Claire’s Story, 1910

by Adele Whitby

  “I suppose my violet silk might be best,” I said thoughtfully. “But I’m sure it’s terribly wrinkled from the journey.”

  “If it please you, Mademoiselle Claire, I took the liberty of bringing your dinner dresses to the laundry this afternoon,” Bernadette replied. “They are pressed and hanging in the wardrobe.”

  I peeked inside the tall mahogany wardrobe and found my dresses hanging there, just the way Laura used to hang them back home. “Thank you, Bernadette,” I said. “That was very considerate of you.”

  “Not at all, mademoiselle.”

  Bernadette worked swiftly to dress me in the violet silk. It was a beautiful gown, but it had dozens of finicky pearl buttons down the back that troubled Bernadette as she attempted to fasten them.

  “I apologize, Mademoiselle Claire,” she said.

  “There’s no need,” I replied at once. “You’re not the first to struggle with them!”

  Luckily, my hair was much easier to fix. Just a few months ago, Mother had agreed to let me cut it in a short bob that curled around my ears. It took only a few strokes of the hairbrush and a handful of pins to have it looking stylish.

  “There!” Bernadette said as she placed the last pin in my hair. “Is there anything else you’d like?”

  “Just one thing,” I told her as I reached for Mother’s gloves. The satin was cool and smooth as I pulled them over my hands. If Bernadette noticed that they were still a tad too big, she didn’t mention it.

  “I’ll show you to the drawing room, if you’d like,” she offered. “That’s where the Rousseaus gather before they take their seats in the dining room.”

  “Please,” I said gratefully. Since I hadn’t had a proper tour of Rousseau Manor yet, the endless corridors seemed like a hopelessly complicated maze.

  Bernadette smiled kindly. “You’ll find everything in no time,” she said, as if she could read my thoughts.

  Just outside the drawing room, I fidgeted with my dress—straightening the shoulders, smoothing the skirt. I pulled up my loose gloves one more time and willed them to stay put.

  I took a deep breath.

  Then I stepped through the doorway.

  Cousin Henri and Cousin Colette were on their feet at once.

  “Ahh, here she is!” announced Cousin Henri.

  “You look lovely, Claire,” Cousin Colette said as she approached me. I thought at first that she was going to hug me, but instead her hands fluttered by my shoulders as if, at the last moment, she’d lost her nerve and decided to pat my arm instead.

  “I trust you had a pleasant afternoon,” she continued. “Did you rest?”

  “I—I took the air,” I said, not wanting to lie. “The gardens are most pleasant.”

  “Yes,” Cousin Henri said. “Especially this time of year.”

  Silence descended over us then, and I wondered if my cousins were having as much difficulty thinking of something to say as I was.

  Finally, Cousin Henri cleared his throat. “Shall we?” he asked, offering his left arm to Cousin Colette and his right arm to me. “I am a lucky man to dine with two such beautiful ladies tonight!”

  In the dining room, Cousin Colette sat at one end of the table while Cousin Henri took his place at the other end. There was a third place set in the center, so I sat there. Just the three of us, I suppose, I thought. How different it was from our table in America, which was always crowded with Mother and Father’s friends!

  I took a sip of water as the footmen arrived, bearing the first course—bowls of creamy potato-and-leek vichyssoise soup.

  “There will be much to attend to in the coming weeks,” Cousin Colette said. “You and I shall sit together in the parlor, and you will tell me all your favorite dishes so that our cook, Mrs. Plourde, can add them to the menu. I’ll make sure they’re in frequent rotation.”

  “Thank you,” I replied. “But please, I don’t want anyone to go to any trouble on my account. I’m just grateful to be here.”

  Cousin Colette’s smile wavered, and I wondered if I’d said the wrong thing. I patted my lips with my napkin to hide my self-consciousness. Everyone had told me that the Rousseaus were charming and friendly, and yet we could hardly carry on a conversation for more than a sentence or two. Was there something wrong with me? Perhaps they really didn’t want to be my guardians after all. Perhaps they would’ve preferred it if I’d stayed in America.

