Upon A Starlit Tide

7. Preparations

7

Preparations

Preparations for the ball began swiftly and with violence. It came as no surprise to anyone that Veronique and Charlotte both coveted the same piece of fashionable Rose Pompadour silk taffeta for their ball gowns. The malouinière became a battlefield, filled with shouting and tears, professions of life-long hatred, promises of eternal vengeance. Its rooms were strewn with fashion plates and feathers, discarded swathes of silk satin, cloth of silver, and floral silk brocades. Fashion dolls dressed in miniature ball gowns lay like fallen soldiers among ribbons, rosettes, and lace. Luce picked them up whenever she passed, straightening their little gowns, fixing their tiny wigs. The brave and glorious dead.

To escape the fray, Luce spent as much time as possible at the sea-cave. She left the house early each morning and returned just before noon, then spent the afternoons in the gardens or her little cabinet, looking over the Lucinde ’s plans or reading. The very act of sitting down to the harp or the harpsichord was a risk, as there was no telling when her sisters might charge through the room in the midst of some terrible skirmish. Sometimes, one or both of them tried to force Luce into the fray, begging her to take a side. More often, they left only moments after entering, a trail of insults and ill will in their wake. Mealtimes had become intolerable, each round of delicious dishes served with lashings of her sisters’ fraught silences, bitter exchanges, and icy rejoinders as intricate and subtle as one of Olivier’s remarkable chilled mousses.

After three days of collective suffering, Gratienne interceded.

‘Veronique will wear the Rose Pompadour,’ she announced, calmly spooning extra crayfish coulis over her roast chicken.

‘But Maman!’ Charlotte cried. ‘You cannot mean it!’

‘I most certainly do,’ Gratienne said. ‘That pink does nothing for your complexion, Charlotte. I have laid out three colours that will suit you better. After supper you will choose one.’

‘But—’

‘Maman is right, Cee,’ Veronique said sweetly. ‘If you do not hurry up and decide we won’t have our gowns made in time. We shall lose our advantage.’

Charlotte glared at her, seething.

‘I have already sent for the tailor,’ Gratienne said firmly. ‘Monsieur Briard will be here tomorrow.’ She glanced at Luce across the table. ‘Will you be attending the ball, Lucinde? You will need to select your fabric, if so.’

‘I have already made my choice, Maman.’

‘So, you are coming.’ Luce winced at the venom in Charlotte’s voice. ‘I was sure you would not.’

‘Why?’ Veronique asked, curious.

‘Because she does not like receptions, Vee,’ Charlotte said, rolling her eyes. ‘We all know it. What is different about this one?’

‘Madame de Chatelaine delivered the invitation to us herself. It would be rude to not attend.’ Luce turned her attention to scooping more of the gratin of oysters—thick with parsley and golden butter— onto her plate. It was best to say as little as possible when Charlotte looked at you that way.

Her sister, however, would not be dissuaded. ‘And what colour did you decide upon?’ she demanded, cutting into her fricandeaux with vehemence.

‘Blue.’

‘Blue? What kind of blue? Is it fashionable? Madame de Pompadour prefers a very light shade, you know.’

Luce, disliking her sister’s demeanor more with every passing moment, glanced at her father. Surely he would say something? Do something to quell the tide of bitterness rising around his elegant dining table? Jean-Baptiste, however, was tucking heartily into his second serving of roast lamb. Did he never wonder about the feelings of his wife and his daughters? Did he never think that a different kind of life—one in which they could somehow be more than just wife, mother, or daughter (or more than rivals bickering over silks)— might have benefited them? Her father merely glanced up at Jean-Germane, hovering near the sideboard. ‘Are there more oysters?’

Disappointment bowed Luce’s shoulders. She finished her food and pushed back her chair. ‘Papa, may I be excused?’

‘Are you sure, mon petit oiseau chanteur?’ he asked, not looking up from his near-overflowing plate. ‘You will miss the second and third services.’

‘I am sure.’

‘Very well. But come, come.’ He waved her over jovially. ‘Give your papa a kiss before you go. And it is almost dark. Remember—’

‘I know, Papa. I won’t brush my hair.’

