Blue Rose and Raven: Chapter One

The first chapter, introducing the Dufresne family and detailing Marius' upbringing.

My mother insisted on naming us after Roman statesmen, after great men whose name would be remembered for centuries to come. When we asked, Mother insisted that such names bore the boon of immortality. To be named after someone so great was an honor and would mark a great destiny.

My oldest brother was named Constantine. Like any great emperor, Connie was tall, broad, and handsome. He had Father’s dark hair that tended to tumble down his shoulders when it got too long and had Mother’s blue eyes. By the time he’d turned 16, he’d grown a small bush of stubble across his face. In addition, he’d grown so much body hair he reminded me of a bear. His hands were rough from many days of working and playing outside. He could outplay anyone at any sport without trying at all. Connie didn’t care for his appearance most days, keeping on whatever he was wearing during his activity for the day. He’d come home dirty and reeking of sweat and leather. I think that was one of the reasons why when he passed girls on the street, I swear they would stop and swoon on the spot. Yet as rugged as he was, he never resorted to bullying others or demanding attention. Often, he’d stop rather than start fights, and he always greeted girls with a polite bow and smile. That only made them swoon more.

Second born was Augustus. He was slender and sleek with blonde hair and green eyes. He was a full head shorter than Constantine. Unlike Connie, August preferred to keep himself well-groomed and preened. His fashion choices tended towards the dapper and the refined, giving him a sharp appearance. Where Connie was strong, August was shrewd. My brother had a way of reading people instantly, his sharp eyes narrowing to slits as he surmised someone’s character perfectly. Whenever he did this, I pictured August as a snow fox: a slippery silver thing capable of snaking its way out of anything. It was this attentiveness that made August perfect for assisting Mother with the family business.

As for me, I wasn’t much of anything to look at. I was a full head shorter than August and slighter in body than Connie. My hair stuck out in awkward clumps like bare branches and my eyes were the color of mud. I could barely keep up with the other boys and skinned my knees too easily. I didn’t read people closely, so I’d been fooled too many times by marketplace games. Girls didn’t notice me when I walked down the street. If Connie was a bear and August was a snow fox, then I was a mole: a small creature which remained out of sight for its own good. Despite this, my mother named me Marius, after Gaius Marius, one of the greatest statesmen in Roman history. I didn’t see the resemblance.

 Our mother, Elise Dufresne, took it upon herself to raise us of her own accord. It was through the Dufresne trading company that we lived in enormous comfort for a good while. We had servants to help around the house, but Mother tried to make time in between managing trade agreements and meetings with business partners. She was a regal woman with fair features and poise to spare. Her curly brown hair had the slightest streaks of gray, which only seemed to further her regality.

On my father, I knew only what Mother told us. Father was born Antony DeSantio, the only son of Italian winemakers who had lost much of their stock in a drought and were forced to marry their son off to secure themselves financially. But Mother insisted to us that it was no mere marriage of convenience. When they’d first met, she’d told us, she said he was a slight thing. Slight in build and somewhat short, but dignified and composed and very beautiful with wild dark hair and kind dark eyes. He greeted her with a polite bow and a sweet kiss on the hand. And when they got to speaking, he was the kindest, gentlest man she’d ever known. She was smitten immediately.

There were talks around Mother’s society friends that a woman at her age shouldn’t be unmarried, especially with three boys. She insisted that she could raise us on her own. She never remarried after Father’s death. Whenever conversation turned to him, I saw the way her eyes would mist, and her gaze would fall, and her voice would quaver. It was one of the few things that could ever bring her to tears, which she reminded was never something to be ashamed of. But it pained me every time it happened. I wish I had known him.

