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Chapter III - A Southern Lady's Charms
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An elaborately-outdated carriage rolled up the pebbled driveway to the Thibodeaux Manor that Friday morning. And inside on the stairways, footfalls came and went like rushing water. It was the fourth carriage in a manner of three days, Dalia concluded. She jumped up and down, recognizing the intricate design and vivid colors in an instant. There was no doubt in her mind the carriage was from the castle.
The stage-coachman walked up the steps and tipped his hat as one of the butlers opened the door. This boy was younger and appeared less experienced than the one Miss O'Bruadair had become accustomed to seeing. She peered out the window with an eager gleam in her eyes, forgetting her morning duties and hoping to catch a glimpse of the exchange of her letter. When no transferral came about, the butler only twisting around on his heels and walking in the other direction, Dalia's heart sank. Why, then, had the young boy traveled all this way?
Instantaneously, gasps from several jealous girls who worked alongside Dalia infiltrated the surrounding hallways. Miss O'Bruadair paraded down the main stairway, holding her head high and straightening her back; she wore servant's clothing.
"Miss O'Bruadair!" exclaimed the butler from the main entrance.
Dalia greeted the two of them, while Virgil, Dalia's chaperone—and not to mention older cousin—came racing down the stairs at the mention of her name. The other maids listened in on the conversation pale green with envy; a sly smile slithered onto Dalia's face. The butler attempted to explain to her the situation, yet the young servant boy interrupted him.
"Mademoiselle O'Brawdair, I presume?"
Dalia's smile morphed into disgust, as she had grown sick and tired of the French word for "miss." Not to mention he had mispronounced her surname.
"Yes," she replied. "How are you today, sir?"
"I am well." The servant was young and blushed at the thought of being referred to as "sir." He then ducked his head and took off his hat, revealing tuft-blond hair.
Dalia preyed on the servant's youth and vulnerability. "So why're you visitin' me today? Is it another issue from the castle, or has 'the dashing, debonair Frenchman' come to steal 'the poor southern belle's heart'?" she queried, making sure that the plantation accent was prominent enough to make his emotions spin.
Virgil rolled his eyes.
The adolescent boy, who could not have been over fifteen, dared not look into her eyes after that. They were far too intimidating. "His Grace requests your presence at his castle. I must transport you, mademoiselle."
Dalia's stomach soared up into her throat.
They occurred perhaps once every few months, these strange, arranged calls wherein an eligible maiden of the village would suddenly travel to Count Raphael's castle deep in the wood. However, the most recent one had transpired nearly two years before, or so Dalia had been told. In his latest issue, the count's head advisor invited Dalia to the castle; she had replied only yesterday and was not expecting the visit to be so soon.
"Of course."
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Dalia changed into an outfit more suitable for meeting the count. The young girl soon trotted down the stairway in a calico dress. The rest of the servants eyed her; the maids wished it could have been one of them to pay a visit to the castle, instead of the new American servant girl and her chaperone. They all stood bewildered at the sight as the black figures became only more enveloped in the red and orange sunset.
The young boy opened the carriage door for Dalia and Virgil, and they hurried in.
"You can take the mask off now, dear cousin," Virgil said as Dalia massaged her face from holding a simper for so long.
"You don't have ta tell me twice." It was rather mountainous and rocky, the way she spoke, just like the cliffs and drop-offs in the Cumberland Gap. But only with Virgil and to herself did she ever speak this way.
The rest of the ride comprised Dalia gazing off into space. She wondered what the count wanted with her. "Must have ta do with that first note I sent," she concluded hastily, biting down on her fingernails. Nerves bounced off of her stomach. Perspiration-droplets found their ways to the floor from her nose.
"The townsfolk talked of strange happenin's where servant ladies would stay in the castle for several days and then go back to work. One didn't come back is plain what I heard," spoke Virgil in his matter-of-fact, relaxed tone, akin to Georgia's coastal waves which rolled back-and-forth, precise, never missing a beat.
"Oh, you know I don't believe in such tales," giggled Dalia, pinching her cheeks for their signature rose glow. She was afraid that it might not show, however. "What if he found the letter offensive? What if he intends on punishin' me? You know I intentionally wrote in some foul undertones describin' his servants."
Virgil laughed heartily. "It'll be alright. I'll be here beside ya, no matter what."
Dalia smiled and decided to worry about it all later. She instead focused on fixing her hair and complained, "If only I'd brought along my hair comb!"
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Dalia had never shown much interest in architecture or design, so she could not be a true judge. But. The castle seemed infinite. Dalia had to stretch her neck up to its limits before she could see the full thing. It was not like the plantation home she once had, with colorful, sweeping porches and square columns. Rather, it was a vast, intimidating castle. One that seemed, the longer she stared at it, to want to reach out and grab her. The entrance was not welcoming and open, but rather a large pair of doors guarded whatever lay inside.
Marble fountain sculptures dispersed themselves throughout the gardens. From fish to gargoyles, they were everywhere, all eyes on Dalia. She felt violated by them and their presence, and they most likely felt the same way about her. But the boy led her deeper into the madness, deeper into her fears. The very tops of the castle acted as arrows, piercing through the clouds with their sharp blades. Dalia marveled at how unfathomably high the castle was, all the way to the heavens. "Whoever built this musta not read the end of the story and decided to reconstruct the Tower of Babel," Dalia remarked jokingly, but with a hint of fear under her breath.
