Old World Thunder, New World Fire

Anne-Marie de Parthenay

New France

For as long as she could remember, Anne-Marie had always been good at holding her breath. When she was little, before the hell of her teenage years, she took a habit of puffing up her cheeks and holding her breath whenever she got angry. Her father would always grow red in the face, and scold her not to do it ever again.

“You’ll starve your brain if you deprive it of air,” he would tell her. “And I’ll not suffer a fool for a daughter.”

As far as fathers go, hers was old. He had spent his youth campaigning on the frontier and winning the King’s wars for him, and there was no simply no time to have children. When he finally settled down, the horrors of what he’d seen and done settled with him, and like many fathers, he passed them down to his children along with everything else. His mind never truly left the battlefield, but merely joined another: one against itself, against the man who had forced it to bear far too much. By the time she was eleven, she was holding her breath again, only this time it was the only way to get her father’s attention. He had lost so many battles with himself by that point, each defeat taking away some part of him. Year by year, he faded into the deep recesses of his mind, until he was little more than a ghost haunting his once-great castle of Parthenay.

Nowadays, she held her breath whenever le Vicomte de Chatelleraut sauntered her way, for she could not bear the stench of his cologne. Her “adoptive father” after her own passed (though she would be loath to use that term for him), she and her older brother had been sent to become his wards when their father became sickly. Their house had already been falling into destitution before she was even born. Despite her father’s loyalty to the crown and success in battle, France had a new king now, one who did not recognize the Lord of Parthenay’s service, or his faith. What’s worse, he then demanded that nobles from all over the country must travel to the capital and reside in his new grand palace of Versailles. Her father’s sickness of body and mind prevented him, dooming the future of their house even further. Le Vicomte adopting them was practically charity, and he made that fact apparent whenever he could.

Ever since the light first left her father’s eyes, Anne-Marie had hated her life, and recently she had begun to hate herself. She didn’t care if she carried a good name or good blood at all. She had seen what a title and fiefdom really cost, how it twisted your heart and wrapped it in thorns. So many times she had thought to run away, even before her father died. But she had lived this way for sixteen years. This life was the only one she had ever known, and she was so scared of what lay outside the walls of the comfortable castle she had grown up in. Not that it mattered now. She chose to be cowardly when she could have run away for so long, and now she’d be forced to live a new life anyway, one she didn’t have a say in.

Le Vicomte drew near from aftside, and she took a deep inhale just in time.

“They tell me we’ll reach the New World within the hour,” he said. He always stood too close to her.

“I see,” she replied. She had gotten good at speaking without letting much air out after three years of practice.

“Have you seen Chrétien? I must tell him the good news!”

“He’s below deck.”

Le Vicomte smiled and nodded. He turned to leave, but stopped on his heel, turning back and placing his hand over hers atop the guard rail.

“You will love it, Anne-Marie,” he said. “I promise.”

His piercing blue eyes lingered on her face like a hunting dog sizing up a lone rabbit. But her soft amber ones could not even feel his terrible gaze, too lost beyond the distant horizon where her home lay. Still, her ears were too sharp to ignore his words, and she knew what he was capable of when ignored. She smiled and nodded back politely, her eyes the only part of her that couldn’t pretend.

The slime of Chatellerault left her to her solitude, a depressingly comfortable state for her nowadays. She continued to look to the ocean, as if it would save her somehow. Her eyes fell to the choppy gray waters below. Perhaps they could. If they would truly lay anchor so soon, this would be her last chance to run from the inevitable hell of her future. She toyed with the thought, sticking her foot through the gaps in the railing and letting her slipper fall. She watched it go, studying the way the waves consumed the thing like it was nothing. It should have terrified her, but it only emboldened her further. If she jumped, maybe she wouldn’t even drown. The fall was so high from here. Maybe she’d be dead as soon as she hit the water. What would Le Vicomte do then, his precious little vase shattered to pieces on the day of his arrival? The petulant tantrum he would no doubt throw pleased her to think about, but not enough to make her smile. She realized she couldn’t remember the last time she truly had.

