Brocade Series 02 - Giselle

To Jennnifer Jakes,
for your wizardry.

Thank you.

On the eve of her twentieth birthday, Giselle finally found out
why her own family disliked her so much. Not that anyone would
speak of such a thing. The idea would cause a sensation if
she were to mention it. After all, Giselle was surrounded by every
luxury known to mankind and used to being protected and pampered
like a princess.

It wasn’t surprising
.

She was the only daughter of the
Comte
d’Antillion.

Such distinction should have given her access to every soiree
and fest. She should be the center of attention, surrounded by envious friends and acquaintances, her social calendar filled to the last hour. But instead…she was ignored. Overlooked. Forgotten.

Her mind screamed at the injustice of it while her hands
stayed piously crossed in prayer. She hadn’t any envious friends.
She hadn’t any acquaintances she could name; at least, not any in the social world.
She didn’t even know, for certain, what a social world was.

She was never going to find out, either
. Her father, the
Comte
d’Antillion wouldn’t allow it. She didn’t know what she’d done to
make him detest her so. She’d tried to be a good daughter, la
dylike, silent as a mouse, and as still as a shadow, but it wasn’t enough for her
pere.
Nothing she did pleased him.

There was no one to
be jealous of her because Giselle wasn’t allowed to be seen, let alone envied. She’d been imprisoned in this wretched wing of the chateau for years!

Years!

The intensity of her thoughts would’ve been noticeable, as much as she gripped to the skirts of her gown, but no one commented on it. Her
maid, Isabelle, and the fat priest had themselves to think on. That…and God
.

Isabelle was a pious woman, much more so than Giselle would
ever be. Giselle didn’t know how to make the envy disappear from her body. She didn’t know how to find a feeling of peace, piety, or devotion. P
rayers rarely helped. All they did was torment her further.

If there was a God who cared, surely He would see that I had
some contact with the outside world, wouldn’t He?

She asked herself that often.

She never got an answer.

Giselle’s lips twisted as the priest’s voice
droned on
and on. She was failing at patience, too. Her governess, Louisa,
should give up trying to instill it. Patience may be a virtue, but
Giselle was far from feeling it. She’d been patient, enough!
It isn’t fair!
Louisa could come and go as she pleased while Giselle was imprisoned,
restricted by the confines of her station.

How she longed to be a commoner.

She dreamed of an
unfettered life, free of the rules and stricture that no one saw anyway
. If she were a
commoner, she wouldn’t have to dress for sup. She wouldn’t have to
sit board-straight in a high-backed chair while she practiced her
petit-point
She wouldn’t have to….

Giselle stopped her thoughts
. It
was a lie. She didn’t truly wish to be a commoner. It sounded
horrid, too. Her maid, Isabelle, had told her how harsh life was
outside Chateau Antilli’s white stone walls.

Mama had spoken to Giselle for years about the history and
pageantry of the Antillions. The second
Comte
d’Antillion had died
in battle against the English in the twelfth century. It was he that designed the chateau, Giselle, Mama had told her. ‘We have him to thank for the shape of it, the flagstaffs at each tower, and the
white stone. It was designed that way, to be a beacon to all of French dominance.’

The way
Mama had described the history, made it seem real.

But now, it seemed
even Mama had deserted her only daughter. Giselle
wondered what she’d done to deserve that. Mama hadn’t been in to
visit for over three months, and it was maddening. There was
nothing but the walls to look at and the windows to look from, the huge bedstead to lie in and dream from, and the altar to kneel in front of.

Giselle sighed from her position beside her maid
. She caught Isabelle’s glance over at her, and practiced showing nothing on
her face. If Isabelle had glanced down at Giselle’s skirt, she’d have
known of the other’s inner torment, however. Giselle didn’t realize she was
holding her breath until Isabelle turned back to the priest.

She couldn’t concentrate, but it wasn’t entirely her fault.
Louisa had filled her head with chatter about the upcoming betrothal
of her ten-year-old brother, Francois, the oldest of her six brothers.
Giselle knotted her hands into fists on the skirt. She hadn’t
even seen him since before Christmas Mass! She hadn’t seen anyone
that mattered.

She would almost welcome a visit from the
comte.

Giselle closed her eyes
. It wasn’t to pray. It was to bring the image of her father to her mind. The
comte
was the most regal and
handsome man in the world. She’d thought so since she was a child, and she had none that could compare. Of course, she’d been isolated from the world for so long, she was no judge.

What
was she thinking? Welcome her father? She’d as soon
welcome her own judgment day. The
comte
had no warmth for his daughter. Every time he came it was an ordeal.
Giselle didn’t know why. She would speak when spoken to, act
gracious when serving him, show him her latest tapestry for any
words he might speak, and still he detested her.

Giselle felt the tears swelling, and she quickly blinked them
back. He wasn’t coming. That was probably a good thing. He
may be the most handsome man in the world, but he was also the
coldest, most unfeeling one.

“Giselle!”

Giselle looked up at Isabelle’ s loud whisper. Isabelle always
whispered. Sometimes it was a soft, caring whisper, and sometimes, like now, it was a sharp, chastising sound.

“Pay attention.”

