MADEMOISELLE OF THE AMETHYST

❝

AFTER SUCCUMBING to her emotions while in bed with the tears gliding freely across her cheeks, Charlotte was effectively jerked out of her mournful spirits by the maidservants. A soft jingle of silver brushes and the rustling sound of linen skirts poured down from above as the maids moved very quietly. It was like clockwork in their movements, being acutely aware not to disturb the heavy air of lamentation still clinging around their young lady like mourning veils.

While at the vanity, Charlotte sat unmoving, her hands placidly resting in her lap, eyeless. Her features, elegant and composed, were the facade of one struck into silence. Behind it was the fury of grief, dimly pulsing.

They combed the raven-black locks upon her hair, powdered the pale face to perfection, as though beauty might drown the ever-impending ache until it all came to naught. 

"Lady Charlotte," said one brighter young lady of a maid, and then offered a suggestion: "It would be lovely if you would stir your face this way. Today is a very special day."

Alternatively, Charlotte blinked away again, forcing a twist of her lips, a bought smile bent and waved from the further corner, too brittle and not at all genuine for someone with a heart. The maid returned to her work, her face breaking characteristic poise only momentarily before returning with head bowed to arranging Charlotte's hair with utmost accuracy.

Two other maids kneaded the folds of her sapphire day gown, deft and gentle. The maids knew better than to broach the swollen areas under her eyes left as a memory of yesterday night or the white fluff of the tears still stuck upon her lashes. Grief had no place in a celebration—at least, not in this house. 

A knock came at the door just as they were finishing putting the last few pins in her hairdo.

"My lady," came the voice from the other side of the door, "the carriage is ready." 

With that message, Charlotte shuddered. The carriage: the city: the preparations. The whisper of her mother from the scene earlier almost evicted her throat with cold fingers. "You will marry the Crown Prince. You will do as we say."

Slowly she rose, every movement conspicuously deliberate. The skirts of her gown rustled across the floor as the maids bowed low and stepped back. Yet once she hit the main hall, her steps faltered, the click of polished shoes accompanied by flowing silks on either side. 

Countess Cordelia Deloney stood by the door, regal in a dove-gray gown decorated with silver embroidery, her gloved hands resting demurely in front of her. Her gaze was sharp, poised, and devoid of warmth. Like a queen awaiting an audience she was reluctant to entertain.

Charlotte's breath was caught. Her heart was thundering now, louder than the silence that flared between them. She did not bow. Did not curtsey. She simply stared, lips pressed tightly together, attempting to swallow the resentment that was clawing its way up her throat.

Then a softer voice cut right through the tension. 

"You both look absolutely splendid," said Lady Eleanor, walking smoothly into the hall, dressed in rose velvet, a rare salve for the atmosphere. She went up to Charlotte first, giving her a curt nod of reassurance, before turning to Cordelia with the formal civility that masked a well-worn tension existing between the two women.

Charlotte stepped outside, praying for the cool air to numb her emotions, but even the breeze could do nothing to ease the tightening sensation in her chest. The waiting carriage gleamed under the morning sun, its doors wide open, the velvet interior on show. A seal of luxury—and of imprisonment.

Without uttering a word, the Countess entered first, head held high. Charlotte hesitated on the threshold, suddenly feeling the rush of her own blood hammering. Thoughts screamed, "Entering means losing another piece of myself."

Lady Eleanor laid a gentle hand on her arm. "Come, darling. Let us get this over with, hmm?"

Reluctantly, Charlotte climbed in, settling herself opposite her mother, with Eleanor beside her. As the carriage began to roll forward with wheels crunching over gravel, silence thickened like a funeral pall over them.

Cordelia gazed outside and said nothing. Not a word had been exchanged between her and Charlotte since last night; the message left over lingered in the air like smoke. In this lifeless quiet, Charlotte's fingers clutched the folds of her skirt. Every second with her mother was yet another inch added to the tightening rope around her throat. 

The eve of her eighteenth birthday—an occasion that should have felt like promise, like possibility. Instead, she felt like a lamb dressed for the altar.

