My entry for Mad Hatter Belia’s contest...

Monique de Champlain, a bio in prose:

Snow was unusual for a November evening in France, but 1622 had not been a usual year, at least Monique de Champlain felt that way. This year, not yet eighteen years of age, she had become the fiancée of the celebrated sea captain Rodrigo Oliveiro de Sousa. Despite the gloomy weather outside, her father’s home tonight was warmed by a bright fire in the hearth and convivial company in the salon. She and the captain conversed with her father and brother, French and Portuguese flowing effortlessly among them.

The salon at Maison de Champlain was like an art gallery with chairs upholstered in the finest leathers arranged to view clocks and Venetian vases and candelabra and, particularly, the virginal: a rare and magnificent keyboard instrument imported from Antwerp. A dozen paintings hung on the clean plaster walls.

Monique’s father had earned his fortune in Lisbon, living there with his young family until Monique was eight, establishing himself as a spice broker with Portuguese traders for the sale of pepper, cloves, nutmeg and more throughout France. The pre-eminence of Le Courtage de Champlain had stood for more than twenty years without a close rival. Today, however, times were not as good for Champlain: abroad, the Dutch were beginning to poke holes in the Portuguese monopolies.

As always, since her mother’s death four years ago, Monique acted as the hostess. Since the age of thirteen she had been the mistress of the keys, in charge of the pantry, the servants and the budget. She managed every detail that made her father’s life pleasant. Preoccupied with his own quest to experience artistic beauty, her elder brother, Luc-Henri, was merely glad that someone capable was seeing to it that the table was set with fine food and his bed was made with fine linens and he always had a clean shirt to wear.

While Monsieur de Champlain, Luc-Henri and Rodrigo drank coffee, Monique stood at the virginal and filled the salon with beautiful music. Her delicate ivory fingers danced over the keys. The addition of her lovely voice added to the pleasure of her audience. The captain’s languid hazel eyes sipped the beauty of his fiancée’s soulful blue eyes and radiant complexion as one would savor a fine aperitif.

Monique’s delicate proportions were set to good advantage in her gown of cinnabar velvet, cut in the Parisian fashion, with its voluminous skirt, puffed sleeves, fitted bodice and square-cut neckline framed at the shoulders and back with a standing collar of the finest Alenҫon lace. At her neck she wore her mother’s pearl necklace. Her golden-brown hair was swept back from her face, bound with ribbons in a bun in the back; dainty curls dangled in front of her ears, concealing her pearl earrings.

On a chair nearby she had set her new gift from the captain: a mirror from Japan whose surface was not glass, but a thin piece of polished metal, possibly bronze, unscratched and extraordinarily shiny, set in a flat wooden frame upholstered with white silk.

Mademoiselle de Champlain was in her element and her music received worthy applause.

“Again, Senhorita Monica. Sing with me.”

Her fiancé stood beside her and blended his rough but earnest voice with hers in a love duet. He lightly caressed her back as they sang. She felt as if a tarantula was crawling there but with her father and brother watching she suppressed a shudder. She struck the wrong key but everyone forgave her error. Rodrigo meant to kiss her when her family again applauded but she had snatched up the mirror and was already moving across the room to sit beside her father.

“I have a remarkable secret to share,” Rodrigo announced. “The mirror is an authentic treasure: it is a magic wishing mirror.”

Luc-Henri’s eyes danced to behold such a treasure, though his sister held a reserve of mild skepticism.

“I promise you, it is true, mademoiselle. Go ahead—make a wish.”

Still not entirely convinced it had wish-granting power, Monique thought it best to play along. She closed her eyes and made a wish.

“For what did you wish?” Luc-Henri demanded.

Monique did not want to reveal it but they all pestered her to speak up.

“I wished for a happy life, if you must know.” She put the mirror back in its black silk pouch and pulled the strings closed.

Her brother was not impressed. “That was a wasted wish. You already have a happy life.”

Rodrigo turned away, looking hurt. “Your life will be as my wife. What further guarantee of happiness could you require, unless your heart loves elsewhere?”

“Pray, do not misinterpret her,” her father intervened, “she merely wished for these blessings never to be altered. It was a good wish, a sensible wish, if I may say so.”

