Camille’s Story, 1910

by Adele Whitby

  “There,” she said, patting my shoulder so that I knew to sit down. “Much better.”

  I closed my eyes as Madame Colette began to brush my hair, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that her forgiveness had come too easily. “Madame,” I began. “You must let me apologize for the other day. I overstepped my bounds, and—”

  She paused with the brush still in my hair. “Overstepped your bounds?” she repeated. “No, dear girl, that is something that you could never do. Not as long as Monsieur Henri and I reside at Rousseau Manor. I need to tell you—”

  There was a long silence that followed. I held my breath, wondering what Madame Colette was going to say.

  “I am sure you have already heard about our daughter, Claudia,” she continued quietly. “The light of our lives. The hope of our hearts. From the moment she was born, Claudia was everything to us, and we adored her.”

  I sat very still.

  “And yet when she was nearly grown, there came a horrible night when the three of us argued, as even the most loving families sometimes do. When Henri and I awoke in the morning, we discovered to our eternal regret that our dear Claudia had left us. It’s funny. I had always hoped that my only child would be courageous enough to follow her heart, and yet when she finally did, I found myself quite unprepared to handle it.”

  “Did she ever come back?” I dared to ask. “Where is Mademoiselle Claudia now?”

  “She died,” Madame Colette said sadly. “She died, and not a day goes by that I don’t miss her terribly.”

  It was just as I had feared, and yet somehow the news was even harder to bear when I heard Madame Colette say it aloud.

  “I’m so sorry,” I breathed. “I wish I could have met her.”

  “So do I, my dear,” Madame Colette replied, her voice quivering. “So do I.”

  I twisted around to look at her and saw two tears spill down her cheeks. Now I’ve done it again, I thought miserably. I’ve made Madame Colette cry. How could I make her feel better? I was unexpectedly tempted to tell her all about Mademoiselle Claudia’s diary, safely hidden in the mattress. If Madame Colette didn’t know it existed, she would surely be thrilled to have one more connection with her daughter.

  But what if she suspected me of reading it? Or even worse—what if the diary only served to upset her more? No, I couldn’t tell her. The risk was too great.

  “Here,” Madame Colette said suddenly as she pressed her hairbrush into my hand. “This is for you.”

  Madame Colette’s fine silver hairbrush—belonging to a simple servant girl like me? That was unthinkable! Then I took a closer look at the hairbrush and realized, to my surprise, that it wasn’t Madame Colette’s at all.

  Instead, it was Mademoiselle Claudia’s hairbrush—the same one that I had so carefully polished for Mademoiselle Claire. I recognized the wreath of forget-me-nots circling the letter C at once.

  “No,” I exclaimed, trying to give it back to Madame Colette. “I mustn’t. It’s not right.”

  “I want you to have it,” she insisted. “And I am sure that Claudia would have, as well. You see—”

  “There is my busy little bumblebee!” Monsieur Henri’s voice rang out as he entered the room. Madame Colette quickly twisted around in her chair, dabbing her eyes so that he would not see her tears.

  I stood up and curtsied to Monsieur Henri.

  “Look at me. Just look,” he said to Madame Colette, patting his stomach. “I have grown fat with no one to help me eat cookies at lunch. I know I was a grumpy old bear, but I hope that my little bee will not stay away any longer. Do you think that she will forgive me?”

  I smiled up at him as I nodded enthusiastically.

  “A capacity for forgiveness is just one of Camille’s many fine qualities,” Madame Colette said brightly. All traces of her tears were gone.

  “Tomorrow we bring Claire here, to her new home,” Monsieur Henri said to me. “I know that we can count on you to make her feel welcome.”

  “It would be an honor,” I replied.

  “It is not right for a house to sit silent and stuffy, puffed up with its own importance,” Monsieur Henri declared. “A house needs children in it—especially a house like Rousseau Manor.”

  “I daresay that Rousseau Manor will soon be ringing with children’s laughter, up and down every corridor,” Madame Colette said. “Tell me, Camille, how are Bernadette’s little cousins? Sophie and . . .”

  “Alexandre,” I said. “I like them. Sophie is sweet as sugar. I very much enjoy my time with her.”

