Francine, or the Intrepid Emigrée chapter 1

Chapter 1

Francine wondered why the head preceptress had called her to her office.  She had not done anything of note which was likely to get her into trouble; or at least, nothing which the head was likely to know about.  Miss Phipps had already punished her for the satirical poem about Miss Luther, who lived up to her name in being puritanical and mean, and it must be too soon for the dancing master to discover, and complain about, the baby mouse she had introduced to his wig while her friend, Daphne Kempe, distracted him.

They were too old for such things, really, but M. Despard, who was a counterfeit Frenchman, had been most unfair to the new girl, Harriet Brightman, who could not help being clumsy after the coaching accident had killed her mama and half crippled her.  Francine did not like M. Despard, as she was a real French emigrée, and she despised his acting. She was usually in trouble for speaking to him exclusively in French, being told “You must learn the language of the country which has given you succour.”

Francine doubted that M. Despard, or whatever his real name was, knew as much English vocabulary or grammar as she did, having spent the greater part of her life in England.

She knocked, and was bade to enter.

“Ma’am?” asked Francine, with her best, innocent, poor little emigrée look.

“Miss DuChesne, Miss Cotton is here with some bad news for you,” said the head, with a sympathetic look, getting up and leaving the room.  Francine turned to see the small, neat, dark figure of Miss Cotton, who, together with her friend, Miss Tavistock, were her mother’s best customers, and who paid for her to come to school, so that her prospects might be better than those of a penniless emigrée.  Madame DuChesne had escaped the terror, her husband, Francine’s father, guillotined for the crime of being doctor to aristos, and Miss Cotton and Miss Tavistock had helped to set her up as a milliner, which trade enabled the DuChesnes to live well enough, especially with the local patronage. As two of the patrons besides Miss Cotton and Miss Tavistock were the Viscountess Rookwood and her wealthy friend, Mrs. Duval, the living was satisfactory, but they employed only one servant, and Mme DuChesne, whose health was indifferent, was wont to sigh for the days when they had six servants and a coachman.

Miss Cotton took Francine’s hands.

“My dear,” she said, pausing.

“It’s Maman, isn’t it?” said Francine.  “She is sick with the coughing again, no?”

Miss Cotton sighed.

“I ... there is no easy way to say this, Francine, the last coughing bout was too much for her heart.  Your maman died, and it was too quick for us to fetch you in time to say goodbye, though Effie, Miss Tavistock, had put on boots and purposed to ride cross country.”

“How good she is; how good both of you are,” said Francine, wondering why she was not crying.  “Did Miss Tavistock quote Horace?”

“Yes, ‘Eheu fugaces, Postumus, Postumus’.”

“It is appropriate,” said Francine.  Softly she added,

“Alas, friend, time, which passes by,

Brings stricken eld as the years fly.

The gods will never place a hold

Upon decay as we grow old.  Only Maman was not really old in years, only in body and spirit; but she said often that she longed to be with Papa.”

“How you and Effie make such clever free translations from Latin I do not know,” said Miss Cotton.

“But we are not as clever with our hands as you are, dear Miss Cotton,” said Francine.  “I should grieve.  Why am I not?”

“My poor child, you are shocked,” said Miss Cotton.

“I am wondering what I am to do,” said Francine.  “I suppose I should leave school and take up Maman’s job as milliner.”

“That would be a waste of us having educated you, unless you want to be a milliner,” said Miss Cotton.

“Oh!  No, I hate millinery.  But I am not sure I know enough to be a governess, though at least I could suppose to obtain a superior position for being French enough for it to bring cachet to my employer, and English enough not to contaminate my charges with any Frenchness.”

“Now that was snide.  But you do not have to be a governess, my dear, for Effie and I were of a mind to adopt you as our joint daughter; the house is in my name so officially it is I who would be your guardian, but we would like you to call us Aunt Effie and Aunt Anne.”

“I ... that is very generous of you, Miss ... Aunt Anne, I mean.”

“We have never married and so are not blessed with children, so we should be happy to have a daughter,” said Miss Cotton.  “We are not wealthy, but we are not poor, and we shall do our best to see you have as happy a life as you wish, whether that involves marriage, or studying, or what.”

“You are kind,” said Francine; and now she burst into tears.

