Work Text:
“You know that you can’t put it off forever.”
Gustave didn’t stop his axe drill. If anything he started to go faster. Bernard sighed and shook his head. He waited for a break in the tempo of the drill to step in, pushing the wooden training axe into the ground, and trapping Gustave with a hand on his jacket.
There were a few options that Gustave could have taken in that moment to break the grip on him. The quickest, however, he knew was to not fight. “Did you come all the way to the capital just to tell me that?”
“Of course not. I had to see if His Majesty finally made your hair grey.” Bernard let himself relax a moment. He really should have known better.
Gustave stepped into Bernard’s space, an almost gentle motion, but with the force of his weight and his stance behind it made it inevitable that Bernard was thrown back over Gustave’s knee and onto the dirt. The resulting counter hold and tussle had both men rolling on the ground until they were sweaty and grinning.
It was a good break, Gustave told himself. It was a good break before he would have to face the hard conversation about his duty to his family.
The barony needed to maintain a line of succession. Despite having the Dominic family crest, none of Bernard’s children had inherited it, so if there was to be a chance for the crest to be passed, it could lie in Gustave. There, of course, was always the chance that a future child of Bernard’s would be able to have it, but with each passing year the chances grew slimmer and his wife’s health more precarious. Bernard had done his duty to the family, the younger son eclipsing the elder.
Gustave had his excuses. He was a knight in direct service to the crown. His duty to the king was preeminent, protecting the royal family, teaching the castle guards. However, he could not help but think of all the arguments that would mean he needed to leave where he was happiest: doing his duty for his family would end up furthering his duty to the crown. Was it not the duty of every noble house to make sure that their continued support was ensured?
“What has mother planned now?” Gustave asked.
“She’s found a family, the Montmorencys, that have a daughter they’re willing to marry off to the first comer.”
“Makes it sound like there’s something wrong with her. Or the family is in dire straits.”
“Who knows.” Bernard sat up, his elbows leaning on his knees. ‘So you’re willing?”
“I have my duty. And I will not abandon it.”
Sitting for a portrait was perhaps the most boring thing that one had to do, Jeanne-Marie thought. She stared out the window across the rollicking hills of her family’s land. Just on the other side of those hills was a moorland filled to the brim with heather and moths. Up in the sky, circling in and out of the window’s view, was a hawk flying as free as she wanted to be right then.
Fingers grabbed her chin and forced her head to turn.
The painter’s expression was completely flushed. His mouth moved in in exaggerated circles, his teeth bared on every other pass. Spittle landed on Jeanne-Marie’s cheek. He forced her hands to cross over each other in her lap and arranged her body so that she was just where he wanted.
Goddess, she hated him.
Just because she could not hear him did not mean that he should put his hands on her and direct her like a dog.
Of course he had gone back to his canvas before she could shake off his touch. Hopefully her glare would be adequately captured in the paint.
That night, Jeanne-Marie snuck down to the library. The candle clenched in one hand shook. In the other was an envelope, the paper creased by the force of her grip. Wan light vibrated against the stone walls. Off on the side was the canvas. It was a good likeness of herself - her parents would not have it any other way - but she could only hope that it didn’t seem as insincere to its recipient as it did to her.
Carefully Jeanne-Marie put down her candle so she could manipulate the canvas frame, sliding her letter next to one of the wood slats.
The messenger that carried the betrothal portrait was a young man, fit and trim. Gustave’s eyes did not linger on him, or the smile that made one of his cheeks dimple, or the way that his trousers wrapped around his legs. He did not have those images branded into his mind long after the messenger left. He would not lay in his bed and let the images roll into his dreams.
No. He would instead be looking over the portrait of Jeanne-Marie Montmorency that he received.
The composition was simple, a young woman sitting in a chair. The most astounding thing was the feeling that she was looking into his soul. Her eyes, a piercing green, burned like flames in a stark contrast to the soft smile that was painted on her face. It was as if they were from another world, another draft of the portrait, but had still somehow survived the process of being painted over.