Charlotte pressed her cheek against the cool glass of the carriage window, staring blankly at the world passing by. The cobbled streets, the cheerful awnings, the gazillion bustling people—all felt so far from the suffocating reality she had come to accept. Outside, the world felt free, while she was stuck somewhere between the past and the present, bound to the future she had never chosen.

As the carriage rattled past, its rhythmic hooves and wheels forever interrupted the heavy silence hanging between mother and daughter. Cordelia sat poised across from her with a steady gaze, fixated on some distant thought. Every passing second saw Charlotte's grip on the folds of her gown tighten, along with that tightening in her chest.

The silence had been prolonged, but finally Cordelia broke it, her voice ringing in the air, frosty and commanding. "We shall go to the museum afterward; it may change your mind about the things." Her tone left no chance for argument.

Charlotte felt a twist in her stomach. It was an easily recognized strategy—her mother thought that beauty and culture could heal the fractured bits, that a couple of paintings and silks would somehow dissipate her expectations. No, far from it. She jerked her gaze to her mother's face: there was partial resolution entering its ice-cold demeanor. This time it was an even heavier stretch of silence, much more suffocating.

The carriage jolted in the turn, but Charlotte remained oblivious. She gazed past the mother, with her darkening memory of an outside world beckoning to take her in. Out there was life, not meant for her.

Soon the carriage began to lower, and Vercesia filled the air with sights and sounds. Like a jewel, the town lay spread in front of them in a valley, beautifully tucked under a canopy of greenery. Life was rumbling through the streets and swarming with all kinds of people in the market. Brightly colored awnings danced in the morning breeze, blissfully warming the crisp air.

Vercesia was a town striking in its lovely contradiction; graceful yet joyful, rustic but cultured. The cobbled streets glistened in light, the surface having been polished by many years of footsteps, each one adding to the glories of the town. The sun reigned high above, throwing its golden rays onto the town square like warm tapestries. The green foliage of the vigorous trees planted along the edges of the square swayed woefully in the gentle wind, providing interludes of shade every now and then to those who sought for refuge under it. 

The buildings were a picturesque fusion of the old with the very almost new; wrought iron balconies were delicately enhanced by flowers spilling over in a riot of colors. Everywhere Charlotte set her eyes, the town seemed to be thrumming with life—couples walking with arms entwined, children laughing with glee, and shopkeepers calling out to passersby. But to Charlotte, all of this felt distant, a dream she was unable to attain.

As the carriage came into a halt, another sound broke the quiet chatter of the town—a clamor of paper men rushing toward the edge of the square, hawking the latest headlines. Their papers carried news of the recent Grenswood incident, chronicling the unfortunate collapse of a noble carriage. The town buzzed with gossip concerning the mystical reasons behind the fall.

"That Grenswood incident, certainly the most recent and mysterious news of the day," Cordelia mused, her gaze fixed outside to where the streets swarmed with people eager to buy newspapers and get an update on the latest happenings. 

"Here ye! Here ye! Fresh newspaper! Hot off the press!" And there went one vendor's call, soaring above the chatter of the square. 

As the local talk of Grenswood, the secrets surrounding the collapsed noble carriage had been posted on every bulletin board and passionately discussed in hushed tones amongst the townsfolk. The town had been cast under the spell of the incident, the allure proving irresistible.

Slowly the carriage progressed down the road, its smooth gliding motion immediately brought to a halt, jerking both Charlotte and Cordelia forward. The sudden stop confused them; poised, Cordelia leaned forward and gave a little tap on the carriage door. "Hmm, why the delay?" she asked coolly.

From the front, the coachman spoke, "Seems to be a matter of public concern, Madam." 

A sense of foreboding crept into Charlotte, who was peering through the window. Her heart sank within her at the sight before her. A drunken man was standing in the center of the road, angrily raising his hands against a woman with a child. The child was clinging to the frightened face of the mother. 

She smothered a gasp in her throat. As a woman, she understood their vulnerability, and watching that abuse threw her into abyssal deep sorrow; holding the edge of the window with both hands, she uttered nothing as the weight of sorrow pressed upon her chest. 

Lady Eleanor, who was quietly watching next to her, spoke in a whisper. "We cannot allow this," her tone was firm but low.

