Chapter Eight

Charlotte's desk chair squeaked under her as she reached her arms above her head and stretched. She had been working all morning, happily and productively typing away at her typewriter, piling up the pages in neat stacks, shuffling them around, and grouping them together. It was glorious. Now all she needed was the post to arrive with an acceptance. Because almost every day she'd received a rejection for one of the stories she had out on submission. There was no shortage of magazines and papers, and her strategy had been to try them all. But for all this trying her rejection pile kept getting higher.

She had assumed that, after her first few successes, it would be easier than this. That she'd not be rejected quite so much. That maybe the magazines would be excited to include her in their pages, the way La Fronde had sought her out and seemed thrilled to have her. Not quite the case, it turned out. And so her confidence and excitement about her work swung wildly between best writer in town and ready to give up for good. Being a writer was hard. But there was nothing else she wanted to do, and nothing else that she was particularly good at.

She opened her window and the warm breeze blew in, fluttering the muslin curtains and rustling the pages on her desk. She'd had no word from Antoine. And although she hadn't written to him either, he seemed to infuse every word that her fingers tapped on her gleaming new machine. Handsome aristocrats and bookish, polite gentlemen with mischievous, bright eyes kept populating her stories. At least on the page, she could torture these handsome gentlemen for being so bound up in class superiority.

Antoine's words still rang in her head. Marry someone from the nobility, carry on the tradition. He probably had no idea how snobby he sounded. Skewering this sort of foolishness in her stories felt cathartic. Getting over Antoine in real life was not quite as fun.

You've enchanted me, Charlotte. The tingly feeling she got standing next to him. The way she wanted to know every word he said, every thought he had. The way she wanted to stare at him, take in every detail. The weight of his simple, respectful touches lingered on her skin. That kiss in the carriage. And then those words hollowed her out like a scoop: I can't marry you, Charlotte.

Charlotte's stomach grumbled; she'd had little more than coffee and bread all day. She rose from her desk and stretched again from side to side. Then she shook out her wrists and hands. Typing felt different from writing by hand, strained different muscles. She slid on her house slippers and left her room for the first time in a few hours.

The hall was quiet—Madame was perhaps out on errands. Nadine was at practice. Vanessa and the sisters were still at work. Cook and the maid were probably around somewhere, and the groundskeeper was out in the yard. But Charlotte descended the stairs in that quiet luxury of having the place nearly to herself. The wooden treads under her feet were worn from traffic over the years, but polished and spotless, the way Madame always kept them. Charlotte had been there for almost a month now and had yet to find a speck of dust. It was nice to live in a place so well cared for. Not all boarding houses in the city were so clean. She'd heard stories from Vanessa and Nadine about terrible living conditions and neglectful landlords. And on her walks, she'd passed more than a few buildings that even from the outside seemed to be falling apart around the inhabitants.

When she reached the hall near the front door, she stepped out onto the foyer and checked the spot on the table where the mail was kept, just in case she'd been so enthralled in her own imagination that she missed the sound of its arrival. But the table was empty, except for the vase full of lush white lilacs cut from the garden. The sweet fragrance filled the air. Charlotte sniffed the blooms with a deep inhale and then went down to the kitchen.

The kitchen, with heavy stone walls and small arched windows along the ceiling, was like a scullery in some medieval castle. A pot of something simmered on the big stove that smelled like a pleasant broth. Perhaps the start of that night's dinner. Charlotte peered into the bubbling liquid, breathing in the homey, delicious aroma. As she turned, Cook came around the corner from where the dry storage shelves were stacked with bags of rice and flour and baskets of potatoes.

"Good afternoon, Mademoiselle." Cook was a friendly woman close in age to Charlotte's mother, who was fifty-one, and Madame, who was forty-nine. She was plump, as cooks often were, with graying dark hair and a heavy brow. "Is there something I can get you?"

"I'm just looking for a snack to keep me busy until the mail comes."

"Start with this." Cook placed a peach in Charlotte's hand that felt fuzzy and perfectly soft in her hand. "I just picked it up from the market, and it's still warm from the sun."

The fruit's skin was indeed warm. Mottled magenta and pale orange, it appeared to be the most perfect peach. The ideal. Charlotte raised it to her mouth and took a bite. Juice poured out and ran down her jaw. She bent over to prevent it from dripping on her dress, and Cook passed her a clean dish towel. Charlotte nodded her appreciation and wiped at the mess on her face.

"It's delicious," she said around chewing and swallowing. "It's perfect."

"Isn't it? I've already eaten two of them, they're so good." Cook moved away, around the long sturdy table that sat in the center of the kitchen. This was where Charlotte often found Cook's cookies and pies and other recent creations when she came poking around. "I've got some cheese and meat cut for later. I'll fix you a plate to tide you over until dinner."

