The whole process instantly stopped. The princess tilted her head to acknowledge the latecomer, who was leisurely taking off her cloak. The Princesse de Lamballe placed a dark poppy dress with a huge hoop skirt back on its padded hanger and handed it with a deferential nod to the older woman while the shivering dauphine, who was still almost naked and clearly very cold, looked on helplessly. Finally, after slowly and deliberately taking off her long brown leather riding gloves, the tall older woman helped the dauphine step into the unwieldy structured gown and carefully buttoned up the back. The Princesse de Lamballe then attached the long red silk train. It seemed completely over-the-top. No wonder she started getting dressed for dinner in the middle of the afternoon. Depending on who decided to show up, this process could take all day!
“I put on my rouge and wash my hands in front of the whole world,” the dauphine said softly. No one responded.
Louise suddenly felt sad. She didn’t think it was possible to feel bad for a princess who had an awesome playhouse and lived in a real palace, but she couldn’t imagine having to get dressed in front of an audience every day and not be able to even pick her own clothes from off the hanger. It was clear from the dauphine’s mother’s letter that she was forced by court tradition and etiquette to be completely helpless. Despite being in a room of people, she looked utterly alone.
“Can someone please close the door? The draft is ghastly,” the sullen-faced princess ordered crossly.
The tall, inlaid ivory door slammed shut with a decisive bang, and Louise was left staring at the wrong side of a closed door. She reached up on her tiptoes and ran her hand over the gold carving on the upper panel, tracing the lines with her fingertips. Halfway through the pattern, she realized that it wasn’t an abstract design—it was actually a monogram. She stepped back to gain some perspective and saw the letters MA drawn out in a fancy, elaborate script. That also sounded familiar. This bedroom belonged to an M.A.? Versailles, palace, French words… whoa. This room in Versailles belonged to M.A.?!
There was only one lady she knew about who lived in Versailles. One very infamous historical figure whom her droll teacher Miss Morris was trying to tell her class about the other day. But it didn’t make sense. This palace was so lovely and pristine, and the dauphine wasn’t a grown-up woman she had been having tea with. She was probably just a few years older than Louise, no more than fourteen. How could the future Queen of France, the wife of King Louis XVI, be just a… teenager?
Ohmigod. It had to be… M.A…. Marie Antoinette. And she still had her head.
CHAPTER 17
Louise quickly backed away from the room where quite possibly the most famous woman in the history of France was standing, freezing cold in a slip and corset, waiting to be dressed by her royal court. With the door open!
She ran down the corridor toward her apartment in shock, her extravagantly heeled shoes echoing eerily throughout the deserted hallway. Could it really be her? Was Louise—or Gabrielle, rather—a lady-in-waiting in Marie Antoinette’s inner circle? Though this Marie Antoinette wasn’t like the one she’d imagined from Miss Morris’s history lecture. She was just a girl, a young teen who had a cute puppy and liked to play hide-and-seek and have tea parties in her playhouse. She was someone who seemed in some ways to be just like Louise. Her mind immediately flashed back to the totally gruesome stories about the French Revolution and the violent end of the royal family that her otherwise dull teacher shocked the class with. This Versailles felt like the opposite of that, truly idyllic and beautiful. It didn’t make any sense. It seemed like nothing bad could happen here.
As she turned the polished gold-plated doorknob to her new abode, Louise silently said a little prayer that there would not be an entourage waiting to dress Gabrielle. That looked extremely embarrassing. Although she could use a hand with the corset—it seemed pretty complicated. Now that she thought about it, how in the world was she supposed to fix her hair by herself? Some days she could barely manage a ponytail!
She cautiously entered the room, which was decorated with pink-and-gold floral wallpaper offset with white wainscoting, and found two servants in matching white, bright blue, and red uniforms (more regally colored and formal than the uniforms the maids wore at Petit Trianon) tidying up and waiting for Louise—er, Gabrielle—to return. They weren’t alone. Her acquaintance, the older woman in the light brown long-sleeved dress from the garden tea party who had been giving her the stink eye all day, was also in the room… going through Gabrielle’s closet! Was she being robbed?
