyone! I’d be much more useful minding little Sophie.”
Élise hesitated. “I—I—” Then she sighed heavily as her shoulders slumped. “What choice do I have?” she asked.
It was far from an enthusiastic endorsement, but it would have to do. “Thank you, Élise,” I said. “I promise I’ll take the very best care of her.”
“Now,” Mama said to Élise, using her best take-charge voice, “dry your eyes, wash your face, and go home. You’ve had quite an eventful day, and I think a good night’s sleep is just what you need.”
Élise’s eyes darted toward the stairs. “I should go to the kitchen and start preparing for tomorrow—”
“No,” Mama said firmly. “I can do that for you. You need your rest.”
Élise stared at Mama, as if seeing her through new eyes. “Thank you, Marie,” she finally said. “I am very grateful to you.”
“Not at all,” Mama said as we walked toward the stairs. “Whatever we can do to make you feel at home is our pleasure.”
But as we went upstairs, I noticed that Mama was limping more than usual. She needs to go to bed herself, I thought. If she doesn’t rest her ankle, it will never heal properly.
I waited until Élise was out of earshot, and then I said in a low voice, “Mama, please, you must rest. Let me prepare the kitchen for Élise.”
“I’m fine, Camille,” Mama said, but there were lines of pain etched on her face. “I’m always happy to have your company, though.”
“Please, I know I can get everything ready,” I pressed.
“You’re wanted upstairs,” a new voice said.
It was Bernadette, looking more sour than ever. “And neither of you needs to trouble yourself with my cousin’s work. Élise is quite capable on her own.”
“Of course she is,” Mama said quickly. “We only wanted to help ease her transition to life at Rousseau Manor.”
“That won’t be necessary,” Bernadette said sharply. “If Élise doesn’t see fit to prepare the kitchen tonight, we will respect her choice.”
“But—” I began.
Bernadette whirled around to face me. “Do you intend to argue with me and keep Madame Colette waiting?” she snapped.
“I’m sorry,” I replied.
“I’ll see you upstairs when you’re finished, Camille,” Mama said to me. From the look in her eyes, I could tell what had gone unsaid: that she would go right to bed and rest. As a wave of relief washed over me, I said my good-byes to Bernadette and Mama and made my way toward Madame Colette’s bedroom. It was always a treat to spend the last hour of my day with her; I treasured the nights when she was home, without a ball or a benefit or an opera to attend.
I knocked on Madame Cole
tte’s door and waited for her response.
“Come in.”
I entered softly, curtsying as I stepped into the room. Madame Colette’s bedroom was a beautiful place, decorated in shades of shimmering pearl and rose. She kept the lamps low, so that they bathed everything—from the silk bedclothes to the velvet carpet—in gentle light.
Madame Colette was already sitting at her vanity table, massaging a sweetly scented cream onto her neck. “Ah, Camille!” she said, sounding pleased to see me. “Come in, dear girl. I have missed you these past few nights. I feel as though the season begins earlier and earlier each year. I find I’ve grown tired of it already.”
I smiled at her in response. I missed Madame Colette when she was occupied by social engagements that kept her and Monsieur Henri out late into the night, but I didn’t share her feelings about the season. On the contrary, I loved seeing her dressed in elegant gowns made of the finest silk and lace, with priceless jewels sparkling in her necklaces and earrings. In my secret heart, I longed for the chance to wear such finery, but I knew that would never happen. It was more than enough just to see it with my own eyes!
“Come,” Madame Colette said, patting the footstool before her as she reached for the ivory hairbrush. “Sit.”
I crossed the room obediently and sat on the plush footstool. Madame Colette began to unweave my braid. I closed my eyes and sighed as my long, heavy hair cascaded down my back.
Madame Colette laughed gently. “I know that feeling,” she said. “My hair is thick like yours, and it’s always such a relief to let it down at the end of a long day!”
She began to brush my hair with long, smooth strokes. “Tell me, Camille, did anything of interest happen today?”
“I made bread,” I replied. “I helped make the bread, I should say.”
“Did you really?” exclaimed Madame Colette. “That’s wonderful!”
“And we met Bernadette’s relations,” I continued.
“A sweet family, aren’t they?” she replied. “Do you think they will be happy here?”
I pushed the thought of Élise’s tears out of my mind. “I hope so,” I replied. “Mama and I want to help them feel at home. And I have a new way to be useful! I’ll be minding the little baby, Sophie, while Élise works in the kitchen.”
“How very kind of you,” Madame Colette told me. “Some people don’t have the patience for babies, but I think you’ll be well suited to that sort of task.”
“I think babies are great fun,” I said. “I used to dream of having a brother or a sister. But since Papa died . . .”
I noticed that Madame Colette had stopped brushing my hair, so I bit my tongue to keep from saying more. When I was alone with her, it was easy to forget my place. Be still! I scolded myself. Why would Madame Colette care about the silly dreams of a servant girl?
“It occurs to me that we should still have the pram from when you were a baby,” she said as she began to brush my hair again. “It must be in the basement somewhere. If you’d like, I can have one of the footmen find it for you. Then you could take Baby Sophie for walks outside. The grounds are so lovely in the springtime.”
“Oh, Madame Colette, that would be wonderful!” I exclaimed. Then I remembered Mama’s warning not to ask extra work of anyone on the staff. “But, please, don’t trouble the footmen on my account. I’m sure I can manage it on my own.”
Madame Colette gave me a long look. “You know, Camille, I do believe you can,” she replied. “It’s made of wicker and is very light. And you are very strong.”
I smiled, pleased by the compliment, as Madame Colette brushed my hair a few more times. “There,” she said. “Smooth and shiny.”
That was what she always said when she finished brushing my hair, and I knew that it was my cue to leave. But as I rose, she said, “One moment, my dear.”
