Evenings spent locked in my father’s study does not make Ysabelle a happy woman. Indeed, I’ve been longing to escape or, if not that, just for another’s company. This evening I shall regale you with details of both.
Earlier this evening, I decamped from the study to my room. Like many, my room is my refuge.
Three doors open into my room or, more accurately, suite. The first connects with the hall. The second, on the right, flows into a large space designed to be a walk in closet housing all my clothes. Off-season items hide in heavy armoires. The third door leads into a cavernous bathroom. Instead alluding to the past through furnishings and decor, the bathroom is a fully modern space. Beautiful tiles decorate the floor, walls the color of French vanilla soothe the eyes. A huge bath dominates one wall, with a glass shower adjacent. Dual sinks rest above vanities which remain separated by drawers hiding various feminine fripperies.
In the main room, delicate wallpaper covers the walls. A floral motif bursting with color draws the eye and displays the large size of the room. Centered on the wall, the doorway divides the rectangular room into two spaces. Immediately in front of the doorway, centered in the room, is a round table. Resting on the table is a vase filled with a bouquet of flowers fresh from the garden. And beyond the table, framed by two sets of heavily shuttered and draped floor-to-ceiling windows, is a large fireplace with an ornate mantle crowned with a large, gilt mirror.
To the left, my bed rests. Positioned against the wall as a daybed, a canopy of green and blue silk cascades down, framing it. Small, round bolsters swathed in the same fabric are the only pillows. Small tables are on either side, supporting a clock and other small necessities.
On the right, sits a small settee and two bergere chairs flanking a small table. The settee and chairs, upholstered in the same silk, formerly hosted tea parties for my dolls and stuffed friends. Now, I curl up on the settee and watch a small television that sits, beyond the small table, on a sideboard against the wall . Even with an untold amount of channels, night-time television remains a drag.
Behind the sitting area, on the wall with the doorway opening to the hall, I perch on a small chair before my desk. Although, calling this exquisite antique secretary a desk is an injustice. Mirroring the secretary’s position, to the left of the doorway, rests a chest filled with mementos. Powered-up on the secretary, my laptop illuminates the corner of my room. A room, swathed in dark woods, gilt and exquisite fabrics. All the furniture positioned about belonged, at one time to my ancestors; my father’s descendants.
Protecting the ancient oak floors from delicious, modern, women’s foot wear remains the job of Aubusson carpets. They muffle sounds of footfalls as maids go from room to room, tidying up and dusting. They muffle the sounds of guests as they try and find their room again after a long evening of drinks and dinner. Conversely, they muffle the sound of my father making his way to my room. I wanted to avoid him this evening. Sadly, lady luck decamped and a knock on the door rang through the room.
“Ysabelle! I know you are in there. Your nails make that atrocious clicking noise as you type on your computer.” This is one of my father’s loudest complaints about laptops and keyboards, in general.
“Ysabelle! Open this door immediately. A guest awaits you in my study. It is rude to keep him waiting.” Said with irritation and exasperation, his French accent much more pronounced. It’s as if he is unable to fathom that I am no longer his obstinate, stubborn little girl. Traits, I might add, that were encouraged by him much to my mother’s consternation.
With a sigh, I closed my laptop and rose, walking across the carpet to the doors and threw them open. “Papa! Must you grumble to yourself? Here I am, let’s go downstairs and meet this mystery guest of yours. And, you best be careful, you know what will happen if Mama catches you swearing like that!”
Closing the door as I leave the comfort of my room, we link arms and I listen to him chuckle. He knows I’m right about Mama. She loathes it when he swears. I daresay it’s related to my picking up his nasty habit when I was very little. He thought it amusing to see his little girl swearing, not really aware of what she said. Mama, however, was not amused. Mama had the arduous task of breaking me of this bad habit.
We make our way to his study, the wind grumbling outside, sending branches crashing into each other and leaves falling to the ground. Fires are lit in the fireplaces to warm the rooms for Mama. Papa and I no longer need the warmth. We tend to be impervious to the temperature change.
Last evening, I met with Guy. Guy handles all the over-reaching affaires of my trust fund. I turn to him if I wish to make a large investment or purchase. Or, should I wish to withdraw a large sum. After explaining the ins and the outs of the trust, I assumed that I would manage my day-to-day affaires as I had done since I turned eighteen.
Throwing open the door to his study, a room lined from floor to ceiling with shelves crammed with books arranged haphazardly, my father guided me into the room. A fire crackled at the far end behind a grate, over which a painting of my father presided. A large, carved wooden desk sits before the fire, with files stacked and presented with military precision.
Two men stood off to one side near a large globe of mid-sixteenth century origin, if opened would reveal stacks of sporting magazines, another vice. Immediately, I recognized Charles. Charles has been with father since before I was born or before he married mother. Charles is Father’s factotum. He is a solicitor that has spent his entire career with my father, overseeing the day to day details of his life. Anything my father wants or needs, Charles sorts it out. Incredibly, he works for the same firm as and is well acquainted with Guy.
The younger man talking to Charles wore a dark blue suit and had hair that was mussed from the wind outside. They look at books in father’s collection, talking animatedly. Hands flew as the conversation was punctuated by nods of agreement and excited babble. My father, smiling, cleared his throat and they turned around.
Moving forward, Charles greeted me with a wide smile which morphed into a sheepish look. Turning to my father he asked, “Monsieur, have you not told her?”
Swiveling quickly, I see my father’s face remain impassive as he replies, “I thought it would be best if you explained and then allowed them to get acquainted. Much like our introduction all those years ago.”
A sharp nod in agreement with my father, he ushered his colleague forward. He made quick work for the introduction. Soon, I found myself sitting one of the worn leather arm chairs in Papa’s study, whilst Guy sat across from me in the other. It seems he shares the same name as my solicitor. I laughed at that. For a moment, I debated whether to call him Deuxième, the French word for second or Junior for this tale.
I settled on Junior and then I launched a barrage of questions at him. He answered them all truthfully and honestly. He told me his educational background, why he chose to work with this firm instead of one of the others that offered him a position. He understood that I would be unavailable during the day and that our work would be conducted at night. And, that he would be responsible for procuring whatever I asked. I indicated he would make an excellent factotum.
I reiterated that he would still be paid through the firm and that he was still their employee although assigned permanently to me. He nodded. I looked nervously to my father and he nodded. I leaned forward a bit and then I told him why his services were so necessary. I spilled my secret to him, watching as he blanched and then the blood slowly drained from his face. I reminded him that our conversations would always be bound by privilege and divulging them would have significant repercussions for him and his career.
