The Blood of Caged Birds (Mortalsong Book 1)

by J. M. Stredwick

  I stare back into the darkness. If I say nothing, will he know that I understand? I push my way into the hall and hasten back to my bed.

  Giselle

  My maid begins to work the comb through my dark hair, pinning it here and there so that it is fashioned neatly in the popular style. A chignon at the base of the neck with an abundance of curls framing my face.

  The doors to my chambers are thrust open, and Benjamin materializes there, hesitant to come any further.

  “Benjamin!” I jump to my feet, mortified at my inadequate covering, dressed only in my shift. I flurry into the cloaking of my evening robe, crossing my arms over my chest. If my maid weren’t here, I would let him look.

  “Forgive me.” He casts a nod towards my outraged maid then smiles at me in the way he does with the crook of a brow and a half-caliber smile that conveys something of the sly variety. His skin is almost russet in the gloomily lit room. I want to reach out and touch the dark stubble on his jaw and trail my fingers along his lips.

  “What is it?” I ask him curiously, beckoning him to sit while my maid. I go behind my lacquered folding screen, one that exhibits a vista of oriental forestry.

  Tossing my robe aside, I allow the middle-aged woman to administer the full assemblage of style that mother would expect. Over the shift goes a corset, a silk over-skirt that blazes of vermilion a matching bodice and then an opulent stomacher. The flowing sleeves bunch at my elbows, and though it is a natural expression of fashion, the dropped shoulder and consequently lowered neckline has me self-consciously checking my reflection in the mirror.

  “I want to discuss what I am going to say to your mother,” he says.

  “We’ve already spoken of this.” I laugh. His face is severe, and I am forced to settle on his determination, raising my hands in pretend questioning. “What will you say to her?”

  “I shall pull her aside after this evening’s meal before we retire to the drawing room,” he begins rather mechanically, the stress building in his tone. “Ask her for a moment of her time…”

  Coming around from the screen, I watch as he sweeps a hand over his face and through his dark hair, snagging the tress and then pressing a palm into his neck.

  “You look a bit hassled.”

  When he looks up at me, his eyes drink me in. I feel beautiful. I know that one could have knowledge of their beauty, but it feels sumptuous to be admired by him and him alone. If any other man looked upon me with inspecting eyes, I would have turned away, but under his gaze, I feel myself bloom. I want to tell him to search me, to study every part of me for there is nothing I will hold back.

  “Will that be all Mademoiselle?” My maid’s voice is crass.

  “Y-yes, that will be all. Thank you.”

  “You are always so beautiful, how is that?” he says.

  “Oh please,” I whisper jauntily, finalizing my look with pearl jewelry. “Why have you really come? You told me you knew exactly what it was that you would say to my mother. So, what is it?”

  “Do you really want this?” He takes my hands in his, capturing my attention roughly. “I am not a full-blooded Frenchman. I don’t even have a home to offer you yet. All I have are a few charts to my name. I have yet to inherit my portion of my father’s company, and, even then, it will be years before I collect a profit from it, and we still won’t be excessively wealthy. I want you to have everything you deserve, but I can only do as much as my lot in life has brought me.”

  I hush him with my index finger before he can continue his rambling.

  “You are everything I want,” I utter, peering up into his melancholy frown. “What I deserve? What do you think of me? Are you suggesting you think I need riches to have satisfaction? What kind of woman would I be if I expected that of you? What have we done but be born on this earth that some are more deserving than others? Anything we are blessed with is additional. You are enough now. I desire you just as you are.”

  “As I suspected.” He smirks, winding an arm around my waist. “Have I told you yet that I am impatient to have you as my wife?”

  “You may have mentioned as much.”

  Our noses touch and our lips skim as lightly as a dragonfly over water.

  ________________

  The hostility in the dining hall mounts as the night passes. It is as if there is a wrapping of strings holding it all together, and, bit by bit, each string is cut down to the very last cord as we dish into a tray of fresh strawberries and Chantilly crème dessert. I am curling my toes in my heels with a plague of fears.

