I am naked, and he loves to look. He has already spent himself within me and we both breathe heavily from physical exertion. I listen to birds trilling outside my open window, a cool breeze trailing in and prickling our skin. I pull the sheet up over my body and relax, letting my hair splay across the pillows.
“You don’t have to stop,” I speak lazily.
“But I should,” he utters. “I should not even be here. I have taken advantage of you.”
I smile and snuggle against his chest. “Taken advantage? So chivalrous. I suppose all the other times you were taking advantage of me as well?”
He looks down at me and takes my chin in his hand. “You know it is.”
I frown. “It is my decision to make love to you. If I did not want it, and I do, I would tell you no. To go find some fancy harlot to fuck in the city.”
He remains in a place of self-hatred and scowls. It irritates me because he looks at me as if I am a victim of his manly prowess. It is not so. I wish that men would not think themselves so vaingloriously bad, as if they were some predator to damn their prey. Many of them are not as dangerous as they think they are.
“Honestly, Francis.” I sit myself up, allowing my breasts to be exposed. “I do not know why you live in this state of melancholy. I am to be your wife, am I not?”
He lifts a hand and caresses my arm, looking at my chest and then searching my eyes. I see so much confusion there. Even if I’m aware that he does not know what he wants, I know that I can keep him. I have kept men harder than him, and now I am far more experienced. I wish I knew that he wanted me forever, but the truth is I do not. I must be skillful and perfect.
“You will be.” He nods in agreement.
“Then why do you fuss over it?” I laugh. “We do nothing wrong by sharing our bodies. We will do it many more times under the special bond of matrimony.”
His hands move across my body as if squeezing me and touching me gives him comfort. I throw my heavy hair over my shoulder and lean down over him, allowing my breasts to sweep against his face. He breathes in harshly as if this intoxicates him. I lower my face over his and our lips join, and we melt together. He wraps me in his arms.
I am so comfortable with him. He is so handsome, so pliant and willing. I want him to envelop me forever.
Just as I feel his excitement building, there is a knock at my door.
“What in God’s name?” he hisses.
I jolt off him. We move silently, reassembling our clothes to their proper places. The knock comes again.
“Just a moment!” I call.
I feel dizzy as I fumble with my clothing. Francis ties my bodice together haphazardly, and I shrug into a robe to hide the back. I cannot fathom who is at my door. It is relatively early and all of the servants come in through their hidden passages in the walls.
I wave at him to hide somewhere, and he searches about frantically before deciding to shield himself behind my dressing screen.
“Don’t move,” I whisper.
I shuffle off towards the door, fixing myself with the proper dignity of a French noble. One that does not smuggle men back to her chambers to make erotic love. My chin is high as I peer out into the doorway, and I frown when I see him.
Standing there is Alphonse Chardones. I recall meeting him at the celebration a few weeks prior. He had danced with Giselle. His chestnut locks wave down to his chin, unlike many men who don wigs or the like, he allows his hair to be free. Francis wears wigs on occasion, as his father is an important scribe for the King and he must uphold the image of their family. It is refreshing to see a man without powdered hair. Somehow it causes him to appear younger, though I know that they are both around their eighteenth year. His eyes are dark and earnest, and I am startled.
“Forgive me,” he sputters. “I wanted to…I felt that I should…I did not think…”
I watch as shame creeps along his posture. I smile politely and wait for him to reconstruct and organize his thoughts. It takes him a few moments to assemble himself.
“The night before, I felt that I was not given the opportunity to properly introduce myself to you.”
He is intimidated by me. He would not seek me out in my chambers if he were not interested in me as a prospect of desire. This is obvious, but his formality is almost endearing. When a man views me like this, I revel in it. It is both enchanting and empowering. This I learned from my stay at the Devereaux household, and this I will use to manage my life until the day I die.
“I am honored,” I tell him and give him a generous smile.
“There is another reason I came,” he reveals quite slyly, as if attempting to draw me in.
I will always be the better player in conversational games. I know the strategy and I see his hook. Shall I take the bait?
“That is?”
His words are expected.
“May I,” he swallows and glances round to see if anyone is watching him, “come in?”
I smile wider this time, but I cannot hide the subtle irritation bristling me. What is Francis to do? I can only imagine what he is thinking right now, how he feels about his “property” being handled so familiarly. I can only agree to it, and nod in acceptance. But then I think, yes, this is what Francis needs to see. Let him listen to another man pine for me. Let him recognize that he is not my only option.
Alphonse seats himself at my oval table settled before the light of the window. I seat myself across from him. I do not know what I would have done if he’d have sat himself upon my bed.
I watch him breathe in and ponder my chambers. Can he smell the sex in the air? I wonder how he judges these quarters of mine, if they are nicer than what he’s known, or if we live as paupers compared to some of his father’s other clients. The Chateau was recently redecorated to match the popular florals, pastels, the gilded moldings, and the baroque furnishings of court.
“It is kind of you to let me enter. I did not think that you would,” he says.
“Why not?”
“Well…” He motions around us to the obvious; we are in an intimate space and it is not appropriate.
