Belle Epoque (24 page)

The countess helps me with the catch. “Do you like it?” she asks, smiling.

“It’s stunning.
Merci
, Madame la Comtesse.” My delight at the gift blows away my guilt.

Isabelle gives me a notebook with my initials embossed in gold on the cover. “I have something else for you, but I’ll give it to you later,” she whispers.

“I’m so embarrassed. I didn’t buy any presents,” I tell her.

“You weren’t supposed to,” she says. “Just enjoy it.”

I look around the room and then down at my new bracelet. For the first time I feel as if I really belong.

It’s the wee hours of the morning by the time a maid leads me to my bedroom by lamplight. The walls are papered green with a delicate leaf print. In the center of the room is a huge
dark wood four-poster bed covered with an embroidered bedspread. There is a ceramic sculpture of an Asian woman on either side of the bed on mirrored tables. Under my feet, a thick carpet of green and white flowers decorates the floor. The fire is lit, and the maid places the lamp by my bed.

“I put out some nightclothes for you, mademoiselle,” the maid says. “Seems you forgot to pack any.”

I realize I’ve never received proper nightclothes in the wardrobe from the countess—it didn’t even occur to me.

“Do you need help undressing?” she asks.

She already helped me into my Christmas Eve outfit, so I’m not taken by surprise this time. “If you could undo the buttons.” I turn my back to her. She has me unbuttoned and my corset untied in seconds, then helps me out of the dress and hangs it up in the closet.

“
Bonne nuit
, mademoiselle.” She closes the door behind her and I am left alone for the first time in this paradise of a room, which must exceed the dimensions of my garret room twofold. It’s late, but I daren’t go to sleep yet. Even if I wanted to, my body is buzzing with the excitement of actually staying for a week in the Duberns’ house. I wander around the room, letting my fingers glide across the furnishings, pretending I am as accustomed to them as to my own dingy dresser and chair. I take a peek behind the curtains at the night outside. It’s still, unlike my neighborhood; a blanket of luxury keeps everyone snug and quiet, sleeping in their four-poster beds, under goose-down quilts.

By the window there is a walnut desk with writing paper
and an inkwell. To whom would I most like to write from this vantage? I sit down, take the quill from its well, dab it on the blotting paper and put pen to paper.

I begin to let my imagination run away with me.

I write my address as care of the Count and Countess Dubern, to further impress. I reread my letter, crumple the paper into a ball and throw it in the fire, watching my fantasy life
smolder in an instant. Even if I’d never dream of sending such a letter, it feels nice to pretend.

I get into bed underneath the quilt embroidered with flowers. I don’t put out the lamp yet; I lie still, my eyes open, absorbing the riches and beauty of the room. I am an Ophelia surrounded by flowers, ready to let the old Maude die, to be reborn into a new life.

“Maude Dubern,” I whisper.

Imagine if I were the count and countess’s other daughter. I pretend this is my bedroom; the dresses hanging in the wardrobe are my own. It is my highly anticipated season, and I dance with handsome suitors who appreciate my wit and intelligence. My sister, Isabelle, has beauty and charm, but even though I am the plainer, quieter sister, I can still captivate Paris society. It is in this spirit of enjoyable self-delusion that I drift off to sleep.

On Christmas morning, I’m aware of a servant in my room building a fire. I hear Geneviève enter and whisper to the other girl—a scullery maid—to be quick and leave the room before I wake. I open my eyes to Geneviève placing a breakfast tray on the bed beside me. “
Bonjour
, mademoiselle.”

“What time is it,
s’il te plaît
?” I ask her using the familiar
tu
, not the formal
vous
. She’s only a servant, after all.

“After ten; everyone slept late today, mademoiselle.”

“Is Isabelle awake yet?”

“Yes, she’s getting ready. The family gathers in the drawing room on Christmas morning. I’ll be back to help you dress.”
She glances down at the floor next to my bed. “Seems you had a visitor during the night!”

Geneviève leaves and I pull myself out of bed. On the floor I find two gifts wrapped in silver tissue. I open them hastily, and to my amazement, I find myself holding my very own camera and a box of glass plates.
Isabelle
, I think.

“T
HE DUKE HAS RETURNED FROM
London, and I have it on good authority that he will be attending this evening’s concert.” The countess is positively ecstatic as she relays the news to me during our stroll in the Jardin des Tuileries on Christmas afternoon.

Excitement takes hold and my heart flutters at the thought of seeing him again. Then I stop myself and examine the situation with a cool logic—the chess game of matchmaking is on again, and I’m caught in the middle.

“I hope Isabelle will find some charm to shower him with,” the countess says, sighing and glancing down the path at her daughter walking with the count. Her face grows stern. “It’s not attractive, such a headstrong girl. Talking about politics and science—her conversation is a douse of cold water on the flames of romance.”

I follow her gaze to the figure ahead of us in the white mantle. If only the countess knew
how
headstrong her daughter is.
I wonder if I could tell her about Isabelle’s plans in a way that won’t get me into trouble.

The countess continues, “Ideally I want an engagement announced in the spring.”

I look across at her. “Spring?” I repeat. I wasn’t expecting this. Spring is so soon!

“That’s supposing she can hold his interest until then.” She prods a gloved finger into my arm like a wand. “Your influence will be key.”

Doubt is lodged in my throat. I want to speak up and temper her expectations, but what can I say? I can’t
defy
her. I swallow hard. “Isabelle is an independent girl,” I venture. It’s as much as I can say to stand up to the countess.

“She is, but her weakness is friendship. There is already affection between them, and with your counsel to encourage her, I’m not worried.”