  I have the prayer that Monsieur Alexandre Chardones will be the wax that keeps the entire event thickened with trivial chatter as he has made himself known to do. It is almost comical how he is so completely unaware of the storm clouds around him. It is how we’d, albeit painfully, made it through other teatimes and meals.

  The candelabras small waifs of flame cast slanted reflections of each body sitting stiffly before the table. Here between the pensive gaze of my mother and the twitchy disposition of Claire, I wonder how in the world Benjamin will ever get the chance to convince my mother that he is fit to marry me.

  There is a deep schism between Claire and I now, one that aches. I am embarrassed by our argument that we have still ignored. I feel that I have betrayed her in some way. But I also feel betrayed, so here we sit on opposite ends of the table casting furtive glances at the other, both nervous to be around mother.

  “I trust that your travels went well, Madame?” Alexandre Chardones takes a mouthful of the sweet treat, flecks of white catching in his whiskers.

  “Indeed,” mother responds.

  “I, for one, love a good trip to Paris this time of year.”

  Benjamin stifles a laugh, and I raise my brows at him, my own amusement muddling my frustrations.

  “I do a fair bit of business there. Did you know that?” Monsieur Chardones asks.

  Mother’s expression is unimpressed.

  He continues, “It is the truth. I was selling many maps to a many different destinations. I never got around to telling you, but did you know that his Majesty the King Louis XIV, young as he was at the time with the aid of the Queen Mother, had commissioned me to chart the trade routes for France? I had been delivering what I owed him. It’s how I incurred a vast portion of our wealth.”

  “Father,” Alphonse sputters.

  It is horrid manners to discuss matters of the purse. I want to burst out with laughter at this time, but the severity of the moment clots my laughter in my throat and I cough into my napkin. Claire’s eyes bulge in similar suppression of glee, and she places a few fingers over her mouth.

  “My boys will inherit a vast wealth in my passing,” Monsieur Alexandre continues.

  I see my mother’s discomfort, watch it shift in her bones.

  Monsieur Alexandre leans forth on his elbow, lacing calloused hands before him.

  “I believe we could reach some sort of accord. If I may speak so plainly with you, Madame. You see, although we’ve come to make sure your husband makes it safely to the port in Morocco,” he raises his brows tersely, “I have come on a sort of personal vendetta as well.”

  I am completely lost as to where Monsieur Alexandre is headed with his words.

  “And this personal vendetta?” Mother asks in mock interest.

  “I am uncertain as to where your daughters stand now in the way of availability for marriage, but I have a predilection to see the Bonteque and Chardones families…joined. In the way of said marriage.”

  I am lightheaded. Benjamin slides his leg against my skirt and casts me a look that tells of his own surprise at his father’s words. I cannot bear to look at him in this moment. The atmosphere is far too treacherous. Hoping, praying that he will receive a favorable response.

  Mother’s narrowing of eyes tells her answer. “I fear, my Good Monsieur, that my daughters are already betrothed.”

  My face drains of color as the light inside me is extinguished by her words.


  “Mother?” Claire is venomous.

  I notice Alphonse glance towards Claire in a way that only can be expressed as a sadness over something being taken from him. Francis is smug and continues funneling dessert into his mouth.

  “I had hoped to keep the details undisclosed until the right time, Monsieur, but as you have pressed the issue, I cannot mislead you to think otherwise.”

  “Mother,” Claire repeats more harshly this time, as if daring her to continue.

  “It is settled.” Mother’s voice is a haunting whisper, and she cocks her head victoriously, as if she has won something.

  A prickly ice-like feeling courses down my spine. It’s as if a ghost has passed through me, and nausea rises in my gut. I know if I sit here a moment longer, my stomach will dispel its contents.

  I toss my napkin onto the table and tear my skirts out from under me, stumbling towards the hall, hand cupped over my mouth.

