And just what could I do?
I watched the beggars scramble and gesture toward the windows as we entered the Rue du Faubourg St.-Honoré. When in doubt, I thought, seek the assistance of a Higher Authority.
I rapped on the panel beside the driver’s seat. It slid back with a grating noise, and the mustached face of Louise’s coachman peered down at me.
“Madame?”
“Left,” I said. “To L’Hôpital des Anges.”
* * *
Mother Hildegarde tapped her blunt fingers thoughtfully on a sheet of music paper, as though drumming out a troublesome sequence. She sat at the mosaic table in her private office, across from Herr Gerstmann, summoned to join us in urgent council.
“Well, yes,” said Herr Gerstmann doubtfully. “Yes, I believe I can arrange a private audience with His Majesty, but … you are certain that your husband … um …” The music master seemed to be having unusual trouble in expressing himself, which made me suspect that petitioning the King for Jamie’s release might be just a trifle more complicated than I had thought. Mother Hildegarde verified this suspicion with her own reaction.
“Johannes!” she exclaimed, so agitated as to drop her usual formal manner of address. “She cannot do that! After all, Madame Fraser is not one of the Court ladies—she is a person of virtue!”
“Er, thank you,” I said politely. “If you don’t mind, though … what, precisely, would my state of virtue have to do with my seeing the King to ask for Jamie’s release?”
The nun and the singing-master exchanged looks in which horror at my naiveté was mingled with a general reluctance to remedy it. At last Mother Hildegarde, braver of the two, bit the bullet.
“If you go alone to ask such a favor from the King, he will expect to lie with you,” she said bluntly. After all the carry-on over telling me, I was hardly surprised, but I glanced at Herr Gerstmann for confirmation, which he gave in the form of a reluctant nod.
“His Majesty is susceptible to requests from ladies of a certain personal charm,” he said delicately, taking a sudden interest in one of the ornaments on the desk.
“But there is a price to such requests,” added Mother Hildegarde, not nearly so delicate. “Most of the courtiers are only too pleased when their wives find Royal favor; the gain to them is well worth the sacrifice of their wives’ virtue.” The wide mouth curled with scorn at the thought, then straightened into its usual grimly humorous line.
“But your husband,” she said, “does not appear to me to be the sort who makes a complaisant cuckold.” The heavy arched brows supplied the question mark at the end of the sentence, and I shook my head in response.
“I shouldn’t think so.” In fact, this was one of the grosser understatements I had ever heard. If “complaisant” was not the very last word that came to mind at the thought of Jamie Fraser, it was certainly well down toward the bottom of the list. I tried to imagine just what Jamie would think, say, or do, if he ever learned that I had lain with another man, up to and including the King of France.
The thought made me remember the trust that had existed between us, almost since the day of our marriage, and a sudden feeling of desolation swept over me. I shut my eyes for a moment, fighting illness, but the prospect had to be faced.
“Well,” I said, taking a deep breath, “is there another way?”
Mother Hildegarde knitted her brows, frowning at Herr Gerstmann, as though expecting him to produce the answer. The little music master shrugged, though, frowning in his turn.
“If there were a friend of some importance, who might intercede for your husband with His Majesty?” he asked tentatively.
“Not likely.” I had examined all such alternatives myself, in the coach from Fontainebleau, and been forced to conclude that there was no one whom I could reasonably ask to undertake such an ambassage. Owing to the illegal and scandalous nature of the duel—for of course Marie d’Arbanville had spread her gossip all over Paris—none of the Frenchmen of our acquaintance could very well afford to take an interest in it. Monsieur Duverney, who had agreed to see me, had been kind, but discouraging. Wait, had been his advice. In a few months, when the scandal has died down a bit, then His Majesty might be approached. But now …
Likewise the Duke of Sandringham, so bound by the delicate proprieties of diplomacy that he had dismissed his private secretary for only the appearance of involvement in scandal, was in no position to petition Louis for a favor of this sort.
