If she couldn't love Alfred, she could easily love his house. Alfred's
England manor was far more beautiful than any home she'd lived in before.
The marble floors were impeccably glossy, as were all the wood surfaces,
polished painstakingly by many maids. All around them were bouquets;
vanilla-scented purple heliotrope, huge pink peonies, cheerful yellow
daffodils.
The house, surprisingly, was rather small. "My wife wanted a small house," Alfred informed her as she trailed, amazed, through the halls. "You'll detect her influence everywhere. She designed it all herself." Satine was touched by the wistfulness in his voice and slipped her arm through his in a comforting gesture. "It's beautiful."
"It is," he agreed.
Satine's eyes roved over the walls, papered in a delicate violet-blue. She was only half-listening to Alfred, who was saying something about his former wife. "Olivia died several years ago. I haven't had the heart to change anything in Hollyoak."
"Hollyoak. Is that what you call the house?"
Alfred nodded. "She named it."
"I gather she was a very special woman."
"Oh yes. Very special."
"Haven't you any pictures of her?" Alfred nodded again and pointed to a huge painting hanging on one buttermilk-colored wall. On the smooth canvas was painted a woman. "She wasn't much of a beauty. Nothing to rival you, my darling." He was correct; Olivia could never have made it in the Moulin Rouge. Her hair was a mousy shade, her skin pale and sickly, and her figure painfully thin. But her eyes were beautiful; deep emerald green, they seemed to sparkle and light up the room. "But she was deeply intelligent and well-bred. I loved her."
This made Satine a bit uneasy. She'd be the "new mistress" in the house that was not her own. She wouldn't have the heart to change anything for it was too pretty, but in each painting, in each bouquet of flowers, there'd be a shred of Alfred's former wife. "I'm very sorry," was all she could muster.
"Hollyoak shall be happy and beautiful again, with you to fill its walls with a new joy."
"I will try."
"My study is this way," he gestured to a closed door. Satine shuddered; studies held bad memories. "Along with the library. The kitchen is in there and here is the dining room."
Oh, it was grand! Satine wanted to squeal like a child. The table was long, decorated by ornate candlesticks and a chandelier hung overhead. Quickly she counted chairs; seven, eight, nine, ten. There was a fireplace and through the huge windows one could admire the scenery; a shimmering lake, gardens full of blossoming flowers, and graceful willow trees. Underneath her feet was a cream-colored area rug weaved with designs of courtly love. "Will we host a supper here?"
"Once we're settled in, I'm sure we shall. You like this room?"
"Very much! It's absolutely beautiful, Alfred."
"Shall I take you up to your room? I'm sure Homer has your trunks upstairs already." At Satine's insistence, her manservant accompanied them on the journey to England. "You want to freshen up, I'm sure."
"Please."
Up the grand staircase they went, Satine trailing her fingers across the balustrade, completely enchanted. Everything in Hollyoak was so much more serene, less foreboding as the Parisian mansion was. Here there were no stuffed animal heads hanging from the wall, glassy, lifeless eyes forever staring. Whereas the Paris house was masculine, in Hollyoak the feminine influence was easily detected.
"This will be your bedroom. The bath suite is adjoining. My suite is down the hall."
Separate bedrooms! Satine thanked God silently. Looking about the room that would be hers for the rest of her married life, she let out a sigh of happiness. "Oh, it's lovely." The walls were covered in a pale pink, much like the inside of a seashell. The carpet was a slightly deeper shade and the bed was what child Satine would have called, "a fairy princess bed" for a canopy of pale pink sheer curtains hung from the four posts. The vanity was painted white and the doting Homer had laid her trunks in a corner. "Was this . . .her room?"
"No. I had a different room made up for you. That would have been quite morbid indeed. Now, if you don't mind, my dearest, I've got some business arrangements that cannot be avoided any longer. I'll send the maids up for you at dinner, but feel free to explore."
