Amour: Historical Romance (Passion and Glory Book 1) (15 page)

“Did no one ever tell you how pretty you are? You’ve a face like an angel and all the right curves to match. And you’re so tall!”

The tall maid nodded in agreement and led a blushing Sérolène by the hand to sit in the tub. Out of habit, Sérolène reached for the washcloth to begin bathing herself. Both maids began to laugh. The tall one took the washcloth from Sérolène and began washing the vicomtesse’s torso, arms, and neck. The other began to tend to the vicomtesse’s legs and feet.

“Leave it to us, young
Belle
. You just relax now,” the tall maid said.

“Are you sisters?” Sérolène asked.

There was a resemblance between the two and Sérolène was curious. Starting a conversation helped to conceal her discomfiture at being so intimately attended to by strangers. Besides, they seemed nice. Sérolène wanted to know more about them. Were they slaves? Or freeborn who worked for the marquise?

“
Cousines,
Mademoiselle. I’m Sarah,” the taller one said. She pointed to the other girl. “She’s Matilde.”

Sarah poured perfume into the water as Matilde began washing Sérolène’s hair. After several minutes of scrubbing and soaking, Matilde bid Sérolène stand so they could rinse her off. Sarah lifted a pitcher of water and poured it atop Sérolène’s head. Matilde then daubed Sérolène’s face with a washcloth and began to dry her hair with a plush cotton towel.

“You can step out now, please, Mademoiselle,” Sarah said.

Sérolène stepped out of the tub as instructed, her skin glistening with the residue of scented oils and perfumes which had been added to the bath. Sarah enveloped her with a towel, vigorously rubbing from top to bottom before wrapping the vicomtesse up in a soft cotton robe.

“Matilde, are you not yet finished?” Madame de Blaise called out from the next room.

“Almost, Madame. Our young beauty’s very long. We’ve still much more to do,” Matilde answered back, winking good-naturedly at Sérolène.

Sarah removed the robe. Sérolène stood naked, her ripe body a glistening glowing pink from the heat of the bath and the gentle scrubbing of the maids. Matilde beckoned the vicomtesse to hold out her arms so she could slip the new muslin underdress she had brought over them, and then over the vicomtesse’s head. The underdress extended only to the top of Sérolène’s knees, instead of well below them. Matilde shook her head.

“It’s a bit short, but it’ll have to do till we can launder your own. Not many ladies as tall as Madame. You’re the tallest I’ve ever seen,” Matilde said.

Sarah began taking the measure of Sérolène’s legs from ankle to mid-thigh. “Good thing Madame’s as long-legged as you are. The stockings should fit just fine. And Madame has big feet too. Although we’d best try the mules just to be sure of the fit. The gowns…well they might be a bit snug, but we’ll just have to hope for the best. Everything on you is going to look like a Polonaise.”

Sérolène nodded as Sarah led her toward a linen-covered chair, where she directed her to sit. As Matilde busied herself with drying the vicomtesse’s thick, wet tresses, Sarah knelt down and guided Sérolène’s feet into white silk stockings, tying them midway up her thigh with powder-blue ribbons. They were a bit shorter than the vicomtesse was accustomed to, but she felt so delightfully pampered she had no wish to complain. Once stockinged, she was lightly powdered about the neck and face, rouged about the cheeks, and then led back into the bedroom, where she was fitted with underdress, corset, hoops, underskirts, stays, and myriad other complements and implements required for the proper dressing of a lady of quality. Only when these many diverse elements had been finally put together and adjusted, was the gown Madame de Blaise had suggested finally brought to Sérolène to be fitted.

The upper part of the gown proved as snug a fit as Matilde had predicted, but as the style of the dress was loose by design, it suited the vicomtesse rather well, highlighting the long vee of her torso and displaying her firm, full bosom to splendid advantage. The skirt was normally worn with several inches of hemline taken up for ease of movement, but on the vicomtesse, the normal mode of wear would reveal too much of her underskirt and legs to suit. It was decided to let the hem all the way down, which provided just enough added length to avoid the impropriety of revealing too much leg above the ankle.

Sarah stepped back to admire the fitting. Matilde went to inform the marquise that the gown was ready to be inspected. Sarah led Sérolène back into the marquise’s bedroom. The vicomtesse stood in the middle of the marquise’s large open bedroom, while Madame de Blaise took a quick turn of appraisal around the vicomtesse.

