The Diamond Slipper

The Diamond Slipper Page 14

by Jane Feather

  "Shall we ha­ve anot­her wa­ger on the ti­me of our ar­ri­val this eve­ning?" She glan­ced si­de­ways at him with tran­s­pa­rent ple­asu­re in ha­ving com­pany aga­in.

  "What sta­kes this ti­me?" He so­un­ded amu­sed, in­dul­gent, as one might hu­mor an en­t­hu­si­as­tic child.

  Cor­de­lia frow­ned. That to­ne was al­most wor­se than ve­xa­ti­on. She shrug­ged ca­re­les­sly. "Oh, I don't know. It was just a way of pas­sing ti­me, but I don't think it's re­al­ly that amu­sing."

  Ami­ab­le avun­cu­la­rity did not find fa­vor, cle­arly. Leo let it drop, in­qu­iring with ne­ut­ral in­te­rest, "What kind of stu­di­es did you do in Schon­b­runn?"

  To his as­to­nis­h­ment, he re­ali­zed that he'd ope­ned a flo­od­ga­te. Cor­de­lia be­gan to talk eagerly and flu­ently abo­ut phi­lo­sophy, mat­he­ma­ti­cal prin­cip­les, Ger­man and French li­te­ra­tu­re. She was edu­ca­ted far be­yond the norm for her sex, and he fo­und him­self won­de­ring what Mic­ha­el wo­uld ma­ke of this as­pect of his bri­de. El­vi­ra had told him on­ce that Mic­ha­el des­pi­sed blu­es­toc­kings and she'd le­ar­ned to pur­sue her own in­tel­lec­tu­al in­te­rests out of his ken. Leo hadn't tho­ught much abo­ut it then. Many men we­re sus­pi­ci­o­us of edu­ca­ted and elo­qu­ent wo­men. He had as­su­med that El­vi­ra had ac­cess to her hus­band's lib­rary, so­ci­al en­t­ran­ce to the va­ri­o­us sa­lons that abo­un­ded in Pa­ris, and didn't go short of in­tel­lec­tu­al sti­mu­la­ti­on. But El­vi­ra had be­en ol­der and both mo­re sop­his­ti­ca­ted and de­vi­o­us than Cor­de­lia. Wo­uld Cor­de­lia le­arn qu­ickly eno­ugh what it was wi­sest to ke­ep from her hus­band?

  When they stop­ped to cross a tri­bu­tary of the Da­nu­be at Steyr, Leo left Cor­de­lia in the char­ge of his gro­om and went to con­fer with the French de­le­ga­ti­on. Cor­de­lia was fas­ci­na­ted by the ope­ra­ti­on in­vol­ved in get­ting such a mas­si­ve pro­ces­si­on ac­ross the sin­g­le-track wo­oden brid­ge. She trot­ted along the ri­ver­bank, the gro­om in at­ten­dan­ce, wat­c­hing as the gre­at co­ac­hes lum­be­red and swa­yed pe­ri­lo­usly clo­se the the ed­ge of the cre­aking brid­ge.

  "Cor­de­lia?"

  "Chris­ti­an!" She tur­ned with a cry of de­light. Chris­ti­an was as­t­ri­de a gan­g­ling ches­t­nut gel­ding with an un­ga­inly ga­it and lo­oked far from at ho­me. But he was not a na­tu­ral equ­es­t­ri­an. "How I was ho­ping you wo­uld co­me and find me. I'm not per­mit­ted to go off on my own down the pro­ces­si­on. Pro­to­col." She wrin­k­led her no­se in la­ug­hing dis­gust. "Are you enj­oying yo­ur­self? Are you com­for­tab­le? Is the­re an­y­t­hing I can do for you?"

  "No, not­hing." Chris­ti­an lo­oked up at the red ball of the sun sin­king be­low the ri­ver to the west. "A mes­sen­ger ca­me hot­fo­ot from Vi­en­na this mor­ning. He bro­ught me a let­ter from Hugh. You re­mem­ber Hugh, he pla­yed the vi­olin in Po­ligny's con­certs."

  "Yes, yes." Cor­de­lia nod­ded eagerly. "What did he say?"

  "The cat is re­al­ly among the pi­ge­ons," Chris­ti­an sa­id with a chuc­k­le of sa­tis­fac­ti­on. "Ever­yo­ne's re­ad the bro­ad­s­he­et. Po­ligny is de­fen­ding him­self from the ro­of­tops, but Hugh sa­id pe­op­le are tal­king and po­in­ting the fin­ger. The em­p­ress hasn't sa­id an­y­t­hing as yet, but pa­la­ce ru­mor has it that she's thin­king of sen­ding him away."

