Chapter Three – ‘Suzette’ (Part 2)

Bewildered as the clock strikes ten to find an invitation to the following day’s masked ball lodged under her bedroom door, is Serenity correct in assuming its anonymous sender is the beautiful but tragic Duchesse de Valzac?


The alabaster luminosity of the sunlit stairwell unbearable, eyes narrowed to slits, Serenity reached out for the final section of warm iron handrail.

“What was I thinking of spending that long so close to the orchestra?” she hissed, the pain in her head at a crescendo as she staggered across the polished tiles of the landing towards the door to her rooms.   Giddy as she pushed it open, she made for the nearest window – aware in her disorientation upon reaching the alcove of a pert click of footsteps and jangle of metal, as, unable to steady herself, she stumbled sideways against the yellow chintz wall.

Mademoiselle?” a woman’s voice enquired, “Are you unwell?”

The blood pounding in her head, Serenity pushed herself away from the wall.  Lurching forwards, she caught sight of the small bunch of silver keys and gem-encrusted scissors that dangled from the woman’s pale pink, flower-embroidered bodice as she tried to balance herself, her gaze plummeting to the beige-ribboned, fawn leather shoes that protruded from below the dark brown silken hem of her full skirt.

“My dear!” protested the woman, reaching out and taking a firm grip of Serenity’s upper arms through the white cheesecloth of her blouse.  “Mademoiselle must rest!” she insisted, her tone crisp although not lacking compassion as her lovely hazel eyes met Serenity’s.  At once recognisable as the woman she’d observed earlier across the lawn, the Duchesse de Valzac, mouth dry, Serenity attempted a response.

“I’m sorry,” she stammered, “but I think I spent too long in the garden.”

“There’s really no need to apologise,” replied the Duchesse, a hint of a smile softening the ends of her wide lips as she guided Serenity towards and into a yellow velvet chair positioned close to the large granite fireplace in the left wall – a faint scratching detectable from the far side of the door.

“Yes?” enquired the woman, spine straight as, unhurriedly, she turned her face towards the peculiar noise.

“The dresses, Madame,” came the curt reply as the sullen redhead made her entrance, her fleshy white arms stacked some two feet high with an assortment of fabrics – some bright in colour, others plain – two hairbrushes balanced on top of the pile, their dark bristles facing upwards away from the small bundle of diaphanous fabric on which they nestled.

“Thank you, Véronique.  Would you kindly arrange them in the closet?”

“As you wish, Madame,” replied the maid with a curtsey.  Chin jutting out, she continued on her way towards the door to the bedroom.

The svelte brunette following the direction of the surly woman through the long dark lashes of her clear almond-shaped eyes, it struck Serenity as cruel how nature – or rather disease – had chosen her as its victim, a casualty on which to inflict its ravages, for all around the delicate bone structure of her arched left eyebrow, down the apple of her cheek and across to the middle of her smooth, rounded chin, the smallpox had caused indelible devastation on her otherwise flawless porcelain beauty – although rather oddly but mercifully, it had seen fit to end its sadistic journey before crossing the contour of her jaw-line.

“I have arranged Mademoiselle for several of the Comtesse de Lemoncy’s dresses to be prepared for you” continued this most unfortunate yet elegant of women as she turned back to Serenity.  “It was her direct wish you receive them.”

“Oh, Suzette?” exclaimed Serenity, eyes darting in the direction of the open door to the bedroom beyond.

“Indeed,” replied the Duchesse, calmly, “I believe you are acquainted with one another.”

“Yes, we met this morning.”

“That is good.  You are indeed of a similar age and I believe her company will certainly be of benefit to you.”  Voice sober as she ran her manicured fingertips up and down the blunt outer blade of the gem encrusted silver scissors, unsmiling the brunette continued – her gaze focussed on the muslin of Serenity’s skirt.  “I also arranged, Mademoiselle, for the repair of your clothes.”

“Oh!” remarked Serenity, the surprise evident in her voice.

“There was a significant tear of several inches,” added the Duchesse, unemotionally, “near the hem of your skirt.  I hope the stitching meets with your satisfaction.”

Lips pursed, slowly she lifted her eyes to the white blouson tunic overhanging the skirt.  “Dr Pavier is due to call on you again this evening at 5 o’clock.  Please may I ask that you avail yourself at that hour.”  The sound of footsteps approaching, the Duchesse’s eyes strayed to the honey floorboards.  “Véronique, you will not forget the books.”

“No, Madame,” replied the maid with a bob, pinching small sections of the ecru fabric of her loose skirt between her finger and thumb.

“Very well” responded the Duchesse, her gaze returning to the tunic as the redhead exited the room.  “Now, I really must return to my duties” she declared, her fingertips shifting to the bunch of keys, “for there is much to be done and so little time remains.”  With a slight nod, she retreated several steps, her twinkling hazel eyes lifting for an instant to meet Serenity’s.

“Goodbye, my dear,” she added softly without pausing to acknowledge Serenity’s response, as, pinching the silk of her own skirt she turned on the spot, footsteps crisp as she made for the open door.


The ten distant chimes announcing the hour, Serenity placed the black lacquered hairbrush down onto the polished red wood of the dressing table.

Toying with the loose golden ringlet that tumbled over the creamy skin of her exposed shoulder, she ran one finger over the firm bristles of the brush.  Yes, she was grateful for having met the young Comtesse, indebted to her for her generosity.  Gaze straying from the central oval mirror to its left and smaller counterpart, she raised one hand to the bruised mound on her temple – the swelling less noticeable in the dim light.  Her attention now drifting back to the larger mirror, she studied the diaphanous nightgown she wore, its ivory satin hanging loose, caressing her young body.

“You’re such a sweetie, Suzette,” she sighed, catching sight in the mirror of several of the girl’s burgundy leather-bound novels scattered over the surface of the bed, the dull mustard hue of the four high walls heavy with the sleepy flicker of candlelight.

