Chapter 2

As the grey morning dawned Jean started up. Her mother had come alive in her dreams and moments of pleasure and peace were relived.

It all disappeared with the light of day seeping through the garret window.

Jean shook her head slightly, as if to clear the thoughts away. There was no sense in dwelling on a lost memory of happiness.

Life was anything but that, now.

She quickly realized that her cloak was a wrinkled mess. She stretched out her legs and painfully rose to greet the day.

Jean wasn't used to hard labor yet. Her arms were sore, her back ached. Each day she felt stronger, though.

"I'm a healthy young woman! I'm getting stronger," she whispered to herself.

Since she had nothing to eat, she shook her dress and cloak, slipped into her worn shoes and made her way downstairs to take care of her wash. A few splashes from the pump and a quick wipe on a hidden fold of her skirt was enough to make her presentable to the judge's housekeeper.

Without disturbing the widow she let herself out of the house, locking the door with the big brass key she'd been given. Her own small key knocked reassuringly against her shin as she stepped quickly down the street.

Chapter 1

Jean found the attic chill with the dusk of December. She drew her muslin skirt around her ankles and surveyed her worn boots.
Pink chambray, indeed! Jean needed warmer underthings and boots that looked like they'd last the winter instead of the week. Her small hands were rough with chilblains. Instead of taking off her threadbare cloak she wrapped it more securely around herself.
Slowly she nibbled the bread from her pocket, not wasting a crumb. The rat would find anything that chanced to be wasted. It was too dark to open her box, and her fingers found the brass key sown into the hem of her slip.
It was still there, safe.
No candle to light her evening, Jean pulled her cloak tight and curled into a small ball on the cot.
Maybe the rat would curl up with her and keep her warm! She thought ruefully. If only I could find a nice house kitty to keep me company! She dreamed.
How could I feed it? Surely Widow Barrett would not approve of such an animal, helpful though it might be in keeping vermin at bay.
As she drifted off to sleep a vision of a beautiful face appeared. She caught her breath! It was the face of her mother, long forgotten!
Jean squeezed her eyes shut tight, holding on to the lovely sight. It was only of late that she sadly thought her mother's face was lost to her forever. She couldn't picture it at all.
But here it was again, a vision of peace and hope.
"Mother!" she cried in the dream, "What should I do?"
The face vanished, and Jean became wide awake.
What could it mean? The face and its features were clear in her mind again.
"Thank you!" she whispered. "Thank you, God, for giving me her face again!"
Jean's thoughts went back to her earliest memory again. There was a beautiful room, with soft furniture gracefully arranged. Everything was gold and green with velvet curtains adorning the windows. Her mother, a lovely and stately woman, was attired in a smooth silk dress of peach and gold, trimmed with velvet.
She was a lady, Amelie Dearborn, the daughter of a baron. Soft dark curls framed her face, much darker than Jean's brown hair. Jean reached up a hand into the chill air to smooth her own ragged mop.
"What would she say to my looks?" Jean asked herself. How could a girl keep up appearances in such squalor?
Jean never knew her father. He was Captain Babcock in the Royal Navy, lost at sea during the Napoleonic War in 1800. There were only her mother and herself to make their way in life then, and that didn't last long either.
When Jean was only 16 her mother fell ill with the Grippe, and died within weeks. Jean was alone, and penniless. After the house and furniture were sold, her mother's burial expenses and debts ate up the rest of the cash. It was gone. Jean had nothing but her box, her cloak and a sense of desperation.
She could not even retrench. It was too late to amend her mother's thoughtless financial habits. The beautiful lady was used to luxury, and she had never a thought about money except to spend it. Spend it, she did, and lavishly. But at the very least now there would be no debt.
It was funny how the last sale of a set of silver spoons had paid for the final outstanding bill. There was nothing left over, except the contents of Jean's box.
Her mother's servants, all paid off, left for other positions. Jean could not possibly let anyone know how dire her circumstance were!
There had been no contact with either her mother's people or her father's. Jean assumed they were all gone, long dead. Amelie Dearborn Babcock had kept only acquaintances who respected her position and status, never assuming intimacy. Those same people could never have dreamed that Jean was left destitute.
Better they did not know, thought Jean proudly.
Snippets about her mother's childhood had always entered their conversation. She described the beautiful estate where her family lived.
"But it's all gone now," her mother always ended the story. Jean never questioned that.
It was gone. That was all. Jean and her mother had lived quietly and well and it was enough for the time.