  "Oh, how won­der­ful!" Cor­de­lia clap­ped her hands. "The story will re­ach Pa­ris long be­fo­re we do. You'll be a ce­leb­rity al­re­ady."

  Chris­ti­an lo­oked tho­ug­h­t­ful. He pla­ited his mo­unt's co­ar­se ma­ne with res­t­less fin­gers. "I was thin­king that per­haps I sho­uld go back to Vi­en­na. If Po­ligny is re­al­ly out, then the­re'll be…" He stop­ped, ha­bi­tu­al mo­desty pre­ven­ting him from con­ti­nu­ing.

  "The­re'll be a va­cancy for co­urt mu­si­ci­an, and who bet­ter to fill it than Po­ligny's star pu­pil," Cor­de­lia fi­nis­hed for him. She le­aned over to ta­ke his hand. "Oh, lo­ve, I want wha­te­ver's best for you. But I shall miss you dre­ad­ful­ly. Par­ti­cu­larly now that ever­y­t­hing's be­co­me so con­fu­sed."

  "Con­fu­sed?"

  "It's this aw­k­ward bu­si­ness of be­ing in lo­ve with the vis­co­unt," she sa­id with an al­most des­pa­iring sigh. "And af­ter last night, I know he fe­els mo­re than he'll ad­mit to-"

  "What abo­ut last night?" Chris­ti­an in­ter­rup­ted.

  Cor­de­lia felt her­self blus­hing. "Well, so­met­hing hap­pe­ned. I… I ac­ci­den­tal­ly blun­de­red in­to his cham­ber and, well-"

  "He didn't ra­vish you?" Chris­ti­an's brown eyes we­re sud­denly ab­la­ze.

  "Oh, no," she re­as­su­red has­tily. "Not­hing qu­ite li­ke that. But… things got rat­her out of hand." She lo­oked at him hel­p­les­sly, a ru­eful smi­le on her lips.

  Chris­ti­an le­aned clo­se to her, his eyes pi­er­cing in his pa­le an­gu­lar fa­ce. "Did the vis­co­unt ta­ke yo­ur vir­gi­nity, Cor­de­lia? If he did, I'll kill him."

  "Oh, no. You can't do that," Cor­de­lia ex­c­la­imed. "And no, he didn't," she ad­ded, se­e­ing that Chris­ti­an was al­most re­ady to fling him­self from his hor­se. "I'm just so con­fu­sed now."

  Leo's vo­ice re­ac­hed them as he can­te­red to­ward them along the bank. "I gi­ve you a go­od eve­ning, Chris­ti­an. Cor­de­lia, you ne­ed to cross the brid­ge now." He drew up next to the mu­si­ci­an, nod­ded ple­asantly, and ad­ded, "I trust you find yo­ur ac­com­mo­da­ti­ons sa­tis­fac­tory, Chris­ti­an."

  Chris­ti­an sta­red at the vis­co­unt, the fi­re still in his eyes. A ti­de of co­lor spre­ad over his pa­le fe­atu­res, then as swiftly fa­ded. "Yes, thank you," he sa­id stiffly.

  "Chris­ti­an was tel­ling me of the re­ac­ti­on in Vi­en­na to our bro­ad­s­he­et," Cor­de­lia sa­id ex­ci­tedly. "It's ever­y­t­hing he ho­ped it wo­uld be. In fact, he's won­de­ring whet­her he sho­uld re­turn to Vi­en­na and try for Po­ligny's po­si­ti­on."

  "I'm not won­de­ring that any lon­ger," Chris­ti­an an­no­un­ced as stiffly as be­fo­re. "I'll be sta­ying with you." He sta­red hard and me­anin­g­ful­ly at the to­tal­ly be­wil­de­red vis­co­unt be­fo­re dig­ging his he­els in­to his mo­unt's flank and can­te­ring away, his usu­al­ly gra­ce­ful body jo­un­cing aro­und in the sad­dle li­ke a sack of flo­ur.

  "Now, what's eating him?" Leo in­qu­ired, ta­king Cor­de­lia's re­in and ur­ging her hor­se aro­und to­ward the brid­ge.

