The Marquis' Daughters: In the Shadow of the Guillotine Read online

  The Marquis' Daughters

  In the Shadow of the Guillotine

  Valerie Anne Hudson

  Copyright © 2021 Valerie Anne Hudson

  All rights reserved

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  ISBN-13: 9781234567890

  ISBN-10: 1477123456

  Cover design by: Art Painter

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2018675309

  Printed in the United States of America

  Terror, terror, terror. Life was a reign of terror in the shadow of the guillotine.

  Paulo Coelho

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Epigraph

  The Marquis’ Daughters

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Author's Notes

  About The Author

  Books By This Author

  The Marquis’ Daughters

  In the Shadow of the Guillotine

  Prologue

  I have nothing but contempt for the family I work for. I despise their arrogance, their indifference, and their smug sense of superiority. As I say to Cook, the amount of food that appears on their table every day is shameful. It’s enough to feed half of Paris! Cook just shakes her head at me and tells me to watch my tongue, but it’s not just me complaining. That’s why there’s a Revolution going on. Ordinary folks are sick to death of queuing up for bread and going without, while they — the aristocracy — get richer, fatter, and lazier by the minute.

  Mind you, my feelings of contempt toward the Marquis de Montesquieu and his family aren’t just about the amount of food they eat. It’s more personal than that. In fact, I’ve wanted revenge on this family ever since I found out, at the age of five, that I wasn’t good enough to play with their only daughter, Marie-Madeleine.

  My name is Odette. I grew up in this grand mansion, trailing along behind my mother, Jeanne, as she endlessly cleaned, scrubbed, polished, and picked up after Lord and Lady de Montesquieu. On a few rare occasions, when Marie-Madeleine and I happened to be in the same area of the house, we would play together. She and I were splashing around in the fountain one morning as my mother swept the courtyard, when Lady de Montesquieu stepped out of the house, flanked by two of her uniformed footmen.

  “Marie-Madeleine!”

  Her Ladyship’s temper was legendary. She could reduce you to a quivering wreck just by looking at you. Everyone in the vicinity froze in silent fear at the sound of her outrage. Even the birds stopped chirping.

  “Get away from that … child … right now! In the house with you! It’s time for your dance lesson.”

  As Marie dutifully made her way to the house, her mother bent down so she was at eye level with her, and shook her arm roughly.

  “You must never play with that child again! Do you hear me? Never!”

  Marie shrugged her shoulders and ran inside for her lesson, while Lady de Montesquieu re-directed her rage. I couldn’t help but gaze up at her, open-mouthed. Resplendent in a sky-blue velvet dress, with wide hooped skirts and white lace-trimmed sleeves, she was indeed a sight to behold. Her hair was powdered and magnificently curled, while pale blue shoes with pointed toes and satin bows complemented her outfit. I was mesmerized by her beauty.

  But her appearance suddenly lost all its magic as she began her ugly tirade upon my mother.

  “How dare you! How dare you let that child anywhere near Marie-Madeleine! You should be grateful we kept you on! Just stay out of my way, and keep her,” she gestured over to me, “out of sight!”

  I didn’t understand why her Ladyship was so venomous towards us until a few years later. But my heart went out to my poor mother then and there, as she stood with her head bowed — as if in shame. Thin, tired, with dark circles under her eyes, she bobbed a curtsy and took my hand to lead me away without saying a word. From then on, I was confined to the servants’ quarters. My mother refused to tell me why, and eventually, I just gave up asking.

  A few years later, smallpox swept a vicious path throughout Paris. The de Montesquieu house was hit hard, inflicting upon my mother a slow and painful death. I was so wrapped up in my grief that I barely registered the fact that Lady de Montesquieu had also died.

  “We’re all equals when it comes to the pox,” said Cook. “Doesn’t matter how rich or poor you are.”

  My mother’s death left me an orphan. I had always been told vaguely that my father had been killed in the war — which war I didn’t know; my mother would never talk about him. To my knowledge, I had no other family, until a conversation with Mme. Bonnet led me to believe otherwise.

  The house was still in mourning. Not for my mother, of course, whose death was never publicly acknowledged by the Marquis, but for her Ladyship. The servants had to attend her memorial service. I stood stiff and resentful as she was sent ‘into the arms of God with a host of heavenly angels.’ What a joke. She had been a cold, unfeeling woman who took pleasure in terrorizing everyone around her. Meanwhile, the passing of my long-suffering mother seemed meaningless to the people for whom she had toiled her entire life.

  My mother’s body was taken away in a cart to be buried in a mass grave, the idea of which horrified me, giving me nightmares for years to come. The servants comforted me as best they could, and we all gathered together in the kitchen to send her off with a few prayers. Madame Bonnet, the elderly housekeeper, whom I had affectionately called Bonbon since I was old enough to talk, made a nice speech. I didn’t really understand all of it, but I was happy to hear how much people had loved my mother.

