The Perilous Journey of the Not-So-Innocuous Girl (8 page)

“You can’t be serious!” Vivienne’s face was ashen when she heard the news. They walked casually down the main road, Outil directly behind them.

“Dead serious.” Marguerite had invited her neighbor for a walk to town out of desperation. With Claude gone, the days had felt more empty than usual. She ached for company of any kind and Vivienne was at least obliging.

“I heard so much from my maid, but I told her it was a filthy lie. That your father would never send you away! Much less to Lyon!” Vivienne reached out her hand to pat Marguerite’s. “I’m so sorry! When must you go?”

Marguerite quickly drew her hand back. She did not want to be treated like a victim and she definitely did not want to be consoled by the likes of Vivienne. “Tomorrow. Father’s aership is being repaired. He wanted to send me in the old dirigible yesterday, but I refused. If I’m being sent away the least they can do is provide me with decent accommodations for the trip. Come on.” She beckoned impatiently for the girl to keep up the pace. “I don’t have all day.”

“You seem so brave! Aren’t you scared? I’d be begging to have Delacourte and whatever other man they threw at me!”

“That’s because you didn’t see any of them. You weren’t there.” Marguerite rolled her eyes and put her hand in her pocket, feeling for the cool metal cricket she fingered most minutes of the day. “They were fine as far as
people
go, but for a husband? How am I supposed to feel good about spending the rest of my life with a stranger in a stuffy suit?”

“They couldn’t have
all
been bad? Did you really dance with all of them?”

“Until my feet fell off. It was hideous. I hope your ball is much more exciting.”

“Oh, I so wish I could have been there! At least you’ll be able to attend mine. You can warn me off the very worst of the lot.” She smiled her beautifully vapid smile at Marguerite.

“Vivienne, I won’t be here for your ball. Remember?”

Vivienne gasped, “Oh! Oh my, you’re right! Oh Marguerite!”

“Let’s talk about something else, shall we?” Marguerite wondered if spending time with her simpering neighbor had been a good idea or not. Still, there was no one else and she did not feel like being alone.

Outil had turned out to be surprisingly good company. Marguerite spent every day that she could with the bot since Claude left. Knowing that she had been constructed for her, by Claude’s hands, seemed to fill the ache in her heart, if only a tiny bit. But Outil wasn’t human and couldn’t quite fill the void he had left in her days, or her heart.

The sky was bright above them, perfectly puffed clouds creeping past the sun on occasion as the birds darted in and out of the tree branches. The girls stopped at the main street to peruse the shops. Marguerite peered in each window with a discerning eye. She saw nothing worth taking with her to Lyon. Anything interesting was too big and anything small enough was too dull to bother with. As they approached the street corner, her mood grew darker and darker. Why must she put up with this sort of arrangement? She was of age now, for heaven’s sake. She shouldn’t be made to do anything she didn’t want to.

“Vivienne, what do normal girls do when they turn sixteen?”

“Come again?” Vivienne looked completely lost.

“What do girls like, say, her”—Marguerite pointed to a maid with her hair tied up in a bright red scarf, carrying a basket of bread on her hip—“do when they come of age?”

“I suppose they get work in the shops or farms? Why?” Vivienne asked.

“Maybe that’s what I should do: get a job.”

Vivienne looked up at her friend with confused eyes. “Who would have you? Anyone in fifty
départements
knows your father. No one would take you for fear of his wrath! Don’t be ridiculous.”

“I wish you would stop mocking me. I’m a grown woman now, I should be able to do whatever I wish.” Marguerite was indignant and wanted to test out her newfound adulthood. “Let us ask this shop owner.”

She approached the counter where a kind-faced little man stood with an excited smile, obviously hoping for a big sale.

“Good sir, if you were to be hiring, would you consider employing someone such as myself?” Marguerite stood as tall as her little frame would allow, hoping to seem older.

“Excuse me, miss?” He was immediately crestfallen. “Why would a lady such as yourself want to work in a humble shop such as mine?”

“That is not the point. I merely asked if you would consider it.”

He hesitated, then answered, “No miss, I’m afraid I wouldn't touch that with a ten-foot pole. Your father would bring down the hounds of hell upon me.” Genuinely frightened now, he fussed with a display of hat pins. “It just isn’t right, miss. You should be marrying someone grand and setting up your own estates and parties.”

Marguerite huffed. “Well, if I’m not fit to work here then I suppose I’m not fit to shop here either. Come, Vivienne!”

“But Marguerite! I wanted those gloves.”

“Come!” She linked the other girl’s arm and dragged her out the door into pedestrian traffic once again. Marguerite stomped her foot like a child as she looked around the busy town. “There is absolutely nothing for me here!”

Outil had been waiting outside the door, and, upon seeing her mistress’s face, inquired, “Is anything amiss?”

“No, I’m fine, Outil. Go get the auto-carriage and meet us at the end of the street. I don’t feel like walking home.”

“There was a message while you were in the shop, Miss.” Outil stared across the street as she addressed her owner with her quiet female voice.

“From whom?”

“Madame Pomphart direct-telegraphed to my receivers that she is not pleased with your absence at her lesson today and that you will be severely reprimanded when you return home. I am to bring you there straight away.”

“Oh dear,” Vivienne twittered, “you didn’t tell me … ”

“Fine, Outil. Just go get the carriage.”

“Yes, miss.” Outil sprinted back down the road.

Marguerite felt the last of her happiness fly away like a butterfly on the late summer breeze. She looked around the small town while her friend prattled on about the tragedy of it all. Did Marguerite still think Pomphart wanted to marry Lord Vadnay? Was she just trying to get Marguerite out of the way? Wasn’t there any way she could reconcile and find a way to be happy with Delacourte?

