Redemption: Supernatural Time-Traveling Romance with Sci-fi and Metaphysics (19 page)

At these words, Isabelle’s heart
seems to skip a beat. She had briefly forgotten the reason for her presence
here and for being scrubbed and combed into respectability. Now she recalls
what is going to happen later and she has a stab of worry. Even the light
massage that follows her bath, after she has been rinsed off with spring water
and rubbed dry with soft linen, does not quite manage to alleviate her concern.

I wonder if it’s true what they say,
she thinks, as Lucie pours scented oil onto her back and begins to ease the
muscles between Isabelle’s shoulders.
Is
it really always painful the first time you have sex?

At last, the preparations are
complete and, now dressed in a silky nightdress, Isabelle is shown into a large
bedroom.

“Wait here for the master,” says
Lucie curtly, placing a lit candle on the dressing table before stalking out of
the room.

Left alone, Isabelle paces around
the room, tense and nervous.

I really hope it doesn’t hurt. If I didn’t need the money, I feel I
would run away right now. But fifty livres! That’s a huge amount. What if he
doesn’t find me pleasing in bed, though? Maybe he will decide not to pay me
after all.

Her thoughts are interrupted by
the creak of the door opening and she turns to see Jean-Pierre entering the
room. He stops and looks at her as though this is the first time he has seen
her.

“You are looking beautiful, my
dear,” he says with a smile. In his hand is a sheaf of papers and he lays these
next to the candle on the dressing table. “Fifty livres, as promised.”

Isabelle walks over and looks at
the notes, more money than she has ever seen.

“Shall we?” she turns to see Jean-Pierre
pulling back the sheets and gesturing for her to join him. A new look has crept
into his eyes, a look of desire. But it is not the unpleasant, hungry look such
as that she saw in the fat man’s eyes. It is a simple longing without
aggression or malice. So, feeling slightly less nervous, Isabelle climbs into
the bed.

The love-making does not last
long, and though it is painful, it is not as terrible as she imagined it would
be. As Jean-Pierre rolls himself off her, he looks concerned for Isabelle and
pulls back the sheets to reveal the blood.

“Oh!” he says, his eyebrows
raised. “Were you a virgin?”

“Yes,” says Isabelle, still
winching at the pain and hardly able to speak.

“I am your first lover.”

It is not a question, but still
she replies, “Yes. You are.”

They lay there in silence
together until Jean-Pierre says, “I would like to give you a dress that belonged
to my wife.” Then, as Isabelle pulls back the covers to get out of the bed, he
lays a hand on her arm. “Will you stay with me, Isabelle? For the night?”

She looks around the room, and
wonders if she has ever slept in such fine surroundings, even as a child before
her parents died. The idea of returning to sleep in the slums after being
washed and taken care of is almost unthinkable.

“Thank you,” she says. “I would
like that very much.”

In the morning, she is awoken by Jean-Pierre
with that same look of desire in his eyes, and she lies back and closes her
eyes as he pulls himself onto her again. If anything it hurts even more than
the previous night, but she refuses to let him know and grits her teeth against
the pain.

What animals these men are, she thinks
as he finally reaches his climax. Still, it is not too great a price to eat
well, bathe and be paid so handsomely.

~

“As promised,” says Jean-Pierre,
drawing back the curtain to reveal a closet filled with dresses. “Choose one
and it is yours.”

They have already eaten breakfast
together, sitting in the dining room as before. This time there were more
servants waiting on them, including Lucie, who was still giving Isabelle the
cold shoulder. There had been eggs, a selection of meats, porridge and bread,
all a delight for Isabelle. And now she finds herself presented with this
wonderful selection of dresses.

What luxury
, she thinks as she looks
through the beautiful clothes.
I guess
Jean-Pierre’s wife was a bit taller than me, but she had a wonderful collection.
And I’m sure I can afford to get the dress altered to fit me.

In the end, she settles on a
skirt and bodice, instead of a single dress, and Jean-Pierre lets her take a
hat that he says matches her eyes. Excited, she pulls on the clothes and the
hat and looks into a full length mirror standing in a corner of the room.
There, staring right back at her, is a fine-looking young lady with
clothing
to grow
into and
a big smile on her face.

“You truly are beautiful, my dear,”
says Jean-Pierre, admiring her from the doorway. And, Isabelle’s smile grows
even wider at this, the first complement a man has ever given her.

“So where are you going now?” he
asks and, at first, Isabelle is uncertain what to say. She feels ashamed of her
dirty shelter in the city slums. Then she remembers a place she stayed
occasionally with her aunt, where, although everyone sleeps together in one
large room, they do at least have protection from the elements and even get to
eat warm porridge each morning, all for only two livres a night. She can
certainly afford that now!