This was the woman that no one wanted to marry? How foolish of the current crop of so-called gentlemen. With her sun blonde hair, heart-shaped face, and slim form, one would think that she would have been courted by a whole line of suitors. Each shallow lad more handsome than the last, begging for her hand.
It would be a shame not to hang it, if he was being honest. The aesthetics of it, the dissonance of Miss Montmorency’s expression and eyes, it was a remarkable piece.
As Gustave lifted the portrait he felt parchment against his fingers. Odd. He turned it around and found an envelope. With careful fingers he pulled it out from where it was wedged against the back of the canvas. The wax that held the letter closed was rounded over, carved with a “JM” rather than benign pressed flat with the Montmorency coat of arms. Stray flecks of wax remained against the edges of the envelope. Someone had pulled away the candle before tipping it up all the way.
A strange reverence settled over him as he broke the wax and opened the letter.
Dear Sir Dominic, it read. I pray that you are able to find this letter before more can be made of the nuptials that our families are forcing upon us. You should know why my parents are so desperate to marry me off, and why no one before has taken my hand.
I cannot hear.
I speak with my hands.
It does not mean that I am less studious, less intelligent, or less perceptive. If anything it means that I am overly perceptive of what I see, and I know that any potential betrothed before you has been put off by that fact, or they sought to take advantage of me.
In recent years, I had believed that I would live my life as a spinster. Relished it nearly.
If the above stated differences have any bearing on your opinion of me or of what will come next in our futures, let me know as soon as possible, and we can attempt to call off this whole charade.
Yours sincerely,
Jeanne-Marie Eponine Montmorency
There had been no reply to the letter that Jeanne-Marie had hidden on her portrait. Two explanations: either this Sir Gustave Dominic was completely unobservant and she was about to have a truly terrible day, or he had found it and decided to ignore it. If it was that second option, she did not know what that would lead to.
Perhaps he would not care, or, perhaps he would. How terrifying.
With every passing second of waiting fear gripped Jeanne-Marie’s heart with little fingers of ice. Slender, sharp, growing in a perverse floral frost. It was all that she could do to sit still.
She did not notice when the door opened, but for watching the chaperone, here to supervise the first meeting between the two would-be betrothed, when the matronly woman straightened up in her own chair.
Gustave Dominic was more handsome than she expected. Older than her by a good number of years, but still handsome with a strong, squared-off jaw line and a towering figure that was reminiscent of a stone wall. His muscles strained the seams of his shirtsleeves, as if the formal attire had been made before he had become a knight. Tucked under one arm was a rectangle shaped package wrapped in leather. In his other hand, he held a quill and a corked, squat earthenware bottle.
His movements were careful and gentle for such a big man as he put all his items on the table. From the bound leather came a stack of clean, bright paper that must have cost a small fortune. The bottle was uncorked, and the quill placed in it, the contents obvious. Then he did the last thing that Jeanne-Marie expected.
“Hello,” He signed, hands moving nervously through the gesture. “Forgive. I am not good. Paper and quill easy.”
“Hello. You speak well.” Jeanne-Marie signed. She took the top sheet of paper and the quill first, writing I had not expected that you would do this .
Gustave took the paper and quill from her. Easily two of her hands could fit into one of his.
After finding your letter I knew I would have to prepare for this visit , he wrote in return. I’m sorry that I could not have perfected my technique .
The chaperone moved in the corner of Jeanne-Marie’s eyes. Gustave was the one who startled at whatever she had done. He frowned, the expression on his face seemed to be carved from granite. When he spoke with his voice, the tone of it vibrated through the table.
This would not do.
Jeanne-Marie took back the paper and quill, and shoved what she wrote in his face.
DO NOT LEAVE ME OUT
Gustave blinked at the paper before a blush arched over his cheeks. His mouth moved. He blushed again and took the paper and quill.
