Chapter One

Chapter One

The dense clouds knit together and settled over the sloping roof of Delacroix Mansion, sure to bring rain into the arid countryside. As of late, the stately neoclassical manor outside New Orleans" and the rest of Louisiana, come to think of it" hadn’t seen any rain, and it was definitely taking a toll on the mansion’s landscaping.

Andre Desjardins, the resident gardener, was having trouble keeping up with his watering and pruning schedule, as a result, but the elderly M. Delacroix was adamant that the gardens at least be kept immaculate until after his party. Soon after that, Andre and the remainder of the staff would be let go, and the manor sold to a developer, as their boss, Philippe Delacroix, was moving to the south of France along with his considerable wealth. Alas, the mansion that had been in his family for a hundred years couldn’t join him, and it would be ridiculous to assume that the servants would follow him into a foreign country. Regardless, it was sure to be a painful separation. The servants had known M. Delacroix for varying numbers of years and had lived in his house all along, taking care of him and his frequent houseguests, and consequently had become a family unit.

A family unit that will soon be broken, Andre mused to himself as he pruned the thirsty rosebushes with his heavy, rust-caked gardening shears. Before the end of the week, everything in the mansion would be elsewhere: the furniture, the art collection, the servants, and M. Delacroix himself, of course. There was really no point in manicuring the bushes anymore, since they would assumedly be torn up from the roots in a matter of a few days, but Andre couldn’t help himself. He was proud of his roses. They were almost like his children. If he ignored the fact that everything he knew was ending, then it was easier for him to face.

His roses would be gone, he would have to seek other employment (which he had been avoiding, of course) and a place to live, and it would also mean no more…

Lydia. For all of his twenty-nine years of life, no name had ever been as beautiful to Andre. She was M. Delacroix’s grand-niece, a lovely and entrancing young woman who had captivated the gardener’s attention from the moment he saw her. Beautiful, vivacious, charming… Their relationship had started in secret the year before at a party, after he had found her admiring the gardens at one of her great-uncle’s many house parties. The two had begun talking, and talking led to romance. Making it even more thrilling for Andre was the fact that it was forbidden" she was an enchanting heiress, and he was a lowly gardener. Since that fateful party, he worshiped the ground she walked on. The fact that he’d soon be out of a job, and therefore out of the mansion, both thrilled and terrified him. Maybe he and Lydia could elope, or he could move into a house near hers, at least. Whichever, Andre needed to be near his love.

His shears clipped at one of the dead leaves of a rose bush, expertly trimming the unruly branches. Snip, snip. Snip. Snip.

Suddenly, arms enfolded around him from behind. He spun around, having a decent idea of who it was, and his heart leaped.

A young woman, tall and lanky, with straight blonde hair and pale eyes stood in front of him, grinning intimately, with her arms looped around his neck. “Hello, Andre,” she whispered.

“Lydia,” he said delightedly, pulling her close to him. “What brings you here so soon, love?” The party wasn’t due to begin until that evening, and the sun beating down on Andre betrayed that it was still high noon, perhaps a little after.

“I wanted to see you, of course,” Lydia explained to him in a thrilling murmur. “I missed you.”

As Andre stared into her eyes, a familiar shade of light steely blue not unlike the sky over Delacroix Mansion that day, he noticed that something was slightly off. There was a bit of determination there, and something calculated. The gardener wasn’t alarmed, necessarily, but it was a cause to speak up. “What’s troubling you?”

“Nothing’s troubling me, Andre,” she said dismissively, leaning back a tad and looking at him evenly. “I’m excited to see you. Are you not happy to see me?”

“No,” he quickly assured her, trying to make her understand that she was everything and more to him. “I am unquestionably… utterly… definitely… elated to see you right now. I can’t even put it into words.”

Lydia stuck out her jaw, a stubborn habit that accompanied any obstinacy she felt the need to express. “I don’t believe you.”

“What?” he gasped, thrown. Every time she pulled something like this, it surprised him, that she needed evidence of his affections. “I love you, Lydia. I haven’t been able to think of anything else all day.”

