Chapter 10

When the coach from Hampshire dropped her off, Angélique hired a carriage to take her to the small hotel she remembered near her former home. She didn’t want to risk being in a bad neighborhood, or with frightening people. And she willingly spent the wages Gilhooley had paid her to stay in a safe place. She checked in as Mrs. Latham, had breakfast in the dining room, and walked around London for a while. Sarah had given her the name and address of Mrs. McCarthy, the old housekeeper in London. She helped housemaids, housekeepers, and nannies if she thought they were respectable, came to her through friends, and had references.

She let Angélique into her small, tidy home cautiously, and asked to wait for a few minutes. She was a serious-looking woman with gray hair, and she then offered Angélique a cup of tea, and showed her into the kitchen, where they sat down. Angélique was wearing a simple black dress, with her hair pulled back in a bun, and explained that she needed a position as a nanny, and that she had worked for the Fergusons in Hampshire for sixteen months, taking care of six children, although one was in boarding school since September.

“Sole-charge nanny for six children?” She looked surprised.

“Yes, with a nurserymaid to help me.” She told her the ages of the children, including twins, and the gray-haired woman was impressed.

“How old are you?” She looked very young to her, too young to handle that many children. She had heard of the Fergusons and was surprised they didn’t have two nannies, since their homes were very grand.

“I just turned twenty,” Angélique said with wide eyes, and the woman smiled.

“You’re still very young. Where did you work before that?”

“I didn’t. I lived with my father in Hertfordshire. I helped run his house.” She didn’t say how large it was, though Mrs. McCarthy could tell from the way she spoke, and her demeanor, that she was educated and well brought up. “My father died a year and a half ago, almost. My brother inherited everything, so I went to work.” She didn’t say that her brother had sold her into slavery to the Fergusons. It made no difference now, and she didn’t want to complain. She thought it would make a bad impression, and others had been in similar circumstances to hers.

“The Fergusons gave you a reference, I assume,” she said, as Angélique gazed at her, and didn’t answer, and then shook her head.

“No, they didn’t.” She told her exactly what had happened, and then sat back in her chair and sighed.

“You have no idea how common that is. I hear these stories all the time. That’s why I try to help young girls find new jobs. It’s usually the husband who does something like it, not a guest. He sounds like a nasty piece of work,” she said sympathetically.

“He was. I wasn’t going to tell them. But he lied about me. And they believed him.”

“Men like that often do lie. He was probably afraid you’d tell them, so he told them his story to protect himself. Sad about the children, though. That’s a bad way to leave. I’m sure they were very upset.” Angélique nodded, trying not to think of Emma with tears running down her cheeks, and her own. The woman looked regretful as she met Angélique’s eyes. “I’m sure you’re a very good nanny. Any girl as young as you who can manage six children that age has a knack for it. And it sounds like you enjoyed it.”

“I did,” she said with a small smile, although she hadn’t expected to at first.

“The problem is that without a character, I can’t help you find a job. People will be afraid that you did something to the children, or dropped the baby, or got drunk, or stole, or slept with the husband. They assume the worst if you have no letter of recommendation, and you’ve had no other jobs. We could explain it as a mad employer, if you had earlier references. But I can’t even suggest you as a housemaid with no character at all. They’ll think you were stealing, or worse. I’m sorry, I’d like to assist you, but there’s no way I can.”

“What should I do?” Angélique asked her, looking desperate. She had no idea where to go next, and she trusted this woman’s advice.

“You can answer newspaper ads, but they’ll turn you away. Without a letter to recommend you, there are no jobs. No one wants to take that risk, which one can understand. Particularly where there are children involved.” She looked at her thoughtfully then. “Do you speak any languages? German? Italian? French? The Italians are a bit easier about references, but you have to speak the language. I knew a very nice family in Florence a few years ago. The wife was English, of course. But the children are too old now anyway.”

“I speak French,” Angélique said quietly. “I’m half French. I speak it fluently. I taught the Ferguson children. The little girl speaks it very well.” Mrs. McCarthy was impressed again.

“You are quite amazing for someone who’s never been a nanny before. They were very foolish to let you go, on the strength of that man’s story. They’ll regret it one day, maybe sooner than later. You might try France,” she said, thinking about it. “Most of them will want a character too, but they’re a bit less strict than we are. And they might give you a chance. You could offer to teach the children English. I know the name of one woman there who does what I do. We worked together years ago.” She wrote down her friend’s name on a piece of paper and handed it to Angélique. “I’m afraid that’s the best I can do. There will be nothing for you here. If their houseguest meant to get even with you for rejecting him, he certainly did.”

“I think Mrs. Ferguson wanted me to go too,” Angélique said quietly.