  “Lessons,” Cousin Henri spoke up suddenly. “We will make arrangements for you to continue with your lessons. Composition, language, arithmetic . . .”

  “I trust, in the family tradition, that you were receiving training in the arts as well?” Cousin Colette inquired. “Painting, drawing, music?”

  “Yes, all three,” I replied. “Though I am considerably less skilled in some fields than others. You may find it useful to plug your ears to protect them during my music lessons.”

  I thought a little joke would make us all feel more comfortable, but I was the only one who laughed.

  It’s hopeless! I thought in frustration as the next course arrived. Perhaps Cousin Colette was right and I should’ve spent the afternoon resting; the rigors of dinner conversation with my guardians felt like more than I could handle.

  Well, I thought, at least I can enjoy this wonderful meal. Father had often told me that the food in France was better than anywhere else in the world. “Someday we’ll take you, ma chérie,” he would say, using his special endearment for me. “And you can eat food the way I ate it growing up in France. The way it was meant to be prepared.” He would’ve loved every dish that the footmen served, I was sure. The chicken and mushrooms were so delicious that I wished I could’ve licked the plate! Remembering the delightful profiteroles that Camille had brought me that afternoon made me look forward to dessert, even though I was soon so full that I was worried I wouldn’t be able to eat a single bite more. But when the footmen brought in a dessert I’d never seen before, I knew I’d have to try it—at least a tiny taste!

  “What’s this called?” I asked as the footman placed a slice before me.

  “Mille-feuille,” Cousin Henri replied. “It’s a very delicate kind of pastry layered with sweet cream. Go on—taste it!”

  I brought the fork to my mouth. The pastry seemed to melt into nothingness on my tongue, while the creamy filling was rich and sweet.

  “That’s amazing!” I cried, before I remembered the proper, quiet manners I should’ve used at the table. But Cousin Henri and Cousin Colette didn’t seem to disapprove of my outburst. In fact, Cousin Henri seemed almost delighted by it.

  “Aha!” He laughed. “You see, Colette, I am no longer the only one in this house who can appreciate a fine dessert!”

  Cousin Colette shook her head in mock exasperation, but the smile on her face gave her away. “Henri, I am surprised that you greet this news with such enthusiasm,” she chided him. “I would’ve thought that you would prefer to have all the desserts for yourself.”

  Then Cousin Colette turned to me. “If you’re partial to sweets, Claire, you will be very happy here,” she said. “We are fortunate to employ the best pastry chef in all of France, Marie LeClerc. You met her this afternoon, along with her daughter, Camille.”

  “Oh, yes, Camille!” I exclaimed as I figured out the connection. “She came to my room this afternoon with a tray full of sweets, and she never once mentioned that her mother had made them! I was very grateful to her, as I found I was hungrier than I expected. She is very kind, isn’t she? We had a very nice little chat, and I was so glad for her visit.”

  I smiled brightly as I waited for a response . . . but no one said anything. Instead—and I wish I could say that this was a figment of my imagination, but I’m certain that I saw it—I caught a strange look pass between my cousins. They seemed concerned—almost worried—by what I had said. I looked down at my plate, having suddenly lost my appetite, and idly pushed a strawberry around with my fork. Was it something I’d said? Something I’d done?

&
nbsp; Why did Cousin Henri and Cousin Colette keep acting so oddly?

  I hope that I haven’t gotten Camille into trouble, I fretted. I didn’t think that she’d done anything wrong, but perhaps the rules were different here in France. Mrs. Vandermeer had warned me that I might find more formality at a French estate than I was accustomed to in America.

  But wouldn’t Camille have warned me not to say anything, if that were the case?

  If the mere mention of Camille could upset my cousins like that, then I would take care not to speak her name unless it was essential. Suddenly, I found myself looking forward with even greater anticipation to the tour Camille had promised me. Camille was the friendliest person I’d met since I set foot in France—and I was in dire need of a friend.

  I didn’t want to do anything that might jeopardize that.

  After breakfast the next morning, I returned to my room to wait for Camille. A few moments later, I heard a tap on the door.