Mother enjoyed sampling the fine arts of the world. Negotiation was one of her gifts as a merchant, after all. There was one of her collection that struck a special chord with me. I was eleven, which left August about thirteen and Connie was fifteen. Mother had been gone for nearly a month on business. The servants were doing their jobs Mother had finally come home from her trip abroad. We stumbled down the stairs, clambering over each other to meet her first. As the front door swung open, the carriage attendant struggled to cross the threshold as our tiny bodies blocked the way.
            “Make way!” The red-faced servant grunted at us. His hands were straining to hold onto the heavy luggage. Wisely, we moved out of the way. The servant shot us all in a look as he dropped the luggage with a heavy thud. August turned and elbowed Connie. “If he has any complaints, I’m blaming you,” he said with a smirk.

“Not if I blame you first,” Connie retorted.

“Blame who for what?” I asked.

“It pays to be attentive, little brother,” August replied, ruffling my hair. “If you’re not careful you could get in trouble.”
            “In trouble for what?” I asked.

“The secret thing your brother did. The thing that’ll get him in trouble with Mother.” August said.

“But what’s going on?”

“Don’t listen to August, Mare. He’s being annoying.” Connie assured, rolling his eyes.

Soon after Connie spoke, Mother strode in, a sharp breeze billowing her travel coat. She held a large roll underneath her arm. Her face was also red. Immediately Connie rushed to relieve Mother of her burden. She planted a kiss on his cheek as he disappeared into the sitting room with the roll. “Hello my dears,” Mother opened her arms as August and I rushed to embrace her.  She kissed us both on the head. “I see the house is still in order.”

“Except one thing!” I piped up.

“Oh?” Mother arched an eyebrow. “And that would be?”

“�"I don’t know. But I think Connie and August did something,” I said, half sure of my answer. Mother turned to my brother, whose fingers were pressed to his temple in annoyance. She wore an expression we all recognized, the face not of a loving parent but a suspicious disciplinarian. A face of a woman accustomed to a certain type of nonsense that came from raising three siblings. “Augustus?”

“It was a little joke I made with Connie. Marius evidently didn’t get the message.” August answered while glaring at me.

“How was I supposed to know it was a joke?” I said with consternation. “No one told me!”

“Boys, enough!” Mother held up her hand. Instantly we were silent. “It’s too late in the day for petty squabble. I’ve got something wonderful to show you.” She nodded at the sitting room. August’s brow furrowed in curiosity. He gave me one last glance before following Mother.

The sitting room was warm and bright, with red curtains and mahogany furniture polished to a near mirror sheen. An Arabic carpet sewn in elaborate patterns of bright gold and crimson lay on the floor. Large red curtains hung over the windows. A great fireplace that roared in the wintertime gentled warmed the room. And all around the walls were paintings and other curios Mother had collected in her travels: There were small paintings of street artists of Morocco; A Malian ceremonial mask; Fine calligraphy from Istanbul; even a Celtic keystone decorated with elaborate knotted designs. Mother introduced us to the art of the world, she told us, to remember how large this planet of ours truly was. There were many people with many voices, and they all spoke with striking commonality. Art, she asserted, was that common voice. And it was a beautiful voice.

The tapestry Mother had entered was laid on the center table. We crowded around Mother as she gently unrolled it. At its full length it stretched about the full length of the table, which was about five feet. Once it was fully revealed, we stared in awe at the full beauty of the thing. The tapestry depicted a peacock framed by the sun and mountains, with wisping clouds encircling its tiny head like a halo. Its long tail feathers fell in an s-curve before turning into a rushing river that ran down into the bottom of the picture. The bird’s colors shone like emerald and sapphire, the threads twinkling in the firelight as if the weaver had sewn gemstones into the fabric. Even the eye shapes of the feathers shined like obsidian, their beauty absolutely bewitching.

“It looks like a blue chicken,” August scoffed.

“It’s a peacock, brother. “They’re quite beautiful. A pity you didn’t notice.” Connie chided, elbowing August. August elbowed Connie back.

“Boys,” Mother said sternly, her eyes locking onto them in a hawkish way. My brothers recognized the tone and stopped their banter. Mother was a shapeshifter of sorts, capable of effortlessly switching between a loving parent and disciplinarian, at least as far as the two were concerned. I rarely received such authority, though August insisted it was because I was the favorite. I preferred to think it was because I rarely made a sound. When Mother told us to do something, I did it. The last thing I wanted to do was get into trouble.

