Post by vanessa on Mar 11, 2013 10:45:15 GMT -5
| [atrb=cellSpacing,0,true][atrb=border,0,true][atrb=style, width: 460px; background-image: url(http://i44.tinypic.com/34fb0ns.jpg);-moz-border-radius: 0px 0px 0px 0px; -webkit-border-radius: 0px 0px 0px 0px; border: 4px ridge #7a9aa9, bTable][tr][cs=2] vanessa juliane broqe fortbeau. twelve. sacred heart. dakota blue richards. | |
[rs=2] | ~Paris 1822~ She looked so sweet when she slept, so innocent and so unaware of the turmoil going on around her and in the hearts of her parents and grandparents. Simply because of the accident of their births, the entire Montagne family was to be executed … including tiny Juliane. Comtesse Emilie de Montagne stood beside the cradle, trying to contain the tears that blossomed behind her eyes. It wasn't fair that her daughter's life should be snuffed out before it had even begun. Even at eight months old, Juliane was showing signs of her grandfather's and father's keen intellect, as well as the promise of her mother's golden beauty. And she was a good-natured baby, her sparkling laughter the only light in the somber darkness that surrounded the Duc de Montagne's household as they waited for the day they would be hauled from their home and to the guillotine. Emilie had already come to terms with her own impending demise, but her daughter deserved to live. Warm arms wrapped around her and she snuggled into the warm embrace of her husband, Renaud, who … if things had gone as they should … would have taken the title of Duc after his father's death. Now that was not to be, and the ancient line of Montagne would end with the death of the innocent babe soundly asleep in her cradle. The comte kissed his wife's cheek, and then moved his lips to her ear, where he whispered: “I think I've found a way to save Juliane.” I try not to think of the past too much, but sometimes memories of the life I used to lead flash inside my mind, and even though I try, I cannot push them away. So I shall write them down, and maybe once I see them on paper and read them over like they are just a story in a book, they will not have the power to haunt me any longer. My earliest memories are of running about the farm that my parents owned on the outskirts of the village of Barbizon. There was so much to do there that I was rarely ever bored. I loved to gather eggs and feed the chickens, watch the pigs roll around in the mud, and when I was ten, one of the farmhand's sons taught me how to tip cows. I watched foals being born in the stable and I took care of the kittens that were born to the barn cats kept for controlling the rat population. I also picked flowers, climbed trees, tried to catch butterflies, and played games of chase and hide-and-seek with the children of the farm workers. We played pretend as well and I loved making up adventurous tales and acting them out with my playmates. The farmhouse was spacious but drafty, and most of my time was spent by the hearth watching my mother cook delicious meals that smelled as good as they tasted. Sometimes she would let me help her chop the vegetables that grew in the fields, always with close supervision. At night, my father would read me stories before I went to bed, some in French and some in English. He was English, you see, and my mother was French, and I learned both languages at the same time. My father went into the village several times a week to sell his produce and buy supplies, and sometimes he took me with him. I would ride in the very back of the cart among the fruits and vegetables, usually munching on something while my feet swung back and forth above the road. While he conducted his business, I played with the village children and made friends with some of the merchants and shopkeepers, who never seemed to have a problem answering my many questions. My parents were well-known there and had many friends, and we visited them often. It was a good life, and I was very happy. ~Paris, 1822~ Emilie turned around in her husband's embrace and gazed up at him, a trace of hope visible in her vivid green eyes. “How?” she asked. “How can we save our daughter's life?” Renaud led her over to their bed and they both sat down on the edge of it. “One of our former servants has a granddaughter about the same age as Juliane. The child has always been sickly and now she lies near death. Her parents are heartbroken, and when they were told of our situation, they offered to take in Juliane and raise her after her daughter is gone. The babies can be switched, and we will have a body to prove that Juliane is dead.” Emilie stared at her husband incredulously. It was difficult to believe that any mother would make such a sacrifice, especially for the daughter of an aristocrat whom they had been taught to hate. “What kind of life will she have with them?” “They are farmers,” Renaud replied. “They live humbly but comfortably. She won't live in the luxury that should have been hers, but right now, if she stays with us, all we can offer her is death.” Emilie nodded