CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
1900
AVIGNON
Maëlle
Their carriage finally turns into the gravel drive that leads to the magnificent Château Clement. The drive is long and straight, providing the newcomers the opportunity to take in the grandeur of the estate: Golden stone walls gleam in the late-afternoon sun; the chalky blue shutters line up in an elegant symmetrical march across the impressive façade. It is easy to imagine royalty in full regalia standing on the curved twin staircases that lead to the huge front entrance.
Maëlle’s mouth falls open as she takes it all in. She can hardly believe she’ll be permitted within those hallowed halls.
“Don’t be too impressed,” says Léon, leaning his head to hers. There are several of them in the carriage—the lucky ones who don’t have to ride the steam traction engine with the disassembled carousel—and her thigh and shoulder burn where they are pressed tightly against his. “Rich people are just people; there are idiots and geniuses, just like the rest of us.”
“But they are idiots and geniuses with great mansions,unlike the rest of us,” Maëlle responds.
He chuckles, and she preens with pleasure. Every smile she earnsmakes her happy, every grin makes her proud. And his egalitarian words speak to her heart: it is the sort of thing that her father—considered a radical thinker in their village—used to say: that no one person is better or worse than another.
The carriage swings to the right, coming to a halt at the back of the house. Tightly clipped hedges and Italian cypress trees lead to a formal garden featuring a series of descending ponds and a formal orangerie. Even from this distance Maëlle spies the bright orange fruits through the ample windows of the glass-paned building. Her mouth waters at the memory of an orange she once shared with her brother at Christmastime; it was tart and sweet with the bright freshness of a summer dawn.
Maëlle feels suddenly famished; will the family feed them? Will they be housed and fed with the servants? Until this moment she hasn’t wondered about such prosaic concerns; all she could think of was seeing the château and witnessing the beloved carousel fully assembled at last.
And carving. Léon is the chief apprentice, of course, and master of this project. But Monsieur Bayol had been very clear: The Clement family should be made happy. If they have any other jobs they would like to be done, the Bayol carvers must be at their disposal.
Maëlle has several carvings in her bag: the rose she showed to Monsieur Bayol six months ago, when she first arrived on his doorstep in Angers, and some small wooden toys she has been working on to give as a gift to Madame Clement. They are beautiful creations, tiny replicas of the carousel animals, cows and horses and rabbits with sweet faces and movable legs. Bayol mentioned that the Clements are anxious for children; Maëlle feels sure her toys would have pride of place in the nursery of the most elegant home.
Deep down, Maëlle wonders whether she is being too forward. But surely now is not the time for false humility.
A manservant has come out to meet the carriage, directing those within to step down, and sending the carriage on to the stables. By thetime they descend, several others have emerged from the building, including a tall, dark-haired woman in the most beautiful dress Maëlle has ever seen.
There must be six yards of Belgian lace in her dress, and her well-coiffed hair is studded with pearls and flowers.
“I know it breaks with tradition,” the woman says as she comes over to the group, “but I simply had to meet the talented group of artists bringing me my carousel! I am Madame Josephine Clement, and this is my dear husband, Monsieur Yves Clement, and we are so very happy to have you here!”
Every word Madame Clement says is breathless, as though she cannot contain her excitement. Maëlle watches in wonder. She had assumed the lady of the manor would be distant and haughty, but Madame Clement is like a child at Christmas.
Maëlle glances up at Léon, and finds his eyes lingering on Madame Clement. A serpent of jealousy wriggles deep in her gut. She looks down at her drab, dusty dress and traveling coat, then tucks an errant lock of hair under her hat.
Several of the maids are attractive as well. Maëlle has never been the type to be jealous of other women. After all, she didn’t want what they had; she wanted the life men had. But now... Her mouth goes dry as Madame Clement is formally introduced to Léon. Does their greeting linger a fraction of a second too long? Monsieur Clement is clearly much older than his lovely young wife. He is fair complexioned and regal-looking, though he stands an inch or two shorter than Josephine.
Finally it is Maëlle’s turn to be introduced.
“Maëlle Tanguy?” repeats Madame Clement. Her voice is deep and soft, sweet cream over raspberries. “That sounds like a Breton name.”
“It is, yes, madame. I am Breton.”
“Why, I am from Quimper myself!” Josephine says, a huge smile lighting up her face.“Eus pelec’h emaoc’h?”
She asks in Breton: “Where are you from?”
It brings tears to Maëlle’s eyes to hear the language of her parents. She realizes, with a deep pang, how long it has been since she has lain in bed with Erwann, trading dreams and fears and plans in a mixture of Breton and French, as they always spoke together.
“I am from a town called Concarneau,” Maëlle responds. “It is a fishing village on the coast, not far from Quimper, actually.”
“Ah! This is wonderful!” says Madame Clement, clapping her hands beneath her chin. “I am so happy you are here! We shall have many days to speak of our homeland. But for now, I am sure you are exhausted from your travels. Please allow my housekeeper, Madame Boucher, to show you to your rooms, while Monsieur Derridan takes the men to their quarters.”
Maëlle feels a vague sort of panic at the base of her throat as she watches the men leave. Léon does not turn around to say good-bye. She is alone.
Madame Boucher is an ample woman in a dress made of fine dark silk, which seems to strain against her enormous bosom. The keys on a huge ring hanging off her belt clank as she marches along officiously. Maëlle, carrying her own bag, trots to keep up.
