Okay, so this is the beginning of my Musketeers fanfiction. I'm experimenting a little here because I don't usually write in third person and I'm not entirely sure how well this chapter reads…Here's hoping you guys like it!
Gabrielle hiked up her skirt, trying to keep it out of the way as she ran down the slightly muddy streets of Paris. A light drizzle was still oozing from the clouds, wetting her hair and helping it fall further out of its elaborate up-do. It was getting both late and dark and the wind was doing nothing to help the bitter chill settling in her bones. She slipped on the damp ground, nearly dropping her bag, and swore. She swore at the rain for soaking her to the skin, she swore at the ground for being slippery, she swore at her brother for being a lying cheat but most of all she swore at herself for believing him.
A roll of thunder rumbled from the sky above her and Gabrielle glanced up at it anxiously, the bruised purple shade of the clouds only worrying her more. She gathered her dress up in her fists again and hurried once more down the street. She paused as she met a fork in the path and desperately tried to remember if she was supposed to go left or right; it was so long since she'd been here.
Gabrielle had come to Paris to meet the Queen. Anne had heard of how Gabrielle served her old mistress, Duchess Louisa Clairoux, and had asked if perhaps Gabrielle could do something similar for her. The job was something of a Godsend for Gabrielle: she had been searching for a new one for nearly a month and her savings were on the wrong side of gone. If Anne decided she didn't need her then Gabrielle had no doubt she was about to get far closer acquainted with the slums than she had ever wanted to be. But for now, until Anne made a firm decision, Gabrielle had been instructed to stay in Paris. Her complete lack of money was quite a big hitch in that plan but Gabrielle was reluctant to mention it. She could hardly tell the queen she was destitute: Anne would likely refuse to hire her on principle. It seemed like the kind of thing royalty would do.
And so, Gabrielle found herself searching the streets of Paris in the pouring rain – ruining her best dress in the process – for a house that may well be deserted by now. Her friend Hèlene had likely married and moved away a long time ago but the half-baked disaster of a plan was Gabrielle's only hope.
The heavens growled again from far above her and Gabrielle impulsively turned right. She had always liked right more than left anyway. As she ran the rain got heavier and she was now running through nothing short of a torrential downpour. She struggled to try and simultaneously keep her dress out of the way of her feet and her hair out of the way of her eyes and wasn't very successful with either. She stumbled her way through the rain and was beyond grateful when she finally saw the doorway of, she hoped, Hèlene's home. She dashed into the relative protection of the doorstep and knocked frantically on the wood.
A long moment passed before the door swung open and the smile Gabrielle had conjured disappeared. A man, slightly shabby, dishevelled and certainly unfamiliar stood in the doorframe with a red haired woman just behind him. Gabrielle's heard sank. It had been a long shot, she had known that, but that didn't make her disappointment any easier to bear.
"Can we help you?" The man asked, eyeing Gabrielle suspiciously. She could hardly blame him: she would be suspicious too if a stranger showed up at her house this late.
"I…" she began and then she hesitated. Her shoulders slumped in defeat as she realised she was likely spending the night on the street. "A woman used to live here. Hèlene Bouclaire. Do you know her? Perhaps she left a new address with you in case anyone asked?" Gabrielle hoped her face held a pleading expression but was painfully aware that it could be anything from anger to despair considering the day she'd had.
"No." The man snapped and tried to shut the door on Gabrielle but the woman, who Gabrielle assumed was his wife, leapt forward and wedged herself in the gap, forcing the door back open.
"Wait!" She cried, ignoring the irritated huff her husband let out. "She did live here before we moved in. I think I remember an address but that was a long time ago." The woman paused, regarding Gabrielle with undisguised worry. "Is it urgent?"
Gabrielle hesitated, unsure whether or not her situation qualified as urgent. "No. No I suppose not. I find myself unexpectedly without a place to stay and I hoped she might have a chair I could spend the night in."
"There's an inn just down the road, third right and second left after that. Goodnight." The man replied shortly and attempted to shut the door again but his wife once again stopped him.
"She can't go in there looking like that!" Gabrielle frowned at that comment, slightly offended, and discreetly looked down at her dress which she had thought was perfectly respectable. "She looks half drowned!"
Oh. That.
"They'll take one look at her and throw her onto the street. She'll have to stay here." The woman said firmly and ushered Gabrielle inside, ignoring the spluttered protests of her husband.
Gabrielle let a small smile light her face at the woman's display. This was the kind of woman Gabrielle got along with: independent, strong and confident. The woman guided her to the right into the living room of the house and glanced at her apologetically. "I'm afraid a chair really is all we can offer." She said, gesturing at the chaise longue in front of the fire. "I'll get you a blanket." She began to move away but Gabrielle quickly grasped her arm to stop her.
"There's no need: It'll only get wet. Thank you, though." She said quickly and the woman nodded biting her lip apologetically.
"About that, I realise you must be cold and you're welcome to move things closer to the fire but our lodger will be coming in later. He sometimes brings his friends in for a little while if it's been a rough night and well…I wouldn't advise undressing." Gabrielle barely managed to repress an irritated sigh. She was grateful to the woman, she truly was, but she was also freezing and sitting in a soaked dress was the last thing she wanted to do. Her silence seemed to convey her thoughts as the woman grimaced.
"I'm sorry I can't do more for you…?"
"Gabrielle." Gabrielle supplied and a smile lit the woman's face.