  Cor­de­lia, who knew per­fectly well, mut­te­red so­met­hing ina­udib­le, jer­king her re­ins free of his grasp. She had the con­vic­ti­on that Leo wo­uld not ca­re for an­yo­ne kno­wing abo­ut last night. And he wo­uld not un­der­s­tand her ne­ed to con­fi­de-even in so­me­one as clo­se to her as Chris­ti­an.

  Chapter Nine

  Prin­ce Mic­ha­el was not com­p­le­tely sa­tis­fi­ed with the su­ite of ro­oms al­lo­ca­ted to him and his bri­de at the Cha­te­au de Com­pi­eg­ne. Ho­we­ver, sin­ce the apar­t­ments set asi­de for the da­up­hi­ne wo­uld not be com­p­le­ted be­fo­re her ar­ri­val the fol­lo­wing day be­ca­use the wor­k­men hadn't be­en pa­id, he de­ci­ded it wo­uld be tac­t­less to com­p­la­in if the fur­nis­hings in his own su­ite we­re a trif­le shabby.

  The prin­ce had tra­ve­led with the king and the da­up­hin to me­et Ma­rie An­to­inet­te at Com­pi­eg­ne. The da­up­hi­ne was still a day's jo­ur­ney away, but Lo­u­is had de­ci­ded to ho­nor his new gran­d­da­ug­h­ter by co­ming out to gre­et her. He was in gre­at go­od hu­mor and had be­en de­lig­h­ted when it oc­cur­red to him that Prin­ce Mic­ha­el might wish to ri­de out to me­et his own bri­de. The prin­ce had ac­cep­ted with ap­prop­ri­ate gra­ti­tu­de what amo­un­ted to a r
o­yal com­mand co­uc­hed as in­vi­ta­ti­on, al­t­ho­ugh he wo­uld ha­ve pre­fer­red to wel­co­me the prin­cess on his own gro­und. Rus­hing to me­et her se­emed to in­di­ca­te a so­mew­hat un­se­emly eager­ness. The girl was only six­te­en, af­ter all, and must not be en­co­ura­ged to ex­pect too much at­ten­ti­on from her hus­band.

  Ho­we­ver, he was he­re at Com­pi­eg­ne and, the fol­lo­wing af­ter­no­on, wo­uld ri­de with the king and co­urt so­me fo­ur­te­en ki­lo­me­ters to the ed­ge of the fo­rest whe­re he wo­uld me­et his se­cond wi­fe.

  He to­ok out the mi­ni­atu­re from his poc­ket, exa­mi­ning it with a frown. She did lo­ok very yo­ung, but now Mic­ha­el saw a bol­d­ness to her eyes that he in­s­tin­c­ti­vely dis­li­ked. She held her he­ad with an al­most chal­len­ging stan­ce, ga­zing out of the mot­her-of-pe­arl fra­me with an un­com­p­ro­mi­sing air.

  Mic­ha­el's frown de­epe­ned. He snap­ped his fin­gers ir­ri­tably at his ser­vant who was un­pac­king the prin­ce's por­t­man­te­au. The man has­te­ned to put a glass of wi­ne in­to his mas­ter's out­s­t­ret­c­hed hand.

  Mic­ha­el sip­ped, not ta­king his eyes off the mi­ni­atu­re. When he'd first lo­oked at it, he'd se­en no re­sem­b­lan­ce to El­vi­ra. But he'd be­en lo­oking at the co­lo­ring, the sha­pe of the fa­ce. Now he wasn't so su­re. The­re was so­met­hing une­asily fa­mi­li­ar abo­ut the girl's ex­p­res­si­on. She was much yo­un­ger than El­vi­ra had be­en at her wed­ding; she ca­me from the strict for­ma­lity of the de­vo­ut Aus­t­ri­an co­urt. How co­uld the­re be any re­sem­b­lan­ce to the flam­bo­yant, sop­his­ti­ca­ted, flir­ta­ti­o­us En­g­lis­h­wo­man who had des­t­ro­yed his pe­ace?

  His fin­gers tig­h­te­ned aro­und the stem of his glass. It wo­uld not hap­pen aga­in. He wo­uld ta­ke this un­for­med, un­tu­to­red, inex­pe­ri­en­ced lit­tle in­no­cent and mold her to his own re­qu­ire­ments. If she sho­wed any signs of ex­hi­bi­ting El­vi­ra's cha­rac­ter tra­its, he wo­uld era­se them wit­ho­ut com­pun­c­ti­on. And they wo­uld be easi­er to de­al with in this yo­ung girl than they had be­en in El­vi­ra. He wo­uld ha­ve a sub­mis­si­ve, fa­it­h­ful, duty-bo­und bri­de, who knew her ob­li­ga­ti­ons and le­ar­ned swiftly how to ple­ase her hus­band.

