I shake my head. ‘It doesn’t feel like my triumph,’ I say wistfully, thinking of my brother Charles so far away in his palace in England and wondering how he feels now that the eyes of all the world are trained upon him. The glory should be all his, really. ‘It was fun at first to put Anne-Marie in her place and have money for new dresses and be treated with proper respect but I am not sure that being the centre of attention suits me.’
Armand smiles then. ‘I think that it suits you very well, Minette,’ he says huskily before lowering his handsome face to mine and kissing me.
For a moment I am shocked, astounded even but that soon passes because really I can’t remember a time when I did not want to kiss Armand de Gramont, to sink against him and feel his arms around my waist, his fingers in my hair, his warm sensual lips against the side of my neck. I can hear the sound of the ball going on behind us as we move backwards to rest lightly against a stone urn and I take his face in my hands and kiss him back, opening my eyes every now and again so that I can look at him and marvel at his beauty which, for this instant, this blessed moment, belongs entirely to me.
A door opens in the distance and someone calls out my name. I hear the crunch of their feet on the gravel and we move quickly apart, wiping our mouths and looking everywhere but at each other. ‘Who is it?’ I call, cursing my voice as it trembles.
‘It is Athénaïs, your Highness,’ says Mademoiselle de Rochechouart as she steps lightly out of the darkness. ‘Your mother was asking for you and so I volunteered to seek you out.’ She looks from me to Armand, her eyes wide with curiosity. ‘It’s very hot in the ballroom, isn’t it?’ she says after a careful pause during which she has no doubt taken in my dishevelled rumpled appearance and Armand’s clear embarrassment. ‘How kind of Monsieur le Comte to keep you company while you revived yourself. You should come in now though lest you catch a chill.’
‘Yes,’ I say bleakly, hardly daring to look at Armand even though I am acutely aware of his presence, the fact that even now I can still reach out and touch him.
‘You should go back now,’ he says hoarsely, almost angrily and I look at him in surprise only to see that he has already turned away and is striding with long, purposeful steps across the lawn, his hands thrust deep into his pockets. As I watch he pulls off his elaborately curled chestnut wig and flings it into the grass then impatiently runs his fingers through his own clipped short hair.
‘Come.’ Athénaïs is holding out her hand to me and I take it gratefully. She’s no fool and certainly no stranger to dalliance herself so of course she knows what happened between us but I somehow know too that she would never betray me. ‘I should do something about your hair,’ she murmurs as we walk slowly back up the steps to the terrace.
I stand silently and let her fuss about my ringlets, wrapping each one around her fingers and carefully coiling it until they are all perfectly smooth once again. ‘Was it your first kiss?’ she whispers at last with a smile.
There’s no point denying anything so I shake my head. ‘That was Philippe,’ I say with a wry smile, remembering Anne-Marie’s fury when she came upon us.
‘Ah,’ murmurs Athénaïs and the subject is discreetly dropped.
Mam can talk of nothing but the ball for weeks afterwards until I am heartily sick of hearing about it. She’s hurt and confused by my unwillingness or inability to share in her raptures but of course I can’t tell her why I can’t join in. I can’t tell her that all her exaggerated joy about Philippe and Saint Cloud is intruding on the one memory that I want to retain and hug close to myself from the evening.
‘You looked so charming when you danced with Philippe,’ she says with a nostalgic sigh. I notice that she has moved on from making baby clothes and is now working on a blue silk wedding favour with the initials H and P on prominent display. ‘What a very beautiful couple you will make once you are married.’
‘Perhaps we won’t be married,’ I say glumly.
‘Nonsense,’ says Mam before returning to her embroidery and day dreams.
Her smugness is almost unbearable when just a few days later, Tante Anne arrives in all her state at the Palais Royal to formally request my hand for her son. She sends a message on ahead to let us know her intent so that when she arrives, Mam and I are both ready and waiting, dressed in our finest gowns and looking poised and serene in our chairs in our newly fitted up presence chamber, which now has a large portrait of my poor sainted father hanging on the wall opposite the windows, which are hung with brand new crimson brocade curtains, all bought with Charles’ money. I see Mam’s eyes flutter more than once to his painted face and as her lips move, I guess that she is asking him to give her strength, to bless my betrothal, to forgive us all for carrying on without him.
