Chapter Two

M arie looked at Uncle Baptiste in confusion and pushed away her soup. "A matchmaker's home and where men and women go to gamble. That's our new place of employment?"

"Oi," one man said, and she received some unfriendly looks.

"Sorry," Marie said.

"Is that so bad?" the mousy-haired maid at her side asked.

Marie stirred her thick soup.

"We needed a place to stay and Mrs. Dove-Lyon is a good employer," Mr. Allard said.

His dark eyes sharp, the cook banged the table. "Enough of this. First you insult my soup, then you turn your nose up at Mrs. Dove-Lyon. Who do you think you are, the Prince Regent?"

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to insult anyone."

"Well, it's too late for that," the cook said. "You think you can put on airs like some rich lady? Think again. This is your last night here."

Mr. Jones at the head of the table cleared his throat. "Charles."

The cook, Charles, reddened. "Sorry, Mr. Jones."

The butler said, "I think we can forgive Miss Cadough a little surprise. It is not every day a person can work for a woman like Mrs. Dove-Lyon. And Charles, I agree. You prepare delicious meals for the patrons upstairs, but we eat simpler fare."

"That's the way it should be." Mrs. Drummond, the head cook, a middle-aged woman with ruddy cheeks and dashes of flour on her, gave Charles an encouraging nod.

"Perhaps so. But I too find the soup to be a bit ordinary," Mr. Jones said.

Charles's face fell in dismay. "What are you saying?"

Spice it up , Marie thought, but she wisely held her tongue, successfully this time. She received a warning look from Baptiste. She instead took a sip of her tea.

"Perhaps we might give the girl a chance to cook, and see if she is any good," Mr. Jones said.

"No," Mrs. Drummond said. "This is my kitchen and I say what goes on and who cooks in it. That Marie girl and her uncle just got here and we don't know them from Adam. She could poison us all, or he could."

"Mrs. Drummond," the butler started.

"Madam," Uncle Baptiste said.

"Nay, I don't mean no insult—it's just, you're new here," the head cook explained. "We don't know you. You're a housemaid and he's a manservant. Neither of you work in the kitchen and that's that."

Charles sniffed loudly as if to say, Hear, hear .

"I'm sorry. I meant no offense," Marie said.

"Charles accepts your apology. Now, Mrs. Drummond, what have you planned for tonight's party?" Mr. Jones asked.

Mrs. Drummond relayed an impressive list of hors d'oeuvres, including small short crust pastry pies with minced beef and mustard, and little almond tarts with preserved blackberry jam.

Marie's mouth watered at the mention of the culinary treats, and she glanced down at the soup. It seemed even plainer now.

The meal ended and Marie shadowed the other housemaids that evening. The mousy-haired maid at her side, introduced to her as Lucy, was kinder to her than the others. Now that the sun had set, Marie helped Lucy and Harriet, another parlor maid, clear the table and put away the servants' dirty dishes. Lucy offered to help Marie get settled and led her up the back stairs.

The noise of laughter, music, and chatter could be heard. Marie asked, "What is all that? Are people gambling?"

"Want to see?"

"Sure."

In their maids' uniforms, they would attract attention, but Lucy kept to the shadows and corridors and led Marie to a spot where a balcony was, overlooking the main hall. The strains of a harp, pipe, and stringed instruments could be heard playing a light and warm tune, and Marie wandered over to the balcony.

"Marie, come back," Lucy hissed, but Marie didn't pay attention.

She was struck by the sight of such pretty women, dressed in their finest, in silk and satin dresses of pink, white, and purple, some dancing, some chatting with the men. Clusters and couples of men and women stood by small tables where card games like faro and hazard were played, and dice were rolled.

Marie rested her rough hands on the balcony railing and watched as some couples danced, and others stood by to watch, whilst footmen drifted in and out, bearing wine and the small appetizers mentioned by Mrs. Drummond from before.

It was like looking into another world through a window, and Marie wished with all her heart that she might join their ranks one day. She wished that she might have an occasion to put on a pretty dress and fine shoes and stockings, wear a ribbon in her hair or a fine necklace and silk gloves, and spend an hour or two laughing and dancing with eligible young men. To dance away the hours sounded like fun, much more so than preparing beds or folding linens.

"Marie, come away from there," Lucy hissed. "Now, before you're seen."

"Wait."

The music was loud and drums were beating loudly. But there, off to the side, a young man in uniform stepped back, clutching his head.

Marie paused. "There's something wrong."

"What do you mean? Come away. The men will deal with it."

"No, the man down there is in trouble." Marie hurried down the stairwell, her small boots tapping against the steps as she dashed down, entering the main room. So far, no one had seen her, but she didn't care. She knew the look of a man in pain. She quickly glanced around the room, then spotted him.