“Excuse me?” Louise interrupted, clearing her throat. Adelaide spun around, apparently surprised to see her, as well, which was weird because she was in Gabrielle’s room. “Are you looking for something?”
The chambermaids, who were busy steaming the train of a gorgeous marigold satin gown across the suite, didn’t seem to be paying any attention to their conversation. They turned briefly and gave Louise a curious look, then went back to decrinkling the crinoline. Some security guards they were.
Her intruder immediately shut the decoupaged armoire, regained her composure, and marched pointedly toward Louise. “Excusez-moi, I thought perhaps you borrowed my favorite silk evening gloves. I haven’t been able to find them anywhere. I suppose I was mistaken,” Adelaide replied defensively. Louise had a feeling by the way Adelaide spoke so quickly that silk evening gloves weren’t really what she was looking for.
“I suppose you were,” Louise answered tentatively. For some reason she had a nagging suspicion this woman was lying to her. But why? What would she expect to find in Gabrielle’s closet?
“You should prepare yourself for the evening,” Adelaide instructed, giving Louise a critical once-over. “It’s almost sundown and you haven’t even fixed your pouf yet.”
Why did Louise feel like she was suddenly trapped in Mean Girls, Versailles edition? The haughty lady gave her a slight curtsey and quickly exited the room without glancing back.
CHAPTER 18
The moment her surprised visitor left the room, the servants rushed over to Louise with their arms full of finely hand-sewn garments and some medieval-looking beauty equipment. Before she realized what was happening, Louise was stripped of her lavender tea dress and wrapped up in a sheer white dressing gown like a fancy Parisian mummy. One of the maids, who was Louise’s height but had a big matronly bosom, stood on a wooden step stool and went at her towering brown wig with a steaming-hot curling iron that must have been heated up over an open fire, as there were obviously no electrical cords at this time. The other maid, thin and gangly, reached up on her tiptoes and covered the whole mess with globs of greasy pomade and then dispensed a shower of white powder that smelled just like, and perhaps was, cake flour over the top of her head. Exactly how tall was this hairdo? Louise felt she must look a little bit like Marge Simpson after a cake-baking accident in an old-fashioned period dress. The women then studded the whole creation with at least a hundred diamond-tipped hairpins they had tucked in their apron pockets.
“Aaaachoo!” Louise let out an enormous sneeze, nearly scalding her forehead with the blistering-hot steel instrument.
The maid dispensing the sneezing powder then picked up a Costco-size golden pot of rouge from the vanity table and what appeared to be a horsehair makeup brush and drew what felt like two perfectly round circles on Louise’s already powdered cheeks. She was beginning to feel certain that “less is more” must be a modern-day concept.
After the hair and makeup were complete, the maids left Louise alone for a moment to gather the appropriate garments and then gave her several more moments to check out her new fabulous bedroom. The room was sparsely furnished, with each ornately carved chair and foot stool upholstered in the same pink-and-gold brocade fabric as the walls and heavy curtains, which were drawn shut across the tall windows. There was a vanity table against the far wall that held a large, open, ebony jewelry box whose sparkly contents spilled out onto the glass top and a dome-shape canopy bed on a low platf
orm that was draped in matching tapestry fabric.
Hanging above the mantelpiece was an ornately framed oil painting of a woman sitting at a table with her hands crossed. The woman was posing naturally in a white muslin dress with a deep V-neck ruffled bodice, smiling sweetly for the artist. She wore a floppy straw hat with a blue ribbon and wildflowers attached to the brim, which partially covered her deep chestnut-colored hair that fell in wild, loose waves around her face. Her flawless, milky complexion was offset by her remarkable violet-tinged eyes (and these were definitely the days before colored contact lenses). This must have been Gabrielle! She was psyched; if this portrait was any indication, Louise was now undeniably, totally gorgeous.