I may look serene but inside I am quaking with nervousness as I sit and wait for the doors to swing open and Tante Anne to be announced. My back is straight, my face is calm and smiling but I swap my fan from hand to hand and beneath my shimmering yellow satin skirts, my feet are tapping out an uneven beat.
‘Minette, calm yourself,’ Mam hisses at me, putting her hand over mine to stay them. ‘This is the moment we have all been waiting for.’
‘But everything is about to change,’ I whisper back just as the doors open and the footman announces Tante Anne, Philippe and their retinue. Mam and I rise from our chairs and walk towards them, meeting them in the centre of the room beneath the portrait of Papa. He smiles down benignly upon us all as if delivering his blessing to the match.
I take a deep breath and look first at Tante Anne, who is pink and flushed with pleasure and then at Philippe, who is as pale and trembling with nerves as I. My gaze flickers over the small company of ladies and gentlemen that they have brought with them. Armand isn’t there. I feel almost giddy with relief as I don’t think I could bear this at all if he was here to witness it.
‘My most beloved and esteemed sister,’ Tante Anne says, taking my mother’s hands and kissing her soundly on both cheeks. ‘I have come to you to formally request the hand of your daughter, the Princess Henrietta-Anne of England for my son, the Prince Philippe de Bourbon, Duc d’Orléans.’ I have to arrange my face carefully to hide my smile at the way that court etiquette requires my aunt and mother to address each other as if they have never before met.
Mam goes very pale and nods her head in assent. ‘Although I would be honoured to give you my daughter’s hand, I fear I must consult with my son, King Charles first as we will require his permission to proceed.’
Tante Anne smiles, as confident as we all are that Charles will readily agree to the match. ‘Naturally. I will be pleased to hear his answer at the earliest convenience.’ She turns to Philippe and gently coaxes him forward. ‘My son, you may kiss your cousin now.’
He smiles then and gently takes my hand in his. ‘Minette, I promise to love you with all my heart,’ he whispers as our mothers sigh with delight. ‘Can you love me in return?’
‘With all my heart,’ I reply, leaning forward to delicately kiss his violet scented cheek.
He gives my hands one final squeeze and then they all turn and leave. The job is done. My fate is sealed. I will marry Philippe, remain in France and be Duchesse d’Orléans. What girl of sixteen could want more?
‘I am so proud,’ Mam says, hugging me as soon as the heavy gilt embellished doors slam shut behind the departing royal retinue. ‘You will be a duchess, Minette! And Philippe will take the greatest care of you, I am certain of it.’ She kisses my cheek then whirls me around. ‘Of course Louis would have been the better match but I am more than content with how things have turned out.’
She kisses me again then rushes off to her cabinet to immediately write to Charles. Less than an hour later, I watch her messenger mount his horse in the courtyard of the Palais with Mam’s letter (she showed it to me before sanding and sealing it - ‘Your sister is by no means adverse to the idea, and as for Monsieur, he is very much in love and extremely impatient for your answer’ s
he wrote much to my embarrassment) and a brief and far less gushing note from me dutifully telling Charles how happy I am safe in his leather pouch. It is done and now there can never be any turning back.
The next day I take my place in between Mam and Tante Anne on the elegant curved balcony of the Hôtel de Beauvais to watch Louis and Maria Theresa’s official entry into Paris. The beautiful Hôtel belongs to Tante Anne’s immensely wealthy principal lady of the bedchamber, the Baronne de Beauvais, whom everyone knows was responsible, at his mother’s behest, for being the first mistress of my cousin Louis. According to my cousin Philippe, his mother was so anxious not to lose her precious elder son to a rapacious mistress of his own age that she prodded the charming, experienced but sadly unattractive and short sighted Baronne into seducing him in one of the corridors of the Louvre when he was on his way to take a bath, rewarding her with a château, a pension of two thousand livres a year and the highly prestigious right to always be present at Louis’ morning levée for her efforts in the royal bed or ‘up against the royal wall’ as Philippe put it with a horrible wink.
