Past Lives

by Chartier, Shana

  Past Lives

  Shana Chartier

  Pants On Fire Press

  Winter Garden Toronto London

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  Pants On Fire Press, Winter Garden 34787

  Text copyright © 2016 by Shana Chartier

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be transmitted or reproduced in any form by any means without written permission from the publisher, Pants On Fire Press. For information contact Pants On Fire Press.

  All names, places, incidents, and characters in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Visit us at www.PantsOnFirePress.com

  Edited by Abby Keeble

  Book design by David M. F. Powers

  Cover Design by Ana Cruz Arts

  Art copyright © 2016 by Pants On Fire Press

  Author photo by Max Miller

  The publisher is not responsible for websites (or their content).

  First edition 2016

  Printed in the United States of America

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication data on file.

  ISBN: 9781625179456

  For Evelyn

  Prologue

  This is the story of how I died… repeatedly.

  If you’re here because you thought to yourself, hey, this must be some crazy new age book and I’m totally into that! then you might be in the wrong place. This is kind of a messed up story, but in so many ways it’s been told a million times before.

  Well, just a few in my case.

  When I was born at the end of the 20th century, I was destined to meet the people who swaddled me, who loved me, and whose betrayal ultimately led to my death.

  So, if you’re interested in seeing firsthand what it’s like to die and be reborn over and over, grab a seat. Take a load off. Grab some tissues.

  Because life, as many times as it happens, is one rocky ride.

  Part One—France

  18th Century

  Chapter One

  The Good Life

  Believe it or not, 18th century France really wasn’t all that different from present day society. The wealthy did an awesome job of keeping themselves separated from the poor, and in exchange, poverty stricken, struggling-to-survive-each-day people got a front row seat to all the beauty of life they couldn’t afford to enjoy. Kind of like watching that MTV show My Super Sweet Sixteen, which I totally would have been on if we’d had TV back then.

  You see, I was fortunate enough to be born to a wealthy aristocratic family, what we liked to call the noblesse ancienne. That’s a fancy way of saying my family has been rich since the dawn of time, so suck it. No, we weren’t nice. Yes, we played games. I’m getting to that.

  I grew up in a beautiful chateau in the French countryside. I had nannies dress me in elaborate clothes, and all our meals were prepared and served to us by servants whose names I never bothered to learn. Once I grew old enough to stop unceremoniously vomiting and pooping on my nice clothes, I grew to value them more than human life. If a woman stitched my dress just a smidgen incorrectly, I had her beaten.

  Don’t worry. I get paid back for this behavior…and then some.

  My upbringing involved learning the art of man-pleasing and the running of a large house with lots of slaves—er, servants. Of course I excelled at it because of my lineage. I was noblesse ancienne, people. We had a whole bunch of money, which translates pretty well into everyone loves you because you buy their freedom with your bank account. That’s all money really is, right? Freedom to do as you please with the short century each body is allotted?

  It’s amazing how much I knew while still knowing so little. I could play several instruments; I had my voice trained to be pleasing at parties. Yeah…we used to have to sing to each other and play instruments. That was 18th century television. And believe me, when someone was a crappy singer, we couldn’t just change the channel. All we could do was snicker and make fun of them blatantly behind our fans…so kind of like the early stages of American Idol, I guess. Or middle school. You pick.

  Anyway, one day when I was reaching my peak for marriageable age, I was at a ball gossiping madly about everyone…because what else was there to do?

  “Did you hear that the king’s wife is in the heat of scandal?” my friend Giselle whispered into my ear. Her breath was hot and moist against my powdered face, and it took everything in my power not to comment on it or back away in disgust. Were it not for this most interesting bit of information, I would have likely done both of those things—but I wanted to hear more.

  “Tell me everything you know now!” I demanded. When you’re excessively wealthy, you are allowed to demand. It’s amazing—people just smile at you and do your bidding.

  Giselle smiled, catlike. I noticed that her cheeks were blossoming with red veins. She had been drinking for several hours, and it was beginning to show. Her hair was beginning to tilt lopsidedly against her head, sweat beading along the edges of her wig line. Her elaborate makeup slithered down her face, her eyes smudged, making her appear almost clown-like. Her pasted on mole was a little further south than it had been this afternoon. She leaned in, revealing one entire breast. You want to talk about fathers letting their daughters out of the house in risqué clothing? We were encouraged to do that…especially when wealthy, well-connected men were around. A woman had no worth beyond securing a man to keep money pooled among the rich. Everyone knew that.

  “Yes!” Giselle continued, breathless for no reason. Corsets do that to people. Her delicate pink ruffles heaved against her sweaty, exposed cleavage. “After she conned that jeweler out of his money for that diamond necklace, I thought Paris couldn’t hate her any more. Now I hear all she does is party and gamble away the country’s money! You’d think with all she spends that she could afford a better tailor!” She snorted.

  Knowing now that the cost of our clothing that evening alone could have fed a village for two years, I kind of wish I could punch Giselle in the face, but back then I completely agreed.

