I wake musing on my once mortal dreams of Alexandre. He was my saving grace. Attending my wedding on the arm of a young French Duchess, he saw me for the first time, feeling an immediate kinship. I have Alexandre to thank for everything.
The sun is setting, and I have butterflies in my stomach. I’m hoping to get some answers tonight.
Leaning up on an elbow, I pull open the thick, black velvet curtains which surround my bed. I slide out of the silk sheets, bracing myself against one of the bedposts. Since becoming immortal, I’ve never suffered such a case of nerves.
I shuffle across the cold, hard floors and open the light tight shutter attached to the street facing window. I love this room, my sanctuary. The silver Chinoiserie wallpaper, printed with swallows, and the heavy, substantial whitewashed furniture, was all chosen by me. Oddly enough, I tend to choose items which remind me of the life I once lived. My mortal life may not have been ideal, but there’s no denying the beauty of those former surroundings.
Opening the window, I stick my head out, breathing in the lovely fragrance of the gardenias. It’s a feast for the senses. The beauty of the varied architecture, the foliage, music and food, combine to make Savannah a perfect place for the joyful and brooding alike.
One would think such a place always smells of flowers and mossy trees. At times, however, it is also possible to detect the underlying odor of decay. Old buildings and a high level of moisture in the air, do not mix well. You take the good with the bad, I guess. I can hear laughter, a young woman singing an unfamiliar song, and a trumpet being played in Forsyth Park. This is the south, after all, where music is as natural as the humid heat. The large city park is always a center of tourist and local activity, with the famous Forsyth Park Fountain holding down the north end.
“What are you up to? Excited for tonight?” Annie asks, poking her head through the door.
“I’m more nervous than excited,” I pause. “Do you think it’s really possible?”
“Anything is possible. I just don’t want you to be disappointed, Mills. Why don’t we surf the web, see what we can find out about this past life stuff?”
I kick myself. “You’re a genius. Why didn’t I think of that last night?”
“You were a bit preoccupied,” Annie says, flopping on my bed.
Sitting down next to her, I pull my tablet from the nightstand drawer for a quick search on reincarnation.
The first thing I see is a string of pop quizzes to help me uncover my past lives. I can’t help but wonder if I will find out that I was once Cleopatra, or perhaps even, Joan of Arc. I doubt these tests ever reveal the taker was once a bored housewife, or a cashier at the local drugstore. At this point, I would gladly take bored housewife. At least it would have meant, I have someone to love and care for me.
“Ooh, click on that one. Who do you think I would be?” Annie sits behind me, resting her chin on my shoulder.
“Marquis de Sade?” I tease her.
“Very funny, look who’s talking.” She butts my back with her chest.
We learn a couple of interesting things right off the bat. It seems there may be several indicators for having lived a past life; déjà vu, recurring dreams, attraction to specific places and time periods. Maybe there will be some way for me to steer the conversation into one of these topics this evening, but how would that go?
“Excuse me, man who looks like Julien, do you ever find yourself dreaming of chateaus, portrait painting, and murder?” He would think me deranged.
“Look at this one, Annie. This man claims when a soul is reincarnated, there can be similarities to the former self. For the most part, however, the new individual develops their own separate personality. Thus, becoming a completely new person, with only echoes of the old soul. I wonder what the point of reincarnation is then, when there is little similarity to the former self.” I frown at the tablet.
Maybe my mystery man is Julien reincarnated, but with a wholly different personality. He could be completely odious, a sadistic freak, or a wonderful human. The possibilities are endless. I also have no idea if he is even single or straight. This could be my second chance at love, or it could be a complete disaster.
“We’ve researched for all of five minutes. This gives us a starting place and more for you to explore tonight,” Annie says, still sitting up behind me.
“I know. Right now, we need to get moving. It’s 8:30 which means I only have an hour until the cocktail party.”
“I’m sure you want to take a bath, I’ll check in with you later.” She bounces off the bed.
Alexandre shared that there will be eight people in attendance this evening. Seven too many, in my opinion. My mystery man is apparently a character actor whose name Alexandre forgot. I refuse to call him Julien, even in my head.
Before getting ready for the night, I decide to head out to feed. The fresh blood will give me a little color and keep me from wanting to attack our guests, which isn’t very neighborly. I pull on my uniform of skinny jeans, black heels, and a fresh, slouchy black tee. Heading downstairs, I notice Alexandre must have gone out already. No doubt he plans on pulling out all the stops to impress his ladylove this evening.
I don’t want to be bothered with any nonsense tonight, so I go with what I know is easy. I stroll a few blocks past the park, sauntering along until I see a woman walking alone in Calhoun Square, which is otherwise deserted. Historic homes and magnolia trees line the space, with a little patch of green and a couple of benches at its center. Like all the squares in this area, it is lovely and charming and tends to put people at ease when they should always be slightly on guard.