solemnly. No matter how much it hurt her to think of giving up her baby, she knew that they had been given a gift that could not be refused. “We shall accept their generosity then. When the time comes, I wish to hand Juliane to her new mother myself.” The Comte gave his wife a thin smile. “I am sure that can be arranged.” When I was eight, my parents gave me a pony for my birthday. I had started learning to ride when I was five, but I had never had a horse of my own. It was the best gift I have ever received, and I rode every chance I got, racing through the fields or exploring the forest behind the farm. I didn't get to ride every day, because I had my lessons to attend to. My parents taught me to read and write in both French and English, and my father, who regularly had books shipped to him from his family in England, opened my mind to subjects such as history, mathematics, philosophy, the science of nature, and the appreciation of art. I learned very quickly, and he said I had a brilliant mind and was mature for my age. From my mother, I learned how to cook, and sew, and clean, but I confess I liked my father's lessons better. And I truly loved to read. I devoured all the books he brought me and always longed for more. One of the frequent visitors to our farm was a man I called Uncle Nate. He isn't my real uncle, but I call him that anyway. I don't know why, it's just what I've always called him. And he was more an uncle to me than my real uncles were, because he spent a lot of time with me and always brought me gifts … mostly books … whenever he came over. I grew to love him over the years and was always excited when he visited us. After I got my pony, we went riding together sometimes and one day we discovered an old abandoned cottage in the woods. It was not in good shape, but the roof didn't have any holes in it and there was still furniture inside. A couple of chairs had been broken, but the fireplace was usable and the bed even had a few old and grimy blankets on it. We decided that it would be our secret and we would never tell anyone else about it, except, of course, for my parents. They decided to leave it as it was, and Uncle Nate and I visited it a few times and attempted to clean it up a bit. One time, it started raining and we had to shelter there until it stopped. ~Barbizon, 1822~ Three days later, the servant's granddaughter died, and he came for the Comte and Comtesse and their daughter in the middle of the night, sneaking them away from their manor and off to a drafty farmhouse on the outskirts of Barbizon. Emilie was not impressed with what she saw, nor was she impressed with the young woman who sat across from her, her eyes red from crying over the death of her own daughter. Although Adeleia Broqe Fortbeau was younger than she, Emilie thought she looked at least a decade older, probably due to the hard life she led. Was this to be Juliane's fate … to live the live of a peasant girl and grow old before her time? It was not the life she wished for her daughter but it was life, and it was far better than the alternative. Juliane sat on her mother's lap while the two women talked, and Emilie could see the interest and anticipation in Adeleia's eyes. She might not be the ideal choice to raise her child, but the Comtesse knew instinctively that this woman would love her and take care of her and keep her from harm. “What is her name?” Adeleia asked. “Juliane.” “My daughter's name was Vanessa, so from now on she will be known as Vanessa Juliane.” Tears brimmed in Emilie's eyes. “That is very kind of you, to let her keep her name.” Emilie hugged Juliane closer. “I have something to give you,” she said, pulling an ornate ring from the bag she had brought with her. “This is an antique family heirloom of the Duc de Montagne, her grandfather. Give it to her when she is old enough to take care of it.” Adeleia took the ring and studied it, watching the way the large ruby in its center glittered in the light of the candles. “I shall explain that it was her grandfather's, and if it is ever safe here for the aristocracy again, I will tell her who she really is, and perhaps she will be able to claim her heritage. My husband is a highly educated man and we will give her an education worthy of her status. She will also grow up knowing two languages, as my husband is an Englishman.” Tears streamed down both women's cheeks now. “Thank you,” Emilie said reaching out to squeeze Adeleia's hand. “I can tell you will be a good mother to her. Love her for me, that is what I ask most of all.” “I promise you that no other child in the world will be loved as much,” the other woman assured her. On my eleventh birthday, my mother gave me a ring that used to be my grandfather's. She told me to treasure it always and she put it on a cord so that I could wear it around my neck. When I asked her more about him, she said that she would tell me his story when the time was right. It was a very pretty ring, with carvings about the gold band and a large ruby in its