How My Perfect Life Was Inverted II
Chapter Seventeen: Spelling Mistakes
"Flavio," I said quietly as he laced me into my corset the next morning, "Flavio, I have to escape."
"Escape?"
"Just for today."
"Escape from what?"
"From being Nicolette."
"Might I enquire as to the whyness of this sudden and, dare I say it, ill-advised decision? Breathe in."
Inhaling masked my hesitancy and indecision; my lips parted in a silent gasp as Flavio cinched my waist in a few more inches than was comfortable. "Sorry," he grunted, loosening the garment as was necessary and flicking my hair over my shoulder as he worked.
"I had a dream," I told him casually as he carefully pulled the laces ever tighter.
"Oh, it's not the bird one again, is it?"
I shook my head, bit my lip, then plunged in; "I dreamt that Pearl was alive." I yelped as he suddenly yanked on my corset so hard that the circumference of my waist suddenly narrowed to nineteen inches, at the most.
"Flavio!"
"…Sorry," he said meekly. "It's just that, you know… I mean, you're willing to risk exposing your identity and being thrown into gaol, if the Hales are merciful—and all because of a dream? She's dead, Sierra," he added, his voice one of caressing tenderness.
I shook my head as he carefully loosened the boned garment. "But she might not be," I argued, turning to glance over my shoulder at him. "Flavio, I dreamed… I dreamed that… The dream showed me that there's a chance that she might… not be…"
His hands left the small of my back, where the laces tied, to gently trace my arms until I felt his hands resting on each of my shoulders, indicating that his job was done.
"Sierra," he whispered, leaning close, close enough for his breath to brush against my ear, "Sierra, it's not worth it."
"Don't say that," I snapped, whirling about to face him and clutching at my abdomen as mild vertigo temporarily claimed me. "Flavio, you didn't have the dream…" And with these words, I proceeded to explain everything to him, stressing time and time again that I never saw her face.
"…It's certainly an interesting theory, Sierra," Flavio said at last after a contemplative silence, and I nodded violently in agreement.
"And it is plausible… But if you were going to look for her, exactly where would you even begin? Kingston is not what one would call a small place."
I smiled weakly; I had thought about this dilemma since abruptly waking at the crack of dawn, and I believed I had found a solution. "I just need to find Mr Forrester—Jack's old friend, the one he wanted to drop Pearl off with," I added as his mouth began to open. "I think that if I can talk to him, ask him to arrange a search party—I'm sure he will—We might be able to find her soon enough."
"And what if he wants a reward for all his hard work?" Flavio queried innocently. "A monetary reward?"
I hesitated; from the little I've seen of him, I didn't think he would. But just in case… "Charity," I decided on at last; "He runs an orphanage with his wife; I'm a leisured French aristocrat; it makes perfect sense, and it certainly wouldn't arouse any suspicions… But the more immediate problem," I brushed on as his lips once again began to part, "is how do I leave here, alone—I mean with you, of course—without…"
"Arousing suspicions," Flavio completed for me.
"Well, yes. Any ideas, Flavio?"
A smile quirked his lips as he nodded slowly.
"I have one; it's very simple and highly unoriginal, which is why I think it would work…"
"Aunt, Uncle; Christophe…" I began after about twenty minutes seated primly at the breakfast table, ignoring Geneviève, "I was wondering if I might visit the dressmaker today."
Christophe's head fell forward with a groan. "Weren't they here only yesterday?"
"Well, yes," I allowed, continuing undaunted, "But I think it best to visit them, to ensure that they're progressing satisfactorily. My greatest fear is that they'll create something utterly horrendous and then have the gall to ask me to pay for it! You know what these tailors are like."
Christophe's head, which had returned to its normal position, once again fell forward in something like inevitable resignation.
"And of course, we can't leave you to make such an outing unescorted." He spoke as though reciting a speech, and I realised that he was only going through the motions, now that his aunt and uncle had returned; had we still been alone, he would have left me to my own devices.
No wonder Nicolette was kidnapped in the first place.
"My maid, Jeanne-Louise, will suffice as chaperone," I assured him sweetly, and that would have been that—or so I liked to believe—had the recently-discovered bane of my existence not put forward a suggestion of her own:
"My husband is too selfless; I, of course, will be more than willing to play the role of duenna," Geneviève piped up with a smile so sweet that I was overcome with the urge to hit her.
"But Geneviève, you must rest!" Christophe's protest was voiced politely enough, but I think we all knew that resting was the furthest thing from his mind. The brunette turned her saccharine smile onto her husband, and I felt my stomach twist in jealousy. "And besides," he continued as Governor Hale snorted into his morning whisky whilst the wife dabbed delicately at her lips with a lace-trimmed napkin the better to disguise a knowing smile, "Besides, Nicolette would rather shop alone, wouldn't you, mignon? God knows she'll have time to herself once the Swanns arrive."