Monique smiled at her father and stated what he said was so. A faint movement on the cushion beside her caught her eye. She thought she saw the pouch vibrate slightly but when she looked at it more directly, it lay inanimate. Evidently, she concluded, she had merely seen an optical trick from flickering firelight.

Monsieur de Champlain smiled at his company. He declared it was time for old men to go to bed. Monique seized upon this opening and made her excuses for retiring early as well. Rodrigo declared he would escort her to her suite. The young woman protested that such gallantry was not due but Rodrigo insisted. Monsieur de Champlain wagged a knowing finger at the eagerness of his future son-in-law. With a directing glance from his father, Luc-Henri took up his sister’s gift. The family exchanged kisses on the cheeks and headed up the stairs.

The upstairs maid, had turned down the quilt on the plump feather mattresses of Monique’s large four-poster bed and had lit fires in the hearths of both the boudoir and bedchamber. Carpets on the floors and thick draperies at the windows also helped to warm the rooms. Luc-Henri set Monique’s new gift on her writing table and gave her another goodnight kiss before disappearing through the door linking his bedchamber and hers.

The young woman strolled to the window and drew back the drapery of sage velvet. Through the small, square glass panes, she gazed absently at the cold vista, warmed by a few twinkling lights, down to the valley southward, and at the chaotic river coursing toward the mystery of a dark horizon. How fabulous it would be to visit faraway exotic places, to have that freedom, as Rodrigo does! For a few minutes she fantasized about being captain of her own ship. A lady adventuress or pirate! Then thoughts of her father languishing here without the joys of her smile returned her to her home with its quiet view of snow falling on rooftops and walled gardens.

Monique turned her focus inward. Her fate resided here: to be Madame de Sousa. Stormy thoughts clouded her face. She could not shake the sensation of revulsion that had crawled through her when Rodrigo had caressed her, nor its attendant feelings of confusion and guilt. She could not understand why she was not attracted to him. It made no sense. Clearly, he was a dashing hero: charming, bold and good-looking. Why did the thought of his embrace send icy shivers into her heart? To be the bride of Captain de Sousa was the dream of every girl in town—of every maiden from Paris to Lisbon! What arrogant dissatisfaction caused her to sneer at so enviable a foredestiny? What was wrong with her? She exhaled with a self-scorning frown.

That her father desired this marriage, that he would never choose ill for her, strengthened her courage. She wondered if what she was feeling was merely the natural modesty of an inexperienced woman. Maybe passion, she thought, was something that developed with time and repetition. And maybe, she thought facetiously, those miraculous healing crystals (which Rodrigo would soon be making a return voyage to Japan to obtain) might serve to increase her ardor! She pondered a moment what perpetual health might be like, then grinned at the playful reminder that her “magic mirror” was nonetheless guaranteeing her a happy life!

One reality that irrefutably would promote happy living was that her fiancé was a mariner who had no permanent home and would be away for months at a time. Her marriage soon after her eighteenth birthday in February would change her current situation by little more than her name. She sighed with a faint smile returning to her: she would remain here at Maison de Champlain and continue to provide a comfortable home for her father. No hired housekeeper could ever be as solicitous.

A soft knock at the boudoir door roused her. It was Rodrigo. He wanted to know if he might sit with her here a short time. He raised his right hand and vowed his best behavior. Monique denied him this, stating it was not proper and her father would not approve. He persisted until she assured him they would have all day tomorrow to be together. As sweetly as she could she bade him goodnight, denying him even a stolen kiss, and shut the door.

Monique strolled back to her writing table. Rodrigo’s gift in its black pouch caught her eye. Despite her doubt that it had any magical properties, she did admire what a pretty thing it was. She took it out and examined it more closely.

The brilliant metal seemed to beguile the gazer into itself. She held it up and smiled. But her dimples retreated with alarm. It was not her own face looking back—but a man’s—a man she had never seen before! Monique gasped. She could feel breath on the back of her neck, as if he were standing right behind her, looking over her shoulder into her mirror. She pivoted. A strange man was indeed standing there in her chamber!

Fiction: 03/07/09 | Posted By: Koishi Magna | 8 comments | Other Books/Comics