Let Them Eat Cake

Story by Florence Kahuhu

Mrs. Wordsworth’s French residence has always been the topic of conversation back in England. Apparently, the gossip is even greater here in Orléans. See, entry to the residence is a rarity. Be it about the loneliness Mrs. Wordsworth might feel after the passing of her beloved nearly ten years past, or the isolation she keeps herself in, the doors to her chateau are closed every single day of the year, but one. In Spring, she dominates every social space across countries, for she opens her doors once a year, for her annual Spring Tea Party. 

The exclusive event is invite only, and while a small group of attendees, Mrs. Wordsworth is notorious for bringing together people who are like-minded and enjoy the afternoon to their fullest. My friend, Helene, found this Spring to be her turn and sought to bring me as a guest of her own. 

Tonight, the courtyard is littered with carriages and guests in all versions of the latest pink and floral fashion. The mansion spanning several acres over the Loire Valley stands proud before me. Gilded balconies and Doric columns keep silent watch from above, and the grand ivory stairway, wide as a promenade and impossibly perfect, rises before me. The glittering marble rises with regal defiance, as if measuring my worth with each anxious step.

“What do you think it’s like inside?”

“She would have changed the adornments by now. I hear it has never been the same!” Helene giggles, a glint of excitement in her eyes. 

“It will be spectacular no matter what,” Hugo says from a step ahead of us, his own invitation in hand. He looks over his shoulder and winks, “ Just relax and enjoy, chérie.”

“No, no, no, you will not be flirting with my friend Hugo,” Helene steps between us.

“But-” The opening doors cut off Hugo from whatever witty remark he was to make. The glittering uniform of two guards reflects in the soft sunlight. Even the butler has jewels lining the trim of his clothes. Ivory, green, and gold reflect back at us almost painfully.

“Welcome! May I receive your invitation?” 

After Helene and Hugo hand over their parchments, the footman comments, “I see you brought a guest with you.”

“Indeed, we did,” Hugo says, narrowing his eyes, “As is our right.”

“Please do not mistake my words, Sir Riviere.” He bows almost 90 degrees, the pink sash draped around him brushing against the floor. He rises with a strangely joyous grin and registers my suspicious gaze, “Miss Alden, we were aware of your arrival today and are happy to receive you. No cause for alarm,” he says, 

“Forgive me. I cannot help but feel… observed after that revelation,” I say, pulling my brows together. 

As if on cue, each of the remaining footmen offers forth a glass. “Let me aid with that predicament. As an entry requirement, every guest must take a drink in honor of our host. It is a tradition.” 

I try not to seem too eager, but desperate to ease the knot in my stomach, I  toast to Mrs. Wordsworth. As I gulp, the liquid singes my throat, making the air sting on the way to my lungs.  A muddy flavour lingers at the back of my tongue, and I hide any disgust that may show. After a moment, however, it passes, and a light refreshing feeling rests on my shoulders. Tension escapes me, and my feet carry me forward to the house.

A room off to the side with a cake dominates the expanse of my vision. I almost don’t notice the scrawny footman standing guard before it as its three very generous tiers rise, nearly a head above me. A soft-toned ivory color dominates the main cakes, but iced in are delicate threads of lavender, vermilion, and champagne silk. Over the empty space is an airy display of clouds formed into the cake with some thin, wispy decoration and a light and powdery pink shimmer covering the entire masterpiece for the finish. It wasn’t just something to eat—it slouched on its silver raised pedestal, thick layers slipping at the edges, cream catching the light like skin, inviting fingers before forks. Understanding of why this particular room is closed off to us, as I find myself itching to test if eating it would feel like a piece of cloud. 

“Elena,” Helene links her arm through mine, pulling me back. “The cake is the final act of the entire affair, that we know to be true from the last few years.”

“It looks so-so-” I struggle with my sentence as we join Hugo at our newly claimed table.

Helene grins, “Sinfully delicious?”

“Those are not the words I would have used, but yes. I can’t wait to have a piece,” discreetly, my handkerchief finds the spittle that had escaped the corner of my mouth in anticipation. “A cake that makes you feel ten years younger once you consume it.” It had sounded like ridiculous hyperbole, but now that I am here, maybe there is merit to the statement.

“Neither can I with how ravishing you came looking, chérie,” at the sound of his voice, I finally notice Hugo.

“I told you to not try these tricks with Elena,” Helene’s eyes narrowed.

“I haven’t even begun to use my tricks!” he fights back. The bickering pair continues, and I pass around the three glasses sitting at the table before us.

“A toast to friendship!” A broad grin stretches the corners of my lips as I raise my glass.

“A toast to beauty, which dazzles, and wit, which undresses it,” Hugo drags his gaze over my form. When he winks at me, it conjures an unfamiliar warmth to my cheeks. 

“A toast to Spring!” Helene joins in, “To mischief in bloom and cakes that tempt even the saints!

We all chuckle and join glasses. 

“So what are we doing?” Helene asks, “I want to meet some more people.”

“I saw some acquaintances I should give a greeting to,” Hugo continues, looking over Helene’s head to the crowd of men laughing loudly across the room. 

“Well, I was to look out in the garden. We can meet again later,” I say.

I push past the billowing ivory curtains, arriving at the back gardens where the brilliance of the sun illuminates the clearing. Before me, picnic blankets, soft rugs, and luxuriously looking fabric were strewn about. I notice a canopied section where couples lounge about and silhouettes move around blending together in an intimate choreography of movement.

Turning the other way, I nearly trip, as my slipper sinks into the soft sand of the edge of the Loire River. A thought of appreciation occurs in my mind, and I thank Mrs. Wordsworth for granting me this moment to behold this pocket of reality.

