The Making of a Duchess

by Shana Galen

  Copyright © 2010 by Shana Galen

  Cover and internal design © 2010 by Sourcebooks, Inc.

  Cover design by Will Riley/Sourcebooks

  Cover illustration by Aleta Rafton

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  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

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  For Mathew, who has stood by my side through every personal and professional trial and triumph. Thank you for your love, your support, your plotting advice, even your "buck up, young camper" speeches. I love you.

  One

  France, July 1789

  Julien woke suddenly, his eyes wide and focused on the ceiling above his bed. It danced with color, alternating red then orange then yellow. He stared at the colors for three heartbeats: why should his ceiling flicker so?

  His gaze darted about his bedroom, looking for anything else out of place. A low fire smoldered in the hearth across from the large kingwood bed he occupied. But it had been banked by the servants the night before and was almost extinguished. It couldn't be the reason for the flickering light. The light was so bright he could make out the lion's head carved into his headboard.

  His eyes tracked over the rest of the room: the armchair in the corner upholstered in dark green velvet, the kingwood armoire, the wash stand in the corner, the bureau Mazarin he used for a desk.

  Nothing was out of place, nothing out of the ordinary. He allowed his eyes to drift closed again—

  And then he heard the shouting.

  He bolted upright, tossing the bedclothes aside and rushing to the window beside the bed. He threw aside the heavy velvet draperies and stared into the night. As the eldest of three sons, he had his choice of rooms, and his overlooked the chateau's courtyard. Normally, it was a pretty picture, lined with benches and planted with dozens of flowers. In July, those flowers burst into swaths of red and yellow and pink. As none but the gardeners typically ventured into the courtyard, Julien was certain he was one of the few to enjoy the view.

  Until tonight.

  Tonight the deserted courtyard swelled with people. Peasants shouting and brandishing torches streamed into the square. Julien couldn't understand what they shouted, but he understood what was coming.

  He turned, ran for his armoire, and pulled out a pair of breeches. Quickly, he shoved his legs into them and rammed his nightshirt in at the waist. Where were his shoes? He should have listened to his nanny and put them away. Julien fell to his knees, searching.

  He heard windows breaking now, heard the shouts growing louder, and knew some of the peasants had overpowered the servants and were inside the chateau. In Paris, his parents had tried to shield him from the rumors of unrest among the lower classes, but he'd heard anyway.

  Unspeakable things—things he didn't want to think about.

  There was another crash and a shout.

  Mort à l'aristocratie! That was what the peasants had shouted in Paris before they had torn the nobles apart—massacring them. So many had been killed, even babies were butchered. He had not seen it happen, but he had heard. He eavesdropped on his parents and their friends talking and knew about the fall of the Bastille and the uprisings in the streets. His father told his little brothers this trip to the country was for rest and relaxation, but Julien knew the truth.

  And now the truth was inside his home.

  Finally! His hand brushed the leather of one shoe, and he snatched it then slipped it on. Where was the other?

  Oh, forget it! He had no time. He must reach Armand and Bastien before the peasants did. The twins were only eleven and wouldn't know what to do. He was thirteen. He could defend himself.

  He yanked open his bedroom door and immediately threw an arm up. The hallway was already thick with gray smoke, the way to his brothers' rooms obscured. He would have to breathe through the linen of his nightshirt. Coughing and stumbling blindly forward, he grasped at the sword that hung on the wall opposite his door. It had been his grandfather's sword, and he was not allowed to touch it. Julien did not like to break the rules, but he needed that sword.

  It was heavy, so heavy that he could not hold it upright for long. He dropped it to the floor and had to drag it behind him as he moved toward his brothers. Julien had been glad when, upon turning twelve, he had been allowed to move into this far wing of the chateau. He'd felt older, mature.

  Now he wished he were closer to the rest of his family.

  The sound of the thirsty fire licking at the chateau

  walls peaked and merged with the cries of the peasants. They were coming closer, and they would surely kill him when they found him.

  Mon Dieu, s'il vous plaît. Aidez-moi.

  Julien was sweating, his nightshirt wet and clingy. It was hot, so hot, and his heart was beating like a trapped woodpecker against his ribs.

  Behind him, he heard someone running. Mon Dieu! They had found him. He whirled, squinting through the gray smoke. But he could see nothing. Inside his chest, his woodpecker heart stuttered and flapped its wings while the rapid footsteps grew closer. Julien raised his drooping sword, attempting to strike. But before he could swing, his mother's face was before him.