Miss Cotton wrapped her arms around the child, and gave her a cuddle. Francine leaned in to the embrace, crying like a baby.  Then she pulled away.

“What of school?  Am I to stay here? Or go back with you?  Am I to return here after the funeral, or stay with you and ... and Aunt Effie?”

“I thought you might come away with me for now, and pay your last respects to your maman, and decide what you want to keep, and after the funeral, you can then decide what you wish to do,” said Miss Cotton.

“Thank you; you are very good,” said Francine.  “I will go now, and pack.”

Daphne was hanging about on the landing, waiting to hear why Francine had been called to the head’s office. Harriet was there too, holding herself up on the balustrade, her damaged leg dragging.

“What is it? You look as though you had a whipping! Surely he did not find the mouse yet?” whispered Daphne.

“Oh, Daphne, no, we are not in trouble, though I pray you if he finds out, blame me totally, for I will not be here to face the music.  My Maman has died, and I am going to clear out her things, and probably to live with my new adoptive aunts.  I think once I have buried her, I will not wish for the comforts of being a child at school any more.  Come and help me pack.”

“Oh Francie!  We will miss you,” said Daphne, as she and Harriet followed Francine to their dormitory room to pack her trunk. “I am so sorry about your mother, and I wish I could help.”

“Me too; you have been kind to me since I started here,” said Harriet.

“I will see if I can invite both of you to stay,” said Francine. “My dear aunts are the ladies who paid for me to come here.”

“Oh!” said Daphne. “The ones you think are a couple in Sapphic love?  I would never have known what to look for.”

“We who are French understand l’amour,” said Francine. “Moreover, love is love, and we do not judge in the same way many English do.”

“I do not understand,” said Harriet.

“Oh, it is just that they are like a married couple,” said Francine, shrugging in the Gallic way that no amount of rulers slapped across her errant shoulders had ever broken her of doing.  “Enfin, they enjoy themselves and are happy, so me, I say, who should say it is wrong?”

“Oh,” said Harriet. “I still don’t see how two ladies can be a married couple though; in the prayer book...”

“Ah, bah, they are like a married couple; I did not say they were married,” said Francine. “The prayer book does not take account of men loving men or women loving women. Me, I say it is nobody’s business.”

“I think that is wise, but I will not marry you,” said Daphne.

Francine managed a chuckle.

“Me, I like men, not women,” she said.  “I would like to meet one, one day.”

“What do you mean? Surely you have met men; there is M. Despard for one, and Dr. Granger, the dentist the school uses.”

“Yes, but I have yet to meet a real man,” said Francine. “Despard is a lying man-milliner, and the dentist is a foul monster. Bah! He is three hundred years old, he smells and he mumbles as if it was his mouth full of his foul tobacco-scented fingers not his victims’s.”

“You have a point,” conceded Daphne. “Will your aunts permit you to meet men, or will they want you to live as they do?”

“They are not idiots; they will introduce me to other young people, for they enjoy society,” said Francine.  “They are in demand at soirées and musicales, for they sing well.”

“Write to us?” asked Harriet.

“Most certainly,” said Francine.

Miss Euphemia Tavistock drew Francine into her arms for an unwonted embrace, before releasing her.  Miss Tavistock was a large-boned, tall woman, whose voice was surprisingly higher than that of her smaller companion.

“In your shoes, I’d want overnight to get used to the idea, and then go straight on to sorting out your mother’s things,” she said.  “But it’s how you feel.”

“Oh, Miss... er, Aunt Effie, I agree with you,” said Francine.  “I feel quite bruised by the news; is that a silly way to put it?”

“Not at all; sums up grief and a shock nicely,” said Miss Tavistock.  “I’ve a warm brick in your bed, for shock makes you cold, whatever the weather, and a nightrail wrapped round it to warm that too, and if you’d like to put yourself to bed, I’ll be up presently with a cup of chocolate, and some of Anne’s lemon meringue pie, for there’s nothing like sweet things when you are feeling low.  And if you have a sleep then, you shall have dinner on a tray, and I’ll read you Robinson Crusoe until you fall asleep.”

“You are all that is good,” said Francine, touched that Miss Tavistock even understood that being read to by a soothing voice, reading something familiar, would help. 

