The Diamond Slipper

The Diamond Slipper Page 15

by Jane Feather

  "Go­od night, my lord." She slip­ped past him, aver­ting her fa­ce.

  Mat­hil­de's ap­pra­ising ga­ze was shrewd. Her nur­s­ling was very pa­le, her eyes sha­do­wed. "We'll be me­eting the prin­ce so­on, I da­re­say," she ob­ser­ved ca­su­al­ly as she un­ho­oked and un­la­ced.

  "Pro­bably to­mor­row." Cor­de­lia pul­led pins from her ha­ir. Her vo­ice was tight with sup­pres­sed te­ars. "But I won't ha­ve to go to his bed un­til af­ter the wed­ding is so­lem­ni­zed."

  "Aye." Mat­hil­de con­ten­ted her­self with the sim­p­le ag­re­ement. So­met­hing had ma­de her nur­s­ling par­ti­cu­larly fra­gi­le at the mo­ment, and it didn't ta­ke much to gu­ess what. The vis­co­unt had pre­su­mably de­alt the de­ath blow to Cor­de­lia's ho­pes, and Mat­hil­de was not go­ing to un­do that with of­fers of sympathy and com­fort. Her task now was to pre­pa­re Cor­de­lia for her wed­ding night. She had en­su­red that the girl was not in ig­no­ran­ce of the car­nal si­de of mar­ri­age. Vis­co­unt Ki­er­s­ton had car­ri­ed that edu­ca­ti­on be­yond the bo­un­da­ri­es that Mat­hil­de con­si­de­red ne­ces­sary, but the­re was no po­int crying over spil­led milk. She wo­uld im­part a few mo­re words of wis­dom on the wed­ding night it­self, when Cor­de­lia wo­uld be at her most re­cep­ti­ve.

  She tuc­ked Cor­de­lia in­to bed as if she we­re on­ce mo­re a child in the nur­sery, kis­sed her go­od night, snuf­fed the can­d­les, and left the ro­om qu­i­etly.

  Alo­ne, Cor­de­lia pul­led the co­vers up over her he­ad, bur­ro­wing in­to the dar­k­ness. It was so­met­hing she'd do­ne as a child when so­met­hing bad had hap­pe­ned and she'd in­s­tin­c­ti­vely bloc­ked out the world as if by not se­e­ing it she co­uld era­se the bad thing. But she was no lon­ger a child, and the de­fen­ses of chil­d­ho­od didn't se­em to work. Even in her bur­row, the wret­c­hed tho­ughts fo­cu­sed, to­ok on al­most con­c­re­te form, crystal­li­zing her des­pa­ir.

  She didn't want to be mar­ri­ed to an­yo­ne but Leo. The tho­ught of be­ing to­uc­hed by an­yo­ne but Leo fil­led her with dis­gust and dre­ad. How was she to en­du­re what had to be en­du­red?

  Re­so­lu­tely, she pus­hed the co­vers away from her fa­ce and lay on her back. Fe­eling sorry for her­self wo­uld ac­hi­eve not­hing. She must lo­ok at what she fe­ared and fa­ce it.

  Leo didn't li­ke his brot­her-in-law. The re­cog­ni­ti­on in­ter­rup­ted her tra­in of tho­ught. How did she know that? He'd ne­ver sa­id an­y­t­hing, but the­re was a lo­ok in his eye when the prin­ce had be­en men­ti­oned-a dark, bro­oding lo­ok that was ba­nis­hed so swiftly that so­me­ti­mes she tho­ught she'd ima­gi­ned it.

  Did it per­haps ha­ve so­met­hing to do with Leo's sis­ter? Had he be­en a tyrant in the­ir mar­ri­age?

  Sho­uld she be af­ra­id of mo­re than the physi­cal act of mar­ri­age? Sho­uld she be af­ra­id of the man him­self?

  The tho­ught was so star­t­ling, Cor­de­lia sat up­right. Su­rely Leo wo­uld ha­ve war­ned her if he knew an­y­t­hing bad abo­ut her hus­band. Su­rely he wo­uld ne­ver ha­ve en­co­ura­ged the mar­ri­age, pla­yed the part in it that he had do­ne. Leo was too ho­no­rab­le to do an­y­t­hing aga­inst his con­s­ci­en­ce, as she knew only too well.

  Cor­de­lia lay down aga­in, hud­dling be­ne­ath the fe­at­her qu­ilt aga­inst the night chill. The­re now se­emed so much she ne­eded to know.