It was a young man with light-brown hair tied back in a queue, with a patrician nose and round, sloping chin. He wore the smart, red coat uniform of a man in the English army, and he stepped back and covered his ears.

Marie went to him and pulled him aside. "There, are you all right?"

Lowering his hands from his ears, he barely opened his unscarred eye and shuddered. "The drums. They sound like cannons. I…"

There was no time to think, only move. She didn't think of the rudeness or impropriety of taking his hand as if he were a lover or beau—she only saw a young man in pain. She gently took his hand and wrapped his big hand in her own, leading him away from the swirling dancers and laughing gamblers, off to the side of the room. The noise was still loud and he trembled, so she whispered a gentle shush and ushered him into the quiet of the corridor, away from the noise. It was still present but muted. He shut his eye tightly to blot out the noise, as if the darkness could claim him.

At each pound of the drums, he trembled and shook as if taking a beating. The sight of it was terrible and pained her to see. She said, "Stay here," and went to the small orchestra playing in the half-circle enclave of the room, tucked away. She caught the attention of the conductor and stood by as he waved his arms and directed, preferring to ignore her.

She gritted her teeth as the members of the orchestra frowned at her, a mere maidservant. She turned and looked for a familiar face. There nearby at one of the gambling tables stood a footman, a burly-looking fellow with a stiff bearing, with whom she'd sat at dinner below stairs. She went to him and said, "Excuse me."

He turned, his jaw set in a stiff frown. "You shouldn't be on the floor."

"There's a man here, a soldier, and the music hurts his ears. The drums remind him of cannon fire and he's in pain. Can you tell the orchestra to stop with the drums?"

"I'm busy. Can't you?" he asked.

"They won't pay attention to me. I tried."

His mouth firmed into a hard line and he walked on, over to the orchestra. As big and imposing a man as he was, there was no chance of ignoring him. At his arrival, the conductor turned and looked at him. "Yes?"

The imposing manservant bent and said something into the conductor's ear. The man reddened and motioned for the drummer to stop playing. The manservant nodded and returned to Marie. "There. Now get off the floor before you're seen."

Marie left, plucked a glass of wine from a footman, who recognized her, his eyes wide, as she went back to the young man in the stairwell.

He shivered and had his unscarred eye squeezed closed. His tanned face bore a nasty scar across his left eye. His brown hair had grown long over his eyes and around his face, likely to hide the scar, and his chin bore a few days' stubble. He had a dirty, roguish look about him, but he seemed so scared at that moment, like a child.

She spoke gently and touched his arm. "Here," she said, taking one of his hands and putting the wineglass in it. "Drink. The drums have stopped now. "

He opened the eye not hidden behind an eyepatch, fixing his gaze on her face. "Who are you?"

"Marie," she said, taking in the sight of him.

He was handsome, with fair skin tanned by the sun and warm-brown hair with strains of blond in it. His white cravat was tied simply but assuredly, and his red overcoat and white waistcoat made him seem pristine, down to his trousers and smart, black boots.

His light-blue eye was hooded in misery. Her heart went out to him and she tried to ignore the fluttering of her pulse as her skin warmed at being near such an attractive man.

"I—" he started.

"We spoke to the conductor," she said. "He's stopped the drummer from playing. You shouldn't have any trouble now."

He nodded and considered the wine she'd given him. He took a heady gulp. "Thank you."

"I should get back." She ducked her head and turned to leave, darting back up the steps to find Lucy waiting.

"Where were you?" Lucy asked. "You're not supposed to be on the main floor when the guests are here. Mrs. Dove-Lyon doesn't like that. The last girl who did that was dismissed."

"The man looked to be in pain. He didn't like the drumming."

"So you had to go tell the musicians to stop?" Lucy asked.

"No, they ignored me. I went to one of the footmen and he told them to stop."

Lucy frowned. "Come on. We're both in trouble if they see us."

"If who sees you?" a feminine voice asked.

The young women turned around. There stood Mrs. Dove-Lyon, dressed in a fine evening gown of black silk, a subtle black veil over her face.

Lucy trembled. "Mrs. Dove-Lyon. We was just—"

"It's my fault," Marie said. "I wanted to see the main floor and I asked Lucy to show me. I'm sorry, madam. "

"Fine. Go to your rooms, girls. It is late and you should both be in bed. I'll speak with you in the morning." Mrs. Dove-Lyon spoke quickly and turned her back, moving with a quiet, subtle assurance of her directions being obeyed. She disappeared in a whisper of black silk skirts.

Marie wondered at Mrs. Dove-Lyon. So calm, cool, and efficient in her ways. Mrs. Campbell would not have been so polite, or composed. Lucy pulled her away, and went to bed that night, dreaming of silk dresses, harp strings, and satin shoes.