  “Giselle!” Benjamin stands, but his father grabs his arm and pulls him back to his seat.

  “Let her go boy,” I hear Monsieur Alexandre mutter.

  “Now, you see what you’ve done?” Claire hisses.

  I press my head against the wall. I listen to the muffled voices, feeling like there are claws coming down to trap me.

  How could she do this? To Claire, as it is blatant that she prefers Francis and she has been well aware of the fact. But also, to me. How could she, in right mind, ignore the quiet and deepest desires, the innocent budding of first love and the promise it beheld, and smash its small petals under her heel? How could she do it? The coldness of it wrecks me.

  I wipe my mouth and double back a bit, attempting to listen to what quarrel was sure to transpire.

  “You have not had Father’s approval upon these betrothals!” Claire hisses like a child, overly optimistic in the weight of her words.

  “I believe,” mother begins shrewdly, “this would be far more appropriate to discuss in private.”

  “No,” Claire shrieks. “We will speak of it now.”

  The hall falls silent, and I hear the scraping of chair legs irate on the floors.

  I huddle behind the doors, protected in shadows as the men file out of the dining hall.

  My heart burns, a charred, twisted thing in my chest.

  “Do not do this to Giselle,” Claire utters, and the words hit me with all the force of a wall. “I will accept such a fate, but do not deny Giselle this love that she has.”

  “Ah yes, to the son of a man who sells maps for a living? A scandalous half-son whose mother was dark skinned? Do you know the Chardones family do not even classify as nobility? That Benjamin would do better as a servant in this home rather than a son by law.” Mother’s long drawn sigh is coarse, and I can imagine her standing across from Claire at the table, palms flattened on the wood, staring at her with ferocity stuck in her cruel eyes.

  “Do you hear yourself?” Claire rages. “It is as if your heart is made of stone! It is not a surprise in the least that Father leaves as often as he does.”

  “You will understand, in time, that I am doing what is best for you. I would call myself no sort of mother if I allowed you both to choose the men you supposedly love.” She lets out a dry laugh. “Life is not built on love. It is built on the direction of our mothers. For women? The men you marry shape your entire lives. Nothing else. You will thank me one day.”

  “Is that what you are doing mother?” Claire seethes. “Directing us?”

  I hear a small snort from my mother.

  “What of Francis? You see that I am intrigued by him! The man is young, rich, handsome, good conversation and still he is not good enough for you and your standards?”

  “You disregard common decency, Claire,” mother whispers, enraged. “Your mannerisms are not that of a Lady! You truly believe Francis Beauchard will stoop as low as a Trade Merchant’s daughter? Despite your noble blood, your dowries are insignificant to his families standards!”

  “Let me see if I understand you: I am too low for Francis, yet Giselle is too high for Monsieur Benjamin?” Claire’s voice is hard. “Who in all of France would fit your idea of right? Honestly. What of love? Is there no room for such a word in your world?”

  “Not when it would do you better to find love further into a marriage as that would prove profitable to you instead of wasting your lives on passion.”

  “You are a heartless woman!” Claire screams.

  “I have only done what I thought best!” Mother grieves.

  “And what of the man, Comte Malche, the one from the very courts of Versailles? You said he spoke of marriage to me and then you allowed us to be introduced in all sort of unorthodox manners. You ignored my protests. You said he would make me happy. Wealthy. You know what happened?”

  I can practically hear my mother shaking her head. “Do not speak of it!”

  “He took my blessed virginity. You told the man that I was his when I was not. All for what? That I might have had a life at the Palace of Versailles beneath the scrutiny of the Sun King himself? Amongst a thousand other unhappy courtiers whose money, jewels, and fine clothing could never warrant their happiness? Is that the life you want for Giselle and me?”

  I hear footsteps and then a sharp slap. I watch as my mother slips quietly from the dining hall, slinking down the hallway with a jerk in her step. She shakes her hand as if it throbs from its violent behavior.

