Milady's Chamber
by RC DeWinter
Title
Milady's Chamber
Artist
RC DeWinter
Medium
Painting - Digital Oils-paintography-photopainting
Description
Copyright 2014 RC deWinter ~ All Rights Reserved
The Heiress's Tale
I never asked to be born rich.
I never asked to be born at all.
There - I know that sounds childish, whiny even.
But if I had been born into an ordinary
family my life might have been happier.
The only child of spectacular wealth,
born in an era when that still meant
something beyond what it means today,
I grew up with every privilege.
Beautiful clothes made to measure,
music and French and drawing masters,
ponies and later full-blooded hunters,
I wanted for nothing material.
My parents, extremely social, always busy,
shunted me off to servants much of the time.
I was a doll, taken out of its box to be
shown off before company
but otherwise mostly ignored until I
became a young woman.
My father, a master of benign neglect,
was vague and kind and distant.
My mother, beautiful, vain and self-centered,
seemed interested only in how I reflected on her.
She had no concept of me
as a living, breathing individual.
I grew up knowing only other children like me -
sheltered, privileged and isolated
from the realities of life.
I was sent off to finishing school at the appropriate age
to prepare me for my debut and to learn
the social norms of the world
I was supposed to someday inhabit
as the wife of a wealthy man.
The summer of my eighteenth year
is when I met him.
He was a gardener on the estate,
but like no other man, social peer or servant,
that I'd ever encountered.
Handsome beyond belief but with a mind,
too, thoughtful and well-read;
a true anomaly among the working class.
He was pruning the rosebushes
when I went out to gather some blooms
for my dressing table.
I stupidly turned my ankle as I wandered
down the path and he came to my rescue.
I won't bore you with the details of my infatuation;
I'm sure you can imagine the effect
of attractive forbidden fruit on a headstrong,
somewhat rebellious young woman.
He was a tot of strong brandy
after a lifetime of lemonade,
nothing like the hearty but vacuous young men
I'd been meeting all my life.
I went out of my way to be around him,
inventing excuses to be out of doors
much more often than I would normally have been.
He wasn't ignorant of my interest,
and though I can't say he deliberately wooed me
curiosity and hormones played their part
in drawing us closer and closer.
There came a day when I realized
I was not prepared to live my life without him.
In the meanwhile, my mother
was negotiating the marriage market,
sniffing out eligible young men of our acquaintance
in order to determine the best match for me.
She zeroed in on one Edward Farnsworth,
heir to a huge fortune and one of the
dullest and dreariest of that season's crop.
Personality never entered into my mother's calculations;
it was all about wealth and blood.
One early fall evening just weeks
before my coming out,
my mother entered my bedroom
as I was about to go to bed.
She was unusually animated,
chattering on about nothing
that interested me, and finally got to her point.
I was to be betrothed to young Mr. Farnsworth
two weeks after my debut.
All had been brokered and arranged;
my future, she breathed excitedly, was assured.
For the first time in my life
I raised my voice to one of my parents.
My mother's news was so devastating
I lost all sense of decorum and discretion as well.
"I can't! I won't! I'm in love, and not with
Edward Farnsworth!"
My mother, expert winkler of secrets that she was,
soon got the whole story out of me.
"Tell me you are ruined!" she exclaimed.
"Ah, but I am!" I shouted back.
"I am ruined for any other but the man I love."
"Love!" my mother snorted.
"A trifling, unimportant consideration.
When you are married you can find love
where you please,
but marry Edward Farnsworth you will."
I raged and stormed and swore I never would.
My mother turned a deaf ear
to my importunings and walked to the door.
"You shall not leave this room
until your debut," she announced.
"You shall never see this man again."
She closed the door behind her
and I heard a key turn in the lock.
You can imagine my distress,
my heartache, and my determination
not to be married off to an oaf
whose only recommendations were
potsful of money and suitable bloodlines.
Days passed.
I didn't sleep.
I didn't eat the food brought to me
on trays by servants.
Finally, one afternoon,
both my parents came to see me.
My mother gasped at my haggard appearance;
my father merely looked uncomfortable.
"That man is gone," my mother announced.
"Your father will describe our plans
for the next few weeks until your debut."
As miserable as I was, I felt sorry for him.
He was clearly unprepared for dealing with
such an important yet delicate crisis.
In his slow, careful way he reiterated
all the things my mother had shrieked at me
during my last encounter.
The importance of class, of money,
of our kind of society and how to live
successfully within it.
I sat silent as stone as he lumbered
through his speech.
When he had finished I knew what I was going to do.
I feigned understanding and acceptance
and was once again allowed
the limited freedom I was used to.
But all I could think of was what my life
would be like without him,
instead chained forever to Edward Farnsworth
and a life of passionless mediocrity.
Three nights before my debut,
rather than putting on my nightclothes
I dressed in three layers of heavy clothing
and stole down the back stairs and out the door.
There was a bright moon shining
as I made my way toward the pond
at the back of the furthest garden.
I had quietly, over several weeks,
collected stones, small enough to carry
but in sufficient number to make a heavy weight
when put together, and brought them
to the edge of the pond.
They were waiting there for me.
I picked them up one at a time
and stuffed every pocket,
every fold of clothing with them.
When I was certain I was burdened enough
to sink, I made my laborious way
out into the water until it was up to my chin.
I flung myself forward and sank.
My body, betraying my will,
struggled awhile and then I knew nothing.
I still know nothing.
I do not know where I wander;
only that it is a foggy damp place
from which I speak to you.
I am neither uncomfortable nor frightened,
but I do hope that soon I shall be able
to find a dry spot on which to lie down
and finally sleep.
~ copyright 2014 RC deWinter
A peek inside a Victorian-era lady's chamber, complete with fainting couch and opulent Oriental rug, circa the late 1890s. This room is one of the over 40 in the 14000-plus square foot Miramont Castle, a marvel of mixed architecture that stands, magnificently restored and maintained, in Manitou Springs, Colorado. The castle was named to the National Register of Historic Places on May 3, 1977. You can read more about this intriguing structure here: http://www.miramontcastle.org/
This painting has been FEATURED in
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Appreciating Works from All Mediums
Art from the Past
Premium FAA Artists
The World We See
Waiting Room Art
Thanks to the group hosts for their encouragement and support.
bedroom, furniture, victorian, antiques, historic, decor, furnishings, antique, colorado, americana, miramont, miramont castle, fireplace, room, carpet, opulent, vintage, manitou springs, architecture, interior design, woman's bedroom, landmark, accessories, fashion, dress, clothing, still life, wall art, rc dewinter, dewinter
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August 28th, 2014
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