Aware of a scratching from the neighbouring room, Serenity arose from the padded velvet stool.

“Is someone there?” she enquired, as she passed through the half-closed door into the silent darkness of the sitting room beyond – her eyes at once drawn to the narrow chink of light beneath the closed door to the landing.  “That must be what I heard!” she exclaimed, spotting something lodged in the aperture.

“But why push it under the door?  Why not just knock?”

Hurrying towards the light, she stooped low, the rigid paper scraping against the wooden floor as Serenity pulled it clear of the gap.

“A letter?” she muttered, as something warm and hard on the reverse caught between her fingers.  Who could it be from?

In the gloom fumbling for the doorknob, with a sharp turn of her wrist, the door creaked open – just in time to detect a faint click from the direction of the small landing at the foot of the initial flight of steps.  The gilded walls of the vast stairwell alive with the undulating dance of candlelight, Serenity stepped out onto its cool marble tiles.  A delicate bouquet of orange blossom lingering in the warm night air, she peered along the deserted corridor that led off to the right.  The only sound that of the loud tick-tock from the Oriental clock, she glanced down at the folded sheet of parchment in her hand.  Noticing the small, dark red wax seal which had caught in her fingers, turning it over, she mouthed the two words written there, the handwriting exquisite.

“Mademoiselle Serenity … how mysterious,” she whispered as the citrus scent in the air permeated her senses.

At a loss as to the whereabouts of the messenger, Serenity retraced her footsteps back through the darkened room towards the candlelit bedroom, whereupon perching herself on the edge of the bed, once more she examined the crispness of the florid hand.  The vibrant scent still noticeable, lifting the envelope to her face she took a deep breath – the orange blossom itself impregnated into the parchment.  Prising open the seal, she began to unfold the stiff paper, the elegant writing continuing within.

“You are cordially invited to the forthcoming festivities to be held on Saturday, 4 September 1751 in the gardens at Choisy and thereafter to attend the Reception and Grand Venetian Masked Ball at the château.  We do most sincerely hope you will feel quite well enough to join us on this most splendid of occasions, a costume having been prepared for you.”

“Suzette?” gasped Serenity, flipping the parchment over.

“But it was violet perfume she was wearing!  Well, if it wasn’t her,” she uttered, startled at the invitation, “then it must have been her sister”, she concluded, dazed as she began to gather from the bed the Comtesse’s books, setting them together with the invitation on the small bedside table.

Her mind a jumble of the radiant blonde’s words from their conversation that morning, Serenity made her way over to the corner desk near the alcove, where in a single puff she extinguished the stubby white candle set thereon.

“But didn’t she say the King was going to be there?”

Heart skipping a beat, she stood bolt upright, squeezing closed her eyes as a shooting pain pierced the side of her head.

“Oh, I don’t know,” she complained, giddy as she reeled her way back across the creaking floorboards, cupping her hand around the solitary candle still alight on the bedside table.

“I can’t remember anything!” she protested, as she blew out the flame.

The room plunged into silent darkness, pulling back the bed sheets, Serenity slumped onto the firm mattress – a groan no sooner escaping her as she realised she’d forgotten to close the drapes.  The wooden floor illuminated with the light from the full moon, too exhausted to get up, she instead buried her face in the soft pillow, remotely aware of the distant clock striking the quarter hour.   The ache in her temple now subsiding, she snuggled down beneath the heavy linen – the last image which ran through her fatigued mind as she slipped from consciousness, that of a gilded carriage journeying through a vast forest, its enormous wooden wheels grinding over the dry summer earth as the unknown stranger inside drew ever nearer by the mile.


Chapter Three – ‘Suzette’ (Part 1)

As the carefree Suzette breezes into Serenity’s world, dare she confide in the capricious young Comtesse the incredible truth?  And just who is the mysterious stranger who enters her bedchamber – long after the clock strikes midnight?


The clink and rattle of glasses ever nearer, Serenity’s lifeless gaze drifted in the direction of the laboured breathing, the floorboards of the adjacent room creaking from the heavy tread.

“Ah, child!  I return!” proclaimed Dr Pavier as he appeared in the doorway, an off-white handkerchief pressed to his furrowed damp brow.  The jangle of bottles inside his battered black bag even louder than before, upon reaching the tapestry chair beside the bed, he slumped into it with a fatigued sigh.

Eyes straying towards him, Serenity watched the flushed-faced doctor as he fiddled with his spectacles, humming tunelessly as he yet again delved into the bag’s cavernous depths, at length retrieving a miniature smoky grey bottle.  A sudden clatter from her left beyond the bedside table, turning her face she glanced down at the plump ankles having just entered the room.  Her eyes running the full length of the redhead’s corpulent body, Serenity observed the woman as she rounded the foot of the bed, a small glass tumbler half-filled with white liquid held in her dumpy fingers.

“The milk you requested, Doctor.

“Ah!  Indeed!” he replied, arm poker straight as without looking up, he reached out to receive it, engrossed by whatever was written on the fluted bottle in his grasp.

The maid stopping short of handing the tumbler to him, the doctor waved his stubby open hand to and fro, the woman merely clearing her throat in response.  A scowl on his face, Dr Pavier shot her a glance.  “Hold this, child!” he ordered, as in a jerking movement he prised the glass from the redhead’s hand, passing it to Serenity.  “That will be all!” he snapped, pushing his spectacles up the bridge of his nose.

The pokerfaced maid pinching the fabric of her dress, with a brisk nod she curtsied, retracing her icy footsteps around the foot of the bed, the doctor – his head again lowered as he unscrewed the tiny glass stopper of the bottle – all the while peering up at her through his circular lenses, his blotchy jowls wobbling from side to side in obvious displeasure as he followed her every step.

“The milk, child!”