  "Julien! Oh, thank God. Thank God!"

  "Ma mère?"

  She was dressed in a long white robe, streaked with blood and soot. Her hair, always perfectly coiffed, now streamed about her white face in black waves, making her look slightly deranged.

  Julien focused on the blood. "Ma mère, are you alright?"

  "We have no time. Your brothers." She took his hand and pulled him behind her. Julien noticed that beneath the skirts of her robe she wore no shoes. Even more troublesome: her robe was torn in the back.

  The heat around them expanded, the air so thick and pulsing Julien could feel the heat singe his lungs. He fought for each gasping breath.

  "Hurry!"

  They heard footsteps, and she pulled him aside, flattening them both against a tapestry on the wall.

  But it was not the peasants. It was a groom and Albertine, his mother's maid. "Duchesse," the maid cried. "You must not go that way. The flames. They are too much."

  "Come with us, Duchesse," the groom offered.

  "No, thank you. I must reach my sons first."

  To Julien's surprise, she spoke calmly and with composure. Despite the chaos and the choking smoke and the approaching cries, his mother managed to appear unruffled.

  She put a hand out, touched Albertine's arm. "You go on without me. Get out, and quickly."

  Without another word, she pulled Julien past the servants and along the corridor. They were both coughing now, the smoke so thick it was a wall they had to fight through. Julien hardly knew where they were anymore. He was confused and disoriented. His head hurt, his eyes smarted, and he could not stop coughing.

  "We're almost there," his mother reassured him. "Don't—"

  He heard the shout of angry voices ahead, and his mother slid to a stop, pushing Julien behind her. She retreated until their backs were pressed against the corridor wall. Julien pe
ered behind him and recognized the painting hung there. They were close to his brothers' rooms now. So close.

  Through the smoke the enraged voices rose and fell. "Move out of the way."

  "Join us or die."

  "You think you can protect the aristos? Mort à l'aristocratie!"

  The last was repeated by all. Julien knew these were peasant voices. They were inside the chateau, right outside his brothers' rooms. He thought he recognized several of the peasant voices as well—Matthieu, who baked bread in the village, and Marie, who washed and sewed for her meager wages.

  "S'il vous plait." That was the voice of the boys' nanny. Julien knew it well. His mother stiffened, as tense as the band of his slingshot before release.

  "They are just children," the nanny cried. "Have mercy. Have mer—" Her words were cut off with a scream followed by a thump and a gurgling sound Julien would remember until his last breath.

  "Break the door down!" one of the peasants— Matthieu?—cried. "You! Search the rest of the house."

  His mother started, seeming to come alive again. She looked at him, and he knew she wanted to go to his brothers.

  She would die with them.

  Julien closed his eyes, prayed fervently, "Mon Dieu, sauvez-nous." A peace came over him, and he opened his eyes, knew what he had to do.

  He would go with his mother. Yes, he still had the sword. He would fight until the end.

  But his mother was watching him, and a look of profound sadness marred her features. The expression wavered for a second and was finally replaced by determination. "Run!" she hissed, pushing him back the way they had come and following close behind.

  Julien ran, feeling his mother's hand securely on his back. He could hear the voices of the peasants behind him, and at some point his hands, slick with sweat from the building heat, dropped the sword. He would have gone back for it, but his mother pushed him relentlessly on. He stumbled and fell, his lungs unable to steal enough oxygen to keep his legs moving. He tried to rise, but his mother opened a door and wrenched him inside, closing and bolting it behind him.

  This was a guest room, one Julien could not remember ever having entered before. The furnishings were draped in white linen, giving the hulking bed and the towering clothespress a menacing, ghostly appearance.

  Julien shivered, leaned against the door, and coughed. The smoke had not penetrated this ghost room as heavily yet, and he gulped for air, which only made him cough harder. His mother ran to the window, and Julien struggled to his feet and followed.

  The room was at the back of the house. Looking out the window, Julien could see the moon and stars. No peasants were below. They were either in the courtyard or inside the house.

  "Help me open this window." She unlatched it and pushed up, and Julien pushed with her. They both drank of the clean air and stared at each other. For a moment, she looked so young, too young to be the mother of three.

  Then she looked down, and her youth seemed to drain away.

  Following her gaze, Julien peered at the decorative ledge below the window that encircled the chateau. He knew his feet could reach it if he dangled from the window. His mother was taller and would reach it easily, but she had the skirts of her robe and undergarments to contend with.

  The drop was not insubstantial.

  Something pounded on the door, and they both turned and flinched.

