Though I had thought to sing as I walked to the Pommereau house, I cursed instead under my breath, finding myself late. I hurried along, holding my skirt up out of the way of wagon ruts and dust, afraid to take the back ways I knew so well because they were dirty and unkempt, and so losing my way easily as I rushed down the narrow streets. Carts and horses passed me, cobblestones tripped me, and as the neighborhood grew grander, I was held up by ladies and gentlemen out walking arm in arm, floating lazily along as though nothing in the world had ever vexed them, and every stitch upon their plump bodies clean and new.
I wanted more than anything to appear proper on my first morning. My hair was parted, slicked down with water and tied tight, my fingernails clean and soft, and my eyes shone. In my pocket, my little mirror bounced back and forth, and I was thankful again for it. In spite of the time slipping by, I took it out as I rounded a corner and looked once more at my own face, to make sure nothing was out of place. I stared intent, my head down.
“Watch where you’re going!”
In my haste, I ran straight into him, rocking him on his feet. Rubbing my forehead, I looked up into the face of a new recruit, not much older than myself. His face was red from embarrassment at losing his balance and his friends stood around him, laughing, all proud of their new uniforms.
“Careful, now, she’s only a girl.”
“If that knocks you over, you’ll never manage a charge.”
“Don’t give him a horse, he’d not stay on.”
“His first day, and already unseated.”
“Get out of my way,” he muttered to me, glaring down at his own shiny boots, his hands smoothing out the front of his coat.
I curtsied and stepped aside, trying not to laugh, for I knew, as he walked off with his fine friends, that it was the red-haired boy from the marketplace, only a year ago, and he did not recognize me at all. I whistled, soft, “Oh, the pleasure of love is fleeting, but the sorrow of love lasts,” half-hoping he would turn back. But he rounded the corner, his shoulders hunched, his friends still mocking him, a boy among boys. I wondered, briefly, if my father had ever looked so young, so white and thin-skinned, waiting for his life to begin.
In the still-early morning, the long gray house seemed dead, but perhaps this was just that the light was also gray. I could see movement behind some of the many windows (fourteen in all, all diamond paned—I counted them in wonder). The flash of a sleeve, a hand drawing a curtain, someone walking away from the glass and through a doorway into another, unseen room. Drifts of smoke curled up from the double chimneys, high above me, two stories and then the sloping, neatly slated roof. I hovered, not knowing what to do, for there were two main doors and I could not see which one I should go through. Before, a scared-looking kitchen maid had met me on the steps and shown me through, but now there was no one.
I stood before the doors, wondering what I should do next. Then I heard voices. Two men, servants, stood at a side door talking, one polishing a pair of boots, and the other idle.
“Who are you?” asked the first man.
“Must be the new maid,” said the other, jutting his chin at me and licking his bottom lip. He was younger than the one who’d spoken first, but his face was all grease and spots. A weasel in a dirty shirt.
“Well, go on then,” said the older.
“I don’t know the way.”
“Not either of those, if you want to last a day. Come through here and see Berthe—she’s the cook. She’ll tell you how to get upstairs. Come along.”
So I pushed past, not thinking much of either of them. I was Madame Pommereau’s maid now, and I’d have nothing to do with such men. The younger one winked at me as I went and I winked back. Force of habit—it would be unfriendly not to—but I cursed myself immediately. Madame Pommereau, I was sure, would not want her maid winking.