Mother cleared her throat. “The peacock is the regalest of animals across the world. To have them holds a great deal of respect from many. But I wanted to show this one to you boys for a specific reason.” She pointed to the glinting segments of the tail and traced her finger into the rushing blue river. “Do you know what these are made of?”

We collectively shook our heads.

“Shattered glass off the street. And the weave is made of forgotten cloth collected from a market. The stones are just common stones the artist found in a river. The water washed them clear of any blemishes and made them shine.” She let the tapestry hang for a moment longer. “The artist was a common man, a poor man. He had little to his name, but he created something beautiful with what he had.” She rolled up the tapestry. “Beauty can be found in anything, young sirs. Remember that.”

Predictably, August and Connie absorbed the lesson and departed from the room. I stayed. I asked Mother to unravel the tapestry again, which she obliged. I ran my hands up and down the tapestry, feeling every finely sewn thread and carefully arranged composition. It was surprisingly rough to the touch, the pieces of glass intertwined with the thread pricking my fingers. I took it and began rotating it slightly, catching the leaping firelight like a spider catching flies in a web. I did that for a while, hypnotized by the wonderous work.

I looked at Mother, who wore an amused expression. “How do I make something like this?” I asked in my too-high little boy voice.

v   

We lived in a fine home in Tourenne, a surburbe of Paris. Our relative proximity to the city and Mother’s profession meant we frequently encountered high-society of all kinds: artists, poets, even the odd lord and lady. We received a fair share of invitations to viewings of collections and art exhibitions. It was here that the interest raised by the peacock tapestry slowly grew into an all-encompassing obsession. I became enamored with the works of Michelangelo, of Rembrandt and Durer. And it wasn’t just the old Renaissance masters that entranced me. There was the ukiyo-e of Japan and the bold and elegant brushstrokes and striking color which depicted ladies in repose or gods in combat. I think it was visiting a lord’s massive collection of Japanese art that I turned to my mother and asked her if I could become an artist. She said yes, and the rest as the saying went was history.

When I was thirteen, I began an apprenticeship with a local painter named Duchanne. He was an ornery old man who drank frequently, but his ability to take a golden cup and capture the exact way the sun would play off its gilded lid was unparalleled. He told me that it was a technique that was only afforded to a specific few and even claimed he could take it right out of the canvas at one point in his life. I think it was the wine talking, but I accepted his strangeness for the time being. “It’s not about capturing reality,” He once told me during a daily study. “It’s about creating an impression of reality. We are using physical materials to put what is seen to canvas, to remind people of reality. They’d call us wizards if they knew our secrets.”

When not with my teacher, I spent much of my time alone in my room in furious study. I had no other friends or engagements so I could devote myself wholesale to my studies. Connie and August were the ones with friends. At least I had my art. By the time I was fifteen, my room was littered with discarded notebooks, painted canvases and pages of studies studded to the wall. The air smelled of oil and ink, so I often left my window open to get the foul air out. The mess didn’t bother me for as long as I kept to my studies and honed my skill with Duchanne, I reminded myself, I would become as great as him and create works of true beauty.

It was around this time that other changes were occurring in the Dufresne household. One afternoon, I was in the drawing room painting a small still life of dinnerware and fruit. I had finally perfected the underdrawing and the general shape of the shadows and had just begun laying in the basic colors when Connie strode in. His head hung heavy from his broad shoulders and his permanently stubbled beard seemed more unkempt than usual. He rubbed his face and collapsed into a chair, head leaning on his fist like The Thinker.

