Minette

by Melanie Clegg

  Louise and I exchange a look. She’s not fooled but it suits her to let Mam have her moment of glory. ‘That is very kind of you, aunt,’ she says, casting down her huge brown eyes to hide her amusement. ‘I’m sure my mother will be very pleased to hear from you.’

  Louise is to have the room next to mine and I proudly escort her up there when Mam goes for her lie down after dinner. ‘I was told you were living in great discomfort,’ my cousin says looking around herself curiously and touching a gentle finger to the flaky gilded panelling in her room, which is small but very pretty with fragile pale blue watered silk hangings at the window and around the bed. There’s a small painting of our grandmother Anne of Denmark over the small fireplace, looking prim and a little roguish in apricot velvet. ‘I think that this cannot be true though.’

  ‘We used to be very poor,’ I say, sitting down on the bed and giving a little bounce. ‘Our pension was held up for months on end and then when we did get it, Mam used to send most of it back to England to father or give it away to our friends here but, of course, once our father had been executed…’ My voice trails away and I give a little shrug.

  Louise nods. ‘I am glad that things are not quite so grievous as we all believed,’ she says, sitting down beside me. ‘My mother always used to say that no matter how poorly we off we were, at least we weren’t like poor Aunt Henrietta, unable to afford a fire and living on boiled cabbages every day.’

  ‘Boiled cabbage isn’t so very bad,’ I say lightly. ‘I rather miss it now.’ I give her a wicked look. ‘Perhaps we should have it for supper tonight so that you can try it for yourself?’

  Louise laughs. ‘I see that you share Charles’ sense of humour,’ she says. ‘Your brothers are very much missed at the Hague, especially James and Harry. My mother is always talking about her ‘poor sweet Harry’ and James, as you surely know, is her favourite nephew.’

  I’m surprised. ‘Not Charles?’ I say.

  Louise shakes her head, making her auburn curls bounce about her shoulders. ‘She loves him but doesn’t always approve of the companions that he keeps,’ she says a little awkwardly. I know she means his mistresses - Mam is always complaining about them too, especially one called Mrs Barlow. Mam would never speak to me directly about such matters but I’ve heard her muttering to Tante Anne about Mrs Barlow’s extravagance, petulant ways and the threatening letters that stop just short of blackmail that she sends when in need of extra money.

  Louise has three sisters: Eliza, who is intimidating, intelligent and corresponds as an equal with the philosopher Descartes as well as being one of the greatest beauties in Europe; Henrietta, who was pretty and gentle and kind until she died six years ago after her marriage to a Transylvanian prince and the youngest, Sophia, who is lively and loves dancing and practical jokes. I lie on Louise’s bed, my chin resting on my hands and completely fascinated as she tells me stories about them all, about their love of dressing up in their mother’s fantastical old clothes with their huge farthingales and tall lace edged winged collars; about the time Sophia dressed up as a boy and declared that she was going to run away and join the circus; that Eliza hates her nickname ‘The Star of the North’ which is supposed to be a charming tribute to her incandescent beauty or the fact that pretty Henrietta loved to spend all of her time in the kitchens making cakes and jam until she was sent away to be married.

  Louise’s expressive face becomes sad when she talks about her dead sister. ‘She was the very best of us all,’ she says, wiping away a tear with the back of her hand. Fun loving and merry though Elizabeth’s brood may be, they’re not always easy to get along with and it was sweet Henrietta’s role in the family to soothe ruffled tempers, to kiss furrowed brows and sweet talk her difficult siblings into getting along with each other.

  ‘I wish that I had sisters,’ I say wistfully.

  ‘You have Mary,’ Louise reminds me, wiping away her tears and giving a last little sniff. Crying makes her face go blotchy and she rubs impatiently at her sore cheeks.

  I feel ashamed. ‘Mary has always been very kind to me but she is so much older,’ I say. ‘She was married before I was even born and is old enough to be my mother. I wish that we could have been brought up together as you and your sisters were.’

