A/N: In which we are introduced to some new characters and are given a slight education as to how the Renaissance lady's ball costume works. (Whee! Fun, believe me!) And, more important, we discover something about the Count d'Auberie that has long been kept a secret…
Disclaimer: Don't own history, own this story, so there you go.
Chapter Six -Know, Discover, Understand
Dreams – strange, strange dreams.
"Shh; be still. You're all right – you're safe. Everything is all right…"
Nightmares – horrible nightmares that didn't seem to end.
Visions of herself, running, searching for something, always running, alongside a tall, slender young man whose face she never quite saw, yet seemed to know. Fighting around them: seasoned warriors, people fleeing, fighting, cowering, defending, swords clanging and greedy flames roaring all about – battle. And yet, still they searched…
"Her fever isn't breaking…""Then we must try something else."
Searching…looking for something…looking for what?
"You have to fight – don't give up now. Live."
Dreams – strange, strange dreams…
And then silence.
* * *
Where am I?
And with that thought in her head, Clarice returned to consciousness, to reality, and let her eyelids slowly flutter open. Her mind was far from clear; she felt as if her head had been filled with cotton swaths, and thinking was hard. Her vision seemed cloudy as well – everything around her was dark, and where there was light, she saw nothing but white and gray blurs. She was in a bed.
Without thinking, she dazedly pushed off the heavy covers that had been placed over her and let her feet find the floor, standing. She swayed and put one hand out to steady herself. It came to rest on the broad, curving surface of a huge wooden bedpost, and the floor beneath her feet seemed to buck and roll like a ship that was caught in the middle of a terrible storm. She placed her other hand on her head, closing her eyes and trying to will her mind to work again, to force the throbbing sensation in her temples to cease.
But she remained disoriented and so very, very tired…
She crossed the dark room, feeling like she was traversing the empty space of some huge cavern, and felt her way along the wall that she came up against, her fingertips searching for a doorknob. She didn't even really realize what she was doing; all she could think of was one thing—
Where am I?
Only a little more cognizant than a sleepwalker, she found a doorknob and twisted it, pushing its door open. Then she found herself in an even greater void: a long, dark corridor that seemed to stretch on forever. She drifted down it, her confusion growing with each passing moment, until it suddenly hardened into fear. Her surroundings were completely alien to her – what was this place, and how had she gotten here? Was this yet another horrible dream: an awful fantasy of her own mind?
Her mind continued to pound, more and more insistently, and she gradually lost all sense of what she was doing. She continued on her aimless, bemused walk, passing through countless rooms and corridors, going down many, many flights of steps, and then up.
Suddenly, a huge doorway loomed before her, lit on either side with huge black candles: each had the circumference of her wrist. They swung slowly – labouredly – open at her touch, revealing a gigantic room, lit by the glow of the moon as it looked into the place through a wall of broad, many-paned windows.
A tall figure in white stood before them, gazing out into the night.
Clarice went up to it, reaching out a hand, her fingertips moving to the figure's shoulder – there was a sudden, frightening sort of tingle in the air then, as she abruptly came back into her senses, realizing where she was and what had obviously happened, and as the figure whirled around in shock.
She came face-to-face with a horrifying specter, whose yellow eyes glared out at her from a twisted, disfigured countenance!
In that moment, she couldn't think, couldn't speak.
All she could do was scream.
The blackness returned and she sank gratefully into it.
* * *
An interminable amount of time later, she felt herself ebbing back into consciousness – true consciousness – once more, and with that feeling came the memory of her last moments before she had fainted. The room with the windows, the figure at the window…its face. All these flooded back into her mind, and guilt consumed her, for she then realized just what she had done.
She opened her eyes quickly and began to sit up, with a gasp. A hand that was placed with firm but gentle insistence on her shoulder prevented her from doing this, however, and she lowered her eyes to the bedspread in her lap, ashamed.
"Don't yet; you're still very weak."
