Chapter Seven
Stepping into the Eye of the Storm
Summary:
The palace holds more than a few surprises.
Marianne was not entirely sure how to feel as their carriage pulled to a stop by the palace steps. Excitement and trepidation coursed through her simultaneously. And she knew not which feeling was the more prudent. Nor did she have time to decide.
Because the instant the carriage stopped, a footman stepped forward and the door was swung open. As soon as the young man moved back out of the way, Marianne's colleagues rushed to exit the vehicle. As they did, their demeanour shifted from the almost childish excitement they had indulged in on their journey to the more typical, dignified airs Marianne was accustomed to see them projecting. Though she could still see the light of wonder in their eyes as they took in their surroundings.
Marianne steeled herself quickly as she could, then followed their lead. She carefully climbed down from the carriage, taking the offered hand of the footman to keep her balance. Once her feet were solidly on the ground she thanked the young man, with an only slightly forced smile.
"My pleasure, Miss," he replied casually with a much more genuine smile in return.
Marianne raised an eyebrow at him at the informal way he spoke to her. Surely the palace staff were trained better than to speak so familiarly to a guest. He shrugged at her, and continued to smile happily.
"The nobility don't thank us, Miss. Just regular folk."
That made sense. She made a face at him as she went to join her colleagues.
"I'm sorry to hear that."
"It's not your fault Miss," he assured her as he moved to retake his post.
"All the same," she said over her shoulder as she caught up with Mrs. Bell, who was giving her a searching look. Eyebrows raised suspiciously. A mischievous smirk beginning to curve along her lips. Marianne rolled her eyes at her as she came level with her at the bottom of the palace steps where her colleagues waited in the winding line to enter the building.
"I seem to recall you saying you were uninterested in romantic endeavours," Mrs. Bell said with repressed laughter as she looped an arm through Marianne's.
"I did and I am," she replied, unsure as to what her friend was thinking.
"You have a funny way of showing it," she pointed out, letting out a chuckle. Marianne frowned at her, still confused, until she continued, "You're quite the flirt, child."
She laughed at her again. This time, Marianne was in on the joke. Rather than laugh along with her friend, she sighed, and hung her head exasperatedly.
"I was being nice," she emphasised, "I decided to give it a try. Now I know better, thank you for your input, Mrs. Bell. I'll go back to being my usual taciturn self."
"Perhaps you should just try to learn the line between niceties and flirtation," she suggested, patting Marianne's hand affectionately.
Marianne elbowed her in retaliation. That just made Mrs. Bell even more amused, though she tried to stifle her mirth lest her subordinates catch her in the act of being a feeling creature.
Heaven forfend they realise she was a normal human being and not some kind of automaton.
"I know the difference perfectly well, thank you. Perhaps you should take a refresher in discourse yourself," Marianne replied smartly as they at last began to move forward up the mountainous steps.
The palace staff were finally allowing people to enter the ballroom, if Marianne were to guess. She would know for sure if she had a timepiece, preferably one that worked. Unfortunately, the only one she owned had not worked in almost seven years. She had left it behind in the Laurent's mansion, lest it become even more damaged.
The surrounding crowd seemed to be thinking along the same lines as Marianne. An excited murmuring started up all around them. People began to look as though there might be a break in propriety and a large push toward the inner palace.
Marianne was quite glad there was not. She didn't feel much like becoming violent so early in the evening. She at least wanted to get into the palace before she was prevailed up on to break some poor sap's bones. It would not do to be thrown out by the guards before she'd even gotten a toe over the threshold.
She was certain Mrs. Bell would never let her live it down if she was. Marianne was equally certain she would never be able to deal with her friend's endless teasing without dissolving into a puddle of shame.
Instead of devolving into violence, things moved alone very smoothly. Although the line never seemed to get any shorter. Quite the opposite.
Increasingly more people continuously arrived at the palace steps. When Marianne turned to look, a queue of carriages had formed along the drive, going back as far as she could see.
It shouldn't have been as surprising to her as it was, Marianne reasoned. Everyone in the country and surrounding kingdoms who could come to the palace would be there. But she had thought the Laurents and their household would be among the earliest to arrive. The ball wasn't to start for another hour, as far as Marianne could judge.
As it turned out, they were quite far from being the first guests to appear at the palace. This seemed a little ridiculous to her. How early did those at the front of the line get to the castle? Did those poor suckers set out yesterday? Last week?
The Lord only knew.
Madness. The lot of it. Complete and utter madness.
Every single one of them, herself included, should probably be rounded up and sent off to an asylum post-haste.
She tried to put her more severe thoughts out of her mind. Instead she focused on the splendour of the palace. The architecture. And once they reached the entrance hall, the exquisite chandeliers that hung from the ceiling. The massive, ornamented staircases. The beautiful paintings that lined the walls.