This woman has no idea what easy prey she is. Luckily for her, I have no plans to do any lasting harm. As she is about to walk past me, I stop and turn her, pulling up her chin so she must consider my eyes. The young blonde starts to protest but is quickly mesmerized once our eyes meet. I push her into a doorway, lifting her up as I press myself against her. Tilting her head, I drink quickly. At first glance, should anyone come along, we will look like two lovers making out, but best not to be too risky. I finish with her and walk back the way I came.
The bite marks will heal instantly, so there is no need to worry about her remembering our encounter. Don’t ask me the science behind it, because I have no idea. Chalk it up to another thing I never cared enough to learn. All I know is that our blood heals, and a drop or two of vampire blood will quickly heal the small puncture wounds caused by our fangs. If one is careful not to spill any blood, the victims come back to reality within several minutes, feeling dizzy, but no worse for wear. No harm, no foul.
Walking back home with her sweet blood moving through me, I feel a sense of excitement, even hope. These feelings have long eluded me, and it feels wonderful. Perhaps one day soon, the heavy weight of perpetual sadness will be lifted entirely.
Once I turn left onto E. Gaston, two blocks from my house, I sense Alexandre there. I pick up the pace, curious to see what he has purchased for the evening’s festivities. Three of the eight guests won’t be able to ingest any food, which of course means that he will have bought out the market, just so he can put out a ridiculous spread.
From outside the house, I glimpse Alexandre through the window, bustling about. I don’t tell him enough, but I am grateful to have him. He took me under his wing when I was a wreck of a human being. Hell bent on destruction, I was not a pleasant person. Alexandre worked the change and then allowed me to be as destructive as I wished. Afterwards, he cared for and sheltered me.
I walk into the kitchen where Alexandre is unloading his bounty.
“What’s on the menu tonight?” I ask.
“You look almost, dare I say, happy?” He narrows his eyes at me.
“Don’t start. How can I help?”
“You can prepare the charcuterie board if you don’t mind. I’m going to cut up fruit for the cocktails.”
I’m impressed. Alexandre intends for the food to be understated and elegant. I cut up cheeses, bread, and meats, arranging them on the board. Lastly, I put some olives and fig preserves in small bowls, also for the board.
“Nicely done, Mills. It’s almost nine and I’m sure you would like plenty of time to get ready. I’ve got the rest.”
I feel like I’m being dismissed but must admit he’s right. I bound up the stairs, two at a time.
In my four-piece bathroom surrounded by gray marble and chrome, I strip off my clothes, tossing them in the wicker hamper. My vintage 1885 claw foot bathtub, one of the first of its kind, fills with hot water. I add my favorite lavender-scented French bubble bath. The room quickly becomes hot and steamy which I find comforting.
I’ve never been someone who enjoys being cold, even though as a vampire, we invariably always run in that direction. I’ll take hot and steamy, over frigid any day. I dip myself into the steaming water, then slide down until only my head is visible. Closing my eyes, I take a precious moment to relax.
With my eyes closed, I see Julian standing in front of me as if it was yesterday. With a somewhat crooked nose, my Julien was not a conventional example of male beauty, and his burnt-ochre colored hair was rare for a Frenchman. But, it was his eyes. The intense, deep-blue eyes were always the focus of my gaze. Not to mention his lean, hard body.
Julien’s voice only added to his sex appeal. He spoke quietly in a deep, husky voice. Every time he spoke, all the females in his vicinity would immediately give him their full attention. Myself included.
As I’m toweling off, the door opens.
“Come on in, Annie. Why bother knocking?”
She ignores me and sits on the edge of the tub.
“I’m doing your hair, so get dry and throw on a robe. For a French, noble woman who knew Marie Antoinette, you would think you would have hair styling down.” It was true. A ponytail was usually as fancy as I got with my hair.
“You know that’s because I never did my own hair, right?”
“Of course, your majesty.” She bows, mockingly.
“It’s my lady, but whatever.” I snap her with my towel, while we laugh.
I notice Annie is wearing a cute, but formless navy blue, shift style dress with a high neck. She’s a good friend to let me shine tonight.
Annie works her magic and my hair looks stunning. Brushing the blonde strands until they shine, she then styles the dazzling threads into a chic chignon up-do. We keep my makeup light and fresh. I hate heavy makeup, always have.
“I love it. You should get me ready every night.”
“Sure, I don’t have anything better to do, my lady,” she says sarcastically, playfully pinching my arm. “Let’s get you in that dress.”
She pulls a black lace push-up bra and matching black lace seamless panties out of a drawer and passes them to me. Thongs are not my undergarments of choice. Taking the dress, she found hiding in the back of my armoire last night, off its hanger, she hands it toward me.
