Anne-Marie de Parthenay

New France

It was the day of the ball, and Anne-Marie was a mess. As it turned out, three days was not nearly enough time to prepare for an event of this magnitude. She had been practicing her dance for hours each day, and still it did not feel enough. It was not that Anne-Marie was a poor dancer–her father had spared no expense to hire a tutor from l'Académie Royale de Dance who had apparently trained under Feuillet himself. At first, only her brother took dancing instruction from him, as it was not the trend at the time for women to participate in la belle danse, but after enough complaining, Anne-Marie was allowed to take them, too. Now that female dancing was not only popular, but expected, Anne-Marie was glad to have complained.

While the countless hours she had spent training as a little girl instilled in her a certain degree of confidence in her dancing skills, it was not enough to still her trembling heart. This would be her debut to the rest of the nobility in New France–with Le Vicomte and her brother having been gone on their escapade to Fort Frontenac, no one bothered to introduce themselves to a random girl, and so Jeannine was the only high-born person she knew here. First impressions were everything, and if she embarrassed herself in any way in front of the other families, it could stain her reputation in these parts for years.

What’s worse, the dance was one meant for couples, and not knowing anyone else in this place meant Anne-Marie had been practicing a two-person dance by her lonesome. Jeannine had promised to secure her a partner for the ball itself, but had eschewed the usual practice of selecting one well in advance. Her reasoning was to give Anne-Marie a wider degree of choices, saving her selection of a partner until she met all the potential suitors at the ball, but that gave Anne-Marie no comfort. Rather it deepened her anxieties, adding an additional burden on her shoulders. Now she needed to find the perfect partner at the ball and perform the dance immaculately with him without ever having even seen the boy dance. There was so much that could go wrong, and each item on that ever-expanding list wrapped around Anne-Marie’s brain like a constricting snake.

It also felt like a trap. Anne-Marie had been given no reason to distrust Jeannine, per se, and she was kind enough to host this ball just for her, but the situation made her nervous regardless. She was completely dependent on Jeannine in this strange and foreign land, socially and otherwise, and as eager as she was to forge her independence in this frontier, a part of her enjoyed this dependency. There was a comfort in having someone to rely on, someone to trust, even if that trust was not ironclad. Anne-Marie had no doubt that Jeannine was as cunning as her father, and that she carried a multitude of secrets and ulterior motives within her. All Anne-Marie hoped is that Jeannine truly did see her as a friend, and that both of them would maintain their friendship for a long while.

The clock struck five, and so it was time to leave. Catherine, the head chamber-maid, helped Anne-Marie with the finishing touches of her dress and make-up. To fit in better with the other noblewomen here, Anne-Marie had adopted the outdated look she saw Jeannine wearing on their first visit. Her dress of blue-green brocade carried a revealing bodice that exposed her shoulders and neckline, and she eschewed a fontange for her hair, sticking to a more simple style of structured curls clustered on each side of her head to frame her face better. With her hair, dress, and make-up finished, Anne-Marie took a deep breath to steel herself, then took a step through the front door, ready to face the world.

The square was packed with all the other noble families making their way to the governor’s palace at the northmost end of the city. All of them went in large groups or cliques, clusters of allied families with mutual goals and mutual enemies. Anne-Marie, in contrast, was alone. Catherine was her sole company, following close behind her to prevent the train of her dress from dragging along the dirty ground. Le Vicomte and his wife had left before her as the guests of honor, leaving her to fend for herself, as always. If it was up to him, Anne-Marie would not even be in attendance, lest a boy her age take a fancy to her and steal her from him. La Madame had kept her word, though, and successfully convinced him otherwise. How she managed to do so was a complete mystery, but Anne-Marie was content enough to not find out. She knew by now that some things were best left as secrets.