The next day, Marie rose early and helped the others clean the boots of the guests left outside the rooms on the second and third floors, sweep the hall and front steps, and light the fires in each of the rooms. Whilst the cooks prepared breakfast and the smells of hot coffee and tea filled the air alongside the rich scents of toast and marmalade, Marie set the kitchen table, as a cook set a plate of toast, butter, marmalade, black coffee, and a small flask of flowers on a tray.

"Who's that for?" Lucy asked.

"Mrs. Dove-Lyon."

"Oh." Lucy turned away.

"Marie," the cook said. "She wants you to take the tray to her."

"Me?" Marie exchanged a look with Lucy. "Why?"

"I don't know."

Lucy bit her lip. "You're in trouble now. She's going to punish you fer sure."

Marie frowned. "You think so?"

Lucy nodded. "She don't tolerate no nonsense. Not amongst the staff. "

"Go on now, and hurry. That's her bell pulled twice now," the cook said.

Marie swallowed, took directions from the cook on where Mrs. Dove-Lyon's room was, and collected the tray.

Once at Mrs. Dove-Lyon's room, she took a little, shaky breath and knocked.

"Enter," the voice called.

Marie opened the door and took the breakfast tray inside. Mrs. Dove-Lyon sat up in a prim and full-sized bed, with pink, silken bedcovers and plump pillows. She wore a silk night robe over her dress and sat in shadow, so Marie could not make out her face.

"Your tray, ma'am. Good morning," Marie said, setting the tray on Mrs. Dove-Lyon's lap.

"Good morning, Marie. Thank you."

"Will that be all, ma'am?"

"No. It came to my attention that you were on the main floor last night. Why is that?"

Marie glanced down, feeling her cheeks warm.

"Why were you on the floor last night, Marie? It is a simple question. I believe I must have mentioned it during our tea yesterday, or the other servants would have told you. You know that servants are not allowed there, unless they are footmen working, dealers, musicians, or by my own invitation."

Marie swallowed. "There was a man, ma'am."

"A man?" Mrs. Dove-Lyon's voice rose.

"Yes, ma'am. He was in pain. From the noise. I could see whenever the drummer played, it bothered him."

"He did not like the drums?"

"No, ma'am. They were loud and he covered his ears. He stumbled back as if in pain. It… I thought he needed help, so I went down to the floor."

Mrs. Dove-Lyon was silent, so Marie continued. "I tried to get the conductor's attention, but he ignored me, so I went on the floor and asked a footman to help. He talked to the conductor and the drummer stopped."

"You could have left the floor, then."

"Yes, I suppose. But the man, I didn't want to leave him like that. So I brought him to the stairwell for quiet and gave him a glass of wine. He seemed better, so I left and went back up to Lucy, where you found us."

"I see. Did you know who that man was?"

"No, ma'am. A soldier, I think. He was in an army uniform. A foot soldier, perhaps." She touched the locket around her neck.

"What is that?" Mrs. Dove-Lyon asked.

"A necklace, ma'am. A keepsake from my mother."

"And where is she now?"

Marie paused. What if her new employer was as anti-French as her previous mistress? She could tell what Uncle Baptiste had told her years ago as a child that her parents were dead. After years of silence, without so much as a letter, she had eventually come to accept the grim possibility as the truth and stopped dreaming of ever seeing her parents again.

"Dead, I think, ma'am. It is just me and my Uncle Baptiste."

"Ah. Thank you, Marie. I assume you know not to go on the floor again?"

"Yes, ma'am. Sorry."

"On your way, Marie." Mrs. Dove-Lyon waved a hand and she was dismissed.

Marie spent the day learning the ins and outs of Mrs. Dove-Lyon's establishment. From raking out the ashes of the fires in the guest rooms and tidying, to washing plates and dishes. It was hard, industrious, tiring work, but Marie didn't mind. The fellow servants were civil enough and whilst they seemed to love a bit of drama and gossip, they also got on with their work, a contrast from Mrs. Campbell's staff .

Together with Lucy and Harriet, Marie dusted the rooms, including the front parlor and jewelry shop front, and the upstairs ladies' gambling rooms and dining rooms on the first floor. Dusting and cleaning took up a lot of time, until they were called to come to luncheon.

The meal that day was a platter of cold meats, cheese, and salad. Not quite the heartwarming meal that Marie had hoped for, but it was fresh and perfectly tasty. As she filled her plate with cuts of cheddar, ham, and mixed salad greens, she poured herself a glass of wine and listened to the other servants talk.

Her Uncle Baptiste was becoming a steady hand, and he was soon popular with the men. He had an easy, honest look about him, which was proving helpful in getting them situated and the other servants to trust them.

He exchanged ready talk with the men and listened as the butler informed the others that tonight was to be a concert of the violin and harp, which they may listen to if they stay in the vicinity of the stairwell. "No drums," he said, with a glance at Marie.

