“Why do I need to be cultured and sophisticated?” Lottie reached for a second croissant, but Grand-mère whisked away the basket and handed her a bowl of strawberries.
“Why, Charlotte, suitors appreciate ladies who can play music, especially something as entertaining as the pianoforte.” Grand-mère placed the basket of croissants next to her own plate, sighed, and mumbled as if speaking to the tablecloth.
As usual, when her grandmother spoke to the air, Charlotte pretended not to listen. She had spent years not hearing what she was certain Grand-mère expected her to hear.
“Entertaining? Will that require years of lessons?” Actually, Lottie hoped so. Anything to put distance between herself and the prospect of suitors.
Her grandmother settled her coffee cup in its saucer. “Certainly not. Unless, that is, you show promise. In that case, your lessons could continue even after you are married.”
Had she not just bitten into the sweet strawberry, Lottie might have tasted the sourness in her stomach as it rose to her throat. But, as always, she would defer to her grandmother’s plans. She brushed off the croissant crumbs sprinkled on the bodice of her gown and patted her mouth with her napkin. “May I be excused?”
“Of course,” Grand-mére said. “But before you leave, it might brighten your face to know that I’ve arranged for Justine to join you in your lessons.”
Lottie smiled. “Thank you. It does make me happy to know that she and I will be sharing the time.” And the suffering, she thought.
“What are your plans for the day?” Grand-mère folded her napkin over her breakfast plate and stood.
“Justine and I planned to work on our samplers this morning since we both need more practice with stitches. She should be here within the hour.” Lottie followed her grandmother into the butler’s pantry to rinse their dishes.
“If I finish planning the week’s meals with Cook, I may join you. If not, you can show me your progress later.”
Lottie nodded as she dried her plate and hoped for a difficult menu planning.
* * * * *
“I suppose suitors appreciate ladies who eat only one croissant at breakfast,” Lottie told her friend Justine Dumas as they worked on their samplers in the library. Looking behind her to make certain her grandmother hadn’t slipped in, Lottie lifted her sewing and snapped the end of her thread with her teeth before staring at the half-finished piece. “I wish the alphabet didn’t have so many letters.” She tugged a green thread from the bundle of string. “Look, Justine, it’s the color of your eyes. I’m going to sew the J with it.”
Justine leaned over the arm of her chair to get a closer look. “No, that is the color of celery.” She smoothed the almost-completed needlework on her lap and raised her head with an air of mock sophistication. “My eyes are like two glittering emeralds.”
Lottie smiled and pulled the threads into a knot. “Somewhere between there is the truth. Like the truth I learned this morning.”
“Maybe your grandmother doesn’t want you to outgrow your corset.” Justine giggled and coaxed her needle through the muslin. “But isn’t it exciting to think about being courted, then engaged and married?”
“No. All that excites me is that you will join me in those pianoforte punishments. I will have a partner in suffering.” Lottie placed the back of her hand to her forehead and swooned in imitation of Emmeline, Justine’s cousin, who joined them for Spanish lessons with Señor Marino. At least once a month, Emmy felt faint and always managed to fall into his arms. Perhaps there would be an engagement announced soon.
“My mother was delighted to have one fewer lesson to schedule,” said Justine. As the youngest of seven, Justine often orchestrated her own social life since her older siblings, and now their children, kept her mother in a perpetual state of obligation and confusion.
They slipped into comfortable silence. The afternoon sun bowed out of the sky as if its dance with the day had ended. Shadows lazily drifted through the tall windows while the girls collected their threads and samplers to continue another time.
Agnes’s orders to Abram vibrated through the rooms. “Why you not out there lookin’ for Mr. LeClerc? Go wait by that porte cochère where his carriage come in. Remember, the doctor said he got a weak heart.” Lottie imagined Abram’s usual response of shaking his head in what Agnes called his “what you gonna do with her” way. Agnes and Abram had been with Lottie’s grandparents longer than she had. Before Lottie had reached the age of ten, old enough to join her grandparents at dinner, she had felt like Agnes’s daughter. Often, she wished she was.