Free A Tyranny of Petticoats by Jessica Spotswood

face Etienne. He asked me to think more on his offer of marriage, and I do. I can’t stop thinking of it.
    I watch Maman and Papa.
    He works late sometimes, and he does come home smelling of sweat and dung and horse. But she doesn’t seem to mind. She smiles at him across the dinner table while she relates the little details of our days. They beam at each other when Marie Therese takes her first wobbly steps. Maman cooks liver for him even though she hates the smell. Papa pours her a steaming cup of coffee every morning before he goes to work, and she always thanks him for it, even as she’s wrestling the boys into their clothes or nursing Marie Therese.
    Am I wrong about love? Is it founded on mutual respect, on like meeting like, not on heart-pounding, stomach-churning nervousness and pretty compliments?
    On the seventh day, Maman looks at the plummy circles beneath my eyes and sighs. “Why don’t you go visit Eugenie?”
    “Truly?” I ask, and she gives me a pained smile. I jump up and leave a smacking kiss on her cheek. “Thank you!”
    I change into a high-waisted petal-pink visiting gown, slip the
gris-gris
into the pocket of my skirts, and leave immediately, though gray clouds are threatening an afternoon storm. I’ve missed Eugenie’s gossip, her bossiness, her big, booming laugh — so unexpected in such a small girl. And last night was the quadroon ball. Did Madame Dalcour tell Antoine that my parents refused his offer? Was he terribly heartbroken? I’ve imagined all sorts of scenarios; now I’m desperate to know the truth of it.
    I’m striding down the Rue des Remparts when I notice the fine horse tied to the hitching post. I hesitate. Monsieur Reynard, perhaps? But he usually rides a black gelding. I notice horses, thanks to Papa. This one has white fetlocks and a gleaming chestnut coat, and it twitches its blond tail drowsily to ward off flies.
    I’m still standing there when the front door of Eugenie’s cottage opens and a man steps out.
    I blink, disbelieving.
    It’s Antoine Guerin.
    My
Antoine.
    Calling on Eugenie and Madame Dalcour.
    My first, foolish thought is that he’s come to beg Madame to intercede on his behalf, to plead his suit to my parents.
    Then I remember that spark of envy in Eugenie’s eyes when Antoine first asked me to dance. Her words play over in my mind.
I want a fine gentleman like Antoine, a man who will provide for me and give me a beautiful life. . . . I know what I want. And I chase after it.
    And I know with a sudden, terrible certainty that she hasn’t been pleading my case at all.
    I stand there, frozen despite the thick, sultry air of the coming storm. Antoine looks in my direction and — oh, no — his brown eyes meet mine. They don’t crinkle now; his lips don’t tilt into his charming, flirtatious smile. He doesn’t even nod. He just looks away, mounts his horse, and rides off down the street.
    Tears fill my eyes.
    I can’t pretend he didn’t recognize me.
    He looked me right in the face and cut me dead.
    Eight days ago, he held me close while we waltzed. He pressed my hand and told me I was the most beautiful girl he’d ever seen and that he would speak to Madame Dalcour about our future. He said he
loved
me. And now —
    Unless I am much mistaken — and I truly don’t think I am — he’s become my best friend’s protector.
    I stare at the yellow stucco cottage, at the orange tree in front.
    Then I pick up my pink skirts and hurry away as fast as decorum will allow. Marie Laveau’s
gris-gris,
tucked into my skirts, brushes against my thigh with every step. She showed me who I could trust, all right.
    The rain starts when I’m halfway home. I duck down the Rue Burgundy. It’s the shortest route home, and the galleries over the banquettes will protect me from the downpour. But the Decoudreauxes’ shop is here. I keep my face turned away from the shop windows, but a familiar voice calls my name.
    “Monsieur Decoudreaux, good afternoon.” My