A Bewildered Heart, chapter 4
Mar. 12th, 2017 12:46 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
scripsiTitle: A Bewildered Heart
Fandom: Versailles
Rating: Mature
Genre: Drama
Word Count: 1522
Chapters: 4/?
Characters/pairing: Fabien Marchal/Sophie de Clermont.
Warnings: None so far
Summary: Sophie de Clermont is settling down to her new role in life, but Fabien Marchal still disturbs her peace of mind. If not exactly the same was as before.
AN: I couldn’t resist including Sweden in this chapter. It’s not so far-fetched, in my family tree there is a French Huguenot family who fled France in the 1660’s, establishing themselves in Stockholm and became quite prosperous silk merchants.
Fabien didn’t mention the incident with the knife again, and he didn’t mention the kiss. Sophie wished he would. She found it maddening how he could go on seemingly unconcerned when she was not. Her nighttime fantasies about him had found new fuel in the kiss, though she strove to appear as cool as he was, whenever she was summoned.
Her meetings with Fabien had still changed, they no longer consisted of her report and dismissal. Instead Fabien taught her about politics, a subject Sophie had never cared for before. But under his tutelage she began to understand the intricacies of it, and with understanding came interest. He gave her books and pamphlets to read and expected her to not only be able to recite the texts, as her old tutors had done, but to analyse and have opinions. Sophie’s world expanded, she saw layers beyond the surface she was used to. The glittering court of Versailles was not only there as the setting for a radiant sovereign, it was also a tool for the King to keep his aristocratic subjects in check. She finally understood why she and Madame de Maintenon had travelled to the Duke of Cassel’s castle, and how important it had been to bring him back to Versailles.
Information, she realised, had more power than she could ever have imagined. She started to encourage her maid to gossip, and through Mariette she became friendly with a few other maids, rewarding useful nuggets of information with a coin or two. In the female staff she found something Fabien for all his power could never have- their trust. As a result her reports became fuller and more complex. And though Fabien rarely said so, she had got to know him well enough to see he was pleased with her progress. He never spoke much, and Sophie eventually understood it was by inclination and not a reflection of his mood, and grew to appreciate brevity over eloquence
One night Fabien gave her a handful of papers when she was about to leave. He gave her no explanation of what they were, and at first Sophie didn’t understand what she was reading. Fabien’s neat handwriting listed names and dates which held no meaning to her. Then she read her own name and finally understood. This was her family. Her name, and what a relief to see she had always been Sophie, and the name of her parents. Where and when they had been born and married and lived. And, after her father’s name, when he had died. She touched the words with a fingertip, wishing she could remember her father’s face. The date of his death- she had been four years old. She had memories from that age; she had been sent to a convent school then and she remembered crying in homesickness in an unfamiliar bed. But she had no memories of the home she had been missing, or the people who had filled it.
The next page brought another surprise. Her mother's parents were listed as deceased, but her other grandparents had not only been alive, but lived in the same house as Sophie and her parents. There had been two uncles too, her father’s younger brothers. They had left France after her his death, travelled north until they had reached Sweden, a country Sophie knew very little about. But there it was, even the name of the city where they had settled, and presumably still lived in.
Sophie read the papers over and over, memorizing every name and every date. Here, she realised, she had a way out. Her family was far away, but she could write to them. Had they loved her? Somehow she thought so. They would never had wanted her to be raised in a convent, they must have wanted to take her with them. If she left Versailles, she would have somewhere to go. Fabien would not, could not, prevent her from leaving, and for a few moments Sophie imagined a joyful reunion with people who loved her.
Only it was an impossible dream. Her family might want her, welcome and love her, but they would not accept who she was. She had been brought up in the wrong faith and the wrong class, and even if they were her relatives, she would never belong with them. Versailles was her home, and it was here she wanted to live. What more, she had a freedom here few other women had, at court, or elsewhere. She might be subjected to Fabien's demands, but so far they had been easy enough to obey. As long as she fulfilled her obligations, he had no views on how she spent her time and money, or how she dressed. For the first time in her life, Sophie could choose for herself, when her friends had to obey parents or spouses.
Her family had been stolen from her, and it was her mother who had been the thief. Now it was too late to go back. Sophie cried that night, but then she burned the papers, making sure there were only ashes left. Not until the next day did she realise what was missing from them; there had been no account of what her mother had been doing all those years Sophie had been at the convent. Beatrice had visited once or twice every year, laden with gifts and sweets, a beautiful, but also distant figure, and whose life her daughter never thought about. When Sophie turned twelve her mother had brought her home, which by then was an apartment in Paris. It had meant a new kind of lessons, and a new wardrobe, and it had taken years before Sophie understood how little money they had. And not until after her mother’s death had she asked herself how her everything had been paid. Perhaps Fabien had meant to spare her when he didn’t include her mother’s life, but Sophie knew anyway. She had been raised for the king, everything she had been taught, how she dressed, moved and talked, were for the single purpose of pleasing the king. A king for Sophie, for Beatrice there must have been a string of men rich enough to enable her transition from the wife to a middle-class architect, to a widowed noblewoman at court. Her mother had always done what she had to, in order to survive.