  “Excellent,” Monsieur Henri said. “And the boy? Is he good and kind? I know he is a hard worker—I have seen him through the window, day in, day out, toiling in the gardens alongside his father.”

  Where once the topiaries grew, I thought sadly. But all I said was, “Yes. He seems good and kind.”

  “I am glad to hear it,” Monsieur Henri said. “Now, little bumblebee, I must finish preparing for our trip to the train station tomorrow. But when I return, we will dine together at lunch, yes?”

  “Yes,” I said happily. “Good night, Monsieur Henri. Good night, Madame Colette.”

  I stepped outside onto the landing and closed the door behind me, feeling happier and lighter than I had in days.

  Changes were coming to Rousseau Manor.

  And I could hardly wait for them!

  Under normal circumstances, the servants at Rousseau Manor were so busy that the hours passed by in a blink. But as we waited for the Rousseaus to return, the day seemed to drag, each minute stretching out longer than the one before. The entire staff, from Bernadette and Mrs. Plourde to Agnès in the scullery, could talk of nothing but the imminent arrival of Mademoiselle Claire.

  In hopes of passing the time, I pushed Baby Sophie in her pram around the grounds. Orchard, lily pond, fountain. Orchard, lily pond, fountain. But not even the darting dragonflies or the nest of baby robins could distract me today. All I could think about was Mademoiselle Claire, approaching closer with every passing minute. What would she be like? Tall or short, loud or quiet, happy or serious, kind or cruel? It seemed impossible to wait one minute more to meet her. I sighed as my frustration got the better of me.

  “What’s wrong, Camille?” someone said.

  I turned around to see Alexandre standing behind me, holding his cap in his hands. He reached into the pram to tickle Sophie under her chin.

  “Good morning, Alexandre,” I said with a smile. “You mustn’t mind me. I’m afraid I’ve grown quite impatient waiting for Mademoiselle Claire to arrive.”

  “Oh,” he replied. “Yes, everyone’s making quite a fuss over her, and she isn’t even here yet.”

  “Well, it’s not every day that an American orphan comes to live at Rousseau Manor,” I said.

  “True . . . but there are other interesting things happening here,” Alexandre said mysteriously.

  I eyed him curiously. “Like what?” I couldn’t help asking.

  Alexandre’s whole face lit up. “Want to see?” he asked eagerly.

  I knew right away what he wanted to show me: the new garden that he and his father had planted in place of the topiaries. Alexandre meant well, I was sure, but I still didn’t feel ready to see the change. But he looked so excited that I couldn’t refuse him. The topiaries aren’t coming back, I told myself. Might as well get it over with.

  “All right,” I said, trying to sound cheerful about it.

  Sure enough, Alexandre led me in the direction of the topiary garden, chattering all the while. I’m ashamed to admit it, but my mind started to wander as thoughts of Mademoiselle Claire filled my head.

  Alexandre tugged my arm, jolting me back to reality. “Well?” he said, and I had the sudden feeling that he was repeating himself. “What do you think?”

  “Very n—” I started to say. But what I saw before me left me speechless. I pressed my hand to my heart. “Oh, Alexandre,” I whispered. “How—”

  Alexandre’s smile stretched even broader
as we stood side by side, looking up at a majestic pair of swans that had been sculpted from a boxwood bush. Their necks were twined together in the shape of a heart—just the way I remembered from when Papa was the groundskeeper. There was a freshly planted rosebush at the base of the topiary.

  “We weren’t sure we could do it,” Alexandre was saying. “My father said he didn’t know how, and neither one of us is much of an artist anyway, but then—then—then I found this, when we were cleaning out the shed—”

  Alexandre reached into his back pocket and pulled out a slim volume. I reached for it cautiously, already overcome by emotion. I had a feeling that the book was something very special.

  “This is Papa’s handwriting,” I whispered. Every page was covered with it—lines and lines of notes about each topiary animal, with sketches that he’d drawn with his very own hand!

  “My father was impressed,” Alexandre said, gesturing at the book. “He said your papa was a good groundskeeper. A talented one. He left such good instructions behind that we thought we’d give it a go. The swans to start . . . then the monkeys . . . then the elephant. I think we’ll leave the peacock for last, though Father went ahead and ordered the morning glory seeds already.”