“I am going to stay in a boarding
house,” she replies, “near the river.”

Jean-Pierre frowns. He clearly
has some idea of life in a boarding house. “Really? And you’re going there in
these beautiful clothes?”

“No, of course,” she says,
hastily taking off her hat and beginning to unlace the bodice. “I will change.”

“There’s no need for that,” he
says, putting his hand on her to stop her undressing. “Why don’t you stay here?
At least for a while. I have a spare room and it is a shame to let it go to
waste.”

“Well,” asks Isabelle innocently,
with more than a little female cunning. “Does this mean I am to become your
mistress?”

Jean-Pierre nods his agreement. “You,
my dear, shall have all the privileges that come with being a mistress.”

“And I presume you wish to
receive the privileges of
having
a
mistress.” She gives him a playful look, holding his gaze for a moment. “Thank
you, Jean-Pierre.”

~

In the days that follow,
Isabelle begins to settle into life with Jean-Pierre.

This is a good choice
, she keeps
saying to herself, especially at those times when the sex is painful and leaves
her sore for days after.
I have a roof
over my head, good food to eat and most importantly of all, money. Money is
what I really need. That is the only thing that will provide me with true
independence and freedom.

Isabelle also enjoys the company
of Jean-Pierre’s two sons, Philippe and Jean. They are both under ten years old
and most days an elderly teacher comes to the house to school them in such
things as reading and writing, math, history and geography. On one morning, Jean-Pierre
finds Isabelle sitting outside the room when the teacher is speaking, her ear
pressed again the door.

“Isabelle?” he says.

She turns quickly, her cheeks
flushing. “Yes?”

“Do you enjoy listening to the
boys’ lessons?”

“Oh, yes!” she says. “So many
wonderful things to learn and to find out about. They’re fascinating.”

A kindly smile spreads across Jean-Pierre’s
face. “Would you like to sit in with Philippe and Jean? You can take part in
the lessons properly then instead of sitting out here in the hall.”

“Really?” Isabelle asks, excited
at the idea and the chance to learn.

“Of course, my dear. And while
you’re in there, you can also help to keep my boys in line. They’re not always
so keen to listen!”

Delighted to have this
opportunity, Isabelle does as Jean-Pierre asks, and joins in with the boys’
education as often as she can. Of all the lessons, the one taught by Antoine,
the music teacher, is Isabelle’s favorite and, when she thinks that no one is
around, she sits at the piano and practices what she has learned.

If there is one thing that spoils
her happiness at Jean-Pierre’s house, it is the animosity of the housekeeper,
Lucie. No matter what Isabelle does, Lucie treats her with a cold contempt,
refusing to speak to her or even look at her unless she cannot avoid it. It is
so bad, in fact, that whenever they are both in the same room, Isabelle finds
herself feeling tense and awkward, as though she should apologize for even
existing.

After several months living at
the house, however, as Isabelle heads to her bedroom one day, she stops at the
muffled sound of someone sobbing. Retracing her steps, she finds that it is
coming from Lucie’s room. The door is ajar, so she eases it open to find the
housekeeper with her head in her hands.

At first Isabelle begins to duck
back out of the room, but Lucie’s grief sounds so genuine and heartfelt that
she stops on the threshold, looking at the woman with a growing sense of pity.
Finally, she decides to comfort her and, sitting down on the bed, places an arm
around Lucie’s shoulders.

The housekeeper looks up in
surprise and, shrugging off Isabelle’s arm, tries to keep herself from crying.
After only a few seconds, however, her face crumples and she starts sobbing
again.

“It’s okay,” says Isabelle,
placing her arm back across Lucie’s shoulders and hugging her gently. “It’s
good to cry. Let it out, Lucie. It will help you to feel better.”

Lucie does so,
weeping
bitterly with great sobs and sighs
for a long time. Eventually, she
manages to say a few words.

“My son. He’s dead. My lovely
baby boy. Dead.” And she returns to her crying again.

Isabelle suddenly finds herself
overwhelmed with sorrow for this poor woman. “Oh, my poor Lucie,” she says,
hugging her even harder as tears well up in her own eyes. “I know how terrible
it feels to miss someone you loved. Someone you have lost.”

Soon they are both weeping
together in each other’s arms, united at last by mutual grief and compassion.

