The Protégée

Chapter 1 Paris, France 18 September, 1850 Jagged shards of sunlight stab through my lowered eyelashes, and a needle plunges into the tip of my finger. For a moment, I’m tempted to leave it in there. Why not? I’ve suffered worse. There’s no blood. Not yet. Not while the slender silver needle protrudes from my flesh, vibrating with joy at having bested me in a rare moment of inattention. Old memories are to blame again. My brain flashed to an unbidden image of the gruesome day I lost my father, and the needle saw its chance to remind me of pain. “Keep sewing, Angelique,” snaps Mademoiselle Jacqueline. The other five girls dart their eyes at me, quick as cockroaches. They don’t bother to hide their titters. They want me to hear their ridicule. To know I will never belong. They have worked here for years. I’m almost finished with my six-month trial in this windowless room with its hive of sewing tables in the center. Ankle-high scraps like piles of dead leaves line all four walls. We are newborn chicks in a giant bird’s nest. Baby egrets, to be exact, known for killing their siblings before they can learn to fly. I stare at the needle again. “Angelique,” Mademoiselle Jacqueline says in warning, flipping her long pale hair over her shoulder. She’s not the owner of this luxury dress shop. That distinction goes to famed modiste Madame Violette, who is fitting clients in one of the plush dressing chambers at the front of the store, helping to turn yet another wife of an industrialist into a queen dripping with bespoke wealth. Every sign of excess is calculated to generate the maximum amount of envy from each client’s peers, who will then descend upon the shop en masse, eager to glitter like diamonds too. “Yes, Mademoiselle Jacqueline,” I say dutifully. After all, she is Madame Violette’s protegee--and our taskmistress. This provisional junior seamstress post is the best thing that’s ever happened to me. I cannot afford to lose it. Literally. It’s this or beg for crumbs on the street. “Well?” Mademoiselle Jacqueline prompts. I stare at her thin blond hair, the color of an apple slice left in the sun. The strands are dry and brittle. I have a recipe for hair cream that would help, though I know from experience none of the girls in this room cares about my opinions. The other seamstresses are watching me. Not a stitch is being sewn, but there are no harsh words for anyone else. They have been waiting for me to err, to prove myself unworthy, since the moment I sat amongst them. I pull the needle from my flesh. The hot silver quill sticks a little before popping free. A bubble of bright red blood blossoms to the surface, trembling as it grows. I touch the tip of my swollen finger to my tongue. The taste is salty and metallic. For the entire six-month probationary period, I have foiled my coworkers’ fervent wish to see me fail by excelling at every task, no matter how menial or time-consuming. Madame Violette was so impressed, she instructed Mademoiselle Jacqueline to cease wasting my sewing talents on cleaning duties and allow me to work on the fine garments with the others. The girls could not despise me more. Every day, they giggle amongst themselves and snap at me to go back to the factory, where “my kind” belongs. No one in their families has ever had to dirty their hands to pay the rent, much less wonder if there would be food to eat tomorrow. According to society, well-dressed young ladies like these are born better than humble girls like me--and they never let me forget it. “Look, the poor baby injured herself,” one of the girls coos, her saccharine words unable to disguise her delight. The rest join in gleefully, mocking me. Even Mademoiselle Jacqueline smirks in appreciation at their jests. Instead of listening, I shut off my ears--a trick I learned when I started work in the textile factory at age twelve. A shudder racks my flesh as unwanted memories bombard me. The enormous, clanging spinning machines . . . The startled yelps from other workers when the looms’ automated teeth very nearly catch a finger . . . The sound of my father’s screams when-- Madame Violette materializes in the open doorway. Panting, as though she sprinted five kilometers across a barren desert to arrive. But this is how she always looks. Rushed, winded. Rich mahogany skin, one shade lighter than my mother’s. Startled brown eyes, like those of a doe hearing the crack of a hunter’s rifle. Carefully ironed black hair escaping at odd angles from her coiffure. A sumptuous velvet gown bedecked with flounces in every color of the rainbow. A mad genius. Our spines straighten. The giggles vanished when she entered. Our fingers become industrious. Although