Mistress of the Revolution Read Free

had told me that the book was written in French, a language barely known to me at the time.
    When I was little, the Marquis would sit me on his lap during his Sunday visits to Mamé’s cottage and translate the stories into the Roman language while I tenderly and reverently caressed the velvet of his coat. He always departed too quickly, frightening the chickens in the courtyard, and left the Labro household in the middle of their deep bows and curtseys. I watched the dust the hooves of his horse had raised in the dirt lane long after he was gone. I returned to the book to make up my own stories, looking at the pictures for inspiration.
    In my strange new bedroom at Fontfreyde, my old friends the princesses, fairies, and cats with enchanted boots brought me their usual comfort. My brother interrupted my reading to take me around the château, a maze of hallways, half-flights of stairs, towers, turrets and parlours, most of which were no longer occupied. In the kitchen, the cook, Joséphine, assisted by a scullery girl, was peeling carrots. They curtseyed to us and Joséphine greeted me in the Roman language, which in itself cheered me. That room had a bright fire burning deep in the vast hearth, within which one could sit on benches located on either side, an arrangement called cantou in the Roman language. Hams hung in the upper reaches of the cavernous space. A yellow cat, her eyes closed, her legs stretched, was nursing a kitten almost as large as herself and purring on the brightly coloured pillows on one of the cantou benches. Copper kettles on the table were gleaming orange in the light of the fire.
    Finally my brother took me to the stables. They were vast enough to accommodate many more than the three horses I found there. My brother’s fine bay stallion nickered at us. Two draft horses shifted in their stalls to look at us with curiosity. One of them, by the name of Jewel, black with a white blaze, stood seventeen hands tall, huge even by equine standards.
    “He is not yet nine years old and still growing,” said my brother, “which is very inconvenient since he will no longer match his companion in harness.”
    Jewel nibbled with infinite delicacy at my ears and dress. He lowered his giant head against my neck and breathed in noisily. That was the friendliest gesture I had encountered all day. I leaned against his cheek and kissed him. His coat was silky, his mane and tail long and wavy.
    I looked up at the Marquis. “Would you teach me to ride, Sir?”
    He laughed, a rare occurrence. “Jewel is too large for a lady’s horse, but he is gelded and sweet-tempered. I might give it some consideration if you behave like a good girl.”
    My first supper with my mother and brother was at seven o’clock, in the grand oak-paneled dining parlour. We sat at the fireplace end of a long table lit by two candles. An expanse that could have seated thirty remained in darkness. My brother recited the Benedicite before a meal of roast beef with chestnuts was served. He then spoke little while my mother regaled him with tales of the depravities of the servants and tenants. She said nothing to me; indeed she hardly acknowledged my presence.
    After dinner, we retired to the main drawing room, where my brother sat down with a worn leather treatise on hunting and my mother a volume of Christian Thoughts . I thought it prudent not to fetch my own book and was content to stare at my feet.
    “Do you know how to sew, child?” she asked.
    “Yes, Madam, I was taught in the convent.”
    “You might make yourself useful after all. The maids are a sad lot and never seem to finish anything. I wonder why we bother to keep them. There is a new chemise of mine that was started over a week ago. You will work on it. Do not try to fool me, girl. I want fine, even stitches.”
    She rang for one of the maids to fetch her workbasket. From that moment, I never lacked occupation at Fontfreyde.
    At nine o’clock, all the servants, men and women,