“Oh?” There was a sharply raised eyebrow across the table, as she wondered if Angélique had committed some unpardonable sin after all.

“He said something about her wanting him. Maybe that was true. But he wanted me more, or that’s what he said.” Mrs. McCarthy nearly groaned at what she said.

“My dear, you were doomed. If there was something going on between them, and he claimed you tried to seduce him, she was sure to get rid of you. I think he knew exactly what he was doing when he told the story. You’re the victim in all this, but it won’t change anything now. Without a letter of recommendation, no one will hire you as a nanny, or any other job. I think the only answer is for you to go to France, and try there. Or perhaps America, New York. But that’s a bit extreme. Try France first, since you speak French.” She stood up then, shook Angélique’s hand, and wished her luck, and Angélique left her house in a daze. She couldn’t get a job, and had to leave England. She had been to Paris with her father, but not in many years. And it would be very different, looking for a job in a foreign country. It was hard enough here, in a city she knew. But she realized that the woman was right. She had no other choice. And America sounded terrifying to her. At least France was close, and she could always come back.

When she got back to the hotel, she asked about taking a boat across the channel, and they explained that she would have to take a boat from Dover to Calais, and hire a coach from there to Paris. They said they’d be happy to make the arrangements for her, and she asked them to. There was no point staying in London if she couldn’t find work, and she said she’d like to go the next day. And at least she could sleep in a clean room tonight, after spending the night in the filthy coach from Hampshire the night before.

She walked past her father’s house in Grosvenor Square that afternoon, and half-expected to see Tristan or Elizabeth stepping out, but the house looked closed, and she wandered slowly back to the hotel, feeling low. She had no idea what she’d find in Paris, or what to do. What if she couldn’t find work there either? Without a character or a letter of some kind, no one would want her. Sir Bertram and the Fergusons had put her in a terrible position. All she could hope now was that someone would hire her as a nanny in Paris and give her a chance. And why should they? She could be a murderer for all they knew. She didn’t look like one, but that didn’t occur to her. She looked like a well-brought-up young woman visiting London, in one of her older, discreet dresses. But someone had to want to hire her, and she was afraid no one would.

She spent the night at the hotel, and asked for a tray in her room. She wanted to be alone, and didn’t want to meet people in the dining room. She didn’t know what to say to them. Her story about being a widow sounded thin even to her. She slept badly that night, thinking about the people she had left at the Fergusons’, and the children, and worried about what she would find in Paris. She felt totally alone in the world. She sat looking at the small portrait of her father for a long time that night, and had never missed him more.

She got up before dawn the next morning, and dressed in travel clothes. The hotel had hired a coach for her, to take her to Dover, and the coachman put her bags on top after she paid the bill at the hotel, and what she owed the coachman for the trip. And they bumped along for eleven hours after they left London. It was a pleasant ride at first, but she was too worried to enjoy it. And she was tired after the long bumpy trip when they reached Dover in the late afternoon, and she paid for passage on the small paddle steamer to cross the channel. It was a short journey, but she knew it was often rough, and a strong wind had come up. She boarded the small boat as it pitched and rolled. She had reserved a small cabin and sat alone, waiting to reach the French shore. It was very choppy, but she wasn’t sick, and she went out on deck for a few minutes to take the air. She watched England shrinking behind them, as she thought about Paris. The hotel in London had given her the name of a small respectable hotel, which they said wasn’t too expensive, but was in a good neighborhood. And she was planning to go to visit Mrs. McCarthy’s friend the next day, to ask her if she knew of a job.

After her long day’s journey and the brief boat trip, she was feeling refreshed when they got to Calais. The sea air had done her good. Her head was clear, and she booked a coach with two other passengers, both of them French, bound for Paris, and she had no problem speaking to anyone or paying her fare. Her French was as good as it always had been. They had checked her identity papers and found them in order, and a few minutes after they arrived, after just enough time for a cup of tea in a nearby restaurant, they left for Paris. Angélique had her small locked trunk on her lap and fell asleep on the bumpy drive. She slept most of the way, and woke up when they got to Paris in the early morning hours. She had to hire another carriage then, to take her to the hotel in the sixth arrondissement, bordering the seventh, on the Left Bank.

She had been traveling for more than twenty-four hours by the time they got there, and she was pleasantly surprised by the pretty little hotel, the Hôtel des Saints Pères in Saint Germain des Prés. The lobby was well decorated, and her room was bright and sunny, and she had a lovely view from her windows, of a garden, a church, and a small park. She could see women pushing prams, or walking dogs. It was a beautiful city, and she was suddenly glad to be there, in a whole new place where she could start a new life, far from the Fergusons and her brother, and all the pain and disappointment of the past year and a half. She’d have to take a job in service again, but for now she was free.