The kitchen, right inside the door and down four wide steps. Vast, stretching out into dim corners, the walls stone and smoothed plaster, the floor great beams of wood and the ceiling the same. A little strained light from small cellar windows, barred to keep out thieves. And the firelight from the wide dark hearth playing on all that dark wood and from those rafters pots and kettles and skewers and spoons hanging, as if to feed giants. Copper pots and dishes lined shelves all along the walls, all orderly and shining with a dull glow. A good smell wafted up from a pot over the fire, a smell of meat cooking. Heaps of chopped things over a big wooden table made, it seemed, from leftover pieces of the floor. Carrots, potatoes, beets and other roots, all ready for the pot. And at the far end of the table stood a woman who seemed as big and strong as everything else in that place. Bursting at the seams of a stained dress and capacious apron, her bulk straining against the edge of the table, legs and arms like pallid, mottled tree trunks. The cook, bending over a little rabbit that she was skinning with expert hands, letting the blood flow down the draining board and into a yellow mixing bowl. To one side, two other rabbits reduced to wobbling masses without skins. Her red hands working away at the raw red meat made me hungry.
I watched, waiting for her to look up. I was overwhelmed suddenly with the grandeur of my new position, and thought I would do better to work in the kitchen. It was warm and pleasant, even with the knives lining the walls and all the blood running down the table. A seat by the fire, and this creature Berthe as my mistress. But I was late for my true mistress, and I was forgetting all my ambition. My hands would get even rougher with all that chopping and washing and straining and scouring, when I wanted to make them soft and white as doves.
Still no word from the cook.
“Hello?”
She looked up slowly, saw me. Grinned a wary toothless smile and chuckled.
“I’m here to be the new maid to Madame Pommereau.”
She put her hands on my shoulders, made a grunting sound in her throat, and I realized with shock that she had no tongue. Still, she smiled and smiled, and then led me to a set of stairs and pointed me up them. A nasty trick those men had played, knowing she couldn’t tell me the way.
I climbed the narrow stairs, which ran up and up. The ceiling was low, the walls close on either side. Light spilled round the edges of a shut door at the top. I touched a wall to steady myself and found it was rough plaster, powdery white under my hands. Opening the door, I stepped into what I took to be the upper hallway, very wide and full of dark polished wood, with windows streaming light and a curved staircase leading down to the front entrance I remembered from my interview. Then, I had hurried along to meet Madame Pommereau, the kitchen maid tugging nervously at my sleeve. Now I suddenly forgot my haste and stood gawking, my eyes narrowing in the brightness after the dark stairs. Looking around, I saw a series of doors, all shut. I opened the first one, which led to a room full of high-backed upholstered chairs set in a big half circle by a stone fireplace with little china figures ranged across the top of it, shepherds and shepherdesses whiter and cleaner than any I had ever heard of. It made me smile, that wealthy people should think rustics so simple and sweet. I heard the loud ticking of a clock on the mantelpiece. To my dismay, I saw it was even later than I thought.
I ran back into the hall, opened another door, tripped over my skirt, and nearly fell into what I thought must be a dining room, because there was a big table with a little bald man sitting at it, reading over some papers.
“Yes? What are you doing in my study?”
He blinked at me with damp gray eyes and adjusted a pair of spectacles perched along his long bony nose.
“I’m the new maid. Françoise Laurent. Sir. I’ve lost my way.”
He rose, brushing imaginary crumbs from his long black velvet coat.
“Ah. Yes. My wife is expecting you.”
I looked down.
“You are late, I believe.”
“It will not happen again, Sir.”
“I don’t see how it could, as you will be living here with us.”
Then he smiled.
“Come, don’t be afraid. My wife is a woman of some nervousness, and so I wish for her not to suffer upset. I will show you the way. You are in quite the wrong part of the house.”
He led me back along the hall, through a doorway that led down another hall, and then, finally, through an open door to the room I remembered. How I had been so turned around, I don’t know, but I vowed never to be again. I would learn this house, which looked so square and simple outside, but seemed to have parts. His part, her part, the servants’ part. The right stairs, the right doors.
She was sitting by the fire, staring into it. She was wrapped in a warm brown morning gown, loose all round her, and had needlework nearby, and a sewing basket at her little slippered feet, but she seemed to be dreaming. The thread was all tangled in her lap, and her lips moved softly, as if she were singing to herself. Monsieur Pommereau patted my arm to keep me where I was, then went and bent over her very gently, his hand on her shoulder, stroking the cloth.
