Brocade Series 02 - Giselle Read online

  DEDICATION

  To Jennnifer Jakes, for your wizardry.

  Thank you.

  CHAPTER ONE

  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, ladylike, 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. Prayers 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 last 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. And 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.

  Giselle was a married woman.

  It wasn’t her marital state that the Antillions disliked so much, although that was what she’d always suspected. Giselle had reasoned that her pere, the comte, didn’t like that she was a duchesse, with a higher title than his. She was wrong — it was much more.

  Isabelle answered a late visitor’s knock at her door and came back with a strange sort of awe on her face. “It’s your father, Giselle.”

  Giselle was ashamed at the way her hand shook as she replaced her wine goblet on the table. She had nothing to be frightened or ashamed of. She always had some wine before dressing for bed. It helped her sleep.

  “Mon pere.”

  She bent into a low curtsy. He came for my twentieth birthday! She tried to hide her joy, but knew it wasn’t successful.

  “Giselle,” he said gravely.

  Her emotion died. She felt it. The warmth of her cheeks receded, leaving her feeling weak and chilled. She was grateful he didn’t seem to notice, but that was stupid. The Comte d’Antillion rarely noticed his daughter, and when he did, it wasn’t a good thing.

  “You are well?”

  “Yes, Papa.”

  She gestured him to a settee and seated herself with an elegant gesture in her usual chair. She watched as he eyed the structure for a bit before seating himself.

  “You don’t look well.”

  “I’m sorry, Papa.” She looked at her folded hands.

  “You’re eating?”

  “Yes, Papa.” She straightened further against the chair’s back. This was terrible! The meeting was going poorly already.

  “That’s good. Francois is now officially betrothed to the second daughter of the Comte Duisebonne. That was the best I could do.”

  Giselle wondered why he was telling her this. He never talked to her about the family before. She kept silent and waited.

  “She has a dowry of seven-hundred acres of prime ground and a thousand louis d’ors.”

  “That’s a fortune, Papa!” She exclaimed.

  “No.”

  His cold eyes appraised her after the one word. Giselle felt like an insect spread out for his inspection. Despite her best intentions, gooseflesh rippled through her arms. She fought the urge to clasp them about her.

  “It would take a dowry as rich for all my sons,” his voice softened a bit in pride, “to make up for what you cost me.”

  He stood abruptly and turned away from her as if the sight was more than he could bear.

  “But, Papa….”

  “Don’t speak to me, Giselle!”

  She gasped and felt tears fill her eyes.

  “Not until I’ve finished what I’ve come to say.”

  Giselle opened her mouth to say ‘Yes, Papa,’ like a dutiful daughter, but then closed it. She knew any word would give away her emotion, and he’d hate that worst of all.

  “When you were born, I cursed you, and I cursed God. I drank until I couldn’t walk, but nothing had changed. I still had a daughter.”

  Giselle wiped a tear as it escaped her eye on the tip of a finger. She already knew his feelings, so why bother crying?

  “When you were small…a little over one year old, my neighbor to the south, Berchald, came to see me.”

  She watched Papa walk to the window and move the drape aside. She didn’t say a word as he unlatched the thick-paned glass and pushed it open. Giselle shivered in the sudden draft, but he seemed unaffected.

  “Somehow, he talked me into a betrothal. His nephew and heir, Etienne, was a lad of ten. God help me, I signed the agreement.”

  The drape fell back into place, shielding her from the cold of the elements, but not the chill of her father. His eyes, when she dared glance at them, were filled with disgust. She lowered her gaze instantly.

  “Nearly a third! Don’t you understand, Giselle? Somehow, that weasel of a man talked me out of Savignen Valley and all its riches!”

  Giselle gasped, finally understanding how much he had lost. Savignen was renowned throughout France for its vineyards and wines. It had no equal. Giselle’s betrothal price was Savignen Valley? She could scarcely believe it.

  “I thought, since you were such a sickly child, you’d never reach marriageable age. I was cra
zed with anger, drunk with disappointment. I don’t know which to blame. Perhaps a combination. It doesn’t matter, really. I agreed. It doesn’t matter why at this point.”

  “I’m sorry, Papa,” Giselle whispered, looking up.

  “Silence!”

  He stopped her with a raised hand. Giselle’s heart hammered loudly in her breast as if it had acquired a mind of its own. At least she understood why Papa had always looked at her with such an air of detachment. She actually preferred that to his full attention, now that she had it.

  “I’ve sent notice to the Duc du Berchald that you’re arriving within a sennight.”

  He turned his back on her again. “I’ve sheltered you since the marriage and sent good Antilli gold after bad, while all of Savignen’s riches fill your husband’s coffers. I’ll do it no more.”

  “Non, Papa. Wait! I beg—” Giselle stood from her chair.

  “Control yourself, Giselle.”

  She ignored him. She no longer cared if he admonished her. He was making the solid wood of the tower floor feel like it was sand, and it was nothing to him? She rushed to his side and reached for him. “Please Papa? I’ll eat less! I’ll make my clothes last longer! I’ll do anything! Don’t do this to me.”

  “It’s too late Giselle.” He pried her hand from his arm.

  “But, Papa. Please!”

  “Isabelle, give her a posset. She has taken ill.”

  He pushed from Giselle and walked stiffly from the room. She didn’t know if he looked back either, her face was buried in her hands.

  ~

  It was Louisa who opened Giselle’s eyes. Her governess noticed the shock on Giselle’s face the next morning. Or perhaps it was because Giselle wouldn’t get out of bed.

  “What happened, Giselle?”

  Giselle turned her face away.

  “Isabelle, why does she lay there as if her life were over?”

  “The comte came last night.”

  Giselle knew it was Isabelle pulling the drapes open. Giselle longed to box the woman’s ears, only she never had, and she didn’t have the strength at the moment.

  ‘The comte? What did he say?” Louisa’s voice sharpened.