All the nobles of New France filed into the two enormous open doors of the governor’s home. It was a veritable manor among a ring of small, clustered townhomes–much to the nobles’ chagrin, there was simply not enough room within the city walls. This in turn no doubt fostered a resentment towards whoever got to live in that manor–for now, it was Le Marquis. All the other noblemen sat in their modest dwellings, waiting bitterly for their chance to strike and claim the manor for their own. Le Vicomte was among them, and Anne-Marie could not help but smile at the thought of him being so humbled by something as trivial as the size of a house. But then again, in the French court, nothing was trivial. Every action, every word, every article of clothing and lock of hair was a message–of status, of wealth, of power. These were people born with silver spoons in their mouths, who had nothing to do but play these little games with each other. Anne-Marie was a pawn in that game, but she did not carry the ambition to play a greater role. Instead, she longed to be free from the game entirely, to escape from all of it. She supposed she never would.

In the foyer, valets and attendants met and greeted guests, directing them towards the ballroom, which Anne-Marie was eager to get to. She bid Catherine farewell, and made her way through the crowd of aristocrats, trying to find Jeannine. She entered the ballroom, perhaps the largest room in the entire mansion. The center of the room was completely clear, a tremendous glass chandelier hanging above to illuminate the place. To the sides, ornate stretches of gobelin rugs covered the lacquered hardwood floor, and a series of armchairs lay on top of them for the non-participants to sit and watch.

Immediately, most of the families took seats in them, as if everyone knew where they should sit except for Anne-Marie. She looked around, but she could not see head or tail of Jeannine, or even Le Vicomte. There were no familiar faces here, nothing for her to cling to. Anxiety rose in her again, and she froze by the entrance to the ballroom, unsure of where to go or what to do.

“Oui, madame?” She asked.

“You looked like a lost little deer,” the woman. “Who are you here with?”

“M-my name is Anne-Marie, of Parthenay. I’m the ward of Le Vicomte de Châtellerault, but I am unsure of his whereabouts.”

“Ah, the esteemed guest of honor. He’s around somewhere, but don’t worry about that. You can call me Margueritte. I’m the wife of another Vicomte, of Rennes. You’ll meet him eventually–he’s hard to miss. Come, I’ll introduce you to the other women.”

Anne-Marie smiled, and she followed La Madame to a section of seating on the eastern side. A gaggle of noble hens sat in a cluster, most of them middle-aged. Jeannine had been right–there was no sign of anyone here Anne-Marie’s age. Some women appeared to be in their late twenties, but that was the closest.

“Ladies,” La Madame de Rennes interrupted their chatter. “This is the new commander’s girl, Anne-Marie de Parthenay.”

The hens clucked . One by one, La Madame de Rennes introduced them all, but after the third name and title they began to all blur together in Anne-Marie’s mind. She had never been good at remembering names upon a first meeting, a painfully important skill to have in the court. She tried her best, but it was a futile effort to keep track of ten different Jeannes, Jeannines, Colettes, Maries, and Madeleines, all from different parts of France. All she could do was smile and nod after each one, and resolve to try and meet each of these ladies one-by-one to learn who they were properly.

“It’s wonderful to meet you all,” Anne-Marie said, mustering a small bow. As she looked at each of them, though, a horrifying dawned on her. None of the women were wearing the same dress as her. In fact, all of them were wearing what she would have originally worn–mantuas with underskirts, all in different patterns and colors, and fontanges to stack their hair high like a tower.

“Oh, but this won’t do at all,” La Madame de Rennes tutted disapprovingly, running her hands across Anne-Marie’s dress. “You’re painfully out of date, my dear. Far too exposed. Modesty’s what’s in style now. You of all girls should know that, having only just arrived from the mainland.”

The rest of the women muttered a collective disapproval, looking at Anne-Marie like she was some harlot who had stumbled in here off the street. Right then, Anne-Marie wouldn’t have minded much if she just keeled over and died. In the three weeks since she told Jeannine about the mantua, all the noblewomen in New France had gotten one of their own. But that didn’t make sense–it would certainly take more than three weeks to place an order for dresses and have them shipped across the Atlantic. What was happening?

Anne-Marie felt a hand tap her shoulder, and whirled around to see Jeannine.

“Can I steal her for a moment?” Jeannine asked the women. They nodded in an agreement, and Jeannine grabbed Anne-Marie’s hand, leading her away from the crowd.

“I was beginning to worry you wouldn’t come,” Jeannine said.

“Of course I’d come,” Anne-Marie replied. “But you told me that everyone’s here behind on fashion. I just saw them, and now I feel like a complete fool for dressing in something older.”