  “Yes, absolutely! The poor thing really must stop being such an Austrian,” I replied, not so subtly implying that we were superior in every way and that she ought to be more sensitive to our way of life.

  “You really must come to Versailles, J. That’s where all the best bachelors are, and the most delicious gossip of course.”

  The thought of moving to Versailles tickled my fancy. After all, if someone like Giselle could live there, obviously I would be welcome as an honored guest. Giselle was in a bit of dire straits, though we never talked about it to her face. Her father was a known gambler, and somehow had managed to sink his family so far into debt that it was astounding they could still afford to survive at all. It was only a matter of time before the collectors came and dumped them on the streets. Of course, no one would associate with them after that, and they had used their only bargaining chip to return to wealth: Giselle. She’d been hunting for a husband ever since, but her nerves caused her to drink, which resulted in a sweaty hot mess that no one wanted to get near. I imagine no one wanted their fortunes gambled away either.

  I began to think of nothing else but Versailles. Life is really, really boring when girls aren’t allowed to read books and all you get to do is sew and crap. Why do you think there’s so much celebrity gossip? Imagine a group of people with nothing to fight for, nothing to struggle against, and what do they have? Each other. Gossip and intrigue were all we had to keep from going completely insane, and I wanted more. I wanted to be the queen’s best friend…to have her ear and be a part of decisions that would make my enemies’ lives miserable. Wouldn’t Jeanette just be so green with envy to have her room moved further from the royal suites and mine moved clo
ser?

  I know…this is what we cared about. Having seen war in so many other lives, I can’t even stomach it sometimes. I guilted my father into putting in a request for me to go there, and then waited in agony for the response. I imagined being present for the queen’s ablutions in the morning, and maybe even seeing her to bed at night. In those days a very elite group of aristocrats had the pleasure of watching the queen do her makeup and wash up. It was all very exciting to watch a royal do anything. Just look at poor Duchess Kate and the attack of the media. We love that crap.

  The days seemed to last forever. I dressed, ate daintily like a lady, practiced languages or piano or sewing or gambled in the evenings, undressed, slept, and did it all again. Waiting. Watching for a letter on our silver tray that bore the royal seal.

  It didn’t come.

  I finally had no choice but to badger my father to death until he pressed for me go to Versailles. I’d knock on his office door every morning, bat my eyelashes in my most daughterly way, and beg like a fool, sometimes on my knees, to be sent to Versailles to be near the queen.

  “For heaven’s sake, J, leave it alone!” He finally stormed at me. (My name isn’t actually J, but if I told you my name in every life, you’d start walking in circles.)

  “You’ve got suitors here! I particularly like that Challant boy…what’s-his-name…”

  “If you don’t know his name, he is of no consequence,” I jumped in, manipulating the hell out of his poor memory. His caterpillar-like eyebrows danced across his wide forehead in frustration. He was no match for me when I wanted something, and I was surprised he hadn’t yet given up on fighting it. I stood with my legs apart, knuckles digging in at my waist. We were used to not breathing correctly, so pressing in on bone was a small matter when compared to winning against a parent to get one’s way. We battled silently for what seemed like forever, my father glaring into my crystal blue eyes with his own matching pair. He had met his match.

  Sighing, he strolled out from behind his desk and cradled my face in his delicate, aging hands, the hands of a man who had never lifted more than a spoon in his entire life. He kissed my pale blonde hair—hair that matched Marie’s, so I had heard. We would be the best of friends soon. I could see the resignation in my father’s eyes.

  “So it is Versailles your heart desires, ma fifille?” My little girl. I was becoming far too old for such a thing, but I let him have his endearment…especially knowing what it meant for me.

  “Yes, papa,” I said sweetly, obediently.

  He made me wait a few more achingly long seconds before he finally said, “Then it is to Versailles you will go, chérie.”

  I squealed in delight, kissing the tip of his massive nose and running to my wardrobe. I knew that his connections would be strong enough to get me there, and I absolutely had to bring a wardrobe that would be the envy of a queen.

  Chapter Two

  Versailles

  As my delicately cobbled shoes tapped onto the stones of Versailles, I gazed up at the palace with the smug look of a well-fed kitten. The palace itself sported a wide courtyard, accessed by a long and narrow road. It was a paradise for the aristocracy—a way to keep out anyone who didn’t fit into our elite class. Statues perched along the rooftops, gazing down lovingly at the chosen few who got to live among them. Versailles itself was all pastel and gold. The fountains glittered in the afternoon sun, and the gardens provided a magical reprieve from the stuffy rooms inside.

  The rooms of Versailles are beautiful, but if you think filling a building with sweaty, unwashed bodies was any different because we looked dolled up, you’re so, so wrong. The perfume we used barely masked the smell of body odor…and yes, it was gross. I have two words for you: chamber pot. Ick.

  As I made my way to the front doors, I was met by the palace manager, who informed me where I’d be staying and then had servants unpack my bags. My eyes were full of starlight. Although I had been wealthy and part of the right crowd, this would be my first stay as an adult woman at the palace. I had heard it could be a wild and untamed place, hidden beneath the façade of propriety. At 17 years old, I was so ready to experience whatever that was.

