Juliet cleared her throat. A massive painting of a man hung over the fireplace. “Is that him?”
Paul turned and adjusted his glasses to peer at the painting as though it were the first time he’d been in the room. “Oui,” he declared with certainty. “C’est Monsieur Varnier.”
Juliet walked closer to the painting and looked up at it. The man was seated, and his dark-blond hair was back from his head. His eyes were a shade brighter blue than his navy suit. As with Paul, it was difficult to place Monsieur Varnier’s age, but Juliet thought it was similar to her father’s.
“He wears a beard now,” said Paul. “It is all the fashion in Paris, and Monsieur Varnier is, well… quite fashionable, as you will soon see for yourself.”
“What does he do?” Juliet looked closely at the artist’s signature, her breath catching a moment until she saw an unfamiliar signature scribble in the corner of the painting. The painting was not one of Marchant’s. She had known it wasn’t the moment she saw it, but the hope that somehow Varnier was connected to Marchant and that the artist had brought her here was never far from Juliet’s mind. She peered under the frame, looking up at the painting, studying the artist’s brushstrokes. It was something she’d learned from Marchant. A painting was merely a collection of strokes of color. The way the artist blended and subtracted his paints was one of the most important things about a painting. She knew Marchant’s brushstrokes like she knew his body—it was as an intimate knowledge.
“Monsieur Varnier doesn’t do anything.” Paul hesitated. “You could say he has family money.” Paul turned to leave the room. “Allow me to show you to your quarters, Mademoiselle LaCompte.” Juliet followed him out the door and up another staircase. This hallway featured darker, masculine inlaid wood panels. At the end of the hallway, Paul opened a set of double doors with wood inlays—the tallest doors Juliet had ever seen. With two steps, Juliet walked into a decidedly feminine room with cream walls and wood trim a shade darker. The ceiling was an elaborate design in ecru with leaf patterns along with egg-and-dart and beaded molding designs. The room looked like a dessert. The rug beneath her feet was pale blue, green, and cream with a hint of soft corals. She walked over to the window and found that it overlooked the Boulevard Saint-Germain. The heavy pale-blue taffeta curtains were tied back with a gold tassel. She pulled back the tall cream sheers and opened the windows. Over the bed was a crown cornice with pale-green draperies. The dresser was curved with cream-on-cream stripes and ornate gold handles. A matching gold chair and side table that featured a horsehead design sat next to it. Juliet swallowed back bile from her throat. This room was far too elaborate for a housekeeper. She turned to Paul, who was now opening up the armoire.
“There are some dresses here for you as well, Mademoiselle.”
“Tell me please. How did Monsieur Varnier find me?”
Paul didn’t meet her eyes. Instead he removed a soft-blue dress with cream lace and placed it on the bed. Inside the armoire, Juliet could see nearly a dozen dresses hanging. “Monsieur Varnier thought these might fit. This one would be a good selection for dinner this evening. Dinner will be at eight. I will now excuse myself.” He bowed and walked to the door before turning. “It was your mother, Mademoiselle.”
“My mother?” Juliet felt her throat catch.
“Oui. Your mother recommended you to Monsieur Varnier for this position.”
“But my mother is dead, sir.”
“Oui. Monsieur Varnier was very sad to hear the news.”
“Did she know him from when she lived in Paris?” Ever since the night with the circle and the purple robes, Juliet knew that her mother had lived another life—a dramatically different one than at Challans—and she wondered if Monsieur Varnier was connected.
Paul smiled. “Monsieur Varnier will provide you with the answers to your many questions this evening, I am sure of it.” He paused. “Your hair, Mademoiselle LaCompte. Should I send Marie to help you with it?”
Juliet touched her long hair. It was pulled back into a loose chignon like she had worn doing chores. She’d never worn her hair in any other style. Suddenly she felt self-conscious. She had not known she’d be expected at a dinner. She was a farm girl who had lived in a simple stone home with four rooms. She had no training for this type of life. She would look foolish. This felt like some shameful trick that Michel had set her up for. Juliet opened up her bag. Inside were two work dresses. Juliet hadn’t known if she’d get a maid’s uniform. She was wearing her best dress, a long cotton dress that had once been her mother’s but one that she had grown into within the last year; she’d started wearing it to Sunday services. Comparing it with the pale-blue creation laid out for her on her bed, hers looked old and dirty.
“Mademoiselle?” Paul de Passe pressed. “Your hair?”
“Oui,” she said. “S’il vous plaît.”
“Merci.” The secretary nodded and shut the door behind him.
Once Paul left, Juliet began to sob. She was alone and had no idea who this Lucian Varnier was and what he’d want from her. The physical bruises had finally healed after the terrible night with Michel and the other boy, but she was dreading the idea that her mother might have made some similar arrangement with Monsieur Varnier. What she might be expected to do in exchange for this room and these dresses made her sick. She’d heard stories of women who’d fallen and been sold by their families into a life of prostitution.
The only solace she felt was that she was now in the same city as Marchant. As the cab had driven through the streets, she’d strained to look out at the street signs on the buildings, hoping for any name that Marchant had mentioned. She would find him in this vast city, and he would get her out of this horrible arrangement with Monsieur Varnier.
From the open window, Juliet heard commotion and looked down to see the café across the street and three animated men laughing and arguing, their cups hitting saucers. This street was lively, and it was exactly the type of place that Marchant had described, even painted for her. Juliet felt the tug of despair when she realized that the beautiful painting of Paris he had painted for her birthday was now destroyed. Marchant, her baby, her mother, her home—all gone. She had a feeling of permanent emptiness, blackness having enveloped her. But she realized that the cold that had gripped her in Challans was also gone. She was warm in this house. She ran her hands over her forearms and no longer felt the clamminess that had set upon her limbs for weeks. She sat up straight and patted her face to dry her tears. There was little use in crying anymore.
Juliet walked over to the armoire and studied each of the dresses. The first was a long light wool coat and matching skirt with several ornate lapels and a lace blouse with a high neck. There was also a deep-green dress with sapphire-blue jacket, a simple seafoam-green cotton dress with matching stitching and a bow that tied at the waist, a brown velvet coat and skirt, a silver-and-lavender silk dress with cream-on-cream lace décolletage, a pale-pink cotton dress with ornate gathering at the bodice and again at the train with dark-pink sleeves, and finally a black dress with a satin-and-tulle skirt. There was a black velvet coat and a matching wide-brimmed hat. Juliet had never seen such beautiful dresses, each one a confection of color and texture. She heard a knock at the door and a sturdy, older woman entered wearing a maid’s plain black work frock.