  “Hello!” I cried happily.

  “Good morning,” she replied with a grin. “Is now still a convenient time for your tour?”

  “Certainly! I’ve been looking forward to it,” I said. “Will we go outside first? Do I need my hat?”

  “Whatever you prefer, of course,” she said at once.

  I thought for a moment. “Let’s start inside, and if there’s still time before lunch, we can get our hats and go outside as well. If you have the time, I should say. I seem to have nothing but free time. At least, until my lessons begin.”

  Camille brightened. “I wonder if we’ll have the same tutor,” she said. Then she shook her head. “Oh, of course not. What was I thinking? I’m sure you’ll—”

  “You have lessons?” I exclaimed. The thought had never occurred to me, perhaps because there were no young servants at the American Rousseau Manor.

  “Thanks to the Rousseaus’ generosity,” she said, blushing a bit. “I am very grateful to them.”

  “In that case, I do hope we will share a tutor,” I said. “It would be such fun! Like a little school!”

  Then I remembered what had happened at dinner last night, which dampened my enthusiasm. Had Camille gotten in trouble? Would she even tell me if she had?

  There was only one way to know for sure.

  “At dinner with Cousins Henri and Colette last night . . . ,” I began.

  Camille waited for me to continue, but I wasn’t quite sure what to say—or how to say it.

  “I . . . Well, your mother’s dessert was very good,” I stammered. “Delicious, really!”

  Camille smiled. “Excellent! She’ll be very glad to hear it.”

  “And, well, I might have mentioned that you brought some treats to my room in the afternoon,” I continued awkwardly. “I hope that was all right.”

  For a moment Camille looked confused. “I’m sure it was fine,” she replied. “As long as I wasn’t disturbing you. And should I ever do that, you must only say the word—”

  I shook my head. “Oh, no. You wouldn’t be disturbing me,” I told her. It didn’t seem that she’d gotten in trouble for anything I’d said at the table, which filled me with relief but also curiosity. If Camille hadn’t been breaking the rules, then why had Cousin Henri and Cousin Colette reacted like that?

  “Shall we begin the tour?” Camille asked. We walked into the hallway, where she gestured at the ceiling. “The third floor is the servants’ quarters. Very dull, actually—just a lot of little rooms—so we can skip it.”

  I looked around the hall. “I didn’t realize there was a third floor,” I replied.

  “There’s a hidden staircase behind that door,” Camille told me as she pointed to the end of the hall. “That servants’ staircase is actually the only way to get to the third floor.”

  I looked at the dark brown door with interest. The door seemed entirely ordinary, as though it led to a normal room. “I never would’ve guessed! There are servants’ staircases at Vandermeer Manor but not at the American Rousseau Manor.”

  “Servants’ staircases and corridors snake all around within the walls of Rousseau Manor,” Camille explained. “The family never has to see us as we go about our work. Of course, the Rousseaus aren’t like that, not at all. They don’t mind if we use the regular halls and stairs if it’s more convenient.”

  I smiled. That sounded like the sort of approach Mother and Father would have had, and it made me feel a bit more at home.

  “This part of the second floor contains mostly guest rooms,” Camille continued. She opened each door, one at a time, so that I could peek inside it. “The peach room . . . the gold room . . . the green room . . . the gray room . . .”

  There was one door, I noticed, that Camille swiftly and deliberately walked past.

  “What’s in there?” I asked.

  “That?” she said quickly—too quickly. “Oh, that room’s nothing, but if you’d like to go to the West Wing now. That’s where my mother and I live—”

  My curiosity was piqued. I slipped over to the door and reached for the cold brass knob.

  “Wait—don’t—”

  It was too late, though. Because just as the words left Camille’s mouth, the door swung open.

  Come on,” I said to Camille as I stepped over the threshold. She followed me without saying a word, then rushed to close the door behind us.

  What I found when I opened the door was hardly the shocking surprise I’d expected. It was, after all, just a room—a very pretty and well-appointed room, with rosebuds on the wallpaper and a canopy bed with pink velvet drapes. But apart from that, there was nothing unusual about it. I couldn’t imagine why Camille had been so eager to skip over it.