The following morning brought little relief. Uncertain when the tailor would arrive, Luce remained at the house. Her mother and sisters rose earlier than was their custom, and a tense morning of chocolate-sipping and door-watching ensued. Six bells had rung, then seven, then eight—the end of the Forenoon Watch— before hooves sounded in the courtyard. Veronique and Charlotte leapt to their feet at once and pattered excitedly to the vestibule, breathlessly throwing open the front doors.

‘Good day, mademoiselles.’

The smiling young man Luce glimpsed over her sisters’ shoulders was not Monsieur Briard, master tailor. This man was much younger, straight-backed, with white, neat teeth. He removed his tricorn, revealing thick, curling caramel-brown hair tied at the back of his neck.

‘You are not—’ Veronique began.

‘Indeed,’ the young man interrupted, with an apologetic smile. He drew a folded document from within his waistcoat. ‘But I have a letter here from him, explaining the circumstances in full. I assure you, I shall do my best to serve you in his stead.’

‘I suppose you will have to do.’ Veronique barely masked her disappointment as she drew wide the door, waving away the laquais hurrying to help her. ‘Fetch Maman, won’t you, Jean-Pierre?’

‘Is your father within?’ The young tailor tucked his hat beneath one arm and entered the vestibule. He carried a roughlooking leather satchel over one shoulder, and his breeches and stockings were covered with dust. Charlotte, noting these details at the same time as Luce, met her eyes, her brows raised.

‘Papa?’ Veronique frowned. ‘Why on earth would we need him ?’

The young man looked bewildered. He went to open his mouth, but was prevented from saying further by the arrival of Gratienne, her embroidery hoop in one hand, a long trail of pale silk—a nightgown for Veronique’s armoire, perhaps—sweeping her skirts.

‘You are not—’

‘He has a letter, Maman,’ Charlotte said, gesturing to the missive.

‘It will explain everything, Madame Léon,’ the young man said, offering it to her. Luce, noting the flush to his cheeks, the slight shake in his hands, could not help but pity him. ‘I assure you, I am more than qualified.’

Gratienne waved the letter away. ‘Indeed. I trust Monsieur Briard implicitly. If he believes you are capable of replacing him, then it shall be so. What is your name?’

‘Monsieur Briard...?’

‘No, your name,’ Gratienne said impatiently.

‘Gabriel,’ he said. ‘Gabriel Daumard.’

‘I take it you studied in Paris?’

‘I did, Madame Léon.’

‘Then let us begin.’

She turned and led the way into the grand salon, her daughters falling into step behind her. Luce, the last to go, noted that Monsieur Daumard hesitated before he went, glancing at the open doors as though he were considering walking back out of them. At last, he followed.

‘We shall begin with Charlotte,’ Gratienne said, sinking onto the chaise longue, her floral robe à la francaise fanning gracefully around her. She set her embroidery upon her lap and calmly resumed stitching.

‘ Charlotte ?’ Veronique echoed.

‘ You got the Rose Pompadour,’ Charlotte told her, all but running to stand before the young tailor. ‘ I get to go first.’

Gabriel Daumard took in the fabrics and trimmings flung over the furniture, the fashion plates and puddles of lace, the neat bundles of fabric—rose-pink for Veronique, pale blue for Charlotte, and Luce’s own dark silk, wrapped in layers of tissue for the journey to the tailor’s. He looked at Charlotte, standing expectantly before him, and reddened.

‘I’m afraid I do not know where to begin.’

‘Where to begin ?’ Charlotte wadded her hands on her hips. ‘You have a measure, don’t you?’

‘Oh. Well, yes. Of course.’ He rummaged in his satchel, suddenly eager. ‘I always carry one with me. One never knows when one might need to take notes on interesting specimens...’

‘Interesting specimens ?’ Charlotte muttered, incredulous.

‘Indeed.’ Monsieur Daumard produced a measuring ribbon. It was not, as Luce had expected, one of the paper measures favored by Monsieur Briard—he had one for each of the Léon women, their names inked neatly on one side, their waists and shoulders and chests marked in a confusing code of cut-out shapes. This measure was rough, and small. A beaten metal case housing a frayed linen ribbon, wound snail-tight. Luce, who kept one just like it in her cabinet, knew at once that it was designed to take measurements of a more robust, scientific nature. She looked again at Monsieur Daumard, his satchel and dusty breeches, his straight back and ink-stained hands, the unmistakable terror in his eyes...