Some of the coldness in her eyes disappeared, and she drew near to him once again, speaking into his ear in a low voice. “Prove it to me.”

Andre did the only natural thing" that is, he kissed her, and tried to put his emotions that he could never express properly into the embrace. But all too soon, she drew back again.

“Not like that, Andre,” she instructed. “I need you to do something for me.”

“Anything,” the gardener pledged earnestly. “I’ll do anything for you.”

A thin smile worked its way across her lips. “That’s what I thought you’d say.”

Edwin Rancourt, aged twenty-four and three-quarters, meticulously unpacked the clothes from his luggage. He and his mother, the Lady Wesphaline Rancourt, were going to stay with their elderly neighbor, Philippe Delacroix, for a few days in honor of his going-away party. Most people wouldn’t bother staying with a neighbor because of a party, Edwin supposed, but he and his mother did live about three miles down the road in another elegant plantation house, and staying at the location of the festivities meant that they could revel for longer.

Reveling was one of Edwin’s hobbies, along with arranging and polishing things. Perhaps he was a bit of a compulsive cleaner and part-time merrymaker, but it didn’t really matter, did it? As long as his clothes that he was putting into his dresser were neatly folded and in line"

His brow furrowed as he detected a stray sleeve poking out from one of his shirts that he had just placed in a drawer. “That can’t be,” he muttered to himself, removing the shirt and re-folding it. When he returned it to its former position in the drawer, Edwin once again caught sight of an errant bulge.

Normally, someone of Edwin’s superior class (European nobility, by the way) would have the servants unpack for him, but he didn’t trust anyone to fold his clothes correctly. If even he couldn’t make a sleeve comply with his orderliness, then how could the hired help accomplish it? They would probably be sloppy, and nothing would be in line, and there would be absolute disarray…

“Stay in line,” Edwin commanded his shirts darkly, tucking the wayward sleeve back to where it was supposed to be in the first place.

Shutting the drawer very carefully, Edwin went over to his empty suitcase and closed it, after making sure that it was completely empty. Then he placed it on the floor and sat on his bed, taking his daily allotment of ten minutes to reflect on his life.

It was going pretty well, he reasoned. Between reveling at night and cleaning by day, there was never a spare moment, which was good because Edwin hated spare moments. Filling his mental schedule every day made him feel accomplished, and accomplishment was no small matter.

The party would be fun tonight, definitely. Have a few glasses of champagne from M. Delacroix’s bootlegged collection, swindle a couple dances out of the young ladies, and ultimately withdraw to his room with Karcel. Sounded like enough of a raucous and rewarding evening.

Last time there was a festivity like the one planned for later, it had been hosted at the Fitzroys’ mansion, a rather dusty place befitting a retired lieutenant and his newly-adult son, Karcel. Edwin Rancourt and the young Fitzroy had been close for years, now, and had taken their relationship to new heights sometime the year before.  As of late, they had acquired the habit of sharing a bedroom" in secret, of course" after every celebration.

It made Edwin feel strange in a good way, that he would drink and dance and revel all evening with the young society ladies but ultimately go to bed with his very male lover. No one suspected any of it; who would?

Edwin smiled to himself at the thought, as fooling the masses always brought him great joy.

Lying placidly on his bed with his hands clasped behind his neck, the young Rancourt daydreamed about the evening to come for the remainder of his ten-minute-reflection-time, making personal predictions about how much champagne he would drink, how many girls he would entrance with his suave attitude, and how his night with Karcel would unfold. Little did anyone know, Edwin had something special planned for the evening’s entertainment, and it was sure to get quite the reaction from the other partygoers.

Ah, yes, Edwin thought with satisfaction, this will surely be a revel for the ages.

The entirety of Philippe Delacroix’s mansion found itself all in a flurry to prepare for the festivities planned for the evening ahead. Servants were scurrying around at a breakneck pace, finishing their housework for what was probably the last time in the big, old mansion.

