She left, closing the door softly.
Agnes kneeled on the bed and lifted the corner of the blind. From here, she could see down to the street all the way to the tea merchant where her mother had worked. Worked? Genevieve Breckby? In a warehouse? What hard times had she fallen on? Knowing her mother had faced hard times made Agnes believe she would survive her own. She curled up around her crate, not intending to sleep; intending rather to think and plan and solve. But her thoughts began to blur against each other, and she drifted off in the lamp-lit room.
•
When she woke, it was because somebody had entered the room. It took her a moment to remember where she was. A tiny-boned girl with loose dark hair was standing at the chest of drawers, her back to Agnes.
‘Molly?’ Agnes asked.
The girl turned, a hairbrush in her hand, and smiled at Agnes. ‘And who might you be?’
Not English at all. Molly was Irish.
‘I’m Agnes. I’m … new. What time is it?’
‘It’s after eleven.’
Agnes noticed that Molly wore a pretty dressing gown, rather than a dress. ‘Do you allus come to bed this late?’
‘I’ve been working,’ Molly said, sitting on her own bed and brushing her hair.
‘Working? For Madame Beaulieu?’
‘Yah, of course.’
Agnes was about to ask, what kind of work does a girl do until eleven in the evening, dressed in nothing but a robe? But she knew. She had known, at some level, since the moment Madame Beaulieu had found her. Now, more than ever, she needed to be canny.
‘I’m sorry. Am I keeping you from going to sleep?’ Agnes said, shifting the crate off her bed and onto the floor.
‘No, it always takes me a little while to relax after … So, you arrived today?’
‘Aye. It seems a million years since I left London, but it was only this morning.’ Agnes’s head swam with tiredness. She unlaced her shoes, unbuttoned her dress and let it drop to the floor, and climbed into the bed. ‘How long have you been here?’
‘Going on five months.’
‘And when did you start … working?’
Molly smiled, and she had a sweet face. There was nothing hard at all in it, which surprised Agnes. ‘Ah. Well, Madame Beaulieu will give you five or six days to see things her way. And you will; we all do eventually. Until then, she might make you wash dishes every night until your hands are raw, and beat carpets every day until your arms ache.’ Molly shrugged. ‘In the end, it’s easier to entertain her clients, and it pays much, much more.’
‘Much more?’
‘Oh, yes. This is a fine establishment with a good reputation. You can make twenty-five francs a night, with your room included.’
Agnes’s mind whirled, thinking about that kind of money. But then she remembered how it would be earned, and she recoiled from it. She pulled her covers up to her chin. She did not want to insult sweet-faced Molly by saying she’d rather wash dishes forever, so she said nothing.
Molly extinguished the lamp and slid into bed. ‘Goodnight, then, Agnes. I’m glad to have a roommate again.’
‘Goodnight,’ Agnes said.
Within moments, Molly was breathing peacefully and deeply. Far more peacefully than Agnes imagined she would sleep.
If Molly was right, Agnes had a week to find some clue of Genevieve’s next move. She was on the right street, and she wasn’t afraid of a few days of menial work in a bordello. But she would not lie with men she didn’t know, no matter what.
You will; we all do eventually.
‘Not me,’ Agnes said under her breath, but she lulled herself to sleep by imagining what twenty-five francs a night might buy her.
•
Agnes woke in the morning, unsure of the time. She kneeled on the bed, lifting the corner of the blind to gaze across at the tea merchant. The front doors were open now, but she couldn’t see anybody going in or out. She watched for a few minutes, when she was startled by a loud voice saying, ‘Don’t do that!’
The blind was snatched out of her hand and wrenched back down by Molly, whose hair was a sleep-snarled cloud.
‘What? Why? It’s morning.’
‘We aren’t allowed to have the blinds open during the day. And not just by Madame Beaulieu. It’s a law.’
‘A law?’
Molly’s voice grew gentle. ‘Oh, Agnes. You know where you are, don’t you? You know what Maison de Cygnes is? We are a good establishment, with wealthy clients. We must abide by the will of the gendarmerie if we want to keep our good reputation. Blinds drawn, all the time.’ She yawned, then brushed at her hair with her fingers. ‘Come along. I’ll show you where the bathroom is and the dining room, and perhaps we will meet some of the other girls. Do you know any French?’