Wrenching the tumbler from Serenity’s fingers, he tapped the neck of the bottle against the rim of the glass, his pitted bulbous nose tilted upwards, the loose skin on his neck stretching as he observed clumps of the yellowish-brown powder tumble into the milk.  Face creased in a wizened grin of satisfaction, he handed the glass back to Serenity.

“The smallest of sips.  Let the potion do its work!” he commanded.

With his bag snapped shut, heaving himself free from the elegant restraints of the padded chair, Dr Pavier made for the end of the bed where, momentarily, he paused to catch his breath.

“Now, I will return later to see all is well!” he wheezed, stretching wide all five fingers of his chubby hand, as, with a final nod, he commenced his lumbering passage back along the corridor.

The final lump of powder almost dissolved in the tumbler, chest heavy with emotion, Serenity watched as it now fizzed to oblivion – aware of the resemblance to her own situation – for she knew she’d too vanished without trace from her own life – her own existence – already no more than a memory to all those she loved and who loved her.

Without another thought, she raised the warm glass to her dry lips as she took the first sip, then another, conscious although remote to the detectable bitterness as she continued to drink the peculiar concoction.  Now placing the empty glass on the bedside table, Serenity slumped back into the firm pillow, eyes squeezed closed as she rolled over away from the sunlight, uncertain as to whether the growing drowsiness was no more than a wishful fragment of her imagination or the powder taking effect.

In fact, so powerful was the sedative she was already at peace from the strange new world beyond the yellow chintz walls as the faraway tinkle of the quarter hour announced the approach of midday, unaware of the rumble of carriage wheels which passed to and fro beneath the billowing taffeta curtains, hour upon hour, as the heavy golden sun descended to meet the horizon.

Nor was she aware, much later, not long after midnight distantly chimed of the dark room around her fill with the gentle flicker of candlelight – or the three separate tears that dropped to the pillow only inches from the peaceful contours of her face, the soft dance of light illuminating the tenderness of the strong fingers as they caressed the smooth skin of her right cheek, the delicate lace of the trailing cuff concealing the damp patches of silk as the light now receded, its flickering now dim as the room once more returned to darkness.


Friday, 3rd September 1751

“Very well child.  Since it is such a fine day.”

“Oh, thank you, Doctor!” squealed a euphoric voice from the landing.

Numb with the dawning reality of her situation as she took one more sip of the hot sweet tea, Serenity placed the fragile porcelain cup back on its saucer, the pert click of footsteps quicker as they drew near.  Glancing in the direction of the sunlit room beyond the bedroom, she was surprised by the unexpected sight of a radiant young blonde scurrying past the two maids, neither of whom she’d seen before, who’d stood conversing in the window recess for the past ten minutes, their voices rapid, yet hushed, eyes darting every now and then at Serenity as she’d taken breakfast alone.

“Finally I get the opportunity to meet you!” rejoiced the girl, her lovely face incandescent with delight.  “Sometimes they can be so unreasonable!”

Too dazed to respond, Serenity could only raise a half-hearted smile as the girl, almost slipping on the polished wooden floor, made straight for the tapestry chair.

“I heard what happened to you the other day,” she prattled, spreading the silken lavender and white stripes of her beautiful dress beneath her as she lowered herself into the wide chair, “and I’ve been so dreadfully worried” she went on, her elegant fingers fumbling with the large colourless crystal suspended from the length of pink ribbon she wore around her neck.  “Please forgive me!” she continued, “I’m Suzette.  Suzette de Lemoncy.”

“Hello, I’m Serenity, Serenity Shore.  I’m not sure what happened exactly, but …”

“Oh, they told me all about it!” the girl enthused – the beauty of her straight, pearl-white teeth marred by a discoloured grey eye-tooth.  Her small sapphire eyes sparkling with the clarity of the jewel she toyed with, the tiny freckles beneath her ash blonde hairline complemented her fresh-faced allure.  “You were so brave!” she cooed, eyes wide and alert.  “I fear I should have died withfright!”

“I really don’t remember the accident,” replied Serenity, “although one of the maids yesterday told me it happened …”

“There’s so much I want to tell you!” interrupted Suzette, hands pressed together as if in prayer.  “But first my sister has arranged for you to take a bath.  Your maids are waiting for you and I’ve managed to persuade Dr Pavier to let me take you out for a walk in the gardens.  Oh, do say you will!”

“Yes … yes of course,” laughed Serenity, weakly.

“How wonderful!” gushed Suzette.  “Listen!  Finish your breakfast, take your bath and I’ll meet you outside in the garden.  Now, I must dash!” she proclaimed, the castors of the chair screeching over the parquet floor as she bounded from it.  “There’s so much to be done and so much to tell you,” she giggled.  And with that, in a blur of lavender and white she was gone from the room, her rapid footsteps already nearing the landing, all that lingered in the warm air of her brief presence, the subtlest trace of violets.


The loose muslin of her long skirt caught in the warm breeze, Serenity crunched her way over the gravelled terrace that fronted the central facade of the château, the parched white stones precarious beneath the smooth soles of her sandals.

What’s that? she wondered, noticing ahead two white peaks of a tent.

A cacophony of sawing and hammering from within, having now reached the pitted grey marble of a wide flight of stone steps, Serenity gaped at the enormous gazebo below pitched lengthways across the uppermost part of the immaculate formal gardens – the flawless carpet of grass running downhill fringed on both sides by two paths, each dotted with a succession of statues behind which dense groves of mature trees formed a high leafy wall.  Several small boats moored at the far end of the grounds, upon running her gaze back along the far right path it was then Serenity spotted the solitary figure of a young woman alone on a bench, her face turned towards the river.

“Suzette!” she gasped, already hastening down the steps, “I’ve got to tell you the truth!”


The startled girl tapping closed her lace fan, she edged along the lichen-encrusted stone.  “Forgive me,” she announced, voice wistful.  “I’m afraid my mind was quite elsewhere.  Please, take a seat.”

