1869–1870
Jennie, look! Mama had it made for me. Isn’t it divine?” Clarita stood poised in the doorway of our white-paneled drawing room in our flat on boulevard Malesherbes, her confection of ringlets framing her bare throat and upper shoulders. “No crinolines”—she swept her hand over the narrow drape of her canary-yellow gown—“only a train. And a much higher waistline.” She thrust out her chest, as if it weren’t apparent. “It’s called empire. Eugénie has made it fashionable again, after it went out of style with—”
“Josephine Bonaparte,” I said from the piano bench. “I know my history. You might, too, and not because a dressmaker told you, if you’d deigned to pick up a book since we got here.”
My sister grimaced and stepped into the room tugging at her train, which I knew was the exact regulation length of four yards. Anything longer was reserved for the nobility.
I forced out a smile. “It’s lovely.” I had to refrain from asking how much it had cost. The question would sound petty and envious, though the effort of withholding my resentment curdled in my mouth. I couldn’t bring myself to admit that my sister was radiant, her naturally pink complexion highlighted by the gown’s unusual color, its high waist and stiff collar fringed with lace lending her the illusion of a slimmer figure than she had.
Our mother had been nothing if not relentless when it came to asserting her advantages once she gained the empress’s notice. Eugénie’s grandfather had been American, so upon hearing of Mrs. Leonard Jerome’s arrival with her daughters, she invited Mama to her les Lundis salons at the Tuileries, where Mama wasted no time in making the required impression. Despite her appalling French, she was soon plunged into a ceaseless round of social activities, leaving me astonished at her transformation from dour matron to lady-about-town. This evening marking the apotheosis of her efforts, as Clarita had turned eighteen and would make her debut at an imperial ball.
“Do you think it suits me?” Clarita plucked at the collar. “I wasn’t certain, but Mr. Worth assured us it’s the height of style.”
“He would, wouldn’t he?” My smile slipped. No doubt Mr. Worth, Eugénie’s favored couturier, had charged his weight in gold for the assurance.
Clarita scowled. “You can stop pretending you’re happy for me.”
Wincing at her chastisement, I moved to the bay window overlooking the boulevard, one of the emperor’s innumerable renovations. His minister Haussmann was tearing down every medieval remnant in the city, converting ancient rubble into ample streets, decorative parklands, and ornamental buildings to glorify the reign of Louis-Napoléon III.
I had to concede New York paled in comparison, even if everything in Paris wasn’t as it seemed. In our two years here, I’d seen the beggars huddled in soon-to-be-demolished doorways, the legions of threadbare seamstresses trudging to work in suffocating ateliers to satiate the appetite for attire. Certain districts must be avoided for fear of contagion—unnecessarily in my case, as I was never allowed outside without Dobbie. But Paris was still stunning in its beauty, especially as the summer dusk draped the boulevard in velvety light and people partook of the lively cafés and restaurants. Not for the first time, I thought I should count myself fortunate, even if, thus far, my sister was having all the fun.
Clarita let out a sigh. “It’s not forever. In two years, you’ll make your debut—”
“Is your sister moping again?” Mama’s voice cut into the room. “Has our pianoforte ceased to yield entertainment?” She stood regarding me from the doorway, dressed in a colossal blue gown. No innovation by Charles Frederick Worth for her. Mama had grown very plump—another unexpected development for a woman who until now had been abstemious—and the high-waisted, slim-skirted silhouette popularized by another Napoléon’s wife would have done her figure no favors.
“I’m not moping,” I said. “I’m bored. While you and Clarita are out visiting friends and getting fitted for dresses, I’m here all day, practicing the piano and studying history and grammar under that insufferable Teutonic governess you hired.”
“It is what girls of your age must do.” My mother unfolded her lacquered fan—a personal gift from Eugénie—and waved it about her, though the day’s heat had waned. “Cultured women make for attractive prospects. In time, you shall see as much.”
Returning to the piano, I blew air impatiently out of the side of my mouth, eliciting my mother’s arched brow of disapproval. But rather than deliver her expected reprimand, she clapped her fan shut and deposited an envelope into my lap. I stared at it, frozen for a moment as I recognized the handwriting.
“Your father sends his love. All is well with him. You’ll be happy to see that Mrs. Ronalds added a postscript for you, asking you to write with your news. She claims they haven’t had a letter from you in six months, which I find highly unusual.”
I looked up at her. “Did they not say when they’re coming to visit?”
Mama might have rolled her eyes had it been something ladies did. “I’m afraid not. Your father has been delayed again. Something to do with his business.”
My hand clenched the envelope. “Can’t he spare us any time at all?”
“Lest you’ve forgotten, his business is our livelihood. Since when do wives question their husbands’ affairs?”
I put the letter aside by my music book, taking a moment to compose myself and not reply that her questioning of his affairs was the reason we were in Paris. Reading his letter now would ruin it for me, as I thought I must be the only one who missed him. Mama didn’t behave as if their separation posed any hardship, while Clarita was too excited about her own impending prospects to care. Leonie would still sometimes mention Papa in passing, but she’d been enrolled in a convent school, so she was kept very busy and often acted as if she’d forgotten we had a father at all. It incensed me, that they could carry on as if living abroad had become a permanent arrangement.