‘Hardly any.’
‘Well, then. I can teach you. My grandfather was French. That is why I came to Paris, to stay with him when he was ill and dying. Unfortunately, he had many debts and left me nothing, and while I was gone my mother died and my father sailed to Australia. I had no home to go back to in Dublin.’ Her eyes grew wistful, but soon she cheered herself up. ‘Ah, it’s not so bad. I’m alive. Look at me. Come on, let’s show you around.’
Molly took her to a tiny bathroom at the end of the corridor, with a water closet and a small round tub. After she had washed up, they returned to their room to dress and descended the stairs to the dining room, where a skinny, spot-faced girl was handing out sweet rolls and pouring hot chocolate from a white china pot. Agnes sat with Molly and another two girls whose names she forgot immediately, at a long table of dark wood. All the blinds were drawn, which meant the room was illuminated only dimly by the bright cracks of light around the blinds. The room was large, with a bare wooden floor, and the lime-washed walls were decorated with paintings and postcards. Molly chattered away with the other two girls in rapid-fire French while they ate. The spot-faced girl served her breakfast, then moved to the other end of the table to collect empty dishes and disappeared through a dark doorway, presumably into a kitchen. Agnes supposed she did the menial work because she was resisting doing the other work, which Molly and the equally pretty, coquettish girls she conversed with were willing to do. Or perhaps she was not considered pretty and coquettish enough.
Agnes wolfed down her food, then was itching to move. Madame Beaulieu was nowhere to be seen, and Agnes, keen to set the terms of her employment, asked Molly where she might find her.
‘Oh, she’ll be around. You can’t go a day without seeing her,’ Molly said airily. ‘She’ll find you when she needs you. Come back upstairs and tell me a little about yourself and I’ll teach you a few good French phrases.’
The other girls looked at them curiously as they spoke English. One, a creamy-skinned beauty with silky hair almost the colour of silver, giggled behind her hand and whispered something to the other girl. Agnes immediately took a dislike to both of them.
As she followed Molly back upstairs they paused on the first landing and Molly pointed down the corridor. ‘These are the rooms where we meet our clients. They are beautiful rooms. Would you like to see one?’
Agnes shook her head, although she was curious. One room’s door stood open, and she could see a glimpse of dark red furnishings.
‘Very well,’ Molly said, and up they went another floor. ‘This is Madame Beaulieu’s apartment. If you are desperate to see her, you can come up here. But she’s always very busy.’
Then up one more flight and they were back at their own room. Agnes saw immediately that her crate of belongings had been moved. She had left it on the floor, but now it sat on her bed. ‘Somebody has moved my things,’ she said.
Molly seemed unconcerned. ‘Perhaps Suzette has been sweeping the floor and—’
But Agnes was already diving through her belongings, and found that her purse – with her money and her identity papers – was missing. ‘My money’s gone!’ she said. ‘Somebody has stolen it!’
Molly grasped her hand with her own co
ol fingers. ‘Hush now. Quiet now. We will find whoever took it. There are only eight of us living here and—’
At that moment, the door opened and Madame Beaulieu stood in the threshold. ‘Good morning, Agnes. I trust you have eaten?’
‘My purse is gone. All my money. My papers,’ Agnes blurted out. ‘You have to find who took it.’
‘Darling girl, I took it. I came up to look for you, and there it was sitting out in the open. I do trust my girls, but it is best I look after your precious things. It is locked safely in the strongbox, in my office. You have nothing to worry about.’
Her reassurance did not bring Agnes much relief. She had assumed that she could slip out and never look back, whenever she wanted. Now Madame Beaulieu had her purse, that would not be so easy.
She tried not to let Madame Beaulieu see her mind ticking over. ‘Thank you. That is most kind. Now, I am willing to do some chores for you to earn my keep. Shall I start in the kitchen?’
‘You may start in the laundry,’ Madame Beaulieu said, and Molly, whose hand was still in Agnes’s, stiffened. ‘All the sheets must be boiled and hung today. You do know how to wash sheets, I take it?’