“Thanks, I spotted you from the stairs.  It’s not very restful, is it?” replied Serenity, nodding towards the gazebo as she took her place.  “Is there some kind of event taking place?”

“Yes,” responded Suzette, as she adjusted her dress beneath her, “they’re preparing for the festivities tomorrow.  My sister’s been busy all morning and I’m due to help her later.  I don’t suppose anyone has mentioned it to you, have they?”

“No, nobody”

“Oh, everyone is due tomorrow!” gushed Suzette, the twinkle now returning to her pretty blue eyes.  “His Majesty and all our friends!”

“The King will be there?” exclaimed Serenity.

“Of course!  And one very special friend,” laughed the blonde, nose wrinkling with delight.  “That’s what I wanted to tell you.  Oh Serenity, he’s simply adorable!” she squealed, unfurling her fan.  “His family live just a little upstream, old friends of His Majesty, very well connected.”  Here she broke off, her gaze drifting down the path towards the river from where the haunting cry of a peacock could be heard.

“Look at Mr Smith, not a care in the world,” she remarked dreamily, the bird now visible as it hopped onto the central carpet of grass, adjacent to the tall black railings of a closed gate set diagonally into the boundary hedge of the grove behind, its tail feathers shimmering as they quivered in full display.

“The peacock?” commented Serenity.  “Why is he called Mr Smith?”

“Oh, a gift to His Majesty from an elderly British Ambassador of whom he was rather fond, although I wasn’t actually aware they had peacocks in London, but, yes … it was last summer,” blurted Suzette, again animated as she turned back, “at these very festivities we were first introduced.  Oh, how I wish you could have seen him!”

“The festivities are held every year?”

“Indeed, it’s all so very exciting!”

The young Comtesse’s gaze lowering to her lap, as if lost in thought she began to stroke the broad lavender stripes of her skirt, the exuberance having drained from her face.

“You see,” she announced pensively, glancing in the direction of the château, “the celebrations are to commemorate the birthday of a young woman whom His Majesty once held much affection for, the daughter of a very old family, true and loyal friends, you understand.  They found her murdered.” added the Comtesse with a frown.  “I never actually met her, I was too young, but I heard she was extremely beautiful and kind, very kind.  Are you married?” she enquired eagerly, sapphire eyes lustrous as they searched Serenity’s face.

“No,” uttered Serenity hesitantly, the jagged tips of her broken nails scratching against the roughly hewed underside of the bench.  “Suzette, there’s something I’ve got to …”

“Oh, I was married,” interrupted the effervescent blonde as her fingers grasped and tugged at the large crystal suspended around her neck, “and not so very long ago, to the Comte de Lemoncy,” she went on.  “It was my sister, the Duchesse de Valzac who introduced us, but it was all so very tragic, so sudden,” she continued, a vagueness clouding her lovely eyes as, distractedly, she gazed back towards the château.  “I now live with her and her husband the Duc on the rue de la Surintendance in Versailles,” she sighed.  “The Duc was allocated lodgings there, immediately next door to the Foreign Office when he became War Minister to the King many years ago.”

“You don’t live here?” responded Serenity, voice noticeably tremulous.

“Goodness no!  Both my sister and I are guests!” insisted Suzette in a brittle laugh, letting the crystal fall to the smooth, creamy skin of her décolletage.  “My sister was granted the position of lady in waiting to Mesdames, His Majesty’s daughters, soon after she returned from the frontiers.”

“The frontiers?  I’m sorry, I don’t …”

“You see,” interjected Suzette, a nerve twitching in her eyelid, “during the military campaign against the Anglo-Dutch forces at Flanders, I myself being a child at the time, of course, the Duc who was then Marquis was posted to the frontiers.  My sister was in the service of the King’s mistress, Madame la Duchesse de Chateauroux as lady-in-waiting, but upon her death in 1744 His Majesty saw fit for my sister to join her husband at the frontiers.  I was taken too.  Oh, Serenity, it was terrible!”

With a trembling hand, Suzette covered her mouth and nose.

“It was such a dreary little place, so isolated and my poor sister suffered most dreadfully with depression.  Do you know,” she went on, turning to face Serenity, eyes laden with tears, “I used to lie awake at night and listen to her crying through the wall, sometimes uncontrollably.  The poor Duc, he was quite unable to console her.”

“How awful,” replied Serenity.

“But that was not all,” continued Suzette, an explosion of laughter bursting from within one of the groves on the far side of the garden as she squeezed closed her eyes.

Pressing the colourless jewel to her lips, a single tear escaped the curve of her long black eyelashes, spilling its way over her raspberry pink rouged cheek.

“Not long before we returned to Paris in 1749, my sister contracted the smallpox.  We really were not sure whether she’d survive, but by the grace of God she did, thankfully, but I know it affected her deeply, more profoundly than any of us were aware at the time.”  Breaking off, she rolled the glimmering jewel in her fingertips.  Sniffing softly, she gazed across the immaculate lawn.  “For a long time she could not bring herself to look in a mirror, any mirror and on occasion, even in our present lodgings I could still hear her cry out in the night.  Oh, there she is now!”

Following the direction of Suzette’s gaze, Serenity watched as the tall brunette made her way up the opposite path, having just exited the grove beyond the gazebo – her head high, spine erect, the voluptuous chocolate satin silk of her long dress trailing several feet behind her.

“I must go!” exclaimed Suzette gathering huge handfuls of her wide skirt in her hands as she quickly rose from the bench.  “But we simply must talk again, there is so much more I want to tell you!”

“Yes, of course,” stammered Serenity, shooting a confused glance back across the lawn – the woman having vanished behind the white canvas.

“And please!  Enjoy the gardens!” announced Suzette, already hastening up the path, her hem swishing in a wide circle over the gravel as she turned back to Serenity.  “Goodbye my friend, I must leave you.”

