Oh, and PS: the year has now been changed to 1530. The reasons for this will be apparent in the coming chapters. I had to make an adjustment to the year because I couldn't manipulate history. ^_*
PPS: In regard to the Count's name…perhaps. There do seem to be some similarities – but other than that, I just love the name Erik, and its meaning. As to the story behind his disfigurement: it will be explained soon. I have it all planned out, so let's just hope I can get around to writing it down soon! As to who owns Vidanric of the Court and Crown Duels: can't we share? I'm sure Meliara won't mind…heck, we don't even have to tell her. *hehehe*
Disclaimer: The same as the chapter before this, and the chapter before that, and so on… Let's just get on with the story, shall we? So, once upon a time…
Chapter Eight -A Discussion
It is always hard to sleep when one has something very pressing on one's mind; Clarice Boisvert found slumber exceptionally hard to come by that night, even with the luxurious comfort of the mounds of goose-down pillows and silk covers that were on her bed. By the time that two o'clock in the morning came around, she had decided that she might as well liken herself to a five-year-old waiting for Christmas morning.
But, finally, morning did manage to come, and she was up and bouncing out of her bed just as the first rays of the sun began to peak over the tree-lined horizon, finding their way in through the tall windows in her room.
She ran across the room, bare feet slapping against the smooth marble floor, to the dressing room that she had discovered the night before. Inside of it were several enormous armoires, but she hadn't gotten up the nerve to look at their contents yet – how was she to know whom they might belong to, and what kind of trouble might she get in for such seeming presumption?
However, her normal clothes were there as well, draped over the back of the vanity table's accompanying chair: pressed and cleaned until they appeared quite new, certainly not as worn and wrinkled as she had last seen them. Clarice dressed quickly and put on her slippers, glancing once – and very wistfully indeed – at the beautiful, golden ball gown that she had left hung up on the wooden clothes-figure that was provided there as well. She had never worn such a lovely gown…she had never even seen something so beautiful…and now, she might as well cherish the memory.
Because an experience like that wasn't going to happen again very soon.
Although she could fantasize otherwise.
She left the dressing room then, closing its door softly behind her, and returned into the main bedchamber. There, she found a brush in the drawer of one of the tables and ran it through her ebony-black hair, slowly and thoughtfully, as her green eyes gazed out the windows at the glorious beginnings of the sunrise beyond. Life was stirring in the castle: servants were awakening and starting to go about their routine duties, preparing for yet another day. And – namely – breakfast.
That thought gave her quite ample reason to finish with her morning preparations. She stepped across the room to the washstand that was in the corner and splashed her face with the cold water from the basin of gleaming silver, then dried off with the towel that hung beside it, feeling as if she had just been completely jolted awake.
And then she turned briskly on her heel and left the room.
Mme. Colbert was surprised – more like shocked, it seemed – when Clarice entered the kitchen and bade her good morning.
Probably because most of the ladies who've been around here don't rise until after the good and proper, and dare-I-say decent, hour of noon, she thought, the left side of her mouth quirking a bit in a cool, dry little smile. But thinking of that led her to thoughts of her own – just how many ladies had been long-time residents of the Château de Rêves? Had the Count ever been married? The mask that he wore made him seem elusive enough, but his age was even more of a mystery to her. He neither acted nor spoke as if he was any particular age, and his appearance – or what she could see of it – reflected no certain stage of life. He was older than her, that much she could tell…
And exactly why do I find myself wondering about my current employer's past experiences in love – or marriage, for that matter?
These thoughts took place in less than a fleeting moment, and then Mme. Colbert had straightened from tending to some sort of simmering pot over the fire: stewed fruit, from what she could tell, and was wiping her hands on her crisp white apron as she replied, "Good morning, Mademoiselle. I trust that you have slept well?"
Clarice smiled all the more, her green eyes sparkling.
"And good morning to you, Madame – but I must confess I did not sleep well last night, so great was my anticipation at the coming day's activities! But it is no matter: I am glad to be awake, so I may greet the morning properly."