  She'd be­gun the jo­ur­ney as if in an en­c­han­ted dre­am. The won­ders of lo­ve had bat­hed ever­y­t­hing in a soft rosy light. Ahe­ad of her lay the gol­den pa­la­ce of Ver­sa­il­les and a new li­fe of fre­edom and ple­asu­re. But that dre­am was now shat­te­red by the co­ming dawn. Her lo­ve co­uld ne­ver co­me to ful­fil­lment whi­le she was mar­ri­ed to an el­derly stran­ger. She was no lon­ger ad­rift on a sea of rich pro­mi­se, she was cold and frig­h­te­ned, shi­ve­ring on the sho­re of a shro­uded la­ke as for the first ti­me sin­ce Vi­en­na the re­ality of her si­tu­ati­on be­ca­me cle­ar.

  She rol­led on­to her si­de, dra­wing up her kne­es, trying to re­lax. She ne­eded to sle­ep. But sle­ep eva­ded her. She tos­sed and tur­ned, her he­ad fil­led with dis­con­nec­ted tho­ughts and for­m­less fe­ars. She won­de­red if To­inet­te was go­ing thro­ugh the sa­me ago­ni­zing ap­pre­hen­si­on and wis­hed that they co­uld ha­ve spent this night to­get­her, as they had spent so many nights of the­ir gir­l­ho­od, cur­led up in the sa­me bed, ex­c­han­ging sec­rets and dre­ams.

  She fi­nal­ly fell in­to a he­avy sle­ep just be­fo­re dawn and awo­ke un­res­ted, le­aden, and mi­se­rab­le when Mat­hil­de drew back the bed­cur­ta­ins.

  "Put out my ri­ding ha­bit, Mat­hil­de, ple­ase. I think the fresh air will be go­od for me. It might wa­ke me up." She yaw­ned as she sat on the ed­ge of the bed, her body ac­hing and ti­red.

  Mat­hil­de cast her a kno­wing glan­ce. "Bad night?"

  "I'm ti­red and out of sorts, Mat­hil­de." Cor­de­lia jum­ped up and bu­ri­ed her he­ad in Mat­hil­de's com­for­ting bo­som, her arms clas­ped tightly aro­und her ma­id's wa­ist. "I'm frig­h­te­ned and mi­se­rab­le."

  Mat­hil­de hug­ged her and stro­ked her ha­ir. "The­re, the­re, de­arie."

  Cor­de­lia clung to her as she had do­ne so of­ten in her chil­d­ho­od, and as al­ways Mat­hil­de's strength in­fu­sed her. Af­ter a few mi­nu­tes, she stra­ig­h­te­ned and smi­led a lit­tle wa­te­rily. "I'm bet­ter now."

  Mat­hil­de nod­ded and pat­ted her che­ek. "Things are ne­ver as bad as you ex­pect them to be. I'll fetch so­me witch ha­zel for yo­ur eyes." She pro­du­ced a cloth so­aked in witch ha­zel, and Cor­de­lia lay back on the bed, the so­ot­hing cloth pres­sed to her ac­hing eyes, whi­le Mat­hil­de brus­hed out her ri­ding ha­bit of blue vel­vet ed­ged with sil­ver la­ce.

  She was still fe­eling wan when she left her cham­ber, but at le­ast knew that she didn't lo­ok as bad as she felt. Leo was stan­ding in the inn's stab­le­yard wat­c­hing the os­t­ler sad­dle the­ir hor­ses. He tur­ned at her ap­pro­ach and ga­ve her a nod of gre­eting. Her qu­ick co­vert exa­mi­na­ti­on told her that he hadn't slept much bet­ter than she had. He lo­oked pa­le and drawn. Per­haps this wasn't such a joy­ful day for him af­ter all. But af­ter what he'd sa­id, how co­uld she think that? She had to stop in­dul­ging in fan­tasy.

  "The­re's no re­ason why I sho­uldn't ri­de to­day, is the­re, my lord?" She flic­ked her whip aga­inst her bo­ots. She had de­ter­mi­ned to gre­et him nor­mal­ly, to spe­ak to him as if that wret­c­hed sce­ne had ne­ver ta­ken pla­ce as if he had ne­ver spo­ken tho­se dre­ad­ful words. But her vo­ice was tight and the te­ars we­re a hard nut in her thro­at, and she fo­und she co­uldn't lo­ok him in the eye.

  "You may ri­de this mor­ning. But af­ter lunch you sho­uld tra­vel in the co­ach. Yo­ur hus­band will ex­pect you to be jo­ur­ne­ying in sta­te," he sa­id ne­ut­ral­ly.

  "Be­ca­use to do ot­her­wi­se wo­uld not be con­so­nant with my po­si­ti­on?" If she didn't think abo­ut Leo, if she con­cen­t­ra­ted only on ne­ut­ral to­pics, the knot of te­ars wo­uld dis­sol­ve and her vo­ice wo­uld so­und nor­mal aga­in.

