The deportment lessons were punctuated with lessons on how to do Mrs. Ashby’s hair (“What if something falls out of place? People will simply expect you to take care of me immediately.”). She also received instruction on how to subtly apply rouge and powder to Mrs. Ashby’s face in the event it wore off (“So that I always look my best. It is so important that I look magnificent all evening.”)
Mrs. Ashby’s final admonition after weeks of this training was, “Just think—if you do well, I might actually keep you as my lady’s maid. What a splendid promotion for you. And how envious of me the other ladies will be.”
Claudette choked back her internal desire to scream by smiling dumbly at her employer. She comforted herself with the knowledge that she would be getting a small, but new, wardrobe that she could share with Béatrice. During fittings she requested that the garments be made a little more loosely so that Béatrice’s slightly larger frame would fit them. Mrs. Ashby certainly did not allow Claudette to have any fine fabrics, but compared to the uniform she had been trapped in, the clothing—including one actual gown—was heaven-sent. The seamstress had attempted to imitate a French fashion that unfortunately was about ten years out of date. Marie Antoinette was keeping a busy fashion industry even more hectic with drastic changes in acceptable colors and styles every season. The fabrics, though, were more than serviceable and of good quality. They reminded Claudette of the fabrics her father used to dress dolls for customers, and she found herself longing for Paris and its comfortable smells and noisy streets, for her parents and their cozy doll shop, and most of all, for Jean-Philippe. Perhaps dead, perhaps alive. Could she one day get back to France to find him?
The morning of the party was glorious, nature not daring to disobey Mrs. Ashby’s command for perfect sunshine with a slight breeze. The frenzy of the past weeks culminated in one final push of polishing, dusting, and cleaning. A cache of genuine beeswax candles, normally kept stored away, were brought out and placed in the freshly buffed silver candelabra and sconces all over the ground floor. The intoxicating smell of artfully arranged fresh flowers permeated the house as they stood at attention in vases on tables and sideboards. The boys did not escape the household improvements. They were scrubbed until raw, then fitted into matching breeches and jackets, even though they were firmly instructed that they would be spending less than an hour with the guests before being sent to their rooms. Mr. Ashby was dressed in his finest waistcoat as well.
Mrs. Ashby stayed hidden for hours, attended only by Claudette. The other maids were angered by Claudette’s rise in stature, but none so infuriated as Jassy. She vented her spitting rage before any other servant who would listen to her. Something would have to be done about Miss High and Mighty Frenchy, she thought, viciously attacking the brass doorknocker with paste and a rubbing cloth.
Mrs. Ashby spent an hour practicing her entrance down the main staircase with Claudette trailing behind her, not too closely but not too far away. A little to one side, so guests could see her new French lady’s maid, but not so far out that she took the attention away from Mrs. Ashby’s décolletage in her new ballgown, a new design imported directly from Paris. Claudette thought the pea-green color trimmed in silver threads to be particularly ill-suited to Mrs. Ashby’s dark features, but wisely refrained from making any helpful suggestions.
Mrs. Ashby’s entrance before her guests went off flawlessly, and Claudette must have obeyed the impossible instructions sufficiently, for she was not chastised when they reached the ground floor and the hostess began mingling with her guests.
Periodically Mrs. Ashby sought out her husband, ostensibly to mildly flirt with whomever his companion of the moment was, but really just to make sure he wasn’t saying anything too ridiculous or inane. Truly, the man could be so laughable as a host.
Once Mrs. Ashby was satisfied that she had approached all of her early-arrival guests at least once, she took up a post in the drawing room, angling herself so that she could see any further guests coming through the door, yet remaining far enough in the room that arrivals would be forced to seek her out to pay court to her.
As Claudette stood just behind Mrs. Ashby, she saw a large, purposeful, perspiring woman striding through the door, barking at someone behind her. Another poor hapless lady’s maid, Claudette thought. Mrs. Ashby turned back and hissed to her, “I knew she would show up. Claudette, pretend you do not know English. Respond to her only in French—it will drive her simply mad.”
Turning back to the woman who had now reached her, Maude waved her fan ostentatiously in front of her face and exclaimed loudly, “Why, Mrs. Harrison, I am so delighted that you are here. I was just telling James this morning how very disappointed I would be if you could not make it. Mrs. Harrison, have you heard about my new lady’s maid, Claudette?” She pulled Claudette forward, and Claudette dipped lightly into a curtsy. “She’s French, you know. I had her brought over from Paris just to serve me. I’ve always said to James that it is so important that the boys have some Continental influence. He agrees with me, of course.” Maude sighed deeply, bringing the fan into slow motion, overcome at the thought that her boys were becoming so cultured because of her foresight. “The poor thing doesn’t speak a word of English, but I am quite skilled at demonstrating what I want, so things have been working very smoothly. Alas, I don’t know if you would be able to do the same, Mrs. Harrison. A shame, really, because it is incredibly delightful having a French lady’s maid in the house.”
Claudette picked up her cue. Emily Harrison peered into Claudette’s eyes as though inspecting a new pair of gloves for purchase, then snapped, “I can certainly make my point to anyone I choose. Claudette, fetch me a glass of wine.” She pantomimed taking a glass from a tray and tipping it back into her mouth. It was quite clear, and only an idiot would not have understood her action. Claudette screwed up her eyes slightly, pursed her lips, and shook her head. She began talking to the woman in French, saying whatever popped into her head. “Yes, madam, you do look like a garishly made-up elephant, but I would gladly ride out of here on top of you to get away from my deranged employer.”
Emily Harrison presumed Claudette was expressing her inability to understand what the lady wanted, so she began pantomiming more intensely. Now she was throwing her head back over and over for the drink, her hand clutching tightly at the imaginary glass. Claudette shrugged and looked at Maude, who was positively beside herself with joy. Emily stamped one thick-legged foot, muttered something about the French not having any sense whatsoever, and lumbered back to the front door, shouting for her lady’s maid to call for the carriage.
“Ha! I knew I could get rid of that old harridan if I simply put my good sense to the task. Now I can remove her from my invitation list, and the Denbys will come if she won’t be here. If I can get the Denbys, then I am just a few invitations away from an earl or duke from their social set.” Maude was very close to clapping her hands with glee.
These kinds of absurd interactions went on for about an hour, until dinner was ready and Maude went to find James to have him accompany her into the dining room. Claudette used the opportunity to retreat to the library, to sit alone for a while. She felt utterly robbed of breath and dignity. Settled in a chair whose red velvet fabric was worn but whose padding was blessedly plush, Claudette leaned back with her eyes closed in the dark room, gathering strength for the remainder of the evening.
She did not hear the door open again. The flaring of a match startled her to alertness, and she saw a man lighting a lamp picked up from the candle stand next to the door. His face was partially hidden, coming into full view as he picked up the lamp and moved into the room. He was tall, and carried himself like an aristocrat, which, Claudette realized with an inwardly disgusted sigh, he probably was if Maude Ashby had asked him here.
He moved to a bookcase, raising his lamp to examine titles on the shelves. The light illuminated his profile, which showed a tall, solid man, his light hair curling about his collar. Claudette shrank against the chair, instinctively not wanting to be noticed. The man picked a volume from the shelf and hefted it in his hand. He turned to leave the room and his light brought Claudette into view.
“What the devil? Who’s there?” He held the lamp aloft. In perfect French he said, “Why, you’re Mrs. Ashby’s