They rose together from the ground, ignoring the blanket. Jean-Philippe took Claudette’s arm in his, patting her hand with his opposite hand as they walked. He whistled happily as they strolled through the park as though it were any other day together, and she blushed furiously, sure that this was what it felt like to be a grown woman out with her devoted husband.
Claudette kept her betrothal secret from her parents, and Jean-Philippe did likewise, knowing that his parents would be furious to know that he was jeopardizing his apprenticeship. Both sets of parents assumed the two were still just childhood playmates, and allowed them to see each other as frequently as ever.
Because Jean-Philippe had a small income now from Monsieur Gamain, their times together consisted of more than just walks and stolen kisses. In addition to picnics in parks, they attended plays and sat in coffee houses. Claudette felt very grown-up to have her first cup of coffee, a bitter brew that she downed anyway because it made her feel sophisticated. Jean-Philippe laughed and praised her brave attempt at liking the popular beverage. Often, though, he remained serious.
“Gamain tells me that the middle class—that’s us, Claudette—is completely shut out of politics. The aristocracy and the priests have all the say in the running of France. We make up most of the population, yet we have no influence. The American colonists are fighting to get control of the government. We should do the same.”
“But Jean-Philippe,” Claudette protested, walking alongside him on the cobblestones down a narrow street of tightly fitted houses with pink and red flowers exploding from window boxes. “Aren’t the colonists trying to establish a separate country, since they are so far away from England? We live right here with our government.”
Jean-Philippe was confused, but only for a moment. “It doesn’t matter; the French people must have a voice. Now, little dove, I have just been paid and must treat you to a custard.”
He took her hand in his arm and lovingly stroked it again. Claudette forgot all about Gamain, the colonists, and the troubles of France. A girl in love has no memory beyond what her beloved has last done for her.
As she lay in her narrow bed now, her memories were blotted out by the dull ache of loneliness and misery that had taken permanent residence in her heart.
7
As part of Maude Ashby’s ongoing efforts to elevate her family back to the status to which she deemed was her due, she frequently staged parties. At first, she invited neighbors and business associates of James’s, not those who were her true intended target, but a good stepping-stone until her reputation improved. By offering surprise entertainments, such as the time she had a trained monkey performing at one of her social gatherings, she ensured her reputation as a remarkable hostess. Slowly, she was building what she considered her “clientele” at her parties. With each party, she discarded a few people from her invitation list whom she now considered herself having passed by socially, and invited a few new representatives of the elite, whose ranks she desperately wanted to join. Even though she could hardly say that her parties were exclusive and her invitations in great demand, still she kept a restricted invitation list as a way to generate a sense of exclusivity for her events. For several days she had been mulling over an idea for further social advancement, rolling it back and forth in her mind, finally deciding it would be to her advantage, and arranging in her usual fashion to set things in motion.
She went to James in his study, smoothing her skirt and practicing her best smile. “Mr. Ashby, I think it’s time to have another dinner party. Don’t you agree?”
James Ashby looked up from his book in surprise. When had Maude ever consulted him about one of her parties? For that matter, when had she last spoken to him civilly, without the veiled reference to his inadequacies as a husband, father, and provider?
“W-why, yes, my dear, if it makes you happy.”
She sighed, exasperated. “James, it does not make me happy, but it does provide me—I mean, you—with an opportunity to mingle with the right sort of people. Not only that, I have an idea that will set us apart as unique members of society.”
As Maude Ashby proceeded to tell her husband of her original idea, certain to gain the respect and admiration of everyone in attendance, James Ashby gazed past his wife at a painting on the wall, already drifting off to thoughts of going to the club the following day with one of his friends, to drink brandy and smoke cigars away from the infernal carping at home.
“She wants you to do what?” Béatrice was incredulous. “But Claudette, Mrs. Ashby does not like either of us. Why does she want you to do this after all of these months here?”
“I don’t know, Béatrice. But I suppose I am to do as I am commanded, no matter how ridiculous I will appear. I imagine I will have the opportunity to meet all of those interesting people you are hoping the Ashbys know.”
“If only you could meet someone who could help us get out of here. How I would love to miss just a day of cleaning Nathaniel’s filthy breeches. I believe he purposely wipes bugs and mud on them to make my work especially hard.”
Claudette hugged her friend. “Well, I don’t know that anyone the Ashbys know would be a friend to us, but I do know that Mrs. Ashby is giving me several new dresses in payment for my role, and I plan to share them with you.”
Jassy was furious. How could that little French bitch be getting elevated to the position of lady’s maid? Why, Mrs. Ashby ain’t never had a lady’s maid, and if she was all of a sudden getting that high in society, well then it might as well be Jassy in that position.
After all, she thought, I been here almost four years, and I know how to dress hair, I do indeed. Didn’t I always do my aunt Mary’s hair all them years before she passed? If it wasn’t for that French la-di-da and her mousy little friend, I’d now be lady’s maid, and a lady’s maid can catch a better man than a kitchen wench. Jassy’s eyes narrowed. It weren’t fair, and that stuck-up, high-and-mighty kitchen slut was going to have to reckon with Jassy Brickford before long.
Preparations for the Ashbys’ latest party, now publicized on invitations as “Soirée à la Français,” went on day and night for weeks, sending the entire household into a frenzy. Carpets were beaten, linens aired, and silver polished. James frequently took to staying out at Brooks’s Gentlemen’s Club until late hours to avoid his wife’s incessant grumbling about how these parties are just so difficult, but it is all part of her sacrifice to save the family name and fortune, which was just so unfortunately lost.
Nicholas and Nathaniel watched with interest all of the goings-on. Nicholas volunteered to carry things down to the laundry, and would mysteriously take an hour at a time to do so. Most of the servants and other family members were too preoccupied to notice. When Nathaniel wasn’t scavenging leftovers from Cook’s trial pastries, he occupied himself with considering what kind of practical joke he could play on one of the guests. A spider in a wine glass? No, too silly—he was getting too old for such baby tricks. Perhaps he could set a small fire outside and panic all of the partygoers. No, his father didn’t get mad often, but a trick like that would ensure the perpetrator would be the recipient of a beating, and he probably couldn’t pass it off as Nicholas’s idea. No, it would have to be simple, yet untraceable.
In her new, temporary designation as lady’s maid, Claudette was given hours of instruction as to how she was to position herself behind Mrs. Ashby (“Always behind my left shoulder, close enough that I do not have to raise my voice to issue you an instruction, but far enough away that I shan’t have you tripping on me. I don’t want to actually sense you are behind me, I just want to know that if I reach behind me to drop my napkin, you will of course be there to catch it”). The lessons went on interminably. When to say something to guests (only when Mrs. Ashby was showing her off), when to smile, when to look serious, when to leave the room, when to say something glowing about