The boy laughed. "Ah, yes. But you will become used to it," he slurred in his thick accent.
"Oh, no I'm not! I'm leaving here soon's I can," Dalia said with a smile.
He did not reply.
Dalia's Aunt Delilah, Virgil's mother, had educated the both of them. Dalia was taken away by the fantastic pieces of romantic literature that Virgil could not immerse himself in; the chaperone, rather, was fascinated by architecture. He let his mind wander around in a pool of thoughts regarding the baroque monstrosity. It resembled the twisted, secluded areas of the forest—the parts you do not journey to when hunting or exploring.
Virgil lagged behind Dalia and the stage-coachman, becoming more frightened as the shadows of the enormous doors fell behind him, locking him from the outside. The minute Dalia walked in through the castle entrance, more pairs of eyes found their way to her. This time, it was worse. This time, it was human eyes. Orbs of blue, green, and brown. Orbs of curiosity. Orbs of pity, too. They knew something.
The boy led Virgil to his room, turning Dalia over to another servant, who did not bother to say anything either. The castle reminded Dalia of a train tunnel, as the deeper she went, the darker and more corrupt it became. There was a rich, crimson glow on the inside, as though Hell were at the end of each corridor. But she assured herself that it was due to the boiler room and multiple fireplaces.
They climbed up a vast and wide staircase, which must be leading to the West Wing, Dalia concluded. She mainly kept her eyes locked on the footsteps in front of her.
"Here we are, mademoiselle," the woman leading her said.
Dalia lifted her head and looked deep into the woman's amber eyes. Hearty eyes they were, with long, thick lashes that curled up at the tips. As she admired them, the woman rushed her into a room. The dull colors of the decor seemed to moan due to years of sadness and neglect. The room appeared to be of the business type, what with its shelves filled to the brim with books, and stocky desks filled to the brim with letters.
A nearby fireplace crackled. Dalia's breath sped up, and, promptly, a door creaked open.
"Good evening, Mademoiselle O'Brawdair," a voice spoke.
Dalia expected to see a fine, straight-lined man. She presumed Count Raphael Lésagero of Bordeaux, with all his business affairs together, and all his emotional passions and pleasures behind him, so he could run his city and the surrounding countryside properly. But rather, Miss O'Bruadair received a young boy, like the stage-coachman who had brought her to the castle. Although he was nearly a head higher than she, with a masculine build and rich, dusky brown hair, Dalia saw through his appearance. The count hunched over, and when he sat, his legs shook. Not only that, but his royal blue suit was unpinned and wrinkled. The count had bags under his eyes, and it was evident he had not shaved for quite some time.
What a pathetic excuse for a count; no wonder all these troubles are arousing, were the only words running through her mind.
"It's Miss O'Bruadair. Evenin'," Dalia replied. She got to the matter straight away. "So why've you brought me here today?"
Count Raphael sat tensely in the chair, knees wobbling and hands fiddling. "I have read over the letter you sent and want to discuss it with you." Dalia scented a hint of whiskey coming from his breath.
"Oh, yes, that ole thing." Dalia played her cards in a distinct matter. Instead of with a business-like attitude, she would get what she wanted through flirtatious gestures. After all, Raphael was not fit to be count, hence his parents' recent deaths; he was still just a young boy, barely breeched. "Have you come up with a solution so far?" she asked, jutting out her chin.
"No, not yet. To be frank, I have had no idea in the slightest over my servants and their food and money. They have stolen for quite a while now, from my understanding lately."
"Oh, I see. Well, you'll have to figure out that one for yourself." The count ducked his head in defeat over Dalia. The drooping of his head caused his untied shoelaces, untidy suit, and uncombed hair to become only more apparent.
Dalia sat back in her chair and sighed out of disgust. She raised a single black brow out of pure irritation, cutting a startling, arched oblique into her pale olive skin.
The count noted this and, out of his nerves and determination to please Dalia, complimented her. "Mademoi— Miss O'Bruadair, you may or may not already know this, but I believe that you are a brave woman to bring this matter up. No one has ever done anything like this before."
Instantaneously, at the realization of his comment on her spirit and determination, Dalia's face lit up. Her eyes seemed to billow and wave, like fields of grain explicit in their depictions of green and brown. Her features swept over the room, filling it with a warm, effervescent glow. "Why... thank you," she said.
"Now, I also understand that you are from America—"
"Confederate States of America," Dalia said with such indignation and power that Raphael dared not suggest otherwise.
"Confederate States of America, excuse me. Do you plan to move back, or plan on staying here?"
"Oh, once I catch a husband, I'm most definitely movin' back."
He smiled, his mannerisms altering. "I am sure that won't take long at all. Would it appeal to the lady to stay here in the castle until you... 'catch a husband'? Or would you rather continue working as a servant in Le Manoir des Thibodeaux?"
Dalia opened her eyes, smiled at him, and with that, the deal was sealed.