Minette

by Melanie Clegg

  ‘You see,’ he hisses miserably at me. ‘You see how it is? Nowhere is safe.’ He looks at Armand with disgust. ‘And now she even has my own dearest friends running about and doing her foul bidding.’

  The Comte shrugs. ‘If you’d been forced to listen to her going on and on about my perfections for hours on end, you’d have been dragging me out by my hair and trussing me up like a chicken to dump at her feet long before now.’

  Philippe laughs then and releases me. ‘Oh, Armand,’ he says, linking arms with his friend and turning to blow me a kiss. ‘What would I do without you?’

  ‘You’d probably be married off to one of your big nosed cousins by now,’ the Comte says with a sly look at me.

  Philippe pretends to shudder. ‘Just imagine. Oh no, I can’t, Armand, it’s just too horrible to be thought of.’ They start to stroll away. I am forgotten.

  Or perhaps not. Just as they are about to disappear, Armand pauses, his arm still linked with Philippe’s, and looks back over his shoulder at me and smiles. I catch my breath but in another instant he is gone and I am alone again.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Paris, July 1659

  It’s unseasonably cold and we spend our days huddled around the paltry fires or bundled under blankets, watching miserably as rain falls relentlessly beyond the tall windows of the Palais Royal and waiting for summer to begin. It’s not looking promising though - the sky is leaden and dank and the city streets covered in an oily slick of rain that courses in great muddy floods through the shallow gutters that line the roads. Our only excursions these days are across the slippery courtyard to our chapel for Mass, where we wince and whimper as we hop from foot to foot on the freezing cold marble floor.

  Mam feels the damp weather particularly badly and is quite miserable while the deluge lasts. She wears thick woollen mittens all day long, which make her clumsy and tearful and in the evenings she bullies her ladies into warming her bed with huge copper bed pans so that she can clamber into it before it is even dark, there to remain until morning when we coax her with glasses of spiced hot hippocras and warmed slippers into getting up again, complaining all the while about the chill from the rain seeping into her very bones.

  She’s depressed anyway though and would probably have taken to her bed no matter what the weather thanks to Charles’ recent exploits. Not content with infuriating her by secretly paying court to my sister Mary’s staunchly Protestant sister-in-law, the by all accounts very beautiful and vivacious Princess Henrietta Catherine of Nassau, he has just, completely without consulting her, contacted Cardinal Mazarin, who is in Spain trying to arrange Louis’ marriage to the Infanta Maria Theresa, to suggest a match with his favourite niece, Hortense Mancini, who is Marie’s younger sister.

  The Cardinal refused, politely citing the fact that it really wasn’t proper for Charles to propose to a mere demoiselle of the court when Anne-Marie remained unbetrothed and, mortifyingly, unasked for. He also touched delicately on my brother’s lack of both throne and prospects and everyone at court fell about laughing at this latest ignominious blow to the Stuart family’s pretensions. Mam and I could hardly bear to show our faces at the Louvre and we remained sequestered at the Palais Royal until Tante Anne sent a message to inform us that it had all blown over.

  ‘First Louis and now Charles,’ Mam bewailed rather illogically. ‘Is no young man safe from that family?’

  There’s no point pointing out that this time they have rejected us as that only makes poor Mam’s tears flow all the more bitterly. ‘How shameful to be rejected by a family of jumped up Italian nobodies,’ she rails. ‘What was Charles thinking of to expose us all to such humiliation?’

  I suspect that he was thinking of the money. The cash Mam received from Louis’ coffers for the sale of her pearl necklace has long since been squandered on fuel, hand outs to our fellow exiles and overdue payments to our servants and we are once again living beyond our means and in daily expectation of disaster. Despite this though, our situation is infinitely better than that which Charles endures as he is completely reliant on the charity of friends and has no home of his own to speak of. His letters to me remain cheerful and optimistic about his shiftless, hand to mouth life but how happy can he be really?

