@francisodeguzman / 𝒄𝒍𝒐𝒔𝒆𝒅 𝒔𝒕𝒂𝒓𝒕𝒆𝒓. the duchess' chamber at chelsea house.
The Duchess’ hair gleams a raven-black in the night, inlaid with milky streaks of moonlight pouring in from the windows, as her ladies brush, oil, and plait her silken mane time and time over: an onyx rope tapering the length of her loosely-flowing habito, so thick and creamy as to trammel the embroidery scissors her women attempt to cut it with. But for all Maria’s extravagant tastes and rich apparel, it was this, her linen shift, gifted to her for the occasion of her nuptials many decades past, that she loved best; it was now too short, skimming just above the nub of her ankle, sewn together in patches of fresh, clean cream and careworn tawn; yet in each stitch a kiss of tender care, twined with her own blood and sweat. Given both its increasing immodesty and pricelessness to the Duchess, it was, of course, her most intimate of garments, one only her preciosa daughters and beloved women laid witness to…
And yet…
‘Francisco.’
In the reflection of her boudoir (the mirror cracked and yellowed like rotten English teeth, dissolving into great sculptures of crystalised marchpane) she spies him looming in the doorway, his dark eyes sweeping across the room as a suave smirk curls the corners of his lips. Half of his face illuminated with candlelight, and the other masked in the darkness of the empty corridor, Francisco de Guzman resembled a phantom, delivering Maria unto a fate eternal. The Duchess rose unhurriedly, her knees suffused with honey, cradling a gold-handled brush in her fist and pointing it in the direction of her brother-in-law’s face like a gilded pistol. Her heart beat as lustily as the drums of a galliard, as thunderously as the marching of an encroaching army, a thousand mighty Spaniards strong, proceeding across the wizened steppes of Spain, for she knew it was him, Francisco, come to liberate her.
‘Come, Cico. I will have all of you or I will have none.’
She intoned the poetic devices of poets, of artists, those of Francisco’s ilk that disdained Maria’s cunning and calculation. And as he padded across the room, in her heart she felt a flooding of molten iron; for it was not Francisco’s resemblance to her late husband, his brother, that moved her so, but the unbridled affection for him that beat in her chest like wild stallions. His scrutinizing gaze made her feel young again; as young as she’d been when she’d first donned this linen shift, delivered until the late Diego as a bride. ‘My good women, some wine for Master Francisco?’