One Thousand Days- Chapter 2: The First Lesson
Valentine did not speak with or meet the marquis for many weeks. From time to time she saw him wandering his grounds, usually deep in conversation with some other person, but she was not summonsed to his presence and he did not visit her. She was left to the care of Mathilde and Jacques, who was more absent than present, but he was the marquis man-servant after all.
Lessons did not begin immediately as it took some time to engage a tutor. Their brief was unusual and the person had to be entirely correct: knowledgeable, refined, discreet and of a certain age so as not to distract Valentine from her studies. He needed to be approachable but aware of the expectations of society so he could impart as much knowledge as possible on a range of academic and social topics. He needed to be friendly but not familiar: he needed to understand the unique nature of his task and be prepared to travel should the need arise. It would be better if he were unencumbered by a family, but that was not an essential detail.
While she waited for Monsieur Joseph Artois to reach them from Lyon Valentine settled into a pleasant routine. She was allowed free run of the house and the grounds. Rene would accompany her on her walks in the gardens, talking to her about the flowers and trees; telling her about some of the birds of the area. Mathilde showed her the main rooms of the chateau, including her own study where she would spend long hours with Monsieur Artois. It was a light filled room adjacent to the library, where she would also take any meals outside of her own room, with Monsieur Artois, learning her manners and the art of small talk.
In the morning she would take a turn around the garden outside her room. She was not permitted to exercise strenuously as it was imperative she gained weight and condition, but a stroll in the fresh air was simply good health. She was well fed and enjoyed her meals, usually taken with Mathilde who had begun her instruction about table manners. No, she could not use her fingers for everything! She spent afternoons in the library, mostly looking at the extensive Art books and learned about the art works collected in the chateau from Jacques when he was free. In the evening before dinner she took her bath and every second day her hair was washed. Sophie became part of her collection of support at the chateau, whether she wanted to or not, was another matter!
She was given some clothes that seemed quite lovely but were, she was informed, just until the seamstress from Paris could arrive with materials and her assistant to create an entire wardrobe just for Valentine when she had taken her true shape. She would be able to choose designs and fabric herself, something she had never imagined was possible.
She had much to do and much to look forward to but each night she went to sleep wondering about the marquis and what was to happen at the end of her first month. She turned over her meeting with him endlessly in her mind. Had she pleased him enough, why had he smiled only once? His hands had been quite cool as they touched her body. But his eyes were warm when he welcomed her and called her by name. She liked the way he had pronounced her name, softly, letting the final syllable hang in the air, like the tone lingering from the village church bells. He seemed polite but she was not sure if he was kind. A bath every day was extravagant but then he'd laughed cruelly at something she had not really understood, at her ignorance it seemed.
She was anxious about being ready and despite pushing Mathilde for some clarity about what was to happen received no answer that satisfied her. 'All will be well if you are ready,' was all she said. 'Soak yourself in the bath, let the oils penetrate your skin and soften you. Eat heartily, enjoy his library. Follow instructions, listen to us and learn from others.' Mathilde tapped her nose. 'Learn to see, be aware of all that happens. Remember this: things are never what they seem.'
The end of the month approached and Valentine remained disappointed by the lack of appearance of her tutor and her seamstress. She had wanted to impress the marquis with some learning and she certainly wanted to present herself in a brand new dress. Still, Mathilde assured her that her manners at table were much improved as was her posture and manner of conversation, although Monsieur Artois would fully develop and refine her social skills. She had basic dancing lessons from Jacques, and Rene had taken her for her first ride on a horse. She was making progress, Mathilde assured her. She would not disgrace herself when summonsed by the marquis.
But the end of the month came and he went away. One morning she heard the clattering of the carriage and horses at the front of the house and rushed to see what was happening: was it her tutor arriving at last? But no, as she looked from the vast landing windows she saw Jacques, an older woman and the marquis readying for a journey. Valentine watched to see if he would look up at her, perhaps a small wave or nod as he departed? But nothing. He stepped into the carriage, the footman shut the door and they were away.
She felt the colour rise into her cheeks. Mathilde caught her. 'Ah, you think you are in love with him.'
Valentine shook her head. 'How can I be? I barely know him.'
Mathilde shrugged. 'Perhaps it will be easier if you do love him a little. I've never been sure whether love helped or hindered.'
Valentine went to entreat her to elaborate but Mathilde turned away. 'At least it gives us more time for you to be ready. We are expecting your tutor in the morning.'
