Under a Starlit Sky

by EM Castellan

  “Half the court has read it!” Philippe shouted. “They’ll think you cheated on me. Reputations have been ruined for less than that. Marriages have ended for far less than that.”

  “Don’t shout at her,” Armand said.

  Philippe pushed him. “You, shut up.”

  Armand righted himself, his fist raised. I leaped between them.

  “Don’t you dare fight in my presence.” I used my royal tone, which always seemed to work. “You’re noblemen; behave as such!”

  They stood down, glaring at each other. I raised my index finger at Philippe to regain his attention.

  “The only pamphlets,” I said, “that ruin reputations and break marriages are the ones that are true. This one isn’t. We’ll ask the king to have it destroyed and to spread the word that it was mere slander meant to harm the royal family, or France’s relationship with England, which both might be the case.”

  Philippe snorted. “So you’re denying it’s true?”

  Red-hot anger spiked through me, with force I had seldom felt. My tone turned ice cold and I stared him down.

  “Now you listen to me, because I will not say this again. I am not having, and I have never had, an affair with Armand. All I’ve done since marrying you is love you, be patient with you, accept your affairs, and be a dutiful wife. So if you accuse me of infidelity one more time, I swear I will leave French court and go to my brother in England, and you will have to explain why to your brother.”

  To punctuate the end of my speech, I grabbed the pamphlet from his hand, crumpled it, and threw it in the empty fireplace. It was the most theatrical I had ever been in my life, and my threat was mostly an empty one, but they didn’t have to know that. Armand gaped at me. Philippe stared at the ball of paper in the bare hearth.

  “And while we’re on the topic of who’s to blame for this,” I said before my anger vanished and my boldness deserted me, “you might want to ask yourself who would benefit from publishing such a pamphlet and wrecking our marriage.”

  Philippe raised his gaze to me at last. “You think Lorraine is behind this?”

  “There aren’t many other candidates,” Armand replied.

  “I thought I told you to be quiet,” Philippe snapped. “You’ve said and done enough, don’t you think?”

  Hurt fleeted across Armand’s features, and pain pinched my heart at the hostility between them. They used to be so close; surely they missed that familiar bond. But Philippe’s focus had already drifted back to me.

  “I don’t believe Lorraine is behind this,” he said.

  Armand threw his hands up and let out a frustrated groan, as if he’d argued this point many times before. I chose a more diplomatic approach.

  “What makes you say that?” I asked.

  “First, it’s not like him,” Philippe replied.

  Armand and I exchanged a glance. He would never want to hear anything against Lorraine, not without solid proof to back our claims.

  “You don’t know him as I do,” he went on. “And second, what would be the point? He doesn’t need to break up our marriage. He already—” He stopped, as if realizing what he was about to admit.

  He already has me, was what he’d meant to say. This half confession hit me far harder than I anticipated. A painful pang reverberated from my heart through my body, and I coughed. Both men moved toward me out of instinct, but I held up my hand to prevent them from drawing closer. I needed space. I needed air. I certainly didn’t need either of them to touch me.

  My cough stopped after a few seconds, and I cleared my throat to speak. I turned to Armand first.

  “Would you leave us for just a moment?”

  His focus traveled from me to Philippe, his expression uncertain. Then he nodded, and walked out of the room. Once the door had latched into place behind him, I held Philippe’s gaze.

  “This is what’s going to happen,” I said. “We are going back to court. Together. I’m not going to see Armand. You’re not going to see Lorraine. There won’t be any scandal, and we’re going to put all this behind us. Do you agree?”

  Philippe bit his lip and shifted his weight from one foot to the other. His hesitation was a knife through my heart, but this time I wouldn’t retreat.

  “We can try,” he said at last.

  This wasn’t the resounding agreement I sought, but it was a start. Whether the pamphlet was Lorraine’s doing or not, it was another dent in the fragile equilibrium of my life. It was time for me to regain control of it.

  CHAPTER XVI

  The palace terrace was a ballroom.

