by Adele Whitby
“Come,” I said, hoping that he didn’t notice the red blush creeping into my cheeks. “Let me take you on a tour of the grounds. I’m sure that there’s much for you to see. Unless your father needs you?”
Alexandre shook his head. “He’s doing inventory in the toolshed today,” he replied. “He told me to stay away on account of all the sharp, rusted pieces.”
“I imagine it’s in a terrible state,” I said. “I’m not sure anyone’s maintained the tools properly since my father died.”
He gave me a quizzical look. “Your father?”
“Oh, yes. Papa was the last groundskeeper at Rousseau Manor,” I told him. “He died when I was four, though, and since then all the landscaping has been done by day laborers.”
“I’m sorry about your father,” Alexandre said in a quiet voice.
“Thank you,” I replied. Then I smiled. “I think he’d be happy that you and your father are here to put things right. Papa loved the grounds at Rousseau Manor. He tended them with joy and care.”
For the next hour, I showed Alexandre all my favorite spots: the lily pond, the elegant marble fountain, and, of course, the apple orchard.
“It’s a splendid piece of land; there’s no doubt about that,” Alexandre said. “But I’d hoped you might tell me about all those overgrown, brambly hedges behind the house. Papa can’t wait to rip them out. Such an eyesore!”
“They weren’t always,” I replied. “They used to be a topiary garden—you know, bushes sculpted into a particular form. Papa trained the bushes to grow into the most fantastical creatures, a whole menagerie of them! There were monkeys, a lion, a pair of swans . . . even a peacock, with morning glories twined through the branches to look like feathers. But with no one to tend them over the years, they fell into disarray. Now you can hardly tell what each one used to be.”
“Oh,” Alexandre said, sounding surprised.
“It used to be my favorite place on the grounds,” I confessed. “But not since they’ve become so overgrown. Now it just makes me sad to see them and remember how much Papa used to care for them. I wish you didn’t have to uproot them all, though. But I suppose it’s for the best if they’ve become a blight on the landscape.”
Alexandre stared at the sky. “It must be almost time for lunch,” he said abruptly, noticing the position of the sun.
“We’ll go back, then,” I said, turning Sophie’s pram around. “I’m sure your mother will be glad to see that no harm’s come to her baby.”
When we arrived back at Rousseau Manor, though, the kitchen was empty. My forehead wrinkled in confusion. “That’s odd,” I said. “Usually the kitchen is bustling from morning until night.”
There was only one thing that could account for the unexpected quietness. I scooped Sophie out of the pram as fast as I could. “Come on, Alexandre,” I said. “Hurry!”
“Why? What’s wrong?” he said urgently. “Where are we going?”
“Upstairs—to the salon!” I replied. “If no one’s downstairs, it means that Monsieur Henri and Madame Colette have called an important meeting!”
Alexandre and I raced up the back stairs and down the hall to the salon, which was crowded with all the servants. They were chatting quietly among themselves, which was a good sign; if Monsieur Henri or Madame Colette had been present, the servants would have been silent, giving them their full attention. No doubt the rest of the servants were as curious about this mysterious meeting as I was!
As we slipped into the crowded room, Alexandre gestured to the last empty chair. “Please, sit,” he said.
“Thank you,” I replied. I dandled Baby Sophie on my knee, making her squeal with laughter as I jiggled her up and down.
Across the room, I spotted Élise smiling at us. She gestured as if to take Sophie from me, but I shook my head. “She’s doing fine,” I called, hoping that Élise could hear me over all the chatter.
Then Alexandre leaned down to tickle Sophie’s plump cheeks, making her giggle all the harder. The baby’s laughter was infectious, and soon the whole room was chuckling . . . except for Bernadette, who stared at us with a hard look in her eyes. A sudden wave of self-consciousness made my smile fade. Was my apron mussed from my morning outdoors? Had my hair come loose from its orderly plait?
If I hadn’t done anything wrong, why did Bernadette dislike me so?