“I had a man once,” says Lucie as
her sorrow begins to ease. “A man who loved me. He was a brave man, a soldier. But
he was killed fighting the Spanish, leaving me all alone with Guillaume, our
baby son.” She pauses to wipe her eyes with a damp handkerchief before
continuing. “We had no money and no man to provide for us so I had to leave our
village to come to Paris to find work. Guillaume stayed behind with a nurse, a
good woman, and I visited when I could. But there is little time for family
when you are a servant for the rich. Every time I visited Guillaume I hated
having to leave. It was like my heart being torn out each time.”

“But what else could you have
done?” asks Isabelle, placing a comforting hand on Lucie’s.

“Nothing. I had no choice. If I
took him with me, how could I work? Besides, I had a plan. I was going to save
up for Guillaume to come to Paris and be educated here.”

“Did he ever come to the city?”

“No.” Lucie’s eyes flicked down
as tears filled them again. “He fell sick with a terrible fever. He wouldn’t
eat anything and became horribly weak.”

Isabelle remembers her aunt
suffering just the same symptoms and knows how frightened Lucie must have been.
“It was the wasting sickness?”

“Yes,” Lucie nods. “I got the
doctor to see him, but there was nothing he could do. He told me to pray and
rely on God’s mercy. Much good that did. My dear Guillaume passed away only
days before his seventh birthday. Why is it that the people we love are taken
away?” She starts sobbing again, overwhelmed by the painful memories. Isabelle
sits in silence, still holding her tightly. Eventually the tears slow again and
Lucie looks up into her face. “I’m sorry, Isabelle.”

“For what?” she replies. “For
crying? Don’t be silly!”

“Not for my tears. I am sorry for
how I treated you, for my arrogance and unkindness.”

Isabelle smiles at her, and holds
Lucie’s face in her hands. “Think nothing of it, Lucie. Let’s start again.”

And, smiling through their tears,
Lucie puts her arms around Isabelle and Isabelle, in turn, embraces her new
friend.

Chapter Eighteen

I
f you’re going to make your way among the rich, you’ve got to be
smart!” says Lucie when they are alone in the kitchen a few days later. “A girl
like you can make a lot of money if you play it right.”

Isabelle picks up her cup of wine
and sips it as she considers her friend’s words. “I thought I was doing quite
well already,” she says.

“Quite well, yes. You’ve managed
to get this far.” She waves an arm at their surroundings. “But this can’t be
all you want. Look at me. I fought hard to get this position after Jean-Pierre’s
wife died, but I don’t want to be a housekeeper for the rest of my life!” She
leans closer, looking around as though checking for hidden spies. “I’ve spent
years getting to know influential people, helping them out by delivering
messages, keeping their secrets, that sort of thing. I’m going places,
Isabelle. One day, I’ll get out of here and buy myself a nice house. After
that, I’ll open my own salon for the upper class men and women of Paris. What
about you?” She fixes Isabelle with a stare. “You like living here?”

“Of course! It’s wonderful. You
should have seen where I was living before. It was horrible. And frightening
too.”

“And what about Jean-Pierre?”
says Lucie, peering over the rip of her cup. “You like him as well?”

Isabelle shrugs. “He’s okay, I
suppose. But he’s very old. And he can be a bit rude sometimes.”

“And what about in bed? How do
you like that?”

“Not one bit!” says Isabelle,
placing her cup firmly on the table and causing a little of the wine to spill
out onto the table. “He’s like some kind of wild animal, grunting and rutting
away.”

Lucie lifts a hand to wipe her
mouth, hiding her amused grin. “Don’t worry, my dear. Not all men are like
that. In fact, some of them are very sweet, true
gentle
men.”

“That’s a relief. Do you know
such men?”

“Oh, yes!” Lucie raises her
eyebrows, trying to affect a mysterious look, before draining the last of her
wine. “Yes, I know a few…” Leaving her words hanging, she gets up from the
table and returns to her work of getting the house ready to settle down for the
night. Isabelle, still sipping her drink, watches her friend at work.

It’s so lovely to have a true friend
,
she thinks.
I never really had one
before, and Lucie is exactly what I’ve always needed. Someone who will help me
to get free from the poverty I was born into. Someone who will help me to get
what I want.

When she wakes the following
morning, easing herself out from beneath the covers to look out at the winter
sun lighting up the city, she feels somehow that there is something new coming,
just out of sight over the horizon, a new world that she is only just starting
to realize exists. She flings open her wardrobe and admires the two dresses it
contains together with her other clothes. Fingering the exquisitely embroidered
fabrics, she smiles at this treasure that is now hers.

They’re so beautiful!