  Checkered columns sprang between the symmetrical pools of the water garden and the candle-lit facade to support a gauze canopy sprinkled with sparkling gems. A smooth parquet floor covered the gravel, and heavy chandeliers cast a dazzling light that chased all the shadows away. On a platform in a corner, Lully’s large orchestra performed lively music that swelled in the open-air gallery and led the French court into an endless string of dances. And everywhere, the sweet scent of magic mixed with the guests’ perfumes, as spells increased the brightness of the lights and helped white feathers and golden leaves float above the guests’ heads.

  “Here.” Philippe handed me a glass of water. “I don’t trust any of those magically tempered beverages.”

  Arrived only minutes ago, we stood by the fully laden buffet that teemed with cakes and delicacies piled high on silver plates. I took a sip from my drink and waved my gem-studded fan, scanning the thick crowd. As per the king’s instructions, everyone wore black and white, which rendered the French courtiers akin to giant chess pieces.

  “Is my brother here?” Philippe asked.

  In an absentminded gesture, he slipped his arm around my waist and drained his own glass. Since our return to Versailles a week ago, he’d kept his promise to present a united front at court. Louis had helped us quash the rumors of our mutual infidelity by having the pamphlet destroyed and—albeit inadvertently—by keeping Lorraine busy. We still waited to make the news of our upcoming child public, but in the meantime our behavior was beyond reproach enough to make everyone yawn and seek new gossip elsewhere.

  “Not yet,” I replied.

  If her husband was absent, Marie-Thérèse was already sat in a black armchair by one of the columns. Wrapped in white lace and tulle that didn’t agree with her pale complexion, she ate pastries off a porcelain plate with industrious gravity. Crumbs fell on her prominent belly, and she brushed them away without a pause. The mere idea of food made me nauseous, and a pang of envy ran through me at her appetite and carefree pregnancy.

  “Shall we dance?” Philippe said.

  That wrenched me out of my melancholy thoughts faster than any other question could. I raised my eyebrows at him.

  “You want to dance with me?”

  Philippe and I never danced together. In public, it was his way of showing his aloofness toward me, and in private he claimed I was too good a dancer for him to match my skills. In truth, and with the growing distance between us, it had become an activity we never engaged in together.

  Hurt flickered in his eyes at my surprised tone, swiftly replaced by indifference. He put down his empty glass to avoid my gaze.

  “We don’t have to. It was just an idea because I’m bored.”

  Remorse swept through me. He’d taken a step toward me, and I had pushed him back.

  “We can,” I said more gently. “You know I love to dance. But are you sure?”

  He shrugged. “Never mind. I just thought we looked very stunning tonight and we might gift the crowd with a display of our combined attractiveness.”

  The offhand irony in his tone, which he used whenever he wanted to hide his true emotions, increased my guilt. It had been a long time since he’d resorted to it in my presence. And we did look good together, he in white and gold silk, I in black and silver, our outfits matching with intricate embroidery and pearls.

  “I see your point,” I replied, fumbling for a way to justify my r
eaction. “It’s just people will notice and may find it odd. We agreed not to draw attention to ourselves. But if you—”

  He gave me a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “You’re right, my love. Let’s keep a low profile. I see Jean Aniaba is here. I should go and say hello.”

  Before I could argue, he released his hold on me and turned away, dragging a piece of my heart with him. He strode away through the glittering revelers to reach the prince clad in a shimmering cream-colored outfit.

  “His Majesty, the king!” the herald announced, his voice carrying over the music and the general chatter, and distracting me from Philippe’s desertion. The dancing stopped and everyone sank into bows and curtsies, as the herald went on: “And Mademoiselle de La Vallière.”

  A stunned silence greeted the announcement. I glanced up as Louis entered the ephemeral ballroom with Louise at his side. Their arms linked, they walked in like a royal couple, her gold-trimmed white dress a perfect echo of his flamboyant outfit. His face a serene mask, Louis held up his gold-plated cane to signal Lully to resume the ball. Music ascended under the gem-filled canopy once more, and people rose from their greeting stances with wide eyes and whispered comments. My gaze went to Marie-Thérèse, who stood with her colorless features halfway between mortification and rage. Her ladies gathered around her to distract her, and she sank back into her seat, but the damage was done.