Before she had time to bask in her newfound beauty, the two stylists came at her with the odious corset. If Louise felt like she had been physically restricted dressing up as Miss Alice Baxter in 1912 on board the Titanic, this was a whole new and unfortunate level of discomfort. It seemed that the farther back she traveled in history, the more pained and restricted women were. Literally. By the time the maids had laced the back of the whale-bone corset up over her thin chemise (yes, it was actually made of whale bones—she asked), Louise was seeing stars, and not in a good way. They then tied something that looked like a life preserver around her that extended Louise to just about double her girth so that the pleats of the dress could fall properly. Why they squeezed her in just to ultimately give her a caboose that would make Kim Kardashian look teeny was beyond her.
“I… I can’t breathe….” she gasped. She thought there was a very real possibility that she was going to faint right there on the needlepoint carpet. To Louise’s pain and bafflement, the two uniformed women tried rather unsuccessfully to stifle a giggle. As though not taking in enough oxygen and possibly passing out for the sake of an hourglass figure was some sort of joke.
If there was any payoff for all that torture, though, then it most definitely came in the form of the most fabulous marigold-colored evening dress Louise had ever laid eyes on. The gown was composed of three separate pieces of a fine orange silk: a structured bodice, a ginormous hoop skirt, and a long sweeping train. The dress was decorated with gathered bands of gold silk twisted backward and forward over the bodice. The sleeve ruffles were covered with sprigs of tiny silk-and-taffeta flowers with little jade-colored leaves and petals, all clearly hand-stitched.
The main part of the dress was slowly and dramatically lowered down over Louise’s corseted body like a stage curtain on opening night. As she ran her fingers over the luxurious fabric and intricate detailing, all her twelve-year-old insecurities that far too frequently ran through her head like an evil mantra—too skinny, too flat-chested, too short, too quirky—were wiped clean. She was being given a fresh start. For the first time since her experience as Miss Baxter, Louise felt like a true diva. She glanced up at the larger-than-life-size framed portrait of Gabrielle looking down over her and felt protected by and connected to this total stranger. For some reason she had been chosen for this.
Now she was ready to find the party.
CHAPTER 19
After three failed attempts at exiting the room, Louise awkwardly discovered that she had to turn herself sideways in order to pass through the doorway with her silk bustle intact. She once again heard the muffled giggles of her two chambermaids and had a feeling that she might be in for a long night.
The vast arched hallway was now crowded with a buzzing swarm of hundreds of formally attired guests, all dressed up in different color variations of Louise’s elaborate fancy outfit. The sun was setting and the dusky orange light lazily filtered in through the tall paned windows. A dazzling row of sparkly glass chandeliers suspended on red velvet-covered chains were now aglow with hundreds of dripping waxy candles.
The men wore dark cropped britches that reached their knees, met by bright white silk socks. They all had knee-length black- or navy-tailed silk coats worn over matching vests with detailed embroidery down the breast, frilly linen shirts, and powdered hair or perhaps wigs that were pulled back in ponytails with dark silk bows. Their leather shoes had stacked heels and were fastened with buckles or ribbons. But the men looked almost insignificant next to their female companions, whose rich purple, sapphire blue, or ruby red jewel-toned bubble skirts and extravagant hairstyles took up much of the space in the magnificent hall.
Louise let herself blend into the current of chattering people. Someone had to know where they were going. She felt her silver embroidered shoe catch on the train of the woman in front of her, who snapped around to give her a nasty look.
“Do watch where you are walking,” she trilled in a huff. This was going to be a challenge, as Louise generally had enough problems not tripping in her normal life without having to worry about stepping on the vast silk tails that all the women seemed to be dragging behind them.
“My dear Gabrielle,” a tinkling voice called from behind her as a pink satin-gloved arm gracefully linked through hers. She turned to see the Princesse de Lamballe smiling gently back with her sweet watery blue eyes. She had changed into a dusky rose-colored gown with matching dyed lace trim delicately peeking out of the structured bodice and a lone strand of ivory pearls looped twice around her neck. Jeweled barrettes held up her teased blonde hair with a few perfectly placed curls framing her heart-shaped face. She looked beautiful.
“Isn’t it a lovely evening?” she asked, as though it were just a typical night in Versailles.