She instantly recognized that voice: the man from the shop, that late night when she had stayed to put up the closing signs. She had heard it during her sickness, along with a few others. And she knew that this was the same man whom she had stumbled upon, in her half-awake wanderings that night. He was the voice from the shop and her dreams – and the face from a seeming eternity before.
Clarice closed her eyes.
There was a pause; then her companion moved, leaning forward, and she felt the back of a strong, masculine hand on her forehead, checking her temperature.
She now remembered everything: she had been ill prepared for the journey to the Count's castle, and the results of that had taken their toll on her. She had arrived late one morning at the castle and had had only enough strength to make her way up to the kitchen doorstep and ask the shocked lady who had greeted her there if she had, indeed, found the Château de Rêves.
From there, the memories were clipped and fleeting: she could recall bits of conversation that she had heard, the knowledge that she was in the clutches of a high fever, and the dreams that she had had. She felt overwhelmed with guilt again.
"I'm sorry," she whispered.
Deft, cool fingertips came underneath her chin then, lifting it, and she let her eyes slide open again.
The face that was in front of her now was not the one that she remembered – this face wore a gleaming black mask, and was entirely covered except for the lips and chin. But the same unsettling, piercing yellow eyes, framed with a wealth of dark lashes, looked out at her from behind it.
She gazed back into them, feeling as if she was being read, and assessed.
He looked physically like any other that she had ever seen, excepting for, perhaps, the mask. In spite of the fact that he was seated – in a finely upholstered chair of gilt gold and deep, regal blue velvet that had been placed next to her bed – she could easily tell that he was very tall, his build somehow managing to be both well proportioned and yet slender at the same time. His hair, in a vivid contrast to his startling eyes, was jet-black: worn thick and longish, cropped at a point halfway down his neck so that it barely met the high white collar of his full-cut silken white shirt. His skin was very pale, almost a ghostly shade, which seemed to indicate a life spent very much indoors.
The clothing that he wore served alone to tell her – to reaffirm what she had already guessed to be true – just who she was looking at. The shirt, the red-and-gold brocade vest that went over it, the black breeches and boots, even the mask itself, all proclaimed the wealth and prestige of their wearer.
Who was this man? It was obvious.
She had finally met the Count d'Auberie.
As soon as they had almost simultaneously finished their once-over of each other, the Count withdrew his hand from underneath her chin and sat back in his chair, his eyes never leaving her. "We all have things that we regret," he said.
She was astonished yet again by the soft, almost hypnotic sound of his voice, and then panged by her awful guilt. What did he think of her now – now that she had behaved so shamefully? Her reaction to seeing him…seeing his face…
Can I ever forgive myself?
Then she felt his eyes on her, and it seemed as if he had read her thoughts.
"Don't apologize," he told her, gently, and she could be only too certain of the pain in his voice, in those words. "It wasn't your fault."
And whether he meant her fainting at the sight of his disfigured face or the fact that his features had somehow become so mangled, she couldn't tell.
This explained the mystery that he had kept himself enshrouded in for so long, hiding himself away while the fame of his power and wealth was spread all over the whole of France, and perhaps even the world as they knew it. Jacqueline had told her that every time that he was seen, he was reputed to constantly wear a mask of some sort, and that this was always dismissed as a mere eccentricity, though no one had ever discovered the truth. But he wore the mask for a reason.
She looked up and was about to speak again, but he placed one long, slender finger on her lips, effectively – and instantaneously – silencing her. "Shh," he said, his voice a mere murmur now. "Rest now. You've been very sick with a fever and you need your sleep. Rest."
Whatever questions she had for him, he knew; she could tell that much. Whether he had had to explain such things before, she had no idea. Right at that moment, all she knew was that this man – the most enigmatic figure in all of France – had saved her from the clutches of a fever, and was now also her employer.
And so she did the only sensible thing to do.
She obeyed.
The Count d'Auberie picked up the candle that he had placed on the table beside the bed and stood, looking once again at his convalescing young charge. Her large green eyes – startling in their brilliant, emerald-like vibrancy – were closed, her dark lashes veiling them. He turned and left the room.