  My irritation with Louis and his unforgiving conduct mounting in my chest, I took a step toward her to grant her my public support in the face of such humiliation. A hand on my arm stopped me.

  “Did you see that?” Athénaïs hissed in my ear.

  “I did,” I replied in the same low tone. “What on earth has possessed them to behave like this?”

  Until now, Louis had always strived to spare Marie-Thérèse’s feelings and to hide his liaison with Louise. This unexpected show went against every effort he’d made to avoid a scandal and to keep everyone oblivious.

  “Is it because his mother isn’t here to lecture him?” I asked. “He thinks he can do whatever he wants because she’s unwell?”

  Her hand still on my arm, Athénaïs grabbed a green-colored drink from the buffet and swallowed a sip.

  “It’s a factor,” she said, still in hushed tones. “But this is all Olympe’s fault.”

  A devilish look sparkled in her eyes at her imminent revelations, and she bit her lip in anticipation. I wasn’t one to encourage gossip, but since the situation involved my closest friends and family members, I relented and let out a sigh.

  “Oh, go on, you’re obviously dying to tell me.”

  “It’s all out of a novel, really,” she said at once. “Olympe never forgave Louise for seducing the king when she always failed to bring him back to her after his marriage to the queen.”

  I cast a quick glance around to ensure we weren’t overheard, but everyone was engrossed in their own conversations or the dancing, and the music covered our words.

  “So she hatched a plot to reveal the affair to Marie-Thérèse,” Athénaïs continued, “hoping this would lead to the king breaking up with Louise. Except she didn’t want the queen to know she was behind it. So she had a servant steal an envelope from the queen’s chambers, one addressed to Marie-Thérèse from Spain. She wrote a letter explaining the affair and used the envelope to have it delivered to the queen.”

  I pursed my lips in attempt to follow the intricacies of the scheme. “She wrote a letter pretending to be Spanish? I thought Olympe didn’t speak Spanish.”

  “She doesn’t,” Athénaïs replied, still gleeful. “But guess who does?”

  Ice spread through my stomach. “Armand.”

  “Yes.” She chuckled in delight at the enormity of the anecdote. “Olympe asked Armand to translate the letter, except he isn’t as fluent as he pretends, the rake. And the envelope they used was all creased from the various handling.”

  “So? How does this lead us to the king making Louise his official mistress in front of the whole court?”

  My patience was running thin with her long-winded story, and alarm rose in me as the scheme seemed to involve everyone in my life.

  “The letter was delivered to the queen this morning,” Athénaïs explained. “Except the head of her household thought it might be bad news from Spain, so she read it instead of handing it to Marie-Thérèse straightaway. And when she realized what the letter contained, she brought it to the king.”

  “How do you know all this?”

  Athénaïs shrugged, feigned innocence all over her pretty features. “I talk to people. And the queen’s servants like me. Anyway, the king was furious. He shouted at Olympe, and—” She gestured at Louis chatting to the Comte de Saint-Aignan, Louise all smiles at his side. “The whole business prompted him to make his affair public, apparently.”

  I shook my head, too flabbergasted to speak. I had assumed Olympe’s absence from the ball was due to her tending to the Queen Mother tonight. It hadn’t crossed my mind that she could be back to her old plotting and deceiving ways. Would Louis forgive her this time? I wondered. And Armand? Why in heaven would he take part in this ridiculous conspiracy, when his situation at court was precarious enough as it was?

  “This is all a secret, of course,” Athénaïs added. “The queen knows nothing of it, and I doubt the king will want the whole story to be known at court.”

  “Of course,” I replied.