I stared down at the inlaid tabletop, scarcely seeing the complex curves of enamel that swept through abstractions of geometry and color. My forefinger traced the loops and whorls before me, providing a precarious anchor for my racing thoughts. If it was indeed necessary for Jamie to be released from prison, in order to prevent the Jacobite invasion of Scotland, then it seemed that I would have to do the releasing, whatever the method, and whatever its consequences.
At last I looked up, meeting the music master’s eyes. “I’ll have to,” I said softly. “There’s no other way.”
There was a moment of silence. Then Herr Gerstmann glanced at Mother Hildegarde.
“She will stay here,” Mother Hildegarde declared firmly. “You may send to tell her the time of the audience, Johannes, once you have arranged it.”
She turned to me. “After all, if you are really set upon this course, my dear friend …” Her lips pressed tightly together, then opened to say, “It may be a sin to assist you in committing immorality. Still, I will do it. I know that your reasons seem good to you, whatever they may be. And perhaps the sin will be outweighed by the grace of your friendship.”
“Oh, Mother.” I thought I might cry if I said more, so contented myself with merely squeezing the big, work-roughened hand that rested on my shoulder. I had a sudden longing to fling myself into her arms and bury my face against the comforting black serge bosom, but her hand left my shoulder and went to the long jet rosary that clicked among the folds of her skirt as she walked.
“I will pray for you,” she said, smiling what would have been a tremulous smile on a face less solidly carved. Her expression changed suddenly to one of deep consideration. “Though I do wonder,” she added meditatively, “exactly who would be the proper patron saint to invoke in the circumstances?”
* * *
Mary Magdalene was the name that came to mind as I raised my hands overhead in a simulation of prayer, to allow the small wicker dress frame to slip over my shoulders and settle onto my hips. Or Mata Hari, but I was quite sure she’d never make the Calendar of Saints. I wasn’t sure about the Magdalene, for that matter, but a reformed prostitute seemed the most likely among the heavenly host to be sympathetic to the venture being now undertaken.
I reflected that the Convent of the Angels had probably never before seen a robing such as this. While the postulants about to take their final vows were most splendidly arrayed as brides of Christ, red silk and rice powder probably didn’t figure heavily in the ceremonies.
Very symbolic, I thought, as the rich scarlet folds slithered over my upturned face. White for purity, and red for … whatever this was. Sister Minèrve, a young sister from a wealthy noble family, had been selected to assist me in my toilette; with considerable skill and aplomb, she dressed my hair, tucking in the merest scrap of ostrich feather trimmed with seed pearls. She combed my brows carefully, darkening them with the small lead combs, and painted my lips with a feather dipped in a pot of rouge. The feel of it on my lips tickled unbearably, exaggerating my tendency to break into unhinged giggles. Not hilarity; hysteria.
Sister Minèrve reached for the hand mirror. I stopped her with a gesture; I didn’t want to look myself in the eye. I took a deep breath, and nodded.
“I’m ready,” I said. “Send for the coach.”
* * *
I had never been in this part of the palace before. In fact, after the multiple twists and turnings through the candle-lit corridors of mirrors, I was no longer sure exactly how many of me there were, let alone whe
re any of them were going.
The discreet and anonymous Gentleman of the Bedchamber led me to a small paneled door in an alcove. He rapped once, then bowed to me, whirled, and left without waiting for an answer. The door swung inward, and I entered.
The King still had his breeches on. The realization slowed my heartbeat to something like a tolerable rate, and I ceased feeling as though I might throw up any minute.
I didn’t know quite what I had been expecting, but the reality was mildly reassuring. He was informally dressed, in shirt and breeches, with a dressing gown of brown silk draped across his shoulders for warmth. His Majesty smiled, and urged me to rise with a hand under my arm. His palm was warm—I had subconsciously expected his touch to be clammy—and I smiled back, as best I could.
The attempt must not have been altogether successful, for he patted my arm kindly, and said “Don’t be afraid of me, chère Madame. I don’t bite.”
“No,” I said. “Of course not.”
