It had been rather unexpected, but Clarisse du Volde had been invited to a private ball that evening. She hadn't intended on attending, but the note from Lord Henry Wotton had intrigued her. He had promised her an evening full of 'lust, blood, and pure infatuation'. It made her laugh. She had seen many wild evenings in salons in France, not to mention backstage at numerous Opera Houses across Europe. What was one more? "Marguerite, I need you!" She called to her attendant and sent her out for a seamstress. Whilst waiting, Clarisse bathed in rosewater and spent the remainder of the afternoon dressing and getting her hair done. She was incredibly sore from her corset already but it would loosen once she got to dancing and perhaps if anyone caught her eye, a bit of playing the libertine herself. A tight black gown with white lace at the shoulders, her full breasts were pressed up in a most inviting way; a string of pearls wrapped about her neck invited the eyes to her decolletage. Her
14TH MARCH 1802.
The day stood out to Clarisse du Volde without fail, despite the rancor that Vivian du Volde had inspired in her. Mother and daughter were, quite simply, mortal enemies. They had very few things in common and when she had been on her death bed, Clarisse had come to see her. Frederic had convinced her to do so. Upon entering the room, Clarisse was surprised to see Vivian. The once famed beauty was a shadow of her former self, frail and scarred from smallpox. "Maman," she spoke as she entered the room.
"I know I'm dying now. Vivienne the other day, and the fucking runt today," Vivian scowled at Fred and Clarisse dearly wished to toss her mother outside and watch as a runaway carriage ran her over. She hated this. Hated Fred for convincing her. Hated hospitals and hated Vivian. What few good moments the pair had were able to be counted upon one hand. Painting china, learning to dance, playing the piano, playing dress-up. Beyond that, there was nothing. Clarisse