"Thank you so much." Charlotte reached the pit of her peach and the flesh fell away to expose the hard, ridged middle. "Will there be a peach galette in the near future?"

"They might not last that long." Cook brought a small plate of brie and sliced, cured meats to Charlotte. "Better take one with you."

"I will. And thank you for the food." Charlotte tossed the clean pit from her peach into the compost bucket under the sink. "I'm sure you're busy?"

"I am. If you want to have dinner then you'll leave me to this soup." Cook winked at her, picked up a wide wooden spoon off the counter, and dipped it into whatever was simmering in her pot.

Charlotte, carrying her plate and peach, made her way back upstairs. She was passing the first floor when a knock at the door drew her back.

"I'll get it," she yelled down to Cook, unsure if she actually heard. Then she set her snack on the foyer table and looked through the frosted window next to the door. A man stood outside, though she couldn't make out any of his features in the blurred glass.

"Bonjour," she said as she pulled open the door.

"Good afternoon, mademoiselle." The young man standing there was dressed in a fine uniform, like he'd come on behalf of some noble house. Like he was in the wrong place, in other words. When Charlotte gave him nothing more than a confused look, he continued. "I'm here on behalf of the Marquis René de Conradines with an invitation for a Mademoiselle Deveraux."

"You're kidding."

"No, mademoiselle." He produced a large envelope from behind his back and held it out to her. The paper was as pale blue as the sky over the city.

Charlotte thanked him and took the envelope. The well-dressed courier bowed and left, while Charlotte closed the door behind him. The creamy paper and embossed details made the envelope seem heavier in Charlotte's hand. She opened it and slid the card out. It was an invitation, written in ornate, swirling calligraphy, to a ball at the home of the Marquis René de Conradines. It was indeed addressed to her. But why?

He'd obviously liked her when they met at the salon, but she never imagined that it could lead to further invitations. Especially not to a ball. She didn't even have anything to wear. Well, maybe she could style her new blue dress to make it more formal, but her housemates' faux jewels might not cut it at an aristocrat's ball. She slid the card back into the envelope, picked up her snack plate, and started back up the stairs. The words for her regrets were just coming together in her mind when another knock came at the door. Again? Was this what went on down here all afternoon while she was upstairs working?

"Can you get that if you're still there, Mademoiselle Charlotte?" Cook yelled from downstairs. "I'm straining my broth, dear, and my hands are a mess."

"I've got it." Charlotte put her food and her invitation on the table and went to the door. This time she opened it without checking the window. Another courier, a less fancy one, was standing there with a box wrapped in the prettiest cabbage rose floral paper.

"A delivery for Mademoiselle Charlotte Deveraux," the courier said. He was a young man and his pants were faded at the knees.

"May I ask who sent it?"

"I don't know, mademoiselle. I deliver for the store. They don't tell me anything about the boxes, I just carry them across town."

"I see." She took the proffered box. "Thank you. Let me get my purse. It's just upstairs."

"Tip's paid, mademoiselle. My boss insisted the sender wouldn't pay if I took a sous from you."

Antoine. He had to be the sender. "Merci."

The young man nodded and went on his way.

Standing there with the box, Charlotte decided not to open it until she made it to the privacy of her room. With more to carry than hands, she placed her plate on top of the box and wedged the peach between it and her chin. And she started back upstairs, slower and steadier.

When she reached her room, she pushed the door open with her hip and stepped inside. She put her plate of food on her desk and set the box on the edge of her bed. It was a lovely package. Ostentatious, even. Good thing no one had seen her receive it. The typewriter had been easy enough to dismiss as a gesture of kindness from those concerned with her career. This, whatever it was, would surely be harder to hide. It looked like a package a gentleman with intentions would send to a woman. It was like a bouquet of roses in box form.

Careful not to rip the pretty paper, Charlotte unwrapped the package. Inside was a blue box with a lid. Lifting it revealed a spray of gold and purple feathers shooting from the front of a burgundy silk hat. It was well-made and elegant. Quite a bit more formal than anything else she owned. This was a hat for a woman like Madame Durand. Someone more stylish. Charlotte set it on her bed and tipped the box. She pushed the tissue paper to the side. No card. And so it was an anonymous gift, arriving minutes after her invitation for an occasion where such a hat would be quite handy. A hat that would make her dress formal enough for the ball. The colors didn't match exactly, but they complemented each other. It would probably look lovely.

