Chapter Text
Another month had passed in quiet solace. The weather had shifted into a gentler cold season, anticipating the end of February. The gardens were overflowing with an abundance of red and yellow roses. It was a welcome scent compared to the musk of that awful black room, and as she stood on a small platform before the open bay doors that overlooked the balcony, the breeze came inside, nearly wrapping her overflowing veil around her ankles. The sharpness of the wind was not piercing or wildly strong, but it swept against her skin briskly. For hours, the seamstresses had taken her measurements for the gown and placed a petticoat and a slip around her waist, measuring her arms, her hips. It approached the time for them to take their allotted time to recuperate downstairs for a meal, yet she remained behind with only one other woman to work on her attire. Her bust and torso had not changed drastically despite the pregnancy she had had before, and for that, she was grateful. No one ever needed to know what he did to her in the dark. But in her opinion, the length of her veil was more than she expected. It was a cathedral design, and it flowed off her head like a willowy shroud, but at the price of her sinewy neck. Fine lacework adorned the edges, and the gauze of its fabric was gently embedded with the smallest rhinestones. The wide poufs of the sleeves were immaculate in their soft wideness, and the rest of the sleeves were satin attached to the bottom of the gauze, decorated with gentle, light gold bows that extended down to the wrist. In designing her wedding look, she opted not to have the hairstyle of the decade. She wanted something simple, like her waving curls resting at the side of her face and over her shoulders; she decided upon the family diadem to sit firm on her head and hold the veil. Even in her quiet vanity, she wondered that all of the embroidery and flashing jewels were too much. She had riches, yes, but it was not as if she were marrying into royalty. She didn't want the grandeur to spoil the day.
Her mind wandered without pause. She imagined the crème colors fading deeper, becoming an ombré alliance with deepening greys that faded into black.
Is this what I am to wear? An array of funerary clothes, only adorned with flowers, before I am placed upon the bier? It feels as though this is not a joyous reason to celebrate; it feels as if I am condemning myself to a fate worse than death, and the thought that frightens me most... Am I to bring him down with me, even though that is the last thing I wish for?
With her being the only one in the room, she observed herself in the mirror across the way. She looked like a newly made doll, and with the tailored gown she wore, she felt as though she weighed a ton. She could feel her legs cramping as she continued to stand. Her knees ached, as did her calves. To her, the room began to spin. The wind was welcome, but at the same time, she felt as if it were spinning her around in an endless sea of gauze. She stepped down and sat immediately on the platform, never minding how the petticoat nearly caused her to collapse off-balance. Her hands braced for impact as she tilted backward. She tore the mock diadem from her scalp and placed it down beside her. The veil fell heavily at the side of her right thigh.
Before she could catch her breath and sit up on her own, a rhythm of footsteps sounded out of view around the doorway. From the sound, she deduced they were heels clacking on the stone floor. Each step seemed to resonate at its own decibel, and when the owner of the feet came around the corner, she exhaled. A middle-aged woman with chestnut-grey hair, extravagant braids sitting upon her head and shoulders in threes, entered, drawing her deep green silk dress behind her. The scratching of the fabric entered Micheline's ears with an awful hiss. The face of her former governess and wet nurse came into view fairly quickly. The woman's jaded blue eyes were piercing, and they penetrated the sight of the young bride as she sat there in her disheveled state. She nearly dropped the small wicker basket of embellishments and sewing materials as she stepped closer, quickening her pace.
"Micheline? Are you alright, child?"
She swallowed with her throat running dry, and with a soft rasp, she responded. "Oui. I am merely tired. Might we finish the alterations later? Please?"
The older woman realized that she had been working the poor girl tirelessly for the entire month. The modeling and standing had begun to take their toll on her. She began to understand that standing in heels must have broken her, weighing her down, pinching her, and so she nodded in agreement. With her veiny hands, she pulled the young maîtresse up off the platform. She moved to pick up the materials scattered on the floor and placed the basket down on a nearby table. She brushed off the dust that clung to her fabrics, and she was about to help her undress. She turned Micheline in place and tried to move her hair. But in a panic, the younger one moved quickly. She nearly choked on her saliva as she cleared her throat.
