It is finally time for our Valentine's Fete! The Petite Trianon is lit up...dresses are donned and silk is whispering along the wooded, fairy lit paths! Come join us for a romantic story, some nice giveaways and meet some new people along the way!
1. To win the giveaway prize at the end of this posting, please leave ONE comment on this post only. Winners will be randomly drawn and announce on February 14th. You MUST leave an e-mail or link back so I can contact the winner. This blog party ENDS on February 13th at midnight est. (Technically Valentine's Day itself).
2. Please visit all the other blog parties for great giveaways! You can find them under the blog badge and party name on my right hand side bar!
Now...let the party begin....
Laughter and mirth rang out into the misty, purple twilight. She tiptoed down the hall a long, gilded key clutched in her hand. One door, two doors…ah yes, this was it, the Queen’s wardrobe room. She slipped the key into the lock and turned. Success! The door swung open and barely visible in the moonlight were the gowns. Marvelous gowns, shimmering in the light filled her eyes. She must be quick, before someone comes. Listening carefully, she selected one of the fabric confections, slipped into it as quickly as she could and took a quick look in the standing mirror. She stealthily moved towards the door, not wanting to risk being found. She must hurry if she was to be on time.
She stole through the secret passage way, mask and wig concealing her from prying servant eyes. The door opened onto a path into the woods. Twinkling light slipped from the windows of the Petit Trianon while light-hearted music floated on the crisp February night air. Chattering and whisperings could be heard faintly as she approached the gate to the back garden, an open note grasped in her silk clad hand. The gate creaked slightly as it swung in towards the entrance to a silent Hamlet Village. She turned and took one last glance at the full moon behind the Petit Trianon before setting her foot on the pebbled path....
The village was darkened. She had to pick her way carefully over the path. There it was! A lantern flashed from one of the nearby buildings. She walked quicker. The building was dark again, but she found it quickly and let herself in, a low, whistled trill indicating her presence. It was answered with a low laugh. Ah, he was here. She ran to his waiting arms, feeling their warmth as they circled her. She handed him the note. “For you, monsieur.”
A look of curiosity covered his features. “What’s this then?” He slipped a gloved finger under the seal. As he read, the color began to drain from his face, creeping its way down his neck. “No, it can’t be.” A small hand covers his, “Cherie?”
Summons to a duel. He was to defend his sister’s honor, as her husband was absent at war. They only had a few moments to treasure this time and he must leave. They could hear the echoes of a minuet. Taking her hand, he led her in the complicated steps. Every moment offered a chance to drink in a little more of the love that possessed them before he had to leave. The music began to fade. “Now Cherie...”
She stole down the path behind him. He must not know she is there. The path opened into a wide area where several snorting horses and men waited, stamping their feet. Clouds of breath steamed around their heads. There was a general hush as HE walked into the circle. Slowly, deliberately, he peeled off one of his lace cuffed gloves and sent it sailing through the air. It landed with a whisper at his enemy’s boot.
Second hands and swords were chosen, readied. Each man paced off, determination and traces of sorrow etched in the face of one; defiance coating the features of the other. A moment of heavy silence hung in the clearing. “On my mark…” The duel commenced. Thrusts were parried, advances and retreats were made. The clang of metal pierced the air and finally, a dull thud, as metal hit bone. HE stood for a few seconds, gasped, and fell, a dark, black pool spreading before him.
She ran, screaming to him. She no longered cared about her borrowed finery. He was no longer breathing. Turning slowly, she picked up his glove. The one token she would keep for the rest of her life. It was an exquisite knit net cuffed in the finest lace. An alarm had been raised. Sounds of discovery loomed in the near distance. She ran, clutching her memento, back through the village, back to the Petit Trianon. In the commotion, she slipped unnoticed to the Queen’s closet. The glove in her hand showed the only trace of the night that had gone before. It would be handed down to her unborn daughter and each succeeding daughter thereafter...a reminder that love, truly given, does not die.