The Porcelain Dove by Delia Sherman Read Free Book Online Page B

gone ten o'clock already.Oh, Berthe, Berthe, I haven't a rag to my back, excepting only the rose de Grecque sacque. Whatever shall I wear?"
    I couldn't blame her for being nervous. I was nervous myself. The day before, it had all been "How can he love me? He's never even
seen
me!" until her mother had struck her at last. She'd spent the better part of the evening in tears, declaring she'd not have him, no, not if he were king of France.
    I had set myself to change her mind.
    How often over the years I've looked back upon that night and wondered at myself. Not for coaxing my mistress into a more complaisant frame of mind, to be sure—her parents would have married her to this duc by will or by force, and a blind man could have seen she'd a better chance of happiness if 'twere by will. No, what I wonder at is the passion with which I set about the task. How excited I was at the prospect of being femme de chambre to a duchesse! Silk gowns! Amber necklaces! A little maid to run upon my errands!
    Bah!
    'Twas not so difficult to change my mistress' mind, not for one who knew her heart as well as I. The married state has infinite advantages, I told her. Imagine a ball at Versailles, and you all dressed in black and silver to make your first courtesy to the king. As the wife of a duc, you'd have the right to ride in His Majesty's private coach; he's an eye for beauty, they say—he'll be sure to ask you. And that's the least part of a married woman's privileges. A duchesse may stay up as late as she wishes, wear whatever she wants, even play whist if she's a mind. No one asks a duchesse the date of the battle of Crécy or the number of Eleanor of Aquitaine's husbands. Furthermore, this duc de Malvoeux didn't sound so bad a bargain, as husbands went; neither a twittering petit-maître like the comte de Poix nor a grotesque like the marquis de Bonsecours, but a famous naturalist, a collector of birds. She liked canaries, I reminded her. And it was so romantic of him to fall in love with her portrait, like a prince in a conte de fées. Surely her heart must be touched.
    If I do say it, I spoke eloquently. And as I spoke, mademoiselle grew quiet and thoughtful.
    "'Twill please madame my mother, will it not?"
    "Bien sûr, mademoiselle. And M. le baron as well, and all of mademoiselle's friends."
    "Will it please you, this marriage?"
    My heart beat high. With pride? With fear? I know I felt mypower over her; I pray I meant to use it only for her greater happiness. Meeting her eyes in the mirror, I said, "Yes, mademoiselle."
    She smiled at me; her breast rose and fell in a quivering sigh. "Bon. Then I'll try to love him."
    To make promises at night is as easy as brushing hair; to keep them in the morning is more like creating a coiffure à jamais vue. Mademoiselle demonstrated her good intentions by weighing
ad nauseam
the rival merits of white and blue, gauze and silk, coral beads and pearls. I was reminded of nothing so much as Mme Dumesnil dressing for a new play: "These ribbons are hideous, Berthe. I'll have the pink ones after all," and, "Is that a freckle, Berthe? Will the rice powder cover it?" and, "Do you think the cream gauze makes me sallow, Berthe?" I vow 'twas a miracle I didn't pin her garter in her hair.
    Yet the thing was done at last, and Mlle Adèle stood up in a sacque of heavy silk brocaded with peacock feathers of pink and apple green, an apron of white drawn-work, and a fichu of the same. Her hair was curled in tiny ringlets à la dragonne, heavily powdered, and garnished with a fetching pompon of lace and pink feathers. With her white skin and her black eyes, she was perfect—like a porcelain figure animated and smelling delightfully of roses. I was just buckling one dainty brocade shoe when a double knock thudded on the front door. She tore her foot from my hand and flew to the window with me behind. We peeked around the curtain in time to see a gentleman in a sad burgundy coat step out of a smart town