TMIAP Chapter 4

The path from Argent Plaza to her lodgings was short but lively—plenty to look at. Dinner at the inn that evening was satisfactory.

Monica fell asleep turning the young man called Luis over in her mind and woke the next morning having forgotten him entirely. The interview was to blame.

Mistress Oraingne had given her the family's name: Mollette. The Mollette estate occupied one end of the great-house district Luis had pointed her toward—a considerable climb from the shoreline, in full sun.

The taffeta dress was stifling. She had genuinely not known harbor sunlight could be this relentless.

She really ought to buy a hat.

But the only hat Monica owned was a worn wool cap she pulled over her ears in winter. She resolved, on receipt of her first week's wages, to acquire something smart.

Then she saw the ladies of quality strolling the shoreline under beautiful parasols, and amended the resolution: something smart, and perhaps a delicate parasol with torchon lace trim, if that wasn't excessive.

Then she noticed the loose wooden nail protruding from the handle of her old bag—worn at every corner—and the amendment expanded again. A new bag as well, evidently.

There was, in any case, a very great deal she wanted.

The mistress of the house herself, encountered at the top of that long climb, was magnificent.

The pleasant face, the soft smile, the hair elegantly coiled in brown—all that, certainly. But what truly made the impression was the iced tea she produced, without ceremony, for a woman who had not yet been hired.

"Come in, you must be warm. Please."

"Good heavens..."

Monica was undone by the transparent ice sitting in the deep red tea.

'Ice. In this heat.'

She had heard that even His Majesty the king considered ice a luxury.

To serve it to a common young woman come for a governess interview—the household was either comprehensively kind or comprehensively wealthy. Monica suspected it was both.

Madame Mollette, plainly well-practiced with this reaction, lifted her own cup first with a small smile. Monica caught up hastily. She had just begun to think she might have displayed rather too much feeling—but then the cold reached her lips, and the thought dissolved.

"How delightful..."

"I was astonished myself when I first arrived in La Spezia. Ice in high summer."

Madame Mollette set down her cup and smiled.

While Monica drank, the Madame explained the considerable ingenuity the people of La Spezia had invested in developing cold-storage solutions for summer.

"Alcohol?"

"My goodness—how did you work that out so quickly?"

Madame Mollette's hand flew to cover her mouth. Her eyes went wide.

"My husband needed a hundred explanations before he understood it."

"Your kind explanation made it clear." The performance: technically excellent. Assessment: landed. "But that means I can leave Martinael in your good care without worry."

Martinael—that was the name of the younger Mollette child, the one Monica would be tending.

When she said it, something distinctly warmer moved into Madame Mollette's dark eyes. The measure of her feeling for the boy required no interpretation.

"He came to me at the hardest time. People think I must worry constantly because he is delicate—but they are quite wrong. My darling Martinael has chased away every difficulty simply by being here."

A comprehensively optimistic woman.

"How old is he?"

"Ten. And forgive me—how shall I address you? O—"

Monica spoke before the dreadful surname could arrive.

"Monica will do perfectly."

"How thoughtful. And how old are you, Monica dear? Mistress Oraingne mentioned it, but my memory has not been what it was lately."

Madame Mollette used the name with cheerful ease. Monica smiled back.

"Twenty-two."

"Oh! The same age as my daughter."

The daughter, she explained, was not yet married. For a noblewoman this was unusual—girls of good family generally married around twenty. Madame Mollette shook her head.

"The war stretched everything out. I can't say I mind, honestly—more time with my daughter; what could be nicer? Though she is such a good girl..."

And with that, Madame Mollette was launched on the subject of her beloved Liella.

By the time the ice in Monica's cup had finished melting, she had learned that Liella Mollette had remarkable skill with her hands, lashes so thick she looked like a doll when she blinked, and a carriage that was nothing short of elegant.

"She tells me she'd rather never marry and live with me always. She has quite the childish streak for her age, that girl."

Monica smiled.

"I understand completely. If I had a mother like you, I should want to stay forever as well."

"Oh—might you—"

Madame Mollette caught herself, hand at her mouth.

Monica blinked, quite deliberately.

"I have no parents."

"I'm sorry."

"Not at all. I'm quite used to it."

Mistress Oraingne had evidently not mentioned the orphan status.

Monica's opinion of Mistress Oraingne improved. And it was not only Mistress Oraingne.

Monica let her gaze move briefly around the room. Blue silk wallpaper. Beautiful portraits and ornaments arranged above it. A deep crimson bookcase and chairs with antique vine scrollwork carved in intaglio. Genuinely magnificent, at a glance.

And seated across from her: a kind woman who was, all by herself, equally magnificent.