Her hair was the only thing that blocked the scars from view, and ever so carefully, she tried to do everything in her power to avoid their discovery. She felt discouraged, feeling as if she couldn't trust anyone, though she had no real understanding of why she felt that way. The scars had healed in ample time, and they appeared clean, despite having the crumbled debris deep in them when she first received each lash. Images of her reflection in the onyx walls crept into her mind. As she struggled, Jeanette observed her fear. She noticed the way the young woman moved, how her small, bouncy steps to creep away lingered in sight; she knew something had happened, but of what nature, she did not know. As she moved to place the diadem veil on the nearby mannequin's head, she saw how Micheline began to approach the mirror. The dress bobbed around her curvaceous waist, swaying back and forth; beneath the fabric, the petticoat scratched and swept heavily against her bloomers. The clacking noises of her heels echoed off the stone floor, and as she swallowed hard, she observed herself in her gleaming attire. The designs had been set forth, and yet, she felt it was too much for her. She did not want to seem like a porcelain doll preparing for new ownership. Touching the small cross that had been attached to the bodice, her fingers twiddled with its rose-gold metal. She could not help but feel as though God was punishing her somehow, or at least in the future, He would devise a plan to be outlined in motion that she wouldn't be able to withstand.
Jeanette carefully approached her from the side, placed her hand on her shoulders, and observed her in the glass. A closed smile appeared on her face.
"You'll be the envy of all the young ladies in France," she said. "And with the family cross around your neck, none will appear as regal as you. You'll be quite the bride."
Micheline continued to toy with the cross that sat at the junction of her brassiere. She looked down and broke her gaze from the mirror. The older woman looked at her and tilted her chin up with her fingertips, turning her head to meet her gaze.
"Do you have second thoughts about your marriage to this...?"
"His name is Anton, Jeanette. He's been here for quite some time now, and no, it is not that. I will never turn him away."
"Then what troubles you, my dear?"
She broke away from Jeanette's gentle grip and moved towards the bay window in the weighted gown. Her hands touched her abdomen, and her hair continued to hide the scars on her back. Standing to face the direction of the Massif Central, she eyed how the trees swayed in the wind. Above the high peaks of the looming mountains, dark clouds brewed. Gentle greys slowly became blue-black, and she could see the sheens of rain falling from afar. The horizon seemed too bleak for her taste. With the wind changing its trajectory to blow in heavily through the window, the curtains blew backward and nearly swept against her face. The rumbling of thunder could be heard from afar, and it encouraged her to lunge forward, slamming the doors shut before any drops could come in. The storm was coming, and she was powerless to stop its arrival. She loathed each one that passed through, and her fingertips scraped against the glass of the door. In her drifting thoughts, she imagined the ceremony as she closed her eyes tightly. The chapel on the grounds would be used, packed with servants, some gentry, and perhaps a few select members of nobility. It was of decent size, but regardless, she already imagined herself suffocating. She imagined the stone walls closing in on her, of how the dust and scentless incense would burrow in her nostrils. The thought of the lighting growing dark inside the recesses of the chapel gave her anxiety. But at least there in the midst of the chapel, there were no onyx walls, no chains to rattle about, no wooden plank to hide the bowels of a pit so black like the ocean.