My apologies, the lady requested that we not pass notes. I told her that it would simply not be possible. But if she wished to read them after, to make sure we were being entirely appropriate, she was free to.
What Jeanne-Marie wrote in return was vulgar to the utmost and Gustave had to put a fist in front of his mouth to prevent something from happening, impossible to tell if it was going to be a laugh or a cough. Maybe it would be both.
They moved to a new sheet of paper, letting their chaperone read the previous page. When she reached the end her wrinkled face pulled into itself like she had just bit into a sour Morfis Plum. Gustave and Jeanne-Marie looked at each other, and mutually broke down into giggles.
The process of their courtship was done mainly through sign language lessons. Every lesson, Gustave made sure to bring a flower as a token of appreciation. The first time he had been unsure about it, but given how Lady Jeanne-Marie’s face lit up when she saw it… A warmth built up in Gustave’s chest every time he saw her smile, pleased that he was making someone else happy.
Over each meeting, they were able to abandon the use of paper and quill completely. Now it was time for the wedding. Gustave pulled down on his tunic and straightened out the shoulders of his cloak.
“My older brother, all grown up.”
Gustave gave Bernard a withering stare. “Remember that I can still beat you in sparring, and that I think I can do it while not getting my clothing dirty.”
“Hey, I’m just trying to lighten the mood. You have to be nervous, after all. The confirmed bachelor is finally getting married.”
Was he?
There were, of course, all the little things that had to be worried about. Receiving the dowry, making sure that the servants in his household in Fhirdiad were prepared for having an actual lady of the house, coordinating with two families for the feast. If anything though, the idea of having a woman in his life was just a grey blank space. He enjoyed Jeanne-Marie’s company, felt that they could work together in the future. Those were practical knowledge points. Facts that Gustave checked off a to-do list for how to conduct oneself in a partnership and not that different from how he would look at the relationship between himself and his brother.
“You play the jester well,” Gustave said. “Perhaps you would like me to enter discussions with His Majesty when there is an open position?”
“Absolutely not. I have a barony to run, and my talents are only for the use of my brother and my wife.” Bernard slapped Gustave’s shoulder with a smile. “You’ll be fine.”
The marriage ceremony was short, with very few extras and zero long speeches. The Dowager Baroness Dominic was moved to tears regardless, a stark contrast to Lady Montmorency who sat with a severe posture and no emotion. For all that she looked like her daughter, it was hard to see how Jeanne-Marie and Lady Montmorency were related. The entire Montmorency family was stern faced, even, looking like a gathering of statues rather than the members of the bridal party.
Jeanne-Marie’s dress was a soft white color, edged with pale teal embroidery in the shape of vines. In her hair was a flower garland made of Seiros Lilies and Baby’s-Breath that had a sheer veil that hung off the back. The bouquet in her hand matched her hair garland.
Gustave supposed that something should have struck him. He knew the accounts of his parent’s wedding, and he had stood as witness for his brother’s wedding years ago. Bernard’s expression when he had seen his wife in her gown was like the sun having suddenly come out from behind a cloud. As if his whole life was before his eyes and the Goddess gave him the one person that would make the journey a joy.
Looking at Jeanne-Marie, Gustave felt the need to make this work. He was not a perfect man, but he could do his best to make sure that her life, and the lives of their potential children, would be the best that they could have. There was nothing magical within the thought, just a promise that he recorded in his mind as he signed the vows, and watched Jeanne-Marie’s face glow with her smile.
This would work. He would have to make it work, no matter what.
Flowers remained a consistent tradition, one Jeanne-Marie looked forward to every time that Gustave returned from the palace. She had vases upon vases all throughout their home. Lilies decorated the guest receiving room. Lilac and lavender were for the bedroom. Even the servant’s quarters had carnations, from the cook’s room to the little corner that the scullery maid slept in.
Jeanne-Marie sat down carefully, mindful of her round belly.