As soon as she was bathed (her bathroom was completely covered in mirrors all round and the bathtub was inlaid with mother-of-pearl!) and dressed in a lighter gown of purple silk, Satine did exactly that. She traipsed throughout corridors, examining all rooms and all décor. Each room had a charming quaintness, refreshing with colors matching the flowers placed everywhere. Only one door was locked, and she assumed that had been Olivia's bedroom.
She found herself gravitating towards the outdoors. Shunning a hat and shoes, Satine ran like a little girl towards the lake. The primroses' sweet, lemony scent permeated the air, wafting along the breeze that lifted her unpinned hair. Stopping for a moment to place a white rose behind her ear, Satine suddenly burst into tears.
"What kind of person are you, Satine?" She asked herself. "You don't love Alfred. You can't possibly love that weasel. But you're making yourself love him, fooling him and hurting Christian in return. What are you going to do? You love Christian. You want Christian. But are you going to make like a man and have a mistress on the side? You're going to demean him by sneaking him to your room on lonely nights or when Alfred is away? You're going to deprive him of happiness just for your own pleasure? And what will you do if Alfred finds out? You know how terrible his jealousy can be."
The waves were rushing harder, faster. Satine lifted her skirts and waded in. Ankles. Shins. Knees. Deeper, deeper. They crashed around her as though signaling a storm. She was crying, she was distraught. "Come further, come further," they seemed to whisper.
But she couldn't. She held her head high and waded back out so only her feet were caressed by the warmth of the water. The waves that had seemed so evil and menacing in the greater depths now were calming her by saying, "There, there. Hush, hush."
Not caring about her dress, she sat in the sand and pulled the petals off her rose. "I am this flower." She said. "Once upon a time, I was pretty and unblemished like this flower. But then Harold found me." One petal floated away into the lake. "And made me a whore." Another petal followed. "And my virginity was taken away from me in a mass of blood, sweat, and tears." Three petals. "One by one my petals fell." They made a procession floating towards the setting sun. Her voice was choked with sobs. "Slowly I was worn away until I was but one petal. And now I have none."
"Miss Satine! Miss Satine! It's time for you to prepare for dinner!" It was Homer's voice and he was heading down to retrieve her. Quickly she dried her tears and threw the stem into the water, where it met a watery end. On and on the petals floated.
The house, surprisingly, was rather small. "My wife wanted a small house," Alfred informed her as she trailed, amazed, through the halls. "You'll detect her influence everywhere. She designed it all herself." Satine was touched by the wistfulness in his voice and slipped her arm through his in a comforting gesture. "It's beautiful."
"It is," he agreed.
Satine's eyes roved over the walls, papered in a delicate violet-blue. She was only half-listening to Alfred, who was saying something about his former wife. "Olivia died several years ago. I haven't had the heart to change anything in Hollyoak."
"Hollyoak. Is that what you call the house?"
Alfred nodded. "She named it."
"I gather she was a very special woman."
"Oh yes. Very special."
"Haven't you any pictures of her?" Alfred nodded again and pointed to a huge painting hanging on one buttermilk-colored wall. On the smooth canvas was painted a woman. "She wasn't much of a beauty. Nothing to rival you, my darling." He was correct; Olivia could never have made it in the Moulin Rouge. Her hair was a mousy shade, her skin pale and sickly, and her figure painfully thin. But her eyes were beautiful; deep emerald green, they seemed to sparkle and light up the room. "But she was deeply intelligent and well-bred. I loved her."
This made Satine a bit uneasy. She'd be the "new mistress" in the house that was not her own. She wouldn't have the heart to change anything for it was too pretty, but in each painting, in each bouquet of flowers, there'd be a shred of Alfred's former wife. "I'm very sorry," was all she could muster.
"Hollyoak shall be happy and beautiful again, with you to fill its walls with a new joy."
"I will try."
"My study is this way," he gestured to a closed door. Satine shuddered; studies held bad memories. "Along with the library. The kitchen is in there and here is the dining room."
