Camille’s Story, 1910

by Adele Whitby

  “Perhaps you thought that the Rousseaus were a childless couple,” Mama said. “In fact, they were not. They were blessed with a beautiful child, a daughter called Claudia, and I am told that she was the very light of their lives.”

  “They have a daughter?” I asked, stunned. How could it be possible that I had never heard about her before?

  Mama nodded. “I never met her, but your papa told me the story one night shortly after we were married,” she continued. “You see, as Mademoiselle Claudia approached a marriageable age, Monsieur Henri and Madame Colette began to make arrangements to find her a proper husband. But it was already too late—Mademoiselle Claudia had fallen in love with the son of a German count. Neither family was pleased about the news, and there was a terrible argument when Mademoiselle Claudia confessed her love to her parents. Monsieur Henri lost his temper, your papa said. He forbade Mademoiselle Claudia to ever see her sweetheart again.”

  “Then what happened?”

  Mama looked down. “Mademoiselle Claudia left that very night,” she said. “In the morning, there was a tremendous commotion—the house was searched from top to bottom, inquiries were made in the village, but it was too late. She was already gone.”

  “But—but—where did she go?”

  “To Germany,” Mama replied. “To be with her true love. Monsieur Henri was so angry that he forbade anyone to speak of Mademoiselle Claudia ever again. It was as though she were dead. All the portraits of her—all her belongings—all of it was packed up and hidden away in the basement.”

  Mama dropped her voice even lower. “Papa told me that Monsieur Henri wanted Mademoiselle Claudia’s things burned,” she whispered. “But Madame Colette refused. She was so firmly against the plan—she so deeply believed that Claudia would return to them, that they would be able to heal the rift that had torn their family apart—that Madame Colette insisted that her belongings be kept for her, just the way she had left them.”

  “But they weren’t kept that way,” I said in confusion. “They were all packed up in the basement, right where my old pram had been stored.”

  “I admit that I don’t know much about it,” Mama said. “This all happened before I came to Rousseau Manor. I suppose at some point, even Madame Colette knew that it was time to pack up Mademoiselle Claudia’s rooms. But she could never bear to throw away her daughter’s possessions.”

  “Mademoiselle Claudia never came home?” I asked. “She never saw her parents again?”

  Mama paused. “In all the years I’ve been here, no,” she said. “Mademoiselle Claudia has never visited.”

  “So where is she now?”

  “Who can say?” Mama replied. “It is a sad tale, so very sad. Our lives are too short to let such disagreements come between us.”

  I remembered then how upset the Rousseaus were with me. My mouth went dry as sawdust. Mama reached out and took my hand.

  “Will they ever forgive me?” I whispered.

  “Oh, dear one, I am sure that they will,” Mama assured me. “It was just a mistake. You overstepped your bounds, that’s all. Such a thing was certain to happen eventually, with the way they—”

  “What?” I asked.

  “It’s just that—the separation between servants and family exists for a reason,” Mama told me. “When those lines are blurred, it can lead to unfortunate situations like this one.”

  “How will I ever make it up to them?”

  Mama looked thoughtful. “Here is what you will do,” she advised me. “You will stay out of their way. Give them some time for their tempers to cool, so that their hurt and anger is not so fresh. Then you will go to them and apologize. I’ll help you figure out what to say. And from then on, you will always remember your place at Rousseau Manor.”

  Mama leaned back and gave me a long look. “Yes, you are old enough for more responsibilities of a servant,” she said. “Taking care of Baby Sophie is a very good start. After Mademoiselle Claire has settled in, I shall speak to Madame Colette. We will find a proper role for you. I know the kitchen work is not your favorite. . . . Perhaps you would be more suited to the tasks of a junior housemaid. And one day, you might even be a lady’s maid!”

  I tried to smile at Mama, but it wasn’t easy. The last thing I wanted to do at the moment was consider my future as a maid. After all the lessons I’d had, surely the Rousseaus had intended for me to be something more . . . a governess, perhaps. . . .