“Oh, my God,” Jeannine gasped, looking at Anne-Marie’s dress. “I’m awfully sorry. I should have told you. Every few months we get an enormous shipment of dresses–sometimes you’re lucky, and they’ll come staggered, but often they come all at once. It’s a complete nightmare–all of the women fight over who gets to buy them first, and a lot of them bribe the docksmen to know when the ship will be in. Two days after we first met, a ship came in with all the dresses you see here tonight. I should have told you.”

Jeannine smacked herself in the forehead. Anne-Marie couldn’t tell whether her guilt was genuine or a ruse.

“I’m a terrible friend,” Jeannine insisted. “I wouldn’t blame you if you never spoke to me again. Really.”

“Well, I wouldn’t go that far…”

“So you’ll forgive me, then?”

“Well, I just…”

Anne-Marie felt tears begin to well in her eyes.

“I just felt very foolish, is all” she stammered. “I was just trying to make a good impression and fit in, but…”

“Shhhhh,” Jeannine cooed, wiping the tears off Anne-Marie’s cheek. “Forget about it. These women are complete hypocrites. A month ago their entire wardrobe looked exactly like what you’re wearing tonight, but once the new styles come in, they burn everything old and pretend they never even liked it. You shouldn’t care about what they think, especially tonight. You need to focus on more important things. Look over there.”

Anne-Marie gestured across the ballroom, where a group of teenage boys stood awkwardly in their fine suits, looking around the room aimlessly.

“See one you like?” Jeannine asked. “Just give me the word, and I’ll work my magic.”

Anne-Marie squinted, trying to make them out better. Most of them looked rather similar, though Anne-Marie supposed she likely didn’t look that unique compared to other girls her age, either. They were all fairly unremarkable–average height, spindly, pale, and nervous-looking. Then she saw him–a taller boy, maybe seventeen or eighteen. His hair was a refined set of brown curls à la comète, and carried himself with a confidence she couldn’t see in any of the other boys.

“That one,” she said.

“Which one?” Jeannine asked. “Point at him.”

“I’m not going to point. The tall one, with the curly brown hair.”

Jeannine smiled, and poked Anne-Marie in the rib.

“Gustave de Lyon,” she said. “Remember the name, and thank me later.”

All of the guests started to take their seats.

“It’s starting soon,” Jeannine said. “Go sit with the women from before–they’ll take care of you. I’ll see you later.”

With that, Jeannine disappeared into the settling crowd. Anne-Marie returned to the group of women from before, her heart skipping in her chest. If she got to dance with this Gustave, it would be worth all the humiliation she faced over the dress situation.

The crowd grew silent, and at the head of the room, four figures took their own seats in seats large enough to be thrones. Anne-Marie recognized Le Vicomte and La Madame, and the other two had to be Le Marquis de Denonville and his wife. Le Marquis stood from his seat, addressing all of the guests.

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“My friends,” he said. “We are gathered here today to celebrate the arrival of Monsieur Jean-Pierre d'Harcourt, Vicomte de Châtellerault, as well as his wife and his two children.”

In his seat, Anne-Marie could see Le Vicomte bristle at Le Marquis calling her and Chrétien his children.

“Along with them came four companies of new marines, fresh and ready to take the fight to the Iroquois!”

The crowd applauded in approval.

“Of course we must honor and thank our benevolent King for his grace to send Le Vicomte and his armies here. Let us make a toast in all their honor.”

Everyone raised their wine glasses with a smile. Le Marquis did the same, then downed the entire glass in one gulp.

“And now the time for speeches is over,” he mused. “Let us move to the time for dancing–much more entertaining.”

The crowd applauded again, and Le Vicomte. Their dance was first. They took their place in the center of the ballroom, bowing to Le Marquis and his wife, then turning to bow to each other. The foolishness of these elaborate rituals was laid bare the further one got from Versailles. All of them were created for one purpose–to appease and honor King Louis. But the King was thousands of kilometers away, all the way across the seas, and so Le Marquis was his own kind of King here, a petty ruler lording over who wanted nothing more than to devour him whole and take his place. Anne-Marie wished Chrétien were here to see it–she could always rely on him for a scathing critique of hollow etiquette.

