Anne-Marie de Parthenay
New France
The next three weeks of Anne-Marie’s life were, for lack of a better term, strange. Upon her return, she expected her life to return to the way it was before—a life confined to her room, waiting for some terrible fate to befall her. Instead, she found that the days passed rather uneventfully. Le Vicomte, for example, treated her with an uncomfortable kindness she was wholly unused to. He didn’t stalk her through the halls or force himself on her in her bedroom—rather, he mostly left her alone, and even more unusual, spent his time with La Madame instead. It was like he had suffered some bout of amnesia, and had completely forgotten that she had lied to him and ran away for two months. And as strange as it was, Anne-Marie was careful to not disturb the peace it granted her, however briefly it might last.
And whatever odd fancy had taken hold of Le Vicomte’s mind as of late, it had completely consumed La Madame’s. She was a hollow shell of her formal self, reduced to a porcelain doll who saw the world through eyes of glass. Every day, she would sit and wait for Le Vicomte to call on her, like she could not even muster a thought if he did not wish her to. It was as if she was not a person at all, but a lamp, lighted and doused by her husband’s appearance. When he would grace her with his presence, she would smile, and come alive again, and they would leave somewhere, with her hanging on his arm. When they got back, she’d return to her prior state, and the light would flush from her eyes and face, her jaw slacking in some inert trance. On occasion, Anne-Marie would sneak looks at her in the dining room while she idled like this. She would just sit there, looking at the wall or fixated on a lamp, sitting eerily still. Most times it was deathly silent, but sometimes she would hum. It was an awful, haunting melody, an arrhythmic manifestation of the woman’s absent mind. The sight and sound of her frightened Anne-Marie more than anything she had ever experienced, even more than when La Madame would assault her. It was like watching a ghost still trapped inside its own corpse, pleading frantically to be freed from its prison of flesh.
Despite her usual tormentors’ newfound placidity, Anne-Marie did not feel at ease. Rather, there was some strange dread that crept into her heart and lingered there, haunting the back of her mind every day. It was too peaceful, too quiet. Something was horribly, dreadfully wrong, and she just couldn’t see it. It was waiting for something, lurking behind the corner, biding its time to curse her with some new misfortune. But Anne-Marie stayed vigilant—through each day and night, she never dropped her guard, waiting for that horror to come, even though it never did.
Day by day, she would struggle to find some way to pass the time, though she usually just ended up worrying the hours away. After all, at any point, Jeannine could renege on her bargain, and tell the marines about Ezekiel. Jeannine had not visited once since Anne-Marie’s return—whatever semblance of friendship they once shared had clearly soured and crumbled to ash. Without seeing her, without knowing her intentions, all Anne-Marie could assume is that Jeannine would betray her again. Why wouldn’t she? Anne-Marie knew now—Jeannine was a spiteful and wicked girl, and it was only a matter of time before Ezekiel and his family would be punished for taking her in. And that thought killed her—that this was a world where the cruel lorded over the kind, where selfishness and greed outweighed compassion.
Worst of all were the constant reminders of the life she could have led, of the brief happiness she enjoyed with her other family. At least once a week, Le Vicomte and La Madame would go to the market in the lower city, and they would always return with their hands full. Sometimes they would buy trinkets or other oddities, but more than once they would return with blankets and shawls she knew Ezekiel’s daughters had made. She could recognize them so intimately—she could see the sisters’ unique styles and approaches to the weaving. Adah loved deep, crimson reds and shapes with harsh angles, diamonds and triangles. Delilah loved dark blues and greens like the ocean, weaving lines in undulating waves and smooth circles. Every time La Madame would return with one, she would make it a point to show Anne-Marie, gushing about the craftsmanship, and Anne-Marie would stand there and smile half-heartedly, while the inside of her screamed in woeful sorrow. I should be out there with them, she thought. I haven’t yet had the chance to find my own style, my own patterns and colors. What would they be? Who am I, beyond what others want me to be? I will never know as long as I stay here.