"That's a beautiful name. I always wanted to be called something like that when I was younger: Something pretty. My name's Constance. Constance Bonacieux."
"I notice your friend didn't give you a last name." Monsieur Bonacieux stated coldly from the doorway. Gabrielle met his gaze unflinchingly.
"Olivier. Gabrielle Olivier." Bonacieux regarded her for a long moment, long enough for Gabrielle to know he didn't believe her, before he beckoned Constance with a much softer tone than he'd shown Gabrielle.
"Come to bed: It's late and there's nothing more you can do here."
Constance nodded her assent and briefly clasped Gabrielle's hand, "If there's anything you need, just ask," before following her husband up the stairs.
Gabrielle sighed and sat down on the edge of the chaise longue, her bag making a heavy "thump" as it hit the ground. Gabrielle fingered the hilt of her sword through the bag's material and hoped she wouldn't be leaving Paris as quickly as she had come.
Aramis entered Constance's darkened home as quietly as possible, following D'artagnan and Porthos left into the kitchen with Athos not far behind him. He reached up automatically to pull of his hat as he leant against the table. D'artagnan searched quickly for a bandage and some alcohol for his arm while Aramis and the others arranged themselves around the kitchen.
"You know, you could always ask for help." Aramis commented lightly as D'artagnan struggled to wrap the bandage. D'artagnan glared at him and he held his hands up in defence, meeting Athos' gaze across the kitchen and knowing they were thinking the same thing.
D'artagnan had been in a foul mood ever since Constance had called off their relationship (affair, really, not that he could talk) and it was making him both very bad company and extremely reckless. Speaking of which, a lecture was definitely due from Athos about D'artagnan putting himself in danger.
As if on cue Athos began to berate D'artagnan in the most hushed voice he could manage. "What did you think you were doing? You could have been killed!"
"Well I wasn't, was I?" D'artagnan replied in the same furious but quiet tone and Aramis, sensing another argument brewing, suddenly became very interested in a tea cup that had been left on the table.
Athos and D'artagnan had been having heated arguments ever since D'artagnan's new lack of self-preservation had surfaced, but they never seemed to do much good. Aramis and Porthos had tried to mediate at first but had quickly learned that it was better to stay out of them entirely if they didn't want to be accused of "taking sides" and make one or both of them angry.
"Let's hope this one ends quicker than the last time." Porthos muttered as he passed Aramis and moved into the living room. Aramis was contemplating joining him when his voice floated through to the kitchen breaking up the argument completely.
"Do you think Constance knows there's a woman asleep in her sitting room?"
Aramis exchanged a brief look of confusion with the other two before all three of them bundled into said room.
"What do you mean a..." D'Artagnan trailed off as he stared at the sleeping woman like he'd never seen one before while Aramis leant over the back of it to get a better look at her.
The woman had pulled the chaise longue closer to the fire and was curled up on the wrong end, her hands acting as a pillow between the hard wood of the arm and her head. She had light-ish skin, too dark to have lived inside all her life but too light to have spent it all outside either. Her brown hair was fanned out across her face and the arm of the sofa in still wet straggles but it, like her skin, was clean and reasonably well cared for and her dress was well made and fitted.
"She doesn't look like a street rat." He pointed out.
"What's she doing there?" D'Artagnan demanded and the three musketeers shrugged as one.
"House guest?" Porthos suggested.
"Relative?" Aramis bounced back.
"No." Athos responded assuredly. "If she was then Constance would have mentioned she was coming. And she would have given her D'Artagnan's bed."
"Then how do we know she's not snuck in?" D'Artagnan folded his arms across his chest. "I say we wake her up and find out exactly what she's doing here. She could be a thief or a murderer." He started towards her but Athos held out an arm to stop him and shook his head.
"Why would she be asleep in front of the fire if she was? Wouldn't she be stealing or murdering?" Porthos asked, raising an eyebrow.
"Besides, Aramis is right," Athos said "she's not a street rat." His assured tone made Aramis wonder if he knew more than he was saying but he brushed the thought off quickly: if he knew something, he would share it.
"Either way she doesn't seem to be doing much better in here than she would out there." Porthos gestured to the woman. He was right: even in her sleep the woman was shivering and It was no wonder, her dress was soaked with rainwater and the fire was beginning to die.
"It's none of our business." Athos decided. "We should go." Porthos and D'Artagnan nodded, though D'Artagnan was clearly reluctant, and moved towards the door or the staircase respectively. Aramis lingered a moment longer.
"Aramis?" Porthos called from the doorway. "You coming?" Aramis looked at him and then back at the shivering woman and made an impulsive decision that he was almost sure he would regret.
"Give me a moment." He unbuckled his gun belt and pulled off his shoulder sash. He heard Porthos groan as he unbuttoned his coat and shrugged out of it, a grin spreading across his face at his friend's expression. It amused him to no end how irritated Porthos got every time he held them up in order to be a gentleman. He draped the coat over the girl, tucking it around her shoulders carefully so as not to wake her up. He was rewarded when she shifted slightly, her hair falling to the side and giving him an unobstructed view of her face.
He stared at her face for only a moment, far less time than he would have taken had it been Anne, before gathering up his things and scribbling her a note. Then he jogged to the door where Porthos was waiting for him. Porthos shook his head in exasperation and the smile crept back onto Aramis' face as he left the house.
So there it is. I'd really appreciate reviews, good or bad, though I ask you avoid flames if you can possibly help it.