Charlotte's heart raced; she was torn between wanting to do something and feeling impossibly powerless. 

Without thinking twice, Charlotte opened the door wide while feeling her heart race with the effort as she prepared to jump. But before her feet could even touch the ground, her mother's hand shot out, grabbing her wrist with an unexpected grip. 

"Charlotte, don't be foolish," Cordelia's voice cut in sharply, tightening her grip on her daughter's arm; "Let the Marsheries handle this. It's not your place." 

Charlotte was frozen between wanting to intervene and her mother's heavy, unyielding command. Her eyes flicked back to the horrible scene ahead-the pleading faces of the mother and child and the overpowering gesture of the man all hung above them. 

The rush came back in a thunderstorm in her ears. "I can't just stand idle and do nothing," thought Charlotte, the weight of her conscience resting like a stone in her heart. Her hands curled into fists by her sides. "But this isn't right, Mother," she answered, her voice shaking with emotion. "How can you let this happen? Just stand by and do nothing while they're hurt... it's a crime against humanity!" 

She sensed her mother weaken for a second, but in the next moment, her hold clamped tighter as if Cordelia were on the verge of too-panic. "Charlotte," Cordelia warned, her voice laced with fear now. "You don't know what you're doing. There are people here who can make this right. Don't make this worse." 

But Charlotte would not hear. She slipped out from under her mother's tightening grip, knowing now for sure what she was going to do. With one determined stride, she stepped out of the carriage, her heart paining for defiance, a desperate urge to do right what should no longer be witnessed. 

Lady Eleanor, having been calm and composed, stepped between Cordelia and Charlotte with a firm but gentle hand on Cordelia's arm, preventing any further protest.

Cordelia turned to Eleanor, panic and beseechment on her face, but Eleanor kept her steady glance upon Cordelia, shaking her head slightly. While her understanding of Eleanor somehow quelled Cordelia's panic, it was certainly not anger in her eyes. The older woman took in a deliberate breath, sprouted her lips to impart something, simply nodded, and softened her gaze.

Cordelia sagged at the shoulders and sank back into her chair, eyeing Charlotte as she walked toward the scene with growing trepidation. Her lips quivered—one side wanting to protect her daughter while understanding the need for her daughter to be there. 

Irresolutely, with quite a dignified step, Charlotte moved on toward the drunkard, her voice calm and firm. "Stop this at once," she commanded, her tone was sharp yet controlled, a statement of her noble upbringing and strength of character.

The sudden diversion had surprised the man; slowly, his eyes narrowed as he swung toward Charlotte. His countenance was then crestfallen with disbelief and further flushed with rage and drunkenness. He staggered back, his senses dulled by surprise as if caught uncritically in the glances of the gathered crowd. 

With his anger suddenly activated, he pointed a trembling finger at Charlotte and, on the other hand, brandished a bottle against her. "Stay out of this, you noblewoman! This is a matter between common folk!" he spat with slurred, venomous words. "This woman is a thief!" 

Charlotte held her head high and fixed her eyes on the man with calm resolution. "First, show some respect," she said, her voice steady. "You are creating a disturbance in the middle of the road, thereby putting a smudge on yourself and your peers. This is no way to behave in front of people." 

Charlotte turned to the woman, a sympathetic expression softening her face. "I believe you. He is lying," Charlotte said gently, but with some firmness. "You were only trying to return his wallet. His drunkenness has clouded all his judgment." 

With trembling hands, the woman nodded her thanks to Charlotte, her voice filled with gratitude. "Yes, young lady, I picked it up to return it to him. But before I could speak, he accused me of stealing." 

Charlotte's gaze returned to the drunkard-her expression hard and unyielding. "You are the one in the wrong. It is cowardly to accuse innocent people to hide your own shame." This last utterance cut through the air with authority that left no room for questioning. "You are causing a scandal, which will bring shame not only upon yourself but also on those who witness it. You are shaming our town." 

The bastard, shaking with fury, gave a wild swing with the bottle. "YOU DARE SPEAK TO ME, GIRL?" he hissed, the bottle raised high.

Charlotte stood her ground, addressing the crowd, arms spread a little. "I ask you all to see the reason. This woman has done no wrong. It is this man's intoxication and ignorance that has led to this situation. I implore you to recognize the truth."