I thought I had more time—Durandeau had mentioned the season lasting until summer, and I’ve been naïvely playing along, fingers crossed, hoping I can keep everyone happy. But the countess demands results. Can I encourage Isabelle to contemplate marriage as well as her studies?

“When Isabelle is engaged, your assignment will be complete. And of course, then we can arrange some kind of reward for your efforts.”

“What sort of reward?” I can feel the new bracelet underneath my coat sleeve and I almost forget my predicament at the thought of receiving another token of her appreciation.

“I’ll have to think about it.” She pulls up the collar on her furs; the coat is trimmed with mink tails, and they sway in
unison as she moves. “Of course, it depends on setting the engagement first.”

When we return from the afternoon stroll, I seek out Isabelle. I intend to test the waters for her current temperature on marriage. I’ve purposely avoided this topic since our day at Eiffel’s tower, and she never initiates the subject of her own accord. I open the schoolroom door without knocking—the Duberns’ home as familiar to me as my own now—and take a seat in one of the armchairs by the fire. Isabelle is hard at work, poring over some papers on her workbench.

“I’ll be with you in a moment,” she says.

“Take your time.” I relax back into the armchair and gaze at the fire. What approach will be the most persuasive? I must incorporate her desire for independence and the pursuit of academics. I can’t suggest she give those up.

There’s a knock on the door and the butler enters, brandishing a silver tray with two glasses of steaming mulled wine.

“Something to warm you up, mesdemoiselles, after your walk.” He hands me a glass and puts the other one on the table for Isabelle, then leaves the room.

I sip the fragrant hot wine; a ribbon of liquid warmth unravels down my throat and brings a glow to my cheeks. I recognize all the servants now and understand the different roles they perform. Before they were faceless and as intimidating to me as their masters; now I know different.

I take another sip of wine, spicy and sweet. The fire crackles and I lift my feet toward it and wiggle my toes inside my boots,
relishing the perfection of the setting. “Pull up a chair,” I call over to Isabelle.

“Sorry, I’ll be right there. I’m just looking over my Latin.”

I smile and shake my head. “Your capacity for understanding all those scientific terms baffles me.”

“It’s not terribly difficult. I just commit things to memory,” she says, walking toward me and picking up her wine. She takes the armchair opposite and leans back, her face still knotted in concentration.

“After you apply to the Sorbonne, how long until you find out if you have a place?”

“By summer, I should know.” She takes a sip. “I’ve a good mind to tell Mother right now. It would take the pressure off all her matchmaking.”

I almost choke on my wine. I play out the scenario in my mind and begin to feel ill. Isabelle will tell her mother, claiming the support of her new friend Maude. I will lose my job in an instant. Propelled by fear, I think fast. “Isabelle, honestly, just wait on that,” I say casually. “Wouldn’t it be best to continue with your season until you absolutely have secured the place?”

She slouches back in her chair and sighs. “I suppose.”

I breathe a sigh of relief.

Now that she’s mentioned the obstacle of her mother, I see a way to bring up the notion of marriage in a positive light. “I was just thinking about what you said at the tower that day.”

She lifts her head, curiosity piqued.

“Have you ever considered that a husband might support your studies? It would be better to be married, then, than to remain a child in your mother’s house forever.”

She scrutinizes me. “Whose side are you on? Have you made a pact with Mother?”

Her accuracy throws me for a moment. I shrug, trying to appear natural. “I just think you shouldn’t rule it out.”

She puts down her glass. “What about you? I thought you didn’t come to Paris to find a husband?”

“I would marry the right person,” I say sincerely. “What about the duke, for instance?” As if he just came to mind. “He’s kind and appears fond of you. Now that he’s back from England, imagine if he proposes—”

“I’ll have to refuse him,” she interrupts.

“You can’t!” I say with too much feeling. It irks me that she can be utterly dismissive of such a man. “You disregard him so easily, as though you’re saying no to sugar in your tea or a second helping of cake. The duke is a worthy match—good fortune and breeding.”

“Maude!” She stares at me, her head cocked to the side with a puzzled expression.

My shoulders sink. Surely by insisting, I have just given myself away.

Her eyes are fixed on me like a cat’s. “I declare, you like the duke.” She breaks into a grin.

The color rises in my cheek and I fight to conceal my feelings. “What? No, of course not. Preposterous.” But I know my words don’t match my expression. It’s as if she’s shining a light on my hidden desires. “I mean to say, I like him for you, yes. But he’s not for me.”

“You do!” She laughs. “You have a secret crush. Well, he’s going to be at the Christmas ball tonight. We must throw you
two together.” She picks up her glass and raises it in a toast. “To Maude and the duke.”

What have I done? Simultaneous delight and terror strike a chord, which clangs off-key; this is not how the countess’s matchmaking is supposed to play out.

The Russian embassy is hosting a concert, followed by a Christmas ball. The music room is a dazzling space of ivory and gold. Cherubs are painted on the ceiling and carved into the moldings. The room glows with chandelier light, and rows of gilded chairs are set up to face the grand piano—a complete contrast from the music halls of Montparnasse.

Since Isabelle concocted her plan to pair me off with the duke, I have been guilty of indulging in a fantasy for the rest of the afternoon. I can’t help but wonder if maybe I do belong with the aristocracy after all. Even my dress tonight—a cream chiffon silk trimmed with black lace and sequins—is the equal of Isabelle’s. If the duke picked me, nothing else would matter—not the countess, the agency, my garret room or money. All my worries would evaporate into a fairy-tale life. The Duchess d’Avaray.