Joseph Artois was a solid man of thirty-five. He had worked in the university in Paris and travelled Europe before marrying. Sadly his wife had died and he was no longer young enough or happy enough to enjoy life in the cities. He had tutored aristocratic children before but never a person such as Valentine. However, he was perfectly sure he could teach her anything that was expected and prepare her fully for a life in society. He understood that he would not be solely responsible for that part of her tuition but that his meals would be taken with her during the week so he could observe and correct her at table, as well as tutor her about wine and the history and providence of the food they were eating and would eat in other dominions.
He was confronted by Valentine's beauty but most pleased by her aptitude for learning. She was quick and willing. She listened attentively and made quick progress with her subjects. He looked forward to his time with her; meals were a divine pleasure because of the bounty and quality of the repast and most particularly because of her company.
He accompanied her on her strolls in the gardens where he lectured her on flower types and names, on the scientific names of the trees and the particular nature of the soil that made the marquis' domain so fertile and rich. He would have taken her riding too but Rene refused, ferociously guarding his precious riding lessons with her.
'That man never leaves her alone,' Rene grumbled to Mathilde. 'You would think she was here for his pleasure.'
Mathilde laughed. 'There is no point being jealous of that man. He is nothing to her. He is doing his job, perhaps a little more enthusiastically than we might like, but, dear Rene, it does not matter what we like, does it?'
Rene shrugged. He knew his chances of love with Valentine were as likely as Monsieur Artois. Still, Valentine loved the horses and seemed to like being with him. Rene missed their garden walks though.
The marquis returned after six weeks. Valentine did her best to remain calm, to focus on her studies as normal, to not think about when she would be called to him. She felt she was ready. Monsieur Artois was pleased with her progress and would tell the marquis what a fine student she was. Her new dresses were being completed and she had asked that a cream and gold dress with black beads and pearl seeds be prepared especially for her much anticipated meeting.
Valentine thought about the marquis every moment, watched for him around the grounds but it was two weeks before she met him again and another week before he required her presence.
Mathilde helped her dress, brushed and set her hair with combs to match her new dress. She was breathless with excitement but frightened as well. She remained unsure about the nature of her contract, was she his guest, his servant, his – she could barely utter the word – whore?
'Tell me what will happen,' she implored Mathilde.
'I do not know. No-one knows except the marquis and he tells no-one. No-one at all. You must do as you are bid. You will have supper together and then you will talk. He will want to know about your progress, what you enjoy. Do not be frightened to speak to him, but do not bore him. You are only an ignorant peasant girl no matter all that has happened to you recently.'
Valentine blushed. It was true. Nothing had really changed and she needed to remember her place, not be buoyed by the attentions of Monsieur Artois and Rene. The marquis was all that mattered. She sensed her life at the chateau hung by a thread, hung on the events of this evening.
'What if he decides he doesn't like me?'
Mathilde shrugged. 'You will go home. Tomorrow. It will all be over quickly.'
Valentine nodded. She knew she was unprepared. She knew she was not ready for the marquis – he was a man, mature and worldly. She was a girl, insignificant and ignorant. Once more she wondered why she had been chosen, what was to become of her.
'You look beautiful, Valentine,' said Mathilde. 'I am sure he will be enchanted by you.'
It was difficult to believe she wasn't in a fairy tale when she entered his rooms. A table was set with flowers and candles in the twilight of the evening. All manner of fine bone china and cutlery adorned the table along with several crystal glasses. The marquis had dressed for the occasion in pale blue and gold, emphasising his eyes and straw coloured hair. He smelt as wonderful as he always did and it seemed as if the fire was perfumed with oranges.
'Come, Valentine,' he took her hand, 'dine with me and let us get to know each other.' He poured champagne for them both and laughed kindly as she burped softly from the gas from the tiny bubbles. 'It is the only drink to start a meal,' he smiled. 'A toast – to the most beautiful girl in France.'
She blushed, as he knew he would, but smiled nevertheless, enjoying his flattery. She felt beautiful in her new dress, with her fuller figure and softer skin, with her breasts spilling from the bodice in the current fashion. She felt ready for whatever was to happen.
'You may call me Guy, but only when we are alone, like we are now.'
Only after the food was eaten and most of the wine finished and the dishes cleared did he kiss her and then it was a small kiss on her cheek. He moved around the table and stood behind her. He touched her hair, lifted it and let it fall softly against her neck. He inhaled the smell her hair released as it cascaded onto her white skin. His fingers moved to her neck, tracing the line from her ear to her collar bone. His touch was precise – light but thrilling. He could feel her tremble as he let his hands trail across her breasts, pert, white and innocent in the evening light. He bent to kiss her neck, lifting her face to met his, to allow his lips to meet hers. It was a soft kiss, a gentle first kiss. He was pleased, and found in her tiny involuntary groan a thrilling of his own.