But had Antoine sent the gift? Or René? Surely it couldn't be anyone else. Either one might suspect she had nothing to wear. Or that her accessories wouldn't cut it. Probably either man would be kind enough to send such a gift. But only one of those two gentlemen had motive to do so anonymously. Charlotte put the hat on her head and went to the little mirror on the top of her dresser. She couldn't see her whole head or much of the hat up close. Though she could tell the colors enhanced hers. She stepped back a few paces, the way she always did when trying to see herself in full in the glass. The hat stood well over a foot higher than her head, But it was fabulous. The prettiest hat, for sure, that she'd ever worn. A hat she'd never imagine picking out or procuring on her own. It was like someone else's idea put on her head, and she didn't hate it.

She slid the hat back into the box. To hide it, she moved a stack of sweaters off the bottom of her armoire and tucked the box inside. It only just allowed the door to fully close. But even hidden from view, that hat was on Charlotte's mind for the rest of the day. She was so busy thinking about it that she barely noticed when the post brought her two rejections.

In the days leading up to the ball at René's, Charlotte's anxiety about it grew. She'd make a fool of herself. She wouldn't look sophisticated enough. Not rich enough. She wasn't rich at all. And despite all those etiquette books she'd consumed back in Vernon to smooth out any rough provincial edges, she probably wasn't all that sophisticated either. The morning of the event, she sat at her desk unable to string even a few words together. Then after lunch, as if to put Charlotte out of her misery, Nadine set her hair in rags and drew her a hot bath with enough lavender oil to relax everyone in the house.

Even though her dark blue evening dress could have worked, she fell in love with a simple embroidered black sheath in the collection of dresses that Nadine offered to lend. The decoration had an oriental flair, which made it fashionable, and the dress was in decent enough shape, even though it had probably been to more fancy events than Charlotte had in all her years. The only issue was a small tear on the hip seam.

"If you can fix it," Nadine had said, "you can have it."

And so Charlotte stitched along the delicate fabric as carefully as she could. She'd never been much of a seamstress or good with a needle at all. But the repair was a straight line of stitches. No problem.

Nadine, who had the night off, helped her pin her hair into an elegant updo that made the perfect nest for the burgundy hat.

"This is quite a confection," Nadine said when Charlotte brought it out from her hiding place in the armoire.

"It is, isn't it?" Charlotte held the hat at arm's length and gave it a small shake to rustle the ostrich feathers, which were dyed to match the silk hat. "Do you think it's too much?"

"Not at all. Especially not for a ball in a mansion on Quay d'Orsay! Now let me help you into the dress."

Charlotte rose from the stool and went over to where the dress was lying spread out on her bed. The embroidery work shimmered, and her repair was hardly noticeable on the dark fabric. She wiped her sweaty palms down the sides of her petticoat and stepped into the dress while Nadine held it for her.

"Are you nervous?"

"Nervous would be understating it. I feel like I'm ready to faint."

"What for?" Nadine shifted the fabric around Charlotte's waist and then began fastening the buttons up the back.

"I won't know anyone."

"Is Monsieur de Larminet going to be there?"

Charlotte met Nadine's eyes in the little mirror and blushed. "He will be."

"Ooh la la," Nadine sang. "You like this gentleman, don't you?"

"I do. Perhaps too much. But that doesn't mean I'm interested."

Nadine raised her eyebrows but didn't say anything. She had a way of doing so that encouraged one to keep talking and revealing secrets.

"But it's not like we'll be spending the evening together. I'm sure he'll be with his friends or family or whoever. And it isn't exactly my crowd."

"How'd you get invited to this ball, again?"

"I met the Marquis de Conradines at the salon at Madame Durand's." Charlotte recited the words she'd been telling herself all week, all the reasons why René had invited her to such an event, both for herself and in case anyone asked. "We had a good conversation about books. He's rather well-read. And so he invited me, it seems."

"Huh," Nadine said, sounding half-convinced. "It seems."

The only item she purchased was a gently worn pair of shoes in a secondhand shop. All of hers were scuffed and worn, even more so from traipsing around the city. With higher heels and shiny patent leather, they were more ornate than any shoes she'd ever owned. When she was dressed, Charlotte faced the mirror. Her hair in a lovely pile, the colorful hat, the elegant, understated dress—it all came together in a pretty picture. One that Antoine would hopefully notice and appreciate, even among the countless other women in pretty dresses who would undoubtedly be in attendance. Even though she refused to be more than friends with him, the truth was that she still wanted him to want her. She wanted him to be enchanted.

Nadine, who was tidying up her brushes and the curling rags, turned to face Charlotte.

"You're lovely," she said. "And these things are all about being seen. At least for everyone else. For you, you'll get to see all the fancy people dressed up. That will be the best part, seeing what everyone is wearing."