She did. And she hated it. On those irregular occasions at Perdita Hall when she had to leave the quiet mending room and fill in for somebody at the copper, she had learned to light the fire, boil the water, stir in the soap, wrestle the hot wet sheets into the cold rinsing water and then through the mangle, then pin them outside with raw fingers. ‘I would be very happy to,’ Agnes replied evenly. ‘Only this afternoon, may I have an hour to myself for a walk? I do like to walk every day.’
‘Of course. But I will mind your purse. There are … how do you Londoners say it … pickpocket.’ Her emphasis fell on the last syllable, and it sounded like a sweet French word for a flower. But her meaning was not sweet at all. It was dark. She would not let Agnes escape; not yet. ‘You won’t need it. As long as you are willing to work, we will feed you and give you all you need, right here.’
‘Thank you, Madame,’ Agnes said. ‘Kindly show me the way to the laundry.’
•
By two o’clock, Agnes was exhausted in both body and mind. Nobody had told her to come to the dining room for lunch, so she had missed it, shut up in the dark, steaming laundry with raw hands and aching back. Her brief glimpses of the outside world were taken through the back door as she went to hang sheets on a crisscross of rope lines stretched from high fence to high fence, in a garden devoid of grass or flowers. When she dropped one of the sheets in the dirt and knew she had to wash it again, she nearly dissolved into frustrated curses. But she endured, because she would not lie with a man for money. She would not.
Her mind ticked over and over, working out how to get her purse back from Madame Beaulieu. Sneak in and steal it back? Go to the gendarmerie? Maybe all she had to do was ask nicely, on the day she was ready to leave. But when would she be ready to leave? When would she give up on finding Genevieve here? Somebody at the tea merchant knew something; how could she make them speak to her?
And of all of the things they had taught her at Perdita Hall, why hadn’t they taught her French? She knew why. Captain Forest presumed the foundlings would never leave the north, let alone the country. She took a few moments to feel proud of herself, getting this far. Then she tried to say over and over in her head the few phrases Molly had made her memorise, sitting right there on the folding table, before she’d been called away to see a gentleman client. Where is? I am. How much? With, from, to. Man, woman, child, cat, dog, husband, wife. Slower, I don’t understand. Help! Leave me alone.
But by four it was all over. Nobody was in the kitchen to tell her not to slice herself a hunk of bread and cheese, but she gobbled it down before anyone caught her, just in case. Her hands were bright red and her hair was probably a mess of semi-damp fluff, but Madame Beaulieu had said she could go walking after she’d finished the sheets, and Agnes wasn’t about to double-check on that ruling. She strode towards the front door without a backward glance, and threw it open.
Madame Beaulieu was there in an instant, and Agnes wondered where she had been lurking.
‘Agnes?’ she said, just as Agnes was about to close the door behind her.
‘You said I could go walking.’
Madame Beaulieu applied a smile, approached her with that languorous gait. ‘But of course. You aren’t a prisoner.’ She indicated the bell on the door. ‘Ring it twice. That’s how I’ll know it’s one of my girls. I’ll let you back in myself.’
Agnes nodded and went to pull the door closed, but Madame Beaulieu held it. ‘Don’t be too long now, my English rose. You’ll be helping Suzette with the dinner preparations.’
‘Right then, madame,’ Agnes said deferentially, even though she had hoped to do nothing more than collapse into bed when she returned.
All of this fell away from her mind as the door to Maison de Cygnes closed behind her and she was outside in fresh air and clear daylight. She took a moment to inhale deeply, then set her sights on the tea merchant. It was a fine, warm day, and she saw a stocky man in a white apron stacking empty crates in front of the shop. He saw her as she approached and watched her go inside, but said nothing to her.
With the doors and windows open, the shop didn’t seem so shadowy and grim. All the shelves and the long counter were made of unfinished, honey-coloured wood. Large barrels and boxes were organised along the walls, and behind the counter smaller containers were stacked on narrow shelves. A woman of about twenty-five years was behind the counter, her back to Agnes, organising canisters on shelves. Agnes said, ‘Excusez-moi,’ and she turned, gave a bright smile, and said something in French. Agnes caught the ‘bonjour’ but not the rest of the sentence. She pressed on anyway.
