Read Chapter 15: A New Gown for the King

The summons arrived at dawn, carried by a liveried footman who looked deeply uncomfortable standing in the servants' corridor outside Camille's tiny room. The King wished to see the seamstress who had dressed the Comtesse de Provence so admirably. At once.

Camille's hands shook as she pinned her hair into place. The King. Louis XVI himself had asked for her by name. After weeks of Drouet's whispered poison, after the disaster of the Hall of Mirrors, after Bertin's cruel deadlines—this was either salvation or a trap.

Rose helped her into her best working gown, a deep green wool that made her look competent rather than peasant-born. "You'll be fine, mademoiselle," Rose whispered, but her eyes betrayed her worry. Everyone knew about the spy and his accusations.

The footman led her through a maze of gilt corridors to the King's private apartments, where she found Louis XVI seated before a writing desk, surrounded by maps and engineering sketches. He looked up as she entered, and Camille was struck again by how ordinary he seemed—a heavy man with kind eyes, more comfortable discussing locksmithing than court intrigue.

"Mademoiselle Dubois," he said, gesturing for her to approach. "I am told you have a talent for clever construction."

Camille curtsied deeply, her mind racing. "Your Majesty honors me."

"I require a new riding coat." He gestured to the plain brown coat draped over a chair. "This one constrains my arms when I hunt. The cut is too narrow across the shoulders, and the waist pinches." He paused, looking almost embarrassed. "I am not built like my brother was. The court tailors insist on fashion over function."

Camille stepped forward, examining the coat with professional eyes. The problem was immediately apparent—the traditional cut required a heavily boned waist that made any movement above the shoulders impossible. French tailoring had not yet embraced the ease of English riding dress, and the King suffered for it.

She thought quickly. Modern sportswear principles. Articulated armholes. A waist that moved with the body rather than against it. She had seen corset techniques that could be adapted—boning that supported without constricting, placed in channels that followed the natural lines of the torso.

"Your Majesty," she said carefully, "I believe I can construct a coat that gives you full range of movement while maintaining the dignity of the French court."

The King's eyebrows rose. "The court tailors have said the same. They have failed."

"They have failed because they think in terms of decoration, not mechanics." Camille pulled a piece of chalk from her pocket—a habit from her workshop days—and began sketching directly on the offending garment's lining. "Here. And here. The armhole must be cut higher and deeper, allowing the sleeve to pivot. And the waist—instead of rigid boning, we use a system of hidden elasticated panels that stretch with movement but return to shape."

She caught herself, realizing she was speaking in terms no one in 1785 would understand. "Forgive me, Majesty. I mean—a clever system of springs and flexible whalebone, arranged to yield when you lean forward and spring back when you sit upright."

Louis leaned forward, genuinely interested. "Springs?"

"Like the mechanism in a carriage suspension, but miniature. Integrated into the fabric itself." She was inventing on her feet now, but the concept was sound. Hidden corsetry that moved with the wearer. It was the kind of innovation that would revolutionize riding dress if she could execute it properly.

"How long?"

"Three days, Majesty. Perhaps four."

"Three days," the King repeated, and Camille saw something shift in his expression—a man tired of waiting, tired of failure, willing to gamble on novelty. "You shall have whatever materials you require. If you succeed, you will be well rewarded. If you fail—" He shrugged, a surprisingly Gallic gesture. "The Comtesse spoke highly of you, but I have little patience for false promises."

Camille curtsied again, her mind already racing through the construction. "I will not disappoint you, Majesty."

---

The next three days passed in a blur of fabric and calculation. Camille requisitioned silk taffeta in deep blue—the King's favorite color, she had noted from his apartments—and set to work in a small antechamber adjacent to the royal dressing rooms, away from Bertin's prying eyes.

The elasticated panel concept required adaptation. True elastic did not exist, but she found a close approximation in the woven silk stockings manufactured in Lyon, which possessed a natural give when properly constructed. Combined with a system of interlocking whalebone springs—borrowed from a sympathetic clockmaker who supplied the palace—she created a panel that flexed and recovered.

The real innovation was the shoulder construction. Traditional coats set the sleeve in a tight circle that restricted forward movement. Camille designed a gusset system that allowed the arm to rise and extend freely, hidden within the coat's lining so the exterior maintained clean fashion lines.

Étienne found her on the second night, bent over her worktable by candlelight, oil and fabric dust smearing her apron.

"You have not eaten," he said, setting a plate of bread and cold meat beside her elbow.

Camille looked up, blinking. "I have not slept either, I think. What time is it?"

"Past midnight." He pulled up a stool and sat close, his presence steadying. "The whole palace is talking about the King's new seamstress. And about—" He hesitated.

"About us," Camille finished. "I know. Marie-Jeanne told me. The court believes I am your mistress."