Le Vicomte and La Madame walked to the south end of the ballroom, then began their dance, a slow and methodical courante. Behind them, a band of musicians played to accompany them as they ambled in rhythmic curves from the south of the ballroom northward. It was a fitting dance for a couple who despised each other–they did not have to face one another for most of it, instead standing at each other’s side and facing Le Marquis and his wife as they danced closer and closer. La Madame was as stoic as always–she never let her madness show in public, and certainly not at an event with other gentry. She put on her porcelain mask of a nobleman’s wife–refined, polite, and most importantly docile. They finished their last steps, turning to acknowledge one another briefly before returning to their original position and bowing to Le Marquis.

The crowd applauded, and Anne-Marie followed suit. It was a rather slow and boring dance, performed with a mediocre grace, but she had seen far worse performances, even by the same two dancers. Her heart beat frantically in her chest, and she tried her best to breathe in her tight dress to calm herself. Her dance was next.

As her caretakers took their seats, Le Marquis rose again.

“My, what talent our King has blessed us with!” He exclaimed. “And we are in for a treat as well, for the next dance is to be performed by their ward, Le Mademoiselle Anne-Marie de Parthenay! Where are you, Anne-Marie?”

Anne-Marie swallowed–it felt like a peach pit was stuck in her throat. The women next to her all looked at her expectantly, and she tried her hardest to tune their gazes out. She stood, making her way to the center of the ballroom.

“Ah! There she is! And joining her for this dance is none other than Jean-Pierre, the son of François de La Cour!”

Anne-Marie froze in place. Who? She was supposed to dance with Gustave de Lyon. Was there some kind of mistake?

A bit of motion caught the corner of her eye, and she turned to see a boy walking out to her side. One thing was certain–he was not Gustave de Lyon. He really was a boy–he couldn’t have been any older than twelve, short and scrawny. His face was as pasty as a sheet, his dark brown hair hanging around his head like a drooping bowl. He stood there next to her, looking at her with a timid fear, sweat beading on his forehead. Clearly he had never danced with a girl before, and certainly not a sixteen-year-old one.

Anne-Marie whirled her head around, trying to find Jeannine, or Gustave, but she could make out neither of them among the mass of hats and wigs that dotted the ballroom. A paralyzing heat rose in her, starting in her chest and quickly spreading to her arms. This was a nightmare. She was sure of it. She was meant to dance an allemande of all dances with a boy half her height? It was impossible. Surely they would not make her do it.

Her eyes fell on Le Vicomte, and her heart plummeted into her stomach when she saw his look. It was a stern, cold sneer, the kind that told her exactly what he would do to her if she did not indulge this boy with a dance in front of all these people. She swallowed again, her throat dry and hot. He can’t be serious. He can’t actually expect me to…

She looked back at the boy. He stood there like a statue, frozen like her. If there was some comfort in all this, it was that he clearly did not want to be doing this any more than she did.

Whatever was happening, she would not let it defeat her, and the dozens of expectant gazes that pierced her from both sides of the ballroom would only grow worse the longer she delayed. She could do nothing but acquiesce to this horrible circumstance, and so she did. She took her position, and seeing her do so, the boy followed, each of them facing Le Marquis, Le Vicomte, and their wives.

They began their bow. The boy did his trembling, but Anne-Marie ignored it–however fool he would make himself look, she would become his foil. She pushed her feet into first position, clicking her heels together and forcing her feet to face away from each other, in a perfectly straight line with her shoulders. The key to dancing for a woman was to accomplish what required a great amount of effort while looking completely effortless. Movements that were shaky or imprecise were a death knell–she folded her arms in front of her, bending her knees at a pace that was not too fast or too slow. Then she rose, and faced the boy, and the two bowed at each other.

The boy Jean-Pierre just stood there, unsure of what to do next. Anne-Marie held her hands out to him–even if he was completely clueless, she would lead him through each step. She was not about to have a stupid boy ruin her debut in the New World, not now.

The music began, and so the two initiated the first steps of the German dance. Anne-Marie began to panic as the band played. This was not the piece she had practiced. It was a completely different tempo, and one far too fast for an allemande. Still, she would not be defeated, she took it in stride.