She left her bags and her locked trunk in the room, and then went out for a walk, and listened to people speaking French around her. She watched the carriages roll by, some very grand, and some very sporty looking, others making deliveries. It was a bustling city, and she walked past several small parks with statues in them, and lovely trees, before she finally headed back to the hotel. She went up to her room with a feeling of peace and hope for the next day when she would ask Mme. Bardaud if she knew of a job.

She thought about going to the Louvre in the morning, or for a walk on the Faubourg Saint Honoré, past the handsome houses there, but decided she should go to meet Mme. Bardaud first, and then walk around Paris. It brought back memories of being with her father there. She had had some wonderful times with him, staying at the Hôtel Meurice on the rue Saint Honoré, and visiting friends. She felt some strange, inexplicable tie to the city, as if part of her knew she was half French, and was glad to be home. She wished she could have known her mother and her family before they all died. Their château had been rebuilt after the Revolution, and belonged to someone else now, although she didn’t know who. The monarchy had been restored fifteen years before, after Napoleon, and now Charles X was on the throne. He was a Bourbon, and she knew she was distantly related to him through her mother, but it did her no good now. What she needed was a job, and her noble ancestry wouldn’t help her get one, any more than it had in England, where she was related to King George IV, through her father.

Related to kings in two countries, and daughter of a duke, banished by her brother, she was reduced to working as a domestic, and at the mercy of anyone who would hire her. The only thing that saved her from total ruin was the pouch in her locked trunk. Without that, she would literally be a penniless pauper in the streets. And she was well aware of it when she went to bed that night. She had dipped slightly into her father’s money to pay for the hotel in Paris, and the travel between the two cities. She had spent most of her wages on the hotels, the coaches, and the boat. Her father’s money allowed her to stay in respectable places where she felt safe, which was important to her, and the blessing he had bestowed on her with the money he gave her before he died. But she knew she had to find work soon.

She couldn’t live on his money forever, and wanted to save as much as she could so that one day when she was older she could buy a home of her own and stop working at menial jobs. But it was too soon now. She didn’t know how to buy a house on her own, and the responsibility was too great for a girl her age. She needed to work now. And she wasn’t sure where she wanted to live, in England or France. She had no current ties to either one. She was drifting between her lost world and one she hadn’t found yet. It was like traveling through the sky, with nothing to tie her down. She had to land somewhere but had no idea where yet. All the bonds that had once held her securely had been cut, when her father died and Tristan set her adrift.

She fell asleep that night, thinking about all of it, and woke late the next morning, trying to figure out where she was, in the unfamiliar room at the hotel. And then she remembered as she glanced out the window, and also recalled what she had to do that day. She was going to meet Mme. Bardaud to ask about work. And soon she would be in a life of service again. She wanted to enjoy her freedom while she could. And hopefully, it wouldn’t be for long.

She dressed in another sober gown—she had brought very few frivolous ones with her when she left Belgrave. She had croissants and café au lait in the small dining room at her hotel, and asked the desk clerk for directions to the address she’d been given. She decided to walk there—it was a beautiful spring day, and she was happy as she walked along. She missed the Ferguson children, but she had to concentrate on her own life now.

Mme. Bardaud lived in a narrow building in the second arrondissement on the Right Bank, on the third floor. She walked upstairs, knocked, and a grandmotherly-looking woman peeked out at her, and Angélique explained that Mrs. McCarthy had sent her. Mme. Bardaud had been a governess in London before she married. She invited Angélique to sit down.

“What can I do to help you?” she asked kindly. Angélique explained to the woman in flawless French that she was looking for a job as a nanny, or a governess, and could teach the children English if the parents wished. And as the woman had in London, she asked about Angélique’s last job.

She told her she had cared for six children, their ages, and what she had done, how long she’d been there, and that it had been her first job.

“And the reason why you left?” she asked, and Angélique told her honestly what had happened, and that she had no reference to show for sixteen months of work, although she promised that she had done a good job.

“I’m sure you did,” the woman said gently, “and these stories are not unusual. I believe you, my dear. But no employer will hire someone without a reference. They don’t know if you stole from your last employer, or did something far worse than refuse to be seduced by one of their guests. And there is no one to corroborate your story.” It was no different here than it had been in London. Mme. Bardaud told her that without a character, there was no way she would find work, except perhaps washing dishes somewhere, or scrubbing floors, but not in a decent home. And she knew of no one who would employ her.

“What am I going to do?” she said out loud, putting a voice to her thoughts. She was fighting back tears and felt completely lost.

