Page 61 of The Art of Theft
She had just finished dressing when a knock came at the door. “May we come in, Miss Olivia?”
Mrs. Watson.
Livia flushed with the memory of her secondhand mortification, but she had no choice but to open the door. Mrs. Watson swept past in a faint cloud of attar of jasmine, followed by Charlotte, in another one of the dresses Livia had brought for her from home, an explosion of silk rosettes on green brocade that even Madame de Pompadour would have thought overwrought.
“Oh, you look much better, my dear,” said Mrs. Watson, with great empathy in her eyes. “It was terribly hard work, wasn’t it?”
“Much harder for those who must do it day after day.”
“There is that. Now shall I help you coif your hair?”
Livia allowed Mrs. Watson to lead her to the vanity table. “Is everyone waiting for me to confer about last night?”
“No,” said Charlotte, taking a seat near the door. “Last I heard, Mr. Marbleton just climbed out of his bath.”
Livia exhaled. Some people loved to make a late, grand entrance. She never could withstand the sort of attention that generated. Being the last to arrive made her want to crawl under the carpet, certain that she had inconvenienced everyone present and that they all secretly despised her.
Mrs. Watson combed Livia’s hair, her hands sure but gentle.
“You are an expert,” marveled Livia.
“In my younger days, I traded on my appearance. I was conversant with just about every skill and trick there existed to make a woman more beautiful. And my hair, of course, was never neglected.”
“I can only imagine how stunning you were,” said Livia sincerely.
And of course, at the peak of her beauty, no one would have denigrated her.
“Oh, I rather thought so myself—I was always a cheeky one.” Mrs. Watson started plaiting Livia’s hair. “But not everyone agreed. You should have heard men passing opinions on my looks. One day someone would think my arms lacked all voluptuousness. The next day a different someone would opine that my waist was too thick. I’ve heard my nose called too large, my eyes too close-set, my hands too knobby, and my neck nowhere near swanlike enough. And when I was twenty-five I was already called too old by gentlemen who liked their companions barely grown.”
“I— That’s—”
“Since I always intended to profit from my physical appeal, I grew a thick skin early. But I came to realize that most women, even respectable ones who would never think of taking a protector in exchange for money, have their appearance judged the same way, except perhaps less overtly. Everyone is imperfect to someone. And even the impossibly beautiful ones grow old and are pitied for not being as beautiful as they once were.”
Satisfied with the plaits to either side of Livia’s ears, Mrs. Watson formed the rest of her hair into a chignon. “For that reason, I learned to heed my own opinion of myself more than anyone else’s,” she said, sliding pins into the chignon with such smoothness that Livia barely felt any pressure on her scalp. “A woman who allows the disdain and casual callousness of strangers to make her feel lessworthy can have nothing but a difficult time, and I am well past that phase in my life.”
This was Mrs. Watson letting Livia know, without saying it in so many words, that the comment of the stupid man from the other day had not affected her—or at least hadn’t affected her anywhere to the extent that it had affected Livia.
She would be more embarrassed at having been so overwrought that Mrs. Watson felt the need to console her, if she didn’t feel such relief. And such overwhelming admiration for the indomitable Mrs. Watson.
Charlotte, sitting to the side, was reading a French newspaper, seemingly absorbed in its contents. Livia waited for her to say something. When she didn’t, Livia asked, “What do you think, Charlotte?”
“Of course Mrs. Watson is right,” said her sister, her head still bent toward the paper. “But fundamentally, this is about the imbalance of power between the sexes. As long as women’s primary access to power is via access to men, and as long as men value women primarily as either carriers of their bloodline or vessels for their carnal desires, both men and women will be commenting on women’s youth and beauty—or the lack thereof—ad nauseum, the former group as they would appraise any other interchangeable commodity, and the latter as assessment of competitive advantages and disadvantages.
“Certainly it’s admirable for any given woman to learn to appreciate her own worth, despite all the countervailing forces. But it cannot be enough for those who are treated as lesser to feel better about themselves. That they are treated as lesser is an injustice. And that injustice itself must be rooted out and eradicated.”
?Instead of the library, the company met in the dining room. The dishes for luncheon were servedà la française, everything placed on the table at the same time. The servants filed out and the diners helped themselves.
Livia, still full from her late breakfast, only took some carrot salad and a few mussels that had been steamed in white wine.
“Before we begin our discussion,” said Mrs. Watson from the head of the table, “please allow me to thank each and every one of you. And know that I will never be able to thank you enough.”
Lord Ingram, seated to her left, briefly placed his hand over hers. Livia, Charlotte, and Mr. Marbleton all inclined their heads.
Mrs. Watson gave Lord Ingram a tremulous smile. Then she turned to her right and said, “Miss Charlotte, will you summarize your findings?”
“Certainly,” said Charlotte, looking up from her soup. “The longer we have been at this task, the more our situation strikes me as odd. Let me begin with the staffing agency.
“Ever since I heard that the roster at the staffing agency had been stretched to the breaking point because some foreign dignitary needed a large house manned, I’ve wondered whether we were the only party trying to get into Château Vaudrieu for illicit reasons. Recall also that Mrs. Watson’s friend mentioned that her contacts in Paris couldn’t find any French thieves both able and willing to take on the project.
