24: The Gift (Part III)
"I think it is all a matter of love; the more you love a memory the stronger and stranger it becomes"
― Vladimir Nabokov
Bastien gradually became bolder, remaining by her side longer in public, cutting in protectively if another suitor insinuated himself. He escorted her through gardens, strolling leisurely with her under the pretense of showing her the grounds. It was during those times that they would dally, convey their thoughts and feelings, whether spoken or unspoken, and she would allow him to steer her off into a quiet, secluded nook, away from prying eyes. It was in those furtive moments, when unable to sustain studied pretenses, that he would plead with her, their breaths ragged as they broke away from each other's lips and tantalizing caresses.
"Be mine," he'd say to her longingly, his arms embracing her firmly against him.
To perform her duties as apprentice, Vivienne had to remain close to the court, ready to answer any summons. It was the Duchess de Ghislain who insisted that the young apprentice be housed at their estate. The Duke himself escorted her from Montsimmard. He'd arrived a day earlier than expected, in full uniform, his medals glinting in the sunlight. He cut such a distinguished figure, every single window in the tower was congested with the curious faces of onlookers vying for a glimpse of the handsome Duke. On the way to Val Royeaux, he surprised her by taking a detour: an overnight at a villa in Val Firmin, at the shores of Lake Celestine. He revealed to her that the majestic villa was theirs for the night, and she marveled at the breathtaking view of the gardens in bloom and the tame waves on the lake's surface.
"Is it all to your taste, my heart?" he asked, seductively bringing her hand to his lips as they supped in the sumptuous dining room.
It was, she admitted. All of it.
On that night, she finally became his.
She loved him dearly.
He remained in her thoughts long after he'd left her side. It was inebriating: she, still a young woman, was the declared mistress of Duke Bastien de Ghislain and she reveled in how gingerly the court treated her, seeking to curry her favor, eager to please her, in hopes that she would put in a good word for them with the Head of the Council of Heralds.
Her life began to circle around his—she lived by his calendar. She waited for him. She anticipated his needs. She was devoted and thoughtful. She prepared herself to attend the various functions so he would not find himself alone… And she accompanied him jealously, so she could make sure his eye did not wander. There were others, she knew, who strove to aim as high and did not see her as an impediment…only a nuisance.
Anytime he was late, she grew suspicious. If he changed his plans, it unnerved her. She questioned him, casually, of course, hinging on his every word.
She dined with the Duke and Duchess often and on one particular evening, things had become strained between herself and the Duke.
"I should like it very much if you accompanied me to the Order's dinner," he had expressed, referring to yet another commitment. "See Montmorency in town for any finery you may require," he stated.
"Thank you!" she said, eager to demonstrate her appreciation of his favor. "You really shouldn't!" she protested.
The Duke had frowned and excused himself. She yearned to ask where he was going, but tactfully refrained from any passionate displays. He left, somewhat downhearted, leaving them in a heavy silence. Such spectacles had become more and more frequent.
She finished her meal, aware of the stare the Duchess afforded her.
"Vivienne," she said gently, setting down a crystal goblet on the table. "I do not mean to alarm you, darling… but you are losing him."
Vivienne stiffened.
"What happened?" Isadora whispered. "I feel I don't recognize the woman sitting before me," she continued. "I had such high hopes for you…"
"What do you mean? I have been nothing but loving and devoted." She continued, with a defiant spark in her eye, "And I am well aware of who my rivals are..."
Isadora scoffed, and this time she did not disguise her bitterness.
"I warned you, didn't I? I told you this day could come."
Vivienne said nothing. It was a humiliation the likes of which she had never experienced before: she found herself being scolded by her absent lover's wife on her shortcomings as a mistress. She smarted at the possibility of losing all the prestige she had amassed. It distracted her from the other imminent loss— of her love.
"Bastien is not a frivolous man. He does not bestow his favor or affections lightly. He is sincere… but he cannot sustain an illusion," she reprimanded her.
