Marguerite

  It was a golden day in summer when she first saw Marguerite.
    Her brother's foreign bride -- a young woman from France, pale and delicate like a lily. She was about three years older than Victoria, but looked younger. She arrived in Suffolk that afternoon, slightly sweaty in her black cotton dress.
    Victoria's brother, Paris, opened the door, greeting Mademoiselle du Val politely. She regarded him with her forget-me-not eyes, distantly, as if she really was a specter and not a living woman.
    After introductions were made, Victoria went about making tea, while Paris and Marguerite sat stiffly on the sofa, chatting about meaningless things. Pausing with the sugar in her hands, Victoria closed her eyes and listened to the girl's voice. Marguerite's voice was soft and sounded like thrushes singing. Her words were carefully phrased, and while her English was fine there was a French accent in the cadences of her voice.
    "--Victoria, did you know Marguerite likes poetry, too? She's brought along a book of Baudelaire's poems." Her brother's ineffectual, congested voice broke her reverie.
    "Baudelaire? I've read it...his poems are rather unique."
    "Yes, they were banned in France," her brother's wife chimed in.
    Victoria gave Paris and Marguerite their tea. She sat on the edge of a chair, looking at the new girl from over her tea. Her eyes were large, a wistful blue...she wasn't beautiful, really, but she had a certain...something...no other girl Victoria had ever met had. With Victoria puzzling over this, the three quietly drank their tea.
    Later that evening, Victoria was writing poetry: a sonnet scrawled onto the thin paper...'She is fair and sweet like a wintry dream/ Small hands cradling her warm cup of tea'...She was so caught up in this that she was quite startled when a soft voice questioned --
    "You wrote this, mademoiselle?" Marguerite was resting her fingertips on a stack of Victoria's papers.
    "Yes, I did."
    "I like it very much. Did you know that the Symbolists, in my country, said the vowels have colors? 'A noir, E blanc, I rouge, U vert, O bleu'...," said Marguerite, a smile playing about the corners of her lips. Victoria was delighted.
    "I love Rimbaud!" Victoria exclaimed, laughing. Marguerite joined her in laughter. She thought Marguerite looked radiant when laughing, her mauve lips stretched back to reveal pearls of teeth. It was as if she had met someone akin to Beatrice Portinari -- a lady who, through her own purity and blessed beauty, could lead other's hearts to goodness...yet the primrose path was never Victoria's, and never would be.
    Summer passed in a rosy sort of happiness. Melancholy was so deeply woven into the two maidens' natures that this flowering happiness seemed rather foreign. Many days passed like this one, when Marguerite and Victoria simply sat by the riverside, in the shade of the willow trees, sharing each-other's loneliness. Victoria tucked a lily in Marguerite's hair...
    It was in autumn when things took a turn for the worse.
    Marguerite awoke with a feeling of warm-hearted joy. She'd never been a happy person -- it wasn't in her nature, as I've said before -- but this quaint life away from the busy streets of Paris made her happy, even if her husband was a bit bland. Her sister-in-law was a firey wit, though, and they got along smashingly in their quiet way. She bid adieu to Paris, for she was going to the dressmaker's.
    She had a bit of trouble opening the heavy wooden door to the shoppe, being rather slight in frame. She got it open and went in, greeting the clerk there, Maria Constance. She was from the city, London, and her dialect was awful, in Marguerite's opinion. Nevertheless, they had a cordial sort of acquaintance.
    "Just a second, Mrs. 'ughes. I need ter check the storeroom." Constance darted into the cavernous back rooms of the store. Just then, Constance's beau burst in, breathless.
    "Marguerite?"
    "Yes?"
    "I...I wanted to ask you something, Marguerite. Something dreadfully important. " He lowered his voice. "I've no longer any interest in Constance. I beg you, leave that sniveling fool you call your husband and we'll go to London -- it'll be lovely!"
    What?
    "...No, I'm afraid that won't do, Mr. Cunningham." Marguerite turned frosty.
    Just then, Constance came back in, the mauve dress Marguerite had bought in her arms and an innocent smile on her face. Cunningham was silent, then heatedly declared that if he couldn't be with Marguerite, then he would not be with anyone. He stormed out. The two young women looked at each other. Mon Dieu, cela est gênant..
    What Cunningham had said finally took effect on Constance. She stuttered for a moment, tears welling up in her eyes. She blamed everything on Marguerite.
    "I...you...you'll be sorry for this, Mrs. 'ughes. Mark me words, you'll be sorry!" Marguerite murmured for her to keep the dress and left the shoppe. She knew that Constance would make her sorry in some way. Constance was a sweet girl but had a vindictive side when crossed. Didn't the English say that 'Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned'?
    She didn't speak of it for a few weeks, and all passed peacefully. It was nearing the end of autumn, one afternoon, when she felt the full of effects of Maria Constance's venom.
    Marguerite arranged herself demurely in front of the pianoforte, and Victoria sat beside her. The two were really an odd pair: Marguerite, waifish and pale like a lily, and Victoria dark and a bit more substantial than her friend. Marguerite's soft white hands darted across the keys, and the most sublime melody slowly issued forth. Her fair lashes were downcast as she wordlessly played Bach's minuet in G minor. It was so simple, so sweet, a touch of sadness in the falling of the notes...
    The door creaked open. Victoria turned around, and Marguerite stopped playing the pianoforte, resting her thin hands on the keys, still. She did not turn around.
    It was Paris, his face slightly...purple. It was odd, seeing her brother's face purple. Victoria had thought people's faces only turned purple in books. He exhaled, trying to calm himself.
    "What's wrong, Paris? You look ill." That was not true. Paris did not look ill -- rather, he looked positively bursting with suppressed emotion.
    "Victoria, this has nothing to do with you. I'd like a word with Marguerite privately, if you please." His voice wavered.
    She got up and left the room, but lingered outside the door, listening despite herself. She could hear him speaking to Marguerite.
    "Marguerite. I have just heard that...that you've been....having an affair with a man in this town. Is that true?" Heartache and anger tinged his voice with crimson. Despite Marguerite's detachment from him, Paris had loved her, really loved her. Victoria's mind raced. Marguerite? An affair? But Marguerite was so sweet and pure and...
    "What?" Marguerite sounded startled.
    "Y-you would do that? Marguerite!" Paris' voice broke in a sob. Victoria clasped her hands together near her bosom in an uncomfortable silence, waiting to hear something. She couldn't make sense of this. Something just didn't fit...it wasn't like Marguerite at all.
    Marguerite came out, her pale hair streaming behind her as she dashed out the door. Looking up, Victoria darted outside after her, calling her name. She was faster than her and caught up to her near the outskirts of the town, upon the riverbed.
    Marguerite was crying. "I don't know what this is. I never...oh!"
    Victoria looked at her questioningly.
    She frowned. "Constance -- do you know her? A red-haired girl, works at the dressmaker's...her beau took a liking to me and left her in the hopes that I would leave your brother for him. I refused, of course, and Constance...she said she'd get her revenge. I think she's spread false word that I..."
    Victoria's dusky skin flushed with sudden anger. "That hussy! She lied about you?"
    Marguerite was silent, her eyes fixed on the river. After a time, she spoke.
    "Knowing her, Constance likely told as many people as she could." Marguerite stood very still and pensive, now fingering a wooden rosary about her throat. The two women stood in silence for a long time, their happiness fading with every passing minute.  What an ephemeral thing true bliss is, blossoming and wilting like a lily, all too soon gone and done...
    Ever since the scandal that Constance started had happened, Paris refused to speak to Marguerite and most of the town looked down upon her as a woman completely devoid of morals, an adulteress, a wanton. How many tearful nights had Victoria wished for Constance to suffer now as her dear Marguerite suffered -- but life is rarely fair.
    Victoria leaned on the door-frame and looked upon Marguerite fondly. She was sitting with her sewing, vague blue eyes watching a linnet bird on the window-sill. Paris was somewhere, reading, she presumed. Bookishness ran in the family. She drifted over to Marguerite and rested a hand on her shoulder.
    "Do you feel like going by the river?"
    "It's cold outside...alright." Marguerite put down her sewing. They made their way through the bit of oak forest to the riverside. The water was cold and clear, large water-lilies floating on the green-blue surface. On the green tangle of grass that was the riverbed, numerous flowers blossomed and rested on the green, many of them early. Daisies and fennel, lilies and rosemary...Marguerite sat on the grass, her skirts about her, and Victoria sat down beside her.
    "They're treating you awfully, Marguerite. Awfully." Victoria murmured, the winter wind blowing back her hair like a sparrow's wing.
    "...I don't like it here." Marguerite paused. "I would rather I had met you in Paris. Things were so different in Paris. Imagine, what it would have been like if we had instead met, say, in the Bohemian Quarter...!"
    "The Bohemian Quarter?"
    "Yes, it was charming to visit there. But I'll never get to go back, will I. And it's just a life of this...this life of horrid calumnies, and we'll never go to the Bohemian Quarter together, Victoria!" Marguerite began picking flowers. "Do you understand what I mean?"
    Victoria closed her eyes and nodded.
    Marguerite tucked daisies behind her ears, the little golden-eyed flowers adorning her pale hair. She picked fennel, and after fingering the little yellow blooms for a moment, scattered them in the river. And then she picked a bit of rosemary, a single sprig of the lavender flower. She pressed it into Victoria's hand. "That's rosemary..."
    "Alright, Ophelia." Victoria laughed despite herself.

