<<It’s funny how characters form in your head - a subconscious reaction to a voice you wish you had at one point or another>>
Governor Lefevre had won. Again.
“And that, my dear,” he sang, tabling his winning hand with a smug smirk, “is why one should never bet against me in whist.”
Beatrice scowled, dropping her cards into the pile. His victory just gained her a week’s worth of paperwork. “You cheated!”
“Of course I cheated! It’s the only way to be certain of the outcome. A lesson worth remembering.” He gave her a wine-stained grin and a little wave, “Now, play me again. I do enjoy these little… moments together.”
They played another round in companionable silence; but midway through, his half-drunken eyes narrowed when he caught her girlishly eyeing the footman that had come in to pour them fresh glasses. A subtle motion on her behalf that had piqued his interest. “Tell me, ma chère… have you ever - how shall we say - known a man? Perhaps that little Company enforcer?”
“What a thing to ask,” she said, attempting indignation, though the warmth rising in her cheeks betrayed her. “I do not see how it concerns you.”
He leaned forward, elbows on the table. “Oh, don’t be coy. Are you a-“ he twisted his hand as if expecting her to understand without him having to say the word. When she didn’t speak, her silence answering for her, his mouth fell open in delighted horror. “Mon Dieu. You are.”
“I am what?”
“A virgin,” he breathed, a mischievous glint showing in his eyes just as her face began to flush a bright red. “How delightfully charming! It is like keeping a porcelain tea set in a hurricane!”
The young woman stared mortified at her cards, hoping they would swallow her whole. “I do not see why you would find that so amusing. It is only proper, as I am not married.”
He waved her objection aside with a snort. “Oh, my sweet, naive summer fawn. No one actually waits. That is but a fairytale whispered by men and priests to keep women in line. Tell me… why do you suppose a newly married couple’s first child is always born early?”
“That is not-“
He cut her off. “Even so, what do you think confession is for, hm?”
“I am not Catholic,” she waspishly reminded him, frowning. She placed down a card to play in hopes it would distract the Frenchman from any further conversation.
“And speaking of confession…” he ignored her, glancing back at the footman that was now standing at his post near the door, “It would be rather sinful of me not to help my dear ward when in need of… guidance. So allow me, my dear, to prepare you for the marketplace.”
“I-“
He once again cut her off.
“You must understand that there are three kinds of men in this world.” He leaned back, crossing ankle over knee. “First,” he began, holding up a long pointer-finger, “are the fools. They are men you will find to be rough-handed, loud, and entirely uninterested in your comfort. Soldiers, slavers, men with small-“ he gave a suggestive gesture and waggled his brow.
She, in return, uncomfortably squirmed.
“You avoid them by keeping away from taverns and docks at night. Unless, of course, you know what you are doing. Then they can be quite amusing.” A wink followed that.
A second finger. “Next, there are the knights.” He nodded his head toward the footman she had been eyeing as if to make an example. “They will kiss your hand and write you the most dreadful little sonnets and, tragically, there will come a day when you believe every word of them. You will think yourself the moon itself. You will think he is the one, but-“
He stopped his speech to take a long sip of wine, and Beatrice sighed her annoyance “-But I am to assume he is not truly a man in shining armor?”
“They always find a new moon,” he sighed over the rim of his cup. “Like a ridiculously named pirate ship. And then - pouf - you are left alone and forgotten. Though,” he added, almost absently, “they can be quite diverting for a while.”
The third finger finally rose once he finished his drink. “And lastly, and most dangerously, are the kings. Les rois.”
Wealthy. Ambitious. Dangerous. It all came ringing back despite her efforts to suppress.
Lefevre continued.
“These men move through this world as though it is a chessboard, and you, my sweet, are simply one ivory piece among many. Yes, they will burn down the kingdoms for you, and have serpents slayed in your name, but should you refuse to move as they wish-” he flicked a card onto the table “-you will find yourself removed from their game entirely.”
“…None of those sound appealing,” she bluntly stated after a moment of verbal digestion; whatever interest she may have had in the footman immediately dropping.
Lefevre threw back his head with a bark of laughter that sent the curls of his wig bouncing. “Welcome, ma chère, to the world of men!”
The blonde bit her lip and shifted in her seat. The world of men. The words echoed in her head like a coin lost in an empty jar, and she decidedly kept her gaze focused on her cards rather than the man across from her. “And how… am I supposed to navigate this… world?”
Lefevre smiled like a cat in a sunbeam, and he ran a tongue over his reddened lips. “Be the dealer. Set the rules, deal the cards…” He then tapped the deck with a stern finger, “…and remember, Beatrice, that the house always wins.”