The moment does not last as feminine giggles reach my ears and curiosity drives my attention to the right. Peering over a particularly tall group of bushes, a structure appears through the leaves. A gazebo, white and trimmed with gold accents, and walls taller than any other I have seen before reveals itself. 

Another gasp pierces the air, and someone reaches her peak as I arrive at the top of the steps. Accompanied by an orchestra of other grunts and groans, the other participants lay before me, all in different states of undress. I stand and stare, taking in the occasional peaked nipple and sweaty curve of a hip, but averting my eyes at the sight of the length of a male instrument.  

“Oh, mademoiselle! From that blush, English, I presume?” A voice rises from the tangle of bodies to my left.

“Come, let me take care of you, dear.” She stretches out her arms to engulf me in an embrace. 

Startled, my feet take root, and I feel her presence encircle me. I stand dizzy amongst the bodies, movement blurring to a jumble of colours. I jump at the sensation of her hands cupping my bosom, and my mind thaws. Finally, I force my feet to carry me away with hurried steps. My heart racing and pumping in my ears, I faintly hear her call me back.

My body is hot, every surface of my skin sensitive to the touch. The fabric brushing against me is almost unbearable, and I rub up and down my arms to alleviate the sensation. As though a cavernous well existed within me desperately needing to be filled. The pressure overcomes my chest and my brain as though I were floating in the clear blue sky. Echoes of promised passion circle my head as I bump into a firm body.

“Where are you off to, chérie?” Hugo grasps my shoulders and I feel relief looking up at his grinning face, “You seem a bit in a rush, are you well? ”

“My body, I-” I groan and press my face into his chest, “My body, what is happening to me?”

He tilts his head, “Did my cousin not inform you about the drink at the door?”

“Inform me?” I wrap my arms around him, enjoying the minty fragrance that surrounds him. 

“Ah, she set you up for a game,” he laughs, “I cannot say I am surprised.”

I stop listening as my discomfort wins. My hands fly to the back of my corset, attempting to loosen the strands and tangling my fingers.

“Ah, this explains why you are writhing. Do you need help with that?”

“Yes, please!” I turn and look over my shoulder at him, pleading, but unsure what for anymore, “I just need…I need…” 

“Shhh, I know, and if I were any other man and you looked at me as you do now, we would be just as they are in the gazebo.”

I look up at him and he keeps my gaze, a tug where he holds the strands of my corset draws me against him. I stumble and I shift on my feet, the length of a hard object touching my back. The sensation of his body makes my body tingle. I finally notice the coat of sweat that shines against his neck, unfocused eyes, and the tightness that he grips me with. 

“As yourself, now, what are you compelled to do?” I question, and He then slowly begins to sweep his hand across my waist where he holds me, his other hand dragging down against my thigh. I start to turn and yelp when he suddenly scoops me into his arms. 

“I am to do as I intended when I first came to the garden,” he says, already moving with me in his arms. A devious, boyish grin splits his arrogantly sculpted face, his high cheekbones raised higher and eyes disappearing in a joyful squint, as he looks down at my shocked face.

“And what would that be?” My voice comes out as more of a breath than actual words.

“Cool off,” he proclaims and jumps, launching us into the water.

We are not long in the water, its biting temperature is too frigid for us to enjoy. My mind clears as my dress lies drying in the sun.  Hugo’s maniacal laughter fills the air as I half-heartedly slap him.

“Oh, chérie, you are far too easy to tease,” he says, sitting back, “Would you rather I left you as you were?”

As I risk a bashful glance back at him, I grow too aware that I sit in my undergarments alone. My breath shifts, heart lurching. Once more, my body heats up as his name leaves my parted lips in a breath. 

“Hugo-”

He drags his thumb against my lips, “You have the most magnificent lips, makes me wonder what other sounds they can make.”

“What would you like to hear?” A touch of a whisper is all I can manage.

“Come here,” he purrs, I shift moving closer until I feel his warm breath on my face. His hand cups my face, mine snake around his wrist.

He drags his lips, barely touching me, but across my jaw, neck, and hovering over my mouth. He retreats for a moment, leaving me with the ghost of his taste, before he returns, and I melt against the warmth of his embrace. His arm circles me, dragging me against his body, my shy fingers making contact with his chest. We tangle in our embrace, my hands clumsily moving over the hard ridges of his abdomen, growing bolder as he explores my figure. His hands brush against the bare skin of my thigh, my muscles tense where they straddle him, my arms move to his neck, and I feel the pressure of his palms slide down and against the slope of my rear.

“Elena!” We both freeze, my eyes open wide.

“Elena! Where are you?” Helene calls again, closer, sounding like she just passed the cluster of bushes. 

We detach immediately. As Helene rounds the bushes with cake in hand. I am wringing water from my almost dry dress, and Hugo leans away, skipping stones into the river. 

“Why did you not respond?” Helene asks, walking over and settling, while handing a plate of cake to both Hugo and me. 

“I-I was preoccupied trying to get my dress dry. Your cousin threw me in the river,” I glare, but he just chuckles, which transforms to a groan when Helene slaps the back of his head. 

“I was doing her a favor,” he whines, then braces for the next slap. 

“Oh, please! You just wanted to see her undressed.”

“There are easier ways to achieve that, dear cousin, I have no need for tricks,” he grins and winks at me, my face heating once more, “Come now, you are at fault for having ‘forgotten’ to tell her of the mushroom brew.”

“Ah… I thought you would enjoy yourself, I meant no harm,” she sets down her plate, “I’m truly sorry.”

“All is forgiven with cake,” I smile and lift a forkful to my mouth.

The flavours melt into my tongue, and the softness of the cake dissolves perfectly with the icing. A balance of sweet and salty. Completed with the richness of a middle chocolate layer, a groan of delight hums in my chest, and it becomes clear why the cake is the final act.