white females. She had her father’s instructions.
“She doesn’t speak,” Jane said.
“Are you dumb?” Eugénie asked. “Speak up.”
“Pardon me,” Rosalie said. “Please, I beg your pardon. I can sew the proper riding outfit. Before I cut cloth, mesdemoiselles, my master asks for payment.”
“Master Guilbert recommended you for the job. He sent us here.” Indignation drove Eugénie’s impatience. She stamped her heels over to the bolts of fabrics and after a brief survey, swept her hand across the indigo material. “There is little here, but this dark bombazine will do. Don’t stand there. Measure Miss Jane and start cutting.”
“I beg mercy, mademoiselle, but Master Guilbert was severe with me on how I’m to dispense his goods. I am so willing, but if I could have his guarantee to cut the cloth, then I can do better than be willing.”
“Madame wants the dress for Miss Jane,” Thisbe spoke up, although no one spoke to her.
Eugénie and Rosalie turned to Thisbe. Jane didn’t.
“Riding suit,” was Jane’s only response.
Rosalie said, “If only Madame would write the order for me on paper. I can give it to Master Lucien. Please forgive me. But I will pay with my hide and more if I disobey the Master.”
Eugénie huffed, then said to Thisbe, “Go, girl. Go quickly to Madame Sylvie and ask her to write the order. Then run back with no delay.”
“Yes, Mademoiselle Eugénie.” Thisbe dipped, turned, and was off. She delivered the message to Madame, who was instantly enraged.
“Oh, she is his piece of dirt,” she said of Rosalie. “She is everything he is.” Thisbe stood quietly while Madame wrote the words “Make it” and other letters Thisbe couldn’t discern. She looked on as Madame signed Mme and a big S.
Thisbe returned and gave the paper to Eugénie.
Rosalie was already engaged in measuring Jane. Jane stood stiff and proud, as if being measured for battle clothes.
“The pants should look like my father’s military pants,” Jane said.
“The pantaloons, mademoiselle? Miss?” Rosalie said.
Eugénie stepped in. “Do what you can to make it for a woman but to command—”
“Command an army,” Jane finished.
Rosalie looked to Eugénie.
Eugénie said, “In a way fitting for a lady.”
“I’m not a lady.”
“That’s all right, Jane,” Eugénie said. “I’m describing the outfit so she understands how to sew it.”
“Thank you, mademoiselle,” Rosalie said to Eugénie.
“Eugénie Duhon. Fiancée to Master Byron Guilbert.”
“Thank you, Mademoiselle Duhon,” Rosalie said. Rosalie knew the air of a girl destined to take the reins of the plantation as the mistress. If all didn’t come to pass as her father schemed, the girl would one day be her mistress, half brother or no. Hers would be a life of currying favor to live with whatever advantages were due her, if any. With her future flashing before her, a life with Laurent Tournier began to look attractive.
Rosalie glared at Thisbe.
Thisbe said nothing. Thisbe knew the quadroon resented not being handed the note directly. But she was not about to receive the white girl’s scorn because the corn-silk-colored girl was disconcerted. Thisbe remained cloaked in feigned unawareness, but she knew.
Eugénie read Madame’s words aloud. “Make it. Cut the fabric. Sew the riding dress, you impiden cur. Mme S. Bernardin de Maret Dacier Guilbert.”
“Thank you for reading it to me, Mademoiselle Duhon,” Rosalie said, all the while thinking, You see, servant. I can do what you do. I can wear my mask too. “I have the measurements and will begin cutting right away.”
“Yes,” Eugénie said. “You see to it.”
“See to it that you make a riding suit, not a riding dress,” Jane said.
“Come, Jane,” Eugénie said. “Why don’t you show me your horse.”
“Virginia Wilder.”
“Yes, of course,” Eugénie said, taking Jane’s arm. “Virginia Wilder.”
Pearce and Byron lay in bed, Byron snoring, his arms forming a pillow, while Pearce’s left leg draped over him. Laughter from the outside cut into their otherwise quiet morning. Pearce was now awake. He propped himself on his hands, lifted himself up to look outside the window. What he saw made him smile. Eugénie and Jane arm in arm, crossing the property to the stable.
He lowered himself back down onto the bed and kissed Byron’s nape, shoulder, and then collarbone until Byron stirred, but turned away.
“I spy a happy twosome,” Pearce sang.
Byron mumbled an assent.
“Not us, you beast.” Beast, a designate to all Academy plebes, was now an occasional endearment between them. “The handsome Jane and your betrothed.”
Byron snored on.
VII
LUCIEN DUSTED OFF THE COACHMAN’S HAT AND JACKET before the coachman took his seat. They rode back to Rosalie’s cottage in the carriage