The Diamond Slipper

The Diamond Slipper Page 16

by Jane Feather

  "We will lod­ge at Com­pi­eg­ne this eve­ning," the prin­ce sta­ted in a flat, slightly na­sal vo­ice, wit­ho­ut a tin­ge of warmth. "I ha­ve ar­ran­ged for the mar­ri­age to be so­lem­ni­zed for­mal­ly when we re­ach Pa­ris to­mor­row eve­ning. It will be a qu­i­et ce­re­mony, but I trust, Leo, that you will ho­nor us with yo­ur com­pany." He tur­ned and smi­led at his brot­her-in-law. A thin flic­ke­ring smi­le that re­min­ded Cor­de­lia un­p­le­asantly of an asp's ton­gue. She glan­ced up at Leo. His ex­p­res­si­on was fro­zen but he bo­wed and mur­mu­red his ho­nor at the in­vi­ta­ti­on.

  Cor­de­lia was struck po­wer­ful­ly yet aga­in by the know­led­ge of Leo's dis­li­ke of the prin­ce. It wasn't in what he sa­id, but it was in his eyes. And she co­uld fe­el so­me sur­ge of ra­ge ema­na­ting from him. What was it? She lo­oked bet­we­en the two men. Prin­ce Mic­ha­el was of­fe­ring his snuff box. Leo to­ok a pinch with a word of thanks. Su­per­fi­ci­al­ly, the­re was not­hing un­to­ward abo­ut the sce­ne or the­ir man­ner to each ot­her, but be­ne­ath that sur­fa­ce Cor­de­lia wo­uld swe­ar ran de­ep cur­rents of an­ta­go­nism.

  Why? It had to ha­ve so­met­hing to do with El­vi­ra. But what?

  Leo strug­gled as al­ways with the ma­el­s­t­rom of emo­ti­on his brot­her-in-law's pre­sen­ce al­ways evo­ked. Mic­ha­el was ali­ve. El­vi­ra was de­ad. Leo had not be­en at his sis­ter's de­at­h­bed, he had known not­hing of her il­lness un­til she was de­ad. But had Mic­ha­el do­ne ever­y­t­hing pos­sib­le to sa­ve her? The qu­es­ti­on tor­men­ted him as only the spe­ed of her de­ath had do­ne. The spe­ed, the sud­den­ness. One day she sto­od in the sun, glo­wing and ra­di­ant and fil­led with li­fe. The next she had be­en a was­ted body in a cof­fin. And he hadn't be­en the­re to sa­ve her, or to suf­fer with her. And he wo­uld ne­ver know if ever­y­t­hing that co­uld be do­ne had be­en do­ne.

  "Co­me, we sho­uld re­turn to the car­ri­age." The prin­ce in­di­ca­ted the ro­yal party, who we­re re­en­te­ring the­ir own ve­hic­les. "I will tra­vel with you. The­re's ro­om, I be­li­eve?" He ad­dres­sed this po­li­te qu­ery to Leo.

  Leo pus­hed asi­de the ghosts of gri­ef and an­ger and bro­ught him­self back to the sunny af­ter­no­on. "I'll le­ave you to be­co­me ac­qu­a­in­ted with yo­ur wi­fe, Mic­ha­el. I'm happy to ri­de.

  "I bid you fa­re­well, Cor­de­lia." He bo­wed and held out a hand to the si­lent, wat­c­h­ful Cor­de­lia, who re­ali­zed with a sick shock that he re­al­ly was go­ing to aban­don her he­re.

  She cur­t­si­ed, gi­ving him her hand. Her eyes wi­de and vul­ne­rab­le, her vo­ice unu­su­al­ly for­lorn. "I am so ac­cus­to­med to yo­ur com­pany, sir, I don't know how I shall go on wit­ho­ut it. Will we see you at Com­pi­eg­ne?"

  "No. I be­li­eve I shall re­turn di­rectly to Pa­ris. Now you ha­ve yo­ur hus­band's es­cort, you can ha­ve no ne­ed of mi­ne, my lady." He sta­red ste­adily at her, wil­ling her to lo­se her air of de­so­la­ti­on. It wo­uld cer­ta­inly draw Mic­ha­el's at­ten­ti­on.

  "Then al­low me to thank you for ta­king ca­re of me, sir." She se­emed to ha­ve re­co­ve­red her­self. Her smi­le was brit­tle, but it was still a smi­le.

  "The ple­asu­re was all mi­ne." He ra­ised her hand to his lips and kis­sed it.

  The to­uch of his lips se­ared her skin thro­ugh her glo­ves, and for a tel­lta­le se­cond her lo­ve glo­wed in her eyes with such pi­er­cing in­ten­sity that he al­most had to lo­ok away. Then she to­ok her hus­band's arm and tur­ned from him.

  Leo wat­c­hed them mo­ve off thro­ugh the bus­t­ling crowds, then he spun on his he­el and wal­ked away. He felt empty. The tho­ught of Cor­de­lia with Mic­ha­el was sud­denly unen­du­rab­le. The tho­ught of his hands on that fresh skin, his to­uch aro­using that won­der­ful can­did sen­su­ality, bro­ught bit­ter bi­le to his thro­at. El­vi­ra had ne­ver con­fi­ded an­y­t­hing abo­ut Mic­ha­el's lo­ve­ma­king, and her brot­her had res­pec­ted such de­li­cacy, even tho­ugh it was unu­su­al re­ti­cen­ce from his ro­bustly can­did sis­ter. Now he was tor­men­ted with an ob­ses­si­onal cu­ri­osity that was as pa­in­ful as it se­emed vo­ye­uris­tic.