Before I could ponder the question further, Madame Colette entered the room on Monsieur Henri’s arm. The entire crowd quieted at once, except for Baby Sophie—but I knew her sweet babbling wouldn’t bother our kind employers.
“Thank you all for gathering here on such short notice,” Madame Colette began. “We know how hard you work and how busy you are. Please know that your efforts do not go unnoticed, and we are deeply grateful for them.”
“Especially now, when Rousseau Manor is filled to capacity,” added Monsieur Henri. “A lesser staff would have succumbed to petty quarrels and squabbling from the strain, but not you.”
They paused for a moment to let their praise wash over us. I could tell that everyone was relieved. The Rousseaus were not given to public scoldings—in fact, such a thing had never happened at Rousseau Manor in my memory—but it was always a worry for servants that our employers would find fault with our work.
“We have an announcement that will undoubtedly take you by surprise,” Monsieur Henri said. I noticed that his arm tightened around Madame Colette’s waist; she grasped his arm so that they were supporting each other.
“It grieves me to tell you that my cousin Nicolas and his wife, Annabelle, were killed in an automobile accident in America,” continued Monsieur Henri.
Such tragic news! The servants were too well trained to display much emotion, but I could see a stricken expression on nearly everyone’s face. My heart clenched like a fist.
But the news only got worse.
“They leave behind a daughter, Claire, who is but eleven years old,” finished Madame Colette. She closed her eyes, overcome.
Eleven years old! I thought as tears pricked at my eyes. Poor, poor Mademoiselle Claire. When Papa died, I learned firsthand how heartbreaking it was to lose a parent. But to lose both mother and father. To be an orphan, alone in the world . . .
“We have, of course, extended our deepest sympathies to Claire and offered her a home with us here at Rousseau Manor,” Monsieur Henri said. “And so I announce with great relief that her American guardian has accepted our offer on Claire’s behalf. She will arrive in two weeks’ time, and we will raise her as our own.”
A low murmur surged through the room. My thoughts were all jumbled: I felt so sorry for Mademoiselle Claire, and yet I could hardly believe that a girl my own age would be coming to Rousseau Manor! I already knew that I would gladly do all that I could to ease her pain and make her feel at home here.
Before the servants could continue their hushed conversation, Bernadette rose from her seat; the mere sight of her towering over the crowd silenced everyone.
“If I may, on behalf of all the staff here at Rousseau Manor, I would like to offer my deepest condolences for your loss,” she said in a solemn voice. “I give you my assurances that we will tend to Mademoiselle Claire with the greatest of care. It will be an honor to serve her, as it is an honor to serve you.”
The strain on Madame Colette’s face melted away as she placed her hand over her heart. “Thank you, Bernadette,” she said. “My thanks to all of you. We are grateful to have you by our side in times of trouble.”
“Madame, you are the one who has supported us in our time of need,” Bernadette replied, gesturing to Philippe and Élise. All the servants who had relatives staying at Rousseau Manor nodded in agreement. “We are forever in your debt.”
“Nonsense,” Madame Colette said firmly. “We are glad to be of assistance. We won’t keep you any longer today, but as I’m sure you all know, there will be a great many arrangements to be made before Claire arrives. So we shall continue this conversation in due time.”
“Thank you, Camille,” Élise said fervently as she reached for her baby. “You really do have a way with children. Look how happy my little Sophie is to be with you!”
“She’s darling,” I told Élise. “It was my pleasure to watch her.”
“It must be time for lunch,” Alexandre said. “Let’s go to the servants’ dining room.”
“Actually . . . you go ahead. There’s something I need to do first,” I said. I knew I should eat, but my appetite was gone. The only thing I could think about was escaping to my room for a few quiet moments to write in my journal. My feelings were too intense to keep bottled up inside me; I simply had to let them out, and writing was the best way.
“Oh, I see,” Alexandre replied. Was it my imagination, or did he look a little disappointed? I smiled warmly at him and waved as I ducked out of the room.