“My, you do look splendid. There’s just one touch missing. Fetch my sapphires, Sarah.”

Sarah hurried off to fetch her mistress’ jewels. She returned a few moments later with a rectangular velvet box which she opened slowly and with care for the marquise to inspect. Madame de Blaise lifted up a splendid sapphire and diamond necklace on a silver chain, then approached Sérolène to do the fitting herself.

“Madame, I couldn’t possibly. They’re much too beautiful for me to wear,” Sérolène protested.

The marquise smiled with indulgence as she stepped behind Sérolène to fit the jewels around her neck. “Do let me be the judge of such things, dear child. Has no one made you aware of what a striking beauty you are? If so, I am indeed surprised.”

The marquise fitted the necklace, then had Sarah hand her a matching pair of earrings. She inserted them into the piercing holes in Sérolène’s ears, then stood back to admire the effect.

“Now come. Let’s look at you.”

The marquise led Sérolène toward an ornate cabinet which Sarah opened to reveal a full-length mirror. Sérolène beheld herself in disbelief. Was the fairy-tale princess staring back from the looking glass really just her own reflection? Madame de Blaise ran her fingers appraisingly through Sérolène’s hair, which had not yet been afforded the same indulgent treatment as the rest of her.

“You see, both the gown and the sapphires become you. They pick up the color of your eyes. Now we’ve just your hair to contend with, but here you are fortunate. In the absence of my usual hairdresser, Matilde is something of an expert in these matters.”

Sérolène’s expression revealed her doubts that her coiffure could be altered with the same degree of success as her wardrobe. She’d never worn such fine clothes at home, nor had she ever been given real jewels to wear. Seeing herself already so transformed, however, she decided to submit without complaint.

The vicomtesse was led to a comfortable seat in Madame de Blaise’s dressing room and served a warm bowl of soup with white bread as Matilde readied all the implements required to dress Sérolène’s hair. The style to be attempted was called the Euridice
[v]
. The process of creation involved more than forty separate steps to fashion the intricate and high coif. The natural hair was combed out and used as a base, over which false hair pieces, hair rolls, donuts and rats, were layered, placed, and pinned to create height, adorning curls and volume. 

Madame de Blaise gave advice before she left to see about the meal and make arrangements for the vicomtesse to be seen again by the doctor. But she promised to return to observe and guide the finishing touches herself. An hour had passed before Matilde began to apply the final rolls to the back. All the while, Sérolène sat with forbearance, more eager than impatient, to see the final product. Madame de Blaise at last returned, giving her opinion at once.

“You look splendid, dear child. Just a little while longer now. I just received word that Mademoiselle Julienne has arrived. Once her things have been settled in, she’ll be joining us at table. The men have finished their supper. It’ll just be us ladies. I’m sure you’ll be pleased to be reunited.”

“I’m very glad to hear such happy news, Madame. Perhaps I might also be allowed to pay a visit to Monsieur d’Argentolle on our way to supper? I’m sure I owe him my life, and I should sincerely like to express my deepest thanks for his bravery,” Sérolène said in her most persuasive and submissive voice.

Madame de Blaise was a woman of strong intuition and her feelings told her there was much more to the vicomtesse’s request than just a wish to follow common courtesy. What did Nicolas really mean to her, and she to him?
I expect there’s only one way to know.

“I suppose we might stop for a brief moment to inspect his condition, though I caution you, he is unlikely to be awake or in any way returned to himself,” the marquise warned.

Sérolène took the marquise’s hand, kissed it, and then pressed it to her cheek with fondness. “Thank you ever so much, dear Madame!”

Madame de Blaise watched the vicomtesse in the reflection of her mirror as Matilde put the finishing touches to her hairdo.
What a delightful child. If something tender has been made between this charming angel and my Nicolas, I can scarcely object, though the when and the how still escape me. She’s so sweet and genuine. Why I already adore her myself.

Matilde stepped back and lowered her clipping scissors. She gazed in satisfaction at her handiwork. Sarah ooohed in approval.

“There, Madame. It’s finished.”