"Well," said the housekeeper, in almost a dry tone, as she turned back to the fireplace, "You'll turn quite a few heads being up and about at this hour, I'll wager. Breakfast for the help here isn't held until about eight, and the Count…well, he takes his meals at odd hours, I've learned. That's why I never try to schedule a grand affair in the dining hall anymore – he keeps mostly to himself when it comes to eating."
Something in her air told Clarice what she wasn't saying all she knew, for the sake of decency towards the nobleman. Forbearing to question on this further – since she already knew the most obvious reasons behind it – she nodded simply and spoke.
"Well. I'll take myself off then…eight o'clock, is it?"
Mme. Colbert nodded.
"Yes – Mademoiselle?"
Clarice turned at the door as this was called after her. Mme. Colbert left the breakfast preparations and crossed the room, lowering her voice to an almost conspiratorial tone as she looked over the girl's attire. "My dear," she said, clucking like a motherly old hen, "Didn't you find any of the clothing in your wardrobes to your tastes? Surely, there must have been…"
She trailed off, seeing the blank look that hung on Clarice's pretty young face; then, she began to scowl and bustled off, speaking as she went, "Ohhh, I cannot believe him! For all of his years and court experience, he still can't remember a simple thing like – ohhhh!", and so on. Clarice followed after her, plaintive in her confusion and surprise.
"You mean – the clothing in the dressing room…?"
"Is for you!" Mme. Colbert retorted, in a huff. "He had it all brought in especially for your use while you are here working with him on whatever project he's got going this time around, and I cannot believe that mentioning it slipped his mind!"
Clarice halted in her tracks, the blank look on her face turning into wry skepticism and self-effacing ridicule.
Well, that explains the perfect fit of that gown from last night!
Meanwhile, Mme. Colbert continued, still rampaging in her indignant ire towards her employer, the Count, "And all this, after he went and made you find your own way here, without anyone or anything to help you but a name and a general idea of the location – with not only your reputation but your health and safety at stake! He certainly deserved all the worry he went through when you came in sick!"
By now, Clarice could very easily guess Mme. Colbert's relationship with the Count: somewhat that of a mother who loves her child very much but becomes exasperated with him at intervals. She certainly didn't seem to have any compunction about confronting d'Auberie with his apparent forgetfulness.
She gestured to one of the kitchen maids who stood nearby, watching the whole scene in a mixture of appalled shock and fixated interest, indicating that she was leaving and not to bother the housekeeper. The maid started and made a choking sound; whether it was caused by laughter or by fear, she didn't stay to find out.
The corridor that led out of the kitchen went in two directions: one, presumably towards the exit to the gardens, stable, and the rest of the grounds of the estate, and the other further into the interior of the house.
Clarice chose the latter of the two, wishing to do some exploring in what was now to be her home – for six months, at least.
The rooms that she saw were all gigantic, with tall ceilings and broad floors: no two were alike, and yet, in their variety, none seemed to clash. She saw beautiful, ornate furniture and décor, gorgeous sculptures and paintings and tapestries, but very few of the servants, who seemed to keep largely to themselves and their duties. After somewhere around a half an hour of sightseeing, she found a door – built into a floor-to-ceiling-length window – that led out into a spectacular bit of garden, and went outside.
It was a cool, serene spring morning: pale and delicate, with bursts of gleaming golden sun showing through over the castle's slanting roof of slate and the myriad of colours in the gardens. There was a scent of dew on the air: fresh and quite wet, as she found when she stepped into the dark grass – the hem of her simple, full-cut gray wool skirt was soon liberally coated. She could also detect the faintest traces of thyme and tuberose when there was a breeze whisking about. It was beautifully refreshing.
She took the white gravel path that led further into the gardens and was treated to even more of the castle's profoundly lovely sights. A quarter of an hour passed before she had even realized it, and it was only when a clock somewhere in the gardens began to chime the hour that she recalled her earlier intentions. She found her way back inside and continued on her walk, finally managing to find her way back to the library that the Count had showed to her the night before.
