Work Text:
December 24th, 1790
The bed was empty when Oscar woke up. She rubbed her eyes and groaned. It was already light outside which meant she had slept in late, for light at this time of year was scarce and lasted for only a few hours a day.
It had been a year and a half since the heroic day at the Bastille. Since Andre was… she shook her head vehemently in a successful attempt at discarding this unpleasant thought. There were better things to do today than relive the painful past.
Besides, it wasn’t so bad now, was it?
With her ingrained militaristic instinct, she cast off the sheets and braced herself for the cold. Yet her body succumbed to shivers despite her resolve. She hugged herself and reached for a wool shawl to wrap around her shoulders. How could she ever get used to this arctic climate? What lunacy had driven people to live in these lands!
And yet, here she was. In Nouvelle-France.
Admittedly, even though France experienced its share of cold winter, Oscar had never truly felt cold. The fires were always lit, her bed was always warmed and everything was meticulously taken care of without her even realizing it.
No, she had never felt truly cold. Except that one time, perhaps… the day just before the Bastille… when Andre was…
No, no, no! she willed the thought out of her head again.
She shuffled towards the small living room where a warm atmosphere welcomed her, giving her a pleasant surprise.
Fire! There was a fire dancing in the fireplace!
A smile crossed her face as a blissful sense of gratitude filled her heart.
To hell with all the comforts of the old world. This, here, was where she belonged. With him. she could need nothing else.
…
The door of the cottage swung open from the inside just as the fell of an axe landed onto a log, splitting it perfectly in half.
“Are you crazy?” yelled a young man as he stepped out.
Oscar lowered the axe and proceeded to wipe the sweat on her forehead with the back of her hand.
She hardly glanced at him when he approached.
“You almost broke my concentration!” she chided him.
“How many times do I have to tell you to put on your gloves, your hat and a SCARF around your neck?” he cried, ignoring her.
She brought another log onto the tree stump, a smug expression on her face. Oscar Francois de Jarjayes commanded the elitist military regime in all of France and then crowned her career by leading her men to the overtake of the Bastille. She was not about to bend against the elements. Not even if icicles extended from her nose.
“This isn’t a matter of pride, you know,” he continued.
She could never catch a break, could she? He always knew exactly what she was thinking.
She looked him up and down with disdain, her eyes fixating on his boots.
“Did you walk across the whole house with your boots on again?” she snapped.
“You’re going to catch a cold,” he softened his tone, skillfully avoiding her question. He could never catch a break. She always knew how to turn things back on him.
“And you’ve soiled the entire house, which I spent hours cleaning yesterday in preparation of today. Do you know how hard it is to scrub off some of these muddy stains?”
He blushed, feeling guilty. She turned away from him, raising the axe once more with both hands to chop the next log. In the meantime, he began unbuttoning his coat – which was made of thick furs.
“I know you think you’re immune from colds, but let’s not tempt fate again, shall we?” he returned.
She scowled at him and for a second, he thought that the axe might miss its target and land on his neck instead.
When the wood cracked open, he breathed a sigh of relief and approached her. He swung his coat around her shoulders, much to her colorful protestations.
“What elegant manners you have… and stop fidgeting!” he scolded her, as he proceeded to tighten the strings at the neck.
There was nothing she could do at that point but let him do as he pleased. A smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. It wasn’t so bad after all, was it? She dropped the axe in her hand and gave in to his tender attentions. Yes, he can take care of her all he wants.
“There,” he finally announced, triumphant. Although deep inside, he knew that his triumph wasn’t really a triumph. She let him win.
They stood so close to each other he could see her mischievous smile and a twinkle in her eyes.
Taking advantage of their close proximity, she pulled him to her by the waist and said in a sultry voice: “Now you will be the one to get cold.”
“You’ll warm me up later, won’t you?” he returned, suggestively.
Oscar giggled and pull him in for a passionate embrace.
She then watched him head back into the house.
“Andre?” she called out to him.
“Hmm?”
“You look good from behind.”
Andre laughed, blushing. He still couldn’t get used to this. To her, to them both. Every day felt like a dream.
“Oh and, thank you for the fire this morning,” she concluded.
…
When she came back inside the house, Andre was already installed in the kitchen, with his large apron and his butcher’s knife.