Charlotte was frowning at the measure. ‘That does not look correct.’

‘It doesn’t?’ He turned it this way and that. ‘I assure you it is accurate.’ He pulled the end of the measure from its worn casing, smiled helpfully down at Charlotte. ‘What would you like me to measure, mademoiselle?’

‘ Me!’ Charlotte spat.

‘Oh.’ The young man’s gaze moved over Charlotte—over all the places she might be measured—and the colour drained from his face: pink to bone-white in moments.

Luce stepped forward quickly, her suspicions confirmed. ‘You are the new tutor Papa sent for, aren’t you?’ she said. ‘Not the tailor.’

A sidelong glance, the measure frozen in his hands, as though the smallest of movements was certain to bring about catastrophe. ‘I am so sorry, mademoiselle. I did not want to cause offense—’

He got no further. At the expression of woe on his face, the outraged horror on Charlotte’s, Luce burst into laughter. It rippled from her chest, relentless as the tide, worsening every time she looked at her sister, or the measure. Veronique tittered, bringing a hand to her mouth before exploding into giggles. Charlotte, unable to help herself, joined her.

Mortification melted into mirth, until she was laughing so hard that she bent at the waist, clutching her belly. Even Gratienne’s shoulders shook, her embroidery hoop cast aside on the longue.

Finally, Gabriel began to chuckle, too.

That made them all laugh harder, so loud and so wild that the tension of the previous days, the rivalry and pettiness, vanished. Their laughter rose, and rose, until several of the domestiques were hovering concernedly at the door, watching their mistresses spilling about the room in gales of laughter with a strange young man chortling in their midst.

Jean-Baptiste arrived next.

‘What in God’s name is going on here?’ he demanded.

‘The new tutor has arrived, Papa,’ Luce said, wiping her eyes. ‘See?’ Fresh laugher bubbled out of her; she hid her face in her hands, unable to go on.

‘Monsieur Léon,’ Gabriel said, gathering himself with some difficulty. ‘May I introduce myself? I am Gabriel Daumard—’

‘Papa!’ Veronique cried, tears running down her cheeks. ‘We thought he was the tailor !’ She diminished into fresh giggles, collapsing face-first on the chaise longue and snorting into a cushion.

Gabriel was fighting hard against laughter. He took a deep breath, managed to contain it. ‘It is good to meet you, sir.’

Jean-Baptiste was not smiling. ‘You are not Monsieur Ferrand.’

‘Oh, of course.’ Gabriel produced the letter he had tried to give Gratienne in the vestibule. ‘I’m afraid Monsieur Ferrand is unwell, Monsieur. He sent me in his stead.’

‘Unwell?’ Jean-Baptiste frowned.

‘Yes, monsieur. He is not... as young as he used to be. There was concern the journey from Paris would be too much for him.’

‘I see.’ Jean-Baptiste took the letter. Read. Luce’s laughter faded, along with her sisters’, until a heavy silence cloaked the room.

‘It says that you studied music at the Royal Academy.’

‘Yes,’ Gabriel said. ‘I also studied science and mathematics at the Academy of Sciences. Monsieur Ferrand told me knowledge of both music and science was important to you.’

‘It is.’ And yet there was no pleasure in Jean-Baptiste’s eyes. He folded the letter crisply, pocketed it, and scraped his gaze over the younger man in such a way that Luce wondered if he would set him back on the road to Paris.

‘Monsieur?’ Gabriel was no doubt fearing the same. ‘I trust all is in order?’

Jean-Baptiste glanced at his daughters, his wife, and gave a long sigh. ‘It would seem so. Have you much baggage?’

‘No. I sent all my books and scientific instruments by post.’