All was silent within: the rows and rows of majestic, solemn leather-bound books looking down on her like an entire assembly of university professors. Clarice smiled, closing the door behind her. Books and art – her greatest passions.
And here, in this place, I am surrounded by them.
The painting was still there, just as it had been the night before.
Hesitantly, she approached it, and then stood before it, unmoving, as her eyes roamed over it. Looking at it as a casual observer – and not as a potential solver of its mysteries – she would have simply made the comment that it was very detailed and colourful.
The scene that had been painted onto the canvas was that of, predictably, a royal ball. Two dancers – the man garbed entirely in black, costumed as Death, and the woman in a light, ethereal gown like to that of the ancient Romans, with roses hung all about her – were on the floor. On either side of them were their observers: split into two groups. One side, that of the woman, were all swarthy and dressed in dark attire; the other, that of the man, wore the usual Renaissance formal garb, but their tresses were all distinctly red in colour. Just behind the two dancers was a church official, and above all of this, crowning the painting, was a small depiction of a very old castle, framed on either side by eight roses. Four of these were red, and four of these were white, and along with them as a draping white banner, upon which was written a single phrase.
" 'Che conquista anche deve portare il conto'."
Whatever that's supposed to mean, Clarice thought, now looking at the painting with acrimony. In the realms of art and literature, she could, perhaps, do much in her own way. But as for knowing the Italian language as well as her own…that phrase might have much to do with whatever mystery was hidden in the painting, and she didn't have the knowledge to discover it. She hoped the Count had some sort of book that would help her translate it. Frustrated by this new discover, she moved restlessly.
Deciding that concentrating on the mystery at that moment would only make her irritation worse, she walked off further into the library, and began to peruse the selection of books that it held. The library in Rouen was almost the size of this place – and this library was part of someone's home! She then decided that the Count d'Auberie must be quite the avid reader.
And just as she was thinking this, she rounded the end of a shelf and, since she was looking down at the floor within her pensive reverie, she blundered straight into the only other person in the room – the Count d'Auberie.
"Oh, heavens! I'm so sorry, my lord!" was all she could manage to gasp with any coherence after their initial reaction to the meeting.
She had made him drop the book he was carrying. Quickly, she stooped to pick it up, but he did the same at the exact same moment, saying, "Don't think on't, milady – you were just as aware of my presence here as I was of yours. But good lord!" He straightened, helping her up at the same time, as a smile lit his face: masked, as usual, only this time by a plain white mask. "I don't think anyone's given me that much of a surprise in quite some time. You're not the usual little tromping elephant, are you?"
And then he peered at her closely, teasingly, his eyes sparkling. Clarice ducked her head and blushed at his words. D'Auberie stood back, still grinning.
"Well," said he, after a moment. "I see that you're not the type of lady who likes to linger in bed after she's first awakened – I hope you didn't think that this was not allowed you?"
His air was then one of genuine concern, and she felt involuntarily anxious to ease it. "No!" she replied, shaking her head. "I just…well, you might, in all likeliness, think me a very typical child, my lord, but I couldn't bring myself to wait a moment longer. I was…curious. Too curious for sleep to control me."
The Count grinned again, and said, "Typical? I am not entirely certain of that."
"Then what would you call it?" she inquired, demurely, lowering her eyes so that he would not see the amusement that danced within their green spheres.
He did, however.
"Enthusiasm, perhaps, I should think? But 'tis no matter – I have reason to believe that we will both soon find out. You've been to see Mme. Colbert this morning, have you not?"
He stepped away, going back to the center of the room, where the painting was set up, and Clarice followed him, like an obedient little spaniel. Along with the white mask, the rest of his garb that morning was simple: an over-vest of deep blue velvet, close-fitting, well-tailored black breeches, leather boots of the same colour, and a silky white shirt. She rued not having inquired as to the wardrobes before that morning.
"Oh…yes."
The Count set his book down on a table, seating himself in the chair beside it, and looked up at her from within it then, making a steeple of his fingers as he went on, thoughtfully, yellow eyes intense and unreadable.