Sophie didn’t mention her mother's past the next time she saw Fabien, but she asked him something else.
“Do you think my father was really guilty of treason?”
“I do not know. I can tell you the protocols from the trial are lacking. There was no more evidence than the matter of religion, and he never confessed to any guilt.”
His tone of voice made his disapproval of such sloppiness clear. Sophie thought had Fabien been there he would have made certain the matter of her father’s guilt or innocence would have been irrevocably settled.
The fear she felt for him receded and changed into respect as the months passed. She stopped trying to aggravate him on purpose though she sometimes found it hard to resist a gentle tease when he was unusually morose. Sophie bit her tongue on those occasion, deeming it unwise, but during a ball when she spotted him among the throngs of dancing guests, she couldn’t resist. She stopped in front of his silent figure and smiled.
“Don’t you ever dance?”
Fabien gave her a dismissive glare.
“No.”
“Why not? Don’t you know how?”
“Everyone knows how to dance.”
He clearly wanted her gone, but perhaps it was the fault of too much champagne, Sophie felt mischievous and persisted.
“Prove it.”
At first she thought he would ignore her, but then he surprised her with a courteous bow before taking her hand and leading her out on the floor. He could dance, she found. Perhaps not with the skill of a consummate courtier, but he knew the steps and moved gracefully enough. But Sophie barely noticed. Suddenly she could only think of one thing; her hand in Fabien’s.They danced in silence, the only couple dancing not engaged in small talk and flirtations. They parted as the steps demanded, only to meet again, and every time their hands met, Sophie felt like a small shock went from her fingertips through her whole body, rendering her breathless and wanting.
“Aren’t you a daring girl,”” Madame de Montespan said when the dance was over. “I almost thought you would have your head bitten off.”
Sophie raised her chin a little.
“Well, Monsieur Marchal doesn’t look like he has much fun. I took pity on him.”
Madame de Montespan sniffed. “I doubt his pleasures lay within a ball room.”
Sophie knew they didn’t, but where exactly did they lay? Her curiosity when it came to Fabien only grew over time. Quietly she turned her newfound skills of observation on him, noting how he always seemed to be alone, even in company. A man perpetually on duty among a crowd who only sought one diversion after another.
Fandom: Versailles
Rating: Mature
Genre: Drama
Word Count: 1522
Chapters: 4/?
Characters/pairing: Fabien Marchal/Sophie de Clermont.
Warnings: None so far
Summary: Sophie de Clermont is settling down to her new role in life, but Fabien Marchal still disturbs her peace of mind. If not exactly the same was as before.
AN: I couldn’t resist including Sweden in this chapter. It’s not so far-fetched, in my family tree there is a French Huguenot family who fled France in the 1660’s, establishing themselves in Stockholm and became quite prosperous silk merchants.
Fabien didn’t mention the incident with the knife again, and he didn’t mention the kiss. Sophie wished he would. She found it maddening how he could go on seemingly unconcerned when she was not. Her nighttime fantasies about him had found new fuel in the kiss, though she strove to appear as cool as he was, whenever she was summoned.
Her meetings with Fabien had still changed, they no longer consisted of her report and dismissal. Instead Fabien taught her about politics, a subject Sophie had never cared for before. But under his tutelage she began to understand the intricacies of it, and with understanding came interest. He gave her books and pamphlets to read and expected her to not only be able to recite the texts, as her old tutors had done, but to analyse and have opinions. Sophie’s world expanded, she saw layers beyond the surface she was used to. The glittering court of Versailles was not only there as the setting for a radiant sovereign, it was also a tool for the King to keep his aristocratic subjects in check. She finally understood why she and Madame de Maintenon had travelled to the Duke of Cassel’s castle, and how important it had been to bring him back to Versailles.
Information, she realised, had more power than she could ever have imagined. She started to encourage her maid to gossip, and through Mariette she became friendly with a few other maids, rewarding useful nuggets of information with a coin or two. In the female staff she found something Fabien for all his power could never have- their trust. As a result her reports became fuller and more complex. And though Fabien rarely said so, she had got to know him well enough to see he was pleased with her progress. He never spoke much, and Sophie eventually understood it was by inclination and not a reflection of his mood, and grew to appreciate brevity over eloquence
One night Fabien gave her a handful of papers when she was about to leave. He gave her no explanation of what they were, and at first Sophie didn’t understand what she was reading. Fabien’s neat handwriting listed names and dates which held no meaning to her. Then she read her own name and finally understood. This was her family. Her name, and what a relief to see she had always been Sophie, and the name of her parents. Where and when they had been born and married and lived. And, after her father’s name, when he had died. She touched the words with a fingertip, wishing she could remember her father’s face. The date of his death- she had been four years old. She had memories from that age; she had been sent to a convent school then and she remembered crying in homesickness in an unfamiliar bed. But she had no memories of the home she had been missing, or the people who had filled it.