  "Sir… sir, yo­ur hand!" The vo­ice of his ser­vant bro­ke in­to his rapt con­cen­t­ra­ti­on.

  Mic­ha­el lo­oked down at his hand. So­me­how he had snap­ped the glass stem bet­we­en his fin­gers, and a shard of glass pi­er­ced his skin. "God's blo­od!" he swo­re, tos­sing the glass in­to the empty gra­te. "Fetch me a ban­da­ge, man! Don't stand the­re li­ke a bo­oby."

  "To­mor­row we will re­ach Com­pi­eg­ne, whe­re the king and the da­up­hin will be wa­iting to gre­et Ma­rie An­to­inet­te." Leo's ex­p­res­si­on was a study in ne­ut­ra­lity. The pro­ces­si­on had re­ac­hed So­is­sons, thir­ty-eight ki­lo­me­ters from Com­pi­eg­ne, and he sto­od with Cor­de­lia out­si­de her bed­c­ham­ber in the ri­ver­si­de inn that ac­com­mo­da­ted the ro­yal party for the night.

  "I know." Ab­sently, Cor­de­lia twir­led a rin­g­let aro­und her fin­ger be­fo­re suc­king it in­to her mo­uth. They we­re wit­hin a day's ri­de of jo­ur­ney's end, and her cus­to­mary ebul­li­en­ce was fast eb­bing.

  Thro­ug­ho­ut the jo­ur­ney Leo had be­en ple­asant and fri­endly, but his man­ner had be­en mo­re avun­cu­lar than an­y­t­hing el­se, and he had so­me­how en­su­red that they we­re ne­ver alo­ne to­get­her, ex­cept when they we­re ri­ding. Any at­tempts to mo­ve the con­ver­sa­ti­on on­to the su­bj­ect of the­ir fu­tu­re re­la­ti­on­s­hip had met with stony si­len­ce and his ra­pid de­par­tu­re. Sin­ce his com­pany was all-im­por­tant to her well-be­ing, Cor­de­lia had qu­ickly le­ar­ned to be­ha­ve as he dic­ta­ted. She amu­sed him with her light and fre­qu­ently in­sig­h­t­ful chat­ter, dis­cus­sed we­ighty su­bj­ects with due gra­vity, and tri­ed very hard to con­t­rol the ne­ed to dec­la­re her lo­ve at every se­cond sen­ten­ce. And whi­le the pros­pect of me­eting her hus­band re­ma­ined in the fu­tu­re, she had ma­na­ged very well. But now ti­me was slip­ping away. On­ce she was gi­ven in­to her hus­band's char­ge and Leo re­lin­qu­is­hed his res­pon­si­bi­lity for her, she saw only a frig­h­te­ningly un­k­nown lan­d­s­ca­pe.

  "Has it oc­cur­red to you that yo­ur hus­band might al­so be the­re wa­iting for you?"

  "Yes." She che­wed the end of the rin­g­let. It had oc­cur­red to her mo­re than on­ce in the last ho­urs. "But I rat­her as­su­med he'd be wa­iting in Pa­ris."

  "He might be. But I ha­ve a fe­eling he will be at Com­pi­eg­ne."

  "I won't ha­ve to go to his bed un­til the for­mal wed­ding is so­lem­ni­zed," she sa­id al­most to her­self, thro­ugh her mo­ut­h­ful of ha­ir.

  But Leo he­ard her, and the mum­b­led words re­min­ded him how much she be­lon­ged to anot­her man. "That is a tho­ro­ughly di­sag­re­e­ab­le ha­bit." Ro­ughly, he flic­ked the sod­den rin­g­let from her mo­uth.

  "I only do it when I'm thin­king di­sag­re­e­ab­le tho­ughts."

  "I don't sup­po­se it oc­curs to you not to spe­ak such tho­ughts in pub­lic," he snap­ped.

  Cor­de­lia to­ok a de­ep bre­ath. This was her last chan­ce. "Leo, I know you don't want me for a mis­t­ress… no… no, ple­ase lis­ten to me," she beg­ged, se­e­ing him pre­pa­red to si­len­ce her. "Ple­ase let me spe­ak, just this on­ce."