Marie turned her attention to the food on her plate and ate, listening and staying quiet. After luncheon, she and Harriet began to clear the dishes from the table, when Uncle Baptiste came to her. "Is it true?" he asked. "That you were on the main floor last night?"

"Yes." She nodded. "There was a man in pain and—"

"Be careful, Marie," he chided in quiet French. "You have a good heart, but do not land yourself in trouble, not when we have just started anew. We were lucky Mrs. Dove-Lyon took us in."

"I understand." She bent her head to her work. "I think we should talk in English."

"Why? Mrs. Dove-Lyon is accepting of us, and—"

"What if the others don't like us?"

"Then so be it. But they do. So you have nothing to worry about."

"What if they know we are French?" she asked .

"You have an English accent and your French accent is terrible. No one will believe you are truly French, only that you tried to educate yourself. We can always tell them your former employer demanded we learn French, to better ourselves."

She gathered up the utensils and looked around. "Will they believe that?"

He shrugged. "It doesn't matter. People believe what they want to believe."

That night, Marie stood in the stairwell off of the main hall. She sat on a step of the circular stairwell and listened to the music with the other servants. The music swelled as the dulcet tones of harp and violin played, a light and playful tune.

The servants' feet tapped along in time and one of the men stood and took Lucy's hand, whirling her around in wide circles to the music. Lucy laughed and shrieked as he whirled her around faster when a hushed voice hissed for them to stop.

Lucy's dance partner stopped and let her go. She laughed and bent to her knees, catching her breath. "What is it, Henry? Why'd you stop?"

The servants all froze like statues as a young man stood in the doorway to the stairwell. He wore a foot soldier's red uniform, with crisp, white trousers; a smart, red overcoat with shined brass buttons; a bleached shirt and waistcoat; and a stiffly tied cravat. His dress uniform was all points and angles, but the man was different.

Marie looked at the sight that had stopped them all. The music continued to play, but the servants there could've been statues. It was the man from the previous night, the one who had been in such pain and hurt from the drums. He bore the same rough sideburns and fuzz on his chin, along with the overgrown hair that fell into his eyes. But this time, he looked around, his gaze landing on her.

He sought her out, that much was plain. That he had come there looking for her was clear, but why?

He opened his mouth to speak when one of the footmen stood up. "Yes?"

The man glanced at the footman, the spell broken. "I was looking for a young woman."

"There are many fine ladies out on the main floor, or upstairs."

"No. I mean, a maidservant. Her." He jerked his head toward Marie.

Uncle Baptiste stood and got in the man's face. "What do you want with her? She is not for the likes of you."

Marie's eyes widened. "Uncle, no."

Uncle Baptiste ignored her. "What is it you want?" His French accent came out strong, a sure sign of his anger. His English fa?ade and prim accent had fallen.

The change in the young naval officer was instant. His unscarred eye widened and he took a step back. His upper lip curled in a sneer. "You are French?"

"Yes. What do you want?" Baptiste asked.

In that moment, Marie saw Baptiste as larger than life—a thin, wiry man of quiet strength. Perhaps once, he had been slim and bookish, with a set of round spectacles, but years of work in all household jobs had put hard muscle on his slim body. Now he carried himself like a man ready to fight, his feet shifting in place.

The movement did not go unnoticed by the soldier, who settled into an amateur boxer's stance. All that was missing were his raised fists and a referee.

"Please. What is the meaning of this?" Mrs. Dove-Lyon appeared behind the soldier, dressed mysteriously in a black evening dress with jet-black buttons and a necklace that caught the light, with a small black headdress and veil that left her face in shadow.

Baptiste stood back, his hands at his side.

The soldier turned around. "Mrs. Dove-Lyon."

"Lieutenant Gage. What a pleasure to see you again. But are you lost? I see you've found the stairwell. That leads to the kitchen downstairs and the upper floors."

The soldier bowed his head and rested his hands behind his back. "My apologies, madam. I was looking for someone."

"Not amongst the servants, he's not," Uncle Baptiste said.

Lieutenant Gage's head snapped up, and his eye narrowed. "I—"

The mistress interrupted. "Yes, well. Clearly, you have not found the person here. Do escort me back and I shall be glad to introduce you to some friends of mine." She reached for his arm.

Honor dictated the lieutenant offer her his arm. He did so, and she shot the servants a look before leading him away.

Baptiste turned and clapped his hands. "All right, you lot. That's time. Best be off to bed, double quick."

Marie stood and began to follow the others when her uncle said, "Marie, wait a moment."

She paused. "What is it?"

He waited for the other servants to depart before he asked, "Do you know that man?"

She shook her head. "We met yesterday. He was in pain from the music. But I don't know him."

"Did you talk to him?"