“Yes, goodbye,” replied Serenity, voice hoarse with repressed emotion as she watched the girl skip over the taut string of a tent peg as she slipped from sight.

“I cannot believe this is happening!” she spat, stubbing the edge of her sandal heel into the gravel as another burst of raucous laughter erupted from the far grove.  Fist clenched, she pounded it onto the warm stone as she too rose to her feet, where, beginning down the sunlit-dappled path, she again spotted the peacock ahead, its tail feathers now withdrawn, head tilted questioningly as it peered through the bars of the gate.

“Yes, not a care in the world, have you!”


The strands of viscous, deep emerald algae adhering at waterline to its whitewashed wooden panels, the large boat sat moored close to the riverbank, a length of thick grey rope securing it to a colossal black iron hoop set several feet back into the stone quay.

An inch of mottled brown water swilling rhythmically around the base of the boat’s substantial interior, two oars lay widthways over its top, their wooden lengths secured just short of the bulbous, slimy paddles by a pair of rusted rungs which jutted out of the bobbing hull.

“There’s no-one around,” muttered Serenity anxiously, glancing over her shoulder as she surveyed the immense lawn, heart racing as she looked back to the padded peach velvet of the boat’s upholstered seats.

“Why don’t I just get in? I could be gone!”

Stepping forwards, she squatted at the quayside’s edge where, reaching out, she tugged at the thick rope, the boat juddering against the current as she pulled it towards her.

“But where would I go?” she sighed, rising unsteadily to her feet as her gaze ran the distance of the dense wooded shore opposite.  

“I don’t even know where I am.”

A sudden grating from somewhere behind – the memory of the heavy iron padlock and chain she’d noticed strung around the bars of the gate whilst making her way down the path at once clear in her mind – the gate she’d earlier noticed the peacock peering through, Serenity stepped back from the water’s edge.

“Someone’s there!” she protested turning around, as, peeking in the direction of the metallic screech and clatter, she made her way towards the shady bench which nestled beneath the overhanging branches of a chestnut tree that faced the locked grove.  Taking her seat on the cool marble, Serenity shot another furtive glance in the direction of the gate – the abundant foliage of a nearby bush obscuring her view of whoever it was entering or exiting.   Her gaze lowering to the soft muslin that gently billowed around her ankles, a new thought at that moment entered her mind.

Wasn’t it odd that not a single person had mentioned her clothes?  Not even the effervescent and skittish Suzette?

Glancing uphill, she observed the facade of the château visible beyond the gazebo. Upon meeting Suzette for the first time that morning, she’d had no idea the girl was indeed a Comtesse – a widowed one albeit.  The magnificence of the building in which she’d found herself now spoke for itself.

As the overhead leaves rustled in the growing breeze, with a snigger of acknowledgement Serenity accepted the folly of her earlier impulsiveness.  Certainly Suzette struck her as honest – if not a little flighty, but she now accepted with empty resignation there was no way she could have confided in her the terrible and implausible truth.  Her long oval thumbnail scraping at the pale green lichen that marbled the bench, Serenity mumbled distractedly to herself.  “You’ve just got to play it carefully, girl.  Find out as much information from them as you can, where the accident happened, exactly where it happened and let’s just get back to the forest!”

A single tear escaping down her cheek, Serenity watched as it splashed onto the speckled surface of the mottled stone – aware in her blurred, lateral vision of a flutter from the far end of the bench.

“Maybe, just maybe, things might reverse,” she sniffed as another tear trickled to the corner of her mouth. “If it can happen one way, then … Oh!  Hello there!” she laughed, a sparrow having hopped forwards only inches from her hand.  Inclining its head, feathers appealingly dishevelled, the tiny bird took another small hop forward, its sparkling bead-like eye fixed directly on Serenity.

“I’m sorry little bird, but I don’t have anything to give you!” she said, the sparrow tilting its head further.  “But what would you do?” she enquired softly, “If you were me?”

Its ruffled plumage catching in the breeze, for several moments the bird did not look away.

“Tell me,” she pouted at length, “I promise I won’t tell anyone!”

And then, just as unexpectedly as it had taken its place beside her, in a flutter it was gone.

A peculiar sensation of loss re-awakening in her, Serenity watched as it flew across the lawn and landed in the upper branches of a bush at the corner of the padlocked grove, whereupon all at once, it again took flight – this time darting straight through the boughs of the trees which lined the locked grove.

The melancholy heavy within, Serenity’s gaze strayed back to the bush from where the bird had only seconds before lifted, immediately thinking it strange to what extent the spindly twigs shook considering the diminutive frame of the bird – just then catching sight of something until now she’d failed to notice – the black leather boots and off-white breeches of a man, who, as if aware of being spotted standing there, having released the branches from his grasp had now turned as he retreated back along the shady passage, away from the open sunlight of the garden, the twigs now falling still.

Chapter Two – ‘Awakening’

‘As Serenity awakens after her accident to the curious new world all around, nothing can prepare her for the shattering revelation ahead.’


The last in a succession of ten swift chimes now melting into the warm air, the sunlight filtered through the bevelled glass panes of the two vaulted windows as it edged its way across the crisp yellow bed linen.  Inch by inch it advanced along the soft ivory skin of the young woman’s outstretched arm, her long fingernails shattered and dirty, continuing on its journey as it flowed onwards beyond her smooth jawline, illuminating her flawless skin, its milky luminosity bruised and disfigured by a blood-encrusted swollen temple.


As the birdsong drifted past the billowing mustard taffeta curtains, a distant clock again struck the hour, its eleven chimes entering the room through a set of double doors in the far wall, the left of which sat slightly ajar.

Emitting the weakest of groans, Serenity rolled towards the sunlight.  The silken sheen of the pillowcase caressing her discoloured cheek, squinting against the daylight, her narrowed gaze came to rest on a section of white plaster cornice above the nearest of the two domed windows.  An initial effort to raise herself from the pillow only causing her to collapse once more into its soft compactness, with one grazed palm pressed to her eye she managed to prise herself several inches from the blood-smudged satin.