  "Pos­sibly." Leo fo­ught the ur­ge to stro­ke her che­ek, smo­oth the ta­ut­ness from her lo­vely mo­uth, ba­nish her bla­tant un­hap­pi­ness by den­ying what he'd sa­id. But that way lay mad­ness. He must stick to his guns or all his cru­elty wo­uld ha­ve be­en for not­hing.

  "Is the prin­ce much con­cer­ned with pres­ti­ge and sta­tus and all its trap­pings?" She lo­oked aro­und at the en­to­ura­ge pre­pa­ring to le­ave So­is­sons.

  "Ver­sa­il­les is much con­cer­ned."

  Was he de­li­be­ra­tely eva­ding the qu­es­ti­on? "But is my hus­band?" she per­sis­ted.

&nbs
p; "I be­li­eve he is," he res­pon­ded, swin­ging in­to the sad­dle. "But as I sa­id, Ver­sa­il­les is ru­led by the trap­pings of pro­to­col."

  Cor­de­lia ga­ve her fo­ot to the gro­om who was wa­iting to help her mo­unt Lu­cet­te. "Is the prin­ce mo­re con­cer­ned than the ave­ra­ge?" She gat­he­red the re­ins to­get­her and tur­ned her hor­se to walk be­si­de his out of the yard.

  Leo frow­ned. El­vi­ra had on­ce com­p­la­ined that Mic­ha­el had very ri­gid at­ti­tu­des. He ha­ted de­vi­ati­ons from what he con­si­de­red due pro­cess. He had cer­ta­in un­var­ying ri­tu­als. When Leo had pres­sed her for spe­ci­fics, she'd la­ug­hed it off and chan­ged the su­bj­ect. But he re­mem­be­red be­ing fa­intly dis­tur­bed by the ex­c­han­ge. In fact, he'd be­en fa­intly dis­tur­bed by many of the­ir con­ver­sa­ti­ons at that ti­me. As much by what El­vi­ra re­fu­sed to say as by what she did say.

  "Sir?" Cor­de­lia prom­p­ted.

  He sho­ok his he­ad free of sha­dows and spo­ke brus­qu­ely. "I don't know. Mic­ha­el is a dip­lo­mat, a po­li­ti­ci­an. He fol­lows the ru­les of all the ga­mes. He's con­cer­ned with ap­pe­aran­ces, but then so is ever­yo­ne at Ver­sa­il­les. You will le­arn for yo­ur­self."

  Cor­de­lia had no he­art for fur­t­her qu­es­ti­oning, and they ro­de in ten­se si­len­ce thro­ug­ho­ut the mor­ning, stop­ping for mid­day ref­res­h­ment on the right bank of the Ri­ver Ais­ne. The lo­cal tow­n­s­folk crow­ded aro­und the tab­les set up pic­nic-st­y­le, gaw­ping at the da­up­hi­ne and her en­to­ura­ge, Ma­rie An­to­inet­te was char­med with the rus­tic set­ting and the in­for­ma­lity of the oc­ca­si­on. She sum­mo­ned Cor­de­lia to sit at her tab­le and chat­te­red li­ke a mag­pie.

  To­inet­te was cle­arly not ap­pre­hen­si­ve and cer­ta­inly didn't lo­ok as if she'd spent a sle­ep­less night. Cor­de­lia ref­lec­ted that the wo­ebe­go­ne ho­me­sick girl had va­nis­hed, tran­s­for­med in­to this de­lig­h­ted and de­lig­h­t­ful prin­cess who re­ve­led in the at­ten­ti­on and the ho­ma­ge with a child's con­s­pi­cu­o­us ple­asu­re min­g­led with the ha­ug­h­ti­ness of one who knew it was her due.

  "Co­me, let us walk among the pe­op­le." To­inet­te ro­se to her fe­et in a bil­low of straw-co­lo­red silk. She tuc­ked her hand in Cor­de­lia's arm. "We shall stroll among them and gre­et them. They are my su­bj­ects now and I do so want them to lo­ve me."

  The pe­op­le cer­ta­inly se­emed very well dis­po­sed to the­ir fu­tu­re qu­e­en and re­luc­tant to let her go when it was ti­me to re­turn to the car­ri­ages.

  Lu­cet­te had be­en un­sad­dled and re­tur­ned to the re­ar of the pro­ces­si­on, and the co­ach with the von Sac­h­sen arms on its pa­nels sto­od re­ady. Leo was al­re­ady wa­iting at the fo­ot­s­tep. As Cor­de­lia ma­de her way over to him, Chris­ti­an ap­pe­ared from the crowd, le­ading his hor­se.