‘They should arrive in a year or two, then.’ Jean-Baptiste smiled at last, deftly leading the young tutor from the room and calling for Claudine. There was a moment of confusion in the vestibule as the real tailor arrived, just as the ship’s bell struck the next watch. During the commotion, Gabriel Daumard smiled warmly at each of the women through the open doors. Perhaps it was the shuffling in the vestibule, the upheaval caused by the meeting of the tailor, who had brought his large hounds with him, and Claudine, who had a tremendous terror of dogs. Or maybe it was simply the hurry of the laquais to reach the sandglass and the bell at the right moment. Whatever it was, Luce was certain Gabriel’s gaze lingered longest, and warmest, on Charlotte.

Once every month, after attending mass in Saint-Coulomb, Gratienne took Luce to bathe her feet in the sacred fountain at the nearby Saint-Vincent’s church. Like the storm-stone quarries of the coast and the standing stones of Bretagne’s interior, fountains were places of great power, offering a range of cures: those who longed for a child, for example, might bathe at the Fountain of the Virgin, while the sacred waters of Sainte Anne were known to cure madness. The water at Saint-Vincent’s was reputed to heal ailments of the legs and feet.

‘Must I, Maman?’ Luce asked as the carriage rolled to a stop before the little church. ‘Surely if the spring was of any benefit, we would know by now?’

They had been completing the ritual for years—since the healers had given up on Luce’s ever-worsening feet—with little results, despite the water’s miraculous reputation. The most Luce had ever received was a sharp nip or two from the belligerent water-fae who inhabited the spring. It was not like the sea, which never failed to ease the pain. (After all these years, Luce was still without a reasonable explanation for that; she could only surmise it was the salt.)

‘Luce is right, Maman.’ Charlotte, sitting across from them in the carriage, drew her shawl around her shoulders. ‘I am cold just thinking about that water. And those dreadful creatures...’

‘Who are we to question the workings of the Fae?’ Gratienne said quietly, with a furtive glance at the church. The pastor tolerated visits to the spring—and the pagan beliefs at their source— but even so, such visits required discretion. She squeezed Luce’s hand. ‘It would be lovely for all three of you to dance at the de Chatelaine ball, would it not? We must do all that we can to ensure that Luce has that chance.’

‘I suppose so,’ Charlotte said doubtfully.

‘We are here now,’ Luce said with a sigh, stepping down from the carriage. ‘We may as well finish it.’

She did not wait for her mother and sister to join her. Neither of them could abide the slippery little fae, their sharp teeth and wicked grins.

The fountain was located a short walk from the chapel, in a rather grim patch of forest. It had been revered for time untold— long before the church had dampened the people’s belief in the Old Ways—and the twisted path was well-worn. The forest was still, the ancient trickle of water and the slow, quiet green of the trees as they breathed the only sounds.

She soon reached the glade where the spring lay. Stone steps dropped to a mossy pool, with dappled light and a few listless leaves moving upon its surface. Newish-looking statues of saints gazed disapprovingly into its dark depths.

When Luce was young, and the pool still held some hope, it had been enough for her to sit on the edge with Gratienne, a blanket and her mother’s arm around her shoulders, her little legs dangling in the water. As she had grown—and Gratienne’s faith in the waters dwindled—she had encouraged Luce to go in farther, and then farther. It was nothing, now, to strip down to her chemise and plunge into the pool, eyes closed, hair drifting, body tensed at the unforgiving cold.

It was not like swimming in the sea. The water was eerily still, and when she held her hands out before her, she glimpsed little more than a pale suggestion of them in the thick water.

A stone bench had been carved into the pool’s edge. Luce made her way to it, drawing her thighs against her chest and laying her head on the twin islands of her knees. Cold water rarely bothered her, but here, sitting in perfect stillness, surrounded by stone and shade, she invariably began to shiver. She closed her eyes, tried to distract herself with the sounds of the birds in the trees above, the burble of water rising from the underground spring.

‘Thievery.’ The barest whisper of a hiss, a rippling of water against stone.

Luce opened her eyes.

The fae in the water beside her was no larger than a newt, with a newt’s slender, earthen-coloured body and tail. Its face was oddly human, sharp and shrewd, with pointed ears and toolarge, too-strange eyes. ‘ Thievery. ’

‘Calm yourself,’ Luce said mildly. ‘I’ve no plans to steal anything from you or your kin.’