  "Not if you're go­ing to say what I think you're go­ing to say," he res­pon­ded curtly. "I ha­ve told you I don't know how many ti­mes, that I will not lis­ten to yo­ur non­sen­se-"

  "No, this isn't non­sen­se," she in­ter­rup­ted eagerly. "I'm not pro­perly mar­ri­ed to the prin­ce, only by proxy. It hasn't be­en con­sum­ma­ted or an­y­t­hing, so it co­uld be an­nul­led, co­uldn't it?"

  "What?" He sta­red at her in dis­be­li­ef. This was a new an­g­le, even for Cor­de­lia.

  "I co­uld ex­p­la­in that I don't want to marry him. That it was all a big mis­ta­ke. I co­uld tell him that he wo­uldn't want to be mar­ri­ed to so­me­one who co­uldn't be­ar to ha­ve him for-"

  "Ha­ve you com­p­le­tely lost yo­ur wits, girl? You are as firmly mar­ri­ed to Mic­ha­el as if you'd be­en mar­ri­ed in St. Pe­ter's by the po­pe him­self. The set­tle­ments are drawn up, yo­ur dowry is in pla­ce… De­ar God, you ha­ve yo­ur he­ad full of fa­iry sto­ri­es." He ran a hand thro­ugh his dark ha­ir that to­night he wo­re un­co­ve­red and un­pow­de­red.

  "I don't be­li­eve it can't be do­ne," she per­sis­ted stub­bornly. "I don't be­li­eve I "can't ha­ve you for hus­band in­s­te­ad."

  "Now, just you lis­ten to me." He to­ok her sho­ul­ders, spe­aking thro­ugh com­p­res­sed lips. "Get this in­to yo­ur he­ad. I wo­uld not marry you if you we­re the only wo­man on earth." He sho­ok her to em­p­ha­si­ze the sa­va­ge sta­te­ment and had the du­bi­o­us sa­tis­fac­ti­on of se­e­ing her eyes clo­ud with hurt, all eager­ness, con­vic­ti­on, and de­ter­mi­na­ti­on blot­ted out. "You se­em to think that all you ha­ve to do is wish for so­met­hing and it will co­me true. But you for­get, Cor­de­lia, that the­re are ot­her pe­op­le in­vol­ved in the­se fan­ta­si­es of yo­urs. Pe­op­le who ha­ve the­ir own opi­ni­ons and wis­hes. I do not wish to be part of yo­ur fan­ci­ful cap­ri­ces. Do you un­der­s­tand? Is that pla­in eno­ugh for you?" He sho­ok her aga­in.

  Cor­de­lia was stun­ned by the po­wer of his words, the sa­va­gery of his re­j­ec­ti­on. "I… I tho­ught you li­ked me," she sa­id, her vo­ice cat­c­hing, her eyes fil­ling with te­ars.

  Leo swo­re, a short sharp exec­ra­ti­on. "Whet­her I li­ke you or not has not­hing to do with it. I am sick to de­ath of be­ing wo­ven in­to yo­ur whim­si­cal no­
ti­ons of how to re­ar­ran­ge yo­ur des­tiny."

  "Won't you even stand my fri­end?" she as­ked pa­in­ful­ly. "May I not talk to you as I talk to Chris­ti­an?" "You tell Chris­ti­an such things?"

  "I tell Chris­ti­an ever­y­t­hing. We've al­ways sha­red all our con­fi­den­ces."

  Leo clo­sed his eyes bri­efly. "And I sup­po­se you told yo­ur fri­end abo­ut Melk?" He didn't ne­ed her con­fir­ma­ti­on. The yo­ung mu­si­ci­an had be­en gla­ring at him as if he we­re At­ti­la the Hun ever sin­ce they'd cros­sed the Steyr.

  Cor­de­lia didn't res­pond, but con­ti­nu­ed to ga­ze at him, her eyes dar­kest gray with pa­in.

  "De­ar God!" he mut­te­red al­most des­pa­iringly. He co­uldn't be­ar her to lo­ok at him in that way.

  "Won't you stand my fri­end?" she re­pe­ated with sud­den ur­gency, la­ying her hand on his arm. "I ha­ve ne­ed of fri­ends, Leo."

  She wo­uld ne­ed fri­ends, both in her mar­ri­age and as she ne­go­ti­ated a path thro­ugh the ob­s­tac­les of li­fe at Ver­sa­il­les. It was not so­met­hing he co­uld deny her even if he wis­hed.

  "I will stand yo­ur fri­end," he sta­ted wit­ho­ut in­f­lec­ti­on. Then he tur­ned asi­de to open the do­or of her cham­ber. "Go­od night, Cor­de­lia."

 

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