Had I been a rational person, I would, of course, have said yes, I would love to be alone, for I was a solitary creature by nature; perhaps I might have even asked who the Swanns were, and what were they arriving for, so as to deflect from my eagerness.
As it was, my jealousy temporarily overcame me, to such an extent that I immediately snapped, "No Christophe, I'm afraid that Geneviève must come with me! I've yet to truly get to know my sister-in-law, you know."
My knife and fork clattered to my plate as I immediately covered my mouth; my relatives probably assumed that it was because I was shocked of the vehemence of my outburst, but at that moment I felt only a sinking horror as I realised exactly what I had done. Even so, I did do my best to salvage the situation:
"That is, if my sister would still… If she would… like to…" I faltered, turning towards her, and repressed a groan at the delighted flush of familial acceptance that now stained her pretty cheeks red. "Excusez-moi," I said, and abruptly left the breakfast table.
"That meddlesome—infuriating—smiling French bitch!" I snarled the moment I slammed my bedroom door shut, causing Flavio, who had been playing dress-up, to eep and dive behind the changing-screen.
"I-I thought that you would still be eating," he stuttered as I kicked off my shoes and threw my fuming self onto the mattress.
"Oh, don't change the subject," I snapped, crossing my arms and glowering sulkily. There were a few minutes of mumbled muttering, the rustling of cloths, and then Flavio emerged dressed in the striped blue attire of a maid's hand-me-downs, a crumpled yellow dress slung over his arm, his fair hair framing his face like a halo. He looked so much like an angel—and a female one at that—that for a moment I could only stare in awe.
"Is Sierra quite alright?" he questioned timidly, his violet eyes wide with childish wonder; his words prompted me to blink and shake my head, adjusting my whale-boned bodice as I sat up.
"Do you remember, Flavio, last night, when you said to me that I had no real reason to hate Geneviève?" I queried coolly, and he nodded. "Well, now I do."
"Oh, really?" Flavio quirked his eyebrow. "And what might that be?"
I inhaled deeply in preparation, then swung my legs over the side so that I was facing him.
"I accidentally extended to her an invitation to go shopping with me today and – and—would you believe this!—she had the gall to accept."
Flavio pursed his lips and narrowed his eyes suspiciously at my announcement.
"She accepted an invitation that you extended?" he asked, and I nodded vigorously.
"I know! Can you believe it? She's deliberately sabotaging our arrangements for the day!—Why, thanks to her, our whole plan of visiting Forrester is ruined—"
"I hate to be pedantic, Sierra, but weren't you the one who asked her—"
"Oh for God's sake, whose side are you on?" I glared, and he immediately quieted down, his hands rising in surrender. "The point is that now she's tagging along, I won't be able to freely speak English; and you, Flavio, being a French and thoroughly uneducated maid, can't play the role of omniscient translator either. So now we'll never be able to find Pearl, and—"
Pearl; just saying her name made all the rage within me disappear, and I found my shoulders slumping in worry at what might have happened to her. Truth be told, there was perhaps another reason I so eagerly chose to despise Geneviève; as long as there was something, or rather, someone, I could focus my anger upon, my grief, and the cause of it, could easily be pushed to the back of my mind, temporarily forgotten.
But all that was about to change; it had to.
"But Sierra," Flavio was saying gently, "there is still a very likely chance that she—"
"She is not!" I snapped, glad to have my fury (temporarily) rekindled. "Flavio, there's a very good chance that Pearl is alive—and don't you dare suggest otherwise."
Flavio was silent, continuing to look at me with undisguised pity; such was the intensity of his woeful gaze that I found myself swallowing and nervously looking away.
"So," he said at last, breaking the silence that had fallen between us, "how do you propose we rid ourselves of Geneviève?"
I smiled, glad to have something mundane on which to focus my thoughts upon. "Well we can't abandon her alone to roam the streets of Kingston unescorted," I said to him thoughtfully; "Not only would that be dangerous to her safety and wellbeing, it's also just downright rude."
"I'm glad to hear that," my maid nodded, flopping down beside me, his chest (or lack thereof) firmly covered by a thick swaddling of fabric. "Si-Si has a heart." I reached up for a pillow and swatted at him, causing Flavio to giggle.
"So what do you suggest we do then?" he asked.
"It's very simple," I explained, jumping to my feet and scurrying to the as of yet unused desk; there was a moment of silence as my eyes scanned its smooth, flat surface, brightening as I spotted the object I sought. Seizing the quill, I spun around and proudly announced,
"I plan on writing her an insulting note."
