When the wealthy people in the city held a Masked Ball at the museum, the townsfolk were singing and dancing to the joyful, passionate sound of bagpipes, reminding her of the third-class party aboard the Titanic.
That was a "real" party.
Pursing her lips, she thought boredly. Just as she was about to take a sip of Champagne, she discovered that the troublesome veil was blocking her again. She had to lift it to drink.
"To hell with it," she cursed under her breath.
Leon Sterndale's long coat and belt had to be worn with stockings, which she hated most, but Rouen's rich were quite pleased. This was precisely the sort of "novelty" they wanted to experience.
No one worshipped a commoner, especially not these factory owners who "ruled" over commoners. If Napoleon dressed too plainly at a time like this, he would not have been able to converse with them "as equals" despite his short stature.
Of course, perhaps his ambition had expanded, much like his thickening body. The thin, gloomy young man in his twenties from that portrait was gone.
Before she could think about anything more complicated, someone approached her. It was Henry Becker, the owner of the mother-of-pearl furniture shop she had visited during the day. He had indeed come as promised, but the companion he had brought was not his wife, but a middle-aged man.
What was a party for the rich was an opportunity to seek business prospects for these small merchants. Georgiana thought they resembled Monica and the others seeking opportunities at the Swedish marchioness's housewarming ceremony. The two men walked over and bowed to her.
"Good evening, Mr. Becker," Georgiana said in English.
"Good evening, Madam." The shop owner looked at the man beside him. "This is my friend, Jean-Jacques Lequeu."
"Good