Thanks much to Mao for reading this through and to everyone who's left reviews. I'm still a little unsure about this, so any and all opinions are most welcome.
Disclaimer: Nothing's mine but the speculation.
She had always had a sardonic sort of wit. It was unbecoming of a lady, her father would grumble, and he'd have an awful time marrying her off.
It was easy for him to say; with two wives so far and nothing yet but four daughters, he had room to complain. Any wrong committed by them was always deemed "unbecoming of a lady," as if any ill carried out by a son would be acceptable. But as far as marrying them off went, he had certainly had no such trouble with his first two daughters. With them already out of the house and out of the way, he was left with the younger pair, Margot and Josephine, aged seventeen and fifteen,
Josephine was a paragon of femininity, docile and downcast-eyed, with slim white hands forever embroidering pillowcases and pouring tea. Margot, who abhorred sewing and was more likely to spill tea than anything, was by far the more unladylike of the two, a trait that was to serve her well in the future. Until then, it earned her the rap.
"Aren't I too old for this yet?" she complained as her stepmother brought the thin piece of wood down on her wrist. Once again, she was wondering just how much of her life she had wasted in redundant limp-wristed servility. The punishment had been administered hundreds of times for as long as she could remember and never once had it done a bit of good.
"Not as long as you keep offending guests you're not," the woman answered, though she silently agreed it was a useless punishment. Margot had never before recanted her words and it was highly unlikely she would do so now.
"All I told him was that he oughtn't go out to the garden in that jacket of his for fear the bees mistake him for an enormous flower. It was a bright blue jacket, for God's sake! With yellow stripes." She pulled a face. "Aspiring bohemian or foliage run amuck?"
Her stepmother released her, not without a cross look that made clear just which she would have preferred. "This can't go on," she murmured, gesturing with the ineffectual switch. "You're of marrying age, you know."
"Old enough to be married and young enough to be rapped both at once?" Margot exclaimed in mock wonder. "How can that be?"
"It may well continue if you don't clean yourself up for young Garnier."
"You can't be serious," Margot said, suddenly anxious.
"Quite serious. Your father's got the negotiations all settled. He was planning to tell you this evening, but I expect things will go over a little better now that you've been warned."
"Jesus Christ." Margot tore out of the room too quickly to catch her stepmother's reprimand for taking the Lord's name in vain.
She could almost have laughed at herself for being so typical. It was like a bad romance--a spirited girl is forced to marry against her will, so what does she do? She cuts off her beautiful hair, dresses as a man, and runs away, naturally. Though Margot did take some comfort in that her own hair could hardly be called beautiful--too dark, too thick to force into any of the pretty styles young ladies favored. But, she reasoned, setting the scissors down, she'd be living a farce by tomorrow all the same.
It was a last resort, that was all. Attempting a rational discussion with her father had ended catastrophically, with a great deal of unladylike antics on her side and a stain on the wall left by a furiously thrown inkpot.
Nearly two weeks had passed since then. More than enough time to have a few suits made, visit the bank, and hunt around for reasonably priced apartments. She could almost pity Rémi Garnier, a jilted husband before he was even a husband. But not quite. Margot had seized the idea of running away almost eagerly; after all, it wasn't as though she had anything to stay at home for. The only exception was Josephine, a thought Margot valiantly attempted to push out of her head. The girl knew what she was about, and although Margot had urged her to do the same someday, she knew full well this sister would end up packed off in marriage like the others. They had exchanged rather resigned goodbyes earlier in the day.
And now Margot was ready. Never mind that she couldn't yet bring herself to slip out of the house. Standing hesitantly by the door, she reminded herself how she had practiced in the privacy of her room--how to move in the suit, how to sprawl when she sat down, how to hook a cane over one arm when she walked. How she had taught herself to lower her voice, already husky for a woman, and introduce herself as Didier. If there was anything else to learn, she would pick it up as she went along. With a final glance at her reflection-heavy-lidded and lazily casual, immaculate in pristine white spats and a gray silk top hat-she stepped into the street.
Almost instantly, she forgot everything from where she had planned to rent a room to where she had planned to find work. Her fingers grew numb from so desperately clenching the handle of her suitcase as she walked down street after street, occasionally hiring a carriage to take her deeper into the city.
She had nearly resigned herself to going home again when she caught sight of a slim figure in a suit and at first mistook it for a young man. When closer inspection proved it was definitely female, all other thoughts left Margot's head. The figure entered a nearby bar and Margot unthinkingly followed suit. That was comforting, at least; if she could still make awful puns, there might be hope for her yet.
But her nervousness must have shown more than she thought. Almost as soon as she sat down, a woman presented her with a problem she hadn't counted on. "What happened, princess, Maman find you in bed with a girl?"
Margot flinched, thinning her lips with the practiced priggishness of an idler "I am not that way inclined," she said rigidly, not bothering to deepen her voice.
A laugh. "Then I don't know what the fuck you're doin' here, but we'll have to fix that."
So began Margot's acquaintance with Montmartre. She settled into a small flat nearby and for the next few years became accustomed to working in the area's restaurants, the first of which was the self-proclaimed "Sapphic tavern" she had unknowingly wandered into before. It wasn't the only thing she grew accustomed to. She discovered that, in addition to being both convenient and comfortable, pants entailed much less upkeep, expenses, and trends to follow than did skirts. Oddly enough, it didn't seem to make much difference. The area was more tolerant than she would ever have anticipated; as often as not, it didn't matter whether she called herself Margot or Didier.