As far as my art is concerned, I believe myself to be a man of incredible focus. When I am in the correct state of mind, all other stimuli blend into one minor sensation, and I can commit my entire attention to whatever I am presently working on. But there was another sensation that refused to leave me: a guilty conscience. My brother had been in this mood for nearly three days. I’d noticed it when he was home in the evening. He was normally so lively and jovial. Recently he’d been going on and on about Camille Brennent, the daughter of a lord who lived down the street. She was a small, stocky blonde girl with a stalwart spirit. Connie may have been the physically strong of the two, but Camille matched him in attitude. Any request from her, however frivolous, would be fulfilled by Connie in an instant. They’d known each other since childhood, but in the past few months Connie had put in much effort to court her. He’d mentioned several times how he wished to marry her. But for the past few days, he’d avoided speaking about her or changed the subject whenever conversation turned to their relationship.

“Good afternoon, Connie.” I said brightly without taking my eyes off the painting. Connie said nothing, instead continuing to brood. I first took this a sign to not engage. But soon enough my concern for my brother that prompted me to set down my paintbrush and turn to him. “Something’s troubling you. Is it severe?” I asked.

“I don’t think you’d understand,” He muttered under his breath.

“I promise I won’t tell anyone if it’s serious,” I said, moving closer. “My teacher’s not one for gossip anyway.”

            Connie shifted, visibly uncomfortable. He rubbed his face and sighed heavily. “It’s Camille,” He said sadly. “Something’s gone terribly wrong.” His rough hands cupped his face.

            “What? What’s happened? Is she alright?”

            “She’s…she’s with child, Marius,” he said into his hands, muffled voice wavering. “She gave me the news last week.” Connie’s entire frame seemed to shrink as he receded into himself. “I don’t know what to do. I don’t know what to do,” He repeated, the words growing quieter and quieter with each cycle.

            Remember, I was fifteen at the time, barely two years into an apprenticeship as a painter. There was little in my life I had to be concerned about. And I certainly wasn’t prepared to be thinking of parenthood in any capacity. I didn’t know what to say to comfort Connie other than what he would say to me in such times. “Do you love her?” I asked in a small voice.

            “Of course I love her!” He snapped, face emerging from his hands. His palms were damp, his eyes wet with tears. He seemed bigger, an angered bear fit to strike. I recoiled sharply. Realizing his mistake, he shrunk back. “I would never think of abandoning her.”

            I placed my hand on his shoulder. “I know you wouldn’t.” His hand touched mine. “This all sounds terribly difficult. But surely Mother would find a way to help? She wouldn’t throw you and Camille to the street so easily.”

            “It’s not that. I don’t know what to do with myself otherwise. I want to provide for her in some way even if we could afford to live here forever. August has Mother’s business sense. Even you have your art. What do I have? Nothing!” He threw up his hands in defeat. “I’m a lay-about with nothing to his name. I can’t leave Camille alone with a child, our child. I could never live with myself.”

            I was out of my depth here. My limited life experience afforded me no favors. But if Mother had drilled anything into our three thick heads, it was that no problem was ever solved by simply sitting around and stewing in it. “We should discuss it with Mother.”

Connie’s eyes went wide with terror. “No! We can’t! I can’t tell her! I can’t risk the humiliation!”

“And risk things boiling over? At least you’ll know what she thinks about it. And why would we think any less of you for wanting to care for Camille?” I said with a smile.

“I suppose you’re right,” Connie said, expression softening. “It couldn’t hurt. All I have is my dignity to lose if that.”

“You won’t lose anything. I’m sure of it.”

That night over dinner as we all quietly ate, I looked to Connie, who gave me a nervous smile. He cleared his throat, prompting August and Mother’s attention toward him. He explained the entire situation to them. As he spoke, Mother’s expression changed from surprise to graveness to calm acceptance. August remained stoic, hands clasped together as he listened. After a moment of silence, Mother finally said, “Does she want the child?”

Connie nodded.

“Do you?”

Connie’s eyes darted to the floor. He remained this way, lost in thought. Then he looked up the table again. Tears held in his eyes. “I do.”

“Then you will marry her. And she will live with us for the time being until you feel ready to strike out on your own. Likewise, you will find work to support this new family. I will help you if you need it, but I expect you to keep to your word if you truly desire this. That is, wishing to start this family of your own,” Mother said, her tone authoritative.