“Where am I?” she mumbled through dry lips, peering at the large oil portrait suspended between the windows.

Centuries old, the benevolent eyes of the beautiful young woman gazed back at her from the canvas, her creamy complexion accentuated by the deep burgundy silk of her exquisite dress.  A small cage on a wooden table by her side, its gilded bars housed a single canary, who, although presented with the unconcealed gift of liberty courtesy of a conspicuously open door, seemed quite content to remain at proximity to its captivating mistress.

Below the painting, flush against the yellow chintz wall, sat a dressing table.  Its curved glossy legs and bowed drawer fronts crafted from a diagonally striped dark red wood, the oval glass in the furthest of its three mirrors reflected the reversed image of the metal clad torso and shoulders of another portrait, itself hung somewhere near or above the bed.

The discomfort intense as she twisted her aching body to investigate, the pounding in her head now receding, Serenity tilted her face to the wall behind noticing the lower corner of a gilded frame several feet higher up the wall.

Raking lengths of dishevelled hair from her face, she reached for the fluted white rim of the headboard to steady herself as she glanced up at the image of the man who towered above her.  Attired in an armour-plated jacket, a cerulean blue sash strung across his body, his large, dark brown eyes were fixed in the direction of the young woman on the opposite wall.

Even in her distress, something in his noble features and stately pose struck Serenity as familiar, the memory of his face lingering in her jumbled thoughts as she turned away – her curiosity at once drawn to a tall, thin mirror which hung above a mottled red marble fireplace set into the right wall.  Painted a matte sage green, its intricate frame chiselled from either wood or plaster to imitate vines entwining their path up and around the casing, the two parallel outer bars curved some six feet above the mantelpiece to form an arch, an elaborate carved motif of a large open clamshell at the centre.

What is this place? she wondered, as her puzzled stare strayed left of the mirror past a small wooden crucifix to a vertical split in the wall-covering – realising as she ran her gaze upwards and along the dark line a concealed door was in fact built into this wall.

Her scrutiny of the room continuing, Serenity observed the diminutive writing desk in the corner, crafted from a similar wood to the dressing table, before her attention flitted to the small settee which nestled inside an alcove directly opposite the foot of the bed – the smooth golden sheen of its upholstery adorned by a gilt moulded frame.

The quivering pain again consuming her as she struggled to lever herself from the firm mattress, it was as Serenity peeled the layers of bed linen away from her aching body that the startling reality dawned on her that the room in which she’d found herself wasn’t the only thing unfamiliar – for upon glancing down, neither could she remember the diaphanous oyster silk nightdress which clung to the outline of her svelte young figure, revealing each and every curve.

In one agonizing movement she swung her legs clear of the bed.  Almost knocking into a black lacquered wooden bedside table, the bare soles of her feet met with the warm, angular squares of sunlight cast onto the parquet flooring through the panes of the nearest arched window.  Shuddering with pain, she eased herself upright, her first steps uncertain as she staggered over the polished wood in the direction of the double doors, hands unsteady as they reached out for the burnished oval knob of the one left ajar to the room beyond.

Hello?” she called out, voice hoarse, as she peered through the gap into the gloom – the hearth of a large fireplace visible on the far side, a loud ticking audible from somewhere within.

“Is anyone there?” she enquired, clearing her throat as she now entered the room.  Unnerved by the silence, Serenity let go of the knob.

Pausing to compose herself, she raised her face to the ceiling, her eyes tracing the shimmering specs of dust suspended in the narrow shards of light that filtered into the room from above the fastened shutters.  The rays of splintered light illuminating the back end of the room, she glanced along the row of chairs lined flat against its wall, the bright hue of the fabric similar to that of the wall-covering in the bedroom.

As her eyes slowly adjusted to the dimness, now aware of a tall dark object in the far right corner, Serenity hastened towards the diagonal wedge of light projected onto the darkened floorboards around the door directly ahead.  Knuckles clattering against the rectangular latch as her hand found the cold metal protuberance, she wrenched the door towards her – at once grimacing, eyes squeezed shut as she reeled backwards – the daylight from beyond blinding in its intensity.

Once more, she advanced towards the light, stepping out onto the cool black and white marble floor tiles of an elaborate landing – the glare from the sunlight that reflected off the white stucco-panelled walls and wide alabaster staircase, almost unbearable – the scent of fresh lavender pungent in the air.

The semi-circular flight of steps sweeping down to the floor below, unsteadily, Serenity made for the wrought iron banister.  As her fingers tightened around the black metal scrollwork, she edged her frail body forwards – her flushed cheeks tingling in the cool air from the stairwell below – but all she could see was the multitude of alabaster steps winding their way ever downward in a spiral.

“Where is everyone?” she protested, now aware of a peculiar, rhythmic squeaking.

Releasing her anguished grip of the torqued metal, she made her way across the diamond floor tiles in the direction of a corridor which led away from the landing, the brilliant sunlight that flooded through the leaded panes of its windows glinting off the gilded leaf-like arms of a succession of empty candle sconces interspersed along the left wall.  The curious noise falling silent as she glanced through a window onto the cobblestones below, her gaze darted to another wing of the house itself only partially visible that extended at right angles from the end of the corridor.

It’s a country house, she thought, already making her way towards the next window, where she peered in astonishment through the bevelled panes.  Situated around three sides of a courtyard, she could now see the scale of the building – the domed windows of the second floor from where she looked out, dwarfed in comparison by the larger rectangular windows of the two lower floors.  The wing to the right blocking the sunlight, it cast an oblique shadow onto the cobbles, the sharp line slicing directly across a small circular fountain.

In bewilderment, Serenity continued along the sunlit corridor towards the squat decorative table set between the two central windows.

