widow’s weeds. Spring, summer, winter or fall, she always wore black. The key to her taste was to find the black silks, black lace, black organdy and woolens which yet carried some appealing pattern—stylish but not garish—which would serve to make her wardrobe fashionable, rather than funereal. A brocade of golden chrysanthemums might please her in winter; a sweep of pale gray doves might take flight across her skirts in spring.
In any case she was widely admired, and her dressmaker was the most expensive in Paris. Where these two shopped, others flocked after them; accordingly, keeping her custom was a matter of great concern to our father. When she arrived unannounced, only two weeks after having purchased several bolts for the winter season, my brothers and I were seized by dread.
“Madame de Maurier!” Bernal cried. He and Francois tumbled over one another like puppies in their haste to take her dripping umbrella. “What an unexpected pleasure. How can we be of service—?”
“A small thing.” Her voice was soft as a snowflake. As she walked into the shop, she unpinned her veil from the brim of her hat, revealing her legendary face. Even in her late thirties, she was an incandescent beauty—her heart-shaped visage framed by ringlets of beaten gold, her figure as slim and straight as the heroine of an old romance. As she came nearer and nearer to my perch in the back, my heart sank lower and lower. When she at last stood before me, I placed a ribbon into the book I had been reading and tucked it under the counter, facing her with a feeble smile.
“Good morning, Madame,” I said—or tried to say. My throat had closed; I could barely force out the words.
“Good morning, Mademoiselle Bertrand.” Her voice was gentle. Surprised, I looked up into her eyes, and found that they were deep lapis blue—and smiling.
“Ca-can I help you, Madame?” Desperate, I looked to either side, trying to summon my brothers for aid.
“I believe you can.” She reached into the pocket of her skirt, withdrew a small purse and opened its silver clasp. Inside, there was a folded slip of paper. She placed it on the counter: a receipt from our shop. “Did you write this, Mademoiselle Bertrand?”
Bernal and Francois both glared at me, their eyes burning suspicion. What have you done, Claudette? I looked down at the bill, trying with all my might to see what fault there was to find with it. Had I added incorrectly? Had I charged her for more than she bought? I could not see my error, whatever it might be. “Yes, Madame. I am responsible. Is something wrong?”
“Not at all. I could not help but notice that you had a very fine hand, Mademoiselle. Such lovely script is rare.” She withdrew a few 20-livre notes from her purse and tapped the receipt with her fingertip. “I’ll pay this now, I think.”
“Yes Madame.” Numb with relief, I took her money and made a few francs of change. “Thank you, Madame.”
She slowly drew a black glove back on to the slim fingers of her left hand. “You read books as well , ma cherie ?”
My cheeks flushed red with embarrassment, I could only nod.
She smiled. “Very good. I was certain you did. I must tell you: a situation has recently opened in my household. I find myself in need of a companion and lady’s maid. If you are at all interested in the position, I would happily offer it to you; I have known your father for many years, and consider Monsieur Bertrand an excellent reference.”
Thunderstruck, I sat staring. It fell to my brother Francois to answer her, after a few awkward moments of silence.
He cleared his throat. “I’m sorry, Madame. I don’t believe our sister is able to do such work.” He nodded toward my cane, leaning in the corner. “You must not have noticed—Claudette is a cripple.”
A ripple of expression passed over Madame de Maurier’s face, and her head tilted slightly to the left. It was a gesture I learned to recognize in years to come, a
In any case she was widely admired, and her dressmaker was the most expensive in Paris. Where these two shopped, others flocked after them; accordingly, keeping her custom was a matter of great concern to our father. When she arrived unannounced, only two weeks after having purchased several bolts for the winter season, my brothers and I were seized by dread.
“Madame de Maurier!” Bernal cried. He and Francois tumbled over one another like puppies in their haste to take her dripping umbrella. “What an unexpected pleasure. How can we be of service—?”
“A small thing.” Her voice was soft as a snowflake. As she walked into the shop, she unpinned her veil from the brim of her hat, revealing her legendary face. Even in her late thirties, she was an incandescent beauty—her heart-shaped visage framed by ringlets of beaten gold, her figure as slim and straight as the heroine of an old romance. As she came nearer and nearer to my perch in the back, my heart sank lower and lower. When she at last stood before me, I placed a ribbon into the book I had been reading and tucked it under the counter, facing her with a feeble smile.
“Good morning, Madame,” I said—or tried to say. My throat had closed; I could barely force out the words.
“Good morning, Mademoiselle Bertrand.” Her voice was gentle. Surprised, I looked up into her eyes, and found that they were deep lapis blue—and smiling.
“Ca-can I help you, Madame?” Desperate, I looked to either side, trying to summon my brothers for aid.
“I believe you can.” She reached into the pocket of her skirt, withdrew a small purse and opened its silver clasp. Inside, there was a folded slip of paper. She placed it on the counter: a receipt from our shop. “Did you write this, Mademoiselle Bertrand?”
Bernal and Francois both glared at me, their eyes burning suspicion. What have you done, Claudette? I looked down at the bill, trying with all my might to see what fault there was to find with it. Had I added incorrectly? Had I charged her for more than she bought? I could not see my error, whatever it might be. “Yes, Madame. I am responsible. Is something wrong?”
“Not at all. I could not help but notice that you had a very fine hand, Mademoiselle. Such lovely script is rare.” She withdrew a few 20-livre notes from her purse and tapped the receipt with her fingertip. “I’ll pay this now, I think.”
“Yes Madame.” Numb with relief, I took her money and made a few francs of change. “Thank you, Madame.”
She slowly drew a black glove back on to the slim fingers of her left hand. “You read books as well , ma cherie ?”
My cheeks flushed red with embarrassment, I could only nod.
She smiled. “Very good. I was certain you did. I must tell you: a situation has recently opened in my household. I find myself in need of a companion and lady’s maid. If you are at all interested in the position, I would happily offer it to you; I have known your father for many years, and consider Monsieur Bertrand an excellent reference.”
Thunderstruck, I sat staring. It fell to my brother Francois to answer her, after a few awkward moments of silence.
He cleared his throat. “I’m sorry, Madame. I don’t believe our sister is able to do such work.” He nodded toward my cane, leaning in the corner. “You must not have noticed—Claudette is a cripple.”
A ripple of expression passed over Madame de Maurier’s face, and her head tilted slightly to the left. It was a gesture I learned to recognize in years to come, a
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