  "It's locked! Kick it open!"

  Julien looked at his mother. "If we stay on the ledge until we reach the corner"—he pointed to the edge of the chateau—"we can use the cuts in the stone to climb down."

  He'd done it before from his own room. Of course, his room was considerably closer to the corner, and he had the cushion of the trees and shrubs in the courtyard beneath him.

  They would have no cushion here.

  Thud! The door rattled. Thud!

  The peasants were coming through.

  His mother nodded. "You go first. Don't stop. No matter what happens to me."

  He frowned at her, but with no time to argue, was forced to swing one leg over the ledge. He looked down accidentally, and the world spun. Gripping the window tighter, he swung the other leg over. He was dangling by his hands now, and his feet felt for the ledge. He'd grown since the last time he had done this, and it was higher than he remembered. Once he found purchase, he released the window ledge and hugged the stone wall. Despite the fire, it was cold to the touch.

  Slowly, carefully, he edged along the ledge. Pausing, he looked back at the window. "Mother, hurry!"

  It seemed an eternity before one white-clad leg appeared at the window. Soon the other followed. She hung in midair, her feet dangling as they searched for the ledge. She wavered, her grip weakening. But just as Julien feared she would fall, one foot then the other found the ledge. Slowly, she released the window sill.

  Julien stared at her in admiration. His mother was no coward.

  "Go," she hissed. "They're almost through the door."

  He inched along the wall of the chateau—step, slide; step, slide. He moved quickly, watching his mother from the corner of his eye. And yet it still startled him when several heads poked out the window. One of them was, indeed, Matthieu.

  "There they are! Get them."

  The heads disappeared again, and Julien kept moving. Step, slide. Step, slide. Step—

  Something arced out the window and thudded to the ground below them. Julien froze and watched as the vase shattered on the cobblestones. Then another object came at them, this one better aimed. The brass candleholder barely missed his mother's shoulder.

  Step, slide. Step, slide. Step, sl—houp-là! He'd reached the corner of the house and would now have to climb down. His mother was still sliding closer, and the peasants were aiming the second candleholder at her. It grazed her arm, causing her to flinch and sway.

  "Hold on!" Julien screamed. He felt a stab of terror, sharp as any sword blade, pierce his chest.

  And then she was steady again.

  The peasants booed, and Julien wished he could go back and personally strangle each and every one of them.

  But he hadn't the luxury of daydreams, even those of vengeance. It would take time for the peasants to reach the back of the house, but he knew they were coming. He began to climb down, using the ornate stonework as hand and footholds. He climbed quickly, reaching the bottom long before his mother. She was less agile, and as he stood there, he worried that her white night robe would act as a beacon to any who came this way. Each step down seemed to take forever. How he wished she would hurry. How he wished he could run away.

  And then he was ashamed of himself. What would his father think if he knew his son had even considered leaving his mother to fend for herself? Why, no Valère would ever act in such a cowardly fashion.

  At this very moment, his father was probably fighting the peasants. He would win, too. The duc de Valère was strong and good. He would beat these peasants and save them all.

  His mother was almost to the bottom, and Julien reached up, putting his hand on her back to let her know he was behind her. He looked up just in time to see a half-dozen books rain down, and he grabbed his mother, pulling her around the corner and out of danger. The two of them, mother and son, fell to the ground, leaning against the house for a moment's respite.

  On the other side of the wall, the books thudded to the ground, and he heard the peasants in the window yell, "Around the corner! They're getting away."

  Julien was on his feet again, taking his mother's hand. They had not a moment to waste. If the peasants caught them—

  No. He would not think of that.

  "Mother, the stables!"

  She nodded, and lifting her skirts, ran beside him. As one, they arrowed for the stables. Julien felt invisible hands grasping at him, but he was too afraid to look over his shoulder and gauge how close the peasants truly were. He could not slow. He could not stop.

  They rounded the side of the chateau, and the stables came into view.

  Jul
ien gasped. The stables were on fire, and he could hear the horses screaming. Why hadn't the grooms freed them? Without thinking, he ran for the stable doors, slamming into them and pulling them open. He would have to go inside, freeing each horse individually.

  "Julien, watch out!"

  The attack came from the side. At first he could not comprehend why Claude, one of the Valère grooms, would attack him. Julien raised a hand to fend off the assault. Pain sliced through him as the shovel Claude held came down hard on his arm..

  Behind him, the peasants chasing them had caught up. They stood back, cheering the groom on. "Mort à l'aristocratie!"