we all work in the same room, we are far from equal. I am the youngest, at eighteen; the others are one to four years older. Half are Black, half are white. I am the only one who’s a combination of both. All seven of us are French to our bones. But there, the similarities end. Mademoiselle Jacqueline wants to show that she has us under her control. That she should rise from the role of assistant and be made a full partner. The other five girls openly covet Mademoiselle Jacqueline’s position as protegee. Its many privileges. The eye-watering salary. Moi? I only need to survive until the end of the month. The promotion to full employee comes with a commensurate increase in wages. The glorious moment at which Madame Violette presses my new, no-longer-provisional salary into my hand. The money I will soon earn is four times the pittance I received at the loud, stinking Fournier Fabrics factory. Which means my mother and younger sister will soon be able to quit their dangerous positions there and seek work that does not demand they risk their lives daily, even if the pay is lower. I will provide for my family. Like Papa used to. Madame Violette sweeps past each of our tables, inspecting our handiwork with a keen eye. My task is a full-torso whalebone corset, as fearsome and constricting as a serpent. “Well done,” she pronounces at last. The relief in the room is palpable. “Especially you, Angelique.” Madame Violette holds up the hem I’ve just finished. “Such precise stitches, and completed so quickly.” Waves of hate roll off the other girls, battering me like a tempest tossing a sailboat. “Merci,” I murmur, ducking my head to shield my vulnerable eyes from their piercing gazes. Madame Violette plucks a long strip of bone-white silk from my table. “What’s this?” “Left over.” I gesture to one of the colorful discard piles lining the sewing room. “Shall I deposit it with the rest?” She tilts her head. “Why don’t you take it home, if you’d like.” A gasp of disbelief claws free from my throat. If I’d like! Six years sweating in that god-awful textile factory, creating reams of material none of the workers will ever be able to afford in their lifetimes. A ruined finger, a dead father, yet never so much as a single precious thread was allowed out of the owner’s greedy hands. I lift the ribbon as though presenting my firstborn child to the heavens. A moonbeam, caught in my hands. The silk is soft, shiny, weightless. If I cut it carefully, there might be enough for four matching hair ribbons: one each for my mother, both of my sisters, and me. We are exiting our final month of mourning, though the wound is as fresh as ever. It’s about time a scrap of something bright and happy returned to our lives. “Mes filles, that’s enough for today. I’ll see you all first thing in the morning.” Madame Violette whirls to her protegee. “Jacqueline, would you help me with the comtesse?” “Of course.” As the women leave the sewing room, Mademoiselle Jacqueline tosses a triumphant look over her shoulder, smug in the knowledge that she alone is trusted in the same room as fine aristocratic ladies like the rich and fashionable Comtesse de Centre-Fleur. With her ebony tresses, smooth maple-brown skin, and enviable curves, the comtesse is a flawless model who elevates any piece she wears. I would love to fit her one day. But no one else seems concerned with our client. As we rise to our feet, I discover all five of my bitter colleagues staring at me with glittering ratlike eyes and oversized wolfish grins. “What--” is all I manage. They pounce. Ten fists fly at me at once. Not to strike me with tepid, girly blows but to snip my nicest dress with their shears. Quick as arrows, cornering me, trapping me in place as their sharp silver instruments carve holes in the best gown I’ve ever created. “You’re not better than us,” one of the girls hisses beneath her breath. “You’re nothing more than a raggedy mop,” snarls another. “Quit now,” a third whispers into my ear as she rips my thin yellow sleeve. “You’ll never be worth anything.” They snap their scissors closed and place them back where they belong as if nothing of import has happened. Then they flounce from the room, cackling. I neither cower nor sob. Simple shears will not defeat me. Those girls aren’t half so dangerous as the weaving machines I conquered. As I roll back my shoulders, a slow smile spreads over my face. Their insults and threats have only made me more determined than ever to prove them wrong. To make them quiver in fear. To show the entire world what I’m really made of. Chapter 2 Despite my coworkers’ determined attempt to run me off, I emerge from the dress shop with more good cheer