"Does that trouble you?"

Camille's fingers stilled on the seam she was basting. "It should. It would, if I were thinking clearly." She looked at him properly for the first time, seeing the exhaustion in his face that mirrored her own. He had been working double hours at the finance office, trying to shield her from Bertin's claims while fending off Drouet's questions. "I worry more about what it means for you. Drouet has already named you in his accusations."

"Let him." Étienne's jaw set. "I have done nothing improper. And if providing a loan to a talented artisan is improper, then I am guilty of supporting excellence."

"Excellence." Camille laughed softly. "I am trying to invent a new kind of garment for a king who may still have me arrested if it fails."

"He will not fail you." Étienne reached out, and his hand covered hers, warm and certain. "I have seen your work. You do not know how to make anything that is not extraordinary."

They sat in silence for a moment, the candle between them flickering. Camille wanted to lean into him, wanted to stop fighting alone. But the coat was waiting, and the King was waiting, and somewhere in the darkness of the palace, Drouet was also waiting, watching, sharpening his blade of suspicion.

"I should sleep," she said finally, withdrawing her hand. "Tomorrow I must fit the sleeves."

"Then I will leave you to your work." He stood, hesitating at the door. "Camille. Whatever happens with the King—I am in your debt. All of this, the loan, the risk—it is nothing compared to what you have given me."

"What have I given you?" she asked, genuinely confused.

"A purpose." He smiled, and then he was gone, and Camille was left staring at the door, her heart performing a strange flutter that she could not name.

---

The third day arrived and with it, the moment of truth.

Camille dressed the King in the completed coat, her hands sure despite her trembling heart. The deep blue silk shimmered in the morning light, the cut clean and elegant. She had added subtle gold embroidery at the cuffs—a nod to royal fashion that the King would appreciate—but the interior was her true work: a hidden architecture of movement.

Louis stood, stretched his arms wide, and Camille held her breath.

He raised his arms overhead. Rotated his shoulders. Bent forward at the waist, then straightened. Turned to the mirror and examined himself from every angle.

"Remarkable," he said, genuine surprise in his voice. "I can—" He reached across his body, a motion that would have been impossible in his old coat. "I can move."

Camille exhaled. "The riding seat is cut wider as well, Majesty. And there is a strap system that allows you to adjust the fit as you ride."

The King turned, examining her with new eyes. "How did you learn this, mademoiselle? The guild tailors have trained for decades and never considered such an approach."

In that moment, Camille felt the abyss of her secret yawn beneath her feet. Twenty-first century knowledge. Modern engineering. Everything she knew, everything she was, belonged to a world that did not exist yet.

"I—" She swallowed. "I apprenticed with a master who believed in questioning tradition, Majesty."

Louis nodded slowly, apparently satisfied. "Then I shall reward you for questioning tradition as well." He gestured to a secretary hovering nearby. "Mademoiselle Dubois is to receive the royal warrant for riding garments. She will provide for my household and the hunting parties personally."

Camille curtsied, her heart soaring. The royal warrant. Protection. Status. A reason for Drouet to hesitate before moving against her.

"Your Majesty is most generous."

"Your Majesty is most well dressed," the King corrected, and for the first time, Camille saw him smile. "And most comfortable. I shall have my physician inform the court of my improved health. These pains in my back—gone, it seems, when one is permitted to move like a human being rather than a statue."

Camille backed from the room in a haze of triumph, and it was not until she was alone in the corridor that she allowed herself to feel the full weight of what had happened. She had the King's favor. The royal warrant. The court would hesitate now, at least for a while. Gossip would shift from suspicion to curiosity. Drouet would have to move more carefully.

She was only a few steps down the corridor when a figure emerged from a doorway, blocking her path.

"Mademoiselle Dubois." Drouet's voice was silk over steel. "Congratulations on your success. The King is most pleased with you, I hear."

"Thank you, monsieur." Camille kept her face neutral, her posture careful. "His Majesty is most kind."

"Indeed." Drouet stepped closer, and Camille fought the urge to back away. "I wonder, though—this remarkable skill you possess. These innovations that come to you so easily. They remind me of something."

"Of what, monsieur?"

"Of a story I once heard," Drouet said, his eyes glinting. "About a previous tailor who served this court. A man who also had remarkable ideas. Innovations that seemed to come from nowhere." He paused. "He disappeared, you know. This tailor. Vanished without a trace, leaving behind only a diary written in a strange hand."

Camille's blood turned cold.

"I should like to read that diary again," Drouet continued softly. "To compare its contents with the work you have produced. Such similarities might be of interest to the Austrian ambassador. He is always interested in patterns that repeat."

Drouet smiled, tipped his hat, and continued down the corridor, leaving Camille standing alone in the pale morning light, her triumph crumbling to ash in her mouth.