"Only to bring him a glass of wine."

His face was stern. "He does not like us. Do not speak to him again."

"But why?"

"He is a soldier. English. Do you forget we are at war? You are French, Marie. Never forget that. "

"But—" she started.

"But nothing. Remember who you are." He strode past her and went down the stairwell to the kitchen.

She watched him go. Alone in the stairwell, she idled to the entrance and stood in the shadow, away from sight. But she watched as the men and women chatted and danced, laughing and gambling. She spotted Mrs. Dove-Lyon chatting politely with the lieutenant and walked away.

She never saw him turn and glance back in the direction of the stairwell.

The next day, Baptiste watched her closely. She went about her chores, cleaning the fireplaces, setting fires, changing bedsheets, and washing fresh linens. He was never far away.

He spoke only in his quiet French when they were alone, and when others were in the vicinity, he spoke in English. Finally, when she bumped into him and almost dropped a heavily laden serving tray she grunted in exasperation and set it down on the dining table. "That's it."

"What?"

She frowned at the tray full of dirty dishes. "You've been following me around all day like I've done something wrong. You speak in French when we're alone and in English when the other servants are there. What is wrong?"

"Nothing. Nothing is wrong," he said, rubbing the side of his face. He rested a hand against the back of a chair and eyed her.

"Then why is it that all day today, you're never far away? What is it you're afraid of? That'll I'll insult the cooks again and get us thrown out?"

"No. Frankly, they could use some criticism. It might improve the food." He smirked.

"I mean it, Uncle. Why around you following me around like a mother hen?"

"I…" He stopped. "You should stay downstairs from now on. Especially in the evenings. Don't go to the upper floors."

"I have chores that take me all over the building."

"I'll speak with the others about letting you go from those chores."

She put her hands on her hips. "Why? They'll think I want special treatment when I don't. What is it, Uncle? Why are you so… skittish?"

"I'm not skittish. I just… I don't want you going in the stairwell again. Not when the main hall is open for guests."

"Why? Is it because of that soldier? I was only helping him, I promise."

He arched an eyebrow. "What you might view as a kindness, the wrong man might see as an invitation. And I have to protect your honor."

"What honor? We are servants. I am a maid. I will never wear a silk dress like one of those fine ladies, or dance a jig with the rich men upstairs. This is our life." She bowed her head, her cheeks burning.

He looked at her for half a minute. "No matter the uniform, even the lowest scullery maid has pride, Marie." He left.

She sighed, picked up the tray, and returned to her duties. The rest of the day she went about her chores with a listlessness that filled her bones. Was this all there was to be of life? A secret identity she hid, a part of herself? She could only speak her own native language in private, and she had to hide her true self?

But what that was, she couldn't say. Marie sat in a small room downstairs, surrounded by dirty linens to wash. As she went outside and filled a small tub with water, she glanced at her wavering reflection in the water. It felt a bit like she was a part of one world but didn't belong there, but it was the only world she knew. Aside from a private language that she dared not speak in front of the others, her Uncle Baptiste, who wasn't really an uncle at all, was the only family she had. She had no friends, and she had no one her own age to confide in, or socialize with. At least once, she'd come into a room to find Lucy and Harriet laughing and giggling over some private joke. She felt alone.

After dinner, the servants were mostly below stairs, tidying up, washing dishes, and closing things up for the night. Marie was drying a dish in the kitchen, her hands damp from the dish rag, when she heard a commotion.

"Mrs. Dove-Lyon," Mrs. Drummond, the head cook, said.

Marie turned and set aside the plate she was drying. New household or not, the rules were mostly the same. When the employer or a member of the family came into the servants' vicinity, everyone stopped to attend and assist if necessary.

Mrs. Dove-Lyon looked smart in a black evening gown and black lace veil over her face, right down to her sleek gloves. She was a dark and forbidding figure standing in the kitchen doorway. Her gaze settled on Marie. "Ah, just the person I was looking for. Mrs. Pratt, may I borrow Marie for a moment?"

The other servants looked at her. The housekeeper, Mrs. Pratt, a large, round woman with red cheeks and a doughy face, said, "Now, Mrs. Dove-Lyon, if the girl's done something wrong, I should be the first to know—"

"No, it's nothing like that. Just a little favor I'd like to ask. Marie?"

Marie swallowed and wiped her hands on the damp dish towel, not that it helped dry her hands, but she tried. She nodded and followed Mrs. Dove-Lyon out of the kitchen, conscious that the other servants were watching, not making a sound.

Once out in the corridor, Mrs. Dove-Lyon clasped her hands, unclasped them, and clasped them again. She avoided looking at Marie directly, instead assessing her from head to toe .

"Madam?" Marie started.

"Yes? Right. I wonder, do you speak French?"

Marie tensed. "Yes, a little."