* * *
"Do you think she would enjoy attending the cotillion tonight?"
"She is a young girl, Erik – what do you think?"
A raised eyebrow.
"I believe that I posed a question first."
Exasperatedly, "I don't know, my lord. I really don't know."
"Hmm."
"Erik, please: do be sensible about this. Don't you think that you are behaving in a somewhat…well…Caesar-Augustus-like manner here? You haven't any idea of whom this girl is, what her life was, who her friends and connections were, and yet you have somehow compelled her to come here and carry out your bidding, without the least thought to what reaction anyone else might have—"
"M. Colbert, if I may – no one will know that she is here. I doubt that, after our first meeting, her uncle and guardian would want to spread any sort of lies about me. Therefore, no one will learn of her being here through him, and he is the only person who could give a real account for her whereabouts. No one saw her come here, and no one here will speak of it."
"And how is that supposed to reassure me, milord?"
"It is all the proof you need, monsieur, that there is no need to fear a scandal. They cannot gossip about what they don't know."
"Perhaps. We shall see."
In mock-offense, "My dear Jean-Pierre, you wound me! The fact that you imply first that I am behaving in a manner consistent with that of the ancient tyrants and then that I have made an erroneous judgment is hardly a matter of little importance. Have you so little faith in me as all that?"
"No, my lord." A resigned sigh. "No."
"I had hoped for as much. Is that the last of what we needed to discuss?"
"Yes, my lord."
"Very well then. Oh – M. Colbert?"
"Yes, my lord?"
"Would you make sure that there are extra masks laid by, in case any of our guests tonight forget theirs? I'd hate to have anyone feel out of place."
Amused, "But of course, my lord. Good day, my lord."
"Good day, M. Colbert."
The tall, stately, silver-hair butler bowed and left the room, his footsteps clicking away in a steady rhythm down the silver-and-cream marble floor of the hallway that led out of the Count d'Auberie's personal chambers, and the Count turned back to the huge desk that he was seated behind.
There, piles of papers – shipping agreements to be signed, waivers for his numerous agents, and many, many others – all sought his attention, and, some of them, signature. It wasn't his favorite way to go through the day…but then again, he didn't really have a whole lot to enjoy in his daily life anyway, so ruing the business at hand wasn't going to help.
He would be finished soon enough, at that.
The slanting, elegant script of his name and title was affixed to the paper before him, and then he pushed it away, to lean back in his chair and gaze up at the frescoed ceiling above his head.
Jean-Pierre was like any other decent human being of that day and age – if it was at all possible, he would avoid a conflict and search out a diplomatic way to give everyone what they wanted without jeopardizing anything. He understandably wanted to avoid a possible risk to the d'Auberie name, and had resorted to reminding his employer of the fact that bringing a young, unattached girl to the estate – and their only means of defense from gossip being that she was to work there – would almost inevitably cause some sort of reaction.
Well, it wouldn't be the first time that the Count d'Auberie's name had been the source of talk throughout quite a few of the French circles. It wasn't the first time, and it wouldn't be the last.
The thing that Jean-Pierre was forgetting was that d'Auberie had already thought through the whole situation, and had taken care to provide the proper precautions. He didn't mind it if everyone was talking about him – but sometimes it would be less of an irritation if they weren't. He could only imagine the reaction the butler would have given if he had taken the disgusting, conniving merchant Boisvert's offer!
"And to think that we call ourselves 'enlightened'," he commented lightly to himself, turning once more to his work.
Boisvert had gotten the wrong idea about d'Auberie's intentions towards his niece…however, now that he had seen the girl, he could easily imagine why. Clarice Boisvert was incredibly, almost unnervingly beautiful. Blonde hair among the ladies might have been considered quite haute monde at the time, but her ebony tresses might inspire a change in thinking. Perhaps even turn quite a few heads. She was certainly not the typical beauty, this sixteen-year-old child. Pale skin, huge emerald green eyes, dark hair, and a petite build – she was anything but typical.