Life in Nouvelle France was certainly… interesting, to say the least.
They had left France with just enough to get them started in a new life and in an effort to be economical, Oscar opted for a small house for just the two of them. They could do everything themselves, couldn’t they? How hard could it be anyway?
Andre took to hunting and before long, he became a natural at it. Having eyesight in only one eye afforded him an uncommon aptitude for precision and accuracy.
He became fully adapted to this harsh climate, equipped with furs, leathers and hunting equipment that he learned to make from the indigenous people of the lands, whom he befriended, along with others of his kin who had come from France in the early migratory waves.
There was so much to learn about this world. So much to see, so much to experience. Every day was a new adventure.
“So, what did you bring this time?” she questioned him, as she leaned her long silhouette against the doorway.
“A few rabbits, a turkey and a moose,” he attempted to sound casual but she could detect the pride in his voice.
“I hope you didn’t bring the moose in here…”
“I did not. I knew you would make a fuss. Plus, we don’t exactly have much space,” he teased, gesturing to the small kitchen. “It’s at the church. Some of the men are taking care of it and its meat will be distributed amongst the villagers.”
She came up behind him and surrounded him with her arms, laying her head on his back.
“I bet that was your idea, wasn’t it?” she mumbled into his back before depositing a few kisses.
Andre grinned. How could he ever get used to such tenderness from Oscar?
“I’d love to take you in my arms right now but…” he held up his hands, which were covered in blood and carcass tissue.
“Bleurgh!” she grimaced. She squeezed him to her and planted a big kiss on his cheek before she playfully flitted away saying, “You owe me one, Andre Grandier!”
…
Christmas Eve dinner was a small and cozy affair. It was just the two of them, just as it was everyday – except on the rare occasion when they were invited to eat with someone in the village. For tonight, however, they had declined all invitations, for Mr and Madame Grandier already had company. In a manner of speaking.
The pair huddled together by the fire, under a thick blanket. Andre cradled his wife in his arms as they sipped some mulled wine – such a delicacy in this climate.
Bliss.
Pure bliss, Andre thought to himself as he lowered his head to kiss the top of her head. He lingered a moment longer to take in the lovely scent of her hair. Whereas before they left France, her hair smelled of perfumed florals, now it had a scent of pine and freshly cut wood. Even though Grandmere had packed her a few bottles of rose oil perfume, Oscar only used it on special occasions.
So much had changed since they left. There were moments when he couldn’t help but feel that he had taken away so much from her. While having her in his life is all the luxury he could ever want, Andre wondered whether Oscar could truly always be content with this life.
As if hearing his thoughts, he heard her say: “I never thought I’d know so much happiness, Andre.”
Profoundly moved, he held her closer to him.
“I just thought you should know.” She surrounded him with her arms and pulled him in for a deep passionate embrace.
“Mmm,” he mumbled with satisfaction. “I love you,” he whispered, his emerald green eyes staring into the deep ocean of hers.
“I love you too,” she replied.
He held her to him and let his tears flow. Andre Grandier was used to shedding tears for Oscar Francois de Jarjayes. Tears of agony, of sadness, of frustration, of anger. But now he found himself shedding tears of happiness for Oscar Grandier.
…
“Shall we, mon amour?” Andre broke the silence of their blissful embrace.
“Mmm, let’s,” she replied, stretching out of her feline-like position.
Andre reached up to the armchair and pulled down a big stack of envelopes.
“Here, these are yours and these are mine.”
Oscar’s share of envelops was far greater and heavier than that of Andre’s.
In their new life, however, it was Andre who had the upper hand in social contacts. With his amenable character and agreeable countenance, it was easy for Andre to make friends. Moreover, his skills in horse care soon landed him a position in a horse farm, where he quickly became an expert in horse breeding. He thus earned the favor of the farm’s owner – an elderly childless man – who offered him the position of managing the farm with co-ownership.
As for Oscar, she was simply the stableman’s wife. She assisted Andre at the farm whenever possible and spent the rest of her time learning how to forage for herbs, edibles and acquiring basic wilderness survival skills. None of that was cumbersome for her, seeing as how she was used to an active and laborious lifestyle. Contrary to her worries about leading her life as a woman, she fortunately found that being a woman in these parts afforded her more freedom that she had expected. The women here participated in all kinds of tasks that required physical labor. Many of them knew how to hunt, shoot rifles, ride and even assisted their husbands with their trades.