  We hear that Hortense Mancini, who is still stuck in the provinces with her sisters, wept bitterly when her uncle told her that he had rejected the match. She is just thirteen years old and had fancied herself as a prospective queen, albeit of nothing but a pile of debts and disappointments. She’s considered to be the true beauty of the family and something of an adventuress as well - certainly, the prospect of marrying my brother and spending her life as a ramshackle exile roaming from court to court seems to have held no fears for her. I wonder if she knows about Princess Henrietta Catherine or Mrs Barlow or Jemmy. Perhaps she does and doesn’t care? I know that Marie wouldn’t.

  ‘It’s not been the Mazarinettes’ year,’ Philippe observes as we sit together in the chilly long gallery. He’s braved the rain to come over from the Louvre to visit Mam and me and has ensconced himself beside the fire beneath a bundle of furs with a glass of hippocras in one elegantly be-ringed hand and a pile of Mam’s wriggling black and white spaniels warming his feet. ‘First Louis and now Charles too. They’ll never bag themselves a king at this rate.’

  I giggle and fish another walnut out from the bowl at my elbow. ‘Who’d want to be a queen anyway?’ I say. ‘Just look at my poor mother.’

  Philippe sighs affectedly and accepts the nut that I have cracked for him. ‘Very true. These are uncertain times - even my brother came close to losing his throne during the Fronde.’

  ‘I remember.’ I was a very little girl at the time but I can still just about recall Mam’s panic as the streets filled with troops. We were living in cold, damp old apartments in the Louvre at the time and Tante Anne came one day to beg us to leave with the rest of the court and take refuge at Saint-Germain-en-Laye on the outskirts of Paris. Mam refused, saying that she’d faced much worse in England, and so we remained as a terrible winter tightened its grip on Paris and the royal troops outside the city walls prevented supplies from getting to us. Mam told me afterwards that she thought that we would surely freeze or starve to death before our plight was discovered.

  ‘That’s what I like about you,’ Philippe says suddenly. ‘You understand our family like no one else. It’s a shame that you have no money as you would have made Louis a much better wife than The Fat Nosed Infanta.’

  ‘I doubt that,’ I say, but I’m secretly pleased by the compliment, especially as it is at the expense of Maria Theresa although I can hardly say so. ‘Besides, Anne-Marie keeps saying that I’m destined for the cloister.’

  ‘Oh, I do hope not,’ Philippe exclaims, his fine dark eyes crackling with indignation. ‘No, I really cannot imagine you as a bride of Christ at all.’

  ‘I don’t think even Jesus would be able to endure having Mam as his mother in law,’ I say with a smile.

  ‘I wouldn’t mind that at all,’ Philippe says a little wistfully. He’s always been one of Mam’s pets, running to hide behind her skirts whenever Tante Anne scolds him or Louis puts him in his place. For her part, Mam adores him and once told me that Philippe is the sort of son that she should have had, not realising of course that her own boys, all grown men before their time, would probably also have turned out empty headed little princelings with suspiciously rouged lips and painted nails if it hadn’t been for the war and all these gruelling years of exile.

  ‘Well, you could always pay court to my sister Mary,’ I suggest with a grin. ‘Although I’ve heard that she’s been flirting with our cousin Rupert so she may already be off the market for all I know.’

  Philippe raises an elegant eyebrow. ‘The handsome Rupert, eh? Lucky girl.’ He sighs and stretches his legs before him, displacing some of the spaniels who whine at him grumpily before wandering off to find more restful quarters. ‘I don’t think I need to look so far afield anyway.�
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  I stare at him but before I can summon up the courage to ask what he means, he looks away and changes the subject. ‘Are you coming to my mother’s little party tonight?’

  I nod silently. It’s going to be Tante Anne’s last little soirée at the Louvre before she accompanies her sons, Anne-Marie and most of the court to Provence in the south of France for what is hoped will be the final peace negotiations with the Spanish. Tante Anne is rather over excited about the trip and has announced that they will return with the Infanta or not at all. I don’t think Louis is too happy about this but he hides his annoyance well and seems so excited about the journey and his anticipated nuptials that no one who did not know him could ever guess at his true reluctance to go.

  However, my cousin’s unwillingness to travel to the south is apparently matched only by my mother’s reluctance to leave the comforts of her bedchamber and venture across the road to the Louvre. It takes the Duchess of Richmond, Mistress Stewart and me more than an hour to first coax her from her bed and then flatter and cajole her into one of her finest black velvet gowns with lovely jet and garnet embroidery on the stomacher as she peers miserably between her heavy crimson silk curtains at the relentless rain. ‘I’m sure I just heard thunder,’ she says, clutching at her breast in terror. ‘Did any of you hear thunder?’

