He knew his mother would want him to be happy and find love. He felt that whatever background the young woman was from, his English mother would not mind. Sophie had everything to be desired in a young bride. She was healthy, young, lovely, intelligent and from a good family. There was an undeniable spark between them, which would only help what would naturally follow: children.
“Yes, Juliette. Marriage has been a question I have asked myself.”
“Well, then the next step would be to approach your family. This, of course, assumes that the young woman in question feels as you do."
Sebastian wondered. She had said that she was not mistress material and he agreed. But they had never discussed marriage. Would the auburn-haired intellectual marry him?
***
Sophie rubbed her eyes and looked over the sheets of paper covered with writing that she had spent much of night composing. Her fingers were stained with ink and her quill pen needed sharpening. She was also running low on ink, she noticed.
She stretched her arms above her head and watched as the carriages moved through the street and pedestrians strolled by. She took the sheets to the window seat and read them again. The words were not revolutionary, she decided. She wrote about everyone coming together for a single, united France. She wrote that everyone should have a purpose, a sense and every man and woman should be valued. She spoke about the monarch’s flagrant misuse of funds and the bloated spending at Versailles. There was no revolution in these words, only common sense.
Later in the afternoon, before her father returned, she handed the sheets of paper to Marie, who nodded in understanding.
***
When Marie returned from the printer she had no news to give her young mistress. Monsieur Blanche had been very busy and asked that she leave the work. Marie had complied. After that Sophie forgot completely about the possible new pamphlet as she helped her grandmother plan the ball in her honor.
***
Eugenie was the perfect person to plan an event as her attention to detail was superb and she had lavish taste. Her son was more than willing to pay the costs of the ball as the thought of his daughter married was a new and thrilling idea. He wanted her settled and happy, and the thought of grandchildren made him smile. Sophie had been a sweet-natured baby and he had no doubt that she would be a loving mother.
Their home in Paris was equipped to handle a luxurious ball, though they would need additional kitchen staff and footmen to help the day of the event. At the back of the Gauvreau home was a large ballroom with a balcony that led out to their intimate garden. It would be decorated with candles and lanterns and, as her grandmother was particularly fond of flowers, any flat surface would hold a bouquet.
She knew her granddaughter and son liked music so she made certain that the orchestra was to be given the sheet music for several of their favorite songs. The ballroom floor was polished to a shine to make certain that dancing would be a pleasure.
The choicest cuts of various meats were to be served, and Eugenie knew that her longtime cook would not disappoint. The cook was also a master baker and many of their dinners included fruit tarts, jellies and cakes. Wine and champagne would be in abundance and coffee and tea would be served if desired. It was to be a lovely event to honor her granddaughter.
***
Sophie stood on the small pedestal as the dressmaker and her assistant poked and prodded her like a straw doll. Her grandmother looked at Sophie quietly and would only make a noise if she was very unhappy or very pleased.
“Bon,” she had said several times in acceptance of the gown’s cut and color.
“Mademoiselle?” asked the Parisian seamstress, known far and wide for her frocks.
“I’m sorry. What was the question, Madame Darbonne?”
Eugenie looked over at her granddaughter and admonished her. “Sophie! You are not Madame Darbonne’s only customer today. You are miles away. Pay attention.”
Sophie was thinking of her pamphlet and what had become of it. But she shook her head and replied, “I’m sorry, madame.”
The seamstress, an older woman, was used to cranky middle-aged women, skittish young brides and overbearing elderly women. The exchange between the grandmother and granddaughter was nothing new.
“My dear, never mind. Do you like the fabric? We can change it.”
Sophie drew a hand across the cream-colored silk with intricate brown embroidery at the scooped neckline, elbow-length sleeves and along the hem. It was a beautiful dress.
“Fit for the queen herself,” murmured Sophie, smiling.
“Mais non,” the seamstress said. “I don’t charge nearly enough for our queen.”
“You charge enough,” Eugenie added drily.
“Yes, Madame Gauvreau, I do. But I sew and design quality gowns,” insisted the seamstress.