It was Oscar’s true identity that remained controversial. To the upper classmen, who were most Loyalists, Oscar could never reveal to them the key role she had as a military leader in advancing the cause of the revolution and disobeying His Majesty’s orders. However, to those who supported the Revolution, she could never reveal to them that she had spent more than half of her life in the service of Queen Marie-Antoinette. It was hence decided from the beginning between her and Andre that Oscar’s entire military history should be brushed under the rug and kept there forever.
It was not easy to forge a new identity from scratch. From birth, Oscar Francois de Jarjayes was bred for the military, trained and raised as the sole male heir to the Jarjayes name. To erase all of that and start over was not an easy feat. Admittedly, she held some resentment towards her old life and the little control she had over it. But here, she finally had the chance to reinvent herself. To be reborn, to live life on her own terms and by her own decisions.
Therefore, the story the Grandiers presented to people was not entirely untrue: Andre was a valet in a noble household. He had fallen in love with the youngest daughter of his master and she had likewise fallen in love with him. Then, in order to realize their dreams, they eloped together to England and managed to secure passage to Nouvelle-France to start their new life.
People, it seemed, were much more sympathetic to a romantic story of a forbidden love. And so, they accepted the couple and nurtured them. They rooted for them.
…
“Let’s see, I have one from Mere, several from my sisters, one from LouLou, one from Rosalie, from Grandmere, Alain, Bernard, Girodelle, Pere and several from the men in Squad B. You?”
“I have one from Grandmere, from Alain, Rosalie, Bernard and some friends in Squad B.”
“I think I’ll start with Pere’s letter,” Oscar groaned. Letters from her father always bore bad news. He gave her horrific details of what was going on in France, having chosen to stay there and defend the Royalty to the very end. She quickly scanned the letter and shoved it in Andre’s face. “Here, as grim as always.”
Andre took the letter and Oscar watched his brows furrow. He shook his head every once in a while, sadness and indignation clouding his features.
“Well, so much for Christmas cheer,” he finally said, to which Oscar nodded gravely. She was staring absentmindedly into the fire. Andre placed his finger under her chin and turned her face towards him.
Her eyes were already filled with tears.
“Hey, he’s going to be fine,” he cooed to her.
“No, he’s not,” she sobbed. “You know he’s not. It’s only a matter of time before he’s killed.”
“You don’t know that. He can still leave France,” Andre pleaded with her.
Oscar wiped the corner of her eyes and smiled through her tears.
“He would never leave France. He would never abandon the King.”
Andre hugged her to him. The typical Jarjayes stubbornness. There was nothing else he could say to her.
“Come on, let’s open the rest.”
…
Andre watched his wife as she put down one letter after the other. He had to wait for her to finish her letter before she could read his letters for him.
By some miracle, which perhaps can be explained by a cleaner climate and the benefits of natural indigenous medicine, Andre regained eyesight in his right eye. However, the doctor still recommended that he not strain himself unnecessarily. So, it was Oscar who took charge of reading and writing in their household – whether it were letters, books, accounts, or trade-related. Not that Andre minded, anyway. Oscar was always a faster reader and a much better writer.
“What’s the news from your mother and sisters?” he ventured.
“Nothing major,” she reported. “They are doing well in England. Mere complains about the weather, as usual. They are spending Christmas together. She misses Pere and worries about him. It breaks my heart to read it. I only hope she doesn’t commit a folly and go running back to France to be with him,” she chuckled.
“Maybe it’s what she wants. To be with the man she loves,” Andre offered.
“I don’t want anything to happen to my mother, Andre,” Oscar pouted.
“Of course, I’m sorry. I was being insensitive.” He took her hand in his and kissed it.
“But for the record, I would do that for you,” she replied, giving him one of her tender smiles which instantly melted his heart.
He leaned in and took her lips with his. “And I would do the same for you.”
“Good, now stop interrupting!” she giggled and pushed him off.
“Fine, fine,” he chuckled. “What news from your sisters and Loulou?”
