The worst of the servants was Jassy Brickford, a thin teenage girl whose parentage was in some doubt, although she insisted proudly that she was distantly related to Charles II. What young woman of suspect heritage couldn’t claim that relationship? Claudette wondered.
Jassy despised Claudette’s French manners, which she recognized as elegant and cultured, and completely unlike her own. She spent many days talking to the other female servants. “Frenchy is very uppity, ain’t she? Why, just th’ other day I heard Mrs. Lundy give her an order to collect up all the dead flowers in the house and replace them with new ones from the garden. Of course, Frenchy doesn’t know anything ’bout proper English flower arranging, and Mrs. Lundy made her do it all over again. Little Frenchy Fifi sassed Mrs. Lundy, told her it was impossible to do any better with what was available. I thought Frenchy’s teeth would come out, Mrs. Lundy slapped her across the mouth so hard.” Jassy giggled at the recollection, and the two maids she was talking to snickered with her. “What airs she gives herself! Why, even though I can claim a certain distinguished background, I don’t get impertinent with my betters. And especially not with Mrs. Lundy. Who needs their ears boxed all day by that old horn-nosed tyrant?” The other servants loved hearing Jassy tell a story, and were only too willing to agree with her that the two French servants, Claudette in particular, were filthy laze-abouts.
Besides Nicholas, the only friend they had in the household was an undersized youth of about eighteen named Jack Smythe. His big personality more than made up for his lack of stature, and he openly welcomed the two French women. Jack did not appear to have any one specific job, although much of his time was spent running errands and delivering messages, since he was small and quick and could move about town swiftly. Jack lived in the basement with the other male servants, but Claudette had witnessed him more than one night creeping out the window at one end of the attic and sliding down the ivy-covered side of the house, off on some adventure. He always made an appearance each morning when he was supposed to, and never seemed to lack for sleep. It was a relief to know there was one servant in the household who wouldn’t happily see them thrown into the Thames.
Each evening, regardless of how exhausted they were, Claudette and Béatrice met in one of their rooms after Marguerite had been put to bed in a trundle on the floor of Béatrice’s room, to talk over their day and give each other comfort. When possible, Claudette would bring up leftover desserts and other scraps to supplement their regular meager meals, taken with the other servants after the family had eaten. Claudette pretended not to notice Béatrice’s raw and scaly hands and flushed face, and Béatrice deliberately ignored Claudette’s noticeable weight loss. They even tried to make light about their existence, each expressing envy over the other’s lot.
“Béatrice, if only I were you and could hide in the laundry, far from the prying eyes of Mrs. Lundy and that horrible little Jassy Brickford, I would just iron all day and make the crispest bed-sheets anyone had ever seen. In fact, I would happily wear a bed-sheet to get out of this apron and cap.”
“Don’t be silly! You have the opportunity to see all of the Ashbys’ interesting friends and guests. Just think, soon you might get to meet some of them. Not only that, you have access to all of the dishes, and therefore pose a much better chance of tossing one of those infernal English teacups at Jassy than I do.”
The two women could laugh and cry happily during these moments, returning to their separate beds to fall into a weary sleep until waking up the following dawn to begin again. Usually dreamless, Claudette’s sleep was sometimes punctuated with sharp, dramatic images of Jean-Philippe, whom she had now not seen in nearly a year. In her dreams he appeared in boldly colored clothing in hues of red or turquoise or violet, always reaching out to her with something in his hand. Sometimes a rose, or a book, sometimes the locket she had given him. Always he was whispering her name over and over. Claudette woke from these dreams shaking and damp with sweat. To calm herself, she would pull up the chain from her neck, kiss her betrothal ring, then slide it around so that it rested under her cheek. The discomfort of it distracted her from her troubled thoughts. Usually her mind drifted back to the day Jean-Philippe gave it to her.
Jean-Philippe had become more and more animated on a single topic during their walks together, always talking about what Gamain had to say about the world.
“Do you know, Claudette, Monsieur Gamain says that the American colonists had the right idea. That we in France suffer under the same oppressions as they did. He thinks it is the fault of the king and queen, that they are taxing us outrageously and spending the money frivolously on themselves. He says we should be throwing off the yoke of monarchy.”
“Jean-Philippe, hush. You cannot say that about our sovereigns. It’s, why…it’s treason!”
“Maybe. Is it treason to want justice?”
The two walked more often in silence now, breaking their stride only for surreptitious embraces, or for more exposition on the extraordinary wisdom of Monsieur Gamain. Claudette delighted in having Jean-Philippe’s arms—now growing stronger because of his demanding daily work tasks and even sprouting dark, curly hairs between wrist and elbow—encircling her small waist as they leaned against a tree to nuzzle each other. Even more breathtaking were his professions of love, and his plans for their future together once he was released from his apprenticeship. Claudette’s singular bliss was spoiled only by Jean-Philippe’s periodic return to the subject of the exceptional Monsieur Gamain.
“Did you know that the queen hosts supper parties and loses thousands of francs a night playing cards? Monsieur Gamain says the queen spends money all day long on clothes, jewelry, and gifts for her friends. Also, they say that the queen commits unnatural acts with her friends. She has orgies in the shrubbery at Versailles.”
Laughter bubbled up uncontrollably in Claudette’s throat. “Jean-Philippe, what a ridiculous story. The queen of France, whom we have both met and found to be a picture of innocence, dallying immorally inside some hydrangea bushes! I could no more believe that than if you said she had sprouted wings and was now flying about Paris and landing on trees. I think your employer is toying with you.”
“Monsieur Gamain says the queen has over five hundred servants, and that she even has someone whose special job it is to hand her a glass of water whenever she is thirsty. It’s a crushing burden to those of us in the bourgeoisie—and the peasants—to pay for them. Why do we need to bear the burden for it, Claudette?”
But Jean-Philippe forgot about the people’s burden whenever he held Claudette, and she forgot about the ubiquitous Monsieur Gamain during those moments of tender embraces and soft whisperings of affection.
On a cloudless day in June, the two were on their usual walk and had wandered into the Jardin des Plantes, spending time in its intricate maze. Afterward, instead of seeking a bench ideally positioned to observe the populace, as they typically enjoyed doing, Jean-Philippe guided Claudette farther into the center of the park and spread a blanket under a centuries-old oak tree with a canopy nearly thirty feet across. Once seated, Jean-Philippe awkwardly rambled about his feelings for Claudette. When he became nearly incoherent, she interrupted him. “I know that you love me, and that when we are of age we will be married. Are you trying to tell me something else?”
He paused to gather his thoughts again. “Claudette, I have been saving what little I earn, and I have something for you. It is a poor gift for you, but I hope you will accept it until I can afford one that is more worthy of you.” He fumbled in his pocket and brought out a tiny package wrapped in string.
Claudette opened it. Inside was a small pewter ring. The band was simple, topped with an intricately formed knot. She stared at it for several moments, not quite understanding. Jean-Philippe lifted the ring from her palm and turned her hand over to put it on her third finger.
“Little dove, this ring is my promise of marriage when we are eighteen and I can leave the yoke of my apprenticeship. Will you marry me in two years?”
She stared