“My dear.”
She looked up at him, seeming all at once to come back into the room from wherever it was she had been. She put her hand over his.
“Your new girl is here.”
She rose, gestured for me to come in.
“Françoise. There you are.”
And he went out.
I stood awkwardly, not knowing what I should do next. She hovered before me, and also seemed unsure, and I wondered if she was waiting for me to say something. So we stood there, neither saying anything, and she drew the folds of her gown round her and shivered, and I felt a fool.
“I am pleased to begin in your service, Madame,” I said at last, and tried a curtsy, too quickly, and when I looked again she was frowning.
“Is something wrong, my lady?”
“It will not do.”
“What, Madame?”
“No, it will not do.” Her hands fussed about my dress, her brow furrowed in irritation. I looked down at my skirts, confused. She clucked her tongue and stepped back, surveying me. I had a sudden terror that she had changed her mind and in another minute I should find myself turned out, the laughter of the servingmen ringing in my ears as I walked down the street with nowhere to go. I pressed my lips together at the thought.
“Yes, I think it will be just the thing,” she went on under her breath, and still not meeting my eye, “and if it is a little short, it is no matter.”
And without a glance at me she bustled out into another room that her sitting room opened into. I was left standing on the carpet, in a panic.
She was back a moment later, her arms full of cloth. Finally looking into my face, she started.
“Françoise, what is the matter?”
“I do not know, Madame, for you have not said. Should I go?”
“Go? What do you mean, go?”
“Away, Madame? Do I not please?”
Understanding at last, she smiled, a crooked half-smile with a hint of mockery in it.
“I do not know yet whether you please me or not, but your dress is not fit to be seen. It is worn and patched. Here is another.”
And she shook out what she carried. It was long and the cloth was a dull dark brown, but thicker and richer than anything I had worn. The skirt seemed very full to me, all spilling down from her arms, and the bodice was beautifully worked with deep green thread over a loose white shirt with ruffled sleeves. I did feel twice-mended and dingy, looking at it. In one hand she held a little purse or pocket looped with ribbon, which I knew was meant to tie around my waist. I had often envied ladies those funny loose purses, flopping at their sides as if they had no fear of thieves, being innocent as babies.
She put the dress into my hands.
“It is a little worn, but not badly. It belonged to the girl who was my maid before.”
I nearly dropped the dress, and she smiled again.
“Don’t fear, Françoise, she did not wear it when she was ill. We burned the clothes she wore then. Put this on.”
I obediently unbuttoned my collar.
“Not here, you silly girl. We are decent creatures, I should hope. Go into the dressing room and come back when you are ready.”
“And what I wear now, Madame? What shall I do with that?”
“Leave it in a corner. Later on it shall be put in the ragbag.”
I thought with regret of the dress I wore. Mathilde had given it to me herself, to make me look proper. It seemed a shame to throw away such a generous gift. But I did not see how to contradict Madame Pommereau, and the set of her mouth did not seem open to contradiction.
Shutting the door between us, I looked about her dressing room. It was a big white room, with a bare floor of smooth pine boards that glowed in the sun, which came in through heavy green velvet curtains that were drawn back around the single window. There were a few chairs, and the rest was given over to chests of drawers and a high wardrobe, carved wondrously with flowers and leaves, a great wooden thing as big as a room. Another door at the farthest end of the room was half open, showing me a glimpse of a carved bed, hung with curtains of the same dusty green velvet as the curtains on the windows, and beyond that, another door that was shut but probably opened back out onto the hallway. I marveled at this honeycomb of rooms, all for her to sit in and sleep in and dress in. I had known whole families who lived in quarters smaller than the rug spread out before her fire.