The drunkard's wrath had burgeoned far beyond the bounds of reason. In one sudden movement, he smashed the bottle against the cobbled street, letting the sharp shards fly off in all directions with a menacing intent. His ire had now intensified beyond words, and the mob before him instinctively shrunk back, some stepping back in fright.

Before Charlotte could calculate repercussions, the man lunged toward her with the sinister intent of smashing her visage with the broken bottle. She never thought an attack like that would come, and in that split second, she barely saved herself from the intimidation of the glimmering sight of glass, while a dangerous reminder of the opposite contemplated the state of that man. Her heart raced as she focused on shielding the lady and child from further peril. 

The introduction of an unforgiving stranger into the ranks of the crowd signaled a shift in the whole scenario. His approach was indescribably confident, a calm precise execution set, as though it had been rehearsed ahead of time. Wisely, the aggressor lifted off the right arm and quickly twisted it behind the man's back: down came the application of a swift move, and with it down fell the drunken one. The young man never stood about while the drunken man squirmed; he simply kept him from escaping.

Then, with intention unclouded, the young man delivered a low-voiced but unambiguously forceful statement: "Your actions are beneath even the lowest common standard of decency." 

The drunkard struggled harder, but the man stood still. Instead, he put just enough pressure on the locked arm to remind the drunkard of his state of helplessness. The crowd around them had somehow entered a trance; they were all regarding this man with awe, like an untouched force.

"I will repeat myself once," the young man said, yet barely above a whisper, but with every letter heard. "You will cease from harassing these people. Now." 

The anger and confusion on the drunkard's face twisted, but nothing could be done; he was compelled to drop the threatening bottle under the tightening grip of the young man.

The young man then let go, brushed the palms of his hands across his coat in a lazy manner, mechanical, as if it was nothing more than a minor delay. He lowered his gaze casually toward the drunkard with ice-like clarity.

"Remember this moment the very next time you think about raising a hand against anybody in this city. Your chance was given," he said while making a slight turn and moving away without sparing the drunkard an answer. The statement stood. There was to be no pleasant discussion.

The drunkard stood still for a moment when the guards came into view to arrest him, but now he turned his back to the scene, leaving in the same manner he had approached-with precision and calculative movement. His steps appeared to be rather well measured, as though he was rather unconcerned about the petty chaos he had just neutralized. 

Charlotte found herself asking, despite the sudden atmosphere shift, expressing her gratitude with an air of almost reverent awe, "I owe you my thanks, Sir." 

The man halted in his steps, turning enough for her to detect the sharpness in his eyes. He hadn't smiled, hadn't acknowledged her praise. Coldly, he stated, "I did what had to be done."

Without another word he carried on, leaving Charlotte standing with her heart still thumping from the altercation but somehow still held in thrall by the enigmatic man who had come to their rescue with a sort of impersonal grace.

The street at last quietened.

They had carried off the drunken man, the crowd moved away murmuring something together and the mother and child pulled across the alleyway, hands held tightly.

Charlotte turned herself away from the scene where her breath remained unsteady by the havoc it had only moments before wrought, heading toward the waiting carriage, a quiet companion parked at the side of the road, almost an elegant shadow.

As she got closer, the door creaked slightly open. Inside sat Lady Eleanor with hands cradled in lap and an expression of marked softness at the sight of concern. It was the most lifelike scene lit up by her delicate features when she saw Charlotte.

"Oh dear… Are you injured?" Eleanor's voice was quiet— almost a whisper, but shaking ever so slightly. "I almost stepped out. I thought I could not watch you risk your life anymore."

Charlotte stepped inside the carriage and nodded reassuringly and politely. "I am not hurt. Do not worry about it, Auntie Eleanor." Eleanor took her hand and squeezed it with gentleness in affection. "You are quite brave, Charlotte... but maybe think about your safety next time, too. More people consider you valuable than you realize."

The first thing Cordelia did was remain silent, looking outside, giving herself the occasional dainty flutter with her fan, and finally heaving a very deliberate sigh. "Well, that was a foolish move," she murmured. "You could've been killed."