Jeanette tried to walk up behind her, but she turned in place and slightly shifted away. Feeling a hand on a familiar area reclaimed over and over again, it reiterated the memory of his hands looming over her body. She could feel the callouses in his hands, the way his harsh fingertips swept her every curve, just before his nails dug deep into her skin. She remembered how he stretched her, penetrated her. As she began to remember every awful detail, tears welled in her eyes. And now, for whatever reason that possessed her, she began to recall the way he caressed her throat with his hand from behind. She could feel his phantom lips on her jugular, then her shoulder. His mouth had been invasive, and yet somehow... warm? There were only a few nights when he had started slow, gentle. It was during those nights that she felt the most frightened. For a man who tormented her, making her believe he loved her without malice, he beheld a strange way of showing his colors. As she threw herself back into the present, she blinked quickly and saw Jeanette's hand was still on her shoulder.
The roar of the thunder grew closer. She felt the sheen of soft droplets come through the window on the wind. She steadied her nerves for the time being, exhaling, raising her shoulders, and resting her chest. The back of the gown constricted her only slightly, but otherwise, her chest was free to move. She continued to look out to the balcony and saw how the trees began to sway. She directed her attention back to her elder, shaking her head, very briefly smiling. Jeanette did not seem amused.
"Micheline, why do you shy away?"
"It's nothing," she said, breaking the silence. Her tone was direct, resonating loudly with the notion of not wanting to be asked the same question again. "I... I am alright. But please, I am tired. Will you walk with me back to my rooms?"
The woman nodded and began to observe how she moved in the dress. Not even for a moment did she believe her junior was alright. The tension in the room was too great. The light swishing of their trains swept against the cool floor, scraping sharply. They cautiously opened the door, peeking back and forth. They rounded the corner, careful not to expose the wedding gown to curious eyes. They wanted the garment to be a surprise, and, of course, Micheline did not want her fiancé to see her in her gown before the wedding day. She wanted everything to unfold with ease and in a quiet, quaint celebration. The embroidered jewels on the dress glowed underneath the candlelight, and as they descended the flight of steps, it was then that the bride seemed adrift. Jeanette broke her concentration with a single question.
"Have you decided on witnesses and guests yet, my dear?"
Micheline looked at her with her hands folded against her abdomen. It was something she had not presently thought of, nor was it something she was overly rushed to think about. She simply shook her head and exhaled.
"I will summon back my brothers, of course. If our father cannot give me away, then I want them to. And if anything else, I will have Montresor bring me to the altar. As for the guests, I have no notion of who to invite, but perhaps only the company of the household presence will suffice. I've always wanted a quiet wedding. I don't want it to be an overwhelming day for either of us, but I want everything to be enough to make the most meaningful day of my life jubilant."
"That is understandable," Jeanette nodded. "And where are your brothers, ma petite? Do you have any idea where they might be?"
She paused in her step. She took a moment to look at her shoes, reflecting on the last time she saw them. She remembered the horses being saddled and made ready for their gallop to Paris. She began to recall how the boys had packed their essentials and walked downstairs. It was as clear as day to her, remembering them leaving at dusk. Montresor had told her that they were ready to become men. They would go to Paris and train to become soldiers. Whether or not they remained at the palace as members of the guard or if they were sent to any kind of battlement, she did not know. A light tear formed in her eye. Her conscience told her they were still alive, so why did she feel the need to fret? She exhaled deeply and swept the tear away.
"I don't remember where they are. I haven't seen or spoken to them in so long," she replied, her voice defeated. "I can only assume Montresor knows."
And he had better. I want both of my brothers home with me.
"Well then," she said. "Let me help you out of the gown, and I'll dress you. Then, we can go down to see if old Montresor knows where the boys are. When they hear that their sister is finally getting married, I'm sure they'll return as soon as possible. Of course, you know they will want to meet your betrothed. Do you think they'll take kindly to him because of his differences?"
"What are you talking about, Jeanette? What differences? You mean the condition of his arm?"
A slight shrug and a head tilt were all that Jeanette registered. Suddenly, she gripped her hands together again, her knuckles turning white. Her jugular vein began to pulsate against the film of her skin. A surge of anger welled up inside her. They had only been back for two months, and already, one of her household had the nerve to give awful, if not rude, hints. Looking down at her hands, she began to grit her teeth. She slightly shook her head and exhaled.
