The Trouble with Women

Chapter 1

Petrified Vivien

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By no means did Vivien Brideau consider herself an eccentric woman.

Her strange manner was decidedly the outcome of being caged up in a secluded house most of her life with no one but the servants and cooks and maids to have any sort of friendly conversation with. And, to be sure, the servants and cooks and maids were not much company for a woman such as Vivien.

More often than not, she was quite fine by herself – as the Mademoiselles and society's elite with their polite conversation were enough to make any woman go mad.

If someone were to give a name to Vivien's strange manner, it could, perhaps, be 'odd'. That, at least, was much more suitable than 'eccentric,' and far better than a 'raving madwoman.' Because in no shape or form did Vivien consider herself a raving madwoman. One reason being the fact that she did not rave—not constantly or on a regular basis, at least – and the second being that her state of mind was anything but mad. She considered herself one of the most sane of the household, in fact.

In truth, Vivien was more less the opposite of a madwoman. She wouldn't admit to anyone, but she was rather too frightened to be considered crazy or insane in any way, really. She didn't hallucinate, she wasn't an extremist (or a radical!), and goodness knows she didn't froth at the mouth. Moreover, Vivien had come to understand when someone was mad, they ran around barely clothed in the market square, prancing and otherwise acting completely foolish while shouting up to the heavens and either cursing or praising the Lord.

And that was something Vivien would never subject herself to.

The people of polite society (the gentlemen and ladies) might say she was rather avis, or somewhat cautious. That, of course, was being far too modest.

Any bar wench or street vendor or any commoner at all that by chance had has the pleasant—or unpleasant—chance to meet Vivien Brideau would, perhaps, say she was a paranoïaque et méfiant, une femme obsessionnelle.

Of course, Vivien didn't consider herself to be obsessive in any way, really, but she realized to a certain extent that she was somewhat distrustful. But that, of course, was towards those who surprised, yelled, frightened, touched or otherwise approached her in any way lacking honourable intentions – and in such a case, it was perfectly honourable to be distrustful.

And Vivien had many reasons to be suspicious. Her life since birth had been nothing but secrecy and lies. She often felt as though there was a bag over her head or a blindfold over her eyes. She wasn't able to see the complete picture. Something always lingered just our of her line of vision and thought.

There was always the threat of something hanging over her head (something worse than the monsters she sometimes (imagined) in her wardrobe) – although she still hadn't managed to identify it. It was there nonetheless, however, and Vivien had been acutely aware of it every day and every night of her life since childhood.

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You could Vivien Brideau wandering through the halls of the manor on the hill with a large metal frying pan in hand – most often at ungodly hours of the night when she suddenly had a craving for a midnight snack (she'd become somewhat thick around the middle from these habits). In the day, she refrained from carrying the frying pan and instead crept through the corridors of her manor with the stealth of an overfed cat…

…which was not very.

"Bonjour, Mademoiselle Brideau," a maid greeted cheerfully, as it was midmorning and a beautiful day outside. Her arms were full with a basket of laundry and she had been headed downstairs as Vivien had poked her head out her chamber door.

Vivien smiled nervously at the maid. "Ah…Bonjour, Florette," she said, clearing the sleep from her voice. "Nice day today, is it not?"

Florette, as she was called, arched an eyebrow at the lady before her. "Beautiful, actually. You should request a visit to the stables. I'm sure Gabriel would be willing to let you see Gigi again."

At the mention of stables, Vivien chewed her lips nervously with a sort half-grimace. "Ah, actually, I believe I've had enough of the stables for a while. I wouldn't want to get on Gabriel's bad side again, he seemed quite angry with me the last time…" she trailed off, referring to an incident the week before when the white mare, Gigi, had been on the loose for a whole day. Gabriel, the handsome stable boy who came thrice a week to clean the stables, had suffered a rather nasty collision with Gigi's back hooves. Vivien's fault, of course. L'incident du cheval.

Florette let the subject drop, knowing Vivien was still feeling rather apprehensive about horses. Of all the maids, she had worked at the Brideau - Belfast household the longest and had known Vivien since a child and could read her like a book.

"Of course, Mademoiselle. I suggest a walk through the back gardens, then," she smiled with a wink.

"I just might, thank you, Florette." Vivien clearly liked that idea better.

Florette cast the young woman another warm smile. "Well then, good day to you, Mademoiselle." She nodded goodbye before hurrying off with her basket of laundry. Vivien watched her go for a moment before slipping out of her room and closing the door quietly behind her.

The hallway remained still and silent, too silent for her ears, and Vivien hurried away from the door, heading for the kitchen.