  I sigh and shake my head. ‘No, Mam, there’s no storm brewing.’ I wink at the Duchess and take her skirts in my hands to shake them into more elegant folds. ‘You look a vision of loveliness,’ I say with a smile.

  Mam shrugs. ‘Oh, no one cares what I look like any more,’ she says before relenting and gently patting my cheek. ‘No, all eyes will be on you, my dear, as they ought to be.’

  I doubt it but nonetheless have taken great care with my toilette, choosing one of the gowns, a pretty deep rose pink silk, that Mary sent me from Holland as a Christmas present and teaming it with a simple pearl necklace, blue satin shoes and long loose ringlets which whisper delightfully about my bared shoulders.

  It seems such a shame to hide such splendour beneath a heavy wool cloak for the trip across to the Louvre but needs must in such weather. Mam argues in vain for a carriage to be called but it’s ludicrous really when we live a mere few minutes walk across the road and so we put up our hoods, strap rattling metal soled pattens on over our fine silk shoes and take hold of our gentlemen escorts’ arms. Luckily for us all, the rain holds off for a few moments and so we reach the Louvre in a state of relative dryness with just our slightly soaked petticoat hems to bear witness to our ordeal.

  Philippe is waiting for us by the door leading to his mother’s apartments, hopping from foot to foot in a state that could almost be taken for excitement. ‘So you came then?’ he says gaily, offering Mam his arm and winking at me over his shoulder.

  Mam pats his hand kindly. ‘Of course we came,’ she says. ‘It would take more than a trifling amount of rain to keep us away.’

  Tante Anne bustles forward to greet us, smiling with genuine pleasure. ‘Henriette!’ She kisses my mother on both cheeks before turning to me. ‘My dear child!’ There’s more kisses for me before she leads us to the chairs she has had placed on a dais at the end of the room. ‘Philippe, you should accompany your cousin to get some refreshments,’ she says over her shoulder before winking at Mam, who looks flustered and nervously clears her throat.

  ‘Did your mother just wink at mine?’ I whisper to Philippe as I put my hand on his arm and let him carry me off to the salon next door where there is a table covered with bowls full of sweetmeats and footmen waiting to fill precious crystal glasses with warm spiced wine.

  Philippe smirks. ‘I believe that she did,’ he says, with a sidelong look at me. ‘Do you think they are plotting something?’ He sounds unusually nervous and I look up at him in surprise.

  ‘Well, they can’t be planning to marry us to each other as I’m far too poor and besides, I thought your mother was keen to pack you off to the altar with Anne-Marie,’ I say with a smile. ‘I can picture the happy nuptials now.’ Philippe pale and trembling with terror as a sumptuously gowned and smugly grinning Anne-Marie sprints up the aisle towards him, her cheeks plastered with crimson rouge and eyes gleaming with righteous triumph.

  ‘Please don’t,’ Philippe says with a shudder, handing me a glass of wine. Clearly he can picture the scene as well. ‘Can you imagine Anne-Marie and I together? I’d never have a moment’s peace.’

  ‘Perhaps it would do you good?’ I say, sipping my wine to hide my grin.

  Philippe pinches my arm. ‘Don’t be so cheeky,’ he admonishes. ‘It’s not becoming.’

  I stick my tongue out at him and turn to look around the assembled company. It’s not the same without Marie and those of her sisters who remain are unusually subdued that evening, particularly the usually haughty Olympe who looks back at me with wide, dark eyes and bobs a nervous curtsey before scampering away.

  Philippe shrugs. ’All this talk of the Spanish marriage has overset the Mazarinettes,’ he explains as I look at him with surprise. ‘They’d pinned all their hopes on Marie being the one to snare my brother and now that it’s all gone awry they are finding it harder than expected to make a dignified withdrawal.’ He sticks his tongue out at Olympe as she disappears through a doorway, her shimmering silver skirt whisking behind her. ‘I half expected Mademoiselle Hortense to make a play for him as well but I hear she has her claws in your brother instead.’