Say it is because of the color of his skin, I dare you. It's because of that, isn't it? Do any of you people have the gall to say it aloud, I wonder?
But before she could allow Jeanette the chance to answer, she steadied her face into a stone expression and turned away, lifting her chin in rebellion. She turned and began to walk towards her room alone. The swishing of her chapel train entered the hall again. Jeanette began to walk behind her. She tried to keep up, but the younger woman was quick.
"Micheline, you know I only mean well by what I say."
"You may leave my service for the day, Jeanette. I don't have the desire to deal with you presently. Also, while Anton continues to adjust to his new home here, I would expect you to show him respect and courtesy. Do not speak those words again, and do not embarrass him over his arm. It's been that way since his birth, and I will not have him uncomfortable. You may go now, and I would appreciate it if you kept your distance for the rest of the day. Please send Marie up if you would."
Her voice was filled with contempt, if not heartache. She had no interest or desire in hearing such blatant ignorance.
Her hand touched the handle to her room, and she thrust the door open, then closed it shut, giving Jeanette a dark look. The door thudded in her face, and as the tears fell down her cheeks, she swept them away in disgust. She looked across the way into the mirror. She saw herself in the shimmering gown, alone, meek. Her wild, dark hair lay over her shoulders in seemingly unkempt waves. As she approached the mirror, she saw that her figure seemed surrounded by the garment. If she could, she would hide herself in the fabric to cloak herself from the improprieties of the world. But as she continued to look herself over, she began to shiver. A series of shuddering breaths left her lips. She cupped her abdomen and began to imagine her belly swelling. When she was pregnant before, her stomach only grew slightly. It was not quite large, but still enough to let her know that she carried a little one inside her. There was no huge, immaculate, round shape, and she longed to feel it form.
She cried at the memory of passing the child out of her. The blood between her legs, the stickiness of the mess— all were telltale signs she would never be able to forget. The tissues of red, milky pink, and soft purple had lathered her palms when she caught it in her hands. As she remembered, there had been tiny, translucent arms and feet forming. A small black spot formed the pupil behind closed lids. Blood cradled her palms and acted as a wet bed for the developing soul.
You would have been so beautiful, she thought. So perfect, so dark, and lush. You would have been the most gracious child of them all. But would you have been like me, sweet-natured, strong? Or would you have been like your father? Would you have inherited cruelties beyond understanding? I hope only God knows, because if He knows the path you would've taken, then perhaps it is for the best that He knows alone.
As she bled that night in the carriage, she wondered whether or not the child would have possibly been born benign, if not kind. It made her sick to her stomach to think of what could have been. What also made her sick was the fact that, as much as she had wished it, hoped it to be his, Anton was not the father. Her calculations had been wrong. In those three and a half months, she knew it was all folly. What had been planted inside her didn't last as long as she wished it to. But just thinking of having a child before wedlock, she heard the saints chastising her. As she continued to cry in silent weeps, she turned to acknowledge the small stand where her grandmother's crucifix stood in its brass molding. She knelt on the small pillow and retrieved a match to light the candles around the figure. She struck the end and watched it burn as she lit the wicks. She made the sign of the cross over her head and heart, extinguished the match, then folded her hands again as she closed her eyes.
"Eternal, Holy God, I come to you burdened with worries, fears, doubts, and troubles. Calm and quiet me with some peace of mind. Empty me of the anxiety that disturbs me, of the concerns that weary my spirit, and weigh heavily on my heart. Renew me spiritually and emotionally. Give me new strength, hope, and confidence. Let your love set me free, for peace, for joy, for grace, for life, for others, forever. Amen."
The crack of thunder came overhead. She tried not to think of the storm as it arrived. As she focused on her prayers, she kept her eyes closed in quiet contemplation. She squeezed her fingers hard together as she clasped them at the knuckles, pressing her fists hard to her breastbone. As she continued her prayers, it was only half an hour later that she heard knocking at her chamber door.
