Spring I

. Ӝ .

The DeMonté manor was home to one of the most dignified and renowned families in France. “Twenty acres of Eden on earth” the party guests would remember it as, and the family hosted many elaborate parties. And in less than three months’ time, there was to be yet another. This celebration, though, was to be none like the others. There was going to be a wedding.
            I had almost eighteen years to my life at this time, but I believed myself to have reached manhood many years before. I was not ecstatic about my father’s proposal that I marry; despite his claims, I knew the true reasons. The holy sacrament indicated the inheritance of my family’s fortune and investments, and that was my only real priority.
            My father had chosen the bride, a young girl who had lived in the south of the country. He promised me that she was very beautiful, and I was grateful for it, for I could not be seen with anyone less than ideal. He warned me that she had just recently lost both her parents, tragic experience for anyone. The marriage was to save her from the streets and to heighten our position on the endless golden ladder that was our society.
            On the day of her arrival and our first encounter, Tours was visited by rain. The miserable weather only readied me for what was to come. On my father’s orders, I dressed in my best and waited on the doorstep for her carriage to appear in the haze. The black iron gate at the end of the stone road remained open, and the two property guards stood at attention on each side, all anxious and waiting. All the servants stood inside the house, peering out from the open door, ready to greet Mademoiselle Élisabeth Lormé. My father stood beside me smoking a cigar. I never liked my father’s filthy habit, but I had grown so accustomed to it that I did not even flinch when the smoke blew my way. I ignored his presence along with everyone else’s and continued to watch the entrance gates. It seemed like years that we stood unmoving. The rain was beating a vigorous rhythm on the overhang that protected us, and I found myself getting lost in the song.
              Finally, the distant sound of hooves crunching on gravel made me tense. I adjusted my collar for no particular reason and cleared my throat. I could see my father fiddling with his coal gray jacket from a side-glance. It very much reminded me of the morning sky over us, dull and swirled with lighter and darker shades. He wore a smug grin, and the detail made me huff. There was no reason for him to be grinning. The day was meant for me, and I found no joy in it.
         “Now, Andre, be a gentleman,” he said in a tone for only my ears. His blue eyes remained on our approaching guests. “Do not frighten her.”
         I nodded passively. A single horse pulled the cart and what a pitiful creature it was! When he halted, the stout driver hopped off his seat and opened a small umbrella. He then held open the carriage door and stepped aside.
         I held my breath. A woman emerged from the carriage and at first, I was relieved. From what I could see, she had a very small frame, which was promising. She descended slowly, the driver holding the umbrella above her. My heart stopped then. She had come in an ebony frock and headdress. There were holes in her stockings and tears in the lace of her blouse. How could anyone be seen in such ghastly attire? She looked more like a runaway orphan instead of a lord’s bride.
              I was appalled, and it must have shown for I heard my father grunt, a concealed yet riled indicator of my poor behavior. He nodded his head in Élisabeth’s direction, but I found that my feet were immobile.
              After a moment, my father walked to her side and took the umbrella from the driver. He then spoke to her with words I could not hear, but his words made Élisabeth smile. She did have a sweet smile and it was true she had a pleasant face, but it could be easily overlooked. They walked up the stairs together, chatting about her trip and the grave weather— unimportant things. When they reached me, my father shook the umbrella dry and handed it to Mardi, the youngest of our servants, who gave a small curtsy and hurried into the house.
                “This, Mademoiselle Lormé,” my father began with a plastered smile, “is my son Andre Eloy DeMonté.”
                She was careful to never hold my eyes for more than a second; always looking past me or at her insipid shoes. I fought with her weighted gaze, demanding to meet the eye of the young woman. She was relentless, and the fact offended me greatly.
              “A pleasure to finally meet you, Monsieur.” She bowed slightly before removing her glove and giving her hand to me to take.
              I could only glare at the pallor.
              I heard my father grumble once more, and I felt my face burn with fever. I longed to retreat back into the house. If I didn’t do something soon, I was sure I would say something indecent.
              “Pleasure,” I mumbled, lifting my chin to make my lack of interest clear. I was not going to show her any sort of courtesy, even if I knew I would be scolded for my choice later.
                Hesitantly, she retracted her hand, squeezing the glove tightly. I had made her uncomfortable, and I knew that if I met her eyes then, I would find them swelling with tears. I felt no guilt, of course. No shame in what I had done. As far as I was concerned, she had disrespected me, which was the very thing I hated most of all.
              My father cleared his throat, an attempt to regain her attention and ease the tightness. “Mademoiselle Lormé.”
              She reminded me of a young girl’s doll as she looked up at him, so rigid and so unsure; her eyes wide and filled with innocence, her face so white and still.
                “I will give you a tour of the property, if you wish.”
                Her tiny lips trembled as she spoke. “Merci. I w-would like that.”
                She took my father’s arm, and jointly, they walked past me into the house.
                I waited until my father’s apologies to Élisabeth were muffled completely by the servants’ excited chirping before I moved at all. I turned to the flock of them in the doorway and clapped my hands twice to reclaim order.
                Every head, every eye locked on me. They silenced immediately.
                “I believe you have a dinner to prepare,” I said. “Need I remind all of you that you are representing the DeMonté household tonight?”
                Each pupil dilated in fear. I never had to repeat myself—a useful quality, I thought. They scattered quickly, returning to their duties. Only Mardi remained in her place.
                Little, little Mardi. So young, she was. So naïve. Every feature she possessed was petite, much like a child, from her button nose to her dainty hands. From her tiny green eyes to her small bosom. Her head was full of golden curls, as vibrant as the sun, each one still holding their youthful bounce and coil.
                  Mardi stood at the center of the foyer, hands folded, patiently waiting for me to enter the house and address her. I walked in and allowed her to close the door behind me.
                  “Mardi,” I said calmly.
                  Her face lit up the instant she recognized her name, and she stepped forward. “Yes, Monsieur.”
                  “What do you think about our guest?” It was an honest question.
                  “Oh, Mademoiselle Lormé is quite beautiful,” she replied artlessly. “She will make a wonderful wife.”
                  Little, little Mardi! She had no idea how terrible things had turned out!
                  Unsatisfied with her answer, I ignored it. “Our guest,” I started, firming my voice, “needs to be cleaned up for dinner. Please ensure that she looks presentable.”
                  Her smile fell, but she nodded out of courtesy. “Right away, Monsieur.”
                  I watched her hurry up the stairs and disappear down the corridor.          
                  Dinner, I feared, was going to be as disastrous as the morning. As would be the rest of my days.