The party was due to begin at five o’clock sharp, which left the team with a mere two hours to complete the cleaning of the immense place. M. Delacroix wasn’t usually lax with how clean he wanted his home, but a party the scale of this one warranted perfection. No dust would be tolerated, nor dirt, nor sloppiness in general.

Normally, the servants would have bemoaned such a prospect, but this one carried with it a sense of nostalgia and completion. One last party, and then nothing. It would signal the end of an era: they’d all move on to different houses and serve under different masters, and perhaps even take up different occupations. This was the last time that Eduard would answer the door for guests and offer them something to drink, that Terentille would be screaming at the kitchen staff for preparing something incorrectly, that Oliver would muck out the stables, that Andre would prune the hedges.

Sestina Grosvenor contemplated all these things as she made the beds in the guest rooms, straightened the curtains, and dusted every hard surface she could find. She ignored only one room- the one that belonged to that odd Edwin Rancourt, who had just arrived and had already posted a neatly-lettered sign on his door proclaiming: ‘All servants who wish to enter this room are henceforth banned, as I can take care of myself, thank you, and I would like to avoid the unfortunate reality of you all poking at my things as you did last time. Cheers.’ Following that was an extremely flourished and fanciful signature that made Sestina roll her eyes.

Edwin was an exceedingly strange young fellow, albeit an attractive one, with his ink-black hair and blinding smile. However, the ‘unfortunate reality’, as he had put it, was that he was an absolute basket case. The last time he had stayed at the manor, she and another maid, Tennille, had been doing their job and went to tidy up his room, only to find it in pristine condition. It was most peculiar, of course, especially from a notorious party boy like Edwin.

He was a weird one, that Edwin Rancourt and, as such, deserved no more time spent in Sestina’s thoughts. She even repressed the urge as she passed the sign on his bedroom door, instead continuing on to the next chamber. 

This one belonged to Lady Wesphaline Rancourt, Edwin’s mother. She, unlike her eccentric excuse for a son, had no problem with the maids cleaning her guest room.

As Sestina approached, however, something seemed… off. Different, definitely. The maid couldn’t quite place what it was, but there was almost a change in the atmosphere. It’s probably because she’s in there, Sestina thought. There’s no problem with that. Stop being paranoid.

Thus, Sestina hesitantly went up to the dark, wooden door and knocked once. She even put her ear up against the wood, but heard nothing. A wave of relief coursed through her, and the maid sighed contentedly as she pushed open the door, and"

Her earlier fear had been confirmed, to say the least. There was Lady Rancourt, and it just so happened that she had a visitor, Adrien Moreau. M. Delacroix’s nephew, to be exact. M. Delacroix’s very married nephew.

The clarification was only necessary because of the compromising position that Sestina found them in.

Blanching, the maid said nothing and closed the door again, hurrying out of that room as fast as she could. She had walked in on couples before- that was only to be expected when you were a maid- but had never witnessed adultery.

I suppose the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, she mused internally, thinking of Edwin and his well-publicized antics.

But that was far from important currently, because she had to finish cleaning the guest rooms before the party started. If her timing was good, then she would get to actually be a guest at the festivities. The thought of it made her pulse quicken in anticipation; she adored parties.

Sestina, over the course of the next hour, completed her duties and then practically sprang to her quarters to primp and prepare for the party.

One thing was for sure, and that was that tonight would be interesting.

Reviews

[Strigoikillerr]

You took a bold move in making your first chapter into three different POVs. I thought it was great! I'd have to say that so far, Andre's perspective seems the most interesting to me. His love for Lydia is really passionate, and I get the impression that she's just using him for personal gain, but I could be wrong :P

[Carrie]

Thanks so much for the review! =) I really appreciate that you took the time to read and leave me such a lovely comment... And, as for your impression, only time will tell. ;)

[Steve]

Ok. I wasnt expecting this. This is quality writing done by someone who appears young. I am impressed by the flow of the story and the conversational stuff.

[Carrie]

Thanks a bunch! Glad you enjoyed it. =)