“Yes, it is,” Louise replied, not able to mask the gigantic smile that must have been plastered on her face. She was trying, unsuccessfully, to not seem too excited about what, to this girl, was just another fancy dinner. This was sooo much more than a lovely evening, Louise thought as she looked around at what appeared to be foreign dignitaries and European society ladies graciously mingling as they made their way down the corridor. Some of these people probably had whole chapters devoted to them in her history books! Now if only she could persuade one of them to write her term paper for her…
“You look marvelous; you always do, of course!” the Princesse de Lamballe exclaimed. And, for once, Louise believed it.
The girls walked arm and arm into what must have been the royal dining hall, which was now packed with spectators. “Who are all these people?” Louise couldn’t help but ask.
“Why, mostly they live here, but Versailles is open to everyone, as you know,” the princess answered, seemingly shocked that Louise—or Gabrielle, rather—was naïve to the workings of the palace. “Of course they must have a hat and a sword to be admitted.”
“Really?” Louise asked, surprised. “I mean, of course. I knew that.” She thought a palace was supposed to be a private, exclusive space. It seemed like half the people in France must be here. She couldn’t imagine thousands of people making their home in the White House or it being open to any tourist who happened to show up with the required hat and sword. Particularly the sword part.
The dining room was rather strange, too. It was a grand room with a shiny waxed parquet floor, deep red walls, and a gold stucco ceiling inlaid with masterly painted oil murals, and it seemed as though it was a Versailles tradition that the royal court ate their supper in public. At the far side of the room, a dining table covered in a long white cloth was set up with two ornate candelabras, silver covered platters, and soup terrines. Marie Antoinette and the portly and unattractive Louis XVI, whom Louise recognized from earlier that afternoon, sat side by side in two matching armchairs looking out toward the room. A semicircle of maroon velvet stools trimmed with golden tassels arced the other side of the table and were occupied by ladies of the court. The rest of the audience stood behind a few feet away.
In her old life, Louise would be self-conscious eating a toasted sesame bagel at a crowded lunch table. She couldn’t imagine sitting on a platform and cutting up her vegetables while everyone gawked. Maybe that was why Marie Antoinette was so skinny. Maybe it made her really uncomfortable to eat in front of all those people.
Louise watched as Louis, grease dribbling down his chin, greedily gnawed on a chicken leg while the dauphine, as Louise remembered she was called, sat there quietly, occasionally taking a tiny teaspoonful of consommé with her white-gloved hand. Her napkin remained neatly folded next to her plate. In contrast, Louis paused only long enough to pop a whole hard-boiled egg in his mouth or to take a gulp of red wine that dribbled down his chin from the goblet held out to him by another member of the royal court. It seemed like he didn’t even notice that a few feet away a crowd of people were gawking and staring at him. Did these people ever get a moment of privacy? Or was privacy a modern concept as well? Louise didn’t think the president and first lady would be cool with this invasive setup.
There was a whole gaggle of ladies in colorful satin gowns with big bustles waiting as still as marble statues to pass Marie Antoinette a new fork or glass of water if she so desired, which she rarely did. Louise noticed the married couple barely said a word to each other during the whole meal. They just stared straight ahead as though they were mannequins in a display window at Bloomingdale’s or some fancy department store as the audience watched, captivated.
The Princesse de Lamballe was standing next to Louise, gazing admiringly at Marie Antoinette as she took a tiny, mouselike nibble of a spring green asparagus spear. This was too weird. Louise needed some fresh air.
“We should take our places, shan’t we?” the princess asked, gesturing to two empty seats directly in front of the dauphine.
Looking at Marie Antoinette’s best friend’s wide, innocent blue eyes, Louise had a quick horrifying flashback to Miss Morris lecturing about how the Princesse de Lamballe would ultimately find her head on a pike paraded through the streets of France. The poor Princesse de Lamballe’s detached head was first taken to a hairdresser, ensuring that everyone, particularly Marie Antoinette, would recognize her, she heard her teacher state simply in a monotone.
Time-traveling Fashionista at the Palace of Marie Antoinette (9780316202961) Page 7