"I do not doubt that she gave speech to her festering anger towards me for not having been better…ah, prepared, in my interactions with you. Both in your coming here and your…" He paused, trailing off, as he glanced at her gown. "Wardrobe. And for that, I apologize. I cannot excuse myself for that."
Clarice shook her head, vehemently.
"My wardrobe scarcely matters to me, my lord, although I do appreciate what you have already given me, and although the mode which I am accustomed to might be apt to turn a few heads of the more fashionable persons in your society circles. I could not – cannot," she amended, quickly, averting her eyes from him, "Expect that you would treat me with a deference that exceeded that which you give to your other servants."
He held up a hand, gently interposing.
"Ah, yes, but you are not a servant, Mademoiselle Boisvert – you are an agent, or more accurately, a partner, as we will be working together in this. I provide you with what your station in life requires. You shall not fool yourself into thinking that I am your superior, or your employer. Yes, you will be recompensed for your work, and yes, we have an agreement as to the terms of your being here – but you do not serve me."
He paused.
"And as for your having to travel here on your own…I hope you do not hold too much wrath towards me for that."
Clarice met the yellow gaze firmly, knowingly.
"Wrath? If you had sent for me, my uncle would have raised a ruckus about it, and if even that had somehow been avoided, word of my departure would have been raised all over, and we would then have been mired in what we most wish to avoid. No, my lord. You gave me the perfect opportunity to do what I have long desired to do – to escape, to make my own journey, to finally be free."
They regarded each other in silence for one long moment.
And then, finally, Clarice spoke.
"Now, what can you tell me about the Italian language?"
* * *
'Che conquista anche deve portare il conto.'
He who conquers must also take account.
A ballroom full of people: half of them dressed all in black, the other half of them all redheaded. A woman garbed in Roman attire, her partner costumed as the Grim Reaper, with a priest standing by, watching them with a look of trepidation written on his features. Eight roses – four white, and four red. A castle.
The hours of the day flew by in their never-ending, steady course. The sun traveled across the sky and faded, the darkness of night issuing in; life burst into a flurry of activity, and then ebbed.
In the library, books were selected and carried from their places to a desk, becoming towering, precarious piles that almost hid their reader – a certain small, pensive, ebony-haired teenage girl with a penchant for art and literature – from view. Clarice did not leave the library all that day. She was far too engrossed in uncovering the mystery behind the Count's fantastic painting. Her absence from dinner, teatime, and then supper earned the Count himself a sound lecture from his chief housekeeper, but still, Clarice did not stir.
* * *
Flower symbolism – roses mean love…a red rose means love and respect, a white rose means innocence and secrecy. Aphrodite, the goddess of love, used both the white and red rose to depict the dual nature of love; a white rose to signify purity and innocence and the red for desire… The rose was held as a symbol of life: its beauty reflecting the wonder of living, its thorns showing the hardships that all people go through… The War of the Roses…the white rose of York and the red rose of Lancaster…conjoined as one, creating the Tudor Rose…and eight of these…
King Henry VIII of England: Henry Tudor.
Two sides on a ballroom, one half redheaded, the other garbed in black.
The redheads were meant to symbolize the English King, yet again, while the black-attired courtiers depicted the Spanish nobility: Queen Catherine of Aragon.
A lady dressed as a goddess, and a man dressed as Death, dancing together.
Love and Death: showing the growing disfavor that Henry had demonstrated towards his Spanish wife in recent years.
A priest, watching over them.
The objections of the Church to a divorce, should Henry take such a course.
'He who conquers must also take account'…a castle.
The second painting was in England, hung somewhere in the ballroom of Windsor Castle, which had been built by King William the Conqueror, hundreds of years before: Windsor Castle, one of the ancient fortresses that was still in use.
Without a single moment's delay after this information was revealed, the Count d'Auberie and Jean-Pierre Colbert departed from the castle. They would now make the journey to the coast of France and thence on to England, where the Count would somehow obtain the next piece of the bizarre puzzle that he had set out to solve…
* * *
A/N: To England! *whistles 'God Save the Queen' and goes off to upload the next chapter*