“Your father is a good business partner,” he speaks as if he is disclosing something confidential. “A good man. I would not like for him to be slighted in any way, no less his daughter.”
I sigh in his pause. Men always seem to hold the inherent duty to protect a woman, as if they cannot protect themselves. Perhaps he believes himself chivalrous?
“I heard word that Monsieur Francis Beauchard had a penchant for you, and that it was his goal amongst his comrades to make you his…Mistress,” he is near whispering, and leans across the table as he spills the words on me.
Laughter slips from my mouth and I cannot stop it. Alphonse balks, completely displaced.
“I apologize Monsieur Alphonse, I am only taken by surprise.”
“Has he…have you…?” he suffers to express what he wants.
“No,” I say. “No. We are merely friends. I have found his company quite adequate, but I do not think I could think of him in that sort of way.”
Let Francis squirm.
Alphonse appears to be relieved at this, and his fingers drum against the wood.
“I did not want your good name dragged through the mud. I felt that if I didn’t warn you of his intentions, I couldn’t forgive myself if I saw that you were hurt in the process.”
I smile at him. Does he truly believe this or is he only saying it to get into my rooms? His eyes flutter down to look at my body once and very discreetly. He seems to be a man of restrained passions. I can appreciate that.
The night of the ball, Francis boldly attacked me with his lust. I knew it was coming. In the shadows, the prowess of a man is unleashed. He had pressed me against the wall and kissed me deeply. He did not ask, and yet his hands still explored. He had no care because he assumed that I wanted it. Did I? Now, I have no other option. I do love him, don’t I? I long to be married to him. He will be a wonderful husband. He is what
every young woman like me should want.
“You owe us nothing,” I tell him curtly. “You owe me nothing.”
He looks down, a bit embarrassed. “I am only glad you have not been used like some men design to use a woman.”
Why does he assume I would relay to him the secrets of my world? Why would I tell him if Francis and I had slipped into the sin of fornication? Does he think himself so great? I find my teeth clenching.
“You know…every man has only one thought. Possession. They want to possess it all. A woman is no different to them than a piece of property or a herd of cattle. If you have come to my room to play the role of hero, I hope it will come as no surprise to you when I tell you that I have complete control over my life. I am happy. I am no innocent girl.”
My breath comes hot to my lips as I speak, and I exhale sharply when I am done.
“The world is no pretty place.” He shrugs. “But there are good things. I have faith that our futures are still bright.”
“Bright?” I choke of a bout of laughter.
A small smile curls his mouth. “There is more out there than this constrained culture, yes! I am not one of these men. I could never look at a woman in the way you expressed.”
“Oh, Monsieur.” I sigh. “There is nothing else. Not in this lifetime at least.”
Something flashes in his eyes.
“You never know,” he tells me. “Do not count yourself out quite yet.”
We are silent for a moment.
“I think that because I am from a different class of people, I see a difference. Maybe you should spend more time with me?” He grins sheepishly. “I could take you on a ship. There is nothing more freeing than being aboard. The wind. The open seas. It is a delicacy that not many come to taste in their life.”
His proposal strikes some subconscious craving. A new anxiety bubbles up inside me. I can imagine he has experienced a different life than mine. He does not live everyday boxed away. He sails, and I wonder what else his days consist of.
“Do you find yourself voyaging often?”
“Before my father settled down, my brother and I grew up on ships. My father charted much of the ocean. Even before us, he spent fifteen years travelling the seas. He only decided to purchase a Chateau in Marseille when I was twelve. At that point, he began compiling the charts that he had created. He began selling them to merchants and others who found the need for sea charts. He even had a few land maps, coastal Africa, islands, that sort of thing.”
I am numb with shock. I cannot see him nor anyone growing up on a ship. What his life was like, where he used the garderobe, and if he slept at all? Were they in a constant state of discomfort? Did they only begin attending social events a few years prior? I think of how indulged I must seem to him.
“Your life…you must have many stories.”
He is glad to see he has made progress, and he sits a bit straighter now.
“I do,” he agrees.
“I would love to hear them,” I persist.
“I could tell you of the sea lion we caught once.” His lips part to reveal white teeth. “It was skin and bones. The men told us it was a siren. Talk about pointless excitement for two young boys.”
I cover my mouth as I laugh. It is easy to imagine them jumping over one another to get a view of a voluptuous siren only to have it all dashed. I almost have forgotten that we are not alone, and that Francis lies hiding behind the screen. He should go. Francis will think that I am engaging in flirtations.
“Perhaps you can tell me more when our midday meal is served in the gardens.”
He looks as if he is suddenly remembering where he is. He rises from his seat and I mirror him.
“I will look forward to seeing you then,” he tells me kindly.
He exits my doorway, and I close it softly.
Francis is already standing before me as I turn around. His expression is both agitated and guilty. He looks as if he wants to speak, but the words have yet to come to him.
“What then?” I snap and shirk myself past him.
“He is a good liar, I will give him that,” Francis says, as if he is defending the allegations.
“Oh, please!” I ignore him, “You’re a good liar yourself.”
