Reckoning

A week later

We had fallen into an easy rhythm. Breakfast together when the scene concerned the two of us, or on my own if Tristan was already on set. He roamed the place with horses, sometimes with the child – Elise – in tow, sometimes with other actors. I had met some of them, his groom being the first man, and other people that came and went. Most of them french, aside from the main cast who still spoke French with brio. I had to admit I was impressed, even by those who learnt their text phonetically. I wasn’t half as proficient in Norwegian.

Tristan displayed his skill in his role, so impressive when he put on his persona. I could see the light in his eyes change when he picked it up, like a blanket or a mantle that covered him from head to toe. With the grey hair and beard, his costume fit him like a glove. As if he had been a horse dealer in the 17th century all his life. The stern way he treated anybody, included his daughter, spoke of being the one in charge. There was true affection too when he dealt with Elise, the perfect balance between a reformist head of family and a father. Seeing how easily he interacted with her, I had no doubt he was a wonderful father to his children.

We didn’t speak of the divorce much; it belonged to him. And we didn’t have much time alone with the insane hours. I made friends, and got along well with Marie most of all. Those costumes were little pieces of art, and I could only marvel at the details. She showed me how to mend shirts, the ancient way, and I never had enough of hearing her talk of old techniques.

As for my part, it took me a little while to get the hang of it. The text wasn’t an issue; I had few enough lines. But getting into another one’s skin was proving more difficult. After a few tries, I eventually managed to create my own mantle. Johan’s wife was supposed to be a gentle woman, less harsh than her husband, and rather subdued. But she loved him, and this wasn’t difficult to simulate for I held much affection for the man.

For the moment, we had only played one conversation; the one where my husband offered me a dress. I had called forth the fondness I held for Tristan so that it shone in my eyes. The director seemed satisfied enough by my performance, albeit I had trouble adjusting to the numerous cuts. Directions and technical conversations rendered things difficult, and I had a hard time creating my bubble to keep in persona. Tristan gave me a few tips, such as keeping away from anything remotely modern, or imagining what kind of life my character had led. I read much from the internet about how life would have been at the time, and more particularly, how people used to think. It wasn’t difficult, then, to realise that my character always deferred to her husband. Even if deep down, she didn’t agree. Such was their way of life. The husband made choices that affected the whole family, and had to live with the consequences. The world weighed upon his shoulders.

There were more scenes to come. More intimate settings and family moments. That would prove to be a challenge, because I had trouble bonding with the girl. I just didn’t know to handle her coldness towards me. I felt lacking; being a mother would have helped me greatly. Unfortunately, I was still an unmarried woman living a celibate life. My only other option was to create a bridge through her mother, which I intended to do so soon enough. If her mother warmed up to me, perhaps I could win the child over.

I woke up the second Tuesday with a strange sensation in the pit of my stomach. The first bite of my morning apple didn’t bring much satisfaction, and the moment I stood up, it nearly went the other way around. I fell on the cushioned bench heavily, blood draining from my face.

That ailment some of the crew had caught… it was my turn. Damn it ! I was sick. Fucking sick ! Three weeks out of fifty three where I needed to be at my best, and it had to be today ! I resisted the urge to bang my head on the formica table, and took deep breaths.

OH. MY. GOD.

Nope. It didn’t help, the breaths messed up with my stomach and I nearly threw up again. How was I going to handle this ?

8’00. They expected me on set, and I could barely read a text message before my head started swimming. I promised hell to the stupid virus who’d gotten me, and cursed a few times before burying myself in the wool coat. The simple exertion of pulling my arms through the sleeves left me damp. I slowly walked around the path that circled the domain. Too slowly, apparently, because I bumped into Tristan, already dressed, as I passed the corner.

I nearly toppled over and my hand flew to my mouth at once. Closing my eyes, I counted to five before opening them again. Tristan’s concerned look greeted me.

— “Are you all right ?”, he asked.

— “No !”

The actor was used to my nervousness by now, so he probably assumed I was just having a fit. But his gaze roamed over my face, and a crease formed between his eyebrows. His hands suddenly landed over my forearms, and I closed my eyes anew. Damn, I wanted to lay down so badly, my head was swimming again.

— “What’s wrong ?”

— “I’m… I’m sick. Of all moments and places, it has to be now ! Damn it, I’m so pissed. Just stay away, I don’t want to contaminate you as well”

His grip on my arms loosened, but he didn’t let go.

— “Fever ?”, he asked, his eyes roaming my pale face.

— “No… I just struggle to keep the apple down”

I eventually found the courage to take a peek at his face. He was thinking hard, his tongue darting over his upper lip – a habit I knew by now. Then he seemed to come to a decision, and turned me around, linking my arm with his.