For all the richness of cloth and wood, the dressing room had a sparse, hard look, and the air was stale and chill, the walls bare but for one picture, framed in wood and drawn in hundreds of delicate black strokes. Curious, I stood before it, and saw an image of ladies and gentlemen dancing in an open courtyard before a palace of some kind, with countless stairs and splashing fountains and garlands of flowers hung all about. The ladies wore skirts that made them look like the bells of cathedrals, and the gentlemen had thin spindly legs all swathed in stockings and ribbons, and both wore wigs nearly as high as themselves. I wondered if it was Paris, and somewhere Madame Pommereau had been, and then realized that the picture must be fanciful, for cherubs with trumpets flew over the heads of the dancing crowd, scattering flowers over a fat man who, I saw as I peered closer, must be meant for the king, and very pleased he looked by all the fuss being made of him.
I heard a tap upon the door.
“Françoise? Does the dress fit?”
“One moment, Madame.”
I threw off what I wore, tearing the seams in my haste, and laid it over a chair. I drew on the shirt and bodice first, admiring even in my hurry the carved buttons and careful buttonholes, then took it off again, seeing that the skirt was meant to fit under and would not go on last. After much frantic hustle and bustle, I got the whole mass of it on right and was doing up the top buttons and smoothing down the rumpled skirts when she came in, this time without knocking.
“You must learn to be quicker.”
“I am sorry, Madame.”
She looked me up and down, still frowning, but in concentration.
“It fits you well enough.”
And she tugged at the skirt, and showed me how to fluff out the ruffles of cuffs and collar, and to make the bodice fit smooth. Drawing away again, she nodded, a quick jerk of her head.
“That will do, I suppose. Now we will begin.”
And she unlaced the morning gown, and stood before me in her shift, and held her hands out stiff to her sides.
“Go and open the wardrobe, Françoise.”
And so she began to teach me. There was more to it than I could have imagined. How could one body be cocooned in so many layers of cloth? How could it be so difficult to comb and arrange one head of fine brown hair? What was the sense in wearing clothes with so many hooks and eyes, ribbons and laces that a servant was needed just to get dressed? And where did she go, who saw her, that she must have all this? I had thought myself a clever girl, but I knew nothing, it seemed. My hands, which I had prided myself were as quick as the rest of me, seemed clumsy and strange, afterthoughts to my hapless arms. I was a poor pupil, to begin with.
“Stays?”
“Madame?”
She sighed.
“Françoise, that means I wish you to fetch them. They are hanging there, on the wardrobe wall to your left. Bring them to me, please.”
I took down a curled mass of bone and white cloth, worked with hundreds and hundreds of stitches, with long laces hanging from it every which way. I squinted at the thread.
“It would take great skill to sew all that, Madame.”
“Yes. Put them on.”
I held the stays before me, trying to see which way was up, and where the laces were meant to be pulled. I was not even sure how they were meant to go on. She took them from me, showed me how to hold them to her body, then bent down so I could pull them over her head, and showed my fingers how to pull the laces, how to tie her in.
“These were made in France. They do not have such seamstresses here, Françoise.”
“Tell me about France, Madame.”
She looked at the floor, her hands still guiding mine.
“Françoise, it is not your business to ask questions. Or to offer opinions. It is not what a maid does.”
“What does a maid do then, Madame?”
“Do not be impertinent.”
“I did not mean impertinence. I only wish to know, because I do not know and so will make mistakes unless you tell me.”
She smiled, seeing I meant it. Her smile was a little wider this time, though I could still see a hint of something harsh in it.
“Well then. Ask.”
So I tried again.
“What, then, does a maid do? Madame.”
“Well, Françoise … a maid … a maid offers what is needed as soon as it is needed, and dresses me as I please, and carries my things, and talks to me only if I ask her to, and is silent when I want silence. And more than that, as well. A maid is many things. And I wish for you to be a proper maid, not a slatternly kitchen girl who can turn her hand to dressing, such as women have here. But you will learn.”