Charlotte nodded. She kept thinking about Balzac's Lucien from Lost Illusions . Charlotte never loved that book, but ever since that invitation arrived, the story kept bubbling to the surface of her mind. In it, Lucien is a talented writer from the provinces who comes to Paris and gets a society invitation much like hers. He spends nearly all his money on new clothes that are so ostentatious and loud that he stands out even more while trying desperately to fit in. He becomes a laughingstock. He goes on to make a name for himself, but ultimately loses everything from his last sous to his reputation and friendships. Charlotte was nothing like Lucien. Her situation, despite the similarities, was quite different. But she kept thinking about him nonetheless, bumbling across town in clothes he wasn't equipped to wear.

After thanking Nadine and slipping out of the house without attracting much attention, Charlotte hailed a cab like a true Parisian and was on her way across town. The thing about Lucien was that he became obsessed with living a life of luxury. She didn't want anything more than to write. She didn't care about money, aside from needing it to live. She didn't care that her dress was borrowed and had been repaired by her own unskilled hand. She just wanted to write and to support herself in doing so. But she also wanted to stay in Paris. She wanted to stay at the pension on Rue de Fortuny. She wanted more time to live the life she was so happy and so productive in. She didn't care about anything else. But then there was Antoine. And even though money and luxury weren't important, thoughts of Antoine had grown increasingly so.

The cab carried her through the city, across the bridge where she'd sat with Antoine that blissfully uninformed afternoon, onto a street along the river unlike any part of the city she'd seen so far. The wide, quiet street was lined with large, stately homes. Each one seemed to outdo the last. Antoine would be there tonight. There was no doubt of that. But this wouldn't be like the cabarets or salons of mixed company; she was stepping into his high-society world. And the weight of that was nearly crushing any excitement or positive anticipation.

When they came to a stop, in front of what was surely the most palatial house so far, Charlotte gasped. It was huge, lit up like a work of art in the fading daylight, surrounded by a tall iron fence that said to everyone who passed that they could see how lovely it was without getting close enough to touch.

She paid and thanked the driver, who whistled and nodded at the mansion. "Fancy place, Mademoiselle. Don't forget to eat. They'll have good food, I imagine."

Charlotte laughed as he pulled away. The carriage pulling up behind her was far shinier and sleeker than her ride. The servants at the gate watched her expectantly, eager to check her name on the list, perhaps more so because she arrived so humbly. She smiled and gave her name, and the servants smiled back upon finding it. They seemed as relieved as she was. Then they welcomed her in.

There were several small groups of people milling about the garden, which was formal and highly designed with little benches and rows of box bushes shaped like soft balls. A fountain with a statue of a mermaid on a rock trickled in the center. And the house, glowing from within, rang with music and laughter. Charlotte made her way through the garden, up to the steps. She paused to take a deep breath, and then she climbed the stairs and stepped through the wide front door.

Inside, the music filled the foyer, where two wide and curving staircases rose above another fountain and mermaid sculpture. More small groups of guests were talking and laughing, some on the stairs, some under them. A few turned to look at her when she walked in, only long enough not to recognize her, and then they went back to whatever they were talking about. Another servant greeted her and passed her a flute of champagne from a precarious-looking tray of several. Charlotte took it gratefully. She'd need it.

Two sets of doors to the ballroom were open. Not a single familiar face so far. It wasn't her clothes that made her stand out, exactly, though her dress was far simpler than the others. There was something inherently different about her and these other people. This was a broad brush to paint the room with, but provincial proletarian Charlotte was different from these upper-class Parisians.

This was not her kind of party.

These were not her people.

And yet she was here. She'd come all this way and might as well stay for a while. She took a large gulp of her champagne and slipped into the crowded ballroom.

Making her way along the walls, Charlotte maneuvered around the crowd at the door to a little clearing near an ice sculpture of a dolphin jumping out of the sea to the left. People were dancing in formation on the clearing at the center of the wide, deep, and elegantly appointed room. The silver chandeliers, tall mirrors, and silvery tones in the wallpaper made everything sparkle. It was unlike any room she'd ever been in before. A pianist played on a raised platform in a far corner. When she found a spot to stand, her eyes followed nearly everyone's in the room to the dance floor. Women in elaborate hair pieces and a rainbow of gowns twirled and bowed with the line of gentlemen in dark formal suits. One couple in particular caught her eye, and when the gentleman turned around, Charlotte nearly spilled her champagne.

It was Antoine.

Smiling and holding perfect posture and time, he twirled a young blond woman one way, and then the other. Who was she? They were smiling at each other. When the dance steps brought them together for a few steps, he whispered something close to her ear. She laughed, and he smiled down at her. Warmly, though not as warmly as when he looked at Charlotte. Still, he was flirting.