Connie exhaled hard, relief washing over him. “Thank you, Mother. Thank you so much.” He wiped away tears of joy. “I was so afraid you’d think less of me.”

“Why would I think less of you, Constantine?” She said with a smile. “A lesser man would’ve said nothing.”

            I smiled at my brother’s joy. Mother looked on in approval, and August wore his normal slight smile. It was comforting that a man of Connie’s stature could shed tears among his family and not be ashamed of himself. Mother had always told us this that emotions were to coexist with one another rather than dominate each other. She acknowledged that we were outliers in how young boys were taught to act yet that didn’t deter her.

            When the wedding happened and Camille came to live with us, it was as we’d gained a new member of the family. As her pregnancy progressed, we insisted that Camille sit still and let the servants take care of the housework. The baby wasn’t even born and already she was trying to fix things up. “Sit down!” We’d tell her. “You’re working for two now, remember?”

            “I’ll sit when I’ve got no legs,” Was one of my favorite replies of hers.

            As for the baby, little Caesar came into the world while I was at a lesson. Imagine my surprise when I came home to see Camille holding a little creature wrapped in blankets. I had become an uncle and I wasn’t even looking.

            That was near the end of my 15^th year. In between Connie training to become a carpenter and eventually moving out with his new family, the next few years progressed peaceful and uneventful. I grew ever older, I went to my lessons with Duchanne, and like the seasons blooming my art grew to greater and greater heights. I discovered a love for portraiture, which became my focus. Duchanne assured me that at my current rate, I would be one of the greatest portrait painters he’d ever mentored.

            “But I’m the only painter you’ve ever mentored,” I reminded him.
            “You’ll still be one of the greatest,” He assured me.

            I was skeptical considering his habits. But I believed him.

            A shame then that he passed away soon after I turned eighteen. How I received the news was just as sudden: The morning was drafty and chilly. A gray overcast sky hung outside my window. When I woke at my usual hour, I paid it no mind. Like every morning of my lessons, I prepared my supplies for the carriage ride to his house. I went downstairs when I saw Mother at the dining room table, her face solemn.

            “Is something wrong, Mother?” I asked, setting down my supplies.

            “Duchanne�"Duchanne is dead, Marius,” Mother said, rubbing her temple. She appeared weighted, heavy in even the slightest movement. “One of his maids found him dead this morning.” She turned to look at me. Her features were cast gray in the morning light.

            I couldn’t speak. I didn’t know what to say. What could I say? In all my years at that point, I had been fortunate to not lose anyone close to me. I had no close friends, and our grandparents had all died years before my brothers and I had been born. Duchanne was my teacher. He’d been a major fixture in my life, and while I wasn’t looking, he was gone. I had no words to describe the absence of feeling that entered me. All I could say was, “Oh,” in a flat voice.

            Mother stared at me, puzzled. “Are you alright?” She asked.

            I blinked several times. “I’m fine,” I lied. “Excuse me.” I stood up and went upstairs, shutting the door to my room.

            For the rest of the day, I rarely spoke and only left my room for dinner. Mother asked me how I was feeling, and I told her again that I was fine. Truthfully, I didn’t know how to put to words what I was feeling. It felt as if a spike was being driven into my chest, and the cruel perpetrator was twisting it deeper inside.

            I didn’t cry for the loss of my teacher. I didn’t understand why. I couldn’t make sense of it. There was only the pain in my heart, this pain that wouldn’t stop.

Reviews

[Miss Sensuality]

This flowed well. There were a couple of minor things that I noticed. Mother and father were spelt with capital letters, as if they were names. I don't know if this was intentional? It also says in the exposition that Connie was 16, although when the story actually starts he is only 15.

Overall, I enjoyed it. I've bookmarked this first chapter, and intend to read on when I have the time.

[SweetNutmeg]

This is an interesting start. I feel invested in the characters, and have a feel for their separate personalities. I noticed a stray comma missing, but otherwise no technical problems. You've got me hooked.

If you'd like to return the review, I'm working on "The Past Follows." I admire your writing and I would welcome your thoughts on my story.