Wildflowers - A RDR story

0.0 - Prologue

I was born in America in 1879, into a world glowing with contrast and possibility. My parents owned a grand mansion in Saint-Denis, Lemoyne, a stunning edifice that rose proudly above the cobbled streets below—a symbol of their social status and fortune. The mansion, with its intricate architectural details and sprawling gardens, stood as a testament to their wealth and the lives they led. My father, a distinguished Englishman, was blessed with a fortune inherited from his family, which allowed him to live his life wrapped in the comforts of privilege. He often spoke of seeking "new adventures" as the reason behind his decision to cross the Atlantic and make America his home. It was a term he used lightly, glossing over the sacrifices and struggles that accompanied such a leap.

My mother, a woman of poise and elegance, came from a prestigious French family. Her life took an unexpected turn during the 1860s when, on a family trip to America, she found herself compelled to marry my father. While their marriage was not devoid of affection, it was a far cry from the impassioned love stories I lost myself in within the pages of my books. There were no grand romantic gestures or poetic proclamations in our household; rather, there was a sense of commitment, a partnership forged more out of circumstance than truthful desire.

After their hurried elopement, they settled into that beautiful mansion, captivated by the city's nighttime glow, the flickering lamps casting a warm light over bustling streets filled with high-class folk exhibiting an air of sophistication. Comforted by their affluent surroundings, they yearned for distance from the chaotic whispers of the Wild West, which they dismissed as hot, dry, and dangerous. "Stay clear of those outlaws," they would warn me, their voices laced with concern. In my youthful naivety, I often pondered how my parents failed to see the fire that burned in the hearts of those they feared—how that passion fueled their battles and sacrifices. For those outlaws, every fight and struggle was motivated by an unyielding love for their people, and I couldn't help but wonder if my parents possessed that kind of fierce devotion. Deep down, I knew they would never fight for me in the same way.

Thus, I grew up cocooned in comfort, enveloped in an existence marked by fine clothes and sumptuous meals. My days unfolded in a predictable rhythm, inscribed within the margins of decorum and expectation, leaving little cause for complaint—though I often felt a soft ache in my chest, a yearning that whispered different dreams. I learned to read and write in both French and English, effortlessly navigating the nuances of language while perfecting the art of sitting properly, embodying the image of a refined young lady. On the surface, my life appeared perfect, yet I harbored one secret wish that nestled close to my heart, an unquenchable desire that seemed ever out of reach.

I craved a life in the wild, untamed West. The thought of galloping atop a wild horse across the open plains, feeling the wind whip through my dark hair and the sun warm my skin, filled me with a sense of restless excitement. I was convinced that if I dared to voice this desire, my parents would immediately disapprove. Freedom, I believed, was my birthright; however, the outlaw life was far from what I envisioned. Oh no! The very thought of handling a gun sent shivers down my spine—I knew I'd surely shoot myself in the foot rather than land a target.

-1890-

"Whatcha readin'?" came a voice from my bedroom doorway, pulling me momentarily from my thoughts. It was Margo—though I knew her real name was Marguerite. She was one of our beloved servants, someone who had entered our lives with a quiet grace and a sense of understanding that resonated with me. In our secretive exchanges, I found a friendship that exceeded the bond I shared with my own mother.

I sat up excitedly, patting the space next to me, eager for her companionship as I shared the pages of my adventurous narrative. "It's a romance novel, but don't tell my parents! They'd have a fit if they knew I believed in this crap." I laughed, a sound that felt liberating, yet tinged with the fear of being caught. The laughter shared between us was infectious, and she playfully gasped, "Watch your mouth, Lizzie! Such words should not escape a lady's mouth!" In that moment, we reveled together in a rebellion against the high expectations society set upon us, both of us daring to exist outside the rigid confines of our prescribed roles.