  No, I immediately scolded myself. That’s the kind of thinking that got you into this mess. You’re not something more, you never have been and you never will be. You’re the daughter of a pastry chef and a groundskeeper, and the most you can ever aspire to be is a lady’s maid.

  My face burned with embarrassment as I thought about all the mistakes I’d made. Picking that room for Mademoiselle Claire . . . bringing up Mademoiselle Claudia’s old belongings from the basement . . . and most of all, thinking that I meant something to Madame Colette and Monsieur Henri. Thinking that I was like the granddaughter they’d always wished they had. Thinking that I belonged at Rousseau Manor. Thinking that this beautiful place was my home and that they were my family.

  It wasn’t just silly. It was foolish. And it was time to put an end to that nonsense, once and for all.

  Mama glanced at the clock. “Are you feeling better, dear one?” she asked as she gave me a hug. “I need to start this evening’s dessert—”

  “Yes, thank you,” I replied. “But, Mama, if you have a minute . . .”

  She waited patiently for me to continue. I took a deep breath as I tried to figure out how to say what was on my mind.

  “I think Bernadette wanted this to happen.”

  Mama looked troubled. “How can you say that?”

  “When I found those things in the basement, I was going to ask you for permission to bring them to Mademoiselle Claire’s room,” I explained. “But Bernadette saw me first and asked what I was doing. I explained everything and she—she said it was a wonderful idea. And she told me to do it all in secret . . . so that I wouldn’t ruin the surprise.”

  Mama’s frown deepened, but she didn’t say anything.

  “She must’ve known, though!” I continued. “About Mademoiselle Claudia . . . about those things . . . about how much it would upset the Rousseaus!”

  “And that’s why it must have been a misunderstanding,” replied Mama. “Bernadette knows about Mademoiselle Claudia. I’m sure of it. So if she had truly encouraged you to move all of Mademoiselle Claudia’s things back to her old bedroom, why, that would have been deliberately hurtful to the Rousseaus! I can’t imagine that anyone here would want that.”

  “No . . . ,” I said slowly. “I don’t think that Bernadette wanted to hurt the Rousseaus. But . . . I do think that she wanted to hurt me.”

  “Oh, Camille,” Mama said with a disappointed sigh. “Bernadette may have a short temper and an unkind disposition, but she would never try to do something so cruel to you. You mustn’t let your feelings get in the way of your judgment.”

  “Yes, Mama,” I said. But secretly I still wondered. Bernadette had seemed so happy when she’d told me to move everything into Mademoiselle Claudia’s old rooms. My memory of our conversation was clear as day; I was sure that I hadn’t misunderstood her.

  “Wash your face, fix your hair, and change your apron,” Mama said as she rose. “You’ll find you feel much better after you’ve freshened up a bit. Then come to the kitchen—I think Mrs. Plourde won’t mind if you have some bread and honey before you get to work.”

  I smiled at her. Mama remembered how much a little snack of bread and honey always made me feel better when I was sad.

  “Thank you,” I told her.

  She kissed me on the cheek. “In a few days, all of this will be forgotten,” she assured me.

  I could only hope that she was right.

  I began to comb my hair as soon as Mama left, but everything in my room reminded me of Mademoiselle Claudia’s possessions. My refl
ection looked the same in my mirror as it had in hers. . . . My plain hairbrush was the same size as her fancy one. . . . Even my bear made me think of her wind-up circus animals. Soon my face burned with embarrassment all over again. It was going to take me much longer than a few days to forget what I’d done. I wasn’t sure how I could ever escape from my humiliation when I was surrounded by reminders of it.

  Distracted, I opened my drawer for some extra hairpins. But it wasn’t hairpins I found there.

  “Oh, no,” I breathed.

  Right there, in the center of my drawer, sat the journal I’d found in the basement. In all the work I’d done to get Mademoiselle Claire’s room ready, I’d forgotten all about it.

  Now what was I going to do with it?

  I could never read it; that much was certain. Never, ever. I didn’t even want to touch it—not after what I’d done and how terribly I’d upset the Rousseaus. I picked it up gingerly, as though the diary were something dangerous. I’d wondered if Claudia had been a servant—but now I knew exactly who Mademoiselle Claudia was.

