Read Online Belle Epoque by Elizabeth Ross - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Elizabeth Ross
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me. I can’t face Isabelle Dubern and her intimidating mother without debriefing Marie-Josée on what happened in the hat shop. She’s never afraid of clients. More than this, she feels like my good-luck charm at the agency—I just need to see her and then everything won’t seem so bad.
“Maude.” Madame Leroux sees me and beckons me over. She takes my outfit from the rack of gowns hanging up for this evening’s dates. It’s an old-lady dress, dark gray lace with matching gloves.
She holds it against me on the hanger. “It should fit better now that I lengthened the hem and took in the waist.”
“Have you seen Marie-Josée today?” I ask as she hands me the dress.
“No, I haven’t.” She snaps her fingers, irritated. “Get a move on and get changed.”
I slip off my agency day dress and she helps me on with the evening gown. I catch my reflection in the mirror—I look like a faded widow before I’ve even been married.
“Sit,” she instructs, pointing to the stool opposite the mirror. She unravels my braid and bushes out my hair, then scrapes it into a pile on top of my head, fixing it with jabbing pins. I place a hand on the back of my bare neck; I’m not used to wearing my hair up like this. I feel exposed.
“You’re done. Hortense, you’re next,” she calls out.
I leave the dressing room, and as I walk past the wall clock, I check the time. I have one hour until I have to leave. Come on, Marie-Josée, I think. Come back soon.
I sit alone in the agency dining room with a large napkin over my frock so as not to spill my dinner on it. The dining rules have been helpfully tacked on the wall in front of me.
IV. i. All repoussoirs are required to eat in the agency dining room prior to working at an event where food is served. This is in response to certain individuals gorging themselves on the job, as well as hoarding leftovers inevening bags and coat pockets. Such behavior is strictly forbidden and will result in immediate dismissal.
I don’t have any appetite. I make patterns with my fork in the runny shepherd’s pie. Maybe Isabelle will be friendlier to me this evening, or maybe she’ll be worse. My stomach somersaults at the thought.
“What are you doing?” The voice startles me and I look up to meet Marie-Josée’s twinkling eyes. She pushes my plate away. “Don’t stuff yourself before a dinner. You won’t have any room left.”
Immediately I jump up and kiss her cheek. “I’m so glad you’re back. You were gone all afternoon.”
She laughs at the welcome and takes a seat. “Leroux told me you were off to the Duberns’ tonight. Mind if I finish your plate?” she asks.
“Go ahead. But what about the rules? I should try to eat something.”
“Poppycock!” Marie-Josée replies. “You have to enjoy the perks. Do you know how incredible the spread will be? You can’t miss out.” She whips off my napkin to prove her point and tucks it into the collar of her own dress. “Just don’t let anyone see you pocket anything—and nothing too soft or it will spoil in your purse.” She gives me a wink. “Leroux might not tell on you, but Girard always has a way of finding out.”
A pulse of anxiety quickens through me as I imagine the dinner to come. “I doubt I’ll be able to swallow a bite.”
Marie-Josée shovels a forkful of shepherd’s pie into hermouth. “Why so nervous? If you’re on a second date already, yesterday must have gone well.”
“That’s why I’ve been desperate to speak to you. It didn’t go well. The girl is a brat. And that’s not the worst of it. I’m supposed to befriend her—not like a repoussoir—but as a real friend.”
“What do you mean?” says Marie-Josée, her forehead scrunched up and a piece of potato hanging from the corner of her mouth.
“The countess is hiring me for the ball behind her daughter’s back.”
“What?” says Marie-Josée, wiping her lips with my napkin. “The daughter doesn’t know
“Maude.” Madame Leroux sees me and beckons me over. She takes my outfit from the rack of gowns hanging up for this evening’s dates. It’s an old-lady dress, dark gray lace with matching gloves.
She holds it against me on the hanger. “It should fit better now that I lengthened the hem and took in the waist.”
“Have you seen Marie-Josée today?” I ask as she hands me the dress.
“No, I haven’t.” She snaps her fingers, irritated. “Get a move on and get changed.”
I slip off my agency day dress and she helps me on with the evening gown. I catch my reflection in the mirror—I look like a faded widow before I’ve even been married.
“Sit,” she instructs, pointing to the stool opposite the mirror. She unravels my braid and bushes out my hair, then scrapes it into a pile on top of my head, fixing it with jabbing pins. I place a hand on the back of my bare neck; I’m not used to wearing my hair up like this. I feel exposed.
“You’re done. Hortense, you’re next,” she calls out.
I leave the dressing room, and as I walk past the wall clock, I check the time. I have one hour until I have to leave. Come on, Marie-Josée, I think. Come back soon.
I sit alone in the agency dining room with a large napkin over my frock so as not to spill my dinner on it. The dining rules have been helpfully tacked on the wall in front of me.
IV. i. All repoussoirs are required to eat in the agency dining room prior to working at an event where food is served. This is in response to certain individuals gorging themselves on the job, as well as hoarding leftovers inevening bags and coat pockets. Such behavior is strictly forbidden and will result in immediate dismissal.
I don’t have any appetite. I make patterns with my fork in the runny shepherd’s pie. Maybe Isabelle will be friendlier to me this evening, or maybe she’ll be worse. My stomach somersaults at the thought.
“What are you doing?” The voice startles me and I look up to meet Marie-Josée’s twinkling eyes. She pushes my plate away. “Don’t stuff yourself before a dinner. You won’t have any room left.”
Immediately I jump up and kiss her cheek. “I’m so glad you’re back. You were gone all afternoon.”
She laughs at the welcome and takes a seat. “Leroux told me you were off to the Duberns’ tonight. Mind if I finish your plate?” she asks.
“Go ahead. But what about the rules? I should try to eat something.”
“Poppycock!” Marie-Josée replies. “You have to enjoy the perks. Do you know how incredible the spread will be? You can’t miss out.” She whips off my napkin to prove her point and tucks it into the collar of her own dress. “Just don’t let anyone see you pocket anything—and nothing too soft or it will spoil in your purse.” She gives me a wink. “Leroux might not tell on you, but Girard always has a way of finding out.”
A pulse of anxiety quickens through me as I imagine the dinner to come. “I doubt I’ll be able to swallow a bite.”
Marie-Josée shovels a forkful of shepherd’s pie into hermouth. “Why so nervous? If you’re on a second date already, yesterday must have gone well.”
“That’s why I’ve been desperate to speak to you. It didn’t go well. The girl is a brat. And that’s not the worst of it. I’m supposed to befriend her—not like a repoussoir—but as a real friend.”
“What do you mean?” says Marie-Josée, her forehead scrunched up and a piece of potato hanging from the corner of her mouth.
“The countess is hiring me for the ball behind her daughter’s back.”
“What?” says Marie-Josée, wiping her lips with my napkin. “The daughter doesn’t know
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