Black as midnight with three quarter sleeves and a Queen Ann neckline, the dress has black buttons all the way down the front. The length is demure, with a hemline that ends right below my knees, but the front slit begins at mid-thigh and the silk fabric hugs my figure beautifully. The sexy dress shows off all my assets but doesn’t make me look like I’m trying too hard. The Louboutin black fishnet heels with gold trim will be my only accessory.
Once dressed, I look in the mirror, pleased. Annie grins, throws up one eyebrow, and growls.
“Mm-hmm. Mystery man won’t know what hit him.”
I hope so, I think.
***
Winter 1772, Burgundy Region, France
I shake. The gooseflesh stands out on my arms like anthills. Any moment now, my father will walk through the door and hold out his arm for me. This is the last time I will sit at the mahogany vanity that was my mother’s. Never again will I wake to the sun streaming from the floor length windows onto the familiar grey walls covered with hand painted gold leaves. In a few short hours, I will ride off in a gilded carriage, fit for a newly married Marchioness.
Charles, the Marquis of Mirabeau is not who I want. I don’t know who I would have wanted, given the chance, but it isn’t him.
I wasn’t even allowed to help with the design of my wedding gown, my husband did that. The dress is a fine robin’s egg blue silk with white lace ruffles at the elbows and a jeweled bodice which sparkles with crystals and pearls. I wear diamond teardrop earrings, a pearl choker, and a floral diamond clasp holds the back of my pouffed hair perfectly in place. Face powdered, lips and cheeks rouged, I am ready to ascend the ranks of nobility.
The gown is stunning. But, I am nothing more than ornamentation. My vile, hated corset is cinched so tightly, I can scarce breathe. I typically wear the contraption as loose as possible, a tactic not allowed, today.
A soft knock on the door makes me want to cry. The back of my throat tightens, and my eyes burn. I hold the feeling back. I will keep my head high and not let my father see me crying. I straighten my back and let a cold veil of ice fall over my face.
“Come in, father,” I call out.
I am shocked when the Dauphine, Marie Antoinette herself, swishes into the room. She is magnificent. Long plumes of white feathers spray from the top of her perfectly coiffured, powdered hair. Her golden, silk gown is draped in rows of gold organza ribbon, white bows, and pink rosettes, which set off the pink of her lips and cheeks perfectly. Her jewels, rope after rope of brilliant, iridescent pearls, click as she walks.
I immediately stand, dropping into a prim curtsy before my queen. Charles had boasted that the Dauphine would attend our wedding, but I had not believed him.
She places her tiny hand under my elbow. “Stand up, my dear, and let me look at you.” Her voice is sweet, but commanding. I stand, feeling awkward as I tower over her. Only a year older than I am, she possesses such poise and confidence.
“Yes, your Royal Highness. We are honored by your presence today.”
She giggles and sits on the bench at the foot of my bed, her gown almost swallowing her whole.
“So, formal. Call me Marie. I can see why Charles chose you. You are very lovely, you remind me of a swan with that long, elegant neck.”
“Thank you,” I blush.
“Come here and hold out your wrist. I’m going to give you your wedding gift.”
I do as she bids, standing in front of her with my arm out. From the folds of her gown, she brings forth a glittering bracelet of large, square sapphires surrounded by intricate swirls of cut diamonds. For a moment, I am speechless. This gift is worth more than my father’s entire estate.
“It’s exquisite, and so generous.” I know better than to offend her by protesting. “Thank you, I shall always treasure it.”
“Please do, it’s a treasure in itself!” Marie laughs, and I join her. “Charles is a childhood friend of my husband. He has always been loyal. We shall all be good friends, and we hope to have you at court very soon.”
With that, she floats up, kisses me on both cheeks and sweeps out in a rustle of gold, ribbons, and pearls.
I can’t help but smile after her, until my gaze falls on my father, standing aside and bowing for the Dauphine. My tall, relatively fit father still has copious amounts of dark hair. His hardness is his face. Deeply lined around his cold gray eyes and unsmiling mouth, he looks much older than his forty years. Father had an expensive suit of dark blue silk embroidered with gold brocade made for this momentous occasion. He must look the part—a man wealthier than he is. Father walks into the room and examines my wrist.
“Aren’t you lucky to receive such a gift. Don’t lose it.” He puts out his arm for me to take. There is no compliment, no words of fatherly advice, and I don’t expect any.
Father spared no expense on this grand affair. To all the world, it looks as if a loving man is seeing his only daughter off in style. I know better. Father loves to show off his wealth, what little he has left. Hundreds of his most superficial friends, descended on the chateau to heap their congratulations on a man whose vanity knows no end.
The wedding is lovely. Everywhere I look my gaze falls upon a smiling face. My own smile is frozen in place. I will play my own part, with all the grace I can muster.