Maëlle had thought staying at Château Clement would allow her more time with Léon, out from under Monsieur Maréchal’s direction and Madame Bayol’s astute gaze. But since they arrived, Léon rarely pays attention to her. It makes her think back with longing to his annoying teasing on the train.
They had taken one walk together, down through the gardens, along the intricate topiary, which she thought lovely but he deemed a “dreadful attempt to harness the wilds of nature.” She argued that in one sense any sort of gardening was an attempt to harness the wilds of nature, but weren’t some gardens lovely? He had snorted in disgust.
“I think Château Clement is the loveliest place I’ve ever seen,” she said, her chin rising in defiance. “And the Clements are so kind and genteel—they’re not at all the spoiled rich people you thought they’d be. Admit it.”
“I’ll admit no such thing. I’ll tell you a secret, though: The only reason you were allowed on this trip is that you are half price.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Bayol wanted you out of the factory—you’re too much of a‘distraction,’ he said. Little girls don’t belong in such an arena. So he wrote to the Clements and told them they could have you for as long as they wanted you, for half what they would pay for even the lowliest assistant in the shop.”
Maëlle’s mouth fell open, but she didn’t know how to respond. She studied the intricate shapes of the topiary, feeling a deep-down but strangely detached sense of devastation. Simultaneously, she tried to talk herself out of it:It was nothing personal.Everyone had implied that the Clements had money trouble; it only made sense they would seek a bargain. And everyone knew that women were thought to be worth less than a man. Everyone knew that.
Léon was staring at her, but when she did not react with anger or tears, he let out an exasperated sound and stormed off, his boots clicking on the hewn stone of the walkway.
Since then he had disappeared increasingly frequently, or when he did appear he was drunk. More than once Maëlle had to hide his intemperate state from their patrons. She set up a pallet in the back of the building so he could sleep it off without returning to his rooms and alerting the household staff to his inebriated presence.
In the meantime, the carousel is developing before her eyes, little by little, pieces coming together, the joints filled and sanded, primed and painted, gilded and sealed.
She hears the men snickering, talking about how Léon is keeping warm these days. Humiliation stings, but it hardens something deep down inside her. Have they always known? Is that why they whisper in front of her, or is it simply that she is a woman and therefore not privy to their jokes?
Finally, Maëlle decides she’s had enough. If she is mistress of this project, then so be it. But if so, she will take a page out of Monsieur Maréchal’s book, and yell.
“Where is he?” she demands of Romain as he brings in a stack of new lumber on his shoulder.
“Who, mademoiselle?”
“You know very well who. This carousel is supposed to have nine men working on it. I realize that as a woman I am worth at least two men, but since Léon Morice is being paid for his labor I would like to know where he is.”
The men hoot at her tone, and the assertion of her worth.
“Is he in town, at the café?” she persists.
Guy, with whom she had traded interesting conversations over the past ten days, steps forward. “I saw him out in the vineyard this morning, Maëlle. He...” Guy drops his voice. “He wasn’t alone.”
“Thank you, Guy. Everyone carry on.” Maëlle hopes her voice sounds as steady and stern as Monsieur Maréchal’s always did in the factory, though she fears it shakes slightly. “We should have that mechanism running within the next few days, and if the painting of the salon remains on schedule we’ll book tickets back to Angers within the week.”
Then she unties her apron, tosses it on the sawhorse, and leaves the building. She heads down the drive, through the vineyard, to the edge of the surrounding woods, where she hears a twig snap.
“Léon?” she calls out, venturing into the forest.
She happens upon Yves Clement, with his ever-present camera.
“Mademoiselle! How nice to meet you out here. Are you a nature lover like me, then?”
“No. I mean yes, monsieur.”
He crooks his head and smiles. “You’re not sure?”
“It’s not that... Yes, I am a nature lover, and your woods are so lovely. All of the grounds, in fact.”
“But you are not enjoying nature at the moment?”
“No, monsieur. At the moment I’m looking for my—” She hesitates, then says, “My master, Léon Morice. Have you happened to see him?”
“No, I’m sorry to say. Though as it happens, I’ve been searching for my lovely wife this morning,” he says. “I wanted to show her a bird’s nest I found. Would you like to see it?”
“No, no. I’m sorry, monsieur,” says Maëlle. She felt a wave of heat sweep over her, leaving nausea in its wake. “I-I really must get back to the carousel. Another time, perhaps.”