Any other man, no matter how virtuous, might have been tempted to take Felix Boisvert up on his offer.
But not the Count d'Auberie.
And when confronted with a…a thing like you, what woman would be even slightly inclined to accept the making of such an agreement?
Ah. Now was the time for him to bury himself in the immense pile of work that he had before himself, and then immerse himself in the details of that night's fete. He had worn the mask too long to constantly be dragging himself up out of a depression stemming from the memory of…
No. I am not going to think about it.
The papers in front of him suddenly seemed to become meaningless and pathetic, and he threw his quill pen down on the desktop and stood, walking over to the windows that were located in the wall behind the desk. He placed one elbow up against the clear glass, resting his weight on it, and gazed out at the scenery outside.
Miles and miles of seemingly endless fields and then forests and then mountains met his roving eyes – all part of the expansive d'Auberie estate. They were truly beautiful, in a wild, rugged, untamable way. The Count d'Auberie was said to have all a man could want: wealth, power, a fantastic home, a favored place in court, talent, wit…
And he was in a cage.
"I'm getting too old for this kind of thinking."
He turned away from the window, raising one hand to rub the back of his neck and then run its fingers through his thick, almost shaggy black hair.
The party that night – yet another chance to impress the local nobility with his immense fortune and entertaining graces. And after that, he would finally have a chance to solve the mystery that he had long puzzled over.
She would be dying to know.
From what he had already seen of her, and from what he had heard, d'Auberie knew Clarice Boisvert to be just as intriguing, intelligent, and even stubborn as she was beautiful. He would certainly have his hands full when he finally revealed to her the details of her employment there.
Hopefully, she would be able to see beyond the frightening reality of his deepest, darkest secret and accept him as her partner in the endeavor.
So I pray.
* * *
The sun was already beginning to make its slow descent below the tree-studded horizon, making the sky into a stunning display of vibrant colours: tangerine, ruby, amethyst, gold, and midnight blue, when Clarice awakened from her long sleep. Instantly, she raised herself up on her elbows and looked out the window, and this time, she fully knew and recognized where she was.
Oh wonders.
Her surroundings had been cloaked by darkness the first two times that she had seen them, but now, in the waning sunlight, she was able to have a good look at them.
The room in which she now found herself was huge: with tall, fifteen-foot ceilings and a more than generous area as a whole. She had seen a few chambers of some high-ranking ladies within her young lifetime, and had heard descriptions of those that belonged to even nobler members of society – princesses, duchesses, queens, and such – but this room almost surpassed anything that she could have imagined.
It was all entirely decorated in gold and white, with a pure white marble floor and a gorgeous painting overhead on the high ceiling. The bed upon which she lay was enormous: almost the size of her whole room in Rouen, and was heavily curtained with rich materials as its hangings and covers. She could count at least six huge, down-filled pillows about her. Also in the room were several tall shelves, all completely filled with books, a fireplace big enough to roast an ox on a spit in, and other ornate pieces of furniture and finery.
Suddenly, the room's doors swung open and she looked towards them just in time to see a pair of maids enter, accompanied by no one other than the housekeeper who had first greeted her upon her arrival to the chateau! This merry-looking, matronly personage instantly saw that she had awakened and was surveying her surroundings, and spoke to her, smiling kindly.
"Ah, mademoiselle! You look much improved – good! Your fever has spent itself." She crossed the room, coming to stand beside the bed and looking down on Clarice. "I am Adele Colbert, the Count's chief housekeeper and head cook. Welcome to le Château de Rêves."
Clarice hardly knew what to say. There was so much that she wished to know…and yet, she could tell that really the only person who could tell answer any of her questions with any certainty would be the Count himself.
Even if he ever wants to see me again.
She quickly banished her consuming sense of guilt – which still remained to plague her in spite of the Count's reassuring words from the night before – and made a reply to the housekeeper. "I thank you, Madame."