“I can’t help you. You need some proof that you’re a responsible, honest person, and without a reference from your previous employer, they won’t hire you,” she said wisely. Angélique thanked her, looking dazed, and left a few minutes later, and went back downstairs to the street. There was nothing she could do, nowhere to go. She thought of Mrs. McCarthy’s suggestion that she go to America, but what if they wanted a reference there? Then what would she do?

She walked away slowly, and wandered all the way to the Jardin des Tuileries, after passing through the Place Louis XVI. Paris was so beautiful, but she had no friends and no protection there either. It was another city where she had nowhere to go. She was trying not to panic, but she was frightened of what would become of her now. She wondered what her father would say and advise her to do. And how could he even have imagined a situation like the one she was in?

She sat on a park bench for a while, and thought about all of it, trying to formulate a plan, with no success, and then she walked back to the hotel, and went to her room. She took out a book and read for a while, trying to escape her worries. She wondered if the hotel would let her work for them as a maid, but she was too embarrassed to ask.

She stayed in her room until after dark, and then walked through the streets of Paris again, and stopped for something to eat, but she felt awkward being in a restaurant alone. She had never done that before, and it made her uncomfortable. She saw men staring at her, and couples. She was a young, pretty girl on her own. Her lie about being a widow meant nothing to them. She didn’t belong out on the streets alone, and as soon as she finished eating, she walked back toward her hotel. She took a different route and went down a narrow street, and was suddenly confused about which way to go. She doubled back and found herself in another narrow street, and then knew she was lost. She was frightened and it was dark, and then she heard a moan, and jumped as she looked around. She wondered if it was a cat or a dog—it wasn’t a human sound. All she wanted to do was run. And as she started to hurry away, she saw a crumpled figure in the gutter, and heard the same moan again. She stopped to look, and thought it might be an injured child. She walked slowly toward the form on the pavement, and without thinking, bent down, and saw that it was a young girl with a gash on her forehead, and blood on her face. Her eyes were closed, and one of them was swollen shut. Angélique thought she was unconscious at first, and then the girl opened her eyes and stared into Angélique’s.

“Go away,” she groaned, “leave me alone.” Angélique could hardly understand her through the battered lips.

“You’re hurt,” she said gently, “let me help you.” She needed to go to a hospital, but Angélique didn’t know how to get her there. The girl was wearing a red satin dress, and no coat, and she had a black bow in her hair. Someone had attacked the girl viciously. “Do you want me to call for the police?” The girl’s eyes flew open again as she said it, and she shook her head and groaned.

“No police. Go away,” she said again.

“I’m not leaving you here,” Angélique said firmly. “I’ll take you home, or to a hospital if you like.” The girl started to cry when Angélique said it. She looked like a rag doll in the gutter where she had been dumped, and she had dirt all over her dress. “You can’t stay here all night, or the police will find you,” she said in a stronger voice. “Can you stand up?” She didn’t seem as though she could, or walk. “I’ll come back,” Angélique said then, and hurried away. She had seen carriages to hire in the street she had come from, and she was determined to find one and bring it back to where the young woman lay. She didn’t appear as though she was able to go anywhere on her own.

It took her a few minutes to find a carriage to hire, and direct him to the narrow street where she had found the young woman, but a few minutes later, she recognized the street, and she told him to stop and wait for her, as she hurried back to where the girl had been. She was still there and seemed like she was asleep. There was no sound from her as Angélique shook her gently, and she stirred. She tried to protest at first when Angélique lifted her up, but she didn’t have the strength to resist. Angélique supported her and half-carried her, back to the carriage, and the coachman lifted her in.

“She looks like something very bad happened to her,” the coachman said with concern for the young woman Angélique had carried to the coach.

“She fell down the stairs,” Angélique said matter-of-factly, gave him the address of her hotel, and hopped in beside the girl slumped on the seat. Angélique took off her black cape and wrapped it around her, as the girl opened her eyes and gazed at her.

“The hospital or my hotel?” Angélique asked her simply, as the girl stared at her in disbelief.

“Your hotel.” She didn’t have the strength to argue with her, and she couldn’t go anywhere under her own steam. Her whole body had been battered, she had broken ribs, and it hurt to breathe. “You should have left me there,” she said miserably.

“Certainly not,” Angélique said firmly as though to a child, and a moment later, they reached her hotel. She paid the coachman, and he helped get the injured passenger down. Wearing Angélique’s cape, the girl leaned heavily against her and they walked into the hotel. The desk clerk was busy and paid no attention to them. He recognized Angélique and continued what he was doing as she assisted her guest up the stairs to her room. The girl looked like she was about to faint, as Angélique unlocked the door, nearly dragged her to the bed, and lifted her onto it, as the young woman observed Angélique gratefully through her tears.