The next page brought another surprise. Her mother's parents were listed as deceased, but her other grandparents had not only been alive, but lived in the same house as Sophie and her parents. There had been two uncles too, her father’s younger brothers. They had left France after her his death, travelled north until they had reached Sweden, a country Sophie knew very little about. But there it was, even the name of the city where they had settled, and presumably still lived in.
Sophie read the papers over and over, memorizing every name and every date. Here, she realised, she had a way out. Her family was far away, but she could write to them. Had they loved her? Somehow she thought so. They would never had wanted her to be raised in a convent, they must have wanted to take her with them. If she left Versailles, she would have somewhere to go. Fabien would not, could not, prevent her from leaving, and for a few moments Sophie imagined a joyful reunion with people who loved her.
Only it was an impossible dream. Her family might want her, welcome and love her, but they would not accept who she was. She had been brought up in the wrong faith and the wrong class, and even if they were her relatives, she would never belong with them. Versailles was her home, and it was here she wanted to live. What more, she had a freedom here few other women had, at court, or elsewhere. She might be subjected to Fabien's demands, but so far they had been easy enough to obey. As long as she fulfilled her obligations, he had no views on how she spent her time and money, or how she dressed. For the first time in her life, Sophie could choose for herself, when her friends had to obey parents or spouses.
Her family had been stolen from her, and it was her mother who had been the thief. Now it was too late to go back. Sophie cried that night, but then she burned the papers, making sure there were only ashes left. Not until the next day did she realise what was missing from them; there had been no account of what her mother had been doing all those years Sophie had been at the convent. Beatrice had visited once or twice every year, laden with gifts and sweets, a beautiful, but also distant figure, and whose life her daughter never thought about. When Sophie turned twelve her mother had brought her home, which by then was an apartment in Paris. It had meant a new kind of lessons, and a new wardrobe, and it had taken years before Sophie understood how little money they had. And not until after her mother’s death had she asked herself how her everything had been paid. Perhaps Fabien had meant to spare her when he didn’t include her mother’s life, but Sophie knew anyway. She had been raised for the king, everything she had been taught, how she dressed, moved and talked, were for the single purpose of pleasing the king. A king for Sophie, for Beatrice there must have been a string of men rich enough to enable her transition from the wife to a middle-class architect, to a widowed noblewoman at court. Her mother had always done what she had to, in order to survive.
Sophie didn’t mention her mother's past the next time she saw Fabien, but she asked him something else.
“Do you think my father was really guilty of treason?”
“I do not know. I can tell you the protocols from the trial are lacking. There was no more evidence than the matter of religion, and he never confessed to any guilt.”
His tone of voice made his disapproval of such sloppiness clear. Sophie thought had Fabien been there he would have made certain the matter of her father’s guilt or innocence would have been irrevocably settled.
The fear she felt for him receded and changed into respect as the months passed. She stopped trying to aggravate him on purpose though she sometimes found it hard to resist a gentle tease when he was unusually morose. Sophie bit her tongue on those occasion, deeming it unwise, but during a ball when she spotted him among the throngs of dancing guests, she couldn’t resist. She stopped in front of his silent figure and smiled.
“Don’t you ever dance?”
Fabien gave her a dismissive glare.
“No.”
“Why not? Don’t you know how?”
“Everyone knows how to dance.”
He clearly wanted her gone, but perhaps it was the fault of too much champagne, Sophie felt mischievous and persisted.
“Prove it.”
At first she thought he would ignore her, but then he surprised her with a courteous bow before taking her hand and leading her out on the floor. He could dance, she found. Perhaps not with the skill of a consummate courtier, but he knew the steps and moved gracefully enough. But Sophie barely noticed. Suddenly she could only think of one thing; her hand in Fabien’s.They danced in silence, the only couple dancing not engaged in small talk and flirtations. They parted as the steps demanded, only to meet again, and every time their hands met, Sophie felt like a small shock went from her fingertips through her whole body, rendering her breathless and wanting.
“Aren’t you a daring girl,”” Madame de Montespan said when the dance was over. “I almost thought you would have your head bitten off.”
Sophie raised her chin a little.
“Well, Monsieur Marchal doesn’t look like he has much fun. I took pity on him.”
Madame de Montespan sniffed. “I doubt his pleasures lay within a ball room.”
Sophie knew they didn’t, but where exactly did they lay? Her curiosity when it came to Fabien only grew over time. Quietly she turned her newfound skills of observation on him, noting how he always seemed to be alone, even in company. A man perpetually on duty among a crowd who only sought one diversion after another.
no subject
Date: 2017-03-17 02:49 am (UTC)I'm loving your story of this very intriguing couple!
no subject
Date: 2017-03-17 09:08 am (UTC)