  Louise laughs then. ‘It’s not always fun and games,’ she says. ‘I love my sisters dearly and my brothers too, but I can think of a hundred, no, a thousand times when I would have swapped places with you in a heartbeat.’ She sighs, gets up and walks to the window. ‘To be left alone is such a delight,’ she says as she pushes open the window and leans out to take in a deep rapturous breath of frosty Paris air. ‘I know that all the world idolises my mother, that they call her the Queen of Hearts, but they don’t know what she is like in private…’ She breaks off and shivers and I don’t know if it is because of the cold or something else.

  She spends most of that evening asleep after her long journey but Mam is keen to show her off to Tante Anne and so after breakfast the next morning we all go forth to the Louvre. Terrified of being caught and taken back to her mother, Louise had packed only the bare essentials when she fled the court but at least had the foresight to bring along a lovely dress of rich russet silk with a fine lace collar and cuffs and pretty bows on the bodice.

  ‘I’ll have to give this away when I enter the convent,’ she says sadly, admiring herself in a mirror and smoothing the shimmering silk down over her slim hips. ‘Or perhaps we could cut it up and turn it into an altar cloth?’

  Mam beams at her in delight. ‘I could help you with the embroidery,’ she says. ‘I know that your talent is for painting rather than sewing.’ Louise is apparently an extremely capable artist and was the favourite pupil of the great Honthorst himself. I can’t imagine what Mam would say should I express a wish to be taught by an actual artist - however in my cousins such bohemian eccentricities are tolerated and even considered rather charming.

  ‘Did you have to leave all your paintings behind?’ I ask.

  Louise nods sadly. ‘They were all far too big to come with me,’ she says ruefully. ‘I hope that my mother will send my favourites on to me once I am settled. After all, she probably won’t want them hanging about the place to remind her of my disgrace.’

  Mam sighs. ‘I’m sure your mother will forgive you,’ she says. She was up for hours last night writing her letter to Aunt Elizabeth and it was sent off to the Hague before we’d even sat down to breakfast. I don’t know what it says but I hope she kept the delighted crowing to a dignified muted level. ‘After all she has forgiven your brother Edward for his conversion, has she not?’

  Ah, my handsome cousin Edward or the Prince Palatine as he is known here in France. The best looking of all my cousins, he was a wayward, difficult boy with a tendency to get into stupid brawls in taverns until Aunt Elizabeth decided that enough was enough and packed him off with his brothers Maurice and Phillip to Paris to learn some manners and how to behave like a gentleman.

  The effort was wasted on Maurice, who is now sailing the seven seas as a pirate privateer and Philip, who recently had to flee the Hague after murdering a young French nobleman in a street fight after he bragged about making romantic conquests of both Louise and her mother. However, Edward took to Parisian life like a duck to water and became so much the elegant and well heeled French gentleman that he ended up converting to Catholicism and secretly marrying the Princess Anne Gonzaga, who is ten years his senior.

  To quote one of Aunt Elizabeth’s beloved Shakespeare plays though, all’s well that ends well as the princess, who remains infatuated with her charming and good looking husband, turned out to be as rich as he is penniless and keeps them both in great style and the arrival at regular intervals of three small and very pretty daughters managed in time to secure a pardon from his mother. He’s lived in Paris for almost twenty years now and is in every way a cultured French gentleman even if his accent occasionally slips into the Dutch of his boyhood.

  Philippe is wait
ing for us at the top of the stairs when we arrive at the Louvre. It hasn’t snowed for a couple of days now and the snow in the courtyards is beginning to melt and turn into dirty slush which soaks through the thin leather of my boots. I’m acutely aware of the undignified sloshing noise that my feet are making as I go up the stairs and glower at him in annoyance when he leans in, suffocating me with his iris scent, and whispers: ‘I couldn’t wait to see your handsome cousin Rupert’s sister. We’re all agog to see what she looks like.’ He squints past me at Louise, who is pretending not to listen. ‘She is very tall isn’t she?’ he says with a pout. ‘Nice eyes though. Shame about the nose.’

  Tante Anne waits for us in her closet, with Edward and his wife, Anne at her side. Louise gives a cry of delight to see her brother and he rises up from his chair to take her hands in his. ‘Sister,’ he says, kissing her cheeks. ‘It’s been too long since I last set eyes upon you.’

