ii.
It was a freezing cold day in February the first time I met Mr Weatherall. That winter was the first of the really cruel winters, but while in Paris the River Seine had flooded and frozen, and the poverty-stricken were dying in the streets, things were very different in Versailles. By the time we awoke the staff had made up the fires that roared in the grates, and we ate a steaming breakfast and wrapped up warm in furs, our hands kept warm by muffs as we took morning and afternoon strolls in the grounds.
That particular day the sun was shining, although it did nothing to offset the bone-chilling cold. A crust of ice sparkled prettily on a thick layer of snow, and it was so hard that Scratch, our Irish wolfhound, was able to walk upon it without his paws sinking in. He’d taken a few tentative steps and then on realizing his good fortune given a joyous bark and dashed off ahead while Mother and I made our way across the grounds and to the trees at the perimeter of the south lawn.
Holding her hand, I glanced over my shoulder as we walked. Far away our chateau shone in the reflection of sun and snow, its windows winking, and then, as we stepped out of the sun and into the trees, it became indistinct, as though shaded by pencils. We were further out than usual, I realized, no longer within reach of its shelter.
‘Do not be alarmed if you see a gentleman in the shadows,’ said Mother, bending to me slightly. Her voice was quiet, I clutched her hand a little tighter at the very idea, and she laughed. ‘Our presence here is no coincidence.’
I was six years old then, and had no idea that a lady meeting a man in such circumstances might have ‘implications’. As far as I was concerned, it was simply my mother meeting a man, and of no greater significance than her talking to Emanuel, our gardener, or passing the time of day with Jean, our coachman.
Frost confers stillness on the world. In the trees it was even quieter than on the snow-covered lawn and we were absorbed by an absolute tranquillity as we took a narrow path into the depth of the wood.
‘Mr Weatherall likes to play a game,’ said my mother, her voice hushed in honour of the peace. ‘He may like to surprise us, and one should always be aware of what surprises lie in store. We take into account our surroundings and cast our expectations accordingly. Do you see tracks?’
The snow around us was untouched. ‘No, Mama.’
‘Good. Then we can be sure of our radius. Now, where might a man hide in such conditions?’
‘Behind a tree?’
‘Good, good – but what about here?’ She indicated overhead and I craned my neck to gaze into the canopy of branches above, the frost twinkling in shards of sunlight.
‘Observe everywhere, always,’ smiled Mother. ‘Use your eyes to see, don’t incline your head if at all possible. Don’t show to others where your attention is directed. In life you will have opponents, and those opponents will attempt to read you for clues as to your intentions. Maintain your advantage by making them guess.’
‘Will our visitor be high in a tree, Mama?’ I asked.
She chuckled. ‘No. As a matter of fact, I have seen him. Do you see him, Élise?’
We had stopped. I gazed at the trees in front of us. ‘No, Mama.’
‘Show yourself, Freddie,’ called Mother, and sure enough, a few yards ahead of us a grey-bearded man stepped from behind a tree, swept his tricorn from his head and gave an exaggerated bow.
The men of Versailles were a certain way. They looked down their noses at anybody not like them. They had what I thought of as ‘Versailles smiles’, hoisted halfway between bemused and bored, as though constantly on the verge of delivering the witty quip by which, it seemed, all men of court were judged.
This man was not a man of Versailles; the beard alone saw to that. And though he was smiling, it was not a Versailles smile; instead it was soft but serious, the face of a man who thought before he spoke and made his words count.
‘You cast a shadow, Freddie,’ smiled Mother as he stepped forward, kissed her proffered hand, then did the same to me, bowing again.
‘The shadow?’ he said, and his voice was warm and growly but uncultured, the voice of a seaman or soldier. ‘Oh, bloody hell, I must be losing my touch.’
‘I hope not, Freddie,’ laughed Mother. ‘Élise, meet Mr Weatherall, an Englishman. An associate of mine. Freddie, meet Élise.’