A large clock upon its pale grey marble surface, the distinctive loud ticking now recognisable as the same she’d heard in the darkened room, she ran her finger along the smooth outline of one of its four curved gilt legs – intrigued by the plump porcelain figure of an elderly Oriental man perched aloft its summit, a golden parasol clutched in his tiny fingers.

His minute brow furrowed as if in silent contemplation, he surveyed the scene below him, that of a pretty pastoral landscape painted onto an oval porcelain panel an inch above the clock face – a scene of two children playing in a garden – the young girl amusing herself with a length of pink ribbon as a kitten frolicked around the hem of her long skirt, the boy some distance from her, his face angled away yet still looking towards the onlooker, a question mark lingering in his elongated eyes – as one pastel white finger pointed behind him towards the bars of a closed gate in a section of wall which separated the garden from the dark wooded area beyond.

Distracted by a sudden barking, through the leaded windowpanes Serenity spotted two black dogs scurrying across the cobblestones below in the direction of the left wing of the building – a woman’s voice at that moment startling her.

Turning towards the landing, a faint sound of footsteps audible from the stairs, Serenity hurried back along the corridor.   The heavy breathing she was certain she could detect now unmistakable as she reached the landing, her heart at once leapt at the sight of the hunched body visible through the wrought iron baluster – the gnarled, vein-riddled hand gripping at the twisted rail with dogged determination as the deep, rasping breath intensified with every step.  A heavy dark brown overcoat slumped over his wide shoulders, his wiry black hair caught at the nape with a crimson ribbon, the corpulent man now reached the mezzanine landing of the staircase, where coughing hoarsely he paused, a battered, triangular black leather bag clutched in his left hand.

“Hello there,” announced Serenity, voice faltering with uncertainly, “could you tell me where I am please?”

With a stamp of his foot, the man stopped in his tracks.  His podgy face peering up the remaining stairs as he squinted through the small circular lenses of his spectacles, his mouth fell open to reveal an uneven row of grey teeth.

Mon Dieu!  Are my eyes deceiving me?” he spluttered, jowls reddening.  “Child!  What in Heaven’s name are you doing?”

“I’m sorry,” stammered Serenity, “I wasn’t sure where I was, and …”

“Enough!  We must return you to your room immediately!” he barked, struggling up the final stairs.

“But can you tell me where I am, please?”

With no attempt to answer, having now reached the landing, the surly stranger took a firm grip of Serenity’s tender upper arm as he marched her in the direction of the open door that led back to the darkened room.  A violent cough causing him to release her from his grasp as they neared the bedroom, with an indignant gesture of his hand, he ushered her towards the bed, plodding his way around to the far side, where seized by another bout, he dropped his black bag onto a chair that until that moment had quite escaped Serenity’s attention.

“We must have no more of this nonsense!  You need rest, child!” he rasped, knuckles white as he shook the disbanded bed-sheets in his strong hands.  The clock from the corridor chiming briskly the quarter hour, Serenity slid back below the bedcover sensing only too well the futility of any kind of protest, the physician – for that was what she assumed he must surely be – having arranged the sheets around her, now adjusting his odd metal spectacles.

“I just need to know where I am!”

With no hint of acknowledgement, the crotchety man grasped at her bruised wrist, applying pressure on her veins with his square fingertips.  The large scuffed brass buttons on his wide brown cuff snagging in the delicate lace of her sleeve, his determined silence continued, as he placed his palm with a thud on her forehead.

“I’m not sure how I got here,” announced Serenity, aware of the warmth building in her cheeks.

“Hush, child!” came the brusque reply.  “What with poor sister Clothilde the other day, yourself yesterday and our dear Mademoiselle Angelique this very morning, indeed I fear Holy Year will be penitence for us all!”

“Holy Year?”

“Yes,” replied the doctor, his tone kinder, as, leaning over to retrieve his leather bag, he shot a penetrating yet compassionate stare at Serenity through his lenses, “as I’m sure you very well know, the year of Jubilee, in which all good Catholics may gain forgiveness from our dear Lord.”  With a muffled click, he opened the bag, the concentrated aroma of herbs wafting out so intense as to make Serenity almost wretch.

“All seems to be well I am glad to say for which we should both show our gratitude,” he added, as his stubby fingers rummaged around the sober depths.

“Now, I am going to give you a sedative, but first I will arrange for you to take a little soup.  I shall return presently,” he frowned, snapping closed his bag.  Pausing to steady himself against the tapestry bedstead, with his squat index finger he pushed his spectacles further up the bridge of his nose, grinning in a tensed smile.

“Now rest, child!” he insisted as he shuffled for the open door and the gloom beyond, the sound of his laboured breathing growing faint as he reached the landing.


“Your soup, Madame.”

“Thank you,” acknowledged Serenity to the younger of the two women having entered the bedroom through a set of double doors between the bed and window, at once bemused at their curious attire – the gauzy white fabric of their ankle length skirts billowed at the hips, the bodice of their dresses tight and cut staggeringly low for a religious establishment – for again, that was what she now assumed the residence must surely be, what with Sister Clothilde and her associate having their respective mishaps.

As she scrutinized their identical hairstyles – brushed back from their faces, a frilled square of lace pinned at the crown as if to keep it in place – Serenity felt her mouth grow dry, her instincts, however, urging her to remain calm, at least for the moment.

The elder of the two, a buxom redhead of about forty busying herself as she slapped and adjusted the pillows of the bed where Serenity, having little option but struggle to sit erect had lain only a few moments before, the younger, a pretty, delicate-boned girl with light brown hair stood at the foot of the bed.  A steaming china bowl set upon the small, round silver tray she held in her nimble hands, an apprehensive smile played on her lips.

“I’m not sure what’s happened to me,” uttered Serenity, looking from the younger woman to the other, “but it was very kind of the nuns to bring me here.”

Neither woman responding, staring at each other their eyes grew wide.