‘Où est Genevieve?’
The young woman clearly understood her, and very quickly returned fire, in an incomprehensible sentence that most definitely used Genevieve’s name.
‘I’m sorry. My French is very bad.’ What was the phrase for Slower, I don’t understand?
She shrugged. No English.
‘Où est Genevieve?’ Agnes asked again.
This time the woman spoke slowly, and Agnes made out a few distinguishable words. Madame Valentine. Boulevard des Italiens. Genevieve. Avec Monsieur Valentine. Agnes took a moment to process. Valentine was one of the names on the door. The owner. She was framing her next question when a heavily accented, blustering voice behind her said, ‘What is all this?’
Agnes turned to see the stocky man. The armpits of his shirt were sodden with sweat, as was his forehead. His thick, brown moustache was waxed into an immovable shape that covered his mouth almost entirely.
‘Good day, sir. I am looking for Genevieve.’
‘Genevieve doesn’t work here any more.’
‘Does anyone know where she is? Is Monsieur Valentine available to talk to?’
He puffed up like a toad. ‘Monsieur Valentine,’ he spat, his voice unctuous with dark sarcasm, ‘doesn’t work here either.’
‘Then may I speak with Monsieur Valois? Would he know where I could find her?’
‘I am Monsieur Valois,’ he said. ‘And I can’t tell you a thing about Genevieve. She is gone.’ Then he switched to French and gave the girl behind the counter a tongue-lashing; for what Agnes did not know, but she hoped it wasn’t on her behalf.
Agnes tried to charm him. ‘Thank you. Thank you, Monsieur. While I am here, perhaps I could ask you if you have any positions vacant? I am looking for work in Paris.’
‘You don’t even speak French,’ he said, with a dark laugh.
‘I am not afraid of hard work. I—’
‘Get out.’
Agnes gave the young woman behind the counter an apologetic smile, and made to leave. Monsieur Valois followed her onto the street and followed her a little way. Her spine prickled.
She stopped walking, then turned to face him. ‘Monsieur?’
‘I saw where you came from.’
To her horror and shock, he grabbed her and pulled her hard against his hot, sweaty body. ‘Maybe I will tell you where that woman is, if you come to me willingly. No money.’
Agnes’s body went stiff, she leaned away from him as far as she could. ‘Let me go,’ she said. ‘You would tell me nowt of use, and my honour is still worth something to me.’
‘Even better,’ he said, leaning his face into her ear. He licked her neck.
She shuddered, fought to get away, but then he released her willingly. ‘Goodbye, silly English girl. I am tired of silly English girls.’ He turned and walked back to the tea merchant, and Agnes stood in the street, wiping his saliva off her skin with her sleeve.
CHAPTER 10
Agnes was elbow-deep in scummy dishwater just a few hours later, in the steamy and dank kitchen below stairs at Maison de Cygnes. She didn’t mind. After her encounter with Monsieur Valois, she was more certain than ever that she would not sell her body as Madame Beaulieu wanted her to, and no amount of vile menial work would have her change her mind. She could endure it; it wasn’t forever. Here she had a bed in the short term, and every afternoon to roam. The moment she got upstairs, she would open Marianna’s book on Paris, and find Boulevard des Italiens and plot her route. The young woman at the tea merchant had said only a little that Agnes could understand, but enough to lead her to where she should start looking.
Madame Valentine. Boulevard des Italiens. Genevieve. Avec Monsieur Valentine.
Did she mean that Genevieve had married Monsieur Valentine, the other owner of the business, and was now Madame Valentine? It would explain why she had worked there. Was it worth returning when Valois was not there to see if she could find out anything about Monsieur Valentine? But on her first visit, the English-speaking woman had told her Genevieve was gone. Very definitely gone, as though she had never been welcome.
Agnes was accustomed to this mystery about Genevieve by now, and even counted herself lucky to have a mother with such an interesting and unconventional life. She could feel the same blood surge in her own veins. Genevieve had refused to be constrained, and so now Agnes was emboldened to do the same.
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