Then Madame Colette reached out and dabbed a bit of her lotion along my temples and at the base of my neck. I breathed in deeply, smelling the beautiful fragrance of lilies.
“Sweet scents for sweet dreams,” she said. “Good night, Camille.”
“Good night, Madame Colette,” I replied with a curtsy. “And thank you!”
When Élise arrived in the kitchen with Baby Sophie the next morning, I was ready for her. “Good morning!” I cried. “Look at what Madame Colette has made available to us!”
Élise’s eyes grew wide. “No,” she breathed. “This pram is too fine—”
“She specifically said I might take Baby Sophie for walks in it,” I assured her. “Apparently, it was my pram when I was a baby!” I found that hard to believe, but Madame Colette was no liar. What a pity that I couldn’t remember being nestled among the pram’s elegant satin pillows, with shafts of sunlight peeking through the slats of the white wicker!
I reached for Baby Sophie, who came into my arms willingly. “Hello, Sophie,” I cooed. “My name is Camille. Would you like to take a walk outside? We can search for birds’ nests in the apple trees!”
When Sophie started clapping her hands eagerly, I knew she approved of the plan. I tucked her in carefully among the pillows, then covered her with a blanket so that she wouldn’t take a chill.
“You’ll be all right by yourself?” Élise asked anxiously. “If you need anything—”
“Oh, yes, we’ll be quite all right,” I assured her. “I’ve grown up here. I know my way around the grounds better than anyone. Don’t worry. I’ll take the very best care of Sophie. We’ll be back for lunch!”
Then, with Sophie waving happily, I pushed the pram into the courtyard.
“Out of our way, chickens!” I sang out as we strolled toward the path, making Sophie giggle as the chickens scattered, clucking at us. Soon we turned left, leaving the courtyard to follow the path through the flower gardens. It was a beautiful day, clear and sunny, with a brisk breeze that ruffled Sophie’s pale brown curls.
“The apple orchard is my favorite place, Sophie, and I’ll tell you exactly why,” I said. I wasn’t sure how much she could understand, but Mama had told me that it was very good to talk to babies so that they might learn more words. “In the springtime, like now, all the trees are covered with flowers, and they have the most beautiful scent! And then when the petals start to fall, it’s like large, soft snowflakes drifting all around. Then in fall, the apples ripen! You’ll love them, Sophie. They’re so sweet and delicious and—”
Suddenly, I stopped. A chill ran down my neck. Just the breeze, I thought, shivering as I wrapped my arms around myself. I leaned over to make sure that Sophie’s blanket was keeping her warm.
No. It wasn’t just the breeze. Because at that moment, I spotted a flash of blue on the other side of the hedge. It was too pale to be a bluebird, and it was too early for forget-me-nots. It had to be someone wearing a blue shirt.
I pushed Sophie forward. “I know you’ll love the orchard as much as I do,” I babbled.
The blue flash moved beside us.
I stopped abruptly.
So did the streak of blue.
Someone’s following me! I thought wildly. What should I do?
If I went back to the kitchen, I’d disrupt Élise’s work and disappoint Mama. But I couldn’t keep walking toward the orchard as if nothing were wrong. So I pulled myself up to my full height and said, as firmly as I could, “I know you’re there, on the other side of the hedge. Show yourself!”
Nothing happened. I waited . . . and waited. . . .
As the seconds passed, I began to feel more annoyed than anxious. Here I was, having a perfectly lovely day, when someone saw fit to follow me? That was unacceptable!
I mustered all my courage and leaned toward the hedge. I saw a pair of green eyes and a shock of light brown hair. I recognized that hair; it was the exact same color as Sophie’s sweet curls. Alexandre? I thought in disbelief. Why is Alexandre following me?
“I said show yourself!” I repeated, louder this time. “Or you’ll leave me no choice but to send for Monsieur Henri.”<
br />
It was an idle threat—I had no intention of disturbing Monsieur Henri for something so trivial. But Alexandre didn’t know that.
At last there was a rustle in the bushes, and Alexandre sheepishly stepped through them. I looked around to see if he had shears or clippers or any possible reason to be lurking about the bushes, but he was empty-handed. He wasn’t even wearing work gloves.
“What are you doing?” I asked. “Were you—were you following me?”
Alexandre looked down as he kicked at the dirt. He didn’t say anything.
“Well?” I demanded.
“Yes,” he finally admitted.
“Why?”
There was a long pause before Alexandre spoke. Then he jerked his thumb toward Sophie. “I . . . I had to look out for Sophie. She’s my sister. Don’t take offense.”
“But I’m looking out for Sophie,” I said, confused. “Don’t you trust me?”
When Alexandre didn’t respond, I had my answer.
“Oh,” was all I could say. Then I asked, “Why not?”
Alexandre looked miserable, but he eventually said, “Well—it’s just—we don’t know you! We don’t know anybody here! And if it’s true what they say—”
“If what’s true?” I asked.
“Never mind,” he mumbled.
I stood there awkwardly, wondering how Mama would advise me. Élise had been just as cold until Mama reached out to her in friendship. Maybe that would work with Alexandre, too.
“You don’t know us yet,” I said. “But all the staff is ready to welcome you! We’re all glad you’re here. Everyone tries to help, in any way they can—no matter what’s asked of them. That’s how it’s always been. I’m so glad to be useful to your mother so that she can concentrate on her work in the kitchen. You needn’t worry about Sophie. I promise you I’ll take the very best care of her!”
Alexandre gave me a long look. It seemed awfully silly, but I was suddenly struck by how, well, handsome he was, with that shiny hair and eyes that were as green and sparkling as Madame Colette’s emerald necklace. I looked away quickly.