  “It’s going to be beautiful,” I said, my voice trembling with gratitude. “It already is. What a way to welcome Mademoiselle Claire!”

  Alexandre looked at me blankly. “That’s not—” he began to say.

  But I kept talking. “I think that she will be so charmed by the topiary garden,” I told him. “When she is sad, or lonesome, or homesick, she can come sit among the animals and be cheered by them.” I sat down in the grass beside the swans and breathed in deeply; the rich perfume of the roses filled the air. Yes, I thought, Mademoiselle Claire will like it here.

  “This was very kind of you,” I said, looking up at Alexandre with a grateful smile. “You know what she’s going through . . . leaving your home and coming to Rousseau Manor a veritable stranger. Of course, you already knew your papa’s cousin, so I imagine that made it a bit less frightening—”

  Alexandre seemed even more confused. “My papa’s cousin?” he repeated. “Who?”

  “Why, Bernadette, of course,” I replied.

  Alexandre shook his head. “Bernadette is no relation to us,” he said. “We met her only last month.”

  Now it was my turn to be confused. “What did you say?” I asked.

  “We were still living in the church,” Alexandre said in a quiet voice. “She came up to my parents and asked Father if he knew anything about gardening. She said she knew of a fine estate in need of a permanent groundskeeper. Of course, Father jumped at the opportunity. He’d been out of work for such a long time, and we had no place to live. . . .”

  “I’m sorry, Alexandre. That’s terrible,” I said. “However it came to be, I’m very glad that Bernadette brought you here.”

  But inside my thoughts were swirling. Hadn’t Bernadette insisted that Pierre was her cousin? Could it be that Alexandre didn’t know that she was a relative? No, that didn’t make any sense at all. There was only one explanation: Bernadette had lied.

  But why?

  It was the goodness of her heart, I thought suddenly. Somehow Bernadette, who seemed so skilled at cruelty and unkindness, had discovered Alexandre’s family in need. Knowing all too well that Rousseau Manor was filled to capacity, she had come up with a plan to ensure that Madame Colette would allow them to come here—even though it had required her to lie to her employers, an offense that could cause her to lose her job if it were ever discovered.

  I’ve misjudged her, I realized. Because anyone who was capable of taking a risk like that—and all for the benefit of strangers—could never scheme against me as I had feared.

  “I have to go,” I said, pushing myself up from the ground. As I did, though, a flash of light caught my eye. There was something—something shiny—half buried in the freshly turned dirt near the base of the rosebush.

  I reached out curiously and brushed the dirt away. There it was—an old silver coin, tarnished but still bright, just waiting to be discovered. I held my breath as I polished it with my apron.

  “Is this yours?” I asked Alexandre, but he shook his head.

  “I’ve never seen it before,” he replied. “Maybe it was buried in the dirt and we dug it up when we planted the rosebush.”

  “It’s quite peculiar,” I continued as I took a closer look. One side looked like a regular coin, with writing on it in a language that I didn’t recognize. The other side had been engraved with an image of two swans. And there was something else etched on it too.

  “What do you make of that?” I asked Alexandre, who squinted at the coin.

  “Looks like letters to me,” he said. “Initials, perhaps?”

  “An H . . . and a B?” I guessed. I tried to remember if I knew anyone at Rousseau Manor with those initials, but my mind was blank. I pressed the coin into my palm. The cool weight of it felt, somehow, familiar and comforting in my hand. It felt like it belonged there.

  “When Mademoiselle Claire arrives, we’ll all gather out front to welcome her,” I told Alexandre. “I’ll see you there.”

  “Where are you going?” he called after me, but I was already pushing Sophie’s pram as fast as I could.

  “There’s something I have to do,” I called back to him as we rounded a bend in the path.

  Inside Rousseau Manor, I found Bernadette right where I expected: poring over the household accounts ledger in her office.

  “Pardon the interruption,” I said breathlessly as I shifted a very wiggly Sophie to my other hip.

  Bernadette’s mouth twisted in displeasure when she saw me. “What do you want?” she asked bluntly.