“I’m sorry,” she said, and closed her eyes with the pain, as Angélique went to get some towels and a nightgown. She gently washed her face, and took off her clothes. The dress was cheap, and she was wearing strong perfume, but all Angélique could see as she ministered to her were the cuts and bruises and dried blood on her face. It took her a while to clean the girl up. She took off the bow and smoothed down her hair, and the injured young woman appeared a little more human once she was cleaned up and tucked into the bed. Angélique gave her some water to drink, and she took a sip, and lay back on the pillows with a groan.

“What’s your name?” Angélique asked her.

“Fabienne,” she whispered.

“Do you know the person who did this to you?” She shook her head, and closed her eyes again, and a little while later, she fell asleep. Angélique sat in a chair next to her, and dozed off, and she woke several hours later when the girl cried out in her sleep and then woke up. “Sshhh…it’s all right. You’re safe,” she said gently, as Fabienne stared at her, and remembered how she got there.

“Why did you help me?” She couldn’t understand what had happened to her. She was in an unfamiliar room, in a comfortable bed, with clean sheets. It was all very surreal, after being beaten and dumped in the street.

“I couldn’t leave you there,” Angélique said simply. She took her own clothes off then, and put on her nightgown and a dressing gown. “How do you feel?”

“Terrible.” Fabienne smiled through swollen lips, as Angélique observed the bruises on her face. The cut on her forehead wasn’t as bad as she had feared, although it might leave a scar. “But I’m glad to be here. You must be an angel of some kind.”

“No.” Angélique smiled at her. “Not at all. I just happened by at the right time. Are you sure you don’t want to go to a hospital? I could ask the hotel for a doctor if you like.” Fabienne shook her head and looked frightened again. Her fear of any kind of authority made Angélique wonder about what she was hiding.

“Did you do something bad to get hurt like this?” She spoke to her as though to a child, and Fabienne shrugged and didn’t answer as she averted her eyes. Whatever she had done, she didn’t deserve to be beaten. Angélique remembered the red satin dress and bow in her hair, and the strong perfume she could smell on the dress and guessed at what she was, but she didn’t care. The girl was badly hurt and needed help. Fabienne could see understanding in her eyes.

“How old are you?” With her face clean, she seemed very young.

“Seventeen,” Fabienne answered.

“Do you have a family?” She shook her head in answer. “Neither do I.” Angélique smiled at her. “So maybe it’s a good thing that I helped you.”

“It’s very nice of you,” Fabienne said gratefully. Angélique settled into the chair again, lowered the lamp, and Fabienne drifted off to sleep.

Fabienne was sitting up in bed when Angélique woke the next morning, and Fabienne was staring at her as she opened her eyes. She looked a little better but not much.

“I should go soon,” she said when Angélique was fully awake.

“Do you have somewhere to go?” Fabienne took a long time to answer, shook her head, and then explained.

“I ran away.”

“Is that why they beat you up? Did someone find you?” She shook her head again.

“I left home when I was fifteen. My parents died and I went to live with my aunt and uncle. He was a very bad person, and he…he…used me…all the time. My aunt didn’t say anything. He was always drunk, so was she…so I ran away from them. It was in Marseilles, and I came to Paris to find work. I tried to find a job in a restaurant or a store, or at a hotel. I got a job cleaning in a hospital, but they fired me when they found out how old I was. I couldn’t find work, and I had no money to eat. I was starving and cold all the time. Sometimes I hid and slept outside.

“And then I met a woman, and she said she would help me. She said she had other girls living at her house, and they were like a family. I didn’t know what else to do so I went with her, and then I found out what they were. It was just like my uncle, except with strangers. We had to work for her all the time. There were five of us, and they paid her to use us. She kept the money, and she hardly ever fed us. Everyone was young, except one girl was older, and none of us could find jobs. She said she would pay us, but she gave us very little, and she didn’t give us clothes, so we couldn’t go out. We sat around in our undergarments all the time, waiting for the men to come.

“I’ve been there for two years, and I couldn’t stand it anymore. So I ran away, and I thought if I did the same thing on my own, I could keep all the money. But she protected us. She wasn’t a good person, but she didn’t let the men hurt us, at least not much. Some of them were rough, but if she heard any of us screaming, she stopped them, and sent them away. And she registered all of us with the Gendarmerie Royale, so her house is legal. But the girls on the street aren’t. And once I was on my own, I had no one to protect me. Some of them are very bad men. This is the third time I’ve been beaten, this time was the worst. He took all my money, beat me, and ran away. I know other girls on the street—one of them was stabbed and killed last month. She was sixteen. I suppose I’ll have to go back to Madame Albin’s house, if she’ll take me. She protects us and registers us properly. But on the streets, we have no papers. A policeman stopped me last month. He said he’d let me go if I took care of him, and he was very rough. Madame Albin runs the house correctly. I can’t do this on my own.” Angélique tried not to look shocked at what she’d heard. It was a tragic story of misery and despair and young girls who had nowhere to turn, and were exploited by people like Madame Albin, and abused by the men they served, like the one who had beaten and robbed Fabienne.