He was a lot more poised than I was. Well, of course he is, I thought to myself, he does this all the time. I took a deep breath and tried to relax.
“You will have a little wine, Madame?” he asked. We were alone; there were no servants, but the wine was already poured, in a pair of goblets that stood on the table, glowing like rubies in the candlelight. The chamber was ornate, but very small, and aside from the table and a pair of oval-backed chairs, held only a luxuriously padded green-velvet chaise longue. I tried to avoid looking at it as I took my goblet, with a murmur of thanks.
“Sit, please.” Louis sank down upon one of the chairs, gesturing to me to take the other. “Now please,” he said, smiling at me, “tell me what it is that I may do for you.”
“M-my husband,” I began, stammering a little from nervousness. “He’s in the Bastille.”
“Of course,” the King murmured. “For dueling. I recall.” He took my free hand in his own, fingers resting lightly on my pulse. “What would you have me do, chère Madame? You know it is a serious offense; your husband has broken my own decree.” One finger stroked the underside of my wrist, sending small tickling sensations up my arm.
“Y-yes, I understand that. But he was … provoked.” I had an idea. “You know he’s a Scot; men of that country are”—I tried to think of a good synonym for “berserk”—“most fierce where questions of their honor are concerned.”
Louis nodded, head bent in apparent absorption over the hand he held. I could see the faint greasy shine to his skin, and smell his perfume. Violets. A strong, sweet smell, but not enough to completely mask his own acrid maleness.
He drained his wine in two long swallows and discarded the goblet, the better to clasp my hand in both his own. One short-nailed finger traced the lines of my wedding ring, with its interlaced links and thistle blossoms.
“Quite so,” he said, bringing my hand closer, as though to examine the ring. “Quite so, Madame. However …”
“I’d be … most grateful, Your Majesty,” I interrupted. His head rose and I met his eyes, dark and quizzical. My heart was going like a trip-hammer. “Most … grateful.”
He had thin lips and bad teeth; I could smell his breath, thick with onion and decay. I tried holding my own breath, but this could hardly be more than a temporary expedient.
“Well …” he said slowly, as though thinking it over. “I would myself be inclined toward mercy, Madame …”
I released my breath in a short gasp, and his fingers tightened on mine in warning. “But you see, there are complications.”
“There are?” I said faintly.
He nodded, eyes still fixed on my face. His fingers wandered lightly over the back of my hand, tracing the veins.
“The Englishman who was so unfortunate as to have offended milord Broch Tuarach,” he said. “He was in the employ of … a certain man—an English noble of some importance.”
Sandringham. My heart lurched at the mention of him, indirect as it was.
“This noble is engaged in—shall we say, certain negotiations which entitle him to consideration?” The thin lips smiled, emphasizing the imperious prow of the nose above. “And this nobleman has interested himself in the matter of the duel between your husband and the English Captain Randall. I am afraid that he was most exigent in demanding that your husband suffer the full penalty of his indiscretion, Madame.”
Bloody tub of lard, I thought. Of course—since Jamie had refused the bribe of a pardon, what better way to prevent his “involving himself” in the Stuarts’ affairs than to ensure Jamie’s staying safely jugged in the Bastille for the next few years? Sure, discreet, and inexpensive; a method bound to appeal to the Duke.
On the other hand, Louis was still breathing heavily on my hand, which I took as a sign that all was not necessarily lost. If he wasn’t going to grant my request, he could scarcely expect me to go to bed with him—or if he did, he was in for a rude surprise.
I girded my loins for another try.
“And does Your Majesty take orders from the English?” I asked boldly.
Louis’s eyes flew open with momentary shock. Then he smiled wryly, seeing what I intended. Still, I had touched a nerve; I saw the small twitch of his shoulders as he resettled his conviction of power like an invisible mantle.
“No, Madame, I do not,” he said with some dryness. “I do, however, take account of … various factors.” The heavy lids drooped over his eyes for a moment, but he still held my hand.
“I have heard that your husband interests himself in the affairs of my cousin,” he said.
