A Tyranny of Petticoats by Jessica Spotswood

for weeks about how torn I feel between what I want and what my parents want for me.
    I bite my lip. Truth is, in the quiet of Eugenie’s parlor, an arrangement with Antoine felt possible. Almost respectable, even.
    Running into Madame Augustin in the street — well, it’s reminded me that people see Eugenie and me differently. Expectations are different.
    They expect Eugenie, with her wild curls and smart mouth, to follow in her mother’s footsteps. To know about things like kissing. They expect me to be an innocent — a demure, respectable girl who’ll grow up to be a staid, respectable wife.
    Only I can’t stop thinking what it would be like to kiss Antoine, to have him pull me close — closer than a waltz, even, and —
    “I’m going to talk to Maman this afternoon,” I announce.
    Eugenie raises her eyebrows. “That’s what you said last week, Maddie. You’d better do it soon or Monsieur Guerin will find another girl.”
    I clutch the fringed shawl draped over her elbow. “Do you think he would?” It wouldn’t be difficult. I saw the way the other girls looked at me when we danced — even Eugenie. She’s the one looking for a protector, but I caught the eye of the most eligible man in the room.
    “I wouldn’t keep a man like that waiting, is all. Why would he keep courting you when he’s got dozens of girls ready to fall at his feet? Girls whose parents aren’t so —
particular
?” My stomach twists, but Eugenie’s right.
    “Maman will listen to me. I know she will,” I say, a trifle desperately.
    “You’re such a child.” Eugenie adjusts her shawl over the sloping shoulders of her red plaid dress and gives me a little wave. “
Bonne chance,
Maddie. You’re going to need it.”
    “Madeleine! You’re late,” Maman says the moment I hurry through the door. Marie Therese is squalling in her arms. The twins are playing in the courtyard under our maid Nanette’s watchful eye, fencing with sticks. We’ll be lucky if they don’t poke each other’s eyes out.
    “Maman, I — I need to speak with you,” I say in a breathless rush. “It’s important?”
    I hate the way my voice trembles and makes it into a question.
    “Later,
chère
.” Maman pulls the blue tignon off my head. I protest as she pats my hair back into place. “You have a caller.” She motions toward the parlor, where the door stands ajar. “Etienne Decoudreaux is here to see you.”
    “To see
me
?” Our families are the best of friends; our papas served together in one of the colored regiments during the Battle of New Orleans. As children, Etienne and I chased each other through the courtyards and played hide-and-seek and begged his mother for her famous lemon pie. Since I turned sixteen and started going to balls — the ones my family approves of, with the best of the
gens de couleur libres
— Etienne and I have danced together, even eaten supper together at dances a few times. But he’s never called on me. “What does he want?”
    Maman gives me a little push. “Go in and talk to the boy and let him tell you himself.”
    Etienne is silhouetted against the window, watching the horses in the paddock below. He turns when I come in, giving me a restrained smile that doesn’t show his teeth. It’s nothing like Antoine’s mischievous grin, which lights up his whole face and makes his eyes crinkle at the corners. Etienne is nicely turned out, in a dark, high-collared waistcoat, his cravat a snowy white against the smooth brown skin of his throat. Last night Antoine’s cravat was fine blue silk fastened with a gold pin. It’s the difference between a cabinetmaker and a planter.
    I perch on the blue chintz settee. Etienne sits in a high-backed chair, trailing his fingers along the arm, inspecting the craftsmanship.
    We exchange the usual pleasantries about the fine spring weather and business at the Decoudreauxes’ shop. I give him short replies, preoccupied with trying to find the right words, the perfect