As quickly as I could, I darted through the halls to my new room in the West Wing. Once inside, I went directly to the writing desk and sat down with my journal, my pen, and a fresh bottle of ink.
I am trembling as I write this, stunned by the news that Madame Colette and Monsieur Henri have just delivered to us. To think that Mademoiselle Claire will be coming to Rousseau Manor to live here! For so long, I have wished and hoped for a playmate—for a friend—my age. And yet it seems especially cruel that my wish comes true because of the tragic accident that has claimed the lives of Mademoiselle Claire’s parents. My heart breaks for her, again and again and again, when I think of the pain she must be enduring. I wonder what Mademoiselle Claire thinks of coming to France. Is she frightened? Upset? Grateful for extended family who will take her in?
Does she even speak French?
It is safe to assume that the days and weeks ahead will be especially grueling for Mademoiselle Claire. I shall make it my sole purpose to offer her comfort in any way that I can. I understand—at least a little—how much her heart must be hurting right now. It has been seven years since Papa died, and I am starting to think that the pain of losing him will never fully go away.
I wish there were a way I could send Mademoiselle Claire some reassurance, to ease any fears she may have. From the excessive kindness that Monsieur Henri and Madame Colette have shown me, I know that they will shower her with love, just as if they were her grandparents. Just the way I wish they were mine.
“Camille.”
Mama’s voice wafted to me from the doorway. I looked up guiltily as I covered my writing with my hand. We both knew that I wasn’t supposed to steal away during the day for something so trivial as writing in my journal.
“You were missed at lunch.”
The gentle rebuke filled me with shame. How many times had Mama told me that it was especially important for me to follow all the rules? To make sure that no one could accuse me of putting on airs? Of taking advantage of the special favors from Madame Colette and Monsieur Henri?
“I’m sorry, Mama.” I apologized right away. “I just—I just had to write a little—”
She smiled understandingly. “Such unexpected news does make life topsy-turvy,” she replied.
“I can hardly believe it,” I confided. “My heart aches for Mademoiselle Claire, and yet I’m excited at the same time. I can’t wait to meet her, Mama! I’m sure we’ll be the very best of friends!”
Mama’s smile was replaced by a troubled expression. “Dear one, you must remember that Mademoiselle Claire is part of the Rousseau family,” she said. “You are a servant. You two may be friendly, but you will never be friends—and certainly not best friends.”
“I—”
“You will have very little in common with her,” Mama continued. “Mademoiselle Claire is an American; undoubtedly, she has been raised in a wealthy home, with all the luxuries she could ever desire. You are a servant, like me. We serve people like Mademoiselle Claire. We lead different lives from them; we have different fates.”
“That’s exactly my plan, Mama!” I exclaimed. “To serve her—to make her life here comfortable and familiar. That’s just what I’ve been writing about!”
“Very good,” she said, but her eyes still looked worried. “Now you must run along and eat something before all the food is gone. Then I’ll require your help in the kitchen. I thought we’d make a strawberry galette for dessert tonight.”
I smiled at Mama. Monsieur Henri loved strawberries, and the first crop of the season always brought him joy. I could tell that Mama had chosen the dessert just to please him in this time of sorrow.
“Put away your writing instruments and come to the kitchen. I’ll set aside a bowl of soup for you,” Mama told me before she left.
I blew on the ink to make sure it was dry, then carefully tightened the cap on the ink bottle to make sure it was completely closed. An ink stain in my fine new bedroom would be a catastrophe!
Then, all of a sudden, a genius idea struck me. A fine new bedroom! I thought in excitement. That’s just what I can do for Mademoiselle Claire!
It would be perfect: There was a suite of empty rooms on the other side of the second floor. I couldn’t imagine why they sat unused, year after year; to my mind they were the prettiest rooms in the house, with pink rosebuds on the wallpaper and sheer white curtains that let in the sunlight. It already had a tall wardrobe that would be perfect for Mademoiselle Claire’s lovely gowns and an elegant four-poster bed with pink velvet drapes. I could clean it from top to bottom . . . open the windows to air it out with the sweet spring breezes . . . polish all the fine wooden furnishings . . . and arrange everything in it just so for Mademoiselle Claire. That way, from her very first night at Rousseau Manor, she would feel at home.