It was always this way. Spring sprites were a shadowy sort, inclined to mistrust and accusation, and fervently protective of their home.

‘Thievery,’ the little creature said again, skittering up the pool’s stony edge on its four, clinging feet.

‘Thievery,’ lisped another, floating near Luce’s elbow.

‘Thievery!’ From the shoulder of the nearest saint, the alcove protecting the mouth of the spring, the cow parsley near the path: a chorus of low, angry voices. More appeared, skimmering and slipping into the water, sliding from between the stones.

‘ Thievery! ’

Luce flinched as one of the creatures clawed its way up her shin, perched on her knee. ‘Thievery!’

‘I told you,’ she said. ‘I’m not here to take anything. How many times have we had this conversation?’

The fae only stared up at her, flicking its long, black tongue between its teeth.

Luce poked out her tongue.

‘Luce?’ Charlotte was coming down the path. The sprites scattered, the creature on Luce’s knee digging its claws into her thigh in one final insult.

‘Everyone wants a bite,’ it hissed as it slither-dived out of sight.

‘Are those little devils here?’ Charlotte carried a bundle of woolen blankets and dry underclothes, which she placed at the spring’s edge. ‘Honestly, Luce, I don’t know how you stand it.’

‘The sprites or the cold?’

‘Both.’ Charlotte peered into the water, to where Luce’s feet rested on the stone seat.

Luce fought the urge to draw her chemise over her toes. At last Charlotte moved away, seating herself on the edge of the pool.

‘Oh, stop it,’ Charlotte said, swiping at a sprite as it lunged at her, baring its teeth. ‘You really think we’ve come to steal your slimy rocks? Go away.’

Luce rested her head on her knees again, watching her sister. At times like this, when it was just the two of them, she adored Charlotte. Her quick wit, her fierce cleverness, her mischievous laugh. They were close in age—only a year apart—and as children they had devised games together, practised the minuet and the allemande. Luce’s feet had not hurt so much when she was young, and she had loved to dance, spending many a happy summer day turning and scooping, bowing and parading, while someone— usually a governess or a tutor—had accompanied them on the harpsichord. Charlotte’s eyes had sparkled on those days, sweet and brown. Her laugh had been—still was—addictive.

The sweetness, however, always soured. It could happen instantly: A disagreement over a step in the gavotte, or the appearance of Veronique, whose presence never failed to change everything. (Three is a cursed number for children, for mustn’t there always be someone left out?) A visitor’s comment on the beauty of Veronique’s hair, or Luce’s voice. The gift of a feather.

‘Your poor feet,’ Charlotte said. ‘What makes them that way, do you think?’

‘I hardly know.’ Luce watched an oak leaf flutter to the pool’s surface.

‘Will you be able to dance? At the ball, I mean.’

Luce shrugged. It was unlikely, and they both knew it. Dancing was its own, special kind of agony.

A wren chittered a sweet little song in the trees above, the leaves swaying gently in time. It was old, this place, far older than the little granite church and the stern-faced saints. It was not the sea, it was true, but Luce had to admit it had its own kind of beauty.

‘What think you of Monsieur Daumard?’ Charlotte asked suddenly.

‘It is too early to have a true opinion of him,’ Luce replied. ‘But he seems pleasant enough. He plays beautifully. And yesterday we had a fascinating discussion about molluscs.’ The new tutor had only been part of the household for a few days, but he had already corrected her fingering for the new harp piece she was learning and insisted they ask Papa for permission to mount a scientific expedition to the cove, where, chaperoned by Jean-Pierre, they had examined the rocks and weed, the shells and shore lichens. He was far more enthusiastic than her previous tutors. Quicker to smile, too.

‘Hmm.’

‘Papa has invited him to attend the ball with us,’ Luce said, watching her sister.

‘That was kind. I suppose it will be a treat for Monsieur Daumard, attending such a grand gathering.’ Charlotte toyed with the ribbons on her hat.

Luce smiled. ‘He came to us from Paris, Cee.’

‘Yes, but before the university he lived in Touraine. His father is an attorney. ’ Her nose wrinkled in distaste.

Luce raised her head. ‘How do you know all this?’

