Chapter Text
Clara stood, lit by the early morning light in the lobby of her new home, hands resting gently on her hips, surveying the precariously placed pile of trunks and cases which needed to be unpacked and arranged in order to create some semblance of the image that she held in her minds eye of this, her place of new beginning.
As she gazed around her, a smile rose up from within, making its way first to her eyes, and then to her lips. ‘This is going to be good,’ she thinks, ‘this is going to be so good.’
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Clara Emée DuBois stood a little over 5 feet high in her stocking clad feet, although when she piled the tumbling copper curls that graced her head up into its usual style, with those defiantly curling tendrils that constantly fought for escape and framed her face, she mused that she could appear to be a couple of inches taller. At least.
Although, her height bore little matter to the power of the presence that she exuded whenever she walked in to a room. With eyes that were flecked with gold, but seemed to shift in shades of blue to green, depending on her particular temperament in each moment, a nose that was just the right side of seeming button-like, and a particular set to her jaw which suggested that, should you try to best her, you would lose, she embodied a sense of purpose and poise that radiated outward to all who stood near.
The journey to her new residence, Number 25 Rue du Vieux-Colombier, was one beset with the kind of wrestlings that would have seen a lesser woman relent and slip in to her assigned place within proper society. The youngest child of a wealthy silver merchant who by warrant of marriage had found himself a member of the lesser nobility, Clara had led a relatively quiet and privileged life in Orléans, taking to her education with a sharp mind and wit which, from a young age, had excelled that of her teachers - and thus provided both her parents and those charged with the building of her knowledge with an ever growing frustration. Clara reasoned that there were not enough books in all of the world to satisfy her curiosity for knowledge, and voraciously read every tome that she could lay her delicate hands on, from poetry to social commentary and every form of literature that came hot from the printing presses of Paris.
Her father surmised that, from the age of 17 upwards, her refusal to be wed to any of the ‘addled minded dolts’, as she called them, who were paraded in front of her was as a result of her being ‘ruined’ by knowledge. And, whilst he settled himself to a certain degree of resignation that his youngest might be found to be ‘too much to handle’ by any potential suitor from her social ranking, he still desired for her to be matched, and so contacted his elder brother Pierre who lived as a bachelor in Paris and was highly regarded as one of the finest watch makers in the city, as well as doting on his fiery and unconventional niece.
Pierre, however, having lived an outrageously full existence as a delighted bachelor, was having none of his brothers whining, and told him firmly to stow away his own desires for the outworking of Clara’s matrimonial life – that she would be taken care of, would want for nothing, and therefore should not be subjected to a marriage of convenience to merely appease his own sense of propriety.
The degree to which Pierre doted on Clara only became apparent some 7 years later, upon his quiet and gentle death, when it transpired that, in his will, he had left his 3 bedroomed town house in the Rue du Vieux-Colombier, Paris, and the not unconsiderable wealth amassed from the sale of his business, to none other than one Mademoiselle Clara Emée DuBois.
It took approximately 3 months of endless conversation, negotiation, and a quite frankly astounding battle of wills, to reach some agreement on an acceptable arrangement by which Clara would be allowed to move to Paris. As a single woman of 24, her parents feared that it would be the final nail in the coffin of her reputation, leaving her destined for perpetual spinsterhood. But Clara was relentless in her pursuit of freedom from the pedestrian life offered to her by Orléans, and an agreement was reached which would see her travel to the city to begin a new life accompanied by her only concession to her parents – one of her favourite servants, the housekeeper Nancy.
Clara and Nancy had quietly agreed the running of the new Parisian house before leaving Orléans – the house would have a minimal staff, in much the same manner as inhabited by her uncle: with Nancy overseeing the house, a scullery maid for kitchen work and a house maid for cleaning. Day labourers would maintain the small courtyard that led directly on the street and undertake any work needed within the property. Clara would truly be the mistress of her own domain.
And so, the adventure began.
///
It took only a few hours of that first morning for the small staff of Number 25 Rue du Vieux-Colombier to unpack the cases and trunks which contained Clara’s belongings – which, due to the already furnished nature of the house, mainly consisted of clothing, a few trinkets, and a vast quantity of books.