Flavio tilted his head and furrowed his smooth brow at me, clearly perplexed at my chosen course of action.
"Well you spelt her name wrong, for a start," he said to me seventeen minutes later, handing back my letter.
"What do you mean, I spelt her name wrong?" I asked, violently snatching the parchment from his fingers. "That's how you spell Genevieve; G-E-N-E-V-I-E-V-E."
"Yes, but whilst helping to clear Christophe's room, I came across their marriage certificate, and her name isn't spelt like that, Sierra."
"There's only one way to spell Genevieve," I insisted, pointing at the name on the page, "And it's spelt like that."
"Yes, but when I saw it written down, it had a line over the E," Flavio insisted.
"A line?" I questioned, confused.
"Yeah; it flicked down like that," he indicated with his finger.
"Oh, an accent."
"No accent, just a line."
"I hate to be pedantic Flavio, but the line is… Never mind. Which E?"
"The E."
"There's more than one E in Genevieve, Flavio."
"That E."
"What, the second to last? That E?"
"Yes."
"Alright; and was it an acute accent, or a grave accent?"
"Neither, it was a line."
"…Uh huh. Flavio, can you show me how to spell her name here?" I pulled out a scrap of parchment I had been using to blot the quill after dipping it in the inkpot and pushed it towards him, frowning when I saw him flinch and recoil, staring at the materials set before him in grave apprehension. I saw him swallow—this inconsequential action made me suddenly realise that he didn't have an Adam's apple, or if he did, not much of one—and then take the seat I was offering to him. After that, he simply stared uncomprehendingly at the blank(ish) page before him. I thought it wise to hang back, silent.
He wrote slowly, forehead furrowed as though each stroke required great concentration; when he handed the paper back to me, I could barely make out the letters, disfigured as they were by droplets of black ink. Not only that, but his handwriting was large, shaky, awkward and childish, and when he wrote, the quill was clutched upright in his fist, rather than slanted gently toward him.
"Flavio," I asked, "I don't mean to offend you, but were you ever taught to write?"
"I-I can read fine."
"There's a difference between reading and writing; were you?"
Flavio shrugged his slender shoulders. "I hadn't had need to use a pen in over ten years, Sierra; the paperwork piracy requires is minimal at most."
"But you—" I began, and stopped, frowning. I was about to say, But you draw so well, recalling as I did those pornographic depictions of Jack I still had stashed away somewhere. But then again, I suppose there was also a difference between writing and drawing.
"Well fair enough," I said instead, deciding to shrug the entire scene away. "So it's a, um, a grave accent, is it?"
"What, the line? Um yes, I – I suppose it is a, um… graph accent."
"Grave," I repeated, writing the word phonetically down beneath the correctly-spelt Geneviève. "It's spelt G-R-A-V-E, like grave, but it's pronounced grahv. And acute is as it sounds—A-C-U-T-E. I'm sorry for being so nitpicky, but one of my tutors, Ms Hernandez, used to make me stay behind half an hour longer than the other girls every afternoon until I could name, spell, and draw possibly every diacritic that has ever been conceived in the history of the Roman alphabet. She was an evil bitch, and that's why I don't speak Spanish."
"…I think you may have gotten off topic, Sierra."
"Sorry, I babble; you might have noticed that. Is that someone at the door?" I rapidly changed subject as I heard a solid knock. "Flavio, go get it."
"No! Ever since we've moved here, you've been telling me to do every little thing—"
"That's 'cause you're my maid, Flavio; now get the damn door!"
Flavio rose from his seat and trotted to the door in a sulk, eventually revealing a radiant Geneviève clad in a dress of powder-blue, Christophe hovering possessively at her elbow.
"Oh Nicolette, are you quite alright? You left the table in such a hurry…"A nice enough gesture, had it been sincere; a moment of polite silence later, and all pretences at sisterly concern were immediately abandoned:
"Never mind that, you seem healthy enough," she generously dismissed; "I've such good news!" she bubbled whilst Christophe eyed Flavio in a way that made my jaw clench. "Our cousin Paul has just returned, and at your brother's suggestion, he's kindly offered to accompany you on your little shopping expedition. I know you wished that I would come with you, and truth be told, I'd prefer it if I did, but your brother is feeling most unwell, and as his wife, I must stay and nurse him." She nodded her brown head vigorously, as though this one single action would lend validation to her terribly-told lie.
"Paul?" I gasped, stumbling back. How could this have happened so quickly? Barely five minutes ago she was flushing with excitement at the prospect of going shopping with her sister-in-law; now she couldn't wait to be rid of me. I glanced at Christophe, narrowing my eyes at the way he was watching her; I could tell that he obviously persuaded her into changing her mind.