I will indeed, I thought to myself. I looked at both of us in the mirror we stood by. I had never seen myself in a mirror so large. And I could see her beside me. Her skin was creamy white and soft; a whey-faced girl indeed I was next to her. She was shorter than I, and plumper, with a pleasing roundness showing up my angles. But I had pretty wrists and hands, I thought, and good small feet. I had never thought I might be truly pretty before, and it struck me that I would become vain, seeing myself every day like this. She was vain, probably. She had to be, I’m sure, because her body was so petted, so wrapped and cosseted, she could not help but be vain.
She looked in the mirror too, and looked at me in the mirror. She held my eyes, and I thought of the game I played with Marie and Isabelle, by the light of three candles, of the vision of husbands and the weeping bloody woman, and how well I had played it though I had seen nothing there, neither husband nor woman.
“Françoise, you are dawdling. There is much you have to learn, and you waste my time.”
So we went on, myself with dogged persistence, and she with a quietly irritated patience. As the sun rose higher the room became brighter and more pleasant. The underskirts and overskirts and stays and panniers and bodice grew warm under my fingers, the comb drew little shocks from her dry soft hair. Buttons popped, seams strained under my hands, but by and by I learned. When we finished dressing her, she declared herself satisfied with me for the present. And I was well pleased with myself.
“Except your hair, Françoise.”
“My hair, Madame?”
“You must learn to dress your own hair properly if you are to dress mine. I must have you looking well.”
She took the comb from my hands. Going to a dresser, she opened the top drawer and took out pins and a greenish-brown ribbon that was the same as the trim on my dress. Then she combed out my hair, her hands rough and quick, and bringing me before the mirror again, showed me how to pin it straight back from my face and coil it up behind, and wove the lovely ribbon round it.
When she was done, my thin, straggling hair looked soft. It looked new. When I saw myself in the mirror, I felt that surge of hope. My image made me think I might cross over to what she was, though I could not see how.
“There,” she said, when she was finished. “Now you look right, Françoise.”
“Thank you, Madame.”
She stared at me.
“Are you crying?”
“No, Madame.”
She seemed discomfited, and I blinked hard.
“Well, well, go down and fetch my chocolate. It is time.”
“Madame?”
“Go down to the kitchen, Françoise. Berthe will have it prepared. I always take some slight refreshment after dressing. You are to bring it to me here.”
I got back down to the kitchen with no trouble. It seemed dark and sooty now after the airy brightness of the upper rooms. I hovered near the doorway, peering in. Berthe and the same scrawny kitchen maid I remembered from my interview were preparing a tray that seemed full of little cups and covered dishes, all hot and steaming, with white napkins and biscuits beside. The younger servingman sat at the table also, sharpening a row of gleaming knives.
“Come for the old woman’s feed, have you?” he said, tipping back his chair and winking at me again. This time I did not wink back, but stiffened my shoulders. He frowned.
“I am going to take that up to my lady, if that is what you mean,” I said, trying to sound as dignified as my new position and remembering what Madame had said about being a proper maid.
“Well, aren’t you fine!” he said, raising his eyebrows.
I smiled at the kitchen maid and Berthe, who both stared at me.
“I’m Françoise. You let me in when Madame saw me first. What is your name?”
The kitchen girl smiled and was about to speak when he broke in.
“Don’t bother with her, Josette. She’s too grand for us, it’s plain.”
“Perhaps I am too grand for you!” I said, angered by his tone and the set of his mouth. “And you should not speak so of my lady, or I will tell her what you say.”
I could see I had gone too far then, for the smile died on Josette’s face and Berthe shook her head at me.
“In this kitchen we can say what we like,” he said, glaring at me, “and if you carry tales, I will bloody your nose for you.”
“You should not speak so to him,” said Josette, “and you not here a day yet. Come, tell Paul you are sorry.” And Berthe nodded agreement.
“I will not,” I said, feeling my cheeks grow warm. “Not when he has threatened to knock me down.”