She was holding out Giselle’s rosary. Giselle didn’t even recall
dropping it. She knew Isabelle watched as she unfurled the fabric in her fingers before reaching for her beads. She couldn’t meet the maid’s eyes.

In the main rooms, far from her, they were celebrating
Francois’ union, gaily dancing to music she could only dream about.
They’d be serving exotic foods, like the steamed peacock Louisa had described earlier.

Giselle tried to cleanse the envy from her thoughts, but her
heart wasn’t in it. She supposed God knew it, too. No one would
remember that it was her birthday the next day. Even if they did, it
wouldn’t be mentioned or celebrated. That much, she already knew.

She smoothed down her satin skirts, working at the creases she’d put
there. The fabric snagged on a fingernail as she waited
for the priest to finish. She wondered how that had happened.
Isabelle had given her nails a buffing with pumice just that morning after her daily cleansing.

“Amen. Come Child, it is time for confession. Have you any
sins you would like to confess?”

Giselle looked at him with as much innocence as she could muster, and yet still show her disdain
. It was such a useless question,
and yet she was asked it daily. What sins could she possibly have to
confess? The only one was envy. She even envied the priest. That
fat atrocity of a man could even come and go as he wished throughout
the countryside, while she…?

“No, Father,” she said quietly, and knew Isabelle was pleased.

“Bless you, Child.” The priest’s hand hovered over her head
for a moment, and then he, too, left her.

“Come, Giselle
. Dinner will soon be served. It is time to dress
for it. You selected the green flowered frock this morning. Do you
recall?”

Giselle followed her, but her eyes were still on the priest. She
watched as he knocked and was given freedom from her tower. Of
course she remembered selecting the dress. She had no other
pressing business this morning. Besides, she only had three gowns to choose from. One she was wearing, and the other was being laundered.
What other choices did she have?

She gave one l
ast look at the closing door before turning back.
She shouldn’t envy the priest. She was allowed out,
too. Once a day. For her constitutional, as the doctors called it.

The
comte
had ordered it after Giselle had started fainting during her
lessons last year. She hadn’t asked God for forgiveness of her weakness. Why, if
she’d known it would get her the chance to actually go outside – even it is was the
chateau’s outer sanctum – she’d have learned how to faint
years earlier.

It was too cold to venture out now anyway, so she hadn’t asked
in weeks. Spring was always cold. Just like the spring day when she’d been born. April 18, 1730. A
nd her father’s disappointment was legendary.

Giselle had heard it from the dressmaker who had been hired
for her when it became impossible to wear her old clothing any
longer. Amid the fitting, pinning, and shaking of her head, the
dressmaker had muttered about the scandal. There had been a row
caused by the d’Antillion’s first child’s birth that was still talked about. Although she’d been fifteen at the time, it had still hurt.

Papa had wanted an heir for Antilli, and he
believed Giselle’s birth was a curse. After five childless years of marriage to the
comtesse,
he had a daughter, not a son. The villagers had spent many hours gossiping over his outburst at a
salon,
whatever that was.

The dressmaker’s tone had been so filled with excitement that
Louisa had exchanged glances with Isabelle. Giselle didn’t even
know why. Papa had been premature in his anger, though. He
hadn’t known then that his future held not one, but six male heirs
.

Francois had been the first,
followed by a succession of boys,
each with his own private nanny and wet nurse. Giselle already knew
how proud the
comte
was of them. His expression would
change whenever he spoke of it.

“Your dinner,
Madame.”

A manservant placed a tray at the table and removed the lid.
He bowed before meeting Giselle’s glance, then left. If she could have gotten a good look at him, she knew she’d have another
comparison for Papa. The manservant wouldn’t compare favorably,
though. They would never send Giselle a comely servant. God forbid they send her someone nice to look at and perhaps converse with. That would have to be immediately corrected.
The
comte
would have it no other way
.

“Porridge
? Again?” She couldn’t keep the disgust from her
voice.

“It’ll keep the color in your face, Giselle, and you know it.”
Isabelle added honey to it as she scolded. “You know how the doctors fret if you don’t eat.”

“Oh
. The doctors. Very well.” Giselle sobered and walked to
the table.

Her reflection in the chamber mirror stopped her for a moment.
She was paler than usual, but that was probably due more to her own
curtailment of exercise than lack of nourishment. She was always
pale, anyway.

She was also very petite, much smaller than Louisa or Isabelle.
That was one reason she hadn’t needed a new wardrobe in five years.
She had light brown hair that was strangely streaked with white strands around her face, high arched brows, and a large mouth.

Giselle knew she wasn’t ugly to look upon. Louisa had told
her she’d create a sensation if her papa would allow her to attend
one of the Antilli soirees. Giselle bowed mockingly to her image, and watched as the firelight glinted on the white streaks in her hair.

“Your supper, Giselle?” Isabelle cleared her throat.

“I’m coming!”

Giselle was sharper than she intended. Isabelle
would have to forgive it, but she could be such a nag, at times.
As Giselle reached for her silver spoon, the large,
emerald-shaped ruby of her ring caught at her eye. That reminded
her of its presence and power. She grimaced. She didn’t even
care if Isabelle saw it, and scolded her later. The ruby was the cause
of everything, she was sure. It was the mark of her real status.