Angélique suspected she was pretty, but it was hard to tell with all the bruises and swelling on her face. She knew she should have been shocked, but she could see now how easily it could happen. Girls who couldn’t find jobs, had no money, and nowhere to turn fell prey to the only thing they could do. She could understand it now. Without a reference, she couldn’t get a job either, and if she didn’t have her father’s money, she might have been desperate too. Angélique couldn’t envision the life that Fabienne had led almost since her childhood. All she could do was sell her body, for lack of anything else.

“What do you do?” Fabienne asked her. “You must be rich to stay in a place like this.”

“No, I’m not,” Angélique said honestly. “I’m a nanny. Or at least I was until a few days ago. I got fired, and they sent me away, without a reference. It was in England. I couldn’t get a job in London, so I came here.”

“You speak good French.” Fabienne was impressed.

“I learned it as a child. My father had me taught because my mother was French. She died when I was born.” Fabienne nodded, interested in her story too. “So now I’m looking for a job, without a reference, and I can’t find one here either.”

“I could introduce you to Madame Albin.” Fabienne was teasing her, but she could see that Angélique wasn’t that kind of girl. She seemed smart and educated, and there was something very distinguished about her. “I guess I’ll go back to her, if she’ll take me.” She sounded sad as she said it. She wanted to get away from her, and now she knew she never would.

“Why don’t you stay here for a few days until you feel better and make up your mind then? I’m not going anywhere, at least not for a while. I have to look for work. You can stay in bed and rest.”

“I don’t want to take advantage of your kindness. Madame Albin will give me a few days to rest before she puts me back to work. No one would want me now anyway.” Although she knew that some would and wouldn’t care what condition she was in. Madame Albin’s customers weren’t very particular. It wasn’t a high-class house like some. But she had a lot of clients and did well, not that the girls ever saw much of the money.

It had been an amazing story for Angélique to hear. She never thought about women like her, and what got them into the life they led, the desperation and lack of opportunities to do anything else, except starve. And once they were trapped in that life, there was nowhere to go, and no escape for them.

“You don’t hate me for what I told you?” she asked Angélique nervously.

“How could I hate you? I’m sad for you, and wish there were a better way for you to make a living, without getting beaten up or cheated by Madame Albin.”

“She’s not so bad really. She used to do it too, so she knows. She’s too old now, except for one or two old customers, but they just come to talk. They’re too old now too.” She smiled. “She likes having very young girls for the men. They like that better. The oldest one in our house was eighteen. The youngest one was fourteen, but she looks older.” Angélique was getting a rapid education in a world she had never seen or known, and hoped she never would. She felt sorry for all of them, and especially Fabienne. She seemed like a sweet girl, who could have had a decent life if she’d had a chance. But she hadn’t, from her uncle to Madame Albin. They had all used her, and she couldn’t find her way out.

“Some of the girls like what they do,” she admitted, “especially if they make money at it. And some of the ones who work alone, and not in a house, have a pimp. But they beat them up and take all their money too. The only ones who make money at this are the madams, like Madame Albin, and the pimps. The girls never do, or not enough. They just use us like cows, or sheep, and take our money. She said it cost a lot to feed us and run the house. But none of us ate that much, we didn’t have time. We were always working from morning till night. The men show up all the time, in the morning on the way to work, at dinnertime, when they can leave their office, at night on the way home, or they don’t go home and say they’re out with friends, or after their wife is asleep. Some of them aren’t even married, they say it’s just easier than finding women who’ll do it. Or their wives don’t want to do it with them anymore, or they’re expecting a baby. There are a lot of reasons why men come to us. And a few of them just come to have someone to talk to. Some of them are very nice men, but most of them aren’t.” The whole story saddened Angélique for her. But Fabienne was very matter-of-fact about her life, and work. To her, it was a job, like Angélique was a nanny. She wondered what her brother would have said if she’d become a prostitute instead.

“Do you think you’ll stay here, in Paris?” Fabienne asked her.

“I don’t know. It depends if I find a job. They suggested in London that I try here, or go to America, but that seems so far away, and what if I don’t find work when I get there?”

“It would scare me to go so far away,” Fabienne admitted, and Angélique agreed. She liked talking to her. She felt as though she had a new friend, even though their lives were completely different. And their histories certainly were.