"Oh, good," Mrs. Dove-Lyon said with relief.

"Why?"

"Well, it just so happens that Colonel Martin, a guest of mine, has come with his new wife, who is French. My knowledge of the language is tolerable, but I'm no expert. I thought I heard your uncle Baptiste speak in French before and thought perhaps you knew it too. Has he spoken it to you?"

"Yes. Maybe he can help?"

"Oh, no. He won't do at all," Mrs. Dove-Lyon said with an enigmatic smile. "It is a woman's help I need, you see."

Marie's eyebrows rose. "Oh?"

"Well, it is simple, really. The good colonel likes to enjoy himself at the games played upstairs, but besides himself and I, there are few amongst the company who speak more than a handful of French words. He has abandoned the poor thing and she is off standing by herself. I fear she is terribly lonely."

"Oh." Marie knew how that felt. "But what can I do? I'm a servant." She looked down at her plain uniform and sensible shoes.

"That's easily remedied. But you do speak French? More than a phrase or two?"

"Yes," Marie said. "But I don't see how I can help. I'm happy to talk to her, but would you want to bring her downstairs? I know you don't like us going up on the main floor when guests are there."

"Not to worry about that. I think we might make a little exception for a time. If you wouldn't mind, I will have one of the girls dress you and fix your hair."

"What? You mean…"

"If you would do it as a favor to me, dress up as one of the guests and pretend you are one of them. Chat to Mrs. Martin and keep her company. You might even get an offer of employment as her companion if she likes you well enough."

"I couldn't leave my uncle." Her heart rose in her chest, then her stomach quailed at the very thought. Leaving him would be like leaving a part of herself behind. Exciting at first, perhaps, then empty and alone.

"Well, let's see how it goes." She assessed Marie. Hmmm…" She tapped a slim, gloved index finger to her mouth. "Pink, I think."

Marie followed her upstairs to one of the private parlors, which bore a wardrobe with a series of dresses in colors of blue, pink, purple, grey, and green silk. There were pairs of dancing shoes, used, along with a small, raised, circular platform and a long, polished looking glass.

"What is all this?" Marie asked.

"Just a few dresses I have. Not a night goes by when there's not a little tear in a lady's sleeve or a spill of wine. Most can be cleaned or patched up easily, but sometimes, the damage is a bit more serious, and a replacement dress is needed. It doesn't always happen, but on the rare occasion it does, we are prepared. I would rather go barefaced in public than let a lady guest of mine go on wearing a soiled dress whilst in my establishment." Mrs. Dove-Lyon looked upon Marie with an appraising air.

"So I am to wear one of these dresses?" Marie asked, looking at the wardrobe.

"If that is not asking too much," Mrs. Dove-Lyon said sharply. "I'll have you know, Miss Cadough, that whilst you are on the main floor entertaining Mrs. Martin, you are exempt from your usual chores."

Marie couldn't resist a smile. At this point in the evening, the servants had already been up before dawn and were preparing to go to bed. Now she was to stay up later. She'd be lucky if she didn't yawn the entire time. Just thinking about sleep had her stifle a yawn.

This did not go unnoticed by her employer. "There are many servant girls who would love to be in your position right now. Being able to wear a pretty dress? I'll have no insolence from you, Marie. Not under my roof."

"I'm sorry if I gave offense, madam. I didn't mean it like that."

"I should hope not. It is a great gift I am giving you, letting you do this. Now, choose a dress. I would suggest the pink one."

Marie dutifully took the blush-pink dress from the wardrobe and held it up. Its light, silk folds fluttered to the ground with a low, square bodice embroidered at the high waist with a slim, gold ribbon.

She'd never held a dress like that before. The fabric felt smooth and almost slippery, but it was so sleek, as the dress caught the light. Her former employers had never trusted her with cleaning their fine dresses, but even they had never had such fine dresses as this. And to think Mrs. Dove-Lyon had this and others just like it, hanging in a wardrobe.

"Go on girl, put it on." The mistress turned her back.

Marie swallowed and quickly stripped down to her shift and stays, then carefully put the dress on, inhaling as the cool, silk material slipped over her head. She put her arms through the small cap sleeves and gently tugged the dress down over her hips and curves.

"Stand up on the platform, Marie, so I can see how it fits you," Mrs. Dove-Lyon said.

Casting a glance at the small pile of her servant's dress and apron on the floor, she took two handfuls of her new dress and stepped onto the pedestal.

"Oh, no, those shoes won't do at all. Take them off."

Marie bent and undid her boots, setting them on the floor. "There. Much better. Now, stand up straight."

Marie straightened and glanced down, smoothing minuscule wrinkles out of her dress. She'd never worn anything so low cut. She put a hand over her chest.

"What are you doing? "

"It feels like I'm on display, ma'am."