  I walked farther into the room, marveling at all the beautiful dolls in the curio cabinet and a darling menagerie of wind-up animals. There was a vanity full of atomizers and shelves that were positively crammed with books. In short, the room was perfect.

  “What a darling room,” I said.

  Camille’s worried expression melted away as a beaming smile crossed her face. She clasped her hands together. “I was hoping you would like it!” she exclaimed. “I’m so glad to hear you say that!”

  “And there’s a balcony,” I said. “Let’s take in the view.”

  “Oh, no,” Camille replied at once. “We mustn’t do that. Someone might see us. We’re not even supposed to be in here. It’s forbidden.”

  Now I was really curious about this room, which was so lovely and yet so mysterious at the same time. “Well, we could stand to the side of the doors and peek around the curtains, couldn’t we?” I suggested. “I don’t think anyone would see us if we did that.”

  Camille pursed her lips. “I suppose that would be all right,” she said. “But just for a moment or two.”

  I carefully reached out and pulled back just the edge of the sheer white curtains. Across from me, Camille did the same. A breathtaking view of the estate was revealed to us; I could see an apple orchard in full bloom; fountains bubbling merrily; and a very unusual garden full of large, overgrown bushes. The groundskeeper was working busily in it.

  “What’s that, over there?” I asked, craning my neck as I tried to get a better look.

  “Those are the topiary gardens,” Camille explained. “The new groundskeeper, Phillipe, and his son, Alexandre, are working to restore them. Each bush will be clipped and shaped into a different animal.”

  “How lovely,” I said. “One could sit out on the balcony every day and watch the transformation take place.”

  That’s when a splendid idea occurred to me. “I’m going to ask Cousin Colette if I might move into this room,” I announced. “It’s far too special to stay closed up all the time.”

  Camille immediately went pale. “No, no, no!” she said. “No, you mustn’t, Claire! Monsieur Henri forbade anyone from setting foot in this room ever again.”

  “But why?” I asked incredulously. “Why on earth would he want that, when the room is so prettily arranged, as if it’s just
waiting for a girl to move in?”

  Camille’s eyes darted toward the door. When she was assured that it was still shut tight, she gestured me over to a bench at the foot of the bed. “I probably shouldn’t even tell you this,” she began in a low voice that immediately captured my interest. I sat up straight, filled with anticipation for the secret that she was about to reveal.

  “Madame Colette and Monsieur Henri had a daughter, and this was her room,” continued Camille. “Her name was Mademoiselle Claudia, and when she was of age she fell in love with a dashing young man from Germany—against their wishes. They had a terrible fight about it. Then Mademoiselle Claudia ran away with her sweetheart in the dark of night.”

  “No,” I breathed, shocked by the tale. “I had no idea. Then what happened?”

  “All I know for certain is that Mademoiselle Claudia died,” Camille said.

  “But there must be more to the story,” I insisted. I always loved a good mystery. And this one was full of romance as well. “Where did she go when she left Rousseau Manor? Did she marry her sweetheart? Did she ever make amends with her parents?”

  Camille looked like there was something she wanted to say.

  “There is more to the story!” I cried. “Oh, do tell, Camille. You can trust me. I swear it.”

  “There is a diary,” she whispered. “Mademoiselle Claudia’s diary. I found it among her old books, but I haven’t read it. I hid it here for safekeeping.”

  “You mean to say that it’s here? Right here, in this very room?” I asked.

  Camille nodded.

  “Why, I think we ought to read it—don’t you?” I said.

  “I don’t know,” she said slowly. “It doesn’t seem right.”

  “But think of it this way,” I pressed. “If we read it and find out more about Cousin Claudia, we’ll be able to avoid accidentally upsetting Cousin Colette and Cousin Henri.”

  “That’s a good point,” Camille acknowledged. “But I still don’t think it would be right. . . . At least, it wouldn’t be right for me to read it. You’re family; Mademoiselle Claudia was your cousin. It’s different.”