An associate? Like the Crows? No, he was nothing like them. Instead of glaring at me he took my hand, bowed and kissed it. ‘Charmed, mademoiselle,’ he rasped, his English accent mangling the word ‘mademoiselle’ in a way that I couldn’t help but find charming.
Mother fixed me with a serious expression. ‘Mr Weatherall is our confidant and protector, Élise. A man to whom you may always turn when in need of help.’
I looked at her, feeling a little startled. ‘But what about Father?’
‘Father loves us both dearly, and would gladly give his life for us, but men as important as your father need shielding from their domestic responsibilities. This is why we have Mr Weatherall, Élise – that your Father need not be troubled by those matters concerning his womenfolk.’ An even more significant look came into her eyes. ‘Your father need not be troubled, Élise, do you understand?’
‘Yes, Mama.’
Mr Weatherall was nodding. ‘I am here to serve, mademoiselle,’ he said to me.
I curtsied. ‘Thank you, monsieur.’
Scratch had arrived, greeting Mr Weatherall excitedly, the two of them evidently old friends.
‘Can we talk, Julie?’ asked the protector, replacing his tricorn and indicating that the two of them might walk together.
I stayed some steps behind, hearing brief snatches and disjointed snippets of their hushed conversation. I heard ‘Grand Master’ and ‘King’, but they were just words, the kind I was used to hearing from behind the doors of the chateau. It’s only in the years since that they’ve taken on a much greater resonance.
And then it happened.
And looking back I can’t remember the sequence of events. I remember seeing Mother and Mr Weatherall tense at the same time as Scratch bristled and growled. Then my mother wheeled. My gaze went in the direction of her eyes and I saw it there: a wolf standing in the undergrowth to my left, a black-and-grey wolf standing absolutely still in the trees, regarding me with hungry eyes.
Something appeared from within Mother’s muff, a silver blade, and in two quick strides she had crossed to me, swept me up and away and deposited me behind her so that I clung to her skirts as she faced the wolf, her blade outstretched.
Across the way Mr Weatherall held a straining hackles-risen Scratch by the scruff of his neck, and I noticed that his other hand reached for the hilt of a sword that hung at his side.
‘Wait,’ commanded Mother. An upraised hand stopped Mr Weatherall in his tracks. ‘I don’t think this wolf will attack.’
‘I’m not so sure, Julie,’ warned Mr Weatherall. ‘That is an exceptionally hungry-looking wolf you’ve got there.’
The wolf stared at my mother. She looked right back, talking to us at the same time. ‘There’s nothing for him to eat in the hills; it’s desperation that has brought him to our grounds. But I think this wolf knows that by attacking us, he makes an enemy of us. Far better for it to retreat in the face of implacable strength and forage elsewhere.’
Mr Weatherall gave a short laugh. ‘Why am I getting the whiff of a parable here?’
‘Because, Freddie,’ smiled Mother, ‘there is a parable here.’
The wolf stared for a few moments more, never taking its eyes from Mother, until at last it dipped its head, turned and trotted slowly away. We watched it disappear into the trees, and my mother stood down, her blade replaced in her muff.
I looked at Mr Weatherall. His jacket was once again buttoned and there was no sign of his sword.
And I came one step closer to the penny dropping.
iii.
I showed Mr Weatherall to my mother’s room and he asked that he see her alone, assured me that he could let himsel
f out. Curious, I peered through the keyhole and saw him take a seat by her side, reach for her hand and bow his head. Moments later I thought I heard the sound of him weeping.
12 April 1778
i.
I gaze from my window and remember last summer, when in moments of play with Arno I ascended from my cares and enjoyed blissful days of being a little girl again, running with him through the hedge maze in the grounds of the palace, squabbling over dessert, little knowing that the respite from worry would be so temporary.
Every morning I dig my nails into my palms and ask, ‘Is she awake?’ and Ruth, knowing I really mean, ‘Is she alive?’, reassures me that Mother has survived the night.
But it won’t be long now.
ii.
So. The moment that the penny dropped. It draws nearer. But first, another signpost.
