Free A Tyranny of Petticoats by Jessica Spotswood Page A

smile comes out more a grimace.
    Etienne’s father stands at the open door of their shop. “Mademoiselle Madeleine, please, come inside until the storm passes. How is your family?”
    I cannot refuse without being rude, so I follow him. “They’re all very well, thank you.” The store smells of freshly cut wood and the lemon juice they mix into the furniture wax. Etienne stands behind the counter.
    “I’ll let the two of you visit a bit,” Monsieur Decoudreaux says, grinning as he abandons us for the workshop in back. He leaves the door ajar for propriety.
    Etienne comes out, running his hands along a dressing table. “Did you make that?” I ask, and he nods without meeting my eyes. “It’s beautiful.”
    I daydreamed about sitting before a dressing table like that, fixing my hair just so in front of the looking glass, readying myself for Antoine’s arrival.
    My skin goes hot with embarrassment, and angry tears prick at my eyes.
    Etienne steps closer, lowering his voice. “Maddie, you look — not quite yourself. Are you unwell?”
    “I’m
furious,
is what I am.” The words come out before I can think them through.
    He takes a wary step backward. “Not with me, I trust?”
    “No. With myself, for being a fool.” He gestures for me to sit, and I plop down in a rocking chair, heedless of my posture. My hems are muddy, bedraggled strands of hair are escaping from my tignon, and I’m sure I look a mess.
    Etienne props his hip against a handsome desk opposite me. “I doubt you’re a fool. At least, you never have been before.”
    I look up at him. He’s a good man. He didn’t feed me extravagant compliments, didn’t flatter and flirt, but I’ve no doubt that he
meant
what he said. And if I’m to consider marrying him — well, he ought to know what I am, for better or for worse.
    “I almost entangled myself in a — an arrangement. Like Madame Dalcour. Maman told me she and Papa wouldn’t even consider it. And today — today I found out that the man I thought was in love with me has made Eugenie Dalcour an offer. I thought I was special, but it wasn’t me he wanted at all — any girl would do.”
    I bury my face in my hands.
    Etienne reaches out and pries my fingers away from my face. “He’s the fool,” he says softly. “You are special, Maddie.”
    He doesn’t let go of my hands. His bare fingers are big and warm and callused from his carpentry work.
    “That’s kind of you. Kinder than I deserve,” I say. My eyes meet his and then skitter away. “I — I didn’t even
know
him. Whether he has brothers or sisters. What his favorite food is. What games he played growing up.”
    “Are those things you think you should know about a future husband?” Etienne asks, and I nod. “Well. You know my brothers, and you know the games I played growing up because you were there. My favorite food is —”
    “Your mother’s lemon pie,” I interrupt.
    He grins. This one shows his teeth. “You remember that?”
    “How could I forget? You’d eat the whole thing in a trice if she let you.” I laugh, thinking of the way Etienne used to scale the trees in the Decoudreauxes’ courtyard to get at the lemons and then beg his mother to make him a pie.
    Etienne laughs too, then looks out the front window. The rain has stopped, in the way of spring storms. He stands, letting go of my hands, searching my face with his dark eyes. “May I walk you home?”
    “Yes,” I say, taking his arm. “I’d like that.”

    When I was twelve, I went on a road trip with my grandparents through the South. One of our stops was New Orleans. We took a steamboat ride down the Mississippi, ate beignets at Café Du Monde, and walked through the colorful streets of the French Quarter. I was immediately smitten. Over the years, I’ve returned to the city half a dozen times, drawn by the fascinating history and the sense that there is no other place quite like it. When I had to pick a place and subject for my story, I knew