  ‘You should have visited more often, Ned,’ Louise reproves him with a twinkle in her eyes. ‘But now that I have seen Paris for myself, I can see why you found it so hard to drag yourself away.’ She looks past him to her sister-in-law, a chubby but comely blonde with an indolent demeanour and rather blank expression who is arrayed in a gown of shimmering pale blue silk with pearls and crystals sewn all over the bodice. ‘How lovely to meet your wife at last,’ she says appreciatively. ‘I can see why you risked our mother’s displeasure to court her.’

  Edward winks but says nothing as he offers her his arm to lead her to Tante Anne who is waiting with her most gracious smile to greet the newcomer. She and Mam are always picking over Aunt Elizabeth’s shortcomings, both real and imagined and I can tell that Anne is more than a little anxious about meeting one of her famously eccentric daughters. She flutters her plump hands and pats her greying fair hair as Louise strides towards her with that long legged casual gait that instantly brings to mind her elder brother Rupert.

  ‘Your Majesty,’ Louise says, bowing low. ‘You’ve all been so very kind to a poor runaway.’

  ‘It’s a delight to have you here among us,’ my aunt says with a smile, looking Louise over from her bobbing auburn curls down to her feet in their pretty green velvet shoes. ‘Your aunt tells me that you plan to enter a convent?’ she says kindly.

  Louise smiles and nods. ‘It is my dearest wish,’ she says. ‘There are Protestant convents that I could enter but it has been clear to me for a long time that my chosen path is quite different.’

  ‘We shall make arrangements for you to meet with my own confessor, who will be more than happy to instruct you in the Catholic faith,’ my aunt says graciously. ‘We are all most sympathetic with your plight - especially as your mother is not entirely in favour of your plans,’ she adds delicately.

  ‘Our mother should come round in time,’ Edward interposes. ‘After all, she said that she wished that I were dead when she first heard the news of my conversion and we’re the best of friends again now.’

  ‘Yes, but you were so obliging as to provide her with grandchildren,’ Louise reminds him merrily. ‘I’m afraid that my ability to do so from within the confines of a convent are somewhat limited.’ Tante Anne looks aghast at this and Louise immediately turns to her with a contrite look. ‘I apologise, Your Majesty, for my levity. It’s a very bad habit of mine, I’m afraid.’

  Tante Anne inclines her head. ‘I have heard that your upbringing was somewhat unorthodox,’ she says without enthusiasm and a wary look at her younger son who is still lurking by the door. She’s always telling Mam that Philippe is too easily led astray and doesn’t need any more bad influences in his life.

  Louise and Edward exchange a bright look. ‘You could say that,’ he says with a grin. ‘Haven’t we turned out well though?’ And they burst out laughing.

  Chapter Nine

  Paris, June 1658

  Louise went to live at Mam’s convent at Chaillot and is apparently very happy there although the Mother Superior has told my mother that she doubts my scapegrace cousin has a genuine vocation. She believes that Louise would have been happier in one of the Lutheran convents they have in Holland and that this sudden interest in Catholicism is just more flamboyant play acting. Mam won’t agree though - this is her moment of triumph over Aunt Elizabeth and she is determined not to lose any of it.

  Louise writes to me at least once a month, covering the pages with her bold, slanting writing and enclosing whimsical and sometimes cruel sketches of the nuns. With gentle humour she tells me about her life at Chaillot interspersed with merry little stories about her family and mine.

  ‘Did you know that your brother was once desperate to marry my sister?’ she wrote once. ‘It’s true. He ruined his chances though when he took my sister for a romantic walk beside the river and tried to flatter her by claiming that she is prettier than his mistress, Mrs Barlow. To the surprise of absolutely no one, my lovely Sophie was deeply unimpressed by such ill considered flummery and the next time he asked her to walk out with him she made her excuses, claiming to have a large corn on her toe. Poor Charles. I’ve seen his Mrs Barlow and he’s right: my sister is infinitely better looking…’

  I laugh, even though I know that I shouldn’t. Mam would be furious if she knew what Louise thinks nothing of telling me. I love it though - I’m shocked to have my childish adorations rearranged and in some cases completely destroyed but at the same time, I feel myself starting to love them all the more for I now know that I love them despite all their flaws rather than in ignorance of them. Charles, James, Harry, Mary, Aunt Elizabeth, Rupert, My Sainted Father and even Mam herself. No one is safe from Louise’s illuminating pen and wicked wit.