center. At night, when I took it off, I would sometimes place it under my pillow hoping it would make me have dreams about my grandfather. I never did dream of him, though. But I wondered about him a lot, and would pull the ring from the neckline of my dress and gaze at the sparkling facets of the ruby and wish it was magical. But it wasn't magical at all. And the time will never be right for my mother to tell me my grandfather's story. Because both she and my father are dead. I watched them die. I don't want to write this part. I want to pretend it never happened. My throat feels so tight that I can hardly breathe and my vision is clouded with tears that I have to keep wiping away so that they don't smear the ink on this page. Maybe after I write it, I will let it get smeared, because I don't think I will ever want to read it again. But I must write it on the chance that it won't hurt me so much once it's put down on paper. Things changed in Barbizon during my eleventh year. There was now a guillotine in the town square and the new governor … a woman I only saw from a distance a few times … started executing aristocrats like they had done before I was born. I had no love for aristocrats, for they were the cause of the lack of food in the village, and they even took the best from my father's farm. We did not suffer, but some of my friends did. I would bring them food whenever I could, but it wasn't enough. Aristocrats were not the only ones executed. Anyone considered a traitor was killed as well. I never knew exactly what they were accused of or how they were caught, but several villagers I knew were killed, and I was surprised that they were capable of such a horrible crime. The parents of one of my friends were executed as well, and even though he claimed that they had been set up, I believed that they must have done at least something wrong. Until it happened to me. My parents were not criminals. They were kind and compassionate and good. I know this, and no matter what anyone says, it is the truth and the truth cannot be changed. But someone was apparently out to get them and they were accused of conspiring with a traitor. I didn't find this out until later, though. When the soldiers came for them … for us … I was out walking in the woods. I had found a blackberry patch and had picked a basket full of them so that we could have them for dessert that evening. As I neared the place where the trees abruptly gave way to the yard in front of our farmhouse, I heard strange voices shouting commands, and when the house came into view, the yard was overflowing with soldiers. I watched in terror as my father and mother were dragged out the front door toward a cart that I had seen before full of prisoners. My heart fell to the pit of my stomach and the blood drained from my face. They had come to arrest my parents and throw them in prison. I knew what happened to those who were thrown in prison. Most of them got their heads chopped off. I heard shouts of “where's the girl?” and I knew they were looking for me. I knew I should run but I was too shocked to move, hiding there behind a tree and watching while my world was torn apart. My father managed to escape from his captors, but as he ran toward my mother, he was shot in the back. The sharp sound made me jump and I stuck my fist in my mouth to keep from screaming as I watched him fall to the ground at my mother's feet. My mother did scream, and struggled so violently that one of the soldiers pulled out his sword and severed her head with one single stroke. It tumbled to the grass and rolled, and the highlights in her blonde hair glittered in the afternoon sunlight. Blood spurted from her body and it was carelessly tossed aside. I bit my fist as hard as I could and I think the pain broke the spell that held me, because I turned around and sprinted back into the woods, tears flowing freely down my cheeks. I didn't stop until I reached the abandoned cottage and I threw myself down on the filthy blankets and sobbed until no tears were left to shed. ~London, 1833~ “They just disappeared?” Emilie, now the Duchesse de Montagne, stared at her husband in horror. “How can that be?” The Duc enfolded his trembling wife in his arms. “I'm sorry, Emilie, but that's what the men we sent to find her told me. The farmhouse had been burned to the ground, the animals are dead, and the crops have not been harvested. They are still searching, but with all of the executions going on in the village, it is possible that the Fortbeaus fell prey to the treachery going on there.” “Again? It's happening again?” A wail tore from Emilie's throat and she felt as if tentacles of darkness wrapped around her heart and squeezed the very life from it. “But she wasn't raised as an aristocrat. They were just farmers.” Renaud shook his head. “It doesn't matter anymore. The villagers are suffering the same fate as the aristocrats. Anyone accused of treason are sentenced to death.” “Then it's worse than before.” Two weeks after she had given