Felicite Found (16 page)

Rage Begins

In her unconscious state, Félicité fell into a memory. Anton had arrived home, and she placed her master’s tea service on the round table by his plush leather chair. She had no time to hustle out of the room, so she sprinted toward the adjoining room of which, unfortunately, didn’t have an exit. She chided herself with a sharp huff for not being quicker. 

In order to know when Anton had left the outer room, she kept the room’s door slightly ajar, but not enough to be noticed. Having him find her there, lurking in the shadows was the last thing she needed. No good would come of that. The bruise on her right thigh and another nasty one on her shoulder hardly showed at all anymore.

Anton and
someone else
entered the room. Anton’s guest, she guessed she could call him, stood a whole head shorter than her master but much huskier. He wore a shabby black coat and worn boots. Obviously, the man held the position of a lower classmen. The question was: why Anton would be fraternizing with someone who was not a gentleman?

The men spoke in hushed tones as Anton
closed the outer door. Once it clicked shut, their voices raised. Félicité could overhear their conversation without any problem. She listened intently even though she knew she should go to the farthest corner of the room and hide until they left. Still holding the tea tray, she clenched it hard against her chest so it wouldn’t clang against the door by accident. Her poor arms trembled, and her teeth chattered uncontrollably.

Anton questioned his guest, “Did you take care of it?”

“Yes
,
Monsieur
de Rousseaux. Just as we planned,” the man answered with a hoarse almost snake-like voice.

“You have done very well. Thank you for making me the heir of my family.” Félicité stifled a gasp by biting her tongue. “He will be found in the barn?” She watched Anton as he tapped his fingers against each other, a grin darkening his evil face.

“Yes
,
Monsieur
de Rousseaux,” he replied as he shuffled his feet on the rug and wrung his shirt in his hands. “And I assure you Martin’s death was agonizing.” The assassin edged closer to Anton, an eager look in his eyes now. “Monsieur de Rousseaux, I have kept my end of the deal, I believe it is your turn to pay up.”             

“Please, follow me. Your money is in the inner room.” Félicité froze, heart stopping. She glanced from side to side. Where could she hide? Anton picked up a large candelabrum and marched her way.

In her haste to get out of sight, she dropped the tea tray; its clatter thunderous, honing in as a beacon—her beacon, shrieking that she had heard the entire conversation. She stopped breathing in hopes it would take back the noise that had just given her away.

“What was that?” the assassin said, hissing each word. “You have someone watching us. I knew I could not trust you.”

Anton struck his brother’s assassin, making the man fall to the floor. “Get up you fool. I did nothing of the sort.”

Félicité flung herself behind the couch, hoping her master wouldn’t look too hard. Her hopes vanished when she saw the tea tray on the floor near the door. She knew she had no hope in the world, and would surely not survive as a result of this stupid, stupid blunder.

The door screeched open and then the candle’s light spread across the room. Anton made the assassin walk into the room first, carrying the source of light. He
barely missed stepping on the tray, but Anton stepped right onto it and slipped, plummeting onto his backside with a groan.

Despite the raging fear pounding in her chest, the sight of Anton falling brought a smile to her face, and she had to hold back a laugh. At least if she was going to die, she would be able to see her constant tormentor and abuser have something mortifying happen to
him
for a change. Anton found the source of his spill: the tea tray. Her smile faded until her jaw clenched, leaving a straight line across her lips.

“Ah, I see,” he said smugly, eyes scanning the room. “Where are you my little toy?” He threw the tray aside; it smashed with a bang against the wall. This room lay far away from anyone else in earshot. The noise would never be heard. He began pacing the room on tiptoes. “Hold up the light, I cannot see, you fool.” The assassin did as he was told, bowing his head slightly.

“Félicité, I know you are in here. Come out from your hiding spot.”

She couldn’t move a muscle; they were too tense. Her fingers entwined with the fibers of the rug below her to calm her pulsating nerves.

“Come out, you disobedient piece of trash.” Anton appeared at the arm of the couch now. He looked down to see her crouched on her hands and knees. He sauntered to her side and kicked her in the ribs harder than he had ever done before. A cracking like boots treading on dry leaves sounding from her side. Excruciating stabs of pain filtered through her chest, causing her not to be able to move even an inch. Gasping for air did nothing to bring breath into her lungs.  

Anton picked Félicité up and then threw her over the couch. She crashed hard on the floor and crumpled with spasms of pain rushing through her arms. From experience, she knew standing up as quickly as possible was the best course of action. If she did so, then less abuse would happen. Despite the pure agony, she forced her limbs to work until she stood. Doing so seemed to take an eternity.

Anton sauntered around the couch to her side. He took in a deep breath. “You smell amazing today, my love.” His voice was laced with malice. “Why must you taunt me so? Why must I hate and love you at the same time? Why must I think of you whenever I kiss my own wife? Why must you ignore me when I arrive home? All I want is to see you, hear your voice, and
touch
you.” He caressed her cheek, making Félicité’s stomach churn. “But tonight, you were not quick enough, were you?” he said in a low, demonic voice.

He circled Félicité with his hand on her waist. “It is unfortunate that such a pretty girl like you needs to perish so young. I would have wished to keep you around a little while longer as my little toy. ”

He stopped in front of her and pulled her close to him. Roaring heat emanated hot from his body. She tried to move away, only to have sharp spikes of torture shoot from her head to toes.

“You should know better, my love, than to struggle. How many times have I needed to educate you in such trivial matters?” He pressed her closer until it hurt. She balled her hands into tight fists until her fingernails dug deep into her flesh to lessen her body’s intense pain.

