One for All, page 13
I spluttered, but quickly turned it into a cough at the sight of Madame de Treville’s disapproval. “Portia,” she chastened.
“Yes, yes, I’ll acquire the name of the man who’s been visiting his father every other afternoon while he spends the night with his eyes glued to my breasts.” Portia sighed. “But let the record show that next time, I want to be the one assigned to the daily stakeout and get to spy on the mysterious merchant man. Not his contact’s boring son.”
Madame de Treville exited. One by one each girl left until I remained alone in the carriage. The dizziness was one thing; when combined with fluttering nerves it was an entirely new beast. One I hadn’t yet learned the workings of.
“Tania, are you coming?” One of the girls, I wasn’t sure which. Regardless, they were all waiting for me, outside the carriage door.
A deep breath, a clench of my toes. Then I stepped down the stairs, looked up, and hid the drop of my jaw with a smile that said I belonged here.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
ATTENDANTS STOOD AT intervals near the entrance, directing guests in lavish dresses and embroidered satin jackets. Lanterns spilled pools of light onto the cobblestone. They overlapped so the drive that led to the mansion was bathed in one continuous glow. We were let out near the front of l’hôtel particulier and were immediately surrounded by colors and sounds, conversations, music, carriage wheels, a mess my ears could hardly pick apart.
“Madame de Treville, a pleasure to see you.” A partygoer’s voice, wheedling, broke through the din. Madame de Treville curtsied to the man. His partner rested her spangled hand on the inner crook of his elbow. Their clothes were ostentatious, painfully so: heavy velvet dusted with diamonds, purple-blue feathers that bloomed across his jacket cuffs and her enormous skirts, gold and silver ribbon braided for trim.
“Baron du Bellay, the pleasure is all mine,” Madame de Treville said.
“Your flock is flourishing, Madame. Je vous félicite.”
“You are too kind,” she said. “Thank you for your congratulations.”
“I believe I spy a new face. You must introduce me.” It took a moment for his words to sink in, and all my willpower not to duck behind Théa, away from the leer curving across the man’s face. Not a good start to my first evening out.
Madame de Treville drew his attention elsewhere. “I must say, Baroness, what an exquisite brooch! A present for the birth of your son?”
She nodded primly, lips wrinkled in disapproval. “Oui. Il est notre héritier, après tout.” The mention of his heir seemed to bring her husband back to earth, cutting through his lascivious wandering gaze.
Were these people willing to sacrifice the lives of others to gain another jewel, another parcel of land? Another feather on their already plumed caps? The Order was certain that a shift in leadership wouldn’t be bloodless. And even I, with my limited time in Paris, was starting to understand that the nobles would likely try to shift that burden to anyone but themselves. Particularly, those with less power. One of the many things I’d learned in my lessons.
“Girls, quick now, before we’re waylaid any further,” Madame de Treville muttered before motioning to an attendant, who waved us on. “And Tania,” she added, “don’t wear your thoughts on your face. You’ll give yourself away. Not to mention the wrinkles.”
Once we were inside, Portia and Théa split in opposite directions, disappearing into the grand ballroom with its sweeping arches, gilt molding, and hundreds mingling and dancing under immense starry chandeliers of crystal and gold. More attendants bordered the walls, offering beverages and small bites to eat. This wasn’t a supper party, so there wouldn’t be a sit-down meal, and the sole entertainment was the musicians playing harpsichord and a few other string and wind instruments. Not as ostentatious as some outdoor events, like the firework displays the King loved so well, or the masquerades where you couldn’t tell friend from foe. At least, that’s what the girls told me. But the party was still a crashing wave that broke at my ankles, the clash of music against voices, against laughter, against clinking glasses and the susurrus of shoes against marble.
My lungs constricted, caged by ribs, by boning, by silk. How could I possibly fit in here? How could I carve a path for myself through the clamor? The last time I felt so helpless was … Monsieur Allard, the carriage without Papa. No, before then. Back to Lupiac, to the starless night, to the men who hoped to leave me and Maman as bloody presents for Papa to find.