“Suit yourself then,” said Paul, and turned his chair so that his back was to me.
I had let my tongue carry me away again, but pride is pride, and not knowing what else to do, I took the tray without another word. I could feel three pairs of disapproving eyes follow me as I pushed open the door and left them.
I paused on the stairs, almost wishing I could go back and say I was sorry and begin again. But remembering the sneer in Paul’s voice I pressed on. My service was to Madame Pommereau, I reminded myself. I would not have much to do with the kitchen or the people in it. I was a proper maid now, to a fine lady, and I should not care to have their good opinion.
When I set down the tray before Madame she stared at it a moment, as if not sure which lid to lift up first.
“May I help, Madame?”
“No, Françoise, this I do myself. Only it is most provoking …”
She picked up a knife and peered at it.
“What is it, Madame?”
“It is dirty, look.”
Following her finger, I saw the faintest smudge on the carved bone handle. Hiding a smile, I nodded.
Sighing, she began to uncover the little dishes, and my mouth watered as I looked on. Chicken sliced thin and mixed with leeks and potatoes, a bowl of white sugar, another of preserved gooseberries, biscuits studded with cranberries, a little jug of cream, raspberry jam, and melted chocolate that poured thickly out of a silver pot into a china cup so thin the light shone through the edges. It seemed to me a feast fit for a wedding, or a funeral. Yet all this gave her no pleasure, it seemed. She picked at the food. Sipping the chocolate, she grimaced and pushed it away.
“Berthe always makes it too strong, no matter how much I instruct her.”
If I told this to Marie, I thought to myself, she would never believe it. It had never entered my head that a person could complain of food that lay plentiful before them, prepared so carefully by other hands.
She looked at me curiously.
“What are you thinking, Françoise?”
“Nothing, Madame.”
“Really.”
“Only … Madame, I have never tasted chocolate before. What does it taste like?”
I sucked my breath in then, sure I had been too forward, but she smiled, pleased again by what she thought was my simplicity.
“Try it then; it is yours. Eat. Drink.”
She pushed the whole tray toward me. Glancing at her, I saw she meant it. I picked the cup up gently, fearful that I should break it, and raised it to my mouth. It was sweet and bitter at once, smooth and thick, and like nothing I had ever imagined. I thought she must be a great fool, not to drink it herself. When that was gone I turned my attention to the slices of chicken, and was just spreading a second biscuit with gooseberries when I saw she laughed at me.
“What is it, Madame?” I asked, with my mouth full.
“It is nothing. You amuse me, that is all.”
“Why, Madame?” I put the biscuit down.
“You eat so greedily.”
“The food is good, Madame. I only do it justice.”
“That is not the point, Françoise. It is not well-bred to eat as you do, stuffing it all in at once.”
“How does a well-bred person eat, Madame?”
She did not hear the edge in my voice.
“A well-bred person eats small bites, and does not slouch over the table. And most importantly, does not finish the food that is set before her. It looks better to leave something on the plate.”
I wiped my mouth and hands on one of the white napkins. I did not want her to think me coarse. If that was what it took to be well-bred, I would do my best to try. Yet underneath, something in my spirit revolted in disgust as I looked at the lovely food that would be wasted.
“Who shall eat it then, Madame?”
“What do you mean?”
“Who shall eat the food that is not finished, Madame?”
“I do not know; it is not my concern. Perhaps the kitchen servants may eat it, or it will do to be fed to the pigs.”
She spoke dismissively, already thinking of something else, and I did my best to put the thought away. This was my new life now, and I could not afford to be disgusted by it.
“Françoise. I am sorry I asked if you wept, before. We have both had our losses. But all the same, let us not intrude upon each other, please.”
I saw she thought I had wept for my parents. She could not know I wept from happiness, to see myself in full in her mirror at last, to see myself clean and new. She could not have found that a cause for happiness, since it was ordinary to her, and she, it was clear, was not happy herself.