The Goddess had blessed their marriage. Soon after Jeanne-Marie and Gustave had married, she became pregnant. At the very least, her mother said that they had been blessed. Jeanne-Maried could have done without the swollen ankles, bothering Gustave in the middle of the night to get the cook to make some pickled whitefish. Truly the only redeeming factor was that Gustave had been an absolute prince of a man through her complaining. Nothing was too troublesome, no request too outrageous. It was all that she could do to even return half of his affection.
How strange to be treated as something precious after being the daughter that was to be out away and ignored.
A hand touched her shoulder.
Jeanne-Marie turned around. Cossette, the scullery maid - a nervous young woman at the best of times - was looking at her with a truly panicked expression. She pointed down at Jeanne-Marie’s lap, where her skirts were soaked through.
Oh. Shit.
Apparently, she screamed.
Small blessings, Jeanne-Marie couldn’t hear herself.
Gustave arrived as soon as he could with a midwife. Everyone who could hear was shouting around her which made an already awful situation worse. Between pulses of pain that threatened to split her in half Jeanne-Marie couldn’t grab anyone’s attention. And she was screaming. It was like she had swallowed newly sheared wool and it was dragging bloody branches up her throat.
A hand grabbed hers, but only so long so that she would open her eyes. Gustave stood there, his granite face cragged by his frown. “Push,” he signed, hands moving with the surety of a stone mason. “Push.”
It was only after her child - this darling small glimmer of life - that all the pain, and the brief moment of humiliation, seemed worth it.
“You know, His Majesty’s son is only a year old. Perhaps, in the future, our daughter and the young prince can be friends.” Gustave signed before he took their child in his arms. She was so tiny. How could such a small thing cause so much pain.
“That would be good.” Jeanne-Marie leaned back into the nest of pillows placed behind her. “Her name should be Annette, after your mother. Then Fantine, after my grandmother.” Her hands felt heavy and thick, like they were wrapped up in mittens.
Gustave sat next to her, leaning back so that their torsos touched. His deep voice rumbled from his chest into hers, like a giant cat purring. With a weak blow, Jeanne-Marie smacked his arm. No talking without talking properly with his hands. There was another rumble, his laughter, as he adjusted his grip on their sleeping daughter.
“Annette Fantine Dominic. It is perfect.”
“Father!” Annette spoke aloud and signed at the same time, her excitement palpable as she took the newly carved doll from Gustave’s hands. It was tucked under one arm as she continued to speak. “I love it! Thank you, thank you Father!”
Soon after Annette was born they had her tested for a crest. Thank the Goddess, but she had the Dominic crest. There was a small knot in Gustave’s chest that relaxed when they got the news. They did not need to have any more children. Annette’s future was secure as his brother’s heir to the Dominic Barony.
Perhaps the strangest thing was that, even if Annette did not have a crest, Gustave did not want any more children. She was perfection, the light and joy of his life. Why would he ever want another child to replace her?
Besides, anything he could miss out in raising a daughter instead of a son he was making up in teaching the young prince Dimitri. That boy was going to grow up into a fine man, and if Gustave could help contribute even a small bit to that, he would be happy.
Annette pulled on his trouser leg, prompting Gustave to kneel down next to her. “Do you have a gift for mother too?”
He didn’t.
Shame curled up his neck even as he put a finger up to his lips. “That is a secret. My darling girl, you have many talents, but keeping secrets is not one of them.”
“Father!”
But the question was one that he needed. If he wracked his brain, surely there was some event that he should have remembered that required a gift. There was no time for him to go to market but… he did still have his wood working tools.
Later. He would remember later.
For now he needed to return to the castle to prepare for Prince Dimitri’s lessons. Gustave pet Annette’s head, committing her smiling face and bright giggle to memory.
Annette played with her new doll after her father left. She named it Lucy, who was a great warlock, and was going to save the kingdom with the help of her invisible pegasus.