Monica felt the familiar pang—sharp and specific—for the Mollette daughter she had not yet met. Twenty-two years old, the same age as her, with no other obvious common ground.

How fortunate, to live in a house like this with a mother like that. The girl who doubtless passed her days reading expensive books and drinking iced tea without a second thought would feel no particular urgency about marriage. Marriage meant leaving this house. Leaving this mother.

Then Madame Mollette reached across and took Monica's hand. Monica looked up.

"I like you very much, Monica dear." Her voice was warm, her brows soft. "You seem quite wonderfully capable. I think you will care for Martinael beautifully."

"You are far too kind."

"While you're in this house, think of me as you would a mother. If anything troubles you, come to me directly. Will you promise that?"

Monica's chest lifted.

It was, almost certainly, a courtesy—the sort of warmth a generous employer dispensed freely. But what it meant, in practical terms, was that Monica had a place in this beautiful house.

"I should have loved to introduce you to Martinael right away—but he's napping just now."

"Of course. A proper nap is essential for a growing child."

"My! Visitors from the capital tend to take a rather dim view of napping."

"In the south, people always sleep through the worst of the afternoon heat in summer."

Madame Mollette smiled at this and rose. Monica followed, startled into movement a beat later.

The Madame turned to the maid with a small nod.

"Go ahead and show Monica the room beside Martinael's.—And Monica, this is Maria. Give her the address of your lodgings and she'll collect your things."

"Thank you."

"Oh—and the salary—"

Monica's shoulders went very slightly stiff.

Madame Mollette looked at her and smiled.

"Five hundred sing a week."

She had genuinely intended not to react.

She could not manage it.

'Five hundred a month would have been cause for gratitude.'

The wealthy household turned out to mean it.

Madame Mollette watched Monica's green eyes go lamp-wide and gave her a knowing wink.

"Girls your age always have a great deal to spend money on, don't they? You're the same age as my daughter—I simply couldn't not."

"Thank you, Madame. I am so very grateful."

"Thank you, rather. And do please look after my Martinael."

Five hundred a week. Over ten thousand a year. The finest governess in the capital would not command that.

Monica directed every available resource toward suppressing the trembling in her shoulders. She rather thought Maria's glance contained something very like envy.

'First week's wages: summer clothes immediately. And a hat.'

She followed Madame Mollette out into the corridor, her chest unsteady with it.

A summer dress—what would one cost? Embroidery only at the bodice? No—a blue ribbon at the waist would cost less and still look well. Elaborate floral prints or stripes would be dear, but an unbleached ivory linen or a single solid color needn't run to much at all. Current fashion ran to hems just grazing the floor, but those ate through lace at remarkable speed and were the exclusive province of young women with rather more than Monica would be starting with. Even an ordinary dress falling to the ankle—she was quietly confident she could order something quite lovely.

"I'll introduce you to Martinael at dinner, Monica dear."

"That's very kind—are you quite sure—" Her head was full of new clothes. She had not, however, forgotten that she was employed here.

Monica pressed her hands together in the correct gesture of grateful modesty. Dinner in an aristocratic household was, as a rule, a family affair.

"Of course. My precious Martinael—"

It was then.

"My Lady!"

A small boy's voice, bright and carrying—the address that came with it an entire register above anything that voice had yet earned—rang down the corridor.

In the same instant, a quality of warmth quite unlike anything Monica had seen before flooded Madame Mollette's face.

She had understood who it was before she turned.

"Martinael! You're awake. And Liella, too?"

Both children had apparently come together.

"How perfectly timed, Martinael. This is—"

Monica turned and dipped into the southern curtsy she had spent half the previous night practicing—knees softly bent, head inclined, skirt gathered in her fingertips just enough.

Madame Mollette's voice continued, warm.

"Miss Monica, who will be looking after you."

"How do you—"

Monica straightened.

And stopped.

In front of her stood a small boy with brown hair and bright black eyes—Madame Mollette's face reproduced in miniature, almost exactly.

It was not the boy who had stopped her.

Behind him stood a young woman. No one could have doubted for a moment that she was Liella Mollette. Brown hair much like her mother's. Gray eyes. Round cheeks, plump as sweets, and in their quality of ease a refinement that came from never having had occasion to worry. A pink-striped dress, fashionably current, entirely charming on her.

Monica finished her greeting.

"...to meet you."

'You're smart and pretty. The director scolds me every single day... I'll never have a chance. Because I'm a stupid, worthless wench! But you—you'll have another good chance, won't you?'

Lizzie.

Lizzie Orphen.

The girl Monica could not forget even in dreams—who had once shared her surname—was standing right there.