It was the first time in her life that Vivienne allowed herself to shed tears before another person.
"What did I do wrong?" she asked, genuinely puzzled, her voice steady, even as the tears tumbled down her cheek.
Isadora leaned back into her chair, fingering the strand of pearls around her neck in deep thought.
"Your constant gratitude...It is grating," she concluded astutely.
Vivienne's head shot up and she quickly composed herself.
"What do you mean?"
"Such gratitude would be better suited if your lover were a humble man, a modest man who had plundered his coffers to please you."
She did not understand.
"I was merely showing him I wasn't taking him for granted—"
Isadora did not mince her words.
"When will you understand, ma petite? Bastien doesn't do all this solely for your sake. He does it because he can, without a greater thought to the cost. He is rich! He does it because it gives him pleasure to have you looking stunning on his arm. He does it for him, not for you, dearest. So stop your pointless thankfulness. It sounds like an apology," she scolded her. "It makes you sound unworthy…and it irks him…It leads him to question his choice."
Vivienne's eyes widened.
Yes. I needed this.
"Do you sell yourself for so little?" Isadora asked provocatively. "Does any little dangling jewel warrant what you have done to yourself?"
She stared at Isadora's indignant countenance.
"He looms too large now. You are reinventing yourself because of him. You are lost in his shadow."
"How do I undo this?" she asked.
"The only way to step out of someone's shadow is to stand taller—reach for the sun, darling."
Isadora was right, of course. She always was.
"If you want him back, you need to be yourself again—an even better version of yourself."
It was then that Orlais truly opened up, revealing its secrets with Isadora guiding her, cutting through prejudices thanks to her masterful wielding of rank, steering her towards the best seamstresses, the most discerning jewelers, the most fashionable milliners and cobblers. Together, they threw the best soirees and cultural salons that became the talk of Val Royeaux. And Vivienne saw: she learned how to carry herself and how to maneuver, all under the instruction of the Duchess.
"Stop fretting, darling," she warned her anytime she balked at the expenses. "Beautiful things are not created effortlessly and the price they command is fair in that it must support those who dedicate their lives to creating it for us!"
Isadora would also remind her:
"It is the least you deserve. They say one meant for greatness must be properly attired for when the right moment arrives…But I say the truly great make every moment the right one."
Vivienne slowly resumed her lapsed apprenticeship with the Court Enchantress, seeking to build up her credibility and reliability in light of all the flimsy excuses she had conjured to always be at Bastien's side. She worked extremely hard, like in the days back at Ostwick, rediscovering the passions residing within scrolls and books. She often missed their dinners, was unable to attend many events, and was often sending her regrets to the Duke and Duchess. She became involved in greater depth with the Circle at Montsimmard, occasionally overnighting there to share her expertise or offer guidance.
Bastien watched her in wonder as she rose through Orlesian society, claiming or creating her place, jockeying for more advantageous positions with a tenacity and charm that excited him. Anytime he could, he eased her way, whether it through the Council's aid, putting in a good word with the right person, or occasionally calling in favors. He relished observing her in all her boldness, her fearlessness.
He was enchanted by his enchantress.
One evening they ran into each other at another event. They had not known they would both be attending, not having been able to communicate their plans in advance: he'd been returning from a diplomatic trip to the Marches, and she from a longer stay at Montsimmard. Dressed in white silk, in an exquisite hat with pointed horns and fine heeled satin slippers, donning a silver mask with moonstones and dazzling diamond dust, she turned all heads as she glided through the room. She was mesmerizing in her confidence and in her beauty.
And Bastien loved beauty, especially in the unabashedly alluring form of his mistress. It had taken every ounce of gentlemanly self restraint on his part not to take her right there in the carriage, on their ride home together. He had never desired her so ardently—it thrilled her and took her breath away.
Vivienne was triumphant.
A few years later, when Lady Calienne de Chalon's death was announced, Vivienne was overseeing some of the Circle's matters in Val Firmin. She left immediately for Val Royeaux, her heart heavy, fearing the worst.