Then came the next hurdle. Allemande in many ways could not have been more different from the preceding courante–the dancing couple was meant to complete the entire dance while holding hands, which was exceedingly intimate and physical compared to other styles. What’s more, one of the first moves involved the woman turning underneath the man’s right arm, but that was completely impossible given the difference in their height. Anne-Marie adapted, instead turning in place, keeping the boy’s hand at waist level instead of over her head. The boy followed her cues, letting her lead as he made his own turn under her hand.

Jean-Pierre finished his rotation, and now the real challenge would begin. The next part of the dance involved two rosettes, back-to-back, which would be even more impossible than a simple one-person turn. Still, she was determined to try. She took both of Jean-Pierre’s hands in hers and began to turn, and he as well. She strained her spine, bending over backwards to make the height difference work as best she could, all while maintaining the faster tempo of the music. They finished their first rotation in tandem, and began the second. After this, it was almost over. A few more moves, and it would all be over.

Though it happened in a manner of seconds, Anne-Marie saw it unfold slowly, like Jean-Pierre was moving through molasses. Three-quarters of the way through their second rosette, the poor boy tripped on the train of Anne-Marie’s dress. He careened forward, flailing hopelessly with his arms as he slammed face-first into the hardwood floor.

The band stopped playing. A chorus of shrill gasps pierced the air. Anne-Marie, still almost through her rosette, finished it, then just stood there, her mind having yet to fully process what had just happened, let alone what to do next. Then, the worst thing imaginable happened: the boy started to cry. Not a sniffle or stifled sob, but a full-on wail, like he was a child of five who had just skinned his knee.

Just like that, all the hope Anne-Marie carried of potentially making it through this unscathed came crashing to the ground in a fiery chaos. She was now in an impossible position as this caterwauling babe’s dance partner. If she remained standing here, she would be seen as heartless, but if she went to help him, she would be breaking etiquette.

Her eyes fell on Le Vicomte, writhing uncomfortably in his chair, and it suddenly occurred to her that there was only one option. She completed the last few steps of her portion of the dance seamlessly, then bowed to the squirming man and the chuckling governor before taking her exit. She completely ignored the boy’s cries as she made her way back to her seat. Cruelty could be forgiven in the French court, but acting in a manner unbecoming of a young lady was a mortal sin. There was no rule in French etiquette that would force her to soothe a sniveling child, and besides, she had resolved to execute her part of the dance flawlessly, and she did. It wasn’t her fault the boy was made to dance with her and failed miserably, but she would find out whose fault it was, and make them pay for such an embarrassment.

A woman that must have been Jean-Pierre’s mother ran to him, picking him up off the ground and helping him away from the ballroom floor, all the while shushing and cooing at him.

“You were magnificent, darling,” La Madame de Renee whispered. “Given the circumstances.”

“Thank you,” Anne-Marie replied, forcing a smile. The woman’s words did relieve her–they seemed to echo the thoughts of the other ladies, none of whom carried the same pharisaic looks any longer, replaced instead with a mixture of approval and sympathy. Anne-Marie took a deep breath. She had made the right choice then, leaving the boy on the floor.

Eager to move on from the embarrassment, Le Marquis stood once again.

“Well, let us move to our third performance, from the greatest dancer in all of New France: my beloved daughter, Jeannine!”

Anne-Marie’s eyes widened in horror when she saw Jeannine approach the center of the ballroom–not because of her, but because of the boy she carried with her on her arm. It was the one Anne-Marie had chosen–Gustave de Lyon. Her stomach began to boil with a furious rage as the couple took their positions and bowed. It all made sense now–the old dress, the child partner, the music change. Every inconvenience, every obstacle was a deliberate act of sabotage, carefully planned to humiliate her. Anne-Marie’s face grew red and hot, stifling in her dress. How could she do such a thing? And how could Anne-Marie be so blind, thinking she was actually a friend?

Anne-Marie watched on in horror as the two began their dance. It was a volta of all things, a dance so salacious in its movements that it would have never been allowed in court during the last King’s reign. Anne-Marie turned delicately on point around Gustave, then the boy took hold of her, his right hand on her stomach, his other on her back, just above her waist. With his new grip, he lifted Jeannine into the air as she kicked her feet in rhythm, her hand resting gingerly on Gustave’s shoulder.