“The gentleman who was here told me something had happened to two of the nuns, Sister Clothilde and Sister Angelique?”

“I think perhaps Madame is mistaken,” replied the fragile brunette, her tone apologetic.

“Oh, I’m sure that’s what he told me.”

“We do not have any nuns here!” interrupted the stout redhead, as she administered several substantial blows to the stuffing of the nearest pillow.

“Although we do have a Mademoiselle Angelique,” added her gentler companion.

“But she is not a nun,” confirmed her able counterpart, the firmness in her voice akin to the squareness of her pallid jaw.

“If Madame needs anything, she may use this bell,” continued the stern matron, “someone will attend to her.  I will leave it here,” she announced, placing the tiniest of copper coloured bells, coincidentally the precise colour of her stumpy eyelashes, on the bedside table.  “Now take your soup!” she commanded, her face expressionless as she pushed Serenity’s left shoulder backwards into the upright pillow.  “We shall return shortly.”

The younger woman approaching the bed, she placed the polished tray flat on Serenity’s lap.

“Thank you,” replied Serenity, as she glanced down into the straw coloured liquid.

“You are welcome, Madame,” answered both women in unison, already retreating towards the open double doors, the young brunette with a curtsey making her way after the stern-faced redhead, who, without so much as turning her face, now disappeared from view.


“Is Madame perhaps feeling a little better?”

“Yes, thank you,” acknowledged Serenity, lifting the tray with its empty bowl from her lap.  “I’m Serenity by the way.  I don’t think I introduced myself earlier,” she added, offering it to the young maid.

“I am Chloé, Madame.”

“Chloé, I got the impression this was perhaps a convent?”

“Oh, no Madame.  I am afraid you misunderstand.”

Placing the tray onto the small table, Chloé sat down on the edge of the bed, one smooth-skinned hand flat on top of the other as she leaned towards Serenity.  “We are not a convent.”  Pursing her lips, she pushed her hands harder against the mattress.  “Madame, I am told you were involved in an accident yesterday.  They brought you here from the forest of Sénart.”

Who?” enquired Serenity.

“Some gentlemen of ours.  They were out hunting at the time.

Unfortunately, you somehow ran into their path and … well, they were unable to avoid a collision with you.  They brought you here to Choisy,” continued the pretty brunette, “and immediately sent for Monsieur Pavier, the gentleman who visited you earlier.”

“Oh,” remarked Serenity, “I didn’t know that was his name.  I really can’t remember anything at the moment,” she stammered.  “Everything feels so strange.  Perhaps there’s a telephone I could use to call my family?  Just to let them know what has happened and where I am.”

“A telephone, Madame?  I do not understand.”

“Yes, do you have a telephone I could use?” repeated Serenity, her temple pulsating.

“Forgive me,” answered Chloé, apologetically, “You wish to inform your family of your situation?  Yes, of course.  We can arrange for someone to notify your family at once.”

“I’m trying to remember my number,” stammered Serenity.

I shall arrange for a horse to be prepared immediately,” replied Chloé as she now rose from the bed.

“I’m sorry,” interrupted Serenity, pushing herself forwards from the pillow.  “I didn’t explain.  You see, my family actually live in England and that’s why I wanted to telephone.

“But I do not understand telephone, Madame,” replied the young woman, softly taking her place again on the edge of the mattress.

“Chloé,” announced Serenity ironically, shooting a sideways glance at the sunlit floorboards, “this is 2007?”

“Madame, I do not know what to say …”

Her confusion evident, the young woman sat bolt upright.  Turning her face away, a crease disturbed her smooth brow as she stared fixedly through the open window, the breeze from the summer morning beyond catching the fine hairs which hung loose in front of her ears.

The moments passing, she did not move – until from the direction of the landing, through the succession of open doors, the delicate tinkle of the clock striking the half hour broke into the odd silence as Chloé slowly turned her face from the sunlight – her delightful features rendered stiff, unnatural.  A tremble in her smooth hands as she laid them flat upon the bed sheets, she leant forwards – whatever it was that disturbed her palpable in her clear but downcast almond eyes.  Her soft lips quivering, for a few seconds they opened, only to close again, as, lifting her gaze, softly, she looked straight at Serenity.

Madame, it is the year of our Lord 1751.”

Are you ready for the ride?

Hi there and welcome to my blog!

My name is Audrey and I’d love you to join me each week when I’ll be revealing the latest gripping installment of my debut novel, ‘From The Mist She Came’ where rivalry, suspicion, malice and blackmail lurk under a cloak of respectability.

When glamorous, free-spirited English photographer Serenity Shore encounters a solitary statue deep within the forest of Sénart on the outskirts of Paris, nothing can prepare her for the peril ahead.  Caught in the path of a riding party, Serenity awakens concussed – traumatised by the revelation that she lies injured and alone in mid-eighteenth century France, victim of the near-fatal accident in the forest.

Forced to accept her reality at the opulent Château de Choisy, she is outraged to uncover the rumour in circulation – her collision with the stallion of the charismatic monarch Louis XV a ploy to not only benefit from his benevolence, but to manipulate her way to his heart through remorse.  Innocent of Louis’ growing fascination for her, upon unearthing a sapphire necklace concealed in the grounds Serenity learns it once belonged to the beautiful noblewoman Jonquil de Levoisier – the jewels, a gift from Louis on her twenty-third birthday, torn from her neck on the night of her murder.  Terrified by the consequences should the jewels be found in her possession, should Serenity reveal her discovery?

Relocated to the palace of Versailles where she is taken under the wing of the illustrious Madame de Pompadour, Serenity discloses her find.  Her story believed, she is nevertheless warned of the malice and treachery that lurk within the web of perfumed corridors.  As the hunt to identify the murderer intensifies and the shattering truth is finally revealed, forced to fight for survival in a world where not even the protection of Louis is enough to secure her safety, can Serenity break free from her nightmare?