He seems taken aback, as if no one has ever told him this truth about himself. Either he has never realized it within himself or never realized that he could be caught in his lies. He is silent and practically shaking.
“You will not speak to me that way!” he hisses.
“Do you think I am foolish? I know how men work.” I giggle, reveling in his discomfort. “I know that you spoke to your comrades. That you sought me out because you thought me an easy target.”
“I would never!” he declares.
“Oh yes, Francis, of course you wouldn’t. You are innocent of all wrongs. What would you do if I told you that some women—the women you might think you are defiling with your lordly little cocks—actually like fucking?”
My brows raise in askance; I challenge him. I want to make him squirm. I would have him know me if he were to marry me.
He is speechless.
“I will be damned before anyone thinks that they have used me. If anything, I am using you.”
Francis stumbles towards the bed. He holds his temples with a hand and then puts a finger to his lips as if he is pondering deeply upon what I have said.
“I have never met a woman with such a boldness,” he says, as if explaining why he is unable to respond.
I come to him as he sits on the bedside and turn around.
“Will you tie my laces?” I ask quietly.
“I had thought you would be angry with me,” he says as he begins the tedious task.
“How can one be angry about something they already knew?”
He grabs my arms and spins me about, fixing me with his harsh stare.
“Why would you do it then? You knew that I wanted you as a lover and you let it happen so swiftly. Do you not care for your family’s name? For your honor as a woman? If anyone knew of our liaisons, you would be an unmarried woman into your old age.”
I smile at him. He is so clueless, so illogically lost. I want to laugh at his confounded face. He is so handsome. So deliciously, foolishly, handsome. But then I stall myself. I must revert back to the game I was playing before. He needs to feel needed, just as all weak men do. I correct my eyes, attempting to well them with false tears. I fake a trembling lower lip.
“Oh Francis…” I whisper, and I kneel before him. “I did this because I wanted you. I would not have done it if I hadn’t thought you wanted to marry me. That is the case, is it not? Say that it is still true.”
He leans sulkily back. He reaches his hand out to pet my hair. “What about the women who only want to fuck?”
I sigh tragically. “I was only angry at what Monsieur Alphonse told me. I cannot ignore the love I have for you.”
“I should not be here,” he whispers to me as if we are two souls bent for hell.
I smirk. He wants to be in control.
“Don’t leave.” I peer up at him, wetting my lips as if I am gone in my mind, tortured by temptation. Perhaps I am. I love the struggle between us. Come to think of it, I love it all. I want to play with him just as he wants to play with me.
“Please me,” he commands. “I cannot bear for you to be down there. I cannot bear it.”
Why did I do it? Some women just like to fuck.
Giselle
We sit round a stone table settled at the center of our gardens, the foundation itself as rooted to the earth as a tree might be. Unkempt ivy patterns itself across the cobbled walk. Early blooms acclimate to the withering frosts of winter. Spring in France chills in the early hours and warms in the evenings.
Claire and I sit across from the men. We have changed into weather appropriate garb. I pull the shawl tight against the coolness and the freshness of the open air. The stagnancy of our home seems stronger now.
Benjamin s
its like an alien creature before me. He seems so unnaturally relaxed, so divinely amused by the world. I want to part his mind and unspool the secrets it holds.
“Your father sent word that he’ll forge an ally to pass through an English trade route.” Monsieur Alexandre snaps me back to earthly thought. “As it were, Monsieur Benjamin here made your father aware of the English and Dutch’s ever-increasing claims on land and trade along the Western coast of the Africa’s. The oceans are rabid there but ripe. Ripe with valuable stock. Especially if you sail round the cape of Good Hope and make trade ties in the East Indies. You see, I sailed some years along the coast, exploring and charting trade routes as one could not begin to imagine. Damnable weather. Rich lands.”
Claire sits bone straight in her chair, chin resting lightly against her knuckles as she listens. I cannot stagger my own mesmerized balk no better than she. Looking upon the man, you would not expect such feats against nature. This man has forged the way for the grand masters of exchange. He has dominated the waters by tracking their currents and utilizing his mapping abilities and made exceptional profit by selling his charts to French Merchant Companies.
“And Father, no doubt, urged you to send him maps to spur his voyage in the direction of the Africa’s?” Claire digests.
“He’d been contemplating turning his attentions there for a time now,” Francis reveals unsympathetically.
“What of the stock you speak of? What is there that he could not get from his already established connections closer to home?”
The men sip the bitter brew of tea, allowing Claire her frivolous questions. If it were not for their dogged serenity outside the haggling walls of business and the loamy air kissing their skins, I doubt they would have relaxed enough to entertain her. She asks the questions that burn in my own throat as well, yet I am not the brave one, so I sit listening with a silent resolve on the edge of my seat.
“There’s the mining industry, crops, a trusted number of slaves. We and the English, as well as the Dutch, have built trading ports now along the western coast. It is navigating those cruel waters wherein the endeavor becomes questionable as opposing merchants become territorial,” Alexandre explains arbitrarily, as if the opinions of women are null but he would paint the picture nonetheless.
The Blood of Caged Birds (Mortalsong Book 1) Page 7