The sight of him holding her like that was more than Anne-Marie could bear. She knew it would be improper to make a fuss, that she should just stay and endure it, but she didn’t care anymore. She stood, walking down the side of the and out of the ballroom. She tried to be discreet in her exit, but honestly, she didn’t care if the whole room was watching her at that point. Once she was out, she broke into a run, rushing across the foyer and bursting out of the doors into the night air. There, she collapsed upon the front stone steps, sobbing uncontrollably.

It was all so horrible, so overwhelming. She had finally begun to think that she could confide in someone, that she could depend on someone. How could she be so naive? She should know by now that no one in this world truly cared about anyone else besides themselves, that every person alive would hang their neighbors to widen their own fences. She should have known the second Jeannine brought her to the savage village, the second she made her watch as she relentlessly beat that poor man on the floor of that hut. She should have known. In all her sixteen years on this earth, Anne-Marie had never felt so foolish.

She wasn’t sure how long she’d been out in the cold crying, but she heard the clicking of heels on the stone steps behind her.

“Anne-Marie,” someone called. It was Jeannine’s voice. “Anne-Marie, look at me.”

Anne-Marie recognized the bottom of the girl’s dress as she stood in front of her, and she shook her head.

“No,” Anne-Marie said. “I won’t. You’re an awful, horrible person.”

“Just look at me.”

“No!"

Anne-Marie felt the girl grab her by the jaw. She was so shocked at the sudden motion she couldn’t even fight back. But Jeannine did not jerk her chin to look at her the way Le Vicomte did–she merely lifted it gently, until the girls met each other’s gaze.

“Do you know why I did it?” Jeannine asked her.

“W-what?” Anne-Marie sniffled.

“Do you know why I did all those terrible things to you? Do you want to know why I did them?”

“I–I don’t know.”

“It’s because I know what you want, what you really want. You think you want to dance with Gustave de Lyon, but I know he’s as dumb as a brick and his breath reeks like the sewers of Paris. You think you want all those hens in there to cluck approvingly at you, but I know they’ll never see you as their equal until you marry into a family higher than you were born. And let’s be honest, you were not born high. You were heir to a decrepit castle in the middle of nowhere until poor Daddy died, and then you had the fortune to be adopted by a family with an actual semblance of a future. And you think you want to escape from that family, to run away as fast as you can, but you don’t really want that, either.”

Anne-Marie had no idea what to say. She was still so angry, so embarrassed, so sad. She just sat there, stewing in all her emotions.

“You aren’t like the other girls that have come in and out of this place,” Jeannine continued. “And you’ve spent your whole life trying to convince yourself that you are. I did all this because I’m tired of you lying to yourself, and you needed something drastic to see the truth. You don’t want to be courted, or doted on, or served tea and biscuits on a silver platter. You want to be needed. You want to have a purpose, and I’m the only soul alive who cares enough to give you one.”

Then, Jeannine did something Anne-Marie never would have suspected. She bent down and kissed her. And not a peck on the cheek–she brought her lips to Anne-Marie’s, kissing her. Anne-Marie was so surprised she had no idea what to do, her mind running haywire. So she listened to her body, and returned the kiss. It felt confusing, and amazing, and horrible, all at once.

“Listen to me,” Jeannine said, her face inches away. “From now on, you are mine. Mine to tease, mine to kiss, and yes, mine to humiliate when I feel like it. Your purpose will be my pleasure, whatever form that might take.”

Anne-Marie could say nothing, her mind in a state of utter shock.

“Tell me that you understand. I’ve always gotten everything I’ve wanted, and I won’t be told no now. Tell me that you’re mine.”

“I… I do.” The words left Anne-Marie’s lips like she was caught in a trance. “I’m yours.”

Jeannine smiled.

“Good girl. Now, let’s get back to the party before anyone notices we’ve been gone. And of course, not a soul in the world will know about this besides you and me. It’ll be our little secret.”

She strode past the messy pile of a girl on the steps, back into the manor. That pile took a while longer, struggling to gather her thoughts. A hundred emotions swam all around the inside of her body, and she could focus on nothing except the lingering feeling of that kiss.