Her thoughts are interrupted by a
knock at the door and Lucie enters the room carrying a breakfast tray. She
places it on the dressing table and turns to Isabelle.

“How are you feeling this bright
morning, my dear?” she asks.

“Great!” says Isabelle, still
standing in front of the wardrobe. “I slept like a baby last night, mostly
thanks to the fact that Jean-Pierre didn’t come in for his night’s activities.”

Lucie peers over her shoulder to
see what she is looking at. “What have you got in there?”

“Just a few dresses that he’s
given me since I arrived here.” She steps to one side so her friend can see
into the wardrobe.

“He gave you these?” says Lucie,
reaching in and pulling one of the dresses out, a burgundy colored piece
fashioned from velvet and lace. “What a load of trash!”

Isabelle turns round in
astonishment. “Trash?”

“That’s right, trash! Look at
this thing. This style hasn’t been in fashion for twenty years, at least!”

“Oh.” A look of disappointment
shadows Isabelle face and her cheeks flush slightly. “Oh, really?”

“Indeed! They’re outdated and
tasteless. You see this neckline?” Lucie runs a finger along the dress’s seam
and her friend nods. “That shows it’s at least fifteen years old. And the fall
of the skirt is far too narrow. No, no! These won’t do at all. You’ll have to
get new dresses.”

“But these dresses were a gift
from Jean-Pierre,” says Isabelle, taking the dress from Lucie and hanging it carefully
back in the wardrobe.

“Are you telling me these dreary
garments are his payment for making love to a young beauty like you?”

“Not exactly. He gave them to me
because he wants me to look nice.”

“Hah!” Lucie shuts the door as if
trying to hide the dresses from her sight. “He wants you to look like his
dreary old wife!” She pauses, her back pressed against the wardrobe, and looks
at her friend. “Tell me, Isabelle, do you love him?”

She frowns. “Jean-Pierre? No. Not
at all. But he’s not a bad catch for someone like me. What other choice do I
have?”

“Oh, you have choice! Your age,
your face, your figure, you have everything going for you.”

Isabelle blushes again at Lucie’s
compliments. “But I’m just a girl from the slums.”

“Who cares where you came from?
It’s where you’re going that matters. So next time he offers you one of his
dead wife’s dreary dresses, ask him for some money instead so you can buy
yourself a proper dress, one that’s in vogue. A girl like you deserves a better
dress, and you’ll need one to get yourself a better man!”

“I can’t ask that. A new dress
would be way too expensive.”

“Well, don’t ask him for the
whole lot all at once. Get it out of him in installments, little by little.
Trust me, he’ll give you the money. Now,” she adds, walking over to the dresser
and picking up the breakfast tray with a grin, “are you going to eat this
before it goes cold or have I been slaving away downstairs for nothing?”

~

Over the next few days, Isabelle
quizzes Lucie on her ideas and adventures, amazed by this new friend’s
experience of the life and the ways things worked in higher society. This
surely is that new world she sensed was coming. Maybe she really does have a
chance to find a good man, a rich man; a man like the one she saw all that time
ago, in what seems now like another life; the man whose horse had knocked into
her as she walked the freezing streets at night; the man who gave her the money
that allowed her just a glimmer of hope to better herself and so to crawl out
of the muck and filth. In quiet moments, Isabelle imagines meeting that
gentleman again, his graceful hands holding hers, his elegant moustache caressing
her cheek, his triangle hat resting on her knees.

Walking the city streets has
become something of a pleasure for her, now that she can choose to rather than
being forced to by circumstances. And as she does so, Isabelle studies the
dress of the fashionable Paris women, taking note of everything they are
wearing from their bodices and skirts to their gloves, shoes and even their scarves.
Each item is subjected to her scrutiny as she considers which might suit her
and which would not. It becomes all too clear that Lucie was right. The dresses
that belonged to Jean-Pierre’s wife are old, their style now obsolete. But at
the same time, Isabelle finds that, as she studies the latest fashions she sees
around her, an image of
her
ideal dress
starts to form in her mind. She is surprised at how effortless this dress comes
to her in the most intricate detail. It is almost like it designs itself!

As soon as Isabelle has enough
money, given by Jean-Pierre instead of those old dresses, Lucie takes her to
visit a skilled seamstress friend of hers and, a few days later, she finds
herself standing in her room gazing at herself in the mirror as she wears the
dress of her dreams.

I can’t believe it
, she thinks,
admiring the lines of the dress and the way it accentuates the growing curves
of her body.
It worked. Lucie’s plan
really worked. Jean-Pierre could have given me twenty dresses, instead of the
money, and they would have been nothing compared to this one, beautiful outfit.
She performs a little twirl in the mirror, laughing to herself.