Charlotte turned to her unperturbed. "And the woman and her child would have been beaten had I done nothing." Cordelia set her gaze on Charlotte, her eyes cold yet calculated. "You're a noble. Not a hero in a street play. Don't forget your place."

"I only remembered that I'm human," Charlotte said, her voice calm and her gaze unwavering. They held their peace for a moment. 

Eleanor, still holding the hand of Charlotte, smiled gently to her as if breaking the silence. "You did well, according to what your heart thought was right. It is also within the nobility." 

Cordelia turned her eyes elsewhere, thus not wanting to continue the conversation. The carriage started to move, wheels clattering softly along the cobbled path. 

Charlotte directed her gaze to the window, watching the city blur past-its filth, its beauty, and the quiet fire that now smoldered inside her. She didn't feel regret for what she did; but she was beginning to understand that courage-with perhaps noblewomen particularly— every cost came with it.

As they enter, the doors of the boutique chime and out steps a poised woman with a very graceful curtsy. "Welcome, Your Grace," she greeted, with professional refinement while bowing her head to Cordelia. 

Cordelia walked straight in without a word. Her eyes were already roving over the superb line of rich, artwork-like gowns on display. Then she advanced, movements slow and calculated, fingers brushing over silk and lace.

Charlotte walked behind her a few feet nearer to Lady Eleanor, who remained beside her like a comforting breeze. "You've taken quite a liking to pastels of late, haven't you, my dear?" Eleanor murmured, her smile warm. "They remind me of spring mornings." 

Charlotte smiled back, "They feel... lighter. Calmer." 

After a pause in deliberation, Cordelia finally lifted a woollen dress of soft lavender. Its silhouette was designed in a very sleek form with almost no weight added by delicate embroidery. Its colour would match perfectly with Charlotte's violet eyes. 

"This will do," stated Cordelia simply, her voice devoid of affection but firm in her approbation. "It'll stand out in a crowd. That is what counts." 

Charlotte bowed with a decent nod in acceptance, but her head was somewhere else as it foreshadowed the next item. Not too long after that, they left the boutique and headed toward a less populated avenue. They would soon arrive at the Arlington Art Museum, whose lofty white columns stood resplendently under the afternoon sun. 

As they approached, Charlotte felt a thrill of hope and joy swelling inside her; "'tis finer than I had saved," she breathed, the words soft as hushed awe. Lady Eleanor smiled beside her at the innocent wonder of the girl before her: "I always thought you had an artist's soul. Thought you might care to see this."

At the last Cordelia stepped down from the carriage, adjusted her gloves, and said, "Let us not tarry too long." 

Charlotte soon lost herself within the museum. Picture after picture, gallery upon gallery unfolded as a dream— oil paintings hanging on the walls whispered of faraway lands; sculptures stood frozen in time— soft echoes of other visitors admired silent stories told through brush and stone. 

With Lady Eleanor at her side, she walked down corridors from artwork to artwork, chatting quietly and easily. Every once in a while, Eleanor offered anecdotes about artists or histories behind certain works, but she mostly let Charlotte experience it much as she liked: free, unhurried, and filled with delight. 

Cordelia kept at a distance. She didn't comment, nor did she outwardly seem impressed. Rather, she kept her gaze on paintings, but quickly moved on as if disinterested.

A painting in which a woman gazed wistfully from a canvas with a single golden earring catching the light became Charlotte's fixation. She stood there, transfixed, in quiet contemplation of its silent depths. 

From behind, a voice spoke.

Low, smooth, and serious.

"La Boucle d'Oreille... by Jean-François de Troy," the voice was saying. "A piece forgotten by many, but it bears remarkable sorrow beneath its elegance."

Charlotte stole a glance over her shoulder at the unexpected presence behind her. A tall gentleman stood barely a step behind- immaculately attired in a butler's charcoal-gray livery trimmed in silver. His slicked-back black hair contrasted the shining golden irises behind impeccably polished glasses.

He was not smiling, but his gaze remained steady, intelligent, and almost overly observant.

It was a moment before either spoke again. Then, the man began to murmur, almost absently, as if speaking to himself, 

"Violet... eyes?"