Someone gripped my elbow; it was Aria. “Breathe,” she whispered. “The first time is the worst. All the excess. But you have to numb yourself to it, else they win. Remember why you are here. It is not about them. It is never about them. Breathe.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I watched Théa greet the Marquis’s son, who appeared to have indulged in enough liquor that he could care less about propriety and how Théa was currently unchaperoned.
“Madame de Treville!” An elderly gentleman motioned from a seat against the wall, raised on a platform with a table and a few empty chairs. The Marquis. His son must’ve put him there in hopes he’d remain out of the way. The man clapped when Aria came into view. “Et ma belle! You have blossomed. Une vraie fleur!”
“Marquis, thank you for the invitation.” Madame de Treville curtsied deeply, and Aria and I followed suit.
“Oh, please, there’s no need for that,” the Marquis huffed. I straightened my legs; Aria’s careful hand supported me, gripping my forearm. To any onlooker, it would appear a gesture of friendship. But Aria had never touched me before. I’d never seen her on the receiving end of one of Théa’s hugs. And she wasn’t like Portia, whose exacting hands forced my hair into the proper shape and untied the rocks from my ankles when I was too sore to lift my head. And yet, Aria was the first girl who’d known when I needed help, and hadn’t made me ask for it. “The guest list is not under my purview,” the Marquis continued. “No, the young don’t want us old men having any fun. Don’t want us planning parties or organizing festivities! B-But…,” he stammered, as if realizing the implication, “if your names weren’t on the list, I’d have cut Bertrand off as heir!”
Madame de Treville put on a dazzling smile. It was the grin of a predator. One who’d been sharpening her teeth, readying herself to dine on the marrow of the Parisian elite: secrets. “You are too kind, Marquis. May I present Mademoiselle Tania.”
He smiled distractedly, his eyes darting to Aria every so often. “Bienvenue, ma fille. Another of Madame de Treville’s girls?”
I peeked at Aria, unmoored. I didn’t know if I should reply, if we only spoke after Madame de Treville departed. But our mentor beat me to it. “She’s been a wonderful addition to the household.”
At the same time, Aria muttered in my ear, “Remember what I told you. You know what to do. Even if you don’t, I’ll fill in the gaps.”
The Marquis focused on me, brightening. “A resident of la maison de Treville? You must be special, Mademoiselle. Only the most impressive young ladies earn that honor while the rest languish in envy!”
“Please excuse me,” Madame de Treville said. “I must have a word with Madame Buteau. Girls, you’ll entertain the Marquis in my absence?”
The Marquis beamed. Hadn’t Théa mentioned a man missing part of his finger? I sneaked a glance at the Marquis’s fingers. Intact, all of them.
“Ma belle, it’s been too long,” he said to Aria, and patted the seat next to his. “Join me.” Aria arranged her skirts, then sat. I followed her lead. The spot provided a clear view of the expansive ballroom. Perfect—I could watch Aria, learn from her example, and take in everything around me at the same time. And, if needed, if I saw Portia or Théa floundering, maybe I could try to help them, like they had promised to help me.
“Thank goodness the summer is over,” Aria said. “I understand why everyone leaves the city, of course. Who would want to melt in such heat? But it does leave one with a want of companionship.” She sighed, sparing a moment on the Marquis before flicking her eyes to the dancers. She sounded like an entirely different person.
“I could not agree with you more,” the Marquis said.
As they continued their conversation, I cast my gaze around the room, landing on Théa. The Marquis’s son n’avait d’yeux que pour elle, had eyes for no one but her, much to the consternation of two higher-ranking nobles trying to secure a moment with him. I studied how she tilted her head, how many teeth she showed when she laughed, filed it into the part of my brain bursting with Madame de Treville’s rules and teachings.
But Portia had the most important role. Her target? A noble boy, whose father had suddenly developed a friendship with an unknown merchant, despite being a complete snob who rarely deigned speak to anyone with an actual profession. It took longer to find her—she was in the middle of the crowd, her palm pressed against her target’s, her dress a swirling cascade of frozen river water. Even if the rest of us succeeded, whether or not we secured the information we vitally needed tonight rested on Portia. A terrifying thought, but she seemed to thrive on it, her hard edge becoming something powerful and dangerous that drew her target like a moth to flame.