Then, one day, she decided to do something about it.
“Vicomte,” she began at dinner.
“What?” He replied, not looking up from his meal.
“I was wondering if we could all go on an excursion tomorrow."
“Oh?” He said absent-mindedly. She had not seen him often like this. Something was clearly bothering him, occupied by a worry unknown to her.
“I’ve just been cooped up in the house for the past few weeks, and it’d be nice to get outside, is all.”
“And where do you think we should go?”
“Oh, anywhere, really. I think it’d be nice to walk around outside the city, you know, to get some fresh air. We could even stop by the market on the way back—I know you and La Madame have enjoyed going there recently.”
Something she said must have struck a chord with him, like a bolt of lightning cleared the worries inside his mind. His eyes lit up, and he nodded emphatically.
“You know, that’s an excellent idea, Anne-Marie,” he said. “Ma amour, don’t you think that’s an excellent idea?”
“Oh, of course,” La Madame parroted, her speech now reduced to agreeing with whatever her husband had to say. “It’s a wonderful idea, darling.”
“Then it’s settled. Tomorrow morning, we’ll go on an excursion outside the city.”
Anne-Marie hesitated to respond, shocked that her suggestion was met with no resistance at all. Then, strangely enough, she smiled.
“Thank you,” she found herself saying. “Thank you, Vicomte.”
And as she finished her meal and went to her room, as she settled into her bed, an emotion she was unaccustomed to began to rise in her heart: hope. Perhaps things really had changed. Perhaps, despite everything she had known, something had sparked inside Le Vicomte, something during his time at war that had changed who he was as a person. And for that, she could be nothing but glad.
In the morning, she awoke, ready to tackle the day before her. Whatever would come of the day, she was determined to focus on herself—what she wanted, how she felt. She would use her excursion today as an exercise in learning about who she was, and who she wanted to be. Adah and Delilah had told her that they based their weaving on their favorite aspects of nature, on the elements from the outside world that were most compelling to them. Anne-Marie, then was determined to figure out what compelled her, and to discover her own place in this strange world.
Her maid, Catherine, helped her change into a dress. It was more casual than her usual choices, not too long or overbearing for the excursion. Still, she couldn’t help but wish she was wearing the deerskin leggings or skirts Adah and Delilah wore—they’d be far more comfortable for moving around in. In fact, her whole routine seemed so unnecessary now—the elaborate dresses, the staff of servants, the hours spent applying and taking off her makeup each day. They were all rituals for rituals’ sake, superficial and empty, all to give the appearance of being more civilized. Was there any actual merit to the endless list of rules that governed nothing but breaches of etiquette? Was there something meaningful to why cutlery had to be placed face-down, why four different glasses were served at every meal? The more Anne-Marie thought about it, the more she was sure that there wasn’t. These were arbitrary things, designed by King Louis, all part of his game to ensure fealty to him above all else. The nobles treated his etiquette like it had come from the Bible itself, venerating it like the word of God to please and placate the King. Chrétien would be proud of me, she thought. I’m becoming just as cynical as him.
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Thinking of her brother made her heart ache more. It had been nearly three months since their last words together, and she feared the worst. Le Vicomte had told her that he had been stationed at the same fort as before at the end of the campaign, to defend against any retribution the Iroquois would take. That meant, of course, that he was effectively on the front lines, and would be the first to be attacked and fall should the Iroquois decide to invade. Her brother’s assignment there was clearly intentional, and was one of the things that convinced her that Le Vicomte was still as wicked as ever, despite his recent change of heart. He was dangling Chrétien over a pit of vipers, the rope holding him fraying day by day. Chrétien was a nuisance to him as Anne-Marie’s only protector, and now he had the power to do whatever he wished to him.
Still, Anne-Marie was determined to not focus on her worries. She had a habit of letting them consume her, so preoccupied with distant thoughts of what might happen or things that could go wrong. Today, she would try to be different. Today, she would keep her thoughts and eyes on the here and now, and enjoy what she could.