“They write about the fashions in England. Nothing that I would care about or ever did, for that matter. Marie-Anne is pregnant, though! But Loulou seems unhappy with it all.”
“Jealousy?”
“I suppose!” Oscar chuckled, remembering her rambunctious bratty niece.
Andre was in the process of saying something when Oscar gripped his arm tightly.
“Oh my God, Andre!” she cried out, placating her other hand on her mouth.
“What is it?” he replied, anxiously. Good news was hard to come by these days and any slight reaction to letters instantly made Andre jittery.
Oscar stood up on her knees. “Look! It’s the letter from Rosalie! She’s expecting a baby!”
Andre let out a sigh of relief, followed by joyful exclamations.
“Oh my God, I can’t believe it! Rosalie is pregnant,” Oscar plopped back down on the cushion, clutching the letter to her heart. A mixture of emotions coursed through her. She was elated. Yet also sad. Sad at not being there to see her friend’s radiant face, to share with her happiness, to hold her hands and congratulate her in person. Sad for not being able to meet the child… for missing out. She rubbed her chest absentmindedly. What was that other feeling, though? There in the middle of the ribcage. It wasn’t a pretty feeling, no. Oscar felt ashamed for even feeling it.
Jealousy.
She and Andre have been married for almost two years now. They were ardent lovers and tender partners and yet… panic began to overtake her. Why hasn’t anything happened yet? Her hand instinctively landed on her belly. Was she… barren? Was it too late for her? Did all these years as a man succeed in stripping her womanhood away? And then there was Andre… Andre, who had loved her for all of his life, who had chosen her to be his wife and pledged his life to her. What if she couldn’t give him that one thing? He never mentioned children once but she knew in her heart that he had always wanted a family. Did she condemn him to a childless marriage? To an unhappy unfulfilled life?
“… sure that Bernard… over the moon… would be funny to see his expression… must be busy with the newspaper though… wonder what he wrote to say… probably not much given that… Oscar… Oscar?”
Oscar jolted with a start. Andre scrutinized her but before he could say anything, she cleared her throat and picked up Bernard’s letters.
…
Grandmere’s letters came next. Her letters were like a warm hug on a cold day. Always full of love, encouragement, relentless inquiries about their health, kind unsolicited advice, recipes for the kitchen, instructions and tips for certain household tasks and overall motherly affections. Both Oscar and Andre reveled in her letters. They felt as though they were eight years old once more, sneaking around the kitchen to steal the jar of jam that Grandmere had just made and consequently incurring her wrath.
Not that they were immune to her wrath now. At least, Andre never was. Grandmere always scolded him on not being a good enough husband to her “petite Oscar”. She even threatened to write to someone in the village to ensure he was doing his due diligence by Oscar – a threat that sent them both into a fit of laughter.
“Luckily, I no longer have to be subjected to her assaults!” Andre joked.
But when the laughter waned and the tears dried, the bittersweet nostalgia tugged heavily at the couple’s heartstrings. They held each other to ease the passage of such moments.
…
“Hm, Alain bought a farm!” announced Oscar.
“What!” cried Andre, snatching the letter from her. “You’re joking! I never thought he would leave the army!”
True enough, it was right there in his characteristic messy handwriting. Alain de Soissons had bought a farm and decided to retreat to the country for a while.
“Do you think he finally found someone?” Andre wondered out loud.
“Well, if he had, he certainly wouldn’t tell me,” Oscar grumbled, as she reached for Alain’s letter to Andre.
Her eyes barely skimmed the letter when her cheeks turned a deep red and her jaw dropped. She tossed the parchment as if it was burning her hand.
It was then that Andre realized she had read the contents of Alain’s letter to him. He dove to the floor in a panic to retrieve it and tuck it in the inner breast pocket of his chemise.
He couldn’t bring himself to look at his wife, who was still stunned.
“Erm,” he began awkwardly. “Now you know why Alain’s letters are the only ones I never let you read or write on my behalf.”
“Despicable!” Oscar cried, rising in a fury and storming into the kitchen.
“Oscar! Wait!”
…
Andre barely stepped into the kitchen when a dirty wet cloth hit him straight in the face.
“I can’t believe you! How long has this been going on for?” she fumed at him.
To Oscar’s horror, Andre seemed to be at a loss for words. He merely stood there, fidgeting.
