The Accidental Servants: Georgians in Paris by Christina Dudley

Author:Christina Dudley [Dudley, Christina]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2024-02-21T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter 9

I kept constant to this story, not knowing any better way to conceal my self.

— John Chardin, The travels of Sir John Chardin into Persia and the East-Indies (1686)

“Bertrand!” Marthe hissed as he passed in the grand courtyard. She was half-hidden in the shadows behind the sheds. “I must speak with you.”

“Later,” he replied. “Raulin has summoned me.”

“To serve at Tremblay’s dinner?”

“Who knows?” But he suddenly halted and retraced his steps. “Ciel! What has happened to you?” His noble nostrils flared as he sniffed deeply, even as she retreated. Then, in what Jeanne recognized as his Mithridate-ordering-Monime-to-take-poison attitude, he stabbed a finger at her. “We will talk about this. Oh, heaven, we will talk about this! I will find you shortly.”

Tremblay and various guests were indeed dining, served by a full complement of footmen, but when Bertrand caught Raulin’s eye, the steward raised a brow and jerked his chin toward the adjoining library. It might be another hour before the meal ended, but woe betide Bertrand if he was not found there when he was wanted.

Still fretting over the changes in Jeanne, he thought he might use the time wisely. If he beckoned her from the window overlooking the stable yard, the foolish girl could unburden herself while he took her to task.

But Bertrand was not the sole occupant of the library. He was not five steps into the room before Tonette, of all people, scrambled up from the desk, hastily wiping her currant eyes.

“What is it?” she demanded. “Am I wanted?”

Stopping short, Bertrand held up his hands. “Not by me. Please. Do not let me disturb you. I await the master’s bidding. But I am sorry to see you are…distressed.”

“I am fine,” she said quickly. Too quickly. Tonette then drew a long breath before giving a toss of her chin. “That is, I honor you for the sentiment. It is something indeed, your sympathy. You, with so much already on your mind.”

Wary, he raised one lofty brow. “What would I have on my mind?”

“I meant old Marthe, of course,” she answered. “And now I hear you have also a niece. No, no, do not look surprised. Of course Madame told her maid Solange and Solange told everyone else.”

“The niece is not my charge, in any case,” said Bertrand gruffly.

“Hm.” She made a wry face. “If you say so. Though you may change your mind after Tremblay talks to you.”

It was undignified, but Bertrand gulped. “What do you know, if I may ask?”

Tonette hesitated, cocking her head to listen to the unabated conversation and clink of glass and cutlery from the dining room. Then she came lightly closer, the cloudy winter light from the window falling across her face. Bertrand could see she had indeed been weeping.

“Come,” she said. “You can tell me. This ‘niece’ you were seen with. She is your mistress, is she not?”

“She is not!” He cut the air with a decisive hand. “She is like a daughter to me. A niece like a daughter,” he added belatedly.

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