“You will be able to tackle your mother’s shop tomorrow, and I have asked dear Nell, Lady Rookwood, that is, and she has said that she will store any furniture we cannot store in our own little cottage, for the Priory is a rambling great place and has plenty of room.”

“Lady Rookwood is most kind,” murmured Francine.  Lady Rookwood had such a romantic story, for her courtship by the viscount had involved finding pirate treasure, no less! And she was a pretty lady, only a few years older than Francine, with merry eyes.  She was a good customer, too. “Perhaps she will also like to purchase at a cut price some of Maman’s stock.”

“More than likely,” said Miss Tavistock.  “Are you going to sell it all, or gift it to friends?”

Francine brightened.

“I can send Daphne and Harriet a new bonnet each,” she said.  “And some of the ready-made gowns, though I would like to keep the fabric which is not made up, for you and Aunt Anne and me to use. It is very silly that in England, someone called a Milliner not only makes millinery but also has to have simple gowns in stock, and stockings, and gloves. In France, Maman told me, such things are separate.”

“It would make sense, but that is the way it is; even in London, where you would think there would be more specialist shops,” said Miss Tavistock. “In a small place like Prior’s Eleigh, however, you could hardly expect anyone to specialise; indeed, your mother was as much a haberdasher as a milliner or mantua-maker. The village folk will miss her, but do not let any of them talk you into taking her place unless it is really what you want.”

“I shall not, Aunt Effie,” said Francine.  “I do not want to be a milliner, mantua-maker, parasol-seller or haberdasher, for I value my eyesight.”  She considered. “Should it be sold as a business, including the fabrics?”

“You could do so, if you so wished,” said Miss Tavistock.  “I know many people do so.”

“I do not even know who owns the shop, whether I have limited time to clear it, whether the owner will permit me to leave any stock there to sell to a new renter, whether it is a lease which may be sold, or what,” said Francine.

“Oh, as to that, there is no problem; Anne and I own the shop,” said Miss Tavistock.

“Oh!  But you will not want it to be unused.  I ... will you mind if I take some of the fabrics?  If you have any other person in mind to take on the business?” asked Francine.

“You take whatever you want, my love, and if you are generous enough to leave any as a basis for someone indigent who needs a hand up, then that is kindly of you, and if you prefer to take it all, then we will see to stocking as need be.”

“I would not be so unkind!” said Francine. “You gave us everything we needed to live.  But I should like some of the fabrics Maman made up for other people, like Lady Rookwood, and Mrs. Duval, and so on. I have envied them their beautiful fabric for their gowns. Maman would let me touch the fabric on the bolts, but such fabrics were too valuable to make up for me,” she added, wistfully.

“Then why don’t we all spend a couple of days going through the stock, and making inventories?” said Miss Tavistock.  “We have nobody in mind immediately, but Anne and I will be looking for some genteel lady who has fallen on hard times through no fault of her own, in order to give her a hand up.  A hand out is charity, which is hard, cold and grudging, whatever St Paul might say; there is always a difference between theory and practice.  A hand up is what you give to a neighbour, or someone who is about to become a neighbour.”

Francine nodded.

“I will remember that,” she said. “Your words are wise and thoughtful.  And a proud woman may accept a hand up, where a hand out would be an insult.”

“Exactly,” boomed Effie Tavistock. “Now to bed, little one.”

Francine was glad to cuddle down into goose feather down, with a hot brick at her feet, and a night rail, one of her mothers’, she thought, warmed by it, with good hot chocolate to sip, and Aunt Anne’s wonderful lemon meringue pie.

Maman would be the first to adjure her to rebuild her life, and move forward.  It was her mother’s watchword, courage! En avant!

Francine scrambled out of bed before lying down for a nap, to give thanks for Aunt Anne and Aunt Effie, and all their kindness.  Without them, she and her mother would have been lost, and it must have been a relief to her poor mother to know that her daughter would be cared for.  Poor Maman, she had struggled against the illness, but at least she was now free of pain. And with Papa.

Francine cried herself to sleep, but the sleep did her good, and she was ready to eat from a tray when Miss Tavistock brought one to her at dinner time, and then came to read her back to sleep, as though she were a mere child, instead of being almost eighteen years old.