Those were what she truly focused on.
The paintings were beyond anything Marianne had seen in a long, long time. Every canvas on the wall was truly a masterpiece. Truly wondrous to behold. Marianne learned and remembered so much just by laying eyes on them for the time it took to walk past. She was truly enjoying herself as they waited to be announced and let into the ballroom.
She was even scheming up excuses she could use and ways she could sneak away from the festivities. Not to avoid the dancing or the bourgeoisie. But so she could wander the halls and take in the massive collection of art the palace hosted.
Marianne knew that a few hours alone with even part of the royal family's collection would be worth more than half a lifetime's study at a top university. Something which she could never dream of affording. So, her scheme was very pleasing to her on many levels. Learning, avoiding the night's revelry. The plan was endlessly attractive.
But part way through her musings a particular painting came into view that stopped her heart completely. It was a huge canvas, impossible to miss. She tried to take a deep breath, but was restricted by the corset, and she began to be afraid she would swoon. Marianne would have looked around to see if there was a fainting couch nearby, but she couldn't take her eyes off that painting.
It was a portrait. A young child. It was hard to tell just from looking, most would say the child was five or six. But Marianne knew the young girl was eight. Smiling and dimpled, surrounded by flowers. Lilies. One of the same flowers affixed in the child's mane of almost pinkish, strawberry hair.
It wasn't just the subject that was familiar. It was the brushstrokes. The style. The use of light. Every little detail of the painting told her it was an original. Not a reproduction or a forgery.
She didn't know how that painting ended up in the royal palace's entrance hall.
She didn't think she wanted to know, either.
A hand landed gently on her shoulder and Marianne nearly jumped out of her skin. She whirled around, finally taking her eyes off the painting, and met the concerned gaze of Mrs. Bell and Harrison. She took a proper breath and tried to compose herself.
"Oh, I'm sorry," she apologised, "I got a little distracted. The art collection is really magnificent, isn't it?"
"Yes, it is," Harrison agreed with a nod, sounding impressed, probably at what had distracted her, he probably did not think her so cultured as to appreciate art. She could not blame him, she was a bit of a brute.
"But the line is moving on," Mrs. Bell said and gently steered her onwards a little so she was no longer holding up the people waiting behind them.
She was once again sounding suspicious, so Marianne quickly moved forward, and tried not to let her eyes travel back to the painting from her childhood. She was unsuccessful in that endeavour. She kept looking over at it, then realising what she was doing, tearing her gaze away far too quickly to be subtle about it.
Eventually, Mrs. Bell realised what had disturbed her so much. She followed Marianne's look and at last noticed the large canvas that had taken her so by surprise and caused so much agitation. The second she saw it Marianne could see the comprehension dawn on her face and give way to pure and utter amazement. The severe woman's composure dropped completely and her jaw actually dropped.
This time it was her who stopped moving and Marianne who had to egg her onwards.
She came back to herself when Marianne pushed her forward. She quickly looked around to Marianne with pure astonishment in her expression. Silently demanding why a giant portrait of her was hanging in the royal palace.
After a moment of hesitation, Marianne obliged.
"My father painted that when I was eight."
"Your father?" she repeated quietly.
"Yes. He was a painter, and when he found inspiration hard to come by, he painted me, or my mother. We're the subjects of a good lot of his works. But I never thought they would end up somewhere like this," Marianne elaborated, equally as quiet, gesturing around at the palace they were standing in.
"Really?" she asked, returning to her typical self, but looking around at the portrait once again, "Perhaps you should have. Your father's work is exquisite."
"Some people think so," Marianne replied, going for modesty, as she always did whenever someone complimented her father's work.
She herself was never sure how she felt about it. Objectively, Marianne could see that it was good. Very good. But as the subject of a lot of it, it made her uncomfortable. It was impossible not to know how her father saw her when she looked at his paintings of her. And his opinions of her were not always very flattering.
"The king must be one of them," Mrs. Bell pointed out as they moved on and her childhood portrait faded out of their view. But the raised eyebrow Mrs. Bell was sporting made Marianne almost let out a groan of despair.
Instead of doing that, she took a deep breath – as deep as she could manage wearing a corset – and followed Mrs. Bell's gaze to see what had brought about that bold statement. What she saw was another of her father's works. Another that featured her.
It was not a portrait. It was a garden scene.
A garden Marianne knew each nook and cranny of once upon a time. Her childhood home in the background, with its blue door, and covered in ivy. The frog pond in the foreground. And her, aged thirteen, in her brother's old clothes and her hair down and wild. Her face red and tear streaked. Looking despondently into the distance. Her melancholy form reflected in the pond.