Ready for the day, she made her way downstairs to the front door. Vicomte stood waiting by the door, tapping his foot impatiently.
“Bonjour, Vicomte,” she said. “Is La Madame still getting ready?”
“Apparently,” he sighed, clearly bored. “She’s insisted on doing it all herself lately, despite the fact it takes her twice as long. Would you go and check on her? With the way she’s been, we’ll lose the whole day by the time she’s finished.”
“Sure.” Anne-Marie turned and headed back up the stairs, making her way towards La Madame’s room. Despite the fact that she and Le Vicomte were married, they lived and slept in separate rooms. The servants gossiped as to the reason, even poking fun that Le Vicomte might not want to sleep with women at all, but Anne-Marie knew the truth. They were just two people who had no love for each other. Le Vicomte saw his wife as a pawn, a plaything, and even making love to her would be more than she deserved in his eyes, since it would never result in an heir for him.
“Madame?” Anne-Marie called, knocking on her door. “Madame, are you decent?”
No response. Anne-Marie tried again, but heard nothing but silence. That’s awfully strange. She tried the doorknob gingerly—it was unlocked. Anne-Marie hesitated for a moment, but her curiosity got the better of her, and she opened the door. Inside, she didn’t see her adoptive mother anywhere. The bed was empty, the vanity undisturbed, without a single palette of make-up lying atop it. Where is she?
Anne-Marie stepped into the room, closing the door behind her. As soon as she did, something permeated her senses—a stench unlike anything she had ever smelled. She had to cover her nose with a handkerchief to block it out. What in the world is that? It was so strong she was surprised she didn’t smell it from the hallway, but she supposed the perfumes and scented candles the servants maintained worked as intended. She did what she was best at, holding her breath as she tried to find the source of it. Still no sign of La Madame anywhere, and the only place left to look was the bathroom.
Anne-Marie stopped in front of it. The smell became overpowering, seeping under the cracks of the door and through her handkerchief. And all of the sudden, the dread that had been hiding in the back of her mind all this time came forward, growing by the second. What’s going on? Her heartbeat began to quicken, panic setting in. What in God's name is going on? Still, her curiosity got the better of her, and she felt her hand reach for the knob. Despite the dread rising in her, black and acidic in her throat, despite every instinct in her telling her not to look, she opened the door.
Sure enough, La Madame was there, and sure enough, she was dead. She sat propped up next to the bathtub, facing the door, her eyes sagging lifelessly out of their sockets. Her arms splayed out on either side of her, using the edge of the bathtub to keep herself upright, like she had been hung up for display. Streaks of dried blood caked on her face and naked body, streaming downwards from the top of her head. It had been split open, an Indian tomahawk buried in her skull.
Anne-Marie screamed. Her vision began to blur, and she collapsed onto the floor. It took everything she had to keep herself from fainting. Her breaths drew rapidly, the world around her spinning so fast it made her nauseous. Oh god. Oh god, I’m going to throw up. The smell of La Madame’s rotting body invaded her nostrils, piercing into her brain. She had seen death before, watched that horrid man in the tavern bleed out on the ground. But this was different. It was one thing to watch a man die—it was another thing entirely when it was someone she knew, and worse, that she was already gone. She didn’t see the light leave her eyes—it had been gone for hours, at least, and there was nothing left of her but dried blood and organs in decay.
She heard frantic footsteps thunder up the stairs and across the hall, and Le Vicomte rushed into the room. At once, he was at her side, looking into the bathroom.
“Putain de merde,” he said, under his breath. He held his hands out to Anne-Marie, and she took them. Slowly, he helped her up.
“Are you alright?” He asked her. “Can you stand?”
“I,” she began, trying her best not to puke. “I think so.”
“Good.”
Then, in one swift motion, Le Vicomte drew one arm back and sank his fist into Anne-Marie’s gut, as hard as he could. Whatever breath she had left was knocked out of her, and she wheezed desperately for air, keeling over in confusion and pain. Le Vicomte caught her by the hair, not letting her fall. He pulled her up to him, whispering menacingly in her ear.