  I wanted to ask about Armand—who was also conspicuously absent tonight—but I had promised myself not to utter his name in public anymore, especially in front of Athénaïs. Instead, my mind jumped to the prophecy. Louise’s fate was supposed to be a broken heart, yet the events of this evening gave me hope. When everything had conspired to ruin her love story with Louis, fortune had intervened in the most dramatic way to save her from a heartbreaking separation. If her fate could be altered, then why not mine?

  A glimpse of Marie-Thérèse’s sullen face in the crowd deflated my hopes. The prophecy foretold betrayals and secrets would be her undoing, and tonight’s events were a grim fulfillment of that prediction. Maybe there wasn’t escaping every part of the prophecy after all.

  “You’re feeling sorry for her, aren’t you?”

  Athénaïs’s question pulled me out my musing. She followed my gaze toward Marie-Thérèse, and gave me a pointed look.

  “Who wouldn’t?” I replied, harsher than I intended.

  This might all be entertaining to Athénaïs, but the queen’s situation brought out compassion and kinship in me. She was a foreigner at a French court that relentlessly mocked her, where she was the constant object of gossip and now humiliation. As a fellow princess and sister-in-law, it was my duty to side with her.

  “I have to go and talk to her.”

  I disentangled my arm from Athénaïs’s grasp, put down my glass, and moved through the throng of dancers toward Marie-Thérèse. A firm grip caught my wrist, and I stopped in my tracks, my pulse spiking at the audacious touch.

  I raised my gaze to the tall silhouette now standing between me and my objective. Lorraine’s smooth smile greeted me.

  “Your Highness.” He bowed. “May I impose on you and have this dance?”

  He still clutched my wrist, and I would have been within my rights to slap him for insolence and to walk away. Instead, I paused. Since his arrival at court two and half months ago, it was the first time he had sought me out. My body recoiled at his touch, and my instinct screamed at me to stay away from him, yet curiosity nagged at me. Here was the man who’d thrown my life into upheaval yet stood before me grinning as if he thought he would get away with it. Fouquet had made the same mistake, once.

  I slipped from his grasp and held out my hand with a harmless expression. “Are you a good dancer, sir?”

  His smile grew in impertinence. “I’ve been told I’m passable.”

  A new dance number had just started, and I allowed him to lead me around the room. Heads turned along the way, bending to catch a better view
or to hide whispers behind feathered fans. As Athénaïs had predicted all those weeks ago, Lorraine and I did make a perfect duet. He was as good a dancer as the king, and his exquisite black outfit matched my own dark dress. We moved in coordinated harmony to the rhythm of the violin music, our footsteps decidedly synchronized. Within moments my lungs tightened and my breaths struggled, but I had enough experience with my condition to ignore its symptoms for a little while.

  “I’ll admit,” Lorraine said after a minute of silence, “I underestimated you.”

  I shot him a bold look to hide my disappointment. His use of the past tense meant he likely wouldn’t make that same mistake again.

  “Your attempt at taking hold of my journal took me by surprise,” he went on. “And I didn’t think you’d draw Philippe back to you so quickly.”

  I gave him my sweetest smile. “I suppose you don’t know me very well.”

  We spun among the other dancers, his hand letting me go and catching me again with ease.

  “I didn’t,” he replied.

  Again, his use of the past tense flooded me with apprehension. Fouquet hadn’t realized my power until very late in the game. Lorraine wasn’t as arrogant, it seemed.

  “I did believe the whole wide-eyed princess charade for a while,” he went on. “A wisp of a woman with a kind smile and a generous heart.”

  “That’s me.” I punctuated my reply by my trademark grin.

  “It is,” he said. “Which is why it took me a little while to understand the truth. Take women like Olympe de Soissons, or Athénaïs de Montespan. What they show to the world is all a facade. But you … it’s actually who you are.” He bent down to whisper in my ear. “It’s just not all you are.”

  I cringed at his breath against my skin, but he withdrew at once, and carried on the dance.

  “You know what your problem is?” he asked, the question obviously rhetorical. “Everyone loves you. That means everyone loves talking about you. Everywhere I turn, I find someone more than happy to tell me all there is to know about the wonderful Henriette d’Angleterre.”