“Matilde, you’ve outdone yourself. She looks splendid. Come my dear, stand this way so you can see properly what Matilde’s talent and your beauty has accomplished.”

The effect produced by the marquise’s gown and the new high coiffure was remarkable. Gone was the frightened young doe who just a short time before had quailed with panic in her bed. In her place was a great lady of France, a perfect model of the regal elegance of the court. The marquise smiled in delight at the success of her efforts, as did Sérolène, who thanked both Matilde and Sarah for their labors with an embrace for each.

With Sérolène’s transformation complete, Madame de Blaise led the vicomtesse down the hallway from her chambers toward Nicolas’ sickroom. When they arrived, there were two attendants standing watch outside the door. Each bowed at the approach of the mistress of the house and the door was opened inward to allow the marquise and her guest to pass. The marquise entered the room with Sérolène trailing just behind. Nicolas’ valet, Julius, rose from his seat near the bed to pay his respects with a bow, the prone form of the young chevalier visible in outline behind the drawn satin curtains of his bed.

Sérolène studied everything with care, determined to affix each aspect of Nicolas’ intimate enclave in her mind. The room was small but tidy and would be considered austere by almost any standards. Everything in it appeared more utilitarian than expressive, with the only prominent furniture being a writing desk, two chairs, and a small wardrobe. The sole portraits adorning the walls were miniatures of Nicolas’ parents and brother and two large paintings of the hunt, in which the horses were rendered in superb detail. Near the head of the bed was a wooden stand holding three magnificent dress swords. Sérolène committed as much detail as she could to memory, as Madame de Blaise turned to address Nicolas’ valet.

“Has there been any change in his condition, Julius?”

“No, Madame, though he has been resting peacefully. On occasion he calls out in his sleep. Just a single word, but I can’t make any sense of it.”

Madame de Blaise raised her eyebrows in curiosity. “What does he utter?”

Julius shook his head in bewilderment. “Séro.”

Sérolène flushed pink. She turned toward the prone form of Nicolas, her face aglow with love. Madame de Blaise noted at once both the change in the vicomtesse’s coloring and the apparent reason for it.

“Thank you, Julius. Draw back the curtains please. You may then wait outside until I call for you.”

The valet drew the curtains, then took his leave. He shut the door softly behind him. Madame de Blaise turned toward Sérolène with very particular interest.

“I suppose Séro is what he calls you, my sweet child?”

Sérolène felt the warmth from the flush of blood to her cheeks. “I believe so, Madame.”

The marquise caressed Sérolène’s cheek, then planted a gentle kiss upon each one. “Well, my dear. It appears from my son’s own lips you have earned a singular position of consideration. Go on and take your rightful place.”

Sérolène curtsied deeply to show her appreciation, then turned and approached Nicolas’ bedside. She paused a moment to glance at her beloved before taking the seat Julius had occupied. Sérolène was torn as to what to do. The rules of propriety demanded she should remain circumspect toward Nicolas in the presence of the marquise, but now that the object of her longing was so close, the dictates of common etiquette seemed wholly pointless.

Coolness, reason, false modesty and everything else of pretense which held her separate from the soul she was so desperately drawn to, held no authority over her now. To Sérolène these were but things to be overthrown. Love! Wild, scalding, glorious, lawless. Love was the thing which governed her heart. It was the unmaker of tyrants, the leveler of rank, and the jester to make mockery of kingly reason and decree. Like a mighty whirlpool, love drew her down. Closer, closer, until she slipped into the eddy of life’s most glorious obsession, and in being utterly lost, at last found her true self.

Sérolène stood and leaned across the open expanse which separated her from Nicolas. She pressed her forehead against Nicolas’ own with exquisite tenderness. Her lips followed next, first against his brow, then slowly down until her lips joined with his own. Hot tears flooded her cheeks and fell onto his, anointing them with the salty-sweet tribute of combined grief and joy. She had never felt so happy, and at the same time, so filled with grief. For she had put him here in this sick bed. The wounds he bore, the pain he endured, it had been for her. He had made a promise in the dark to love and cherish her forever, and already he had made good on his oath. And how she loved him for it, and for the way the purity of his devotion made her feel. Ever since she had met Nicolas, her spirit resonated with an unfathomable lightness of being, as if her soul had somehow touched the face of God.