If her family ever made any effort to find her, she heard nothing of it. Any search, she felt, was sure to fail miserably, if her father hadn't been so relieved at having her out of the house that he hadn't bothered at all. As such, things were relatively placid until Margot forgot to pay the rent when it was due. It was nothing out of the ordinary, as she almost never paid on time, but the landlady seemed to have other ideas.
"Thank you," she said curtly, accepting payment. "Now take your things and get out.
"But I paid."
The old woman spread her arms in an insincere apology. "You're bad for business. Several of your neighbors have complained of being made uncomfortable by you."
"Because I go about as a man, shameless hussy that I am, is that it? Tell the bigots about George Sand, Jeanne d'Arc."
"Not only that," the landlady continued obliviously, "but I've been too lenient with you. This time the rent may be three months late; next time, God knows..."
Margot walked away in disgust before the woman could finish her tirade. Within ten minutes, she shoved her things into a suitcase, went into the building next door, and knocked at random on the door of one of the apartments. It was answered by a cherubic-faced girl with sulfur-yellow ringlets that nearly made Margot's eyes water. All the same, she cleared her throat.
"I have a request to make of you, mademoiselle--?"
The innocent face smiled coyly, giving lie to its owner's true age. "Babydoll to you, m'sieur."
Margot tipped her hat, revealing the dark hair neatly folded beneath. "And Margot to you," she replied, smiling inwardly at the girl's surprise. "I need someone to shack up with for a bit, just until I move in somewhere else. I've a job and can pay what you like. As for sleeping arrangements, I'll be perfectly good unless you'd rather I be otherwise."
With a girlish laugh, the blond held open the door.
As Margot unpacked, the girl who called herself Babydoll occupied herself by humming a tune and practicing a dance across the room. On an impulse, Margot stood up to join her. The fair-haired girl made no effort to conceal her surprise at the latter's skill. "My God," she remarked once they finished, "you're a walking travesty."
Margot sat back down, smiling languidly. "Yes, my dear, so I am."
"Where did you learn to dance that way?"
"We've got dancers like that in the bar where I work, that's all. I just picked it up."
"You happened to pick up the cancan and all you do for a living is serve drinks?" Babydoll demanded incredulously. "There's no money in that. Don't tell me you're above other things."
Margot's lips thinned. It was true, there were some who had a weakness for that sort of thing. They liked to go through all the masculine layers and find that what was underneath was so undeniably female. "Not that it's any of your business, but I'll take what I can to make ends meet."
The blond seemed pleased. "Good, so you're not one of those high and mighty types. But I still say you're wasting yourself by working at a bar when there're other places that'd pay a lot better for someone like you."
Margot shrugged. "Think what you like."
"I think," pronounced Babydoll, "that you're an idiot."
"In that case, I'm glad to be in such good company."
Babydoll frowned, obviously trying to figure out whether she had been complimented or insulted. "But never mind," she said after a minute. "I'm taking you to work with me tomorrow. If you like it, and I think you will, they ought to let you stay. 'Course, you'd probably have to wear a skirt."
"Forget it."
"Oh, come off it. This city can't have more than a handful of courtesans like you."
"Is that what you call yourself, a courtesan?" muttered the brunette, taking in the other girl's cheap dress.
Babydoll waved a hand dismissively. "Oh, this is only for during the day. Wait till you see me dressed up for the night."
Margot let her imagination take hold of that for a moment. "Even if I go with you, I won't stay."
"Trust me, you'll get sucked in. I've been there since it opened and I know these things."
To her surprise, she was. Babydoll--whose name, as it turned out, was Noelle--hadn't underestimated the magnetism of her workplace. And so Margot, rather than leaving after a few minutes, as she had intended, stood patiently apart as Babydoll conversed at length with a large man who was apparently in charge of things.
When he spoke to her directly, she deliberately essayed to look a little bored in order to hide her interest. It grew more difficult as the conversation progressed, and when he told her how much she would make and how many opportunities there were, she said she would think about it. But when he added something about letting her use an extra dress until she had her own, she balked.
"Sorry, did you say dress?" she inquired, ignoring Babydoll's badly stifled groan.
He laughed as though she had just said something dazzlingly humorous. "Naturally, chickpea. There's no point to dancing the cancan in pants."
"First off, I'm not your chickpea. Second off, I don't wear skirts." Behind her, Babydoll mimed tearing out her hair and sat down to watch the imminent argument.
"Dear," she broke in at one point, causing the red-haired man to chuckle. "Harold does run the place, and as difficult as it is to get on his bad side, it's really not wise to try."
"I'm not even sure I really want to work here," Margot sniffed unconvincingly.
Babydoll muttered something about cheeky barmaids.
After a time, Margot sighed. "Can I at least wear a suit jacket over it?" she asked resignedly.
Harold Zilder laughed. "Possibly."
When Margot entered the Rouge again, it was with a defensive visage and bared ankles.
A week later, Babydoll caught her slipping out of the dressmaker's shop and had the grace not to smirk