Justine affected a cough behind her hands and whispered to Lottie, “You are doomed to silence.” Justine’s response, and their mutual amusement of both the rules of deportment and their teacher, dissolved the previous tension between them. Lottie reached over and squeezed her friend’s hand, a gesture that signaled all was well.
“In closing, regarding your conversations, of utmost importance are modesty, simplicity, and avoiding the appearance of possessing wisdom if one has none.”
Lottie brushed an invisible thread from her skirt to avoid eye contact with her teacher.
“Now, I need for you to stand for our next lesson.” Monsieur readied to instruct them in the proper lifting of a skirt when on the street, to avoid, he said, “the foul mud that would soil your gowns.”
He moved his chair to the side then stood before Lottie and Justine, holding the legs of his trousers out as if he were wearing a skirt. Lottie forced herself to not look at Justine for fear that they would both be banished from class for eternity.
“You must hold the folds of your gown with your right hand.” Monsieur looked up to make certain they followed directions. “Now, with the same hand, you draw the skirt to the right.” That demonstration presented a problem since his trousers could not be drawn at all without risking his knees giving way.
“Oh, Mademoiselle Charlotte, we must not seem as if we will be pulling our skirt off. Gently, draw.” He said the word “draw” for as long as it took him to carefully sweep his imaginary skirt to the right. “Again.” He motioned for Lottie to practice her technique. “Very good. Now, ladies, we must never, ever show more than just a little peep of an ankle, yes?” His peep sounded remarkably realistic, which caused another concentrated effort on Lottie’s part to suppress laughter.
“And we must never, ever do this.” Using both hands, he pretended to raise his skirt on both sides. “Lifting skirts on the streets in such a way is vulgar.” He placed his hands on his cheeks. “You would be labeled demimondes, or at least on your way to such a life.”
As they readied to leave, Monsieur informed them that only Justine would return for a lesson the next week. Relieved but also surprised, Lottie asked why her grandmother had not scheduled another class. “I am not in the habit of questioning my clients, mademoiselle.”
While Grand-mère had a reputation for annoying instructors with her demands, she did not make frivolous decisions. With all the details of the party occupying her, she must have neglected to mention the missed class to Lottie.
Buttoning her gloves, Justine said, “Maybe gentility is only important before the marriage, not after it.”
“I will see you this week for our pianoforte lesson,” Justine said as they stood in front of her house. “And, Lottie…” She looked down for a moment before she spoke. “I am sorry for my petty remark earlier. As your party draws near, I think I’m realizing I am also nearer to losing my friend.”
Lottie drew back. Justine’s words stung no less than a hand slapped across her face. So occupied with dreading what the future held with a man who wasn’t Gabriel, she had not considered the changes in her friendship with Justine. Living close to her, spending time with her family, their lessons together…it would all be different after the wedding. “I—I hadn’t thought about what would change between us. Not because it didn’t matter. I expected…I don’t know…”
“That your husband would move into your grandparents’ house and we would all play together,” Justine said softly.
Lottie nodded like a contrite child.
“Me too,” Justine said. “Me too.”
* * * * *
On her way upstairs, Lottie asked Agnes why Gabriel had stopped by to talk. “Is he feeling well?” Lottie hoped her voice sounded the same as when she asked what was being served for dinner.
In the storeroom, checking the inventory of spices and flour, Agnes replied, “He’s fine,” and continued to open and shut the lids of boxes and barrels.
“He didn’t look fine,” Lottie countered.
Agnes shooed her away from the door, locked it, and placed the key in her pocket. “On lave son linge sale en famille,” she said, adding, “I’m going to set the dishes on the table.”
“Wait,” Lottie said. “What does that mean?”
“It mean,” Agnes said, “wash your dirty clothes in your own family.” She walked into the china pantry and Lottie walked up the stairs.
Lottie sat with a volume of poetry near the tall windows in her bedroom. They had been opened just enough for her to smell and hear the rain that started moments before she and Agnes arrived home. It was a friendly rain, the kind that fell as soft as an apology. But the slight wind carried the mist through the window, so she closed the book of William Blake’s poetry, a gift from Grand-père on her sixteenth birthday. When young enough to still sit near him, her head on his shoulder and his arm wrapped around her, he would read to her. She loved his rendition of “Tyger! Tyger! burning bright, in the forests of the night…” and never forgot how he explained the tiger that, at first, frightened her. “Some people see the ferocious tiger as evil, but it was a creature made by the same God who created the gentle lamb. Remember, God is always smarter than any man. So God created everything for a reason.”