She missed how her mother ran through the room, looked out the window and deflated on herself, a note in hand of something that Gustave needed to remember.
“Good, Your Highness. Do it again.” Gustave stepped Prince Dimitri through the extended set play again. Their wooden spears clacked together satisfyingly, the boy’s preternatural strength kept in check. Working on the spear was as much about helping him learn to control it as it was to instill the boy with the weapon skill.
On the last pass of blows, Dimitri slipped, stabbing forward too far, too soon. Gustave batted it aside and twisted around it, smacking Dimitri on the thigh with his own weapon. “Again. We do this until you get it right another time.”
By the time that the training session was over, they both were covered in sweat, and the sun had lowered in the sky, rimming the clouds in a ruddy orange. It was later than he expected, as he released the young prince to find his evening meal. Even going quickly, he wouldn’t make it home in time for his own meal, better to just get some food in the palace kitchens.
On returning to his house, Gustave tried to enter quietly.
Jeanne-Marie was sitting just inside the back door. A single candle was lit on the table, casting its glow over the open pages of a book, and a meal that was gently steaming.
“I am sorry.” Gustave signed, the motions of his hands small. “I ate at the palace.”
“You always do.” Jeanne-Marie shut her book with a sharp motion. She slashed her hands through the air when he tried to take the plate, picking it up herself and scraping the food into the bucket that the cook used to make a fertilizer for the little vegetable patch that he worked on.
Jeanne-Marie wasn’t done with Gustave. Her hands moved through the air like knives as she signed. “It is the third night this week. You’ve been staying longer and longer at the palace, I’m also afraid that you have forgotten your own daughter’s face.”
“What do you want of me?”
“I want to spend time with my husband. That’s all. Please.”
Gustave sighed. “It is still warm. We can go on a picnic this weekend.”
It was a small thing, but Jeanne Marie’s face warmed in the candle light, her smile a perfect curve. “I’ll have the cook make a basket.”
Something in Gustave cracked. He’d try to make that. It was a promise.
Jeanne-Marie pressed a kiss to his lips, took his hands and pulled him up to their room. They both dressed down for sleeping. But when he laid down, he had to turn away. Jeanne-Marie spooned against this back, an arm going around his waist. He clutched her hand.
It was all he could do.
Jeanne-Marie watched Annette to see if she would hear if Gustave was coming, but her darling little girl just looked out the window with the same pensive expression on her face.
A picnic basket made up by the cook was waiting by the door. The gingham cloth was rounded high over the lip of the basket and taut where it was tucked in.
She should have expected this.
Jeanne-Marie forced a smile on her face as she touched Annette’s shoulder. “Come along. You father must have been pulled aside at the palace,” she signed. “But that doesn’t mean we should let Emile’s work go to waste.”
Her smiling, skipping daughter holding one hand, and carrying the basket in the other, Jeanne-Marie led the way to a hilltop just outside Fhirdiad.
When Gustave came home, there was an empty basket placed where he would see it first thing as he stepped through the door.
The flowers that decorated the Dominic home were purchased.
Jeanne-Marie visited often enough to the flower seller on the corner that she had picked up a few signs. By her own hands, and setting aside household funds, the Dominc house still smelled of lilies, lilacs, and lavender. The servants still received small bouquets of carnations to brighten their rooms.
The fewer and fewer times that Gustave was home, there were always fresh flowers and he could not think to bring some himself.
“No.”
Jeanne-Marie stood in front of their door. This man, he was not going to be leaving. Not again. It had been years. Years upon years, and she had had enough.
“Turn around and go back upstairs,” her hand sliced through the air like swords on a battlefield. “You are staying.”
“I don’t know what you mean.” Gustave tried to placate her, but all it did was stoke the flames of her determination.
“I will not let you leave. I have had enough of you slinking off and leaving us for days at a time. If you were anyone else I would have assumed that you have a woman on the side. Your family has as much to do with your life as your work does.”