“Not bad!” she turns at the sound
of Lucie’s voice, feeling a little embarrassed. But a pleased smile lights up
her friends face. “You really are gorgeous, Isabelle.”

“Thank you,” says Isabelle. “And
thank you for all your help. I can hardly believe this is really my dress.”

“Well, we’re not done yet!”

Isabelle turns to look at herself
in the mirror. “We’re not?”

“Of course not,” says Lucie,
walking over and beginning to tie up her friend’s hair. “We need to get you the
right accessories, shoes, hat, gloves, that sort of thing.” She traces
Isabelle’s neckline with a finger. “And then there’s the jewelry, of course.”

“Jewelry?”

“Yes. Expensive jewelry!”

Isabelle frowns at her friend in
the mirror. “I barely had enough money for this dress. Where am I going to get
enough money for that sort of thing?”

“Well, you can sell those crappy,
old dresses for a start,” says Lucie with a wry smile. “They may not be
fashionable, but they’re well-made and probably worth a bit of money. Enough
for some shoes and stockings at least.”

“Fine. But what about the
jewelry?”

Now it is Lucie’s turn to frown
as she considers this. Then she shrugs. “We’ll work something out, don’t worry.
But you definitely need it. There!” she adds, stepping back to look at her
friend. “All you need now is some powder and rouge for your lips and cheeks and
you’ll be the most sought after woman in Paris!”

Isabelle gazes into the mirror.
With her hair up and wearing this dress she can hardly recognize herself as the
girl who walked the city streets at night only a few months ago.

“Thank you, Lucie,” she says,
moved almost to tears. “For everything.”

Lucie smiles. “You’re a fine
canvas to work with. You’ll be a hit at the coming ball.”

Isabelle spins round, her mouth
open. “A ball?”

~

The following days seem to pass
far too slowly for Isabelle. She is so excited about the idea of going to the
ball she feels as though she might burst. Eventually, though the news she has
been waiting for arrives.

“Jean-Pierre will be leaving for
the hunt the day after tomorrow,” says Lucie, hurrying into the room where
Isabelle is sitting at the piano, humming along to a tune she is trying to
master. “He could be away for as long as three, even four, weeks!”

Isabelle stops playing and jumps
to her feet, almost knocking the stool over. “Wonderful!” she says. “Whereabouts
is he going?”

“Oh, a long way away,” Lucie
flaps her hand dismissively. “To the forests around Limoges. It’s at least a
four-day journey.”

“So this is it? Our chance to go
to the ball?”

Lucie smiles at her friend’s
excitement. “Yes. It’s time to act!”

Two days later, after much
preparation, Jean-Pierre mounts his horse for the long journey south, taking
with him a number of servants, hunting dogs and the various weapons that might
be needed for the sport. Once the party is ready, with the cooking staff and
food loaded up into a wagon, they set out, leaving the house strangely quiet
and empty.

Lucie has also been busy with her
preparations and has used her influential contacts to arrange invitations for
her and Isabelle to attend a high-society ball. No sooner has the hunt party
disappeared along the street than she and Isabelle set to work planning for the
ball, which is only a few days away.

Since Isabelle still has no
jewelry to wear, Lucie lends her some of her own, a pearl necklace with
matching earrings that accentuate the elegant style of her new dress.

A few hours later, with their
hair done up and faces powdered and rouged, they arrive at the stately rooms
for the ball. And it is not just any ball, but a masquerade with an assortment
of fancy masks handed out to guests as they arrive. Isabelle selects a simple design
that conceals as little of her face as possible. Lucie, however, chooses an
ornate, feathered mask with a beaked nose that makes her appear like a playful
bird.

“How do I look?” she asks,
holding the mask up to her face and walking with a seductive swing to her hips.
A few men hanging around the entrance hall stare at her, eyeing up the bulging
mass of her breasts, which are barely stuffed into her bodice. In contrast to
her friend, Isabelle feels shy and is afraid to look up, a feeling that
increases as they enter the ballroom together and hundreds of pairs of eyes
turn in their direction.

Everyone is looking at us
, she thinks
with a mixture of fear and shame.
Thank
goodness we’re wearing these masks, otherwise I’d die of embarrassment.

No sooner have they taken a few
steps into the room, its white marble surfaces dazzling in the light of the
candelabra, than a man comes scuttling up to them, his round face hidden behind
a mask with bull horns. He peeps over the top of it and winks at Lucie.