“Your Majesty is well informed,” I said politely. “But since that is so, you will know that my husband does not support the restoration of the Stuarts to the throne of Scotland.” I prayed that this was what he wanted to hear.
Apparently it was; he smiled, raised my hand to his lips, and kissed it briefly.
“Ah? I had heard … conflicting stories about your husband.”
I took a deep breath and resisted the impulse to snatch my hand back.
“Well, it’s a matter of business,” I said, trying to sound as matter-of-fact as possible. “My husband’s cousin, Jared Fraser, is an avowed Jacobite; Jamie—my husband—can’t very well go about letting his real views be made public, when he’s in partnership with Jared.” Seeing the doubt begin to fade from his face, I hurried it along. “Ask Monsieur Duverney,” I suggested. “He’s well acquainted with my husband’s true sympathies.”
“I have.” Louis paused for a long moment, watching his own fingers, dark and stubby, tracing delicate circles over the back of my hand.
“So very pale,” he murmured. “So fine. I believe I could see the blood flow beneath your skin.”
He let go of my hand then and sat regarding me. I was extremely good at reading faces, but Louis’s was quite impenetrable at the moment. I realized suddenly that he’d been a king since the age of five; the ability to hide his thoughts was as much a part of him as his Bourbon nose or the sleepy black eyes.
This thought brought another in its wake, with a chill that struck me deep in the pit of the stomach. He was the King. The Citizens of Paris would not rise for forty years or more; until that day, his rule within France was absolute. He could free Jamie with a word—or kill him. He could do with me as he liked; there was no recourse. One nod of his head, and the coffers of France could spill the gold that would launch Charles Stuart, loosing him like a deadly bolt of lightning to strike through the heart of Scotland.
He was the King. He would do as he wished. And I watched his dark eyes, clouded with thought, and waited, trembling, to see what the Royal pleasure might be.
“Tell me, ma chère Madame,” he said at last, stirring from his introspection. “If I were to grant your request, to free your husband …” he paused, considering.
“Yes?”
“He would have to leave France,” Louis said, one thick brow raised in warning. “That would be a condition of his release.”
“I understand.” My
heart was pounding so hard that it nearly drowned out his words. Jamie leaving France was, after all, precisely the point. “But he’s exiled from Scotland …”
“I think that might be arranged.”
I hesitated, but there seemed little choice but to agree on Jamie’s behalf. “All right.”
“Good.” The King nodded, pleased. Then his eyes returned to me, rested on my face, glided down my neck, my breasts, my body. “I would ask a small service of you in return, Madame,” he said softly.
I met his eyes squarely for one second. Then I bowed my head. “I am at Your Majesty’s complete disposal,” I said.
“Ah.” He rose and threw off the dressing gown, leaving it flung carelessly over the back of his armchair. He smiled and held out a hand to me. “Très bien, ma chère. Come with me, then.”
I closed my eyes briefly, willing my knees to work. You’ve been married twice, for heaven’s sake, I thought to myself. Quit making such a bloody fuss about it.
I rose to my feet and took his hand. To my surprise, he didn’t turn toward the velvet chaise, but instead led me toward the door at the far side of the room.
I had one moment of ice-cold clarity as he let go my hand to open the door.
Damn you, Jamie Fraser, I thought. Damn you to hell!
* * *
I stood quite still on the threshold, blinking. My meditations on the protocol of Royal disrobing faded into sheer astonishment.
The room was quite dark, lit only by numerous tiny oil-lamps, set in groups of five in alcoves in the wall of the chamber. The room itself was round, and so was the huge table that stood in its center, the dark wood gleaming with pinpoint reflections. There were people sitting at the table, no more than hunched dark blurs against the blackness of the room.
There was a murmur at my entrance, quickly stilled at the King’s appearance. As my eyes grew more accustomed to the murk, I realized with a sense of shock that the people seated at the table wore hoods; the nearest man turned toward me, and I caught the faint gleam of eyes through holes in the velvet. It looked like a convention of hangmen.
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