Free The Queen's Dollmaker by Christine Trent

to talk over their day and give each other comfort. When possible, Claudette would bring up leftover desserts and other scraps to supplement their regular meager meals, taken with the other servants after the family had eaten. Claudette pretended not to notice Béatrice’s raw and scaly hands and flushed face, and Béatrice deliberately ignored Claudette’s noticeable weight loss. They even tried to make light about their existence, each expressing envy over the other’s lot.
    “Béatrice, if only I were you and could hide in the laundry, far from the prying eyes of Mrs. Lundy and that horrible little Jassy Brickford, I would just iron all day and make the crispest bed-sheets anyone had ever seen. In fact, I would happily wear a bed-sheet to get out of this apron and cap.”
    “Don’t be silly! You have the opportunity to see all of the Ashbys’ interesting friends and guests. Just think, soon you might get to meet some of them. Not only that, you have access to all of the dishes, and therefore pose a much better chance of tossing one of those infernal English teacups at Jassy than I do.”
    The two women could laugh and cry happily during these moments, returning to their separate beds to fall into a weary sleep until waking up the following dawn to begin again. Usually dreamless, Claudette’s sleep was sometimes punctuated with sharp, dramatic images of Jean-Philippe, whom she had now not seen in nearly a year. In her dreams he appeared in boldly colored clothing in hues of red or turquoise or violet, always reaching out to her with something in his hand. Sometimes a rose, or a book, sometimes the locket she had given him. Always he was whispering her name over and over. Claudette woke from these dreams shaking and damp with sweat. To calm herself, she would pull up the chain from her neck, kiss her betrothal ring, then slide it around so that it rested under her cheek. The discomfort of it distracted her from her troubled thoughts. Usually her mind drifted back to the day Jean-Philippe gave it to her.
     
    Jean-Philippe had become more and more animated on a single topic during their walks together, always talking about what Gamain had to say about the world.
    “Do you know, Claudette, Monsieur Gamain says that the American colonists had the right idea. That we in France suffer under the same oppressions as they did. He thinks it is the fault of the king and queen, that they are taxing us outrageously and spending the money frivolously on themselves. He says we should be throwing off the yoke of monarchy.”
    “Jean-Philippe, hush. You cannot say that about our sovereigns. It’s, why…it’s treason!”
    “Maybe. Is it treason to want justice?”
    The two walked more often in silence now, breaking their stride only for surreptitious embraces, or for more exposition on the extraordinary wisdom of Monsieur Gamain. Claudette delighted in having Jean-Philippe’s arms—now growing stronger because of his demanding daily work tasks and even sprouting dark, curly hairs between wrist and elbow—encircling her small waist as they leaned against a tree to nuzzle each other. Even more breathtaking were his professions of love, and his plans for their future together once he was released from his apprenticeship. Claudette’s singular bliss was spoiled only by Jean-Philippe’s periodic return to the subject of the exceptional Monsieur Gamain.
    “Did you know that the queen hosts supper parties and loses thousands of francs a night playing cards? Monsieur Gamain says the queen spends money all day long on clothes, jewelry, and gifts for her friends. Also, they say that the queen commits unnatural acts with her friends. She has orgies in the shrubbery at Versailles.”
    Laughter bubbled up uncontrollably in Claudette’s throat. “Jean-Philippe, what a ridiculous story. The queen of France, whom we have both met and found to be a picture of innocence, dallying immorally inside some hydrangea bushes! I could no more