“I have loved you since I saw your face the day you came here. Do you remember that day?” He twisted her in slow circles as though they were dancing, hands caressing her hips. The assassin watched awkwardly from the corner of the room after having placed the candelabrum on a nearby table.

Anton spoke louder in her
ear. She could feel his breath biting at her skin. It made bile rise in her throat. “I repeat, do you remember that day?”

“Yes
,
Monsieur
de Rousseaux, I do remember.” She took a deep bitter-filled breath. “I remember it took Martin—the better of the two of you—to
make
you apologize for knocking me over.”

The past two years of anger exploded from her silenced soul. She ended up spitting in his face and found great pleasure—empowerment—in doing so. With that act, she knew she would be dead before dawn. However, it thrilled her to take her now thrashing rage out on him—her enemy, the man she despised.

He wiped his face clean on his sleeve. “You should not have done that, you disrespectful whore. You will pay for it.” He dragged her to the couch, flinging her like a rag doll onto the cushion. He ripped the cord to the silk drapery and tied it around her mouth and wrists.

“Take her to your horse.” He demanded the assassin. With brute force, Anton handed her off to the man. “I will pay you double for entertaining my needs a while longer. Do not let anyone see or hear you. I will meet you at the secret place. If you touch her, you will
not
receive payment. Do you understand?” The assassin nodded with greed burning in his eyes. “Go, then!”

Félicité tried with all her might to get free of her captor, but her meager strength was no match compared to his firm muscles. Plus, any movement jostled her shattered body to the point of absolute misery. They left through the back passage. It would conceal their departure from anyone. Once in the garden, he threw her over his shoulder and took off at a fast pace. When he reached his horse, the only thing she could smell was the assassin’s awful stench of liquor and sweat.

They rode for a short time. With every gallop of the horse, the pain from being kicked became more
excruciating as if her insides were a broken clock with loose parts clanging back and forth.

The man stopped his panting animal and led her through a small door and down a narrow flight of stairs. At the bottom, they turned right into a room with rusted metal bars running up and down from ceiling to floor, enclosing a dirty, mold infested prison cell.

He spoke to her for the first time. “I wish I could have my way with you.” He scanned her from head to feet while licking his lips. “You
are
a beautiful little thing, aren’t you? But, I want my money more than you.” He flung her into the cell. She hit her head on the stone wall, rendering her unconscious.

When she came to, her eyes fluttered drunkenly open to see Anton sitting on a stool. It brought little comfort to her that the assassin was gone. The greatest danger sat in front of her, smoking a cigar burned to a blackened stump. A few other butts littered the cold ground in the corner of the cell.

“Nice to have you
finally
wake up.” He flung the remains of his cigar at the wall—it sizzled in a puddle of water. “Even though I have a funeral to plan and people to console after the tragic
suicide
of my elder brother, I still found a little time to come see how
you
are doing. Now the question is: what am I going to do with you?”

He perched close enough that he was able to twist his finger around a lock of her hair, which was now spilling out of a bun. She tried to move but couldn’t. Her body spread along the length of the wall with rope binding her wrists and ankles. Once she realized her predicament, the awful stabbing pain started. She wished she were dead.

“Are you stuck, my love?” He brushed his hand across her forehead. “If you had only been more obedient then you would not have found yourself in such a situation. It is your own fault, you know.” He spoke to Félicité as though she were a naughty little child.

Félicité tried to speak, but the drapery cord still bit into her mouth.

“Did you want to say something?” He drew out a small knife and moved it up her torso. He slid it back and forth across the flesh of her neck, smiling. Her body began to shake, sweat pearling on her forehead. Finally, he cut the drapery cord away and stowed the knife behind his back.

Félicité licked her chapped lips, but the effort did nothing. Her mouth contained no moisture in it like it was the hottest desert in the world. And her stomach growled for want of water but most of all food. She tried to speak; only a parched whisper came out. “It is not my fault; it is yours. Your pride, lust, and greed are why I am here.”

She wished she had never met Anton. More than anything, she wanted him dead because she had once thought him charming and, consequently, fell in love with him. She desired his death because he had broken her heart, taunted, abused, and berated her for so many years; but worst of all, for having taken away her virtue. He should pay for his evil because he had killed Claire and now his own brother. Who knows if he played a role in his own parents’ deaths? She wanted more than anything to murder him and make him pay for everything he had ever done to her.

“The only thing that may have been my fault is that I fell for your beauty. Other than that, all is your fault!” He screamed at her, making the cigar smell that lingered on his breath blast into her face.

Félicité twisted in her confinement, trying to free herself. She wanted to murder this evil man. But all her efforts only made the piercing pain more sever.

“It is not my fault. I. Am. Not. To. Blame!” she screamed as loud as she was able to in hopes someone would hear. However, no one came to her aid.

Anton bent down and took her by the hair. “Why would it be my fault when I am not the one tied up?” He kissed her roughly and then crashed her head into the stone floor. Blackness overcame her but once again.

When she woke up from the second blow to her head, she found herself on the bottom of a horse drawn carriage. Her head throbbed as the carriage
bounced her back and forth. She could make out Anton’s figure sitting on the seat above her. Darkness filled the sky outside. All she could hear was the horse’s hooves beating against cobblestones.

After a short distance, Anton kicked her with the dirty sole of his boot. When she feigned waking up, Anton lifted her up with force, placing her on his lap. He then examined her face saying, “I always loved your eyes. They were what drew me to you in the first place.”

He opened the door and spoke to someone. “Is it prepared?”