“And are you enjoying Paris?”
I started at the Marquis’s question. “Pardonnez-moi?”
He smiled good-naturedly. “How do you like the city? Ma belle tells me you’ve adapted so well, it’s as if you’d been living here your entire life!”
Of course, Aria was exaggerating, but my face warmed. “It’s wonderful—there’s so much to see and do.”
“You mustn’t wear yourself out, not with the whole social season on the horizon. Court events are a pleasure after consorting with the masses,” he said, surveying the room. “Much more refined. My son insisted on inviting lower-ranking noblesse. Even a professional or two. Not all his friends, though—some are too radical for my tastes.”
From what I’d heard of the King’s escapades, palace events were anything but conservative, but Aria unleashed a radiant smile. “Radical, you say?”
“Yes … yes,” the Marquis said, unable to loosen his gaze from her. “I told my son, I told my Bertrand, I’d have nothing of the sort in my house! My crest will not be marred by philosophical rantings of adolescent schoolboys who are convinced la noblesse are a blight upon society.”
“I don’t approve of such ideas,” Aria stated, her clear eyes briefly landing on mine before drifting.
“Of course not, ma belle. And neither does my son, truly—it is those ruffians, those outsiders who are the troublemakers. Some are students and, ma belle, the horrible books they read and the philosophers they speak of!” He lowered to a strained whisper. “I even heard one of them reference … democracy.” The Marquis shuddered.
“I hope I never encounter such creatures,” Aria said.
“Highly unlikely. You, such a fine specimen of femininity, consorting with individuals beneath you? Non, there is nothing for you to fear.”
“Are you quite sure?” Aria pressed subtly, her hand floating inches from his. “If they are as brash and bold as you say, perhaps they would disguise themselves. Pretend to be people they are not.”
“Why, they are just the sort of devious persons to undertake such a thing!”
“I must say,” she demurred, “I’ve always been impressed by your ability to read people.” The Marquis puffed out his chest. “If you’d been in charge of the guest list,” she continued, “surely they wouldn’t be here.”
“Well, I have years more experience than Bertrand. But he wants to make his own decisions. If the rumors I’ve heard about these ruffians are to be believed, however, I’ll have to step in. For his sake. You’ll keep this between us, won’t you? I’d hate for someone to misconstrue my son’s friendship as him questioning his … loyalties.”
Loyalty to the King? Or loyalty to the nobles—nobles who would see the King deposed?
“Of course. You are a good father,” Aria said, softer now.
“Useless trying to reason with this younger generation,” he said, patting her hand. “Not you, of course, but the others. They think we’ll be content pushed to the side.” He stood, stretched his neck. “On to happier matters. Would you care to dance, ma belle?” He turned to me. “Forgive me for depriving you of her company.”
“Monsieur, I wouldn’t dream of interfering with your dancing.”
Aria eyed me. Maybe I’d laid that on a little thick.
“Be that as it may, we must find you a partner.” He clapped his hands, and I flinched. “Ah, Richard! Richard, do come here.”
A man in his forties approached our trio, features twisted in displeasure. The Marquis had interrupted his conversation with a lady in pink silk ruffles and pearls for teeth. “Oui, Marquis?”
“You absolutely must dance with this lovely young lady.” He looked at me expectantly. “Monsieur Richard is a friend of my son’s. One of the few good eggs in that basket. Though I suppose that’s because I knew him long before then. Back when you were a little boy, not un richard!” The Marquis wheezed at his own pun, his face a wrinkled tomato.
“Oh, Marquis, it isn’t necessary—” I hurried as the man’s expression darkened and he offered me his hand. Aria’s face showed none of my concern, her expression unreadable.
I returned to the man’s dark gaze, to his reluctant outstretched hand; my resolve rose. If word got around that I’d refused a dance at my first ball, I’d be labeled an impudent brat. And it would draw attention—the kind of attention the Order didn’t want.