“You think I just forgot everything you've done?” He hissed. “How you tried to ruin me? You think you can just lie to me, play me for a fool? You’re more delusional than she was.”
Anne-Marie could muster no response. She sagged limply in his cruel grip, gasping desperately for air.
“It was a good yarn, I’ll admit, your little girls’ trip to Acadia.” His breath reeked more than usual, somehow surpassing the smell of the corpse. “Oh, I was so angry when I learned the truth. I thought of all the ways I would make you pay for it. I wanted to skin you alive, to cut off each of your pretty little fingers, like the savages do. But I’m smarter than that, and kinder, too. You should really be thanking me. After all, now you get to live, and you’ll be honored with the privilege of being my wife. And I do hope you won’t make the same mistakes she did. Just look at how it turned out for her.”
“I…” Anne-Marie started. She could barely make out anything in front of her, her head hazy and faint.
“I know, I know,” Le Vicomte said. “You’re sorry, aren’t you? You’re so very sorry. But you have no idea how sorry you are, how sorry you will be. But that’s alright. You’ll learn very soon.”
Her head and hair blared with pain, her head sagging in his tight grip. He tightened it on her, and she gasped. She tried so hard to scream, to call for help, but she could muster nothing now.
“You know, I really ought to thank you,” he told her. “In a strange way, your childish little games have helped me. Did you know there actually was a mole? Not for the savages, of course—that was just stupid on your part. But, as it turns out, Jacque-Louis de Cartier had been informing the English of all our movements and plans for the past year and a half. I was so paranoid after your little lie that I suspected all the other officers of subterfuge, and through my suspicions, he was discovered and hanged. Le Marquis’ even promoted me now. Can you believe it? Turns out you aren’t completely worthless after all.”
Le Vicomte turned and called down the hallway.
“Catherine,” he yelled. “Catherine! Please, come quick!”
As soon as he did, he punched Anne-Marie again, even harder this time. Anne-Marie keeled over once more, and he released her from his grip. She collapsed onto the floor, curling up in a ball to try to mask the hurt. Beyond her, she could hear Catherine scuttle down the hallway and enter the room.
“La Madame’s been murdered,” Le Vicomte announced in a feigned shock. “Some savage snuck into her chambers last night and butchered her. Call the marine on post and have him deliver a message to Le Marquis. We need to declare martial law at once, and lock down the savage quarter until the killer is found.”
“Oh, mon Dieu!” Catherine exclaimed. “I… I am so sorry, monsieur. I should have checked on her, but she has been so insistent on doing things herself as of late…”
“It’s alright, Catherine. I don’t blame you at all. But you must hurry now. And once you’ve given the message, please help poor Anne-Marie to her chambers. I’m afraid she’s been given quite the shock, and she’s in no state to even stand. She’s to remain in her room where it’s safe until I say so. We have no idea if that savage will try to return.”
“Oui, monsieur. I’ll see to it at once.”
As Catherine left, Anne-Marie tried desperately to stand up, to call out to her. Don’t do it, she wanted to cry. It’s all part of his plan. Can’t you see what’s happening? Please, you have to save me…
But she couldn’t. She was powerless, the last of her strength already left her body, her consciousness waning. All she could do was sit there, wrapping her arms around her to try to comfort herself. Her mind was still a blur, her entire body wracked with pain. Beside her, Le Vicomte bent over, his hot breath trickling down the back of her neck.
“Welcome to the first day of your new life,” he whispered to her. “Take some time today to think about it—who you’ll need to become for me, how to better conduct yourself. Maybe after all this, you’ll begin to see the truth. Your actions have consequences in this life, and I swear on all that is holy: I will make sure of that. Every. Single. One. Ruminate on that for a while, won’t you, my dear? Now, if you’ll excuse me. I have a killer to hang.”