It was a huge space in the house, with three stoves sat at one end, three sinks at the other. Two entrances were at either side of the room and settled in the centre was a large table with pots, pans and all manner of cooking equipment hanging above it. At the moment, no one occupied the large space, though there were ingredients and supplies laid out neatly and the oven was on, waiting to be used. A bag of flour, pots on the stove, jars of spices lined neatly on the counter, measuring cups, spoons – she couldn't help wonder where Édouard, the head cook, was. Vivien spent much of her time in the kitchen, watching him chop, stir and stew, although she never cooked. She was a terrible cook. She liked to watch, though, and Édouard seemed to have no problem with her company.

He had still not found the cast iron pan hidden under her bed, the one she took with her on nightly excursions, though she had a feeling he knew she had it stashed somewhere.

"Ah, Vivien! I've been looking for you everywhere!"

The sudden voice startled her and Vivien shrieked out at the top of her lungs. She whirled around, her limbs akimbo as if hoping to ward off any sudden attacks. In doing so, however, she caused mayhem. Her foot struck the barrel of fresh water along the walls, and it teetered into the barrel of apples – both crashing to the floor; her hand swiped along the counter, knocking over the large bag of flour which spilled into the spice jars and onto the oven, shattering glass and coating the elements with white powder. A pot fell, clanging loudly to the apple and water covered floor and ringing loudly for several seconds before falling still and quiet.

Silence reigned in the kitchen, and Vivien, having screwed her eyes closed in her mad flurry of movement, tentatively cracked open an eye.

Her visitor stood several meters away, water soaking slowly into his new boots.

Unable to control herself, Vivien shrieked again, and stumbled back several paces, though she tripped on an apple and went flailing back first into the wall. There, she proceeded to catch her breath with a hand clutching the fabric of her dress over her wildly beating heart. And then, upon noticing the man's dark look, she tried to cover up her obviously devastating mistake with blurted apologies.

The smell of burning flour was now very apparent in the air.

"Monsieur! Oh, Dieu, je suis désolé! I-I didn't see—you startled me—I-I-I! And I couldn't stop! M-my apologies, you frightened me…and I was…startled…" she trailed off lamely as she noticed the man's glare. She knew it all to well.

Monsieur Dorian Belfast was a tall, bulky man, twice her age and fit to be her father. But he wasn't of course. Vivien pitied the poor soul who would have Dorian as a parent. He wasn't fit for anything of the sort. As far as she was concerned, the only thing he was good for was being a horrible man and a slimy devil—which he was.

"I'm…sorry?" Vivien offered as a weak apology to the man before her, wanting nothing more than to collapse in on herself.

Belfast regarded the kitchen with a distasteful eye. Slowly, deliberately, he moved to pick up the pot that had fallen on the floor, grasped its handle with such careful purpose that Vivien was sure he would round on her, snarling, and beat her to death with it.

She could just imagine the gossip. "Did you not hear? Miss Brideau was flattened into a bloody corpse with an iron pot just before luncheon yesterday! And they say the cook was planning on doing up stewed potatoes with that very same pot! C'est horrible!" Vivien shuddered at the thought, but forced her thoughts to her guardian, as he stood before her with that very menacing kitchen commodity…

Belfast fixed her with a hard glare. "Just remember the money to replace the apples, water, everything, will be coming out of the servant's pay, Vivien."

She felt her heart sink within her chest, but nodded simply because man was intimidating enough without his anger being directed completely at her.

"Good." And with that, Belfast left, taking Édouard's precious pot with him.

Vivien watched him go for a moment, biting her lip angrily at her own meekness. But what was she to do? She was just poor little Vivien, frightened and all alone in the world. Who would mourn her death once Belfast did away with her? Certainly not the people of Saint-Denis. Bâtard stupide, she directed at his back as he disappeared around a corner. It did nothing, and she was left alone in her mess.

Sighing heavily, Vivien regarded her wet shoes. The hem of her dress was soaking up water, and there was a dash of flour across her front. Carefully, she leant to pick up an apple. After shining it on her sleeve, she bit into it and waited for Édouard and the kitchen staff to return.

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French Translations (for those of you who are curious)

Mademoiselle – the equivalent of 'Miss' in French.

Paranoïaque – paranoid

Méfiant – mistrustful

Femme obsessionnelle – obsessive woman

Homme sans coeur – literally 'man without heart' but more loosely is 'heartless man.'

Bonjour – (I hope you all know this!) Good morning/Good day. A typical greeting.

L'incident du cheval – the horse incident

Je suis désolé – I'm sorry

C'est horrible! – That's horrible!

Bâtard stupide – stupid bastard

My first language isn't French, but I've been studying it for about nine years. I don't expect all of it to be perfect, but I'll try to make it pretty darn close!

--Cayenne Pepper Powder