  ‘Hortense is just a child,’ I admonish him. ‘She hasn’t got her claws in any one.’

  Philippe snorts disbelievingly but lets the subject drop. ‘It’s a shame you aren’t coming to the south with us,’ he says after a pause, gently scuffing his silk shoes on the floor. ‘Half the court is accompanying us and it looks as though we will be away for several months.’

  I feel my cheeks go warm with embarrassment. ‘We can’t afford it,’ I murmur. Mam desperately wants to go with everyone else and Tante Anne has been urging her to come along but such a lengthy trip requires far greater funds than we have access to and so we have had to decline.

  ‘That is a pity,’ Philippe says and he awkwardly takes hold of my hand and gives it a squeeze then, after a moment’s hesitation, he leans down and tremblingly kisses me very lightly on the lips. He pulls away a second later but it’s not quickly enough to prevent Anne-Marie who is walking towards us at that moment seeing and stopping dead in the middle of the room, her cheeks reddening with anger.

  ‘Well,’ she says loudly and everyone stares firstly at her and then, when they see what direction her eyes are turned towards, at us. ‘I might have known that she’d try to seduce you as well now that Louis has slipped through her scrawny fingers.’

  ‘Cousin…’ Philippe is on his feet but it’s too late, she’s whirled around and is off, almost stumbling out of the room in her haste to get away from us. The watching courtiers don’t even pretend not to snigger behind their feathered fans and there’s a buzz of whispers and speculation. ‘Oh dear.’ He looks down at me. ‘Now we’re in trouble.’

  We leave just before midnight as Mam starts discreetly yawning behind her fan. It’s only a matter of time before she lies on the floor and goes to sleep and for my part, I am glad to go as well for the stares and whispered comments are becoming insupportable. I look around for Philippe but he has vanished, probably sauntered off to his own rooms with his friends as is his custom. After all, what does he care if I am left alone to deal with a situation that is of his making?

  Instead I see Anne-Marie. She is standing at the very edge of the crowd, surrounded as usual by her crowd of fawning hangers on and clearly in a fine old rage. I stay close to Mam as we leave, determined to avoid her but she steps out in front of me, forcing me to look up and acknowledge her.

  ‘Well,’ she says again, drawing herself up to her full and not insubstantial height as her cronies snigger.

  ‘Anne-Marie…’ I feel incredibly weary and wish that she would just go away.

  ‘You ar
e to be congratulated,’ she says loudly. ‘Your resourcefulness is really quite astounding. You are denied the hand of one prince and immediately catch the eye of another.’

  ‘I have done nothing wrong,’ I reply, meeting her eyes as defiantly as I can. ‘I have caught no one’s eye. It was a cousinly kiss, nothing more.’

  ‘Your simpering does not work on me,’ Anne-Marie hisses furiously, putting her face close to mine. ‘I know what I saw. I know what sort of girl you are.’ She lowers her voice. ‘You may have convinced my aunts and everyone else that you are the very picture of innocence but I alone am not fooled.’

  I stare at her. ‘I’m not trying to fool anyone,’ I whisper. I look past her to where Mam is impatiently waiting by the door but find to my surprise that it is not my mother that I want, it is Charles.

  ‘Well I wish you joy of Philippe,’ she says with a sneer. ‘He is not the sort of husband that I would wish for but I’m sure that he will do very well for you.’

  ‘I have no thought of marrying Philippe,’ I protest in alarm. It was just a kiss. What are people saying about me? I look around wildly but no one meets my eyes.

  ‘I wouldn’t bother lying about it,’ my cousin says bitterly. ‘We all know that you haven’t got two sous to rub together and that your stockings are more darning than silk.’ She gives a shrug. ‘Besides, it’s Louis’ wish that Philippe marry you. Do you know what he said about you?’

  I silently shake my head.

  Anne-Marie leans in for the kill and I am powerless to stop her. ‘He said that seeing as no one else wants to marry you then Philippe should do the honourable thing and take you for himself in order to spare your blushes.’ She pauses. ‘Personally I would have you packed off to a convent in the provinces and left you there to moulder but you know how ridiculously sympathetic our cousin Louis has always been to beggars.’