Mme. Colbert squared her shoulders and said briskly, "Well then, my dear. I come at the command of his Lordship, who has requested me to entreat you to join the festivities downstairs. Tonight, he is holding yet another masque ball, and sees it as the perfect opportunity to discuss with you the terms of your time here. Would you like to attend the ball, my lady?"
Clarice was thoroughly unused to being referred to in such respectful terms, but Mme. Colbert's motherly, warm manner banished any of her other concerns. She nodded, stunned at the thought that the Count was extending an invitation to her, that she might attend the ball that was ensuing below.
From the window, she could see that the gardens that surrounded the castle had been made up extravagantly for the party: lit with hundreds of jewel-toned paper lanterns and floating candles and such, other decorations hung everywhere about. The guests were already beginning to arrive, in a steady stream of carriages and similar modes of transportation, making their way up into the castle itself.
It was like a déjà vu of the masque ball that she had attended with her uncle and aunt – only somehow, even finer.
Ladies and gentlemen, good people of France, I give you the Count d'Auberie!
She allowed Mme. Colbert to assist her out of bed and across the room, where the two maids were awaiting them. A steaming bath had been pulled up before the fire, with mounds of thick, snowy white towels draped about.
She then experienced one of the finer points of the nobility's treatment of their wealthier members: a long, luxurious bath, with hot, clean water scented by an assortment of oils and salts, the fragrance of blooming roses curling up around her in its steam. Her hair was washed and combed out, her skin scrubbed and treated until it glowed, and the last traces of her exhaustion and sickness washed away. By the time that she stepped out of the tub, she felt as if she had undergone a complete metamorphosis.
But that was only the beginning.
After the bath, the real work began. Formal Renaissance finery for a lady was anything but simple! Clarice was slipped into crisp, clean undergarments, complete with a satin shift, silk stockings, numerous petticoats, and a corset shaped with bone, bejeweled dancing slippers of gold and white satin, and then the two maids went to work on her masses of thick, raven-like hair.
Within a quarter of an hour, they had sculpted their charge's mane into an ornate, jewel-and-flower-studded work of art, piled on top of her head, pinned, and curled.
Clarice was afraid to move her head, for fear that she might dislodge some part of the heavy contrivance.
Then, only after her face had been powdered with some sort of sparkling, translucent dust, her cheeks and lips accented with rouge, and her eyes made even more vibrant and mesmerizing by the addition of some black paint, like to that the queens of Egypt had worn in ancient times, she was shown her gown.
What a gown it was.
The finest ladies of the nobility had long been at war with each other to procure the most fashionable, most expensive, most dazzling and completely beautiful attire – and this gown left them all far behind. It gave the phrase 'cloth-of-gold' a whole new meaning. Layer upon layer of delicate, shimmering gold satin, embroidered with gold and diamonds and pearls, draped around Clarice's figure: arraying her in a glowing aura like that of an enchanting goddess. With a large amount of gem-laden jewelry, the gown's flaring, sheer sleeves glided effortlessly over her soft young skin: a vivid contrast with the ebony of her hair, the emerald of her eyes, and the crimson of her cheeks and lips. Mme. Colbert and her companions stood back and surveyed their work.
Then, Mme. Colbert nodded and announced, brisk but – it had to be said – inwardly proud, "Well, my dear – you look quite suited to go to the ball now. Your mask."
And she handed the slender, golden item to its new mistress, making a slight curtsey; with the indulgent smile of a fond mother, "All right, go on now; there's no sense in waiting about for anything else when you're all done up as lovely as you are now, with a ball waiting for you. Go on – shoo!"
Clarice gathered her voluminous skirts in her hands and, smiling, gave the housekeeper a quick little kiss on the cheek, in a show of her already-great affection. Mme. Colbert smiled and hugged her: gently, however, so as not to crush the enchanting golden costume, then shooed her out the door.
Heart beginning to beat with a more rapid pace, excitement fluttering within her chest and making her cheeks flush, eyes sparkling, Clarice made her way down the hall, following the sounds of the ensuing party…
* * *
A/N: Next chapter…