Clara was determined that she should get a sense of the neighborhood in which she was to make her new life and so, as the last cases were unpacked, and at the light protest of Nancy, she made her way out on to the street, heading towards the small market place that they had driven through in the earlier breaking hours of the day.
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‘Patrol duty. Again.’ mumbled Aramis. ‘I must have behaved sorely in a past existence to warrant yet another day of Patrol Duty. Where is the excitement, the adventure, the danger?! At least if we had patrol duty at the palace with Porthos and D’artagnan we would get to admire the beauty of the ladies of the court.’
Athos, giving one of his more stellar side-eye glances to his erstwhile companion, simply sighed and flatly stated, ‘My dear Aramis, lest you forget, this is a musketeer’s duty also. The safety and harmony of Paris is in our very well trained and capable hands. Although, if what I heard being banded about the Garrison this morning regarding your escapades last evening after you had left the tavern are true, I think that ‘harmony’ might not be something best suited to being left in the hands of the man seen scrambling from the window of a certain home upon the untimely arrival of the certain husband of a certain lady.’
Aramis looked across at Athos, his sheepish gaze framed perfectly underneath the rim of his hat. ‘Athos, my friend. How many times must I tell you, a Musketeer does not kiss and tell. In fact, last night was interrupted in such an untimely manner that this particular musketeer did not even get to ‘kiss’, let alone do anything else that could be told of. So, now, with your piqued curiosity sated, shall we take another turn around this most dangerous of Parisian Market places?’
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Clara meandered through the stalls, taking in the sights and sounds of the walkways that seemed to encompass all of Parisian life in microcosm - from the well dressed ladies out shopping with their servants trailing behind them, to the handsome musketeers taking turns around the edge of the courtyard, to those on their way to more important places - hurrying with their heads down, oblivious to the thieves and cut-purses which used the pre-occupied nature of their targets as the perfect foil for their crimes, all the way down to the small group of street urchins lazing against one of the colonnades, eying up the wares on the tables.
As she stopped to breathe in the air and take a moment to allow the excitement of this new season of life to catch up with her, she saw one of the young urchins sidle across in front of her to the vegetable stand laden with apples, carrots and all manner of healthy wares. He was trying to look as unsuspicious as possible, and almost seemed to be whistling a tune whilst looking in every direction but that of his intended next meal.
‘At least he’s attempting to steal something healthy,’ Clara mused, turning to watch the scene unfold in front of her. She wished the boy well - he looked to be about only ten years old: tired and cold, and like he’d seen neither water or food that was hot in too long a time for his short years.
As he sauntered past the edge of the stall, he looked as though he might indeed make his mark, but, as his hand darted out from beneath his torn shirt sleeves towards his intended prize, it transpired that the stall holder – a portly and gruff man who by appearances would seem to prefer red wine and rich meats to the vegetables he himself sold – was not so unaware of the whistling young urchin as might have first appeared, and as quickly as the boys hand darted out the stallholders arm did too, and soon found itself full of a squirming, not so happy young boy, who was promptly cuffed around the head with a promise of more from where that came.
It was as she saw the stall-holder reach for his short, but brutal, stranded whip, that Clara was spurred in to action. ‘This is not acceptable’, she thought, ‘not acceptable at all.’
///
Aramis and Athos heard the yells from across the market place and turned just in time to see the young lad being hauled around a table laden with fruit and vegetables by a very irate and red-faced man.
‘So much for a peaceful day,’ said Athos, as the musketeers sped their way through the crowd that gathered around the spectacle created by this street urchin, who appeared to be surprisingly strong for his age.
Aramis yelled in indignation and sped up his pace as he saw the stall holder lift up his whip and strike the boy soundly across the back – an action which tore the lad’s already worn short from his frame, leaving unsightly red weals that oozed with blood in its wake.
He launched through the last of the gathered crowd as the whip was lifted for a second time, but his pace did not allow him to reach the scene before a small figure, head topped with a mass of tumbling red curls, darted across his path and launched itself at the boy, ensuring that the whip did not meet its intended target, but rather her own slight form - which crumbled spectacularly under the might of the studded leather, as the baying crowd were silenced, and the only sound that remained was Clara’s pained gasp as she hit the floor…