Chapter Eight
Meeting Miss Fanny
Summary:
Marianne's tour of the Palace's art collection ends with a surprise introduction to a rather eccentric high-born lady.
Marianne took Mrs. Bell at her word, or well, Lady Laurent's word, and left the festivities behind her at the first opportunity that arose for a quiet exit. She also took Mrs. Bell's suggestion to heart. Marianne wandered through the Palace's art collection to her heart's content. At least, the fraction of it that was on public display on the ground floor.
She was not bold enough to attempt to breach the higher floors. She predicted the guards would be rather testy when it came to more private areas of the Palace. And she did not want to be ejected from the castle before the ball came to a close.
Not even Mrs. Bell's assurance that the collection was open to public display could get her to ascend the stairs. Mainly because if she was forcibly removed from the premises, her colleagues would never let her live it down.
Additionally, Marianne was really not up to getting in a slap fight with the guards should the upper floors be out of bounds. She had no doubt that she would win, since the majority of the staff was positioned much closer to the ballroom. But it would be far more bother than she had signed up for that evening.
That being said, as the night waned, had walked the length and breadth of the ground floor, those parts open to visitors. Marianne had to go somewhere. And she could hear as she passed that the ball was still in full swing. Her party would not be leaving for quite some time. And she would rather get in a skirmish with the guards than return to the ballroom. If she did, she would likely never escape it until the early hours of the morning.
So, Marianne went about looking for an alternative. It was a good plan, mainly because she got to tour the paintings again. But it also kept her far away from anyone who might recognise her - or rather, her resemblance to her mother. And more importantly, only young men who would be brave enough to ask her to dance. She shuddered at the thought.
In the end, she found herself a very pleasant hiding place. Far enough from the source of the revelry that she should not be stumbled on by another of the part goers. Close enough that Marianne could hear the music, faintly. And would be able to hear when the ball ended as well.
It was a pretty, intimate little drawing room. Done up in sky blue silk hangings and upholstery. The room was elegant, but quite clearly personal. It was likely intended to host the most intimate of parties held by the royal families.
As such, Marianne felt a little like an intruder in such a clearly confidential space. But she decided, at length, that she was unlikely to find anywhere else to while away her time uninterrupted. And that what the King and the Prince did not know would not bother them.
And so, Marianne settled herself upon one of the graceful little armchairs to take a better look at her surroundings. When she did, she was even more shocked than she had been at the sight of her portrait in the entrance hall. This room had its fair share of artwork adorning the walls as well. That was unsurprising. The royal family had enough money to cover every inch of their walls in masterpieces.
What shocked Marianne was that some of the pieces were hers.
Marianne had not seen any of her works in years. Not since her father's death.
After he died, all of his assets had been seized by many and varied creditors. To pay off the significant gambling debts he owed them. Settling those accounts had left Marianne with nothing. Not even her own paintings or the two remaining heirlooms of her mother's - which she had only saved from her father pawning by hiding them - had been spared from the creditors.
Since then she never had enough money to paint another. And had all but forgotten that she had ever gone that far in her father's trade.
Now, they were hanging in the Palace. Every last one of her works.
Some of her father's paintings ending up in the hands of the royal family made sense to her. His abilities in his craft had been widely known and well regarded during his lifetime. There had always been a steady demand for commissions. If he hadn't gambled it all away, they would have been very well off.
That much Marianne remembered well enough.
The demand for his work only increased after his death. When there was no longer the possibility of more, their value as finite articles of culture increased exponentially. The profits of that occurrence went to the banks and creditors who had taken possession of them to settle the debts her father had left on her shoulders.
But her work was another story altogether. The only people who had ever seen her paintings, before they were taken by the back, had been her father and brother. So, how they became desirable to royalty was a complete and utter mystery to Marianne.
Somehow, they had. All of them. Even though they were fair less grand and flamboyant than the paintings of her father and many other great painters. They were far smaller in size, for one. Most of them were simple. Holding the sweet simplicity of an adolescent girl. Every landscape she had painted from the garden of her childhood home was present and accounted for. The portrait of her mother hung between two beautifully draped windows. The miniatures of her brother rested upon the mantle piece, below a magnificent mirror.
One of which featured a young, optimistic Mathis. Painted before her mother's death. The other, the jaded soldier he had become during the wars. With the blue coat and gold braiding of his uniform clashing with his hazel eyes. So cold and unbroachable. So like her own.
Marianne became utterly lost in taking in the paintings she hadn't seen since she traded them for her freedom so many years ago. So much so that she did not notice someone else had entered the room.
She had no idea what was happening to her, but she was becoming awfully lax at remaining aware of her surroundings. If Colonel Maraxis had ever seen her jump so much at the sound of a lady's polite 'Good Evening', she was sure he would have sent her running drills for a good eight hours. If he was in a good mood. Well, what qualified for him as a 'good mood'. Cheerful was not a word anyone would use to describe the old Colonel.
Marianne whirled around to face the door. And in doing so, almost overturned the armchair in which she sat.
The woman who had spoken was an older woman. Marianne would say she was in her early fifties, if she had to guess. Very elegant. Her bearing, and dress very obviously declared she was high born, but not royalty. Nobility, probably. Or perhaps a member of the gentry who was particularly well off. Either way, this woman was quite a few rungs higher than Marianne in the pecking order of society.
So, Marianne hurriedly got to her feet with all the grace she could and curtsied to the woman. Hoping against all hope that her delay in doing so was not long enough to cause offence to her unknown companion.
"My lady," she greeted the woman, still uncertain as to whether or not she had offended the lady.
"Oh, my dear, do sit down. There is just the two of us present, no need for all that," she simply dismissed Marianne's hurried courtesies with an elegant wave of her hand. And daintily took a seat on the armchair next to Marianne's.
"As you wish, my lady," Marianne agreed unsurely and lowered herself back into her chair.
"Call me Fanny, my girl, please," she insisted pleasantly, with a warm smile and a curious look in her eye, "And what may I call you, dear?"
"Marianne, Marianne Renoir," she said without thinking, and gave Miss Fanny a name she had not used in an incredibly long time. And surprisingly, it did not bring on the panic and anger that the thought of sharing that name usually brought on.
"Wonderful to make your acquaintance, Miss Marie," Miss Fanny said, that curious gleam growing a little disconcerting. But it was not enough to set off alarm bells in Marianne's mind yet.
"Likewise, Miss Fanny."