      It was a bitterly cold February morning, and Victoria Hughes awoke with a distinct feeling that something was amiss.She wandered about the house, putting on the gramophone. The crackling record of Puccini filled the room, and she began brushing her dark hair before a mirror.
    Un bel dì, vedremo levarsi un fil di fumo...
    It was a false love that the woman singing was mourning for, Victoria reflected. The singer knew nothing of Butterfly's heartache and hope that things would get better, 'one fine day'...
    Victoria felt a strange urge to go to the river. Quietly, she closed the door behind her and locked it, dropping the key in her dress's pocket. She drifted like a ghost through the oak-and-lily forest, the soft light of dawn illumining her solitary path. No human feet save hers tread there. She was an eerie sight: she had gotten rather pale from staying indoors lately, and her dark hair was falling out of its braid. She looked near-emaciated in a white dress.
    She reached the river. It was quiet there, the croaking of the bullfrogs the only sound in the early morning stillness. She stayed there for a time...and then, she saw it. What was that? An alabaster-pale girl floating amidst the rushes, her blonde hair floating around her...Marguerite.
    Victoria stood there, staring in incomprehension. She suddenly choked on a sob, and bitter tears began pouring down her olive cheeks.
    "Marguerite! Marguerite!"
    Marguerite was soon buried beneath the riverbed, a wooden cross marking the spot. Victoria eventually withdrew from the world, staying in her small room for the remainder of her years, . She only ever left the house every fifth of February. Even twenty years later, on that cold winter day, a wan woman could be seen, standing in the soft morning light at a grave near the river. Faithfully, she always left a bouquet of white lilies. The feeling of saudade, or the yearning for a lost loved one, is sad yet sweet. And for Victoria Hughes, there was nothing more bitter-sweet than the memory of a maiden, Marguerite.

THE END