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Chapter IV - The Head Maids and the Headstrong

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"What about my things back at the manor? Can I go back to make sure everything gets properly handled?" Dalia frantically spun about in the middle of the Grand Hall, watching as servants began preparing for dinner, yet no one paid her any mind.

Finally, one did come around; it took longer for her to reply than Dalia thought. "No, mademoiselle. Our servants will deal with it," the woman said with locked tension in her throat, not looking into Dalia's eyes. Miss O'Bruadair barely understood the woman at first due to her accent. It was almost as if she did not want Dalia to leave—as if she could not leave.

Servants strolled by, the men tipping their hats to Dalia, the women and children waving to her. The ones too busy preparing for supper carried pots, pans, glasses, and silverware. They came in with large trays and buggies, and servants big and small hauled them. Dalia marveled at the skills of the servants.

"What do you make o' them?" asked Virgil, referring to the attendants.

"No piddlin' around," she remarked.

They worked tremendously hard, all in a rush with no mishaps. The commitment of the Thibodeaux servants at her old manor could not compare to the dedication of these laborers. Dalia's thoughts traveled around to the letter she had recently written.

Suddenly, regret coursed through her. At least Count Raphael was kind enough to offer Dalia a place to stay in the castle, instead of scorning her over what she had written.

But just why had he offered a room to her? At first, she thought there had just been a common understanding between them—wherein he comprehended that she was more apt for castle-living than servanthood. That he knew she was from advantageous birth.

But perhaps it was more than that, and he had fallen into her trap of flirtatious gestures and taken a liking to her. Dalia felt her throat falling deep into the pits of her stomach at the thought of the count fancying her. This is not what she wanted—not what she planned out. Count Raphael was not what she was looking for in a husband. He jerked and fidgeted with his hands; he bent over with his odd, crooked neck. He sputtered out words and had no clue, until her letter, of the missing food and money crisis of the working class of Bordeaux. She longed for someone who was consistent, and although he was twenty-seven, the count acted the way a boy her age would.

Virgil watched with intent curiosity as his cousin's face shifted between multiple troubled looks. "What's eatin' at you, Dalia?"

"Oh, I can't marry His Grace! I should've stayed in the village and caught a husband there!" she complained, positively terrified. And then, a gleaming look of hope filtered into her bright eyes. Through a gasp, she whispered, "But, perhaps, I can find a husband here."

Just then, more pieces of the puzzle came together. Only a handful of the men in the village received any form of education. But, there might be a better chance of tutored men in the castle. Surely some young men helped the count in his daily affairs. At least one of them would not mind moving to Georgia with her.

"Oh, Lord. Please don't tell me you roused up the Count of Bordeaux, dear cousin."

The nineteen-year-old giggled. "And what if I did?"

"Then you're gonna buy me a big mansion in Savannah, as soon as I settle down."

"I'm a-gonna be buyin' you a big mansion in Savannah, am I now?" she joked.

The pair ceased to speak after that, as faint footsteps approached. Dalia turned around.

It was a gentleman whom Dalia had never seen. He wore a dark suit, with hair that toppled over to one side, covering his starkly fair coloring. Mature features swept over the man's face, held straight by a stiff neck and engaging brown eyes. He appeared to be in the middle of his life, and when Dalia looked at him, her initial thought was that he was of higher importance than other servants of the castle.

"Bonjour, monsieur et mademoiselle," the man spoke in a thick French accent. "I am Monsieur Béchard—majordome, head of household. I do hope you both will enjoy your stay and if I may be of any service at all, do not hesitate to ask." He brought his hands together and closed his eyes. "I apologize for not arriving sooner, but it seems that it was only a recent decision that the two of you would be staying here as overnight guests, yes?"

Dalia nodded. "The Count and I just now talked about it."

"So I've heard. Your rooms are being prepared this very moment, and your bearings will be brought to them accordingly. Now, the manner for which I've come: His Grace has just informed me that he wishes to have the evening meal with you, mademoiselle."

"Did he request for me as well, good sir?" Virgil asked.

"He did not mention you in the invitation, monsieur, but I'm sure he would be delighted to have your presence at the meal as well."

