The master’s face darkens. “I suppose you had heirs in mind when you assaulted my chambermaid, Laprise,” Master remarks coolly. The man in violet chokes on his last chuckle, his expression suddenly wary, and I realize this must be the gentleman Charlotte told me about.
“If you haven’t any better taste, you might at least cast your pole into some other fellow’s property,” Master concludes, and they all laugh again, Master and Laprise most heartily.
“For my part, I shall worry about heirs when I have something to settle upon them,” Master continues, “when I have won my claim to the Villeneuve property, which by all rights should be mine.”
“And what of your other suits?” asks another of the men. “With those members of the fair sex whom discretion compels me to identify only as the Lady A and the Lady B. How do they prosper?”
The master shrugs and smiles. “I continue to pay court to each, as time permits.”
“Rather say the fathers of Ladies A and B are paying court to you,” observes one of the men.
“Or to your fortune,” chimes in another.
The master turns again to his valet, extending his hands, but the valet only dips his head in a bow of mute apology. The awkward moment is interrupted by a sudden pounding on the stairs. A young page of about thirteen comes hurtling around the last bend in the stairway and races down the stairs clutching a pair of fawn-colored riding gloves.
“Speak of the very devil,” says the master as the lad hurries over to him. “Gentlemen, may I present the newest member of my household. Or should I say the latest? My young cousin Nicolas. From the branch of the house of Villeneuve that still values the patronage of the LeNoirs.”
“F-forgive me, monsieur le chevalier,” stammers the boy, hunching over into an ungainly crouch as he proffers up the gloves.
Master glowers down at him without taking the gloves. “I served in his mother’s household when I was a lad,” he says to the others. “Out of the great affection I bear for her, I have taken him in.”
“Was there an estate in all of Burgundy to which you were not fostered out?” pipes up one of his men.
“My father believed my education would benefit from experience in several noble houses,” Master responds with an elegant lift of his chin.
“I heard you were hounded from place to place for your youthful indiscretions,” says his companion.
“Was it my fault my female cousins found me so attractive?” Master laughs. He smiles charmingly at Nicolas. “And their mothers?”
Nicolas’s face flames pink to the very tips of his ears as the gentlemen all laugh. I feel the boy’s discomfort, but this may be a test of loyalty; a man in Master’s position can’t afford to have renegades in his suite. The page is still frozen in his submissive posture holding out the gloves, his reddened face lowered, but he says nothing.
“How sweet were her entreaties on her son’s behalf,” the master murmurs, gazing down at the lad. “How persuasively I was coaxed to yield at last to her desire. How shamed she will be if he does not prosper.”
Master gazes at Nicolas a moment longer, an edge to his smile, as the other gentlemen stifle their chuckles. “You see how well he learns the habits of a gentleman,” says Master at last, plucking the gloves from the boy’s hands. The young page staggers backward into something like a normal posture, although his head is still bowed. Master spares not a glance for the gloves but drops them to the floor. “These are soiled.” He sniffs. “Bring me another pair.”
Without daring to look up, the page sinks to the floor and gropes for the fallen gloves. He is still on his hands and knees as Master and his men march across the hall in a great flurry of boots and weapons and laughter. Something uneasy stirs inside me, an anxious sympathy for the shamefaced page. Yet I cannot pity him, for he exists in the master’s sight in a way that I do not.
At the door, Master gazes back around the entry hall. I realize I am still lurking in the doorway when his restless gaze lights on me — it must be me because no one else is nearby — and his mouth slowly forms into a radiant smile. Then Master turns again to his valet.
“Have the girl bring them,” he says, nodding sideways at me.
I can scarcely breathe. It’s as if I am watching someone else cross the forbidden marble tiles and wait for the boy to come lurching back down the stairs with the gloves — Master’s gloves!— which he gives to the valet, who grudgingly hands them to me. I proceed out the formal front doors to the grand porch like someone in a dream.
I never make it past the third tier of gentlemen, however; one of them takes the gloves from me and trots down the steps with them to the broad gravel drive, where Master and his companions are readying their mounts. But it doesn’t matter. Master has seen me, if only for an instant. My new life has begun.
I am up late. The air is close and heavy, but the fat, wet clouds have not yet delivered their burden of rain. The other girls are snoring in their beds, but I am up and about.
I didn’t see Master all day, and tonight he is out. I think of him so often, I’ve grown careless in my work. I’ve just remembered a plate I left out of its cabinet today while I was cleaning. I must go place it back on its rack behind the glass before Madame Montant finds it in the morning. I cannot risk a reprimand now; one more misstep, and she will turn me out. I’m sure of it. And how could I bear to leave Master’s service now that he has noticed me?
I creep out of the maids’ quarters and into the housekeeper’s private cubbyhole. Madame Montant keeps her ring of keys on a little end table beside her bed at night, but she takes drops to help her sleep. The little bottle of inky purple liquid stands on the table as well, and I find her bundled up in her dressing gown, her breathing wet and heavy. I crouch beside the little table, careful not to let the keys clank together, and fiddle off the one I need.
I slink out into the great kitchen to light a candle from the hearth fire, then make my way into the chamber to unlock the glass door of the cabinet. That the silver commemorative dish, a gift to the master for some noble service, still sits forgotten on the table before the cabinet is testament to how few people ever come into these rooms. As I replace the fine piece on its rack, I gaze for a moment at the Beaumont coat of arms etched into its surface, a Beast Rampant, disparate parts of eagle, lion, and stag, on a shield above a row of spearheads. The arms of a noble warrior. The beast’s mouth is thrown open in a savage roar.
The shadows around me suddenly seem more menacing; I hastily close the cabinet door, turn the key in its lock, and pluck it out. The flame of my candle blazes in the glass panels — and something thumps in the dark at the far end of the room. My heart flies into my mouth, and I drop the key as an indistinct shape lumbers up in the opposite doorway.
“A light! A light, by God’s good grace!” It is Master’s voice, and I almost sob with relief. He shambles toward me, toward the light, without his body servants or any of his gentlemen. All alone. He enters into the circle of flickering light and peers at me.
“You, girl. You’re one of mine, aren’t you?”
I bob into a breathless curtsy. Perhaps he doesn’t recognize me out of my uniform. And a new kind of anxiety grips me, as I realize just how out of uniform I am in my chemise, barefoot, with my hair down. I can’t think what to do. Madame Montant would have the flesh off my hide for not fleeing at once, yet I dare not behave rudely to the master.
“New about the place, eh?” The effort of craning forward for a closer look nearly topples him off his feet.
Servants are cautioned to be silent above all things, yet surely I must answer a direct question. “Yes, sir.”
“It speaks!” He raises an eyebrow. “Have you a name?”