Juliane up, they had managed to escape from Paris and flee to England. Eleven years they had been here now, eleven years wondering what had happened to Juliane. Emilie had borne no other children during that time. Their daughter remained their only precious gift, and now it looked as if she had been cruelly snatched from their grasp. “We must find her, Renaud. We must go and search for her ourselves.” The soldiers came looking for me that evening. When I heard their voices, I grabbed the blankets from the bed and lay down in a corner and covered myself with them, lying as still as I could. They came inside but only looked around briefly before deciding that I must have fled to the village. A twelve-year-old girl, one of them said, would not think to conceal herself in the forest. And if she did, it wouldn't be long before she came out, for she would get hungry and thirsty and cold and seek shelter with friends. By the time I got the courage to crawl out of my hiding place, darkness was falling. I was, indeed, hungry and thirsty and cold, but I had my basket of berries, and after I had made a meal of them, I lay down on the dirty bed, covered myself with the blankets for warmth, and cried myself to sleep. The next four days went by in a blur. I didn't know what to think, what to feel, or what to do. I managed to survive on berries and water from a stream I had passed many times on my rides. It was a long walk from the cottage and sometimes I thought of going back to the farm and trying to find my pony, but I knew the soldiers would be looking for me, even though I hadn't done anything wrong. My parents hadn't done anything wrong. For the first time I considered that maybe nobody had done anything wrong, that they had all been accused of things they didn't do. Nobody was safe anymore, myself least of all. So many questions ran through my mind, and I had no answers. Eventually I think I just went numb, because when Uncle Nate found me, I was huddled into a corner of the cottage staring into space. He told me that he would take me someplace safe, but when I tried to tell him that there was no such place, the words wouldn't move past my throat. It was if my grief and confusion had taken the ability to speak away from me. He took me to the camp of a group called the Sacred Heart and took care of me until slowly, very slowly, I began to heal. I still have nightmares about what happened and sometimes I wake up screaming, but I can talk now. My voice came back two months after I was rescued. I've been here now for three months. My life here is not all that different than it was on the farm and it's fun to live in a tent. Some of the villagers live here as well, having fled the village because they were afraid. Most of the camp consists of men who intend to rebel against the monarchy. I think that they should, and if I was old enough, I would want to fight as well. It was the government who killed my parents and I would like to see them fall. But I'm only twelve and I'm a girl, so that is impossible. I do what I can to help out around the camp, though. I made a friend too. Her name is Helene de Rochambeau and she helps Uncle Nate look after me. She's really pretty and she's also very nice. I like to spend time with her because we can talk about girly things that Uncle Nate would not understand. I think if I had an older sister, I would want it to be her. I feel quite safe here, and the only thing I am frightened of is that I will lose my memories of my parents. One day while I was filling buckets full of water, I saw my reflection in the rippling liquid. I thought that I would see my mother staring back at me, but the face in the water didn't look anything like her. Her hair was blonde, but it wasn't curly like mine. I have a heart-shaped face while hers was round, and my eyes are a vivid green, unlike either of my parents. I am also petite and delicate-looking while they were tall and sturdy. Or that is how I remember them. What if I am remembering them wrong. What if my memories of them are fading away? I want to remember them forever. There aren't many books here for me to read, and sometimes I get restless when there is nothing much to do. Uncle Nate goes to Paris sometimes. I think I might ask him to take me with him one day. It will be quite an adventure and I will promise him that I will be very good and do everything he says. I am obedient most of the time, but my mother used to say I was stubborn and impulsive and too smart for my own good. And sometimes she said I was sweet, bubbly, and compassionate. My feelings are often kind of strange, but I think that just means I'm growing up. And that is about all I have to say. Now my story is written down and even though parts of it hurt me to write, I think it helped. I need to go anyway. I can smell something cooking and I want to see what we're having for supper. I hope they're making something I like. For roleplay sample, see the app of Claudette de Bridoire. |
lissa. ancient. an ad on another board. |
