Debra Borchert

Chapter 1

Paris

August 3, 1793

If I had the same rights as a man, I would not have to dress as one.

After waiting for Cook to leave for the market, I raced through the kitchen, down the servants’ stairs, and into the cellar. The pungent odors of ripe apples, stale wine, and fusty onions thickened the air. I pulled out my bundle from behind the vinegar cask and unbuttoned my gown.

The irony of having to masquerade as a man to have equal rights made me want to spit in Robespierre’s face. I wrapped a strip of cloth tightly around my breasts. All the talk of Liberté, Egalité, Fraternité. I pulled on my brother’s tunic.

Liberty? All women were free to do was starve. I stepped into my brother’s breeches and knotted a ribbon at my waist.

Equality? Pah! Our latest government passed a law enabling all men to vote. I tied my neckcloth.

Brotherhood? What about sisterhood? I shoved my arms into the waistcoat. After four years of governmental discussion, girls were finally guaranteed an elementary education. But universities were still closed to women.

Voices from the kitchen stilled me. If my stepmother caught me, she’d send me to a nunnery. My fingers grew numb from grasping the frock coat lapels. Her heavy footsteps headed for the dining room. I shook out my stiff hands.

We had won the right to divorce, but how were all the divorced women supposed to support their children? The memory of Lisette, my former neighbor, standing amongst the prostitutes gathered at the banks of the Seine, calling and taunting sailors, chilled me.

I stomped my feet into the too-big boots. An unmarried woman’s signature was still worthless. But not in America—there women could own businesses and property. I should have gone to America with Henri. I should not have been so stubborn. I had been his mistress for a year, why had I refused to accompany him as one? I adjusted the breeches, trying to ignore my own nagging voice: He never said, I love you.

Coiling my hair into a bun, I pushed my brother’s tricorne down over my curls, opened the cellar door, and peeked out into the late afternoon. A steady rain beat upon the cobbles, washing chamber-pot slops into the gutter at the street’s center. The heels of my brother’s boots were higher than my usual shoes, and I concentrated on keeping my balance as I straddled the gutter.

Staying on narrow back streets, I adjusted my gait, trying to appear confident. As was my habit, I began to pick up my skirts but clutched the frock coat instead and looked around for anyone who might have seen me.

If caught impersonating a man, any other woman would appear before the Public Prosecutor—my father—who would order her head shaved and sentence her to an insane asylum. But if I were arrested, I would disappoint my father, who would feel obligated to make an example of me. As he had recently sentenced Charlotte Corday, the first woman to be guillotined, I feared being dragged before him far more than eight-months in a madhouse.

I splashed through puddles. If I didn’t sail for America soon, my stepmother would have me married to an old goat I didn’t love. But if I had identity papers proving I was a man, I could get a job that paid enough money for passage. Henri had urged me to visit his printer friend, Pierre. How would I convince Pierre to make false papers—a traitorous crime, for him and me? What if Pierre refused, or worse, told my father? I’d make Pierre agree. Today.

Dark gray clouds hung over the river and twisted up the turrets of la Conciergerie, the new home to Marie Antoinette. Even if Henri couldn’t marry me, I was going to join him in America, no matter what crimes I had to commit. Surely he’d tell me he loved me when he saw me again.

Rain slid down the back of my neck, making me shiver. I pulled up my collar. The only right women earned that was equal to a man’s was the privilege of facing Madame Guillotine.

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Chapter 2

Paris

August 3, 1793

The rain let up as I crossed the Seine. A herd of sour-smelling sheep wound around me as I entered Henri’s old neighborhood, one of the poorest in Paris, Faubourg Saint-Marcel. Walking amongst men, wearing frayed blue tunics and pushing carts, I realized Henri had been one of them before he learned that, although illegitimate, he was a noble. And as the new government despised nobles, had Henri stayed in Paris, he would face my father and the guillotine. At least Henri was alive, even if an ocean away. The empty spot Henri had left in my heart ached.

I shook the rain from my frock coat, inhaled deeply, and entered the printshop. A young man pounded the pad of an inkball onto a tray of type, and I tasted a bitter stickiness in the air. Behind him, two men pulled a creaking wooden arm that screwed a press down onto paper.

The clacking of a dozen men’s fingers rapidly shoving metal letters into trays vibrated in the room. If women were taught to read, they could have jobs like these men instead of selling their bodies to feed their children. My heartbeat matched the clicking. “Is Pierre here?” I shouted.

A tall, angular man with wisps of gray hair tied in a brown ribbon at the back of his neck looked up, wiped his hands on his ink-stained leather apron, and pointed to himself.

“Henri Detré sent me.”

He jerked his head toward a tiny office in the rear of the shop. I followed, and he closed the door, muffling the racket.

“Haven’t seen Detré around.” He leaned against a shelf filled with pamphlets.

I kept my voice low. “He left Paris.”

“For his father’s château?”