When she arrived at the gates of the de Ghislain estate, her suspicions were proven correct. Isadora had collapsed, her heart failing her upon hearing the news of the death of her beloved daughter.
She remembered Isadora's prophetic words with a pang: "I loathe playing the Game…It will be the ruin of us all…"
Isadora managed to survive, but barely; she ailed and declined for years until she finally drew her last breath. Even in illness, though, Isadora had clung to her aristocratic ways. She insisted on being properly dressed, her feet shod in gorgeous slippers, even though she was incapable of going anywhere anymore. And it was Vivienne who dutifully applied the rouge and lip stain to her face, who devotedly brushed out her hair. It was Vivienne who saw to all the minutiae of the service at the cathedral after Isadora died, entrusted with details regarding the floral arrangements, the music, even the menu of the repast to be served afterwards. It was all very tasteful and dignified, as demanded by the occasion and their rank. So many details, so much to attend to. And she was grateful for it. It kept her strong. It kept her busy.
Months later, Bastien approached her, his hair a silvery hue, more fragile than she'd ever seen him. He had grown older over the years, of course, but much older over the past months, since Isadora's passing.
"Do you wish to be married?" he'd asked her.
She thought for a bit. A mage marrying a Duke would undoubtedly raise a few hackles, but it wouldn't be the first time she had bucked convention in Orlais. She rather enjoyed the challenge and prestige of being first at anything.
"No, darling," she decided at last. "There is no need for it—it would change nothing between us," she said, lovingly taking his hands in hers. "Besides, I couldn't: to me there will only ever be one Duchess," she revealed.
He didn't press her further; he understood.
The afternoon Bastien died was the second time she ever allowed herself to shed tears before another person. Evelyn had sat respectfully in the room as Vivienne tended to him at his deathbed.
"Thank you, my love," she had whispered into his ear. "For all of it."
She uttered it with gratitude, knowing she would be forgiven for it that once.
"Vivienne, take as much time as you need to take care of things here," Evelyn reassured her later.
"Thank you, darling, but I assure you I won't need long."
"I will stay for the services," Evelyn continued. "And Josephine will come, also."
"That'll be good— the Inquisition's presence will be much appreciated after all that's transpired here."
"Can I help with anything?" Evelyn offered gently.
"You have gone above and beyond. You have shown yourself a true friend, Evelyn," Vivienne said approvingly.
"Let me know if there is anything you need," she insisted.
"It's quite all right. There are only the service arrangements to make…a few matters to resolve…Although I really should contact our solicitors so I can decide what to do with the estate. It shouldn't sit vacant—"
"Are there any children?…"
Vivienne peered up from her desk somewhat bewildered.
"Hmm? No, darling. Bastien's only daughter died years ago in that sordid conspiracy involving the Valmonts…And I…I never had any children of my own."
"I'm sorry—I didn't mean to pry," Evelyn quickly amended.
She grinned mildly. She liked the Inquisitor. She had excellent manners. She'd been raised a noble after all— and studied at Ostwick, too, a most civilized Circle, she remembered.
"I know you didn't, so don't feel foolish; I never wanted any children. There was always so much to attend to, I couldn't afford to have a child. It was for the best; I'd never be a proper mother. I don't think I could dedicate myself to anyone so completely without losing myself, you see," she said candidly.
Evelyn nodded, surprised at the formidable woman's lowered guard.
"But sometimes I think that if I'd had a child, I would have wanted a girl," she mused, smiling conspiratorially at Evelyn. "And I would have named her after my most beloved friend…Isadora."
"That's a beautiful name," she concurred.
"It is, isn't it?" she replied, pleased. "Do you know what it means?"
Evelyn shook her head.
"It means 'gift,'" Vivienne stated quietly, staring out into the expansive parlor beyond the doorway, the chandeliers glistening in the fading afternoon sun.