"I am afraid I do not know the Countess. What if I am asked about her?"
"There is no Countess, so make up what you will. No one here would dare admit they do not know of her, being as she is a noblewoman and such a good friend of ours." Servaes stopped, motioning his hand a flowering plant. She followed his motion quizzically. "Just pretend to nod over the prettiness of the bloom. The trick to the court life is to say nothing, pretend to hear nothing, and in truth, say only the right things and hear everything. Be suspicious of everyone and beware of your fast friendships, especially with other noblewomen- -"
"But, what of you Marquis?" she asked shyly.
In truth she hoped she wasn’t trapped in this peculiar world for too long. Again her eyes scanned the distance for a solitary figure in the shadows, watching her. She could see no vampire. Where had the vampire Servaes gotten off to? Could he not come out in the sunlight, even if it was in his mind? How in the world did she get out of his head? And what exactly was he doing to her body back home in her aunt’s house?
Hathor shivered as her attention was drawn to the potent nearness of the man on her arm. Comparing him to his future self, he was nothing like what he would become. Weakly, she finished, "Should I trust you?"
"No, perchance you should not." His eyes moved curiously over her face before he turned away from her. Leading her to a fountain, he whispered impishly, "Let’s have a bit of fun, eh?"
Without giving her time to answer, he pulled her forward around the fountain and then stopped. He began to walk at a more leisurely pace. Loudly, he said, "Oui, mademoiselle, what a keen eye for detail you have. This piece was definitely constructed in the classical style so familiar to that period, and so very unlike the other statues in the garden."
Hathor looked up at the statue in surprise. Then, hearing someone clear his throat, she turned her eyes to an elderly man strolling alone. The man was dressed in dark emerald, and his dark brown periwig contrasted the wrinkles in his old face. The man eyed her inquisitively, a lecherous light coming to his blatant gaze as he saw her cleavage. Turning to Servaes, he paused in greeting.
Tapping his walking stick lightly on the ground, he said, "Ah, Lord Normant, I thought I heard you had arrived in Versailles."
"Monsieur Nottingham," Servaes bowed. "Have you had the honor of meeting our newest flower of the court, Mademoiselle Hathor Vinceti?"
Using the introduction as an excuse to once again examine her chest, the man said, "No, I don’t believe I have."
"Mademoiselle," Servaes began turning to her most properly. "May I present, Monsieur Nottingham."
Hathor eyed the older gentleman’s blackened teeth in disgust. They were stained with yellow tobacco. He took her hand and, fawning presumably over it, murmured, "Pleasure, mademoiselle."
"Mademoiselle Vinceti has a great knowledge of fine sculptures, being as her family is originally from Italy," Servaes added. He frowned slightly, seeing that the man’s interest in his companion’s chest didn’t waver. Not that he could blame the man. The woman on his arm was absolutely stunning in her forthright manner.
"Is that so," Nottingham proclaimed. "Is that where you met Lord Normant? At the Italian court?"
"No, monsieur," Hathor managed, glancing nervously at Servaes. His arm tightened slightly on her hand in encouragement. She felt the muscles flex, giving her strength. "We met, was it already three years ago, in Paris? I was staying with the Countess Dulac. She is my aunt. Do you know her?"
"Oui," Nottingham claimed easily, "fine woman the Countess. Is she here with you?"
Hathor shook her head in denial. "No. I am afraid my aunt is indisposed at the moment. She is still in Paris."
"Pity, I should have liked to pay my respects." Nottingham nodded politely in reluctant dismissal. "It was my pleasure, mademoiselle, and I should hope to see more of you later." Then, bowing towards Servaes, he quipped, "My lord."
After the man left them, Hathor couldn’t help her joyous laughter. "Are all men such as him? If so, please get me out of here."
"I told you that our ruse would work." Servaes smiled, captivated. "Nottingham is one of the biggest court gossips. Soon everyone will know we are old friends and will not question the propriety of my escorting you about."
"Why do you do this?" Hathor asked suddenly. "Why do you risk lying for a stranger who would most likely blunder her way around causing embarrassment to all?"