“America.” Henri trusted Pierre, so I could be generous with information. “He and his sister emigrated to save the château and the winery.”

His graying brows hooded his eyes.

“Before he left, he told me to see you.”

He crossed his arms over his chest. “Why?”

My courage drained, making my legs shake. I wiped the sweat on my upper lip. “An identity card.”

“Anyone can get one at city hall.”

“I have one.” Fingers trembling, I pulled my card from my waistcoat and offered it.

He looked at it, looked to me, and back at the card. “This is for a woman, Geneviève.”

“That’s me.” I removed my hat, unleashing my hair. His eyebrows jumped, and I tucked my hair back under the tricorne. I willed my voice lower. “But I need one for the man who stands before you.”

Pierre shook his head. “Your father is Public Prosecutor.”

I stepped back. As I had feared, he’d recognized my father’s name. “He doesn’t know.”

“And should he find out?”

A hot metallic odor seeped into the room, reminding me of the heated iron pokers Sanson used to make prisoners confess in the dungeon below my father’s office. Would Papa allow Sanson to torture me into saying Pierre’s name should my false papers be confiscated? “He won’t.”

Pierre wrapped his hand around the back of his neck. “You wish me to commit suicide?”

“You’re not a criminal or a Royalist.” That was true. But if he made false papers for me, he’d be a traitor, and we’d both be executed for treason.

“You could turn me in for helping Henri, a noble.”

“Henri is my friend…and…”

Skepticism etched his face.

I hoped Henri would be my husband one day, but I didn’t say so. “I would never betray Henri, Monsieur.”

He rubbed his neck. “And Henri knows you as a man or a woman?”

I had to act confident. I pressed my hands on the desk and leaned forward. “He assured me I could trust you.”

“Did Henri assure the man or woman?” He tossed my identity card on the desk.

I retrieved it and stood tall. “Both.”

“If I had a daughter, I wouldn’t like her dressing as a man.” He scratched dried ink from his palm. “Could be dangerous.”

“I’m safer dressed as a man—if I have an identity card to prove I’m a man.” I shoved the card into my waistcoat and tugged it down, further flattening my breasts.

“And what if they conscript young men?” He hitched his thumb on his leather belt. “What if they pick you up, thinking you’re a man? You want to go to war? Would Henri want you to go to battle?”

The thought of fighting brought a wave of nausea, and I swallowed against it. Self-righteous indignation came easily for men. “I will go back to being Geneviève—wearing gowns, needing a chaperone, being useless.”

I pressed my hands together. “Please, Monsieur. I met Henri at University, which I attended dressed as a man. Henri believes women are his equal and deserve an education and the right to work.” Tears were gathering, and I blinked furiously. “I need a well-paying job so I can earn enough money to join Henri in America.”

A sad smile came over him. “Each day, before Henri climbed the stairs for his lessons with his tutor, he greeted everyone in my shop, often bringing bread when none could be found. He wanted to help commoners. None of us knew he was a noble until his father was murdered. It’s good he went to America.”

“It’s safer for him there, for now.” My voice wavered. “Please, Monsieur. Henri sent me because he trusts you’ll help me.”

“What will you use the papers for?”

“You would agree it is safer for a man to travel aboard a ship than an unaccompanied woman?”

He cocked his head, staring at me. Sweat trickled down the binding around my breasts, but I stood tall.

He wiped his hands down the front of his leather apron. “What name?”

“Jean.”

He let out a puff of air. “Family name?”

I would honor Henri’s peasant name. “Detré.”

Pierre looked like he’d eaten a sour cherry. “Date of birth?”

“I’m twenty-one.” I clipped my words to appear confident.

He shook his head.

My voice wavered. “Twenty?”

“Are you eighteen?”

I nodded. It wasn’t such a bad lie. I would be in a few months.

He sighed. “Thirty livres—and your promise—”

“Thirty? To buy a pig or sheep costs thirty livres.”

“If not for Henri, it would be double.” He put his hand on the doorknob. “We could both be sent to prison for this.”

A chill shot down the back of my neck. And it would be my father who sent us there. “I will return with the money.”

He kept his hand on the door. “You must promise to never ask this favor again.”

That was an easy promise to keep. I knew no one else who needed false papers. “Of course.”

He grunted and opened the door, allowing me to leave before him.

A fluttering grew below my ribcage, and I pressed my clasped hands against it. I had to appear confident, even if I trembled with fear, for, if I stopped to think about being caught, I’d never leave the house. And that would be the worst kind of prison.

I walked through the shop, the clacking sounds fading as my own voice nagged in my mind. Even if I dressed as a man and got a good paying job, it would take months to earn enough money to pay Pierre. I wanted to sail for America now.

I headed home, walking along the Seine. The whores were already taunting the sailors. How much did they earn? What did they do to prevent becoming with child? The Châtelet, where Papa kept his office, stood brooding like an angry rooster, on the other side of the river.