Oh, it was grand! Satine wanted to squeal like a child. The table was long, decorated by ornate candlesticks and a chandelier hung overhead. Quickly she counted chairs; seven, eight, nine, ten. There was a fireplace and through the huge windows one could admire the scenery; a shimmering lake, gardens full of blossoming flowers, and graceful willow trees. Underneath her feet was a cream-colored area rug weaved with designs of courtly love. "Will we host a supper here?"
"Once we're settled in, I'm sure we shall. You like this room?"
"Very much! It's absolutely beautiful, Alfred."
"Shall I take you up to your room? I'm sure Homer has your trunks upstairs already." At Satine's insistence, her manservant accompanied them on the journey to England. "You want to freshen up, I'm sure."
"Please."
Up the grand staircase they went, Satine trailing her fingers across the balustrade, completely enchanted. Everything in Hollyoak was so much more serene, less foreboding as the Parisian mansion was. Here there were no stuffed animal heads hanging from the wall, glassy, lifeless eyes forever staring. Whereas the Paris house was masculine, in Hollyoak the feminine influence was easily detected.
"This will be your bedroom. The bath suite is adjoining. My suite is down the hall."
Separate bedrooms! Satine thanked God silently. Looking about the room that would be hers for the rest of her married life, she let out a sigh of happiness. "Oh, it's lovely." The walls were covered in a pale pink, much like the inside of a seashell. The carpet was a slightly deeper shade and the bed was what child Satine would have called, "a fairy princess bed" for a canopy of pale pink sheer curtains hung from the four posts. The vanity was painted white and the doting Homer had laid her trunks in a corner. "Was this . . .her room?"
"No. I had a different room made up for you. That would have been quite morbid indeed. Now, if you don't mind, my dearest, I've got some business arrangements that cannot be avoided any longer. I'll send the maids up for you at dinner, but feel free to explore."
As soon as she was bathed (her bathroom was completely covered in mirrors all round and the bathtub was inlaid with mother-of-pearl!) and dressed in a lighter gown of purple silk, Satine did exactly that. She traipsed throughout corridors, examining all rooms and all décor. Each room had a charming quaintness, refreshing with colors matching the flowers placed everywhere. Only one door was locked, and she assumed that had been Olivia's bedroom.
She found herself gravitating towards the outdoors. Shunning a hat and shoes, Satine ran like a little girl towards the lake. The primroses' sweet, lemony scent permeated the air, wafting along the breeze that lifted her unpinned hair. Stopping for a moment to place a white rose behind her ear, Satine suddenly burst into tears.
"What kind of person are you, Satine?" She asked herself. "You don't love Alfred. You can't possibly love that weasel. But you're making yourself love him, fooling him and hurting Christian in return. What are you going to do? You love Christian. You want Christian. But are you going to make like a man and have a mistress on the side? You're going to demean him by sneaking him to your room on lonely nights or when Alfred is away? You're going to deprive him of happiness just for your own pleasure? And what will you do if Alfred finds out? You know how terrible his jealousy can be."
The waves were rushing harder, faster. Satine lifted her skirts and waded in. Ankles. Shins. Knees. Deeper, deeper. They crashed around her as though signaling a storm. She was crying, she was distraught. "Come further, come further," they seemed to whisper.
But she couldn't. She held her head high and waded back out so only her feet were caressed by the warmth of the water. The waves that had seemed so evil and menacing in the greater depths now were calming her by saying, "There, there. Hush, hush."
Not caring about her dress, she sat in the sand and pulled the petals off her rose. "I am this flower." She said. "Once upon a time, I was pretty and unblemished like this flower. But then Harold found me." One petal floated away into the lake. "And made me a whore." Another petal followed. "And my virginity was taken away from me in a mass of blood, sweat, and tears." Three petals. "One by one my petals fell." They made a procession floating towards the setting sun. Her voice was choked with sobs. "Slowly I was worn away until I was but one petal. And now I have none."
"Miss Satine! Miss Satine! It's time for you to prepare for dinner!" It was Homer's voice and he was heading down to retrieve her. Quickly she dried her tears and threw the stem into the water, where it met a watery end. On and on the petals floated.