order two riding ensembles made for me in tweed and linen.
The tailor sniffed. “Mademoiselle, ladies do not wear trousers.”
“They’re not trousers,” I said. “They’re riding breeches. And this lady will wear them.” I punctuated my tone with finality. By now, everyone connected to Balsan knew he had a maîtresse in his household. Even Adrienne, who wrote on occasion to provide the latest news on her ongoing battle to marry Nexon, had sent a letter indicating that Louise and unnamed others in our family were “troubled” by my behavior, going to live with a man and do—well, precisely what Adrienne did, only without the promise of marriage. I ignored her concern. What I did was my own affair. It always had been, since I was a child. Family wasn’t going to see to my future, or at least not any future I’d consider, but in time Balsan might.
Nevertheless, the monotony of Royallieu started to wear on me. It was ironic after the deprivations I had endured that I couldn’t find it in myself to revel in a luxury most girls would have killed to possess. The freedom I envisioned seemed as out of reach as it had during those dreary days of singing for my supper. Indeed, though I ate like a queen, slept in feathery comfort, and worked for my own delight, invisible tethers still bound me. I was beholden to someone else for the very food on my plate and I began to resent it. My discontent was a vague shadow that crept upon me at night, asI stood swathed in smoke from my cigarettes, my ashtray overflowing and floor and worktable littered in ribbon and cloth. The black square of the window reflected the same blackness in my heart.
What else did I want? How much more could I ask for? I had no answer. There was no soul-lightening certainty. All I knew was that I couldn’t be Balsan’s mistress forever. I didn’t love him in the way I should. In time, Balsan would tire of me. He would realize I felt only friendship for him and seek a more enthusiastic companion. Though he had given no indication that he wearied of my company or expected more than I could give, he was still a man and not unappealing. He’d had Émilienne for a lover and, while rare, she was not unique. Others like her would leap at the opportunity to supplant me, and in truth, though I feared being sent away to survive on my own, I would not miss his desultory lovemaking or this guilty feeling that I stole something from him by taking what he offered and not reciprocating in any discernible manner.
Riding therefore became my obsession. Not a passion, for I preferred to keep my feet on the ground, but because it provided an outlet for my restlessness, another unlikely achievement that might serve me later, though I couldn’t see how.
It would be another two years before I found my answer. When it arrived, it was more sudden and unexpected than anything that had come before.
ÉMILIENNE ARRIVED THAT WEEKEND, radiating warmth and accompanied by a coterie of her actress-courtesan friends, a hive of intrepid beauties—none of whom, to my surprise, was here to test their claws or wrench Balsan from my tepid embrace.
They wanted to buy my hats.
As they crowded into my workroom to coo over my offerings, Émilienne leaned to me and murmured, “My dear, are you sure you are all right? You look thinner than the last time I was here. You’re not going consumptive, are you?”
I averted my gaze, mumbling, “I’m fine,” and went to attend to her friends, who had seen Émilienne in my hat in the Tuileries and virtually “mobbed her,” as she put it, for an invitation to visit this eccentric haberdasher she had been hiding from them. That I was a woman only made them gasp and covet my creations more.
“Imagine,” one declared, flouncing about with one of my feathered hats on her head, “what Monsieur Worth will say when he hears that we’re not wearing his hats. Mon Dieu, the scandal! It’ll be the talk of every salon in Paris.”
Scandal, I
The tailor sniffed. “Mademoiselle, ladies do not wear trousers.”
“They’re not trousers,” I said. “They’re riding breeches. And this lady will wear them.” I punctuated my tone with finality. By now, everyone connected to Balsan knew he had a maîtresse in his household. Even Adrienne, who wrote on occasion to provide the latest news on her ongoing battle to marry Nexon, had sent a letter indicating that Louise and unnamed others in our family were “troubled” by my behavior, going to live with a man and do—well, precisely what Adrienne did, only without the promise of marriage. I ignored her concern. What I did was my own affair. It always had been, since I was a child. Family wasn’t going to see to my future, or at least not any future I’d consider, but in time Balsan might.
Nevertheless, the monotony of Royallieu started to wear on me. It was ironic after the deprivations I had endured that I couldn’t find it in myself to revel in a luxury most girls would have killed to possess. The freedom I envisioned seemed as out of reach as it had during those dreary days of singing for my supper. Indeed, though I ate like a queen, slept in feathery comfort, and worked for my own delight, invisible tethers still bound me. I was beholden to someone else for the very food on my plate and I began to resent it. My discontent was a vague shadow that crept upon me at night, asI stood swathed in smoke from my cigarettes, my ashtray overflowing and floor and worktable littered in ribbon and cloth. The black square of the window reflected the same blackness in my heart.
What else did I want? How much more could I ask for? I had no answer. There was no soul-lightening certainty. All I knew was that I couldn’t be Balsan’s mistress forever. I didn’t love him in the way I should. In time, Balsan would tire of me. He would realize I felt only friendship for him and seek a more enthusiastic companion. Though he had given no indication that he wearied of my company or expected more than I could give, he was still a man and not unappealing. He’d had Émilienne for a lover and, while rare, she was not unique. Others like her would leap at the opportunity to supplant me, and in truth, though I feared being sent away to survive on my own, I would not miss his desultory lovemaking or this guilty feeling that I stole something from him by taking what he offered and not reciprocating in any discernible manner.
Riding therefore became my obsession. Not a passion, for I preferred to keep my feet on the ground, but because it provided an outlet for my restlessness, another unlikely achievement that might serve me later, though I couldn’t see how.
It would be another two years before I found my answer. When it arrived, it was more sudden and unexpected than anything that had come before.
ÉMILIENNE ARRIVED THAT WEEKEND, radiating warmth and accompanied by a coterie of her actress-courtesan friends, a hive of intrepid beauties—none of whom, to my surprise, was here to test their claws or wrench Balsan from my tepid embrace.
They wanted to buy my hats.
As they crowded into my workroom to coo over my offerings, Émilienne leaned to me and murmured, “My dear, are you sure you are all right? You look thinner than the last time I was here. You’re not going consumptive, are you?”
I averted my gaze, mumbling, “I’m fine,” and went to attend to her friends, who had seen Émilienne in my hat in the Tuileries and virtually “mobbed her,” as she put it, for an invitation to visit this eccentric haberdasher she had been hiding from them. That I was a woman only made them gasp and covet my creations more.
“Imagine,” one declared, flouncing about with one of my feathered hats on her head, “what Monsieur Worth will say when he hears that we’re not wearing his hats. Mon Dieu, the scandal! It’ll be the talk of every salon in Paris.”
Scandal, I
Similar Books