Mrs. Dove-Lyon laughed. "You're not wearing anything so daring as some things I've seen. Come now, lower your hand. Chin up, shoulders back."

Marie looked up and dutifully lowered her hand, resting her hands by her sides.

"Hmm. With your hair done, some gloves, you will be very pretty, very pretty indeed, if I do say so myself." She clapped her hands, and two servants who regularly assisted Mrs. Dove-Lyon entered. Mrs. Dove-Lyon said, "This is Robbins and Julia, who is training to be a lady's maid. I can't afford my other maids' help with this, so Robbins will show Julia how it's done."

Julia, a busty blonde, was clearly none too happy at the idea of Marie getting the chance to dress up. Her eyes narrowed at the sight of Marie's fine dress and when instructed to do her hair, she did the bare minimum, her mouth set in a perpetual grimace. She pinned it back into loose, soft ringlets, whilst Miss Robbins conferred with Mrs. Dove-Lyon over makeup.

In no time, Marie was dressed in a pair of dancing shoes, her hair adorned with a gold ribbon and her locket around her neck, as well as a set of white gloves. She'd even allowed the maids to brush her cheeks with rouge and her lips with something slick and rosy. When they stepped back and allowed her to survey herself in the tall looking glass, Marie was stunned.

She didn't recognize the person standing there. She looked sweet, like a demure French mistress, or a young woman on the cusp of coming out into society. The thought struck her then, and she uttered, "Madam, I am not out."

"Oh. Right, I see. Well, let this be your debut."

Marie's eyes widened. Her debut was to be playing dress-up in a gambling den?

She cast her gaze downward. She had observed from the Campbells' daughter, Hortense, that a real coming out in society was to attend balls, parties, and soirees, and was reserved for girls of breeding and good family. She was a mere servant, beholden to no one but her uncle and now her employer. It just… wasn't how she had imagined her life to be.

"We will throw a little party for you later. For now, do this favor for me, and I will speak with your uncle about what we can do for you. How about it?"

Marie hardly felt she could say no , and she rather admired the sight of herself in the looking glass. She realized she didn't want to refuse Mrs. Dove-Lyon but felt like modesty and decorum dedicated that she should. "I…"

"Please, Miss Cadough. It would mean so much to Mrs. Martin to have someone to whom to talk, and you would be doing me a huge favor. Please. I will speak with your uncle to ensure he does not worry about you missing chores."

At the mention of her uncle, Marie fretted and bit her lip. "Madam, I—"

"You must address me by my title, as do all my guests."

"Mrs. Dove-Lyon, I… do not think my uncle would like this. He does not want the others to know we speak French. It might cause trouble if other people knew."

Mrs. Dove-Lyon frowned. "You are quite right. Some people might find it a bit unpatriotic for me to hire French-speaking servants when our countries are at war. I'm sorry. I should not have pressured you to do this without asking your uncle's permission first. But do you mind?"

Marie knew that in moments, she could be dressed and in her maid's uniform again and heading toward her bed. But she also knew that to refuse her employer would damage their relationship, she would lose Mrs. Dove-Lyon's trust, and she would never receive an opportunity like this again. And she desperately wanted a night to socialize, dress well, and pretend she was a lady, even if she wasn't.

Marie nodded. "I'll do it."

"Very good! Thank you, Marie. You are helping me out enormously. Come, let's get you out on the floor. I will introduce you."

"Um, Mrs. Dove-Lyon? What will I talk about? I don't know how to talk to a grand lady like a colonel's wife."

"Oh, don't worry about that. Think of her like one of the servant girls but in a better dress. She'll be as nervous as you are, I imagine. Not many people here would care to speak with a Frenchwoman, even if she did marry an Englishman."

"But she is a lady, ma'am. I… don't know what we will talk about."

"I'm sure you will find much to discuss. Now, no more excuses. Let us go," Mrs. Dove-Lyon said."

The mistress ushered her young companion downstairs to the main floor. Marie hesitated in the stairwell. Mrs. Dove-Lyon said, "Remember, Marie, you are here tonight at my invitation with your uncle, who is elsewhere. You belong there with the rest of them. So chin up, shoulders back, and ignore any looks you might receive from the men. You are to focus your attention on Mrs. Martin and that is it."

"Right."

Mrs. Dove-Lyon took her arm, which trembled a little, in hers as if they were good companions, and swiftly led her into the room.

The main hall was large, suitable for little assemblies and decent parties. In the small alcove, a set of musicians played, this time a violinist and a harpist, and small tables were scattered around the room, each manned by a dealer. Well-dressed men and women stood here and there, some playing cards, others gambling.

The room was warmly lit by hanging chandeliers and wall sconces that held pairs of candles dotted around. Tall windows and a balcony stood at the far end of the room, but Marie didn't notice much more as Mrs. Dove-Lyon said in her ear, "There she is. Stay no more than an hour, and I'll come rescue you. I can see you're tired."

