The Hart

“Why inundate inside as well as out with so many roses?” I dared give voice to a query prior to considering how it would be received by Madame Elestren, or Joram.  

Indeed, the forthcoming glare I received in reception served to stifle other outbursts my lips might formulate. 

For his part, Joram looked nearly apologetic. 

“Damask has been a gift to the Hadowen’s for as long as any living generation can recall. Our ability to cultivate blossoms offers security enough to maintain not only Yarrow Hart, but estates and lands as far reaching as the coasts of Europe and into the far east.” Madame Elestren released the explanation as one would a hound on unwelcome visitors. “It burdens me that you do not have knowledge of your family’s rich history and influence. The essence of the Hadowen legacy has touched royals in numerous countries, and over centuries.”

Elestren’s words carried free of the foyer even as the arched ceiling ensnared us in it’s legion sprays and vines.

The core of Yarrow Hart unfurled in a cascade of staircases reaching to the varied floors in spiral of directions, an unerring replication of a rose bush in finely polished mahogany. A great glass-dome umbrellaed the monstrous escalier in astronomic blooms of vibrant red. Struck dumb, the magnificence of the stairs crawled my imaginings to my soul. 

Lost in the artistry I glided past Elestren and Joram to the base of the vertical maze. From stairs to floor I absorbed the magnificence of the mosaic laid at my feet. Amidst countless petals of glass, metal, and tile swept at the edges of the stair to aggregate in methodical chaos to the formation of a vast open rose. 

Uncoiling from it’s center in the language of the Hadowen and the empire of Bohemia spun the words that would come to haunt my dreams in sleep and waking. 

In the Hercynian Forest a graceful Rose grows, a Lion as her guard. A Rose not of Venus but of the blood of Mars; here the Rosebush, here the Forest, acknowledgement. Be not afraid, O Rose! Enter the gardens; Under the Rose now silent, horrific wars made centuries bloody, through battles fought, now is our dawn.

It was Elestren who broke the spell. “If you are so readily lost to daydreams and wandering, I can see we will have much work for you to be presentable to the more dignified branches of the Hadowen family. I lay the blame upon time spent with less than notable kin. It would be a shame if it were due at all to poor breeding.”

I was too set aback to imbibe the insult to its fullness though I whirled to face the madame.

Her attention had however turned. “Master Joram. I trust your new man will be of greater service to you than the last.”

From across the breadth of the rose, Joram’s expression betrayed only a hint of wry amusement. The smile though jovial set a shiver through me with the recognition that details remained to be revealed of this newly met relation. Yet even in this moment that seemed ripe for jest, Joram made continued effort to deny previous rapport made on our shared journey. 

A wall was growing with the introduction of Madame Elestren.

Any further hope at present was met with Joram’s back as he quit my presence in following the aforementioned man, a servant thus garbed in similar adornments to the footman. Without so much as farewell, I was now cast into this strange new world with none save Madame Elestren as my guide. A childish anxiety overtook my better senses as my nails found my palms and I watched the pair of gentlemen ascend one of the multitude flights and disappear in a curve. 

It was not as though I expected to gain close confidant to a cousin so recently met. Yet travel often drew people together in short spells of time. I assuaged my trepidation with rationalizing I would see this kin and other around the house.  

The maze curling from the floor then seemed to murmur how readily friendships and kinships might be instead lost in the tendrils wings of Yarrow Hart. 

“It cannot go on forever.” The words escaped unconvincing from my lips.

“What are you mumbling on about?” Madame Elestren’s voice was a command that incised my thoughts. 

I discerned she did not expect a response, as she carried on. “Is this household to be plagued by more delusional ramblings? Women are often counted mad for such behavior.” 

Her eyes were spades as she awaited my response. 

I failed to withhold the scowl from my face. “Would it concern you if I were? Just a touch.”

“It should not surprise me. You have your mother’s look. It would serve sense that you have her mind as well. My concern stands only in how that madness manifest while in my care.” A sin deeper than remorse clamped Elestren’s lips into a hard line.

“To the contrary I was always told I have the Boughwin face. And the windows to my soul are my mark as a Hadowen.”

We bore into one another with equal chill, yet Madame Elestren turned first. “That you do.”

Relief washed over at this small claim of victory. This was diverted at the sudden frantic clicking of heels. My attention, and Elestren’s dour gaze, turned to the stairs. 

A young woman emerged at the base of the twisting staircase, her breath ragged. Her arrested movement made clear her effort to retain composure as a gulped breath and hasty curtsey were executed. “Madame Elestren. Did I see a carriage pull around?”

“You are not tardy, Camellia. Do not portray yourself so. And yes, the last of the carriages have arrived.” 

I was shamed to admit my gratitude that Madame Elestren had turned her ire from me to target the young woman. 

The flustered Camellia straightened with an obedient nod. 

Madame Elestren waved a hand in my direction. “This is Mistress Magareen Amalia Hadowen of the Northern County Hadowens. Her father is of the Garancian Hadowen line. It appears Mistress Magareen will be in your charge during her stay with us this season. She is to be made comfortable in the rooms designated for a young woman of her rank and lineage. Can you remember where those are arranged?”

The young maid nodded with such immediacy and brevity I scarce had time to witness the motion. 

I failed to expect the maid to remember all Madame Elestren spewed at her concerning my pedigree, nor did I feign to know half the importance. Though I had once deigned to remember family histories, Amalia never forced the study upon me. She only offered so much to say the greater lines of the Hadowen family cared little for what became of my father’s ill bred offspring. 

I remained uncertain what made them give notice now, yet it cast no guilt upon me in my ignorance of them. As my mind wandered to those lessons, Madame Elestren turned a vaguely disgusted sneer upon me again. 

“Camellia is one of our best maids. Though she seldom conducts herself as if she knows this. This makes her modest, but at times tiresome.” It was difficult to ignore the disdain in the contemptuous tone Madame Elestren poured over the maid.

“Am I to assume I am a subject for her to train in the aforementioned acceptable mannerisms of the more elite Hadowen?” My newly discovered boldness gave me pause at the sight of Camellia’s wide eyes and Madame Elestren’s narrow glare.

Elestren sedated her expression. “We will see you at dinners and formal events. To which yes, your manner and appearance will be exemplary.” 

A sidelong shot at Camellia was enough to surreptitiously convey potential consequences if I were deemed less than in Madame Elestren’s expectations. 

“Any other times you will be free to make use of the house and grounds. There is much here to entertain a young woman of a curious mind, and nimble spirit. A Hadowen educated woman would, by your age, be capable of taking full advantage of Yarrow Hart’s offerings.”

This insult did not miss its mark, yet Madame Elestren had become so clear a target my response was ready. “My guardians did not have the financial power this house and its inhabitants afford, but Ama and Kassia did well by all accounts with what was accessible.”

Elestren did not give notion she heard me in the least. “We will see you at dinner, Mistress Magareen.” 

With a simple nod to Camellia this indomitable Madame swished her skirts, to disappear into the gloom of the Eastern wing.