  Knowing that the diary had belonged to the mysterious missing Mademoiselle Claudia made me even more tempted to read it. What secrets were hidden within that worn leather cover? But I’d already overstepped my bounds. I knew too well that I shouldn’t read the diary. I shouldn’t even have it.

  But what was I going to do with it?

  Monsieur Henri had forbidden me to ever go down to the basement again, so I didn’t dare try to return it. There were too many people—too many prying eyes—who might tell him if I disobeyed. And if Bernadette really did desire to get me into trouble, it would be an easy thing for her to accomplish if she caught me in the basement once more.

  But if this diary were found in my room . . . well, that would be equally disastrous. No, it wasn’t safe to keep it here. I needed to find a proper hiding place for it . . . a place where no one would find it . . . where it wouldn’t be disturbed. . . .

  “That’s it!” I cried aloud when I finally figured out a solution. I could hide the diary in Mademoiselle Claire’s—I mean Mademoiselle Claudia’s—room. The entire staff knew not to enter the room under any circumstances. It would be safe there, among her things, where it belonged.

  There was only one problem: Just like the basement, Monsieur Henri had forbidden me to go back to that room.

  I sat there in turmoil for another moment, trying to decide what to do. At last, with a heavy sigh, I slipped Mademoiselle Claudia’s diary into my apron pocket. The best I could do was hurry—and hope that no one saw me.

  I opened the door and peeked into the hallway. It was empty—but I knew that a housemaid, or even Bernadette, could appear at any moment. Most likely, Madame Colette had taken to her bed to rest, and Monsieur Henri would probably spend the remainder of his day alone in his study. But if Bernadette saw me even glance at the forbidden room, she wouldn’t waste a moment telling them.

  I crept down the hall with one hand pressed protectively over the diary. My heart was beating so hard in my chest that it seemed even louder than my footsteps! But in moments, I had reached the room. Quick as a wink, I slipped inside it, shutting the door behind me.

  I crossed the room and tucked the diary under the mattress of the canopy bed. It didn’t seem right to place it on the shelf as though it were an ordinary book, when it was clearly so much more special. Then, though I didn’t dare linger, I took one last look around. The room was still so beautiful to me—and so special, knowing that everything in it had once belonged to the Rousseaus’ long-lost daughter. Of course I understood why those dear little dolls and sweet volumes of poetry brought such heartache to Madame Colette and Monsieur Henri. But it seemed infinitely worse to hide them away in the damp, dark basement, where they would be untouched and unloved.

  From the corner of my eye I noticed something rustling out the window. I moved close to take a better look . . . and spotted Alexandre and his father entering the topiary garden with their arms full of tools. Tears filled my eyes again as I realized that they were about to start pulling out the bushes that Papa had so lovingly tended while he was still alive.

  Why today? I wondered, my heart heavy with sorrow. Why today, of all days?

  For the next several days, I moved through Rousseau Manor like a ghost—quickly, quietly, unheard and unseen. I busied myself from morning to night with work, gladly volunteering for the most unpleasant tasks—polishing the silver until my eyes burned from the stench of the polish, filling the coal scuttles at each hearth before the sun was up, feeding the pigs with all the smelly kitchen scraps. I even would’ve done the laundry, but everyone knew that I was banned from the basement. No one had said that I should be punished for what I’d done, but it seemed to me that I had to make amends somehow. Besides, the worst of the work always fell to the junior housemaids. Since that would soon be my lot, it was only practical to start now.

  To my surprise, almost everyone on the staff was excessively kind to me. I’d worried that they would share Bernadette’s glee, but instead I think they felt sorry for me. Even Jacques stopped his teasing—for a few days, at least. And one evening I found a paper-wrapped piece of toffee by my plate at dinner. Mrs. Plourde would never admit to leaving it, but everyone knew how fond she was of sweets. I soon realized that Mama was right: The staff here was my family, far more than the Rousseaus could ever be. If only I had understood that sooner.