She did not remember sitting for that one. Had not even seen it until that moment. But she did remember the day it's likeness was taken. Vividly. She spent a lot of her life since then trying very hard to forget it.
She almost cried thinking of it.
It was the day the letter arrived form the military.
The day they found out her brother died.
If her father was still alive, Marianne would have stormed from the palace that instant, hunted him down and killed him herself. She might just get into the occult and find out how to raise him from the dead. Then kill him. Again, and again, and again.
Over and over, until she wasn't angry with him anymore. Which would likely take a long time.
How dare he. How dare he profit from her grief. From the death of his own child. How could he use them like that?
She knew he wasn't a good man. Marianne had known that since she was a little girl. But this, this exploitation of his children, two of the only people who ever cared for him, was a new low.
It was no wonder he never told her about his illicit little painting.
Well. It wasn't so little. It was almost the same size of the window opposite it. The depiction of her on the canvas was nearly the same size as she was at the time. It must have taken him a lot of effort to hide it from her.
She could kill him.
But that lucky bastard had already escaped her wrath. He was six feet under and there was nothing she could do to hurt him anymore. No matter how much he hurt her posthumously. It wasn't fair.
"Someone in the palace must be," she agreed, trying to keep her voice steady.
It took more effort than Marianne would ever admit to, but she tried to disguise the sorrow and anger writhing through her mind. She knew not how well she did, but she was finding it difficult to concentrate on anything other than her father's secret painting right then.
"Are you all right, child?" Mrs. Bell asked softly, gently laying a hand on Marianne's shoulder in an attempt to comfort her.
She must not have been very successful at suppressing her distress. Marianne quickly tried her best to pull herself together. Forcing the terrible memories out of her mind and focused on the present.
"I will be," she assured her friend.
Mrs. Bell did not look convinced. But Marianne would not allow her to continue the topic. Not there. Not then.
Not ever if Marianne had anything to say about it. But she seriously doubted she would have a say.
She had to stop the barrage of concerned questions. Partly because it was a difficult issue for Marianne. Partly due to the crowd surrounding them.
She was determined to get Mrs. Bell to drop it for the time being, so Marianne did not pull any punches. She said whatever she could to seal her lips. Why was she discussing a delicate issue where so many strangers could overhear? Did she have any remaining sense of discretion? Or was she too dazzled by their surroundings for subtlety anymore?
That was a little cruel, but it did the job very well.
They continued the rest of the way into the ballroom quietly. Occasionally attempting idle conversation. The palace was simply beautiful, was it not? It seemed the whole kingdom had come out in force to attend, did not it? Did you think such finery even existed until now? But they were both too distracted by a far more interesting topic to speak of things of such little consequence for long.
When they entered the ballroom, her breath was taken away anew. It was even more lavish than the passages they'd come in through. It was very grand indeed, but Marianne had not as much attention to give the beautiful scenery as she would have liked. And far less admiration than it deserved.
Fortunately, Marianne did have enough of her wits remaining not to draw attention to herself as their party moved forward to be announced by the royal herald. It was unlikely that he would ask for the servants' names. But in the event he did, she would rather leap from the balcony than give hers. And with her luck, giving the herald a fake name would only come back to bite her in the rear. Very quickly after the fact.
Hiding amongst the other staff members had the added benefit of concealing her rather distinctive appearance. With her father's paintings hanging all over the palace, there was no telling how many of the courtiers might recognise her.
God damn that man. And whoever bought those paintings.
It appeared her first instincts were correct and the ball was going to be a bloody nightmare for her. She had gotten her hopes up for naught.
Oh well.
It was of little matter. Marianne had work to do.
She curtsied to the King and the Prince along with her colleagues. But she paid the two most powerful men in the kingdom as little mind as she did their drapes. Instead, she set her eye to sweeping the room and all of its occupants. On her first glance, she picked out three men she would need to keep the other girls away from.
Her quick inspection also gave her a passing familiarity with all of the exits and blind spots. Which would have to do. Any more thorough examination would be too conspicuous, with the eyes of the gathering on their party as they descended the stairs.
She was beginning to think the palace was made up entirely of staircases. It was a pain. In the feet, specifically. Marianne would never forgive Mrs. Bell for talking her into wearing damned high heeled slippers.
Guarding the virtue of the Laurent household may prove to be more difficult than she originally thought.
The things Marianne did for her friends.
A/N - I know I said we'd be getting to the ball. Technically, this is the ball. It's turned out to be more of a filler chapter, but as I was writing it, it kind of took on a mind of its own. In the form of some background on Marianne. We learned a little more about her, yay.
I swear I'll be getting to some action next time. I promise.