Madame la Baronne stands a little apart from us, watching the immense crowds milling below and whispering to Cardinal Mazarin, who bends graciously towards her with a vaguely satirical smile on his face. I sneak curious looks at her from beneath my lashes, taking in her plump pock marked face and scanty eyelashes and wondering what on earth my cousin saw in her, even making allowances for the fact that he was no more than fifteen and seething with boyish lusts at the time. Of course it doesn’t take long before I start to wonder if Tante Anne has bribed someone to deflower Philippe also and which of her ladies it was most likely to have been.
‘It is a splendid day, is it not?’ Marshal Turenne says to me in his usual strident way, interrupting my shameful thoughts.
I smile up at him in relief, having always been very fond of the bluntly spoken, battle scarred old soldier whom I know was so kind to my brother James when he fought with him. ‘It is indeed,’ I agree. ‘My cousin could not have chosen a finer day.’
He laughs. ‘No one has a better sense of occasion than your cousin,’ he says.
Now that everything is arranged with Philippe, Mam is looking forward to returning to England for a spell before my wedding and I listen with half an ear as she chatters away to my aunt about how wonderful it will be to have all of her children around her again: Charles, James, Mary, Harry and me. Her voice softens as she says Harry’s name and I am glad. It is about time the feud between them was at an end.
‘I have decided that we should leave at the end of Autumn and stay in England until next spring,’ she says, fanning herself slowly. The heat really is oppressive this morning and already I have seen several women and a few men too faint away in the midst of the crowd below. ‘How I long to celebrate Christmas with all my children around me again.’
‘You will return to France, won’t you?’ Tante Anne asks nervously. ‘Philippe is most anxious to claim Henrietta as his bride and I would hate for him to be disappointed.’ I pull a face at this, not liking to hear myself discussed as if I am nothing but the plaything of a spoiled child.
Mam laughs. ‘Of course we will return,’ she soothes. ‘I wish for nothing more than to see our two children united as one.’
There’s a sudden burst of fanfare and the ensuing eruption of cheers and shouts near to hand lets us know that Louis and Maria Theresa are on their way. With Turenne solicitously holding on to my elbow to steady me, I lean as far as I can over the stone parapet as Louis rides underneath, wearing his finest suit of golden armour, his beautiful grey horse prancing nervously amidst the noise of the crowd. Beside him rides Maria Theresa in a golden chariot drawn by more grey horses, looking wary and a trifle petulant as she peers apprehensively at the hundreds of people pressed close on either side.
‘We need to work on the little Queen’s smile,’ Mazarin notes softly to Madame la Baronne, who smirks. ‘She must learn not to fear the mob but rather to make them love her.’
Louis is level now with the balcony and he looks up at us and smiles before removing his scarlet feathered hat with an excessive amount of flourish and blowing kisses to Mam and Tante Anne, who giggle like school girls at Mass. His gaze slides over me to Turenne then quickly returns again, faintly quizzically as if he has never seen me before and wonders who I am.
Immediately behind them there is Philippe, also mounted on a perfect grey stallion and gorgeously dressed in cloth of silver sewn all over with diamonds that blaze and dazzle in the bright August sunlight. He grins up at us and waves furiously, his eyes fixed on me alone.
I smile and wave back then, feeling emboldened, blow him a chaste kiss as the crowds below erupt into more cheers and whistles of delight. ‘What a lovely couple they make,’ Tante Anne whispers to Mam with a sigh as Philippe rides away, looking back over his shoulder at me the entire time. ‘You know that I have always worried about Philippe so it does my heart good to know that he has chosen our beautiful Minette for his bride.’
The gentlemen of the court follow my cousins and I hold my breath as my eyes scan their faces, searching for Armand. We have not seen each other or communicated in any way since the evening of the Saint Cloud ball and I feel dizzy with something perilously akin to relief when finally I spot him in the midst of a group of horsemen, looking bored and sullen as he twists the reins between his long brown fingers.
I will him to look up at me, just once, just so that I know he is thinking of me too, but he doesn’t. He just rides past with eyes carefully averted and his sensual lips slightly downturned. ‘Now there’s a handsome one,’ the Baronne says appreciatively as he goes by.