  “Poor Jeanne. She will be sadly missed, such a hard worker as she was. She was always kind to others, and never complained, even when she had cause, being treated the way she was by those who should know better.” Here, Bonbon paused, and turned to look at me. “She was wronged, that’s for sure. But she accepted her lot in life and always said how blessed she was to be given this little one here.”

  A few days after our little send-off, I was sitting in the kitchen with Bonbon. It was late, and all the other servants had gone to bed, except for Cook, who was readying the kitchen for the morning. Bonbon told me she had news for me. The Marquis had informed her that I would be allowed to stay on at the house as a servant, even though my mother was gone.

  “You’re lucky,” she said. “He could have put you out onto the streets. But since you’re all of ten years old now, he figures you can just carry on with your mother’s duties.”

  She took a sip of her wine and studied me intently.

  “But I don’t want to be a servant,” I said.

  Noticing her hurt expression, I tried to explain myself. “I want to be someone important! I want to be a lady!”

  “Oh, my dear, you can’t change who you are,” said Cook from acro
ss the room.

  “Well, maybe I can. Maybe my father was someone important. Did you know my father?”

  “No,” said Bonbon. “We didn’t. And I think you’d better get those fancy notions out of your head. Just be grateful for a roof over your head and three meals a day. There’s a lot of folks out there who have nothing. Now, off to bed with you!”

  She was being kind to me, I knew that. But she just didn’t understand.

  As I left the kitchen and pulled the door shut behind me, I heard Bonbon laugh.

  “Ha! ‘Maybe my father was someone important,’ she says! Can you believe it? If she only knew!”

  “Poor little mite.” It was Cook’s voice. “The Marquis’ daughter, poor girl, her mother never told her! Good Lord, you only have to look at the girl to see the resemblance. No wonder her Ladyship was so spiteful to her poor mother, all those years.”

  “Yes, well, she shouldn’t have been. It’s not like Jeanne had any choice in the matter.”

  “No. It’s a cruel world we live in …”

  There the conversation fizzled out. I stood in the hallway in a state of shock for several minutes, trying to understand what I’d just heard. Finally, hurt and confused, I dragged myself upstairs and into bed, spending a sleepless night wondering why my own father wanted me kept as a common servant while his other daughter grew up in the lap of luxury. I didn’t tell anyone what I knew. From then on, when my path crossed his, in the house or on the grounds, I noticed how he would turn his head away from me, as if he didn’t want to acknowledge my existence.

  As the years passed, I became acutely aware of my inferiority and turned increasingly resentful, not only towards the Marquis, but also towards Marie-Madeleine, who was, after all, my half-sister. I watched from a distance as she took lessons in singing, deportment, dance, and learned to play the harpsichord. She was taught to read and write, to embroider, to ride a horse. As a teenager, she spent hours with her dressmaker and hairdresser, was invited to dinners and balls, attended the opera and the ballet. All this while I scrubbed floors, emptied bedpans, and struggled to hang wet, heavy sheets on the line.

  But support for the Revolution has been growing stronger. Some aristocrats are already leaving Paris, in fear for their lives. It gives me secret pleasure to see that many of Marie’s activities have been curtailed — she isn’t being invited to fancy balls any longer because there simply aren’t any. And my position in the house has changed for the better. When I turned eighteen, Mme. Bonnet promoted me. I’m now Marie’s lady’s maid.

  Chapter 1

  Odette; Paris, 1791

  I was astute enough to realize that Marie-Madeleine had no idea we shared the same father. She was happy to have been delegated her own maid, but treated me no differently than she would have treated any other servant: cold, aloof, and arrogant, just like her mother before her. She seemed to have no memory of our innocent, fun-filled childhood days when we played together as friends.

  The first time I stood behind her at her dressing table mirror, about to brush her hair, I covertly compared our faces. We looked so much alike! Same hair and eye color, same features. I wondered how Marie herself could not have noticed. But, of course, she’s so spoilt and self-absorbed, she doesn’t think of anyone but herself.

  My duties as a lady’s maid were far lighter than those to which I had become accustomed as an ordinary servant. Nevertheless, Cook sent me out early one morning to pick up some provisions.

  “Why do I have to go?” I whined. “I’m a lady’s maid now. I shouldn’t have to do stuff like that.”

  “You’ll do as you’re told, Missy,” Cook replied. “And don’t get all high-and-mighty with me, or you’ll feel the back of my hand!”

  I knew better than to argue. I sighed dramatically and slammed the door behind me, just to make a point. I headed off straight away to the market with the list and money she’d given me. To be fair, in normal times I might have enjoyed a leisurely trip to the shops, but these were no ordinary times. I knew I would have to line up for some of the items on the list. People were so angry nowadays, and I would have to be careful to avoid the unruly gangs that seemed to rule the streets. The food shortages had become so bad that people were starving and desperate — some of them would do anything for a stale crust.