Charlotte flicked a shoulder. ‘I asked him.’ She rose abruptly, brushing at the leaves clinging to her skirts. ‘I was thinking I could help with your hair before the ball. Have you given any thought as to how you will wear it?’

Luce, taken aback at this unexpected generosity, shook her head. ‘I was going to ask Nanette what she thought.’

‘I have some new fashion plates from Paris. We could read through them, look for something together? Your hair is very long— too long, really—but I’m sure we could come up with something.’

‘I’d like that,’ said Luce, touched. Charlotte usually guarded her fashion plates jealously, refusing access to anyone but Nanette. ‘Thank you.’

Charlotte reached for the blanket and shook it out. ‘We’ll be representing Papa at the ball. We all need to look our best.’ She sniffed. ‘Not just Veronique.’

Luce hid a smile.

‘And now,’ Charlotte said, holding out the blanket. ‘Time to end this torture.’

‘Maman likes me to stay in as long as possible...’

‘Well, there’s no sign of Maman, and your skin is turning blue,’ Charlotte said practically. She leaned down, offered Luce a hand. ‘You’re no use to anyone like that.’

The harpsichord at Le Bleu Sauvage was a thing of true beauty. It was painted a gentle grey, overlaid with delicate flowers in pinks, blues, and creams. Luce was seated at it, working on one of Bach’s concertos under the guidance of Monsieur Daumard, when her father entered the room.

‘That was much better,’ the tutor was saying, as Luce finished a particularly difficult section. ‘See the difference that fingering makes?’

Luce nodded, intent on her fingers stretching again and again over the black and white keys, memorising the new movements.

‘Try again,’ he instructed. ‘Just the beginning of the allegro movement, this time.’

The shimmering tones of the harpsichord filled the room, elegant, rapid, and bright.

‘Wonderful,’ Jean-Baptiste said, when Luce was done. ‘I see now why Monsieur Ferrand sent you to us, Daumard. Although, I’m sure you’re aware of the rare talent my Lucinde possesses.’

‘I am, Monsieur Léon,’ Gabriel said. ‘Indeed, all three of your daughters are remarkably accomplished.’

Jean-Baptiste beamed with pride. ‘I had come to speak with you about the Lucinde, ’ he said, flicking up his coattails and sinking into a chair. ‘After hearing you play just now, however, I think it would be far wiser to let you continue your lesson.’

‘The Lucinde ?’ Luce straightened on the bench. ‘But what were you going to tell me, Papa?’

He smiled. ‘Monsieur Le Page assures me it will be ready to launch next week.’

‘Next week?’ Luce’s fingers lifted from the keys, Bach’s notes forgotten in her excitement. ‘Then we have much to discuss! Have you given any more thought about who might be best to captain her?’

‘A little,’ Jean-Baptiste said. He settled back in the chair with a sigh. ‘There’s still plenty of time to decide. Will you play that lovely piece by Scarlatti for me, mon trésor? You know the one.’

Luce did. Scarlatti’s 208 Sonata was her favorite, too. Still, it was not thoughts of Scarlatti that raced through her mind, but ships’ masts and furnishings. Captains, and crews. She had so many questions. Her father, however, had already rested his head against the chair’s back and closed his eyes.

She raised her hands to the keys, pushed down her disappointment, and began to play, her fingers moving slowly over the first halting notes. The music grew in strength and smoothness, rising tide-like, until the notes cascaded downward again in a fall of quiet silver.

‘Lovely,’ Jean-Baptiste said.

A commotion in the vestibule caused Luce to stop playing and look up, alert to the possible resumption of the war between Veronique and Charlotte. It had been a week since the Battle of the Pompadour Rose had ended—a week since Gabriel Daumard had joined their household—but that was no guarantee that some new, equally dramatic conflict had not begun.

The palaver grew in intensity. Veronique squealed in delight, and Charlotte fired a series of rapid questions. Gratienne was there too, her low, strong voice failing to quell the rising excitement.

‘That must be the tailor with the new gowns,’ Jean-Baptiste said wearily, pushing himself out of his seat. ‘Come, mon petit oiseau chanteur, Daumard. Let us see.’