"Who is it?"
"Maîtresse? It is Marie," the half-raspy, airy voice called out. "Jeanette said you asked for me."
She rose from the pillow and moved in her widening petticoat towards the door. She opened it after skimping across the stone floor, and as she pried it towards her, she saw a young blonde woman of five feet eight with her long, willowy, and sculpted frame standing tall in her doorway. To her, she seemed a living version of her mannequin, only with simple, set-apart eyes that beheld the look of curiosity and obeisance. With her long braids hanging behind her head, Marie shivered and kept her hands together in front.
"Did you require my assistance, Maîtresse?"
Micheline snapped back into the present, her eyes blinking twice as she brought herself out of a trance. "Oui, Marie," she said, moving to the side. "And you know I shan't chastise you for calling me Micheline. We've known each other since childhood, so there is no need for formality."
"That is true, but if I don't properly address you, Montresor chastises me coarsely."
"You needn't worry so much about him, my dear friend. He's an old man with an awful temper, but I shall protect you," she replied, giving the blonde a smile as reassurance. "Now will you help me? This gown is unbearable. I feel as though I'll sink to another continent."
Marie acquiesced with gentle ease. In turn, Micheline went to grasp the bedpost, and the servant closed the door and began to unlace the back of the gown. She stilled as each layer came undone. She could feel the corset loosen around her chest, and as the undergarments were peeled away, she felt Marie's hands stop touching her. An audible sigh left her soft lips. The scars were a dark pink now, and they had been healed for months. She was the only one who had been trusted with the secret of the scars' appearance, and she vowed that she would not betray her lady's confidence.
Moving to the wardrobe, Marie selected a dress and helped her into a different gown made of gentle silver-blue. The satin rustled as the garment was secured to her person and pulled up her body. The fabric seemed cold against her skin, but Micheline tried to think of benign things again. She put on flat heels and tried to remain comfortable and composed. The corset was laced again, but not to an extreme pressing point; she would be able to breathe, though it did not feel as though she were completely free from the constricted feeling. Marie took a candelabra in hand and stood at the door, waiting for Micheline to make herself ready. The little flames flickered, and the faint breeze in her room was quaint, but not enough to extinguish the fire completely. But before she left the room, Micheline took the candelabra into her hand. She gently pointed at her gown that lay sprawled out on the bed.
"Marie, will you be so kind as to hide that in my mother's old parlor, please? It would be bad luck for Anton to see my gown before our wedding."
Sheepishly, perhaps in a naïve manner, she quipped, "Is that not the old saying it is bad luck for the groom to see the bride in her gown before the wedding?"
Perhaps it would depend on who you would ask. There are men in this world who would not stand on ceremony, I know this.
She relaxed and exhaled deeply. She was not annoyed, nor was she unhappy in any capacity. All she could think about was her wedding, and she was not about to entertain any more dark thoughts.
"Oui," Micheline replied. "I suppose that is right. I will wait for you at the top of the flight, and we'll go down together. Thank you."
Marie wasted no time in running along to the late vicomtesse's parlor. The creaking of the wooden door rattled on its hinges as it opened and closed. She did not spend too long inside, but long enough to conceal the unfinished gown inside the large wardrobe. Light remnants of dust kicked up as Marie exited. She decided she would clean it later. The door closed with a deep thud, and she raced over to the top of the flight.
Micheline put down the candelabra and extinguished it on the top of the stone rail. The two young women began to descend the steps side by side. As they ventured further down, the scent of duck could be sampled from the direction of the kitchens.
For the time being, Micheline wanted to eat something, but her stomach felt different. She did not know if it was from Jeanette's words that she felt nauseous, or simply because she was so eager and restless to be married; whatever the case was, she was ready. The door to the dining hall opened, and both walked inside, feeling two pairs of eyes watching them as they entered the ever-quiet hall.