“Oh my God!” she carried on. “Don’t tell me since our first night together!”
“What! No, of course not!” he defended himself.
“When, then? Our wedding night?”
“I…”
“Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God!” she exclaimed, the desperation rising in her voice. “And that night in the stables?”
Andre nodded.
“And the night we spent outside in the backyard?”
He nodded again.
She poked his chest painfully with her index finger.
“So, you mean to tell me that Alain de Soissons knows every detail of practically all our intimate encounters?” she hissed at him. He could feel her anger and indignation burn a hole in his chest.
Andre gulped with difficulty.
“Look, Oscar, it’s normal. Alain and I always used to share stories during our times in the barracks and…”
“Share STORIES? “How MANY stories did YOU share exactly, Andre Grandier?” she yelled, squinting her eyes at him.
Andre put his hands up in defence. “None, none, I swear it! I was only listening to his escapades with the ladies and… err, learning.”
She plunged her eyes into his, glaring at him for what seemed like an eternity. Andre could only hold his breath and hope the storm would pass soon.
Alas, the storm only decided to relocate, for Oscar shoved him aside and marched back into the living room.
“I just wanted to make sure to do things right. To please you. To make sure you have a good time. We’re only sharing tips and tricks and…Oscar!” he trailed behind her.
But when he arrived, Andre saw her frozen in place, an envelope in hand. It seemed that they had missed one. She was no longer listening to him. From the way she looked, Andre’s stomach twisted itself into a knot.
Could it be…?
…
“It’s from him,” she announced, cementing Andre’s anxieties. “It’s addressed to us both.”
He stared at her, perplexed.
“Shall I read it?”
Andre nodded.
…
To my dearest friends, Oscar and Andre,
You must think it terrible of me to have waited this long to write to you. As you may well know, the situation in France and the events of the past year have been tumultuous, to say the least. I have dedicated myself fully and faithfully to the service of Her Majesty. Alas, there was only so much that my influence could accomplish in the face of the harsh political climate and some of the strong-willed individuals that surround Her Majesty.
I thus left France with a heavy heart and I have been ripped by homesickness to that country, to the happiest memories of my life and to the friends I left behind, chief among which is Her Majesty.
So, you can only imagine my happiness when, on a recent trip to England, I crossed paths with none other than the Comtesse Louise de Jarjayes at a dinner that I was invited to. We spent the entire night reminiscing of times gone by. Of Versailles. Of elegant dinner parties. Of the opera. Of Her Majesty. And of course, of you, my friends.
My heart ached when I learned that you had gone away. Worse still, when I learned what happened to Andre.
But oh, how can I describe the elation I felt when Madame de Jarjayes informed me that you had gotten married! To that, my friends, I say: Finally! And, more respectfully and ardently: Felicitations!
Oscar, I believe a part of me had always known of Andre’s profound love for you. How could I not, when I was in the same situation as he? When it comes to Andre, I was not a good friend. I should have told you of my suspicions. I should have tried to open your eyes to this wonderful possibility of happiness. Alas, I was too cynical and blinded by own misfortune that I genuinely believed that the fate of true love will always be in destruction.
While that might have been for me, you cannot know how happy I am that it was not the case for you.
My friends, I have but one request of you: to live your lives to the fullest. To always be kind to each other. To forgive each other. To love with all your hearts. To never stop loving each other. To never give up.
You have given me the will to go on at a time when I thought all was lost.
Thank you.
We may never meet again but you will always be in my heart. And I will always be,
Your friend now and forever,
H.A. Fersen
…
The snow crunched loudly under their footsteps. The couple walked leisurely, arm in arm. Oscar smiled and squeezed Andre’s arm. He returned her gesture by passing his arm around her shoulder and pressing her closely to him. He deposited a tender kiss on the top of her head. A sigh of bliss escaped her. Her husband. He was her husband. Her partner, her friend, her lover, her better half. Could there be anything better than this?
The price to leave France and her life behind was high. None of it was easy. But for Andre, it was all worth it.
She could want nothing more.
Although, maybe that wasn’t entirely true. There was something Oscar Grandier wanted.
She stroked her belly absentmindedly as they walked into the church to observe Midnight Mass.
Tonight, she will pray for a Christmas Miracle.