— “All right. Change of plans, you will lie down for an hour or so, and I’ll go and talk to Pierre-Jean”

— “’k”

He walked me back to the trailer, and as the ground swam before my eyes, I wondered how I would refrain from throwing up. He opened the door for me, and settled me on the sofa. I laid down with a heart wrenching sigh, and he knelt beside me to catch my gaze.

— “Frances, is there any possibility you might be pregnant ?”

My eyes went wide with shock. Perhaps a little sadness, too, but I wasn’t too sure and I blushed. This was a subject I wasn’t ready to discuss with him yet.

— “No! no, impossible. Just sick. It won’t last, I’m just. I’m sorry. I’ll find a way to be make it work”

Tristan nodded then, his expression laced with relief. Relief ? No, I was probably imagining things.

— “All right. Get some rest, I’ll come by in an hour or two”

I grabbed his sleeve before he left.

— “Thank you. You are a great friend, Tristan. Always willing to save a damsel in distress”

His gaze softened, worry giving way to a fond expression as he looked me in the eye.

— “You’re welcome, my lady Frances. Get better”

And I closed my eyes, hoping to quell my uneasy stomach. Hence I wasn’t expecting when he bent over me, and pressed a kiss to my temple before leaving. The gesture left me breathless, and I spent the better part of the next hour remembering the softness of his lips over my moist skin to distract me from the nausea.

Two hours later

Pierre-Jean was understandably pissed, and I was worried. Frances was sick, and she couldn’t do anything about it.

When I found her in the trailer, she was sitting rather than laying down. The paleness of her face stroke me, and I stopped in my tracks. Eyes lost in nothingness, she made the prefect impression of a zombie. I nibble my upper lip with my teeth, wondering if I shouldn’t turn around before she spotted me... too late. Taking a deep breath, I knelt before her.

— “We… er. We rearranged the schedule. Pierre-Jean thought that we could do the death scene. You wouldn’t have to move, just lay down on the table and let me do the work.”

She nodded, a faint smile on her lips.

— “That’s good thinking. I think I can manage to play dead”

I cringed slightly at that as I stood but extended my hand to help her up. She grabbed my fingers and stood on wobbly feet.

— “Have you been able to drink something ?”

Her eyes widened, her skin taking on a green hue.

— “Ugh no ! I just can’t. This evening, maybe”

I was worried, and didn’t try to hide it. Compared to the young woman that climbed uphill like an ant scaled a tree, the contrast was striking.

— “Maybe you should…”

— “Don’t fuss over me. I feel like I let you down already. I don’t want to hinder us more than needed, it will be all right”

I pursed my lips in annoyance, but couldn’t really tell her otherwise. Damn the woman for her wisdom; we couldn’t afford the delay. The schedule was already pretty hectic at this point.

An hour later, she was laying down on the table inside the mansion, covered in false blood. The light was scarce inside, but it didn’t hide the contrast of her pale face – the make up artist had been ecstatic, her skin was just sallow enough for the part – with the crimson liquid.

I had no trouble calling forth my anguish as I slowly washed the blood away from her face as she supposedly died from her wounds. There was such a slow gap between acting and living, and I just needed to let those emotions run for the camera to capture. The intensity of my distress as my hands frantically washed the blood away startled me. As my throat constricted, I pulled Frances against me. She sagged against my chest, disarticulate, as a dying woman would. Her arms limps over mine, her head falling to the side, her eyes partially closed. I knew she was using her present weakness to infuse her persona, but deep down it terrified me. My heart kept wanting to jump out of my chest. My movements were a worrisome balance between frantic and controlled, and I kissed her brow again, almost desperate. My lips tasted her damp skin, marred with fake blood. It was too warm and I had trouble to let go. Wanting to feel the life in her, despite what the scene infused in me.

I don't know if Pierre-Jean had gathered that I wasn't in control anymore, but he said nothing; obviously, it worked for him. In this very moment, though, I was slowly loosing sight of the requirements of my role to inhabit Johan's despair.

And when, an hour later, she lay, motionless in the beautiful dress, for the burial ceremony to begin, I had more trouble keeping my eyes from leaking than calling the tears. The make-up was so realistic that her reddish hair seemed like a poorly painted trail over a wax doll. The sight of her motionless features send dread in my heart. As I lifted Elise, holding her like my life depended on her, realisation hit. My feelings for Frances were much stronger than I though. Had they ever been meek ? Had she ever been a friend ? When did I come to care for her so badly ?

For now, as I contemplated her death, I could only bow to my inner wisdom; I loved her. And since she didn’t love me back, I would have to crush this infatuation and cherish her from afar. She was in great need of a friend.