“Are you hungry?” Angélique asked her, and Fabienne nodded hesitantly. She didn’t want to impose more than she already had. “I’ll go and get something to eat. They have croissants and coffee downstairs.”

Angélique put on some clothes and went downstairs to get breakfast for both of them. She brought it back on a tray and set it on the bed next to Fabienne. She was well aware that she had left her purse in the room, but she had very little in it. Her real money was in the locked trunk, and she trusted Fabienne with her purse. She didn’t seem like the kind of girl who would steal from her, and she hoped she was right. And she could tell when she came back that it hadn’t been touched.

They ate their croissants and drank the café au lait, and a little while later, Angélique put on a different dress. Fabienne tried to get up, but her ribs caused her too much pain, and she sank back onto the bed.

“Maybe I’ll stay for another day,” she said, looking pale.

“I want to go for a walk,” Angélique said. “I’ll bring back some food.”

“Thank you,” she said gratefully. No one had ever been this nice to her, not even when her parents were alive. And even the girls she worked with argued with each other at times. She could see that Angélique was a good person, and was of a cut far, far above anyone she’d ever known. Yet she was perfectly willing to share her hotel room with her, in the nicest place Fabienne had ever been.

She went out a little while later, and as promised, came back with cheese and some salami, pâté and a baguette, and some apples. It was simple but delicious, and Fabienne ate voraciously. She was starving.

“I’m sorry, I haven’t eaten in two days,” she apologized.

“It’s all right,” Angélique reassured her, and on the way back in, she had told the hotel her cousin was staying with her, so they didn’t think she was trying to cheat them. They charged a small fee for an additional person in the room, and she was happy to pay it for Fabienne, and didn’t mention it to her. She had no money anyway.

Angélique spoke to the housekeeper of the hotel that afternoon, and she said the same thing as the others, that with no reference she wouldn’t find a job, and surely not as a nanny in a good home, or even as a hotel maid. She would have to take whatever she got, cleaning floors somewhere, or washing dishes in a restaurant, but not working for people of high caliber in a fine home, or a decent hotel. By not giving her a character, the Fergusons had destroyed her ability to work. Or Bertie had, and they believed him. Together, they had robbed her of any respectable future job, unless someone was willing to risk it and give her a chance, and everyone assured her that would never happen. She was discouraged when she got back to the room, and found Fabienne asleep in the bed. She looked better when she woke up. She knew Angélique was going to talk to the housekeeper about finding a job.

“What did she say?” she asked Angélique.

“That with no reference, there’s no hope of a job. Maybe I will have to go to America after all. Maybe I can get a job sewing,” she said, depressed.

“You’ll go blind. And they pay almost nothing. I tried that when I came to Paris. And you have to sew really well. Can you cook?” Angélique hesitated before she answered and then shook her head.

“Not really. But I’d probably need a recommendation for that too. In a home anyway.” She thought of all the staff at Belgrave, and the Fergusons, and all the things they knew how to do. But they had been in service all their lives, and all had had recommendations like her brother’s when she arrived. There were keys to open the right doors, and she had none. She felt desperation starting to creep up on her.

Angélique went out to get supper for them that night, and brought back some roast chicken from a small restaurant nearby, carrots, potatoes, and a baguette. They shared it while they talked about their lives. Fabienne knew a great deal more about men than she did. All she knew about were the children she had just cared for, and the life she’d had growing up, which she didn’t explain in detail to Fabienne, nor who her father was.

“I’d like to get married one day,” Fabienne said innocently, sounding like any girl her age, as they finished their meal, “if anyone would have me. I’d love to have children.”

“They’re a lot of work.” Angélique smiled. “The woman I worked for had twins last time. They were very sweet.”

“That must have hurt a lot when she had them,” Fabienne said practically.

“I’m sure it did. She didn’t want any more after that.”

“Neither would I. One of the girls I worked with got pregnant last year, and she decided to keep it. She went home to her parents and left it there when she came back to work. But it’s nice when she goes home and sees it. Madame Albin doesn’t let girls go home very often, and most of them have no home anyway, or their parents won’t let them come back. The girl who had the baby told her parents she’s a dressmaker in Paris, and they believe her. I never went back to Marseilles, and I never will. I hate them,” she said, referring to her aunt and uncle. Angélique could understand why, after what her uncle had done to her.

They were both tired and went to bed early that night, and in the morning, Angélique woke up first, and lay in bed, thinking. Fabienne had opened her eyes to a whole other way of life. It sounded sordid and tawdry, but she had heard of women like that before. They were badly thought of and shunned by polite society, but she remembered hearing stories below stairs of houses where important men went, almost like clubs, where the women were shocking and unacceptable, but highly sought after privately by men. They were courtesans. It was a dark side of life she knew nothing about, but was suddenly intrigued by. And she mentioned it to Fabienne when she woke up, and they chatted over their morning café au lait and croissants from downstairs.