"I like you," he stated boldly. "You make me laugh. And I absolutely abhor court life. But if I must be here, I would like it if the most beautiful woman were on my arm. I promise not to abandon you like this other Servaes."
Hathor couldn’t stop a blush from fanning her cheeks at his bold attention. She felt as if she had known him for a long time. In a way she had.
"I like you, too," she admitted shyly. When his eyebrows shot up in surprise at the easy admission, she asked, "Was I not suppose to say that?"
"Ah," he began in awe. "Most women wouldn’t. They believe it takes away a bit of their mystery to speak frankly."
"I think you will find, monsieur, that I am not like most women of your time." She flashed him an easy smile. "May I speak in candor?"
"Oui, please," he motioned, completely taken in by her. He waited breathlessly for what she would say next.
"I think that I was meant to find you today. So let us not go through the needless formality of proper small talk. I do not know how much time that I have in this place and wouldn’t waste it with unnecessary, antiquated propriety. Well, maybe I would with others here, but not with you. What say you, Marquis de Normant? Shall we become fast friend and throw caution to the wind?"
"Caution to the wind?" he repeated with a small laugh. Amazed, he nodded his head, "Oui, let us do just that."
As he studied her, he felt as if he knew her. He could see the innocence in her eyes, knowing she wouldn’t propose such a thing to just anyone. Whenever he introduced her about, he saw that she did in fact draw closer to his arm and looked out shyly to whoever spoke. He felt the nervous tips of her fingers digging unawares into his sleeves, uncomfortable with the over zealous attention of the males of the French court.
Sensing her discomfort, he led her to a private alcove with a stone bench where she could sit in the shade. Her eyes shone brightly. Her attention was all on him as he spoke, soaking up every word.
"And what of your family, monsieur?" she would ask. He would tell her of his father’s death by highwaymen and his mother’s penchant for drinking before she died. He would tell her of other things, things he never admitted to anyone.
Hathor smiled, listening to his soft, youthful voice, its pleasant charm flowing over her, embracing her heart with his gentle eyes and kind ways. Once, his hand brushed tentatively against hers, and she boldly took it in her own. His hesitancy turned to a smile, rich and beautiful. His warm palm clasped about hers, their bodies drawing intimately closer as they spoke.
"I cannot believe what has happened today," he whispered into her ear. His lips parted, desperately wanting to kiss her. "I came here dreading my day and have ended up having the best time of my life."
"I hope I am not giving you the wrong impression," Hathor murmured with a pretty blush. She saw his sexual interest held at bay in his eyes. "I do not want my forwardness misinterpreted as … fastness."
Whispering into her small ear, he warned, "You had better be careful, my sweet, lest I ask you to be my wife and steal you away to the dismal countryside. I might just forever deprive you of this horrible court and the attention off all other men."
"No, Servaes," she whispered back sadly, her eyes turning down with a hint of tears. Servaes smiled quizzically at her constant use of his given name. Such a thing was never done. She didn’t seem to notice. He liked it. "Promise not to speak of such things. They are not possible. As I have said, I will not be here long."
"Are you in trouble, ma petite? I would help you if you were."
The youthful, idealistic Servaes felt himself falling h
opelessly in love. He could feel her inside himself like his own beating heart. She captivated him with her unearthly beauty, her sophistication so unlike the other ladies who tried endlessly to trap him into marriage. He knew he had to be careful, that there were many after his money. But, after speaking for hours, it became apparent that she had no idea of his vast fortunes or his numerous houses and castles. Beyond that, she didn’t think of his title and power, easily dismissing it to discover more of the man he was.
"And you, mademoiselle? What of your parents?" he asked. Suddenly, her eyes turned sad, and he was sorry for it.
"They were killed two years past in a car … carriage accident. Another carriage spun out of control hitting them. They died instantly." She paused, taking a deep breath. "Beyond that, I only have an aunt. She owns a beautiful home in London."
Well, it is as close to the truth as he can believe, she thought.