I just needed to get Madame Colette’s permission first.
I bit my lip as I glanced at the clock on the mantel. Mama had told me to go directly to the kitchen. Would she be upset if I made a stop along the way?
I won’t take but a minute of Madame Colette’s time, I told myself as I set off down the hall. Perhaps Mama wouldn’t even notice that I was a tiny bit later than she expected. And that might have been the case if I hadn’t run into Bernadette. Her eyes narrowed when she spotted me.
“What are you doing out of the kitchen?” she asked bluntly.
“There was something I needed to do in my room,” I tried to explain.
She looked like she didn’t believe me. “A noteworthy morning, wasn’t it?” Bernadette asked, her eyes never leaving my face. “It’s not every day when Rousseau Manor is rocked by such an announcement. That poor girl.”
“Yes,” I said, nodding my head. It was always safest to agree with Bernadette, and this time I truly did.
“And poor you.”
For a moment I thought I’d misheard her. Poor me? That couldn’t be right. “What do you mean?” I asked carefully.
“It’s a sad day for you, that’s all,” Bernadette continued. Her lips twitched as if she were holding back a laugh. “You must know that you won’t be the Rousseaus’ favorite anymore, not once Mademoiselle Claire arrives. They’ll turn all their attention to her, their own blood relation, which I daresay is more appropriate—don’t you agree?”
“Yes,” I said numbly.
This time, Bernadette couldn’t hide her smile any longer. “Well, try not to cry too much about it,” she said in a voice that might have sounded friendly, if her cruel words didn’t betray her true meaning. “It’s not really your fault. I’m not one to speak ill of my employers, but everyone could see that this peculiar . . . situation would only end badly. Hurry along to the kitchen, Camille. Heaven knows there’s work to be done.”
I nodded my head, staring at the floor as Bernadette brushed past me. But as soon as she was gone, I continued on my way to Madame Colette’s parlor, trying to shrug off Bernadette’s hurtful words. Of course I knew that Claire was pa
rt of the Rousseau family and I was not. Of course she would hold an important place in Madame Colette’s and Monsieur Henri’s hearts—a place that I could never dream of having. But that didn’t mean that all the special times I had shared with the Rousseaus over the year were meaningless. I would always be grateful for their attention—and what better way to show that gratitude than to do everything I could for Mademoiselle Claire?
I tapped quietly on the parlor door.
“Come in,” Madame Colette called.
I slipped inside and curtsied, waiting for her to address me. She looked up from a stack of papers on her desk with a harried expression. “My dear Camille. What can I do for you?”
“Pardon the interruption, madame, but I was wondering if I might talk to you about Mademoiselle Claire.”
Madame Colette nodded, so I pushed ahead.
“Have you chosen her rooms yet?”
Madame Colette blinked as if she couldn’t quite focus on what I was saying. She began to shuffle through some papers. “Her rooms? Oh, gracious, no, not yet. There are so many arrangements to be made that choosing Claire’s rooms hadn’t even occurred to me.”
“I could do it, if you want,” I said eagerly. “I could get everything ready for her—I would make it so special and take such pains, if only you’d let me.”
“I don’t see why not,” Madame Colette said in a distracted sort of way.
Joy surged through me. “Oh, thank you, Madame Colette!” I cried happily. “I thought the two spare rooms in the East Wing would be perfect for her. They’re so prettily decorated, and everything in them is so dainty and sweet. I just have a feeling that she would love to have them for her very own—don’t you think so?”
Madame Colette didn’t answer as she scribbled a note in her datebook. It wasn’t like her to be so distracted; normally she gave her full attention to anyone who was speaking to her. It must be her grief, I realized. How impossible for her to concentrate on such trivial things when the loss of Monsieur Henri’s relations weighs so heavily on her heart.