Through some newfound courage, or perhaps just spite, Anne-Marie hoisted herself onto the railing, sitting atop it and dangling her feet over the side. It would be so easy–one push, one leap, and all her suffering would be over. She would never again have to bear Le Vicomte–how he stood too close, how he looked at her, how he whispered sick things in her ear just to watch her squirm. Never again would she be forced to smell his cologne, laugh at his hateful jokes, ignore the frightening gaze of his jealous and bitter wife. She would be free of this gilded prison, of her shackles of porcelain and lace.

She leaned forward, closer to her escape than ever before. But she couldn’t go through with it. Like always, the thought of leaving her brother alone kept her shackled to life. Even though the adoption was changing him for the worse, even though he was starting to take after Le Vicomte more and more with each passing day. She could not abandon him. As much as she wished to be rid of the pain of living, as much as she could hardly hope to bear another day. So many times she had thought to run, or to die, but she could never actually do it. She began to retract her legs back over the railing, succumbing to her fate once again. Only this time, fate had made the decision for her, and she slipped.

The back of her head slammed into the wood behind her, and she toppled over the side, careening towards the tumultuous surf. She could not even think of how she lost her footing before she plunged headfirst into the icy waters of the St. Lawrence Gulf. To her terror, the fall was not enough to kill her, or even break a bone. Her head blared with the pain of impact, her body paralyzed with the numbing shock of cold. She surfaced briefly, gasping desperately for air before being submerged again. And though she was always good at holding her breath, she found the talent absent when she needed it most, her world turning to black as the waters swept her away.

******

Anne-Marie awoke in unfamiliar surroundings, surrounded by unfamiliar men. They were French, at least–of that she was sure. Unfortunately, that meant that they were not angels, which meant that she was not in heaven. Nor could she be in hell, for she was sure all the demons would bear the face of Le Vicomte. As her vision slowly started to clear, her heart sank in her chest, realizing that even falling into dangerous waters and drowning would not be enough to free her.

“Ah, ma chérie, you are awake,” the man closest to her said. He smiled warmly at her, his bright eyes twinkling behind his half-rimmed spectacles. She assumed he was a doctor of some kind. The old man turned, addressing a younger man next to him.

“Tell Le Vicomte that his daughter is alive and well,” he said. “He will be glad to hear the news.”

The young man turned to leave the room. Anne-Marie tried so hard to reach her hand out to him, to cry out to him, to keep him from leaving. But she had no strength, and her outstretched hand was clasped by the doctors, who rubbed it to keep it warm.

“You must not overexert yourself, ma chérie,” he told her. “That was quite a nasty spill you took. It is a miracle of God that you are still alive.”

Anne-Marie’s vain hopes left her in the form of a sigh as she laid back on the reclining couch she’d been placed on. No righteous God would make an innocent girl suffer so, and certainly not save her when she wanted so desperately to die.

The doctor commanded the woman next to her as Anne-Marie resigned herself to her fate.

“Heat the kettle,” he instructed. “When it’s ready, bring her a cup of Chamomile tea–do not make her any other kind, understand? And warm some more towels and blankets so that they are ready once her current ones lose their heat. Until she is recovered, you will warm more every hour. And when I say warm, I mean warm, not hot. God help you, woman, if you make them too hot!”

“Yes, yes,” the nurse said dismissively, waving him off as she walked to the door. As she left, Le Vicomte entered, his fancy heels clicking on the wooden floor as he paced quickly towards her.

“How is she, doctor?” He asked the balding man.

“Remarkably well,” he explained. “She hit the back of her head during the fall, but appears to not be concussed or have any brain damage. She’ll have a splitting headache and a nasty bruise for a few days, but no lasting injuries. We were worried that she’d potentially swallowed water into her lungs, but a thorough examination proved that not to be the case. She is hypothermic, as I imagine anyone swimming in the St. Lawrence this time of year would be. She needs a week or so of rest, preferably by a warm fire. Other than that, she’s fine. She’s incredibly fortunate.”

“Yes, she is,” Le Vicomte murmured, glaring at his adopted daughter like a Python. He gestured to the door. “Do you mind? I’d like to have a moment alone with her.”

The doctor shifted uncomfortably. He looked at Anne-Marie, then at Le Vicomte. Whatever vicious aura the man emanated, the doctor seemed to know it. Whether it was by experience or intuition Anne-Marie could not tell.

“Of course,” the man said. “But I must return in a few minutes to continue her treatment. She is not out of this yet.”