"And your aunt? Who is she?" he asked. "So I might call upon you in London if I find you have disappeared."
"Why, the Countess Dulac!" Hathor exclaimed with forced coyness. "Already you forget."
"How careless of me," he laughed. He noticed how she avoided answering. He wondered if her aunt was somehow linked to a scandal she would be ashamed of telling him. He didn’t care about such things. He wouldn’t judge her by her aunt’s actions.
As he became thoroughly entranced by her eyes, he forgot everything. Servaes leaned forward. His hand brushed over her cheek. Hathor stiffened, pulling away from him innocently. Servaes hid his frown, even as he admired her modesty. He dropped his hand, lightly saying, "Come, I will show you the other fountains."
Lifting her by the hand from their secret bench, he escorted her through the bulk of the gardens, avoiding nobility when he could, introducing her when it couldn’t be avoided. The human Servaes stayed true to his word and didn’t leave Hathor’s side.
Selfishly, he kept her to himself. Hathor didn’t mind. She was scared to reveal too much, though Servaes asked many questions. She could see the curiosity in his boldly piercing eyes when he studied her.
The more Hathor learned of him, the more hopeless she became. Her heart beat his name, branded by his handsome face and easy laugh. There was so much life in him, and it broke her heart to know that she could never stay with him, that she was living in a cruel dream. But, cruel as it was, she let herself pretend.
In the garden, servants came round with trays of sweets and champagne. Then, as the afternoon wore on, dinner was called, and they made their way into the long formal dining room. By the time the meal was served, her identity had been well spread and accepted throughout the court with Monsieur Nottingham doing his best to act as if he personally knew the enchanting creature. No one was unaware of the devoted attention Mademoiselle Vinceti received from the very eligible Marquis, who up until that time had no serious prospects for a wife.
Hathor was a bit hesitant to eat the endless trays of food presented her -- baked hens, roasted pig, herbed potatoes, breads and cheeses. The finest of champagne was poured in a boundless flow of gaiety. She was afraid of how they might have been prepared -- given it was a different time. Eventually, she decided that since everything around her most likely wasn’t real, she might as well enjoy herself. For desert there were small cake-like pastries, jams, tarts and sweetmeat chocolates.
Hathor blushed each time Servaes would catch her eye from across the table to secretly wink at her when no one watched. She couldn’t help curiously glancing down over the banquet to see the king. But a large vase blocked her view of him, and his face never really came to mind. Occasionally someone would direct a question towards her. She took Servaes’ advice and smiled. Her words were low and enigmatic so none really understood, but all applauded her great knowledge.
After dinner Servaes again claimed her arm, much to the dismay of Nottingham who tried to make his way across the room first to ask for her company. Servaes smiled victoriously at the man, who could but bow at having been beaten. Again she was led to the courtyard to gather with a throng of people at the base of the stairs. A great many candles and torches had been placed all around the garden, having been lit as the nobles dined. They now danced and glowed over the earth like the reflection of stars.
Turning to Servaes, she whispered, "I must thank you for today. I will never forget it. Or you."
"You speak as though this day is the last when I will not hear of it. Come with me to the fountain later. There is something important I would discuss with you." His eyes shone discerningly, softening with warmth as he looked at her oval face. An endearing cloud of shyness passed briefly over his confident features.
Hathor didn’t have time to answer. Her heart thudded uncontrollably. She jolted at the sound of horns, turning to watch as the king was announced to his guests. King Louis stopped on the top step, regally gazing over the nobility of France. Reaching out his arm, he was joined by a lovely vision. Her yellow and cream gown matched perfectly with the king’s outfit of the same. Gradually, the king led the woman down amidst the falling of thrown rose petals.
Leaning to Servaes, Hathor whispered, "That must be the queen."
Servaes laughed lightly. Hushing into her ear, his accent sent chills over her. "The queen is abed with an illness. That is the king’s mistress, Madame de Maintenon."
"Mistress?" Hathor squeaked. "You mean he just walks about with her unashamed? And everyone knows about it?"