Gustave’s face was as a statue’s, immovable and unyielding. “I have my duty to His Majesty.”
“Duty this, duty that. I am sick of your duty!” Jeanne-Marie bared her teeth as she flashed her hands from sign to sign. “What about your duty to your family! Or is this family a sham so you can say that you continued your line’s crest?”
On the wall next to them hung a portrait. It was simple in composition, Gustave’s image stood at the back, next to Jeanne-Marie’s seated form. Between them stood Annette, her small face nearly glowing with how she was smiling. They looked like a proper family, proud, united. What an illusion.
Gustave was looking at the portrait. His back was straight as a rod. Tension ran down both his arms and ended in his fisted hands. Whatever was actually going through his head, all Jeanne-Marie could see was a refusal to speak, and a refusal to listen.
She grabbed his chin and forced Gustave to turn his head and look at her.
“You are staying with your family tonight. Please, Gustave. You have a duty to your family that is as great as your duty to the crown. You are never here, you sleep beside me as if I were a stranger, and you…” She wiped at her face. No, she would not cry, not when he was still here, not when she still had a chance to speak to him. “You don’t bring me flowers anymore.”
Gustave looked away again, back to the portrait.
Slowly, very slowly, he breathed in, and breathed out, closing his eyes. A grimace passed over his mouth. Jeanne-Marie dared not to touch him again, her hands clinging to her skirts. If she reached out and was rebuffed, she could not handle it.
“I…” Gutave’s hands moved with uncertainty. “I will stay. It is near to our anniversary, is it not?”
Something wet ran against Jeanne-Marie’s cheek. With a hurried motion she scrubbed it away. She stepped closer to him and wrapped him in an embrace. Her thin arms clutched to Gustave’s back and sides as if he were the last rock before falling over a waterfall. If there was a wet spot that formed on the center of his chest, neither of them mentioned it.
The messenger boy panted, near collapsing in the doorway of the Dominic home.
“Sir Dominic! Sir Dominic! The King- the Duscur retinue, please!”
Jeanne-Marie stood up, looking between the messenger and Gustave. He had spoken with his voice, so all she had to go on was the stricken look that crossed Gustave’s face. She tried to ask, but he had already stood up and went for his armor, axe, and outside for his horse. Even so, Jeanne-Marie chased after him until she could not keep up with the thunderous gallop that Gustave kicked the horse into.
It wouldn’t be until days later that Jeanne-Marie was able to learn exactly what had happened in the north, and the bloodbath that her husband had managed to escape. Guilt tore at her, but also a small amount of vindication. If Gustave had left, he could have died. Was that selfish of her? Perhaps.
All that was left was for Gustave to return home again.
Jeanne-Marie rubbed her hands together, heaving a sigh that went through her own body. Two months ago, Gustave disappeared. No, better to say he left. She stared up at the ceiling, willing herself to calm down. Her husband had left. There was nothing that she could do now.
On the desk were two letters. The first was from her mother, the wax seal imprinted with the Montmorency coat of arms unbroken. There was no need to read it to know the contents. It would be some sort of screed about the need to please a husband, and how Gustave leaving was her fault, that she wasn’t submissive enough, that she should have done something more, something other.
But …
But Gustave had married her knowing who she was, why her family was willing to send her away. Was it so terrible that she wished that he just continued to show the care that he had in the beginning?
The other letter was from Bernard. Given Gustave’s disappearance, he invited Jeanne-Marie and Annette to live on the Dominic estate. Family took care of family, after all, and his dear sister-in-law and niece were family. If the world was unlike as it was, she would have had no reservations about going. The question was if she was going to trade having a lonely household where she could talk to only one person, or living in a busy household, and still only able to talk to one person.
Jeanne-Marie covered her face with both hands. If only the world could go away a moment. A rest. That was all she wanted, a little time to rest.
In the doorway, Annette watched her mother sob into her hands, and made a promise then and there to make her family right once more.