"Yes," Geneviève prattled on, clearly unaware of my hawkish gaze; "he claims to have missed you terribly, whilst staying with his friend—What was his name? Rochester?" She turned towards her husband as though seeking verification; he shrugged as though he didn't give a toss either way. "After he's bathed and changed into something more presentable, he'll knock on your door and—"
"I can just go alone, you know," I interjected, and Geneviève's eyes widened in concern.
"Nonsense! Do you think it wise to brave the streets alone so soon after being recovered from your abductors? A male chaperon would be far better for your protection, anyway," she brushed my protest away. Christophe chose this moment to emit a particularly loud cough, and Geneviève's doe eyes immediately turned to glance at her husband in mock concern.
"Well I'm afraid we must take our leave of you now, sister," she said distractedly to me, pulling her husband away by the hand. "Do have fun, won't you?"
I flew across the room so that I could slam the door before Flavio had the chance to gently close it.
"That bitch!" I screeched at my maid, who motioned with his hands to quieten down, "Mocking me with that 'Please have fun shopping and try not to think of me making uninhibited love with one of the most handsome men you've ever laid eyes on' smile! She's willing to give up shopping for sex? Well then, she's not even a woman! She's like—a man!"
"Sierra," Flavio interjected, "just calm down and breathe…"
I placed a hand on my bodice and nodded in agreement, feeling my chest rising rapidly as I took quick, shallow breaths. But honestly—shopping for sex? What was wrong with her?
"I still can't believe she's decided to give up shopping for… conjugal relations. They're married; they should only be copulating in hope of a child, nothing else."
"Sierra—" Flavio tried again, but I was unstoppable.
"What is wrong with her? How much of a wanton, depraved, sex-crazed, love-deprived nymphomaniac must a woman be to want to fornicate at every opportunity, given or otherwise?"
Flavio placed a hand on his hip and nodded patronisingly. "It's annoying, isn't it?" he agreed, and I narrowed my eyes at him.
"Don't even think about comparing me to her," I snapped at him, a finger pointing threateningly in his direction. "There is a world of difference between us; Geneviève is obviously the kind of girl who will only ever lie with her husband, whereas I, on the other hand, will go to bed with absolutely anyone. Out of the two of us, I clearly have far more self-respect."
"Sierra, I beg of you, please calm down," Flavio pleaded, going so far as to fall to his knees and clutch at my skirt. "Ever since you've had that dream about Pearl being alive, your emotions have been volatile and unpredictable. Remember who you are, where you are, and who you're meant to be; please calm down," he trailed off childishly, rubbing his cheek against the soft fabric of my dress.
I sighed, but decided, for his sake, I ought to play long.
"Alright," I said after a moment of contemplation. "Alright, I'm calm, I'm calm. Now what do I do?"
Flavio looked up at me and grinned, evidently happy that I was heeding his advice. "Explain to me what Geneviève did that was so horrendous you came storming in here in the middle of breakfast," he ordered politely.
"Why, she said she'll go shopping with me," I reiterated.
"Right; keep that point in mind. Now I want you to explain to me what Geneviève did next that made you lose your temper and start shouting."
"Well, she obviously said that she wasn't going to go shopping with me, and was sending Paul—of all people!—to escort me instead. You remember Paul, don't you? The arrogant Englishman who within five minutes of meeting me so eloquently said, 'If you weren't my cousin, I'd fuck you'? Or something along those lines."
"I wasn't there when he said that," Flavio ruefully shook his head.
"Either way, there is still an obstacle between me and finding Mr Forrester, which means that there is a direct obstacle between me and finding Pearl."
"If, of course, Pearl is actually—"
"She is! Don't be so bloody cynical."
"Right; and when will Paul be, ah, collecting you?"
"When he's going to have a bath and change first, according to Geneviève. That will probably take about an hour."
"Good, good; so tell me, Si-Si; what are you going to do whilst Paul is lounging in his bathtub?"
I bit my lip and furrowed my brow in thought.
It came to me immediately.
"Simple," I said, flouncing towards the desk and setting myself down into the chair, picking the quill up with a flourish, "I will write Geneviève fifty highly insulting notes, and in each and every single one her name will be purposefully misspelt." I smiled wickedly at this naughty notion.
"…Right. Or, you can—and this crazy, foolish, un-thought-out suggestion is completely off of the top of my head, by the way—you can send me down to the stables to ask to prepare a carriage, get some shoes, a cape and a parasol, drive into Kingston, and later explain to your aunt and uncle that you got bored waiting for Paul, thus ridding yourself of any and all obstacles preventing you from meeting Mr Forrester."
"…Good idea."
-x!x-
AN: Things will definitely pick up next chapter, of that I assure you.