  Cor­de­lia's fa­ce lit up. With Chris­ti­an she co­uld be cer­ta­in of her wel­co­me. Chris­ti­an's lo­ving fri­en­d­s­hip was no fan­tasy. She gat­he­red up her skirts and ran to­ward him. "Chris­ti­an, how are you?" She sto­od on tip­toe to kiss him, for­get­ting the pub­lic are­na. "I ha­ve be­en thin­king of whe­re you will lod­ge in Pa­ris."

  "Cor­de­lia, you sho­uld know bet­ter than to in­dul­ge in pub­lic dis­p­lays of af­fec­ti­on," Leo rep­ro­ved sharply as he ca­me over to them. "And you too, Chris­ti­an. You know as well as an­yo­ne that the clo­se­ness of yo­ur fri­en­d­s­hip ne­eds to be kept out of the pub­lic eye."

  Chris­ti­an flus­hed. "I know whe­re the bo­un­da­ri­es of fri­en­d­s­hip lie, my lord," he sa­id po­in­tedly.

  "My lord, do you ha­ve any idea whe­re Chris­ti­an sho­uld go when we re­ach Pa­ris?" Cor­de­lia as­ked qu­ickly.

  "I don't ne­ed the vis­co­unt's help, Cor­de­lia," Chris­ti­an pro­tes­ted stiffly. "I'm per­fectly ca­pab­le of lo­oking af­ter myself."

  "But it's a stran­ge city and Lord Ki­er­s­ton is spon­so­ring you. Of co­ur­se he'll help you, won't you?" She tur­ned her gre­at tur­qu­o­ise eyes to­ward him. "You won't re­ne­ge on a pro­mi­se, I trust, sir?"

  It was al­most a re­li­ef, he tho­ught, to see her eyes fil­led now with an angry chal­len­ge, rat­her than the ha­un­ting shock of one who­se trust has be­en ab­ruptly abu­sed. He ig­no­red the chal­len­ge, sa­ying calmly to Chris­ti­an, "I'll gi­ve you the ad­dress of a res­pec­tab­le and inex­pen­si­ve lod­ging ho­use. You'll be qu­ite com­for­tab­le the­re un­til you get set­tled."

  Leo ope­ned the car­ri­age do­or. "Co­me, the pro­ces­si­on is mo­ving." He han­ded Cor­de­lia in and clim­bed up af­ter her.

  Cor­de­lia le­aned out of the win­dow. "We'll talk abo­ut it when we get to Com­pi­eg­ne, Chris­ti­an." She wat­c­hed him ri­de away to­ward the re­ar of the co­lumn and then le­aned back aga­inst the squ­abs.

  "You will help him, won't you?"

  "If he'll ac­cept it." Leo tur­ned his he­ad to lo­ok out of the win­dow. He reg­ret­ted his ne­ces­sary cru­elty of the night be­fo­re, but he was fe­eling much mo­re than that reg­ret at the mo­ment. He had not ex­pec­ted to fe­el as he did. Be­reft and sad. He had do­ne his duty by Cor­de­lia and by Mic­ha­el. He had re­sis­ted tem­p­ta­ti­on, all but that on­ce, even tho­ugh it had be­en the har­dest thing he'd ever do­ne. Now he wo­uld be out of tem­p­ta­ti­on. Cor­de­lia from the mo­ment of her in­t­ro­duc­ti­on to her hus­band wo­uld be­long body and so­ul to Mic­ha­el. But the know­led­ge fil­led him with dre­ar reg­ret.

  They re­ac­hed the town of Ber­ne­u­il on the out­s­kirts of the fo­rest of Com­pi­eg­ne at three o'clock. Two out­ri­ders from the king's party awa­ited them with the news that His Ma­j­esty had de­ci­ded to es­cort his new gran­d­da­ug­h­ter to Com­pi­eg­ne him­self. He and the da­up­hin we­re but fi­ve mi­nu­tes away.

  "An un­lo­oked-for ho­nor," Leo ob­ser­ved. "The king do­esn't usu­al­ly put him­self out to such an ex­tent."

  When Cor­de­lia didn't res­pond, Leo step­ped out of the mar­ri­age. "Co­me." He held up his hand.

  Cor­de­lia's hand me­rely brus­hed his she step­ped down, un­con­s­ci­o­usly, she lif­ted her chin as she lo­oked aro­und.

  It was such an ob­vi­o­us at­tempt to gat­her co­ura­ge that his art went out to her.