‘Rather too handsome if you ask me,’ I hear myself say with a disparaging shrug before I turn away and go back indoors.
Chapter Eighteen
Paris, September 1660
Charles’ letter arrives while we are all gathered together in the gallery of the Palais Royal, listening to Louis’ own company of musicians who have come across from the Louvre for our entertainment. I’m sitting beside Mam with Philippe sprawled at my feet on a soft heap of gold tasseled cushions, his head leaning against my knee. Every now and again I gently touch his hair or the nape of his neck with my fingers and he turns and smiles adoringly up at me, mouthing words of love.
It’s a most delightful evening and I look around myself with pleasure, enjoying the contrast to how things were just one short year ago when we were permanently short of money, our home looked scuffed around the edges and our clothes were sadly threadbare. Now a luxurious fire blazes in the grate, heavy damask curtains hang at the scrubbed clean windows and everyone is turned out in their very best shimmering silks and velvets, while the air is heavy with the delightful mingled scents of beeswax, cologne and the opulent roast dinner that we enjoyed together before the concert. We all look plump, prosperous and exceedingly pleased with ourselves.
Mam and I have done our best to ensure that the seemingly never ending stream of English gold that Charles, open handed as always, insists on sending our way trickles its way down to everyone who has been loyal to us. Some of our friends have already left Paris and trekked home to England to resume their place at my brother’s court but enough remain behind for us to still be a very merry company when we come together.
I catch the eye of little Frances Stewart as I look around the room and we grin, dimpling with pleasure, at each other. Thanks to a generous grant of money from my mother, the two Stewart girls have swapped their formerly patched and too small dresses for lovely matching gowns of soft blue silk with lace at the elbows and bosom. Before they were just another pair of pretty girls but now, dressed with immaculate taste by their mother, they are magnificent. Mam wants to take Frances with us when we return to London and try to find her a good husband. I think she might be just a little bit afraid of the effects of such dazzling beauty should it remain unharnessed for long.
Philippe reaches up to take my hand and brings it gently
to his lips but before I can smile and touch his cheek in response, the doors open and a messenger appears, his stubbled and mud splattered face pale with exhaustion and riding clothes covered in dry dust from the road. He looks near to collapse and Mam gives a cry of alarm and runs to him. It’s clear from his dour expression and sagging shoulders that he doesn’t bring us happy news.
‘Charles,’ I say on a gasp, standing abruptly while still holding Philippe’s hand. ‘My God, they have killed him.’ I’ve been afraid of this ever since the news arrived of his return to England; terrified that an assassin’s wicked blade would end his triumph or that there would be another war and he would end up lying dead and lost to us all on some God forsaken battlefield somewhere.
The messenger hands Mam a letter, she rips it open then gives a scream of horror and sags against him as he struggles to hold her upright. ‘Your Highness!’ he implores me in distress. ‘I fear for the Queen.’
I release Philippe’s hand and run immediately to my mother. ‘Maman!’ I say when I reach her side. ‘My God, what has happened?’ Philippe is close behind me, his handsome face tense with concern as he lifts my mother up into his arms, showing a hitherto unsuspected strength that checks me for a moment, then carries her to the nearest chair. Once she is installed and comfortable, he gently rubs her hands between his own as I swiftly read the letter then immediately wish that I had not.
‘It’s Harry,’ I whisper, feeling faint and nauseous with distress. ‘Smallpox.’
‘Harry?’ Philippe glances quickly up at me, his finely plucked brows drawn together. ‘Is he..?’
‘Dead.’ Mam says, beginning to weep with terrible raw, gasping sobs. ‘My Harry is gone forever. My boy, my poor boy.’
I crouch beside her and we put our arms around each other and cry as Philippe looks on helplessly. I think of Harry as Mam had last seen him, kneeling distressed and weeping in the mud, begging for her blessing as she ignored him. I think of him as he looked when he left the Palais Royal forever later that day, jaunty and pretending to be brave as he kissed my cheek and told me never to forget him. That was the last time I would ever see him.
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