  I took a step toward her desk and lowered my voice. “I know the truth about the Archambault family,” I said. “I know they’re not related to you.”

  A look of panic careened across Bernadette’s face. She fairly flew across the room to shut the door.

  “Camille—” she began urgently. But I wouldn’t let her finish.

  “And I just want to tell you that I think that’s one of the bravest, most beautiful things I’ve ever heard,” I continued. “To think of everything you risked to bring them here—and all to give a home to a homeless family.”

  Bernadette blinked a few times as if she didn’t understand a word I was saying. The shock, of course, I thought. And she must be afraid now that her secret is known. Just then Sophie rested her little head on my shoulder, and I knew what I had to do.

  “Anyway, you needn’t worry about me,” I promised Bernadette. “I’ll never tell a soul, not even Mama.”

  At last Bernadette found her voice. “Th-th-thank you, Camille,” she said. Her eyes were watery, almost like they were filled with tears, so I gave her a reassuring smile.

  “I hope that when the time comes for me to be as brave and as selfless as you, I’ll rise to the occasion,” I told her.

  Bernadette looked as though there were something else she wanted to say, but at that moment one of the servants threw open the door without even knocking. Normally such an infraction would earn a tongue-lashing from Bernadette, but we knew right away what had happened.

  “The carriage approaches!” the servant cried, her face shining with glee.

  Bernadette and I dashed out after her, nearly running headfirst into Élise, who had come to fetch Sophie. There was a great clatter and commotion throughout the halls as the kitchen staff changed into their nicest aprons and the housemaids adjusted their lace-trimmed caps. In mere moments, we were assembled—all thirty of us—in a straight line out front. Even Rousseau Manor seemed to be waiting with us.

  Mama gave one last attempt at my hair, tucking a few stray strands behind my ears. I glanced down the long line and saw Alexandre standing with his family. He waved at me, which made me grin. Already I couldn’t imagine Rousseau Manor without the Archambaults.

  Then I heard it: the carriage wheels
rattling over the road and the loud clop-clop-clop of the horses’ hooves. My heart started pounding. I reached into my pocket for the unusual coin I’d found in the topiary garden. Just holding it made me feel calmer. Stronger. Ready—for whatever would happen next.

  After the coachman stopped the carriage directly in front of Rousseau Manor, he opened the door. Madame Colette appeared first, followed by Monsieur Henri; then they held out their hands to help her out of the carriage.

  Mademoiselle Claire.

  She was here at last.

  I craned my neck, trying to get a better look at her as the introductions began—until Mama nudged me, a reminder of the proper way to stand at attention. I stared straight ahead, finding patience I didn’t know I had.

  Then Monsieur Henri and Madame Colette were standing before me. “And this, Claire, is Camille LeClerc,” Madame Colette said in her gentlest voice.

  I dropped into such a deep curtsy that my knee grazed the ground. “Welcome, Mademoiselle Claire,” I said, staring at the toes of her beautiful satin shoes. “It is an honor to serve you.”

  Then, to my surprise, I felt a hand on my elbow, pulling me up.

  It was Mademoiselle Claire herself! We stood facing each other, and I saw her—really saw her—for the first time: her beautiful skin, as fair and freckle-free as a pitcher of cream; her dark, wavy hair, arranged in a stylish bob; her pale green eyes, as full of anxiety and anticipation as my own heart. She looked as though she wanted to smile, if only she could remember how. So I smiled at her instead. Then, suddenly, she embraced me—me, a servant girl! And as we hugged—it’s so hard to describe, but somehow I felt as though I had always known her, had always been waiting for this moment.

  “Please,” she said. “Call me Claire.”

  Come now, my dear Claire,” Cousin Colette said. “You must be exhausted from your journey. I’m sure you would appreciate some quiet time to rest in your new room.”

  I nodded my head in agreement, but to be honest, I didn’t feel a bit tired—not one bit! I was far too jumpy and jangly with anticipation, and what I really wanted to do was explore every inch of Rousseau Manor’s grand house and grounds. I wanted to spend hours getting to know my cousins Henri and Colette Rousseau, who would be my guardians from now on. Most of all, I wanted to do everything I could to make this unfamiliar place feel like home—and to make these strangers feel like family.