Author's Note:
Thank you so much for everyone's patience and encouraging words. It has really helped me to keep writing so I can bring you more of these two! This is the second chapter to this story, I highly suggest reading the first so some parts can make more sense. I do also have a third chapter planned but I hope you enjoy this until then.
Please feel free to leave nice comments, they keep me motivated!
Thank you!
II.
When morning comes, Clara does not come with it in favor of sleeping in and she finds that she does not have to face Constancia either.
One of the plump pretty maids, the freckled one, wakes her by drawing the curtains and smiling brightly. The girl follows directions well enough and dresses her quickly but she speaks French with an accent so thick that Clara can scarcely understand her. When she is done dressing and styling her hair, the maid escorts her to the breakfast table hurriedly with Sebastien trailing along at their heels.
The young singer breathes a sigh of relief when she sits at the end of the table furthest from the doors in the breakfast room and the maid disappears to fetch today's morning meal from the kitchens. Left alone, she looks about as if expecting Constancia to magically appear from a corner ready to pour her tea or bring her breakfast.
It was strange being served by someone else after the older woman was by her side for these very moments for the last few weeks. The poor maid was doing her best but she was clearly not used to such things. Gathering her little spaniel in her lap, the bronze girl began to wonder where the Housekeeper might be or if last night things went too far even if she returned the affection.
Just as the thought crossed her mind, the freckled maid appeared with a cart of all the usual favorites. A fresh baguette, an array of fruit spreads, sweet pastries, and hot tea already being poured. Clara did her best to eat well despite her anxiety, her tutor would arrive soon and she had a long schedule of music classes ahead of her.
Today he was the strictest she had seen him, yet still gentle with his guidance. He wanted her to learn a somewhat difficult piece that was challenging but played to her strengths. The two practiced for hours, the castrato on the harpsichord and Clara at the instrument's side crooning along.
They even had their lunch in the music room, something different but not unwelcome by either at all. A meal of roasted game hen, truffles, and red wine brought in by the freckled maid. As Clara sang she would throw pieces of meat to Sebastien but once he noticed his mistress was again focused on her music, the little dog padded off to find a quieter spot to nap.
Her tutor did not leave until the sun nearly set and Clara was glad the strenuous lesson ended. It was already time for dinner. She returned to her rooms to freshen up at her toilette and have a moment to herself. Sebastien was nowhere to be found but at this time of day that was not uncommon, Constancia would often take him to the kitchen and have the cook make him something. The young soprano assumed the freckled maid likely did it in her place.
Sitting at her vanity, she looks herself over in the mirror as she begins to pull at the ties of her dress to disrobe herself. It would be much easier if she called for one of the other plump housemaids but she just can't bring herself to hear any chatter or give any direction.
Just as she began to pull at the laces of her bodice the door to her inner chambers clicks open. In comes Constancia wearing a deep green dress and white apron, her iron keyring still at her waist. It is the first time that Clara has ever seen the woman in something other than black or grey. The familiar click of her heels as she approaches soothes Clara and she knows she will be taken care of just as she likes.
The women play their roles in silence, neither choosing to acknowledge what happened between them not far from where they stand. The soprano allows her servant to undress her and wipe her down thoroughly in a low tub filled with lukewarm water. She shivers as she scrubs her brown skin clean and slides the washcloth between her legs, the older woman muttering an apology about the water's temperature. Clara remains silent and doesn't complain. Since she arrived, Constancia has done this routine so many times between full baths but never with the lingering memory of what the older woman's fingers were capable of or with such surgical precision.
From the back of her neck, under her arms, between her cheeks, and even the pale soles of her feet the young woman is scrubbed clean.
Afterwards, Constancia dries her and scents her naked body as she pleases for dinner. She dabs behind the young woman's ears, her wrists, between her breasts, at the small of her back, between her thighs, then lastly behind her knees and at her ankles. Her choice in scent is not surprising, Clara was known to love a feminine floral perfume but the dress made the young woman's heart flutter. It was the royal blue one with the plunging neckline and silver embroidery that she arrived in. Louis' favorite of her wardrobe that she didn't get to see. She glances sharply over her shoulder at Constancia as she expertly ties her gown in place but the dark-haired woman gives nothing away.
After helping her charge step into her shoes and arranging her tightly coiled brown hair with a pearl clip, and matching earrings, and necklace, Constancia steps back to assess her work. The deep blue and silver accented with pearls lends enough contrast to make Clara's warm brown skin appear an even richer hue in the candlelight. Smiling, she says the first thing that evening in hushed French as she follows Clara out of her apartments, "You look just as ripe and fresh as you did when you arrived."
The younger woman is left speechless.
Swallowing to curb the sudden dryness in her throat, she follows Constancia down the familiar halls of the wooded chateau now lit with candles as the sun had long set. She turns down a different corridor leading to the larger dining room rather than the smaller breakfast nook where she ate this morning. This was different as well, Clara had always eaten alone given the only other people in the mansion were servants so there was no need to use this space.
The main dining room of the estate was painted a deep, rich red and its walls held large landscape paintings of the French countryside. On one side of the longer walls were three tall windows that overlooked the front courtyard. The other sports yet another of the house's many large fireplaces already roaring, with a hefty log to feed it, fighting off the autumn night's chill. At its feet lay a thick carpet with two heavy high back chairs. A polished table takes up the middle of the room and at the far end it, two dining sets and a full decanter of wine for dinner.
Constancia pulls back the chair for Clara to sit at the head of the table and a shot of fear went through her as she sat down. Had Louis returned or was there someone else? What if she had come back but only for dinner? The girl's head swirled with thoughts as the olive woman exits the room, the click of her steps echoing before she closes the door behind her.
Clara is left utterly alone.
The dining room is bathed in the warm light of the multiple lit candelabras and a rustic ironwork chandelier above the table. Biting her bottom lip, the soprano struggles not to fidget and instead concentrates on the dark night outside her window. She could see nothing in the inky blackness but the broad leaves and sticky stems of crawling ivy creeping at the edge of the glass. Even as the weather cooled, they did not give up their quest to overtake the windows before the first snowfall.
Clara did not have to wait long until the door at the other end of the chamber opens and her heart stops.
After over two months of waiting, Louis finally appears dressed handsomely as always in a deep blue coat and breeches the same color as Clara's dress. Her pressed blouse is missing its caveat and has been left undone, revealing freckles across her broad chest. Her olive skin holds the tantalizing shadow of her small breasts, tanned as deeply as any peasant from the outdoors. Long dark hair spills in curls over her shoulders, obviously freshly styled, brushed, and framing her angular face.
As the tall woman approaches the table, Clara rises from her seat and curtseys deep and dutifully. She remains there with her arms spread over the widening length of her dress and her eyes fixed on the silver buckles of Louis' leather boots. Constancia's words last night to not forget her place echoed in her mind. She was right that she had forgotten herself.
Above her, she hears the deep distinctive chuckle of Louis and feels her bare hand gently caress her cheek. The pads of her fingers are rough and calloused, more so than usual, but to Clara it is one of the sweetest touches she has felt in a long time. Her long fingers pass under the singer's chin and lift her head, giving the bronze girl permission to look into her patron's hazel eyes.
"My sweet girl," she says in husky French, a smile pulling at her lips, "rise and have dinner with me."
Clara fights back tears at those words and lets out the breath she was holding. There is nothing that she would like more at this moment.