  My walks with Baby Sophie were truly the best part of my day—especially when she started cooing my name whenever she saw me! When I was caring for Sophie, I could leave behind the drudgery of housemaid tasks as we visited all our favorite spots. The one place I wouldn’t take her was the topiary garden. What was the point, now that the bushes were being torn out? And to be honest, I didn’t want to face the vast empty space—though surely Philippe and Alexandre would plant something else there instead. Something beautiful that would bloom in its own time.

  The night before the Rousseaus left to fetch Mademoiselle Claire, there came a surprising message. I was busy scouring the soot-blackened stove when Bernadette came before me, wearing a sour expression.

  “You’ve been summoned,” she said shortly. “Madame is in her chambers.”

  I glanced anxiously at Mama, who looked as surprised as I felt. We had both planned that I would make my apologies in a few weeks, after Mademoiselle Claire had arrived and life at Rousseau Manor had returned to normal. I was utterly unprepared to face either one of the Rousseaus tonight. Mama and I hadn’t even had a chance to practice my apology!

  “Camille is not presentable,” Mama said, gesturing to my sooty face.

  “Come along,” Bernadette insisted, pointedly ignoring Mama. “Don’t keep Madame Colette waiting.”

  As if in a dream, I rose from the table and began to follow Bernadette out of the kitchen. Mama hobbled across the kitchen and grabbed my arm. She quickly tucked a few loose strands of hair behind my ears and whispered, “Speak from your heart, and all will be well.”

  The familiar kindness of Mama’s touch made me feel better at once. And I felt better still when Bernadette disappeared into her office, leaving me to walk to Madame Colette’s room alone.

  After I knocked on Madame Colette’s door, I closed my eyes and made a silent wish that she would welcome me to her chambers, as she had so many times before.

  “Come in.”

  Through the closed door, Madame Colette’s voice sounded as sweet and friendly as always—but perhaps she didn’t realize that it was me. I took a deep breath, mustered all my courage, and opened the door. With my head bowed, I dropped into a deep curtsy.

  “Madame Colette, I beg your forgiveness,” I said. “I have caused you great heartache, and I am deeply sorry for all that I’ve done.”

  “My dear Camille!” Madame Colette exclaimed in surprise. “Why are you apologizing to me? It is I who should apologize to you.”

  I shook my head. “It was wrong to bring personal belongings upstairs from the basement�
��” I tried to continue, but Madame Colette quickly interrupted me.

  “I am afraid that Henri and I were so shocked to see our sweet Claudia’s belongings in her old room that we completely lost control of our emotions,” Madame Colette spoke over me. “I hope you will be able to forgive our show of grief and temper.”

  “Oh, madame—” I began.

  “You did a lovely job fixing the room for Mademoiselle Claire,” Madame Colette told me. “Truly, no one could have done finer work than you. If it were not for the emotional attachment we have to those old things . . .”

  Madame Colette shook her head. Then she smiled. “Come,” she said, beckoning to me. “I feel as though I haven’t brushed your hair in an age.”

  As I drew closer, though, her smile faded. “Camille! What is the meaning of this?” she asked in concern, reaching up to touch my sooty face.

  “I beg your pardon,” I said again. “I was cleaning the stove when Bernadette came for me—”

  Madame Colette’s frown deepened. “That’s dirty, dangerous work,” she said. “Who told you to do that?”

  “No one did,” I replied. “But, well, I know that Mama will approach you soon about this, but she thought it was time that I specialize. Either in the scullery, or perhaps as a junior housemaid. Whatever you think is best.”

  “No, no, no,” Madame Colette said. “I won’t hear of it. And you will not do such work again. Do you understand? Monsieur Henri and I have other plans for you, dear Camille.”

  My heart soared when she said that. A governess—I knew it! I thought. “What do you mean?” I asked eagerly.

  “Now is not the time to discuss it, I’m afraid,” she told me. “Come, let me help you.”

  Madame Colette dampened one of her fine muslin facecloths with the sweetly scented lavender water she always used. Then she cleaned all the soot from my face. I was ashamed at how black her facecloth grew, knowing she’d have to throw it away when she finished, but Madame Colette didn’t seem to mind.