Curtsying, I smiled as I felt the weight of my dueling sword against my left hip, my dagger against my right. “An honor, Monsieur.” The words were drawn out with my teeth and tongue.
He led me to the dancers, organized in parallel lines for the minuet. Portia was near my elbow, the icy blue of her gown unmistakable.
We will not let you fall.
My body responded instinctively to the music. I could feel it deep in my bones, reverberating inside the cavity of my chest. One step forward, one step back. My palm was flat against his as we stepped forward again, turned in a circle.
The dancers blurred together in a watercolor of pastels and jewel tones, curled hair like shifting clouds. Women with vibrant rouge and lip colors, pinks and purples and reds that I didn’t know the names of and were nothing at all like the natural hues of the flowers in Maman’s garden. If only she could see me now. Thriving in a way she thought I never could.
I was surrounded by people who didn’t know my story. Didn’t know my face, didn’t know my body. And even though dizziness lingered at the edges of my vision, even though my toes were clenched tight within my slippers, I was gliding across the smooth surface of a stream. It was just a bout without the swords—a bout that I would win.
* * *
The night flew by in a whirl of petticoats and drunken laughter.
Everything was too much: the sound, the sight, the world one caliginous golden pool.
I’d returned to Aria after my dance with Monsieur Richard, but I’d only succeeded in resting for a few moments before another, a young boy this time, asked me to dance. When it was over, the dizziness was no longer creeping—it was stalking.
“It’s stuffy in here, isn’t it?” The boy tugged at his embroidered jacket. His breath was cramped and hot. Windows closed against the cold, room pleine à craquer, bursting with people. My fan provided no relief, only moved around sweltering air.
“Pardonnez-moi,” I excused myself with a hollow smile that I couldn’t force into the one I’d practiced in the mirror. Threading through the thick press of guests, I managed to reach the nearest wall. Despite clenching my toes, despite the desperate gasps for air, dark gray surged in from all corners of the ballroom. Théa said they’d never let me fall. My sisters in arms. But the dizziness grew: the rushing in my ears, the rushing of my heart. I looked for them anyway, and I hated it I hated it I hated how my body betrayed me and the mission I hated how there was no one here to help me but I was still looking anyway I hated it endlessly and yet, still, the dizziness grew.
They’d abandoned me. Just like Marguerite had.
I was going to faint. Maman’s nightmare, me cracking my head open, except this time my blood wouldn’t pool on village cobblestone, but Parisian parquet floor.
“Tania,” at my ear. Guiding me through the darkness.
“Tania, can you hear me?”
The rush, the roar, the sting of air. “Théa?” Her face wavered in front of mine. “Where are we?” The words tripped; they rang in my ears like they’d come from someone else’s tongue. Swirls of gray bloomed like carnations.
“The quickest way outside is the servants’ entrance.” When I tensed, readying to stand from what felt to be a bench, she protested, “No, wait here, I’ll get you something to drink—better yet, I’ll send Portia!”
They’d caught me. They hadn’t let me fall. And yet … “Théa?” I said. She hesitated by the door. “Are you going to tell Madame de Treville?”
“I said we wouldn’t let you fall, Tania.”
Tears stung at my eyes as I closed them, tight.
A scraping noise, footsteps. I looked up to see Portia through the window, a drink in her hand. She was very still, eyes wide.
“Mademoiselle? Are you all right?”
My heart scrambled. Someone had seen me; dizzy, sick. In the darkness, it was hard to discern his features. A figure: a boy or a man, though his voice wasn’t rough with age. I glanced to Portia in terror. But she shook her head, then jerked it in the stranger’s direction.
“I’m sorry to surprise you like this—if it makes you more comfortable, I’ll stay over here,” he said. A shaft of light from a lantern threw a segment of his face into relief. A hazel eye, liquid warm, a span of eyebrow, the beginnings of a strong nose. I arranged them in my mind, stomach fluttering. “I saw you inside; you appeared very ill. And I wanted to make sure you were all right. That you had someone there for you.”