  For my fourteenth birthday, Louise sends a portrait completed from sketches she made of me before she left for Chaillot. I am delighted and hang it beside my little dressing table so that I can look at it every morning as my new femme de chambre, Madame de Bordes prepares me for the day and again at night as she brushes out my hair while I long sleepily for my bed.

  Louise painted me in what she knows is my favourite dress of pale buttery yellow satin, with one of Mam’s spaniels wriggling impatiently in my arms. My gaze is direct and faintly amused, echoing the slight upwards curve of my red lips. There’s something wary about my expression though, as if I am keeping secrets that I long to share but dare not. ‘Louise has captured you very well,’ Mam says when it arrives wrapped in thick layers of wadded cotton. ‘You always used to pull that face when you had sneaked down to the kitchen and helped yourself to jam.’

  Tante Anne holds a party for my birthday and as I sit in front of my mirror and idly watch Madame de Bordes fasten my pearl necklace around my neck then dab lavender and rose scent behind my ears, I find my eyes straying up to the portrait. I wonder what secrets the painted me is keeping and blush crimson as I have to look away.

  My birthday party at the Louvre is a very grand affair. As Mam keeps telling me, I am old enough now to be betrothed and it is clear that both she and Tante Anne are already making plans for my future. They watch intently and whisper together behind their feathered and painted fans when Louis dutifully leads me out to dance. I remember Charles telling Mam that Anne would rather throw herself into the Seine than let her son marry me but could it be that he was wrong?

  I look up at Louis’ unsmiling handsome face as the dance brings us briefly together and try to imagine what it would be like to marry him. He’s almost twenty now and exudes confidence and a highly polished sense of courtesy that hardly varies no matter whom he is addressing whether they are his mother, a grand Duchesse or the most insignificant blushing little maid at the Louvre. His expression is almost always gravely polite, he rarely smiles and his large dark grey eyes look out upon the world with a mixture of wariness and amusement that, according to cousin Louise at least, mirrors my own. Despite his youth, it’s impossible to forget that Louis is king. What would it be like to be wife to such a man? To spend time alone with him? To, and I blush as I think this, see him naked in be
d?

  Oh come now, is it possible to have brothers such as mine and remain in complete ignorance of what happens in the bedchamber? ‘One day you’ll see that there is more to love than just four bare legs in a bed,’ I heard James mutter to Charles one day when they thought they were alone. Four bare legs in a bed. I glance down at my glittering little shoes and imagine my feet and then another pair beside them, neatly arranged at the end of a bed.

  ‘How are your brothers?’ Louis asks suddenly, breaking the silence that has fallen between us and I blush even more, terrified that he can read my mind and has seen the shameful imaginings therein.

  ‘They are all very well,’ I say carefully. I can’t tell him that Mam shakes and cries whenever a missive arrives from the front, terrified that it contains bad news about one of her boys. News came once that James and Harry had gone missing during a battle and she was prostrate in bed for days until a letter arrived saying that they had both been found alive and well. I can’t tell him about the terrible dreams I have about blood splattered battlefields torn apart by relentless cannon fire. I can’t tell him about Harry’s frightened letters from Spain, begging me not to tell Mam or Charles how scared and ashamed he is. ‘I miss them,’ I say instead.

  ‘I hope that we will see them here again soon,’ he says with a nod as the music ends. He offers me his arm and I shyly place my hand upon it so that he can lead me back to Mam who is all hopeful smiles and fluttery hands as we approach the dais.

  I step out with my cousin Edward next and in contrast to Louis he chatters and jokes the whole time so that I almost forget the steps as I am so distracted by laughing. ‘You’re a sweet girl,’ he whispers at one point, his arm tightening on my waist as we weave between the other dancers. ‘If I weren’t married already, I’d be asking your mother for your hand.’