“I understand," Le Vicomte returned. "Thank you, doctor.”

The sound of the door closing behind the doctor might as well have been a death knell. Anne-Marie feigned a waning consciousness, keeping her eyes off the man who towered over her, casting a sinister shadow. She could not muster the strength to hold her breath now, and his reeking perfume invaded her nostrils. She gasped in surprise as Le Vicomte lunged at her, gripping her jaw and forcing her face towards him.

“Look at me,” he snarled. “Look at me.”

She obeyed.

“Don’t you ever do something like that to me again. Do you understand?”

In the vise of his knuckles, she nodded.

“Do you understand?”

She nodded once more, tears forming in her eyes. Le Vicomte’s arms trembled with a poorly-hidden fury.

“Good,” he said. Then he brought his face to hers and kissed her, forcing his lips onto hers, holding her jaw in place so she could not turn away. Not that she’d have the strength to right now, but she tried what she could, hiding her tongue in the recesses of her mouth as he searched for it. After a few suffocating moments, he lifted his face from hers, and his grip on her loosened, his hand sweeping the tears on her cheeks away.

“You will never be put in harm’s way again,” he whispered to her. “Not by anyone. Not even yourself. You are too important to me, to the sons you will bear me. I will not let the whims of a foolish girl ruin my house the way it ruined yours.”

He backed away from her, eyes darting to the fine paintings hung in the room, to the flickering fire in the hearth.

“You could learn to love me, you know,” he said, trying to calm himself down. “If you welcomed me with open mind and open heart, stopped thinking of just yourself for once. I saved you, if you recall correctly. You and your brother were nothing before you came to me. Your father knew it–hell, he was the one who sent you, who begged for me to take you in. And out of the goodness of my heart I did. I saved you both, from poverty and ruin. You should be worshipping the ground I walk on, falling to your knees at my feet for rescuing you from that doomed and decrepit hovel.”

He closed his eyes, realizing he was losing his temper again. He took a deep breath, then sighed, running his hair through his greasy black hair to comb it back.

“I understand why you hate me,” he said. “I don’t even blame you, not really. But it was one thing to hate me when you were still a little girl. Now, you’re practically a woman. Forgive me if I expect you to be a little more mature. Another year, perhaps, and you’ll understand how the world works.”

He leaned down to kiss her again, but was interrupted by a knock on the door.

“Damn doctor,” he muttered under his breath.

He paced to the door and opened it. To his surprise, it was a soldier who greeted him.

“Mon Capitaine” the soldier shouted, saluting him. “You are our new captain, yes? Monsieur Jean-Pierre d’Harcourt?”

“Yes, yes,” Le Vicomte said. “What do you need?”

“I was instructed to find you as soon as you arrived. You and a company of your troops are to travel down-river to Le Fort Frontenac at once.”

“But I’ve only just arrived. I haven’t even unpacked!”

“Yes, Mon Capitaine. But his lordship Le Marquis is soon to conduct a vitally important diplomatic meeting, and he has specifically and urgently requested your presence.”

Le Vicomte sucked on his tongue, a vein on his forehead pulsing in annoyance.

“Fine,” he said. “Lead the way.”

He almost slammed the door behind him, but to Anne-Marie, it could not have been a sweeter sound. She closed her eyes, trying to settle the screaming pain in her head. Her mind and body was exhausted, but her heart would not let her sleep, lest Le Vicomte return while she was unconscious and unable to defend herself.

In a while, the nurse brought her tea and a new blanket, which helped. The doctor conducted a few more tests, and asked her some basic questions for his report. Part of her wanted to tell him the truth: that she had wanted to die, that it was the only way she could think to escape Le Vicomte. The knowing twinkle in his chestnut eyes told her he probably already knew. Not that he could do anything about it if he did. But he did insist on staying in her room until she was strong enough to stand, just in case. He explained it as a medicinal measure, in case she fell more ill and needed his attention immediately. But he sat his chair square in front of the door, and she could not help but notice the flintlock pistol hanging from his belt. As the fire crackled, the doctor’s gentle whistling soothed her to sleep, her mind at some strange peace for the first time she could remember. Perhaps the world was not some cold and uncaring place, if a stranger could know her worries so instantly, and even share in them, too.