than I’ve felt in months. Perhaps even years. I hold four short but beautiful white ribbons in the palm of my hand and am now a mere fortnight away from proper wages. Money that will change the lives of everyone in my entire family for the better. No number of vindictive jabs can take such good fortune away from us. Another blessing: when I design or sew clothing, nothing exists but my pencil or the needle. I lose myself in the flow of the fabric and the pull of the thread. Everything else vanishes. I cannot feel the pangs of hunger or hear the snide comments. I don’t feel the chill of long nights when there’s no more wood for the fire. There’s just the stroke of my pencil dashing across the page or the hypnotizing silvery flash of the needle as it slips in and out of the cloth before me. When at last I look up from my creation, it is like awakening from the tidal pull of a recurring dream. It’s not quite dusk, so the charming boulevard is alive with people as I make my way home. All along Rue de la Paix, fancy carriages crowd the wide swath of smooth paving stones. Wealthy pedestrians stroll the sidewalks stretching beside the shop windows, deciding whether to spend today’s pin money on gowns or jewels or fur coats. Items I wouldn’t even be allowed to touch. The pretty boutique at the end of the street is a luxury shoe shop equally far out of my price range, though here I do slow down. I also adjust the threadbare shawl around my shoulders to hide the damage done to my dress. “Mademoiselle Angelique Genet!” calls a deep, familiar voice, as smooth and intoxicating as brandy. “Oh! Bonjour, Domingo,” I murmur, as though he’s caught me by surprise. It’s a little game that we play. His tall, lanky form appears in the open doorway. He leans against the narrow doorjamb with a casualness that makes my mouth water. Domingo Salazar is breathtakingly handsome in a dark, dangerous way. Soft black hair curling into hooded hazel eyes. Wide, firm lips that always seem caught somewhere between a smirk and a pout. A thick, jagged scar bisects one half of his face from temple to jaw. I’ve no idea how he was injured. I never ask. Just as Domingo never asks why my left pinkie finger juts perpendicular from my hand, knobbing and bending in too many places. Everyone has a past. It’s what you do about the future that matters. “Hola, guapisima,” he says, his eyes hot on mine. Hello, beautiful. The back of my neck heats with pleasure despite myself. I do not respond to this, or to any of his compliments. I dare not engage in flirtation. He’s too difficult to read. In the five months I’ve known him, I can never tell if he’s undressing me with his piercing gaze or if his too-perceptive hazel eyes are flaying the flesh from my bones in search of my soul beneath. Within me lies a darkness that I do not wish for him to see. “Slow day?” I ask, careful to keep my shawl clutched tight. He smiles, instantly melting what’s left of my innards. “Scarcely. Christmas is three months away, and any self-respecting lord categorically cannot be caught dead wearing the same obnoxiously expensive boots he wore last winter.” “Ladies too, I imagine?” He confirms with a nod. “Ladies too.” The La Croix & Sons Shoemakers sign has hung over the very door Domingo is leaning against for generations. No doubt the moment my employer’s latest client finishes commissioning new gowns, she will bring her heavy purse straight over here for the perfect matching footwear. “How about you?” I tilt my chin toward his humble leather boots. “Are those your dancing shoes?” He staggers backward, feigning horror. “I am the help. I could not possibly shod my immigrant feet in French fashions. Someone might think I am putting on airs, or have pretentions, or a modicum of self-confidence.” I fluff out my wrinkled skirts and curtsey. “How I sympathize.” Domingo and I are both outcasts, if in different ways. He committed the unforgivable error of being born in Spain rather than France, whereas I made the horrific faux pas of being born poor. We are both used to being treated like a speck of dirt caught under a fingernail, destined to be flicked away and forgotten. In fact, that’s how we met. When I walked down this very block for my initial interview with Madame Violette--the only modiste in Paris who allowed me to interview at all--I happened to glance into the La Croix & Sons display window and make eye contact with Domingo. Rather than rush off, embarrassed, I paused and smiled. He exited the shop at once to greet me. It has been our custom ever since. Despite the thousands of people who gaze into that window every single day, Domingo says I’m the first who ever noticed him. I feel the same way.