When topped with a white lace cap trailing purple and green ribbons and a lavender silk mask, she felt perfectly in the pink of fashion.
When Monsieur Branley came to fetch her, he entered their parlor wearing the full black cloak of the traditional Venetian domino costume. And again, her grand-père gave him a serious stare.
“Be very careful with my granddaughter,” Henri said.
“Yes, monsieur,” Malcolm answered seriously.
When he swept the simple cape over his shoulder so he could easily take her arm, Serena noted his regular clothing underneath, a pale gray jacket with cream-colored breeches and black boots.
“And a mask, monsieur? her grand-mère asked.
“It’s on the seat of the carriage,” he promised.
Madame Fournier rose from the divan. Unlike Serena and Malcolm, she wore a full costume. Serena watched Malcolm’s expression of surprise, quickly tamed to one of utter neutrality.
But Madame Fournier wanted praise. “Aren’t you going to say anything about my appearance, Monsieur Branley?”
“Of course. You look utterly fetching as a ... a fishgirl?” he trailed off.
“What?!” she exclaimed. “I am a peasant girl, not a fishgirl.”
Serena could almost hear him thinking Madame Fournier was far too old to be agirlof any type, but luckily, all he said was, “Je m’excuse. The stripes confused me.”
“A traditional fishgirl costume has a red and white skirt,” their chaperone declared.
“Except the Calvados fishgirl,” Serena’s Mémère added. “Then it could be blue and white.”
“Yes, naturally,” said Madame Fournier before rounding upon Malcolm. “But obviously, I am a peasant girl.” She turned slowly, showing off her costume consisting of a short red-and-black striped petticoat with a gold cashmere overskirt. This was artfully pinned up to show its red lining. Over this she wore a black velvet bodice, a white apron, and a dainty muslin cap.
Serena watched him take in madame’s gold-and-red stockings and gaudy black shoes with gold buckles. Then his gaze came back to her face with its bright spots of rouge painted upon each cheek. He was holding back a laugh with some difficulty.
“I can see plainly now you are a peasant girl,” he said. “Your plaited blonde hair should have given me a clue.”
“It should have,” Madame Fournier agreed with a sharp nod, before leading them out the door.
As they entered the carriage, Malcolm had to snatch his mask from the seat just before Serena’s chaperone sat upon it. They exchanged a glance.
Madame Fournier started chatting immediately about the collections and what she’d seen in the past, and how she hoped there would be champagne.
“The emperor may be there,” she mused. “I wonder if the purpose of the evening is for him to rename the Louvre as the Napoleon Museum the way he did before his exile.”
Serena’s gaze shot to her English spy, but he looked unbothered. She supposed the odds of running into Bonaparte were slim in such a large place. And with his costume, even if he did, it was unlikely Malcolm would be recognized as the mute baker.
As if making sure, he took the opportunity to tie his black silk mask securely, immediately taking on the classic domino air of intrigue, adventure, conspiracy, and mystery — perfectly suited to Malcolm Branley.
When they arrived, the festive air was obvious. Carriages lined up along the Rue de Rivoli, and soon, their party of three were entering the stately museum, once a medieval fortress, and strolling the elegant Grand Gallery.
“Did you know Bonaparte married the Archduchess Marie-Louise in this very hall?” Madame Fournier asked, addressing Malcolm.
“A mere five years ago,” he said. “Were you an honored guest?”
Serena’s chaperone blushed, darkening her cheeks under her rosy makeup, and fanned herself while offering a coquettish smile.
“Oh, no, monsieur. But I did see them come out of the building afterward. The empress’s gown was beautiful, and they both wore ruby red robes. They were most majestic.”
“Majestically imperial,” he said, teasingly.
“Or imperially majestic,” Serena quipped.