Virgil stiffened.

"Au revoir, I must see to other matters now. The head maids will be here shortly to help prepare you for the occasion, mademoiselle."

The man took off, heading back to the upper quarters of the castle.

"Good Lord," Virgil said, crossing his arms. "He sure was in a hurry. I wonder why I wasn't cordially invited to dinner."

"It's because the Count's after me, Virgil, not you." She laughed.

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Before the head maids got a hold of her, Miss O'Bruadair did not appear beautiful. Though Dalia's face, having been protected by bonnets and various hats during her time at the manor, was a pale shade of olive, the rest of her skin could not say the same. Her arms were tan and dark, while freckles splotches across her chest.

Marjolaine, the head house-maid, hurried Dalia into her new bedroom. It was lush and elaborate, similar to the bedroom she had had at her Aunt Delilah's mansion.

Marjolaine disapproved of Dalia's ruined figure. "Oh my, dear! I am glad that His Grace allowed you to stay when he did, or else you would have never been able to regain your figure. Give it a couple of months, and you will be perfectly healthy!" she pronounced.

Dalia had already made her point that she preferred the English term for "miss" rather than the French one. However, with her and Marjolaine being the only English-speakers in the room, it was not that big of a deal. Blanche, the lady's maid, and Luanne, her young protégè, spoke French.

Blanche drew Dalia's bath. Luanne attended to Dalia as she bathed.

After the bath, the arduous process of preparing Miss O'Bruadair for supper began. Dalia donned multiple arguments. She sat in front of the vanity, waiting for Blanche to prepare her cosmetics. Blanche assured Dalia a tiny bit of pearl powder to cover her tan arms and chest would be fine. Dalia's mother had scorned embellishments; her harsh tongue burned the back of the girl's mind, telling her not to allow this French maid to paint her face and arms and chest. But Dalia disregarded the voice and told Marjolaine to tell Blanche she wanted a full coating. Blanche applied thick pearl powder over her neck and shoulders, which turned the olive of her skin two shades lighter.

Luanne whispered a few words in French to Marjolaine, who then translated it to Dalia. "Luanne says that she's missed tending to ladies. It's been so long since we've last prepared anyone for a grand meal. After the Late Countess—God rest her soul—passed on, we had no one to tend to."

Dalia squinted. "Not even the town maidens who visited here every month or so?"

Marjolaine tensed. "Oh, those were all just myths, dear, passed around town. We never did anything of the sort."

Dalia grew skeptical, but soon tossed the thought to the back of her mind and admired herself in the mirror instead. She looked deep into her hazel eyes of green and brown, which she had always wished were blue.

Marjolaine spoke, "Are you ready for your dress, Miss O'Bruadair? I apologize that our fashions are not up-to-date. We have not purchased any more gowns since the Late Countess's passing. If you plan on staying for a lengthy period of time, however, we can order new gowns from Paris."

"I'm not sure that will be necessary—"

Dalia ceased speaking as Blanche opened the armoire and picked out a scarlet hoop-dress. Dalia gleamed. The gown reminded the young woman of her time as a feisty fifteen-year-old who had only barely emerged into society, and so delightfully she wore it. The dress began beneath Dalia's shoulders, lowering itself in the back and the front. From the moment she put it on, Dalia lifted off, away to another world, enveloped in her own beauty, thoughts, and emotions.

"Why would you want to waste money on new fashions from France when this is the most beautiful gown of them all?" Dalia said as she twirled about, the dress swooping along the floor.

Luanne took hold of Dalia's black, lavish waves and achieved an elaborate chignon, looped with multiple hair strands and braids. Blanche approved of her protégè's handiwork. Luanne then wrapped an intricate necklace around her mistress. Dalia shivered as the cold metal touched her skin.

"Luanne said that you look perfect, Miss O'Bruadair," Marjolaine spoke.

Dalia identified more with males and their way of complimenting. She could care less about the head maids and their compliments, especially Luanne. Never before had she experienced this type of adoration: a young girl looking up to her. She became annoyed, not knowing what to say to Luanne. "Thank you," she spat out awkwardly before turning away and heading toward the door.