"Thank you."

Mrs. Dove-Lyon brought Marie over to a middle-aged woman with long, brown hair pinned with soft ringlets at the back, in a fetching, forest-green dress with a round scoop neck lined with gold trim. She stood off to one side, looking on as others laughed and chatted together.

"Mrs. Martin?" said Mrs. Dove-Lyon.

The woman turned. She has a kind face , Marie thought.

"Forgive me for interrupting you, but I would like to introduce you to a new friend of mine, Miss Marie Cadough. She too is new to my little establishment, and I thought you might enjoy a bit of her conversation."

"Oh? How kind." Mrs. Martin sniffed and looked away.

"Well. I shall leave you. I am sure you will become good friends." Mrs. Dove-Lyon stepped away.

An uncomfortable silence followed. The music playing offered little respite. They stood side by side, saying nothing, until Mrs. Martin uttered a sound of disgust and said under her breath in French, "What a waste of time. I should have stayed at home."

"Why is that, madame, when there are such friends to be met?"

Mrs. Martin's head whipped around. "You speak French."

"I do. A little."

"Your accent is… strange. What did you say your name was again?"

"Marie Cadeaux. But everyone calls me ‘Cadough.' It's easier for some people."

"How is it you know French, Marie?" Mrs. Martin asked.

"I have spoken it since I was a child. It is my first language. But, my em—I mean, the family we stayed with here did not like it, so they called me ‘Mary.' "

"When did you first come to England?"

Marie shrugged. "When I was a child. I hardly remember France, or my parents." She fingered her locket, her light, delicate fingers twisting in the old ribbon.

"What is that? A keepsake?" Mrs. Martin asked.

"Yes, it has my mother's and father's portraits in it." Marie leaned forward and opened it so Mrs. Martin could see.

Mrs. Martin smiled as she examined the miniature portraits. "How beautiful. So that they are always close to your heart. And where are your family from? Your accent, it is not Parisian."

"No. My uncle said we come from Gerberoy. I looked at a map once. It is north of Paris, and west of Rouen. That is all I know, aside from that it is a beautiful village, and that my parents and I were happy." Her smile was wistful.

"I hope you might meet them again," Mrs. Martin said, taking her friend's hand and giving it a squeeze.

"Thank you. But I fear that might be in heaven."

" Mon dieu , let us not speak of such things and hope they are alive and well. When did you last see them?" Mrs. Martin asked.

"I do not know. It is hard to remember. We came over when I was a child. It would have been before 1799 or so. But I am not sure."

"Well, never mind. I only mean to learn more about you, as my dear friend. Do you play cards?" Mrs. Martin asked. "Poque? Whist?"

"I have never played."

"Then I shall teach you. Come." Mrs. Martin dragged her away to the women's gambling rooms and began a lesson. Unfortunately, as it turned out, Marie had little head for cards and was not a skilled player.

"Hmm, I think you need a few more lessons before we play again." Her stomach gurgled audibly, and she covered her mouth. "Oh, excuse me."

Marie smiled. "Are you hungry?"

"Yes, but this English food. I do not like it. So much bland, plain, ordinary food. I want something rich, something divine. But…" She hesitated and looked around. "We are at war. There are few delicacies to be had, I fear."

At that moment, servants with small trays of hors d'oeuvres came out, offering the petite, bite-sized pastries and savory foods to the people. One of the footmen gave Marie a second glance but recovered quickly, offering the tray to Mrs. Martin and somehow managing to miss Marie.

Mrs. Martin took one of the bites and ate, chewing. "Mmm. it is good, but not so good as at home, I think."

"When did you come here?"

"Six months ago. My husband and I met and fell in love, but when we came here, I did not know what to expect. I do not know which is worse: living with my husband in a dusty tent in a military camp, or sitting at home alone. I have no visitors, no friends. And I cannot even talk to the servants because we are not equals." She frowned. "I'm sorry. I say too much."

The women chatted and walked around the room, surveying the games, when Mrs. Martin said, "Tell me this. Why is it that the servants ignore you?"

Marie swallowed. "I—"

"Wait, no. Never mind. What I want to know is do you have a beau? A young man?"

"No." Marie blushed.

"You lie. You do," Mrs. Martin said with a smile.

"I don't, honestly. Why?"

Mrs. Martin's eyes widened. "Then if not, why is that young man staring at you?"

Marie turned to see, meeting the eyes of a handsome young man with light-brown hair tied back in a queue, a sloping, round chin and patrician nose, dressed in a stiff, red army uniform.

It was the young soldier .

"I…" she started. "Uh…"

"Oh, my goodness, he's coming this way," Mrs. Martin said, clutching her hand.