  We lived in a wealthy part of the city, on a street which housed just two other mansions similar to the de Montesquieu’s. Each house was set well back from the street and surrounded by high walls. I noticed that one of our neighbors must have moved away because their windows were shuttered and their doors boarded up. They were right to leave. It really wasn’t a good time to be a member of the aristocracy. I wondered briefly if our household would be uprooted any time soon.

  I cut through the park across the street and headed towards the market. It was still early, but already uncomfortably humid. The air felt heavy with the threat of rain, and I thought I heard a rumble of thunder in the distance. As the streets became shabbier, they also became more crowded. People were out in droves, looking to either buy, steal, or beg for food. Outside the bakery, a long line-up was spilling out into the street, impeding the progress of carts and carriages, creating chaos, not to mention a great deal of colorful language. I thanked my lucky stars I didn’t have to buy bread — Cook baked our bread every day, although she complained she was running low on flour.

  “HEY! You stole my place, you thieving whore!”

  A fight was breaking out between two women outside the bakery. One grabbed the other by her hair and they both fell to the ground, rolling on the dirty cobbles as they clawed at each other. The crowd fell back to watch, shouting encouragement and enjoying the entertainment. As I ducked away in search of the onions on my list, I heard someone shout.

  “The guards are coming! Watch out!”

  That should quieten things down, I thought. You didn’t want to get arrested for anything these days. From what I’d heard, it didn’t matter what you’d done or not done, you’d likely end up being either executed or locked up for life.

  Finally, having bought the spices, potatoes, and onions Cook had asked for, I was about to cross the street and head for home when someone bumped into me from behind and tugged at my basket. I caught a quick glimpse of my attacker: a young man, filthy-looking, sporting the working man’s smock and loose trousers that almost every man in Paris was wearing at the time. Enraged that he would dare try to steal from me, I yanked the basket away from him, gave him a hard kick in the shin, then shoved him with as much force as I had in me. He fell over backward with a surprised yelp. I gave him another kick for good measure and took off quickly through the crowds.

  I may be thin, but I’m tough, let me tell you. Nobody messes with me!

  Heart pounding and breathless, I scurried back through the streets and arrived at the house. It was a relief to feel safe behind those walls, and I was anxious to tell my story to anyone who’d listen. But as soon as I set foot inside the kitchen, Mme. Bonnet told me that her Ladyship was awake and demanding my attention.

  Marie-Madeleine was still in bed, lying propped up against an abundance of feather pillows, reading poetry aloud to her dog, Frou-Frou. In a room so delicately decorated in shades of pink and white, with a closet full of beautiful dresses, a cabinet containing gold, silver and diamond jewelry, and shelves of books on every topic imaginable, how could she possibly be bad-tempered?

  But bad-tempered she was.

  “There you are! We would like our hot chocolate now!”

  She turned to kiss her dog on the top of its head. “Isn’t that right, Frou-Frou?”

  Frou-Frou whimpered, licked her face, then turned to bark at me. For such a little bundle of white fur, Frou-Frou had to be one of the most annoying dogs on the planet. He was just as demanding as his mistress, constantly quivering with either fear or excitement, barking with high pitched, ear-splitting ‘yip-yip-yips,’ and relieving himself on the carpet whenever it suited him.

  I held my tongue, sighe
d inwardly, and said exactly what I was supposed to say:

  “Yes, my Lady.”

  Ten minutes later, as she sipped her hot chocolate and fed Frou-Frou some of the strawberry tarts Cook had made that morning, she informed me that she was going out. On her own. Much as I disliked her, I really didn’t want to be responsible for her being attacked, possibly even murdered, on the streets of Paris. And judging by the angry mobs I’d seen out there that morning, she wouldn’t last five minutes.

  “With all due respect, my Lady, I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

  “YOU don’t think it’s a good idea? Ha! Well, I don’t take advice from you, Odette. I can do what I want.”

  “Yes, my Lady. But it’s very dangerous … And I don’t think the Marquis would approve.”

  “Probably not,” she conceded. “But he’s away right now, so I’m in charge. And you’re not to tell anyone.”

  I had to make her understand the dangers. Not just for her safety, but for mine, too. If it came out that I had allowed her to leave the house on her own, then I’d lose my job. And I had nowhere else to go, so that couldn’t happen.

  “May I ask where you’re going, my Lady?”

  Her eyes slid off to the side as she considered her answer.

  “I’m going to the bookstore.”

  I knew she was lying. I knew she was really going to meet her secret boyfriend. She thought I didn’t know about him, but I’d seen them together in the park. The secret boyfriend was one of the things that most annoyed me about Marie. She was actually betrothed, in an arranged marriage, to a Duke! Which meant that she was to become a Duchess, which is almost royalty. Why she would want to jeopardize that was totally beyond me.

  But I pretended to believe her.

  “Why don’t you wait until your father comes home, and he can take you to the bookstore in the carriage.”

  “I’m not five years old!” she retorted. “I can do this on my own. And I’m not taking a carriage; I’m going to walk there. While I’m gone, you will cover for me. And you will look after Frou-Frou. He can’t come.”