The Carrolls arrived in the spring of the year I first met Mr Weatherall. And what a gorgeous spring it was. The snows had melted to reveal lush carpets of trimmed lawn beneath, returning Versailles to its natural state of immaculate perfection. Surrounded by the immaculately cut topiary of our grounds we could barely hear the hum of the town, while away to our right the slopes of the palace were visible, wide stone steps leading to the columns of its vast frontage. Quite the splendour in which to entertain the Carrolls from Mayfair in London, England. Mr Carroll and Father spent hours in the drawing room, apparently deep in conversation and were occasionally visited by the Crows, while Mother and I were tasked with entertaining Mrs Carroll and her daughter May, who lost no time at all telling me that she was ten and that because I was only six that made her much better than me.
We invited them for a walk and wrapped up against a slight morning chill soon to be burned away by the sun: Mother and I, Mrs Carroll and May.
Mother and Mrs Carroll walked some steps in front of us. Mother, I noticed, wore her muff, and I wondered if the blade was secreted within. I had asked about it, of course, after the incident with the wolf.
‘Mama, why do you keep a knife in your muff?’
‘Why, Élise, in case of threats from the marauding wolves, of course.’ And with a wry smile she added, ‘Wolves of the four-legged and two-legged variety. And, anyway, the blade helps the muff keep its shape.’
But then, as was quickly becoming customary, she made me promise to keep it as one of our vérités cachées. Mr Weatherall was a vérité cachée. Which meant that when Mr Weatherall gave me a sword lesson, that became a vérité cachée as well.
Secrets by any other name.
May and I walked a polite distance behind our mothers. The hems of our skirts brushed the lawn so that from a distance we would appear to be gliding across the grounds, four ladies in perfect transport.
‘How old are you, Smell-bag?’ whispered May to me, though as I’ve said, she had already established our ages. Twice.
‘Don’t call me “Smell-bag”,’ I said primly.
‘Sorry, Smell-bag, but tell me again how old you are.’
‘I’m six,’ I told her.
She gave a six-is-a-terrible-age-to-be chortle, like she herself had never been six. ‘Well, I am ten,’ she said haughtily. (And, as an aside, May Carroll said everything ‘haughtily’. In fact, unless I say otherwise, just assume she said it haughtily.)
‘I know you are ten,’ I hissed, fondly imagining sticking out a foot and watching her sprawl to the gravel of the driveway.
‘Just so you don’t forget,’ she said, and I pictured little bits of gravel sticking to her bawling face as she picked herself up from the ground. What was it Mr Weatherall had told me? The bigger they are, the harder they fall.
(And now I have reached the age of ten I wonder if I am arrogant like her? Do I have that mocking tone when I talk to those younger or lower in status than myself? According to Mr Weatherall, I’m overconfident, which I suppose is a nice way of saying ‘arrogant’, and maybe that’s why May and I rubbed up against each other the way we did, because deep down we were actually quite similar.)
As we took our turn around the grounds, the words spoken by the ladies ahead of us reached our ears. Mrs Carroll was saying, ‘Obviously we have concerns with the direction your Order appears to want to take.’
‘You have concerns?’ said Mother.
‘Indeed. Concerns about the intentions of your husband’s associates. And as we both know it is our duty to ensure our husbands do the right thing. Perhaps, if you don’t mind my saying, your husband is giving certain factions leave to dictate his policies?’
‘Indeed, there are high-ranking members who favour, shall we say, more extreme measures regarding the changing of the old Order.’
‘This concerns us in England.’
My mother chortled. ‘Of course it does. In England you refuse to accept change of any kind.’
Mrs Carroll bridled. ‘Not at all. Your reading of our national character lacks subtlety. But I’m beginning to get a feel for where your own loyalties lie, Madame de la Serre. You yourself are petitioning for change?’
‘If change be for the better.’
‘Then do I need to report that your loyalties lie with your husband’s advisors? Has my errand been in vain?’