I had clerked in Papa’s office once; I might be able to convince him to hire me again. I could delay paying Pierre until I earned money for both the papers and passage. No matter what, I needed false papers for the ship. I’d be much safer dressed as a man crossing an ocean.

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Chapter 3

Paris

August 3, 1793

I launched my scheme at dinner. A pristine white linen cloth covered the table. Two Sèvres porcelain candlesticks flanked the matching tureen, sitting at the table’s center. A violent decoration for a dining room, with two red foxes climbing the taper holders and hunting exotic birds around the bowl of the tureen.

My stepmother sat, like a hen on a nest, next to my father. Her gold-colored gown cast a waxy yellow hue to her skin, accenting the wrinkles that crisscrossed her neck and bulging bosom. At her shoulder, an ornate brooch sparked in the candlelight.

Forcing myself to speak before my throat closed, I rushed my words. “Papa, I learned much about laws while I clerked for you last year.” I did not say I needed to understand the idiotic laws if I was going to violate them. I sipped my wine. “Now that the Committee of Public Safety is in control, and the sans-culottes have not rioted in months, I wish to resume my duties to learn of our new government.”

My stepmother clinked her spoon against her bowl. “My dear, it is dangerous for a woman to leave her home. You worry your dear papa. Antoine, you should never have allowed her to clerk.” She pat, pat, patted Papa’s elbow, making him smile.

I nodded like I agreed—but I wanted to shout, women deserve the right to have an education and jobs other than doing laundry or selling fish. Just as Henri had spoken at the National Assembly. If there were such a law, I would not have had to impersonate my brother to attend University, and I could become an attorney, like Henri.

Papa inhaled the steam rising from his soupe d’aspèrges, looked up, and blinked. His curving hairline and whiskers made his face a heart shape, and his narrow nose and round eyes gave him the appearance of a confused, loveable bird. I wanted to hug him. But ever since Maman died, he seemed distant.

“Geneviève, you’re nearly eighteen. You’ve not much time to find a husband.” My stepmother’s lips formed a tight little bow.

Eighteen, not eighty. I chewed a chunk of bread. If I’d left with Henri, at least I’d be a mistress. “I’ve no need of a husband. I wish to support myself.”

“My dear, your behavior is unattractive to men. If you do not marry you will have no one to support or protect you.”

A scream crawled up my chest, and I inhaled so deeply to stop it, my stays dug into my ribs. If I ever did get to change laws, I’d banish corsets.

She smiled lovingly. “Where would I be without your dear papa?”

I wanted to say, in a nunnery, but that wouldn’t convince my father. “Women are equal to men and can perform jobs just as capably.”

“That is not very romantic.” She held Papa’s hand, smiling adoringly.

What an old coquette. But a coquette nonetheless, and the reason Papa was attracted to her. Would I be able to bend and twist myself to get the man I wanted? Was any man worth that? Henri loves me, and he knows I dress as a man. “You have a bit of soup on your cheek.”

Her hand flew to wipe the nonexistent drop.

“It may not be romantic, but I wish to be of service to the Républic.”

“The best way to be of service to the Républic is to marry and have children.”

“Yes, but if I do marry, my husband could die, and I’d have to work or starve. Isn’t that correct, Papa?” He squinted at me. Was he listening?

My stepmother fanned herself. “How unladylike.”

“Starving is unladylike. But women who work to support their families are most honorable ladies.” I smoothed my serviette over my lap, calming my voice. “And what other opportunity would I have to support myself and children besides doing laundry or whoring, like our former neighbor, Lisette?”

Her eyes widened with alarm.

I’d meant to shock her, but I didn’t stop to gloat. It was my father I had to convince, for no other man would hire a woman. “With experience as a clerk, I would be able to support myself and family—including you and your son—should something happen to Papa.”

She fingered her brooch. “I am certain your father has provided for me in that event. As your husband would provide for you. Is that not correct, Antoine?”

Papa took a swig of wine.

“Perhaps. But I don’t want to do other people’s laundry, would you?” I asked.

“Geneviève, do not frighten your maman.” Papa poured more wine. “I would like some more of your delicious soup, Etty.”

My father’s pet name for Henriette made me cringe. I’d never allow anyone to call me Genny. Calling women by children’s names subtly diminished them. But that did not occur to Etty; she considered her pet name a sign of love and affection.

She plucked up the ladle. “Have I told you, Geneviève, that my mother received this Sèvres porcelain as a wedding gift and gave it to your father and me for our wedding?” She lifted the lid, ladled more soup, and replaced the lid with reverence. So proud that Papa loved her family recipe, she placed the bowl before him like it was a crown.

She’d told me that story every time we had soup—every day.

She rested the ladle on a porcelain dish. “Perhaps we shall give it to you and your husband on your wedding day.”

I pressed the locket my real maman had given me against my heart. My mother had been nothing like Etty. Maman was warm and kind and listened to me.