Servaes sent her a questioning look. It was the way of things. Surely the innocent on his arm was aware of such happenings. However, bearing witness to her appalled face, he knew that she was not. Unconsciously, he pulled her closer, intent on not letting her go. The more he learned of her, the more he wanted her -- forever.
"Pardon, Lord Normant."
Hathor turned her attention forward to a dark enchantress dressed in brilliant pink. Her almond shaped eyes batted playfully at the Marquis, her dark breasts thrust forward brazenly for his inspection. The woman pursed her lips invitingly, pretending not to see the woman he escorted all night.
"Madame La Fontaine," Servaes nodded. To Hathor’s pleasure, he didn’t look at the sultry woman for more than a second before turning to her. Politely, he introduced her as he had all night.
Madame La Fontaine looked at the woman in disdain, barely noting her except to direct her with a curt nod. Turning her smile back to the Marquis, she murmured huskily, "Monsieur, please, if I might have a word with you?"
Servaes saw the pleading in the dark woman’s eyes, knowing her to be infamous for making an undesirable scene if not given her way. He turned to Hathor, bidding her to wait for him as he led her to be seated by the main fountain. Then, going to Madame La Fontaine, he took up her arm politely and let him draw her away.
Hathor watched until she could no longer see him in the crowd. She turned her attention to the others of the French court. For the most part, they didn’t see her watching them from the shadows. Those who did see her pretended not to.
Hathor shivered. Her eyes began to search for the vampire Servaes. Now that it was night, she expected him to come and get her. Her face moved to the dark shadows. The fear that she had been trying to suppress all night began to surface. If Servaes didn’t come to her, what was she to do? She couldn’t live in seventeenth century France. She had no place to stay, no money. She wasn’t exactly sure this world was fake anymore. Everything around her was too real. Her stomach was full with food, her head a bit light from champagne. The stone beneath her was hard as it pressed into the uncomfortably binding dress.
Suddenly, she froze, seeing a figure step from the shadows of a statue. She could sense that he was not like the others. He didn’t turn to her, but she could see the pale hand as it clasped a decorative walking cane. He was dressed in dark blue. Frills and ribbons hung over his lavish clothes. His hat and periwig were tidily done, and he walked with an aristocratic air.
"Servaes," Hathor whispered in his direction. The man stopped. His face turned to her.
Even over the distance she could see that it was not her vampire. Squinting, she gasped as she recognized the face beneath the curly wig. Jirí!
Slowly, she stood, compelled to follow the creature as he walked through the crowd. As she reached her feet, the world around her seemed to slow. The distinct timing of nearby laughter stretched over the course of several seconds, the reply to it was garbled like the slow speed of a recording. Only she and Jirí were not affected by normal time, as she watched the vampire make his way past unsuspecting nobles.
Hathor realized she was seeing things like vampires would see them, as they sped leisurely through the human world. Everyone moved so slowly that they couldn’t detect the undead lingerer amongst them, and yet the lingerer would be able to pick and choose a conversation or person at ease. It was a much different sensation than she had felt with Servaes, as he had pulled them quickly over distance.
Occasionally human time would again speed up, and she found herself on the outskirts of a conversation. A few of the noble members of court seemed to recognize the vampire and called out in greeting as if he were one of them. Hathor knew that he wasn’t by his pale skin, and his eyes that glowed though the darkness. He would answer with polite nods and gestures. Then, again time would contort as he moved gracefully through the crowd. She watched him speed up like a flash, walking through the deliberately exaggerated movement and speech.
Hathor started to follow him, passing by the nobles undetected as she made her way. She neared Nottingham laughing with one of his fellow cronies. As she passed, she heard him say with a lecherous wink, "Mademoiselle Vinceti, I would like to--"
Hathor flicked her hand to the bottom of his champagne glass, spilling the contents over his jacket. The annoying nobleman had stared down at her chest all evening. She saw his face turn slowly to surprise. She barely managed to quell her mischievous giggle.
She quickened her pace as she followed Jirí near the palace steps where the king stood alone. Then, suddenly, Jirí stopped. His attention turned to the side.
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