All her words slipped from Marguerite’s ears and fell to the dusty walkway. The street she once thought so grand seemed small and crowded now. The shop signs seemed worn and as weary as she felt.

“Marguerite, I really did want those gloves. I’m just going to pop back and buy them. Don’t be mad?” Vivienne looked like a dog who’d been hit one too many times, afraid to ask for dinner.

“Of course.” Marguerite was too deep in thought now to care about gloves. She turned and slowly walked toward the street corner, her eyes fixed on the sea in the distance. It sparkled like a giant sapphire. Marguerite took in a deep breath of the thick, salt-touched air and wondered when she would taste it again. She noticed a man in front of her, dressed in a uniform, staring in the same direction. As she approached him he turned and tipped his head at her. “Fine day, isn’t it, lass?”

“Beautiful.” Her voice was far away and flat. She was wondering what lay in store for her on her last night at home.

“A lady as fine as yourself shouldn’t have such a long face. Is there a trouble I could administer to?” He was an older gentleman with a distinguished-looking white beard and crinkly smile lines around his eyes.

“Not unless you can save me from my evil governess who’s trying to send me away to boarding school for unmarriageable rich girls while my father plots to marry me off to the biggest poof in all of France. Meanwhile, my real love flies away to New France to be killed by savages.” She said it almost as if she were talking to herself.

He knit his brow and touched his beard. “It sounds like you’re craving a bit of independence?”

“
YES
!” She turned to him fully now, realizing this old man understood where her heart was.

“Come inside for a moment.” He motioned to the post office door.

Once Marguerite’s eyes had adjusted to the dim lighting she saw a desk perched in front of the familiar self-serve mailboxes where the automatons came to gather mail for their masters. There was a quill and quite a bit of paperwork stacked on the desk in front of a very uncomfortable-looking chair. The old gentleman motioned for her to take a seat in what was clearly his place as he rifled through the papers. Marguerite sat down gingerly, curious as to what he had in mind.

“Ahh, here we are.” He pulled out a piece of thick parchment. “Don’t often use this one anymore.” Marguerite gazed at the print as he laid the sheet before her.

“
CONTRACT
for
GENTRY
” was etched across the top in neat printing.

“What is this?” She looked back to the old man.

“This, my girl, is your ticket to independence.” He smiled a jolly grin at her. “Read this bit here and then sign on the line and you are free to do as you please.”

For a moment Marguerite was afraid the seemingly harmless old fellow might have some sort of dementia, but when she glanced at the paragraph he pointed to, she realized she was looking at a contract for the Daughters of the King program.

“I thought this was a program for poor girls with no dowries!”

“Oh no, miss. In the first voyages, the aerships were filled to the brim with the very elite of Paris.” His words brought back the image of Laviolette saying much the same thing, only without any decorum.

“But, how does it work? What would I do?”

“You sign here and report back to the docks at seven o’clock sharp tomorrow morning and you board the vessel. Simple as that. The King provides your food, shelter, dowry, and trousseau. You are free to bring a few personal items, but you will want for nothing.”

“It seems a bit of a fairytale.” Marguerite was still curious, but very skeptical.

“Oh, it gets better than that. Once you arrive in New France you are free to choose the fellow you would like to build a life with, or none at all. It’s a different world out there. Women are not looked on as hothouse flowers, of that you can be certain. They own shops, lead in government, run estates. New France may still be officially a part of the Old Mother Country, but she’s her own animal entirely.”

Marguerite’s thoughts were on fire. If what this man was telling her was true, she may have found the answer to all of her problems.

“All I have to do is sign here and show up in the morning and you will take me to New France?”

“Yes, ma’am. We only have a few spots left on the ship. It must be kismet that you walked my way with your sad eyes this afternoon.” He smiled at her in such a sweet way she couldn’t help but trust him and think he would make an excellent grandfather.

She stood from her chair and removed her gloves. “Sir, you have a deal.” The quill felt like air in her hands as she picked it from the well and tapped off the excess ink. She scanned the long list of names under the actual contract and found a spot at the bottom. In beautiful script she added
Lady Marie Ann Marguerite Vadnay
.

She paused, looking at the page as she placed the quill back in its nest. There was room for one, maybe two more names. She wondered who they would be. Then she looked for a moment at all the names before hers. She wondered where they were now and if she would meet them.

“I see you are a woman who knows her mind.”

“Yes, I am.” Marguerite paused again. “Out of curiosity, what is your name?”

“I am Captain Oslow Moreau, at your service.”

Marguerite felt quite empowered now and much more herself when she replied, “Well then, Captain Moreau, I hope your word is good, because if I experience anything contrary to what you’ve told me I shall write my father immediately and he will have your head.” She was only half joking.

The old man twittered nervously. “Do not fear, all is just as I have said. I can’t imagine you will be disappointed.”

“Indeed. I shall see you at sunrise.”

“Yes, at sunrise.”

And with that, Marguerite turned and stepped back out into her drab little town with a whole new plan hatching under her very stylish hat.

“Where, exactly, have you been?” Pomphart was waiting for her at the main entrance.

“I was visiting the shops with Vivienne one last time before you banish me from my home.” She made no excuses as she handed her hat and cape to Outil.

“And what is that bot doing in this house?”

“That bot is
my
bot and I have told you repeatedly I will have her wherever I wish on my last day in
my
home.”

Pomphart made a move as if to slap Marguerite as she had the night of the ball, but quick as lightning, Outil was there between them.

“It is not proper for one lady to strike another regardless of station.” Her calm, mechanical voice cut through the contention, reminding both women of their manners.

Pomphart’s cheeks blazed red. She lowered her hand and declared, “I want this machine
out
of this home. Now.”