“Aren’t there some very fancy houses that do what Madame Albin does? I heard of it talked about in whispers. I think some very powerful men go there, to meet glamorous women away from their wives.”

“Of course,” Fabienne said knowingly, “but not like Madame Albin’s. Men like that don’t go to her. They have very elegant women, and the madams charge a huge amount of money. It’s all very secret, and very grand. I’ve heard about those houses too, but never been there.” Angélique was looking at her intently—they were like two young girls up to mischief. Angélique sat lost in thought for a minute.

“What would it take to put together a house like that?” Angélique said after a few minutes.

Fabienne laughed in answer. “A lot of money. A beautiful house, or a very nice one, beautiful clothes, gorgeous women, wonderful food and wine, probably servants. It would cost a fortune. And you’d have to make it like a secret club that everyone would want to come to, so important men feel comfortable there. You’d have to be very rich and know a lot of important people to do something like that.” She’d heard of a luxurious house like that near the Palais Royal, but had never met anyone who had worked there. It was a world away from Madame Albin’s.

“Have you ever known girls who worked in those places, not like Madame Albin’s?”

“I met one once. She said she used to work in one of the best houses in Paris, but she drank a lot, and got fat, and I think she stole money and they threw her out. She was very pretty though. And I heard about two others who went into business together, and had important clients. They made a lot of money, and retired to the South. Why?”

“What if we started a house of our own? I know it sounds crazy, but one of those really fancy ones, with a nice house, and some really beautiful girls, and important men would want to come there. Like a meeting place for those men, with girls. Do you think you could meet some girls like that?”

“I could try. I could ask around. They’re probably all in other houses, though. But if the house is nice enough, they might come, and they could bring their regular clients. But you’d need a lot of money to do it.”

“I might be able to get some, if it’s not too much. And it would have to be a safe place for the girls to work. Where they would be protected, and never treated badly, and they’d get a fair share of the money they make for the house.”

“Are you talking about a hotel or a bordel?” Fabienne teased her, but she could see a spark of excitement in Angélique’s eyes. She was thinking. It certainly wasn’t what her father had intended her to do with his money, but maybe if they did it for a few years, she could make some money, and then they’d all retire. And it would be a lot better for those women than working on the streets on their own, or in bad houses where they were exploited. She couldn’t think of what else to do now—she was never going to get a decent job, and her father’s money would buy her a home one day, but she couldn’t live on it forever. She still needed to work. And all respectable doors for good jobs were closed to her now. This seemed like a creative solution to the situation she was in, and a chance to make money to add to what her father had left her, so she wouldn’t have to be a nanny.

“I’m serious,” Angélique said. “What if we created the best bordel in Paris? One of the really luxurious ones, with the most beautiful women, where all the best men wanted to come? If I find the house, do you think you could find the girls, with good connections and important clients?”

“I could try. Do you really mean it?” Fabienne was stunned.

“I do.”

“How many girls do you want?” Fabienne was looking at her with admiration.

“How many do we need?” Angélique was learning a new business.

“Six would be good. Eight would be better. And what about you? Would you work too?” Fabienne was shocked that she’d consider it. Angélique didn’t look the type, but you never knew. Some of the most famous prostitutes in Paris looked like respectable women, and weren’t. Fabienne had heard of them. And they usually had important protectors.

Angélique shook her head at her question. “No, I wouldn’t. I would run it, and protect the women, and I’d even talk to the clients. But they can’t have me. That’s my one condition.”

“Most madams just run it, and some only have a few clients,” Fabienne said thoughtfully.

“Not even a few,” Angélique said with a look of steel in her eyes.

“All right then. It’s your house, your rules.”

“Find the girls, and not too young. They have to be interesting and experienced, and good to talk to.” Fabienne nodded—she was beginning to understand Angélique’s vision. It was far beyond anything she’d ever seen, but she liked the idea, and it was much better than going back to Madame Albin, or risking her life on the streets alone, being beaten up, and fleeing the police. “I’ll look for the house,” Angélique said. “Now you have to get well, so you can start looking for the girls.”

“Do you think you can really do it?” Fabienne asked her with a look of amazement. It sounded like a dream to her.

“I don’t know. Let’s try.” She didn’t want to squander her father’s money, she wanted it to work. “I want to have the best bordel in Paris.” And as they started to make a list of what they needed to make it happen, Angélique knew that destiny had just opened a door, and showed her a new path. It suddenly felt fated that she and Fabienne had met. Angélique looked over at her and smiled. A whole new life for both of them had just begun.