  Tears fill my eyes. My knees are buckling against the horrifying realization at what Claire had undergone.

  When I drag myself to reality, I decide to try and catch Claire before she returns to her chambers. I round off into the dining hall to find that she’s already gone. The room is filled with silence; half-eaten desserts left to spoil, anguish leaving ripples in the wine.

  “Mademoiselle Giselle.” A voice interrupts the gravity of my solitude.

  I swivel. Monsieur Alexandre’s voice hits me strangely, and I am lost in thought as I gaze at him. He stands there in a negligent manner, his body rigid and fingers fidgety.

  “What is it?” I say as politely as I can.

  “You mustn’t marry the boy she’s betrothed you to,” he discloses, mouth flapping as he pronounces his words.

  He is rivetingly adamant. Piercingly so.

  “You think life is miserable now? You will be much more so if you allow your life to fall into the cruel cycle of that cushy life. You’ll be the epitome of that mother of yours. No, you don’t like that picture much do you?”

  “Why are you saying this?” I ask, confused, feeling as if I’ve been drugged.

  “I am saying these things because I know a weak person when I see one,” he growls, pacing closer. “If you love my son, which I expect that you do, you know that you have only one option. Perhaps, you have not even thought of it yet, but when the time comes, you will realize that there is only one way out. One way that you will be able to be with him.”

  “And that is?” I attempt to sound stronger than I feel as I am butted back against the tabletop. His breath stinks like the flesh of a sea creature. Appropriate for a man who’s spent his youth sequestering the oceans.

  “Flee.”

  I ogle him in a stupor. “You’re advising us to leave without permission. Do you realize the shame that would bring us?”

  “Damn permission. Damn shame,” he spits. “Do it for love. You will never find one that makes your heart so complete.”

  “Monsieur, I love your son,” I admit, brushing his hand away angrily. “He is everything to me. But I cannot leave my sister. I must find a different way to marry Benjamin.”

  “Your mother will never agree to it. She’s a wicked sort, isn’t she? The only way, I tell you, is for you and Benjamin to leave France. Escape somewhere safe until the marriage is complete and your lives together are secured. Safe from the impositions of others.”

  “Monsieur, I cannot stand here a moment longer and listen to this audacity!” I rage, flushed and shoulder past him.

  He
grabs my arm in my passing, jolting me to abrupt halt.

  “When the time comes, consult me and I’ll give you a heading. It’s the only place you might go and never be found. Not a soul would be able to find you.”

  I wrench myself out of his grip and dart away, suddenly afraid. His panicked voice echoes in my head as if my skull were hollow and his words were a mobile thing, clattering around inside. I glance back as I leave him. He stares after me as if he is the one in love.

  ________________

  “It was a joke,” Claire whispers, the words skating across the air like feathers.

  I’d come into her chambers and found her there sitting at her vanity weeping into the unwound roping of her gold hair. She looked up at me petrified, and I told her that I’d heard what was said. Now, we sit before the table in soft robes with hot tea warming our hands and lavender cream scones filling our bellies. She finally braved the task of forming words for what had been revealed.

  “I didn’t want to tell you because it was no one’s business other than mine and mother’s,” she speaks clearly now, gazing off at the dregs in her teacup. “I had not wanted to worry you for nothing.”

  “It would not have been for nothing.” I reach out and grab her hand earnestly.

  “Mother was the reason it went as horribly as it did.” She nods, taking another sip. “She ignored my protesting. It did not start out that way, of course. In fact, I liked the man when he first came around. At the Maison du Deveraux they host great events where men from all over France can come to see the young women who will be eligible to marry. They do not call it that, but it is no secret that is what it is. Count Malche had come and singled me out the first night.”

  I listen warily, my stomach churning.

  “He had written mother asking permission to court me, and, despite my declining his advances, she wrote to me insisting that I was to marry the man because he would secure nice ties at French Court. He began to attend each gathering. He would not let me dance with any other man. It was as if he claimed me as his property.”