  "Ta­ke he­art. Things are ne­ver as bad as you ex­pect." He of­fe­red a bra­cing smi­le.

  "I don't wish to be mar­ri­ed to him," she sa­id in a fi­er­ce un­der­to­ne. "I lo­ve you, Leo."

  "Eno­ugh!" he com­man­ded sharply. "That kind of talk will do you not­hing but harm."

  Cor­de­lia bit her lip hard. They re­ac­hed the da­up­hi­ne and her en­to­ura­ge, who we­re stan­ding be­si­de the­ir car­ri­ages, wa­iting the king. To­inet­te lo­oked over her sho­ul­der and ca­ught Cor­de­lia's eye. She pul­led a fa­ce and for a mo­ment it was as if the­ir old mis­c­hi­evo­us re­la­ti­on­s­hip we­re res­to­red, ex­cept that Cor­de­lia co­uldn't sum­mon the spi­rit to res­pond, Then the so­und of ho­oves and iron whe­els on the un­pa­ved ro­ad fil­led the air, and the da­up­hi­ne tur­ned back has­tily, stra­ig­h­te­ning her sho­ul­ders.

  The king's ca­val­ca­de en­te­red the small town squ­are with tri­um­p­hant so­und of drums, trum­pets, tim­bals, and ha­ut­bo­is. It was a mas­si­ve com­pany of gu­ards, sol­di­ers, ca­va­li­ers, and co­ac­hes.

  The king step­ped out of the first car­ri­age, ac­com­pa­ni­ed by a yo­ung man who lo­oked stiffly and ner­vo­usly aro­und the as­sem­b­led com­pany.

  "Is that the da­up­hin?" Cor­de­lia whis­pe­red to Leo, her at­ten­ti­on di­ver­ted from her own mi­sery.

  "Yes. He's very shy."

  Cor­de­lia wan­ted to com­ment on how
unat­trac­ti­ve the yo­ung man was, but she kept the re­mark to her­self, wat­c­hing as To­inet­te fell to her kne­es be­fo­re the king, who ra­ised her up, kis­sed her warmly, and drew for­ward his gran­d­son. Lo­u­is-Augus­te shyly kis­sed his bri­de to che­ers and ap­pla­use from the spec­ta­tors.

  Prin­ce Mic­ha­el von Sac­h­sen ma­de his way thro­ugh the crowd to­ward his brot­her-in-law. For a few mi­nu­tes, he had ob­ser­ved the yo­ung wo­man stan­ding be­si­de the vis­co­unt. She was dres­sed in the first style of ele­gan­ce, as he wo­uld ha­ve ex­pec­ted. Her ex­p­res­si­on was very se­ri­o­us, sul­len al­most. He'd had eno­ugh le­vity in his mar­ri­ed li­fe to last thro­ugh se­ve­ral mar­ri­ages, he ref­lec­ted, not dis­p­le­ased by the girl's som­ber co­un­te­nan­ce. With luck, she wo­uld dis­co­ura­ge his da­ug­h­ters' ten­dency to flig­h­ti­ness as re­por­ted by Lo­u­ise de Nevry. Not that he co­uld ima­gi­ne eit­her of them pro­du­cing so much as a smi­le, but pre­su­mably the­ir go­ver­ness knew them bet­ter than he did.

  "Vis­co­unt Ki­er­s­ton." He gre­eted his brot­her-in-law for­mal­ly.

  Leo had be­en wat­c­hing his ap­pro­ach. He bo­wed. "Prin­ce von Sac­h­sen. Al­low me to in­t­ro­du­ce Prin­cess von Sac­h­sen."

  Cor­de­lia cur­t­si­ed. Her hus­band to­ok her hand and ra­ised her up. He kis­sed her hand, then lightly brus­hed her che­ek with his lips.

  "Ma­da­me, I bid you wel­co­me."

  "Thank you, sir." Cor­de­lia co­uld think of not­hing el­se to say. The prin­ce lo­oked very li­ke his mi­ni­atu­re. He was not un­han­d­so­me. His ha­ir was hid­den be­ne­ath a wig, but his eyeb­rows we­re gray. His fi­gu­re was a lit­tle sto­ut, but not obj­ec­ti­onably so-un­less one was ac­cus­to­med to the le­an, at­h­le­tic mus­cu­la­rity of Leo Be­a­umont.

  She for­ced her­self to smi­le, to me­et his pa­le eyes. Leo, be­si­de her, was sta­ring in­to the mid­dle dis­tan­ce. The prin­ce frow­ned sud­denly and a sha­dow flic­ke­red ac­ross the flat sur­fa­ce of his eyes. It was as if he didn't li­ke what he saw.

 

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