He took her hands and led her to the chaise by the fire. He kissed her again, now pushing his mouth harder onto hers, parting her lips a little with his tongue. She met his pressure and allowed her mouth to be entered, allowed her tongue to meet his. He felt a frisson prickling his skin and almost sighed from relief. She seemed to melt in his arms but he felt her arms around his neck and was pleased by the firmness of her embrace. He did not kiss her for long. He wanted the passion to build and she was so young and he had been so long away from love. He sat apart from her, smiling as she was.
'Good,' he nodded.
Valentine sat quietly, waiting now, in his hands, not knowing what would happen, but sensing he would complete his mission tonight and she would be safe in his house or cast aside. She had not expected to feel such joy in his arms, to feel safe, as it were. But she knew everything depended on her willingness to trust him, her ability to do as he asked, whatever it might be.
'I want you to take off your dress,' he said.
'You will have to help me,' she said, aware of all the buttons and lacings Sophie had negotiated to dress her.
It was like the first meeting. Once her beautiful dress was removed he wanted to look at her in her under-clothes, to pirouette for him in front of the fire. He kissed her again, running his hands over her body, over the lightness of her garments. It was not like that first inspection, this time he touched her, felt her. He stood back, sipped his wine and commanded her to remove her petticoats, her stockings and pantaloons until she stood in her corset, her newly rounded body shaped for the latest in French fashion. He smiled as he gazed upon her. Her breasts were soft in their whalebone and lace. Her bottom was round and soft in its nakedness. He wanted to touch her but stopped himself.
'Now come to me. You will take off my boots and stockings.' He watched the white fullness of her bottom as she knelt at his feet, doing as he asked. He felt himself throbbing and a desire to take her there on the floor was strong but he fought it. This meeting had to be correct, had to be played out calmly.
He stood up, removing his jacket. 'You may remove my vest and shirt.' She stood in front of him with only her hands touching his clothing, taking care with the unbuttoning, allowing her perfume to intoxicate him as she stood inches from him. 'Now you are to touch me. Run your hands over my chest and back, pinch my nipples gently. You may kiss my skin.' She did as she was told and uttered not one word, touching him lightly and tenderly, with assured pressure and sensuousness.
He turned her around to undo her corset stays, letting the garment fall to the floor. Finally she was naked before him. He took her breasts in both hands and squeezed, too hard such that she squealed and blushed. He softened his grip but enjoyed the feel of her young flesh, the weight in her breasts. He ran his hands down her waist and rested them on her hips. He sunk to his knees and pressed his face into her purity, smelled the innocence there and felt his own joy exploding within him.
'Lie on the bed, on your back, your legs loosely apart.' He removed his remaining clothes and lay down beside her, his erection hard and large. He noted her expression of fear mixed with admiration and thought it was the correct response. 'You are not to speak,' he said. 'I will do what I want and you are not to make a sound. You might wish to cry out but I want you to do your best to be as silent as you can.' She nodded and he kissed her quickly, preferring to move his mouth to her breasts, where he suckled on her nipples, biting them suddenly to make her flinch, to harden her pink nipples so they felt better in his mouth. His hand was stroking her body, moving in gentle caressing movements across her belly and thighs. He felt her quivering beneath his touch. He felt his heat burning him but he held on. He pushed her legs apart and moved his fingers to rest outside her opening. Gently he reached inside, seeking her wetness, checking her readiness. He was pleased by what he found. He kissed her and felt her body arch towards his in the depth of the kiss.
'You are to keep your eyes open,' he said as he moved his body on top of hers. 'I will be watching your face and I want to see into your eyes.'
Quickly, he moved his penis, now twitching and aching, to the inside of her, pushing just inside, a gentle movement that seemed to please her. He watched her face, he moved gently in, out, a single calm movement at the edge of her, like waves lapping gently on the shore. Her mouth was parted, her breath coming in short bursts, as if she was holding her breath, waiting, waiting. He saw the fear in her eyes, welcomed it and plunged fully into her. He covered her mouth with his to stop her crying out. He thrust again, deeper, and again. She moved against him, pushing her hips into him, arching off the bed. Her hands grabbed his back, pulled at his flesh. He could feel her pain, her uncertainty. Then she eased and he pushed again, again and was spent. He lay inside her until he could no longer stay there.
He looked upon her face, red from betrayal, a small tear escaping each blue eye. But her eyes remained open and she made no sound. He cradled her head upon his chest and pulled the bedclothes around them.
In the early hours of the morning he left her sleeping soundly, the sleep of the truly innocent. The spots of blood confirming that now lost innocence. He went hunting in the dawn, as happy as he had been in years.