‘Not quite, madame. How comforting it is to know that I enjoy the support of my English colleagues in opposing drastic measures. But I cannot claim to share your ultimate goal. While it’s true there are forces pushing for violent overthrow, and while it’s true that my husband believes in a God-appointed monarch – indeed, that his ideals for the future encompass no change at all – I myself tread a middle line. A third way, if you like. Perhaps it won’t surprise you to learn that I consider my ideology to be the more moderate of the three.’
They walked on some steps, and Mrs Carroll nodded, thinking.
Into the silence my mother said, ‘I’m sorry if you don’t feel our goals are aligned, Mrs Carroll. My apologies if that makes me a somewhat unreliable confidante.’
The other woman nodded. ‘I see. Well, if I were you, Madame de la Serre, I would use my influence with both sides in order to propose your middle line.’
‘On that issue I shouldn’t like to say, but be assured your journey has not been in vain. My respect for you and your branch of the Order remains as steadfast as I hope it does in return. From me you can rely on two things: firstly, that I will abide by my own principles; and, secondly, that I will not allow my husband to be swayed by his advisors.’
‘Then you have given me what I want.’
‘Very good. It is some consolation, I hope.’
Behind, May inclined her head to me. ‘Have your parents told you of your destiny?’
‘No. What do you mean, “destiny”?’
She put a hand to her mouth, pretending to have said too much. ‘They will do, perhaps, when you turn ten years old. Just as they did me. How old are you, by the way?’
I sighed. ‘I am six.’
‘Well, perhaps they will tell you when you are ten, as they did me.’
In the end, of course, my parents’ hand was forced, and they had to tell me my ‘destiny’ much earlier, because two years later, in the autumn of 1775, when I had just turned eight, Mother and I went shopping for shoes.
iii.
As well as the chateau in Versailles, we had a sizeable villa in the city, and whenever we were there Mother liked to go shopping.
As I have said, while she was contemptuous of most fashions, detesting fans and wigs, conforming to the very minimum of flamboyance when it came to her gowns, there was one thing about which she was fastidious.
Shoes. She loved shoes. She bought silk pairs from Christian in Paris, where we would go, regular as clockwork, once every two weeks, because it was her one extravagance, she said, and mine too, since we always came away with a pair of shoes for me as well as her.
Christian was located in one of Paris’s more salubrious streets, far away from our villa on the Île Saint-Louis. But still, everything is relative and I found myself holding m
y breath as we were helped out of the comfortable and fragrant-smelling interior of our carriage and into the noisy, surging street, where the sound was of shouting and horses’ hooves and a constant rumbling of carriage wheels. The sound of Paris.
Above us women leaned from windows across folded arms and watched the world go by. Lining the street were stalls that sold fruit and fabric, barrows piled high with goods manned by shouting men and women in aprons who immediately called to us. ‘Madame! Mademoiselle!’
My eyes were drawn to the shadows at the edges of the street, where I saw blank faces in the gloom, and I fancied I saw starvation and desperation in those eyes as they watched us reproachfully, hungrily.
‘Come along now, Élise,’ said Mother, and I picked up my skirts just as she did and trod daintily over the mud and excrement beneath our feet, and we were ushered into Christian by the owner.
The door slammed behind us, the outside world denied. A shop boy busied himself at our feet with a towel, and in moments it was as though we had never made that perilous crossing, those few feet between our carriage and the door of one of Paris’s most exclusive shoe shops.
Christian wore a white wig tied back with a black ribbon, a frock coat and white breeches. He was a perfect approximation of half-nobleman, half-footman, which was how he saw himself on the social ladder. He was fond of saying that it was in his power to make women feel beautiful, which was the greatest power a man possessed. And yet to him Mother remained an enigma, as though she was the one customer upon whom his power did not quite work. It didn’t, and I knew why. It was because other women simply saw the shoes as tributes to their own vanity, whereas Mother adored them as things of beauty.
Christian, however, hadn’t yet reached that conclusion so every visit was marked by him barking up the wrong tree.
‘Look, madame,’ he said, presenting to her a pair of slippers adorned with a buckle. ‘Every single lady through that door goes weak at the knees at the mere sight of this exquisite new creation, yet only Madame de la Serre has ankles pretty enough to do them justice.’
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