Béatrice’s cheeks immediately stopped their erratic movement, and a beam of sunshine spread across her face. “Yes, friends unto death!”
“Get your filthy, rotten, son-of-a-whore hands off of me, you common little turd!” Claudette whipped around in time to see Elizabeth Preston bring her fist across Simon Briggs’s face. “Touch me again and you’ll find yourself hanging from your tiny little jewels. If I can even find them, that is.” Laughter and scattered applause erupted in the room.
Briggs pulled his lanky frame up to be as towering as possible, his face nearly black with rage. “How dare you strike your better?”
“Hah! You’re nothing but a snuffling pig. I paid good coin for passage on this ship. I do not recall putting up with crude hands and stinking breath to be part of the fee for passage.”
Briggs’s mouth opened once to retort, then he clamped it shut and stalked out of the room.
“May I join you?” Elizabeth inquired, although she was already sitting down on the bench across from Claudette.
“Certainly. Are you hurt?”
“No. That horse’s arse is a coward. I saw him pinch a passenger’s derriere on the dock before we sailed. I knew I was going to set him straight if he got anywhere near me.”
Béatrice was staring at Elizabeth with clear admiration. What a bold, brave woman!
“Miss Preston, what is your purpose in going to England? You are clearly a native of that country,” Claudette asked.
“I’m actually returning home. I have an aunt who moved to Paris years ago. I am her heiress, so I make sure to visit at least once a year to keep my eye on my inheritance. Once I have it, then I can find a suitable husband.” She winked conspiratorially at Marguerite. Béatrice’s mouth was now a fully formed O.
“Where do you live in England?”
“In Sussex. And please, do call me Elizabeth. I would like to call you Claudette, if I may. After all, people sharing an adventure such as this should be friends, should they not? And who is this blinking little puffer fish?”
“Elizabeth, this is my friend, Béatrice, and her daughter, Marguerite.”
Béatrice recovered enough to nudge Marguerite. “Marguerite, please give your greeting to Mademoiselle Elizabeth.”
“Bonjour, Mademoiselle Lizabut…Mademoiselle Bizalit…Zibeth…Lizbit? Bonjour, Mademoiselle Lizbit!”
The three women laughed congenially at the child’s mispronunciation of Elizabeth’s name. The newly christened shipmate declared, “Well, if this young lady says I am to be Lizbit, then so shall it be!”
Briggs’s performance now forgotten, the three women continued chatting and sharing stories until a deckhand came down to announce that Captain Briggs wanted all women aboard ship planning to seek employment in England to come topside for instructions.
“Well, my friends, I suppose we depart from each other here. It has been a pleasure to meet you. May we meet again.” Elizabeth, now Lizbit, stood and made an exaggerated curtsy to Claudette and Béatrice, who had stood up to go to the upper deck.
“Now, when we dock, you ladies look your best. The rich folk will come to the dock to see you and decide if they want to take you home.” Briggs was speaking, and periodically poking his tongue in his cheek, as though playing with something loose.
“Monsieur, what will our wages be?” a tiny blond girl piped up.
“Well, now, that just depends on how much your employer thinks you are worth. And you’ll be giving me part of the take, since I’ll be helping you in getting your situations arranged. No more questions. Here are contracts for you to sign.”
Briggs had two younger women sitting near him distribute the contract sheets to the group of women seeking employment, which Claudette estimated to number about forty-five. Most women were quickly scribbling their signatures on the contracts. When she received hers, she glanced down at it, and saw immediately that it was written in English. Surely most of these Frenchwomen could only read French, even if they could speak some English. What were they signing? She peered closely at the paper. Béatrice was about to sign her own contract, but Claudette stopped her. “Wait,” she whispered. “We don’t know what this is.”
Claudette raised a hand to be noticed over the laughter and excitement of the other girls. “Monsieur Briggs! Monsieur Briggs, please, I have a question.”
Captain Briggs looked up from where he was collecting signed contracts. Squinting in Claudette’s direction he replied, “What do you want?”
“What does it mean about a commission of fifty percent?”
The captain shifted uncomfortably. “You can read? Well, well. The commission is what you give me for helping you find employment.”
Claudette pursed her lips and approached him. “You will take fifty percent of my wages for as long as I am employed?”
“Yes, yes, I’m giving you free passage to England, am I not? What, are you one of those learned girls? You think knowing a bit of English makes you better than the rest of the girls here?”
“No, but fifty percent, monsieur, it seems a little high.”
“Then you can just go back to France for all I care. But not on this ship! Find your own passage. I don’t take with ingratitude.”
“Monsieur, I am grateful for your help, but just trying to understand my position. What kind of positions exactly will we have? And we should know what our wages might be.”
Briggs laughed and called over one of his mates. “Hey, Jemmy, get your lazy, barnacled arse over here and listen to this. This chippy thinks she deserves special privileges for her free passage on my ship!” Both men dissolved into laughter.
“What’s yer name?”
Confused by their laughter but not wanting to be played a fool, Claudette drew herself up as tall as she could. “I am Claudette Renée Laurent.”
“Well, Mistress Laurent, you might be playing a great lady, but it’s dead serious work. Now sign here.”
At that moment, a commotion caused by two women vomiting overboard, victims of seasickness, or perhaps the several-day-old fish served at dinner, sent Briggs away, shouting to the other women to move off. He threw the contracts down onto a nearby barrel, and Claudette inserted hers in the middle of the pile without signing it. She signaled to Béatrice to bring her contract over, and placed Béatrice’s unsigned contract in the center of the sheaf as well. With Marguerite in tow, the two women retreated into the ship to seek Lizbit’s counsel. Lizbit was outraged, but refused to say why, merely advising Claudette and Béatrice to leave the ship as soon as possible.
Having been in France a full nine years, Marie Antoinette had learned that royal popularity was easily soured, and, once lost, not easily regained. The public was initially wild about the young archduchess, with her pleasing manner and elegant grace, and delighted to read in the local newspapers about her salons, dinners, and influence on fashion. But when no heir was produced, whispering started that would not stop. A daughter, Marie-Thérèse, later known as Princesse Royale, had finally been born in December 1778, but a son, the long-sought heir in the Bourbon line, was nowhere in sight.
The queen despaired of fulfilling the sole purpose of her life in France. Everyone at court whispered behind closed doors, speculating about her ability to produce a boy. Was it the king or the queen who was infertile? Or was the queen unable to, er, inspire the king to his duties?
Her mother, the empress, continued writing letters regarding her intimate life with the king, inquiring about such personal details as the frequency of their bed-sharing, and also the regularity of “Generale Krottendorf’s” appearance. “For if the Generale arrives with regularity each month, daughter, you