  “Mademoiselle, you will be in the Rose Room—12 doors from the queen,” he said, as though this was some kind of privilege. 12 doors? Jeannette was at most nine doors down. I frowned. This registered quickly with the manager, who was well versed in the subtle nuances of aristocratic displeasure.

  “Is something amiss, mademoiselle? I’m sure we can arrange for something better for you, if you w-wish,” he stuttered out his last word, well aware that there was no open space above that room, and the only way I would make it in would be to win the queen’s favor. I gave him my most superior smile.

  “No, the Rose Room will be fine, thank you.” I replied gracefully, moving past him and into the palace itself. I tried my best not to stare openmouthed at the gilded interiors, lavish in design and absolutely exquisite. It was my duty to pretend that this didn’t matter, because I was entitled to it and much, much more.

  “J? Oh my goodness ladies, just look who finally decided to arrive!” I would recognize Jeannette’s voice anywhere…she squealed like a pig, and always had a nasty comment to throw my way. She has hated me my whole life, blaming me for her family’s constant misfortunes. Her whole family claims that our title was stolen from their family or some nonsense like that, and she has made little effort to hide her animosity.

  Squaring my shoulders, I turned to find her with a group of elaborately dressed ladies, many of them casting openly scrutinizing glances up and down my body. Knowing that I exactly matched the correct shape and style of what women should look like, I stared at them with the complete self-assurance of one who has never been questioned. Approaching the group with a dignified stroll, I arrived to the welcoming embrace of Jeannette, the witch.

  “It’s about time you decided to make your way out here,” she cawed. “Of course, I’m sure it has nothing to do with the status chasing that comes with every arrival. I know you would never be so tacky,” she smirked, her backhanded statement resonating in the barely repressed smiles of her gaggle of geese. I smiled, used to this form of warfare.

  “My darling Jeannette! You know better than anyone that I’ve never had to clarify my status in my life! Goodness, all my land that surrounds your father’s is just a fraction of proof for that.”

  Jeannette glared, her lips pursing as though she were about to cut through me with her response. She was interrupted, however, by one of the ladies in the group, a slightly chubby brunette with cow brown eyes. I pitied her, for I knew she was likely kept around for the sole purpose of making the other ladies feel superior.

  “Will you be coming to the ball tonight, Mlle J? The Hall of Mirrors is certainly nothing to be missed! It is as though a thousand versions of you dance all at once.”

  “That’s the point of mirrors, you imbecile. I’m sure J already knows all about it,” Jeannette said, her eyes smiling as the brown-eyed girl shrank back into herself. I decided that being on this girl’s side would be in my best interest, if for nothing else than to drive Jeannette insane. I strolled over to her side and took her by the arm, leading her away.

  “Do tell me more! It’s refreshing to find a lady in the court with an actual beating heart.” The girl beamed up at me, her short stature not helping her case for any form of suitor, regardless of wealth. I cast one glance back at Jeannette, who was frowning. It was more than a frown that I saw in her face though.

  She was beginning to plan my demise.

  ***

  Later that evening, I had my dress placed perfectly around me, tightening everything to show my body to its best advantage. Although I didn’t have much in the way of cleavage, my dress squeezed me in enough to give the illusion that I was well endowed. There was a knock at my door.

  “Enter.”

  It was my new brown-eyed friend, looking overly enthusiastic. I sighed inwardly. If I couldn’t shake this lit
tle puppy, I would have to strangle it before she became too much of a black mark. My kindness to her was strategic, but having an unpopular, unattractive girl as my shadow at Versailles wasn’t going to win me into the queen’s circle. She gaped openly at me.

  “You are the prettiest girl I have ever seen,” she blurted. I gave her a motherly smile. It might be nice to have her around after all.

  “I feel quite embarrassed that I have completely forgotten your name.”

  “Please don’t! I’m quite forgettable. My name is Jacqueline.”

  There was something about Jacqueline’s self-deprecation that made me want to take her under my wing and make her more suitable for the court. It was a strange new sensation, as my whole life had ever only been about me. This was the moment I began to learn a modicum of compassion. I walked over to her and took her hands delicately in my own.

  “You look lovely tonight too, Jacqueline. You chose a good dress for your coloring,” I lied, the orange tint of her dress completely washing out her complexion. She gave me a small smile.

  “You don’t have to lie to me, J. I know what I am and the body I was born with. I’m ok with it. I also know that you helped me today to get back at Jeannette, which I also don’t mind. I just thought you might like a true friend among snakes.”

  Her eyes were open and honest…something I don’t think I had ever seen in anyone. Ever. I stared at her in bewilderment, as though discovering a creature of Africa that I had never seen for the first time…and liking it. She gave my hands a squeeze and allowed me to stare in bewildered silence before another knock came at my door, and a head peeked in from behind my maid.

  “Sorry to be rude, but if we dally any longer we really aren’t going to win the king’s favor…”