“I’ll write tonight,” I said, for it was true I’d ceased my barrage of letters in the desperate hope Papa would take note of my silent displeasure at his prolonged absence.
“Do so. Next week, you’ll have no spare time. Monsieur de Persigny is taking us for a sojourn in the Bois de Boulogne.”
“To ride?” I couldn’t curb the enthusiasm that crept in my voice. Monsieur le Duc was one of Mama’s new friends, a gallant gentleman of a certain age, with a cloud of silvery hair and an impressive mustache. He spoke flawless English; more important, he owned a magnificent stable he’d set at our disposal after Mama mentioned we had neglected our equestrian skills, never mind that Clarita preferred to spend all her free time pinning curtains to her hem to practice dancing with a train. For me, the opportunity to ride was always welcome, allowing me to exert myself at something other than the piano or promenades with Dobbie to the Bon Marché.
“Yes,” Mama said. “He’s invited us to ride and partake of supper at his townhouse. You must therefore finish your practice, dine with Leonie, then write your letter. I’ll need you at your best. Monsieur so admires you on horseback.” She turned to Clarita. “Come, my child. We mustn’t be late for Their Imperial Majesties’ entrance. Eugénie must be the first to congratulate you on your splendid toilette.”
Clarita hastily kissed my cheek. “Wish me luck,” she whispered. “I’m so nervous!”
“Why? You’ve met the empress before. But, merde,” I said, citing the French theatrical charm for good luck.
My sister scowled. “How crude.” Then she swanned to the door, her train rustling behind her.
Mama glanced at me. “Remember what I say. Be patient and prepare. It is what women must do. Your time will come sooner than you think.”
After they departed, the flat yawned about me, filled with the ornate furnishings Mama had acquired, yet feeling desolate as I took up Papa’s letter. It brimmed with his habitual affection and glaring neglect of any mention of a forthcoming trip, while Fanny’s exuberant postscript was full of queries as to how I fared.
Exhausted from her day at school, my sister made for poor conversation, excusing herself after supper to go to bed. Dobbie saw her to her room before returning to help our maid, Marie, clear the dishes. I went to pace the drawing room, trying in vain to shut out images of Clarita in her Worth gown waltzing the night away in the Tuileries.
I’d accompanied Mama once to the Monday salon and been impressed by the palatial magnificence, if not the banal recitation of poetry. Eugénie—clad in a sumptuous pink silk gown, her red-gold coiffure set with so many jewels she basked in her own aura—had greeted me warmly. She asked about my studies, expressing delight at my propensity for the piano, confiding that she, too, had played as a girl, but that royal duties had left her no time to practice. Her suggestion that I return to play a duet with her plunged me into hours of preparation, but her invitation never arrived. I couldn’t help but think Mama had ensured I didn’t steal any attention from Clarita when she made her debut. Perhaps now that my sister had done so, my own invitation would be forthcoming.
Dobbie cleared her throat behind me. “Brooding in the dark won’t make the time pass any faster,” she said, with that sharp instinct she had for deciphering my moods. “And you still have a letter to write.”
“Oh, Dobbie.” I heard the tremor in my voice. “New York feels so far away. I don’t even know what to tell Papa anymore. I feel as if I’ll never see him again.”
Dobbie harrumphed. “It’s a wonder that after all this time you’re still wasting your breath trying to lie to me. This is about your sister. She went off to the ball in a nice new dress and left you behind.”
“The nice new dress must have cost a fortune. Papa probably can’t afford to visit us after seeing to all of Monsieur Worth’s bills.”
“And how are the bills any concern of yours?” Dobbie fixed me with her stare. “You lack for nothing. Didn’t Miss Clara have a riding habit made especially for you?”
“Only to impress Monsieur le Duc. He so admires me on horseback, didn’t you hear?”
Dobbie pursed her lips. “I’ll hear no more of this nonsense. Your father will visit when he’s good and ready, so don’t go complaining to him about bills. It’s not for you to question. If Mr. Jerome has something to say about it, let him do so—to Miss Clara.”
As I stepped past her toward my bedroom, she took my hand, cupping it gently. “Just write to your father and tell him how much you miss him, child. Before you know it, he’ll return word that he’s on his way. Time might seem eternal to you now, but believe me, it passes quickly nevertheless.”
In my room, I lit a candle at my escritoire and attempted to compose a cheerful letter, detailing my dubious achievements. But my discontent kept seeping in, causing me to blot out lines and then crumple up the entire page to start over. Finally, I wrote two letters, addressing one to Mrs. Ronalds, imploring her to encourage Papa to pay us a visit. As I sealed both envelopes and left them in the foyer for Marie to deliver to the post office, another surge of frustration overcame me.
Be patient and prepare . . . Your time will come sooner than you think.
Easy to say, but for me, waiting was becoming intolerable.