  "Lord Ki­er­s­ton."

  He stop­ped and tur­ned at the ha­il from Chris­ti­an Per­cos­si. His ex­p­res­si­on was not en­co­ura­ging. He didn't ne­ed the yo­ung mu­si­ci­an's ac­cu­sa­tory com­ments at this po­int. But Chris­ti­an lo­oked as be­reft and mi­se­rab­le as Leo felt.

  "Will she be all right?" Chris­ti­an was out of bre­ath, his ha­ir dis­he­ve­led, a lost lo­ok in his so­ul­ful brown eyes.

  "She's with her hus­band."

  "Yes, but what kind of man is he?" Chris­ti­an was wrin­ging his long slen­der hands. "Do­es he know how spe­ci­al Cor­de­lia is? Will he be ab­le to ap­pre­ci­ate her?"

  Leo ex­ha­led slowly. "I ho­pe so," he sa­id fi­nal­ly, tur­ning away aga­in, be­fo­re he re­mem­be­red that the yo­ung man was in so­me way de­pen­dent upon him. "When you re­ach Pa­ris, go to the Bel­le Eto­ile on the rue Sa­int-Ho­no­re. Men­ti­on my na­me. I'll find you the­re in a day or two."

  "Do you go to Com­pi­eg­ne now?"

  "No. I am go­ing stra­ight to Pa­ris. Un­til la­ter, Chris­ti­an." He wa­ved a dis­mis­si­ve hand at the yo­ung man and stro­de off, le­aving Chris­ti­an une­asily alo­ne in the now ra­pidly em­p­t­ying town squ­are. Af­ter a mi­nu­te he went off in se­arch of his hor­se. He wo­uld fol­low the pro­ces­si­on to Com­pi­eg­ne. Even if he co­uldn't spe­ak with Cor­de­lia, at le­ast he'd be in the vi­ci­nity. It se­emed in­con­si­de­ra­te of the vis­co­unt to de­sert her when she must ne­ed fa­mi­li­ar fa­ces aro­und her.

  Leo pus­hed thro­ugh a do­or in­to a low-ce­ilin­ged ta­vern. "Wi­ne, boy!"

  The pot­boy scur­ri­ed be­hind the bar co­un­ter and re­tur­ned with a jug of red wi­ne and a pew­ter cup. Leo ga­ve him a mo­ro­se nod and fil­led the cup. He drank de­eply and set­tled back for a long af­ter­no­on in the com­pany of Bac­chus. To­mor­row was Cor­de­lia's wed­ding and he plan­ned to at­tend it with a shat­te­ring he­adac­he and his sen­ses dul­led with wi­ne.

  Prin­ce Mic­ha­el had han­ded Cor­de­lia in­to the car­ri­age and step­ped in­si­de af­ter her. He to­ok his se­at, ar­ran­ging the full skirts of his bro­ca­ded co­at, adj­us­ting his sword.

  Fussy lit­tle mo­ve­ments, Cor­de­lia tho­ught. A man who con­cer­ned him­self with de­ta­il, who ne­eded things to be per­fectly or­de­red. The an­tit­he­sis of her­self.

  "I am ho­no­red you ca­me to me­et me, my lord," she ven­tu­red. The ice had to be bro­ken so­me­how.

  "Not at all," he sa­id, fi­nal­ly sa­tis­fi­ed with his dress and lo­oking up at her. "In nor­mal cir­cum­s­tan­ces, of co­ur­se, I wo­uld ha­ve awa­ited you in Pa­ris. But sin­ce His Ma­j­esty was ple­ased to ma­ke this jo­ur­ney, it se­emed ap­prop­ri­ate that I sho­uld ac­com­pany him on my own er­rand."

  Dry as dust, Cor­de­lia tho­ught. Su­rely he co­uld ha­ve sa­id so­met­hing a lit­tle war­mer, mo­re en­co­ura­ging. She glan­ced down at her hands in her lap. A ray of sun ca­ught the ser­pent bra­ce­let on her wrist. She to­uc­hed it and tri­ed aga­in. "And I must thank you for this be­a­uti­ful bet­rot­hal gift, sir. The di­amond slip­per is ex­qu­isi­te." She held up her wrist to show him. The lit­tle charm dan­ced with the mo­ve­ment. "I was won­de­ring abo­ut the ot­her charms."

  He shrug­ged. "I ha­ve no idea of the­ir his­tory. They we­re on the­re when I pur­c­ha­sed it for my-" He stop­ped ab­ruptly, thin­king it was per­haps tac­t­less to men­ti­on its ori­gi­nal ow­ner. The truth was that it was too go­od a gift to was­te and he didn't be­li­eve in un­ne­ces­sary ex­pen­di­tu­re.

  Elvi�
�ra had worn the bra­ce­let well. When he'd bo­ught it on the birth of the girls, it had be­en an ex­t­ra­va­gant and whim­si­cal ges­tu­re that he now des­pi­sed. He had tho­ught that its in­t­ri­ca­te de­sign se­emed per­fectly su­ited to the wo­man, and how well he had be­en pro­ved right. The bra­ce­let with its ren­de­ring of the ser­pent and the ap­ple was ma­de for El­vi­ra-tem­p­t­ress, de­ce­iver, li­ar, who­re. She'd be­en a who­re when he'd first ta­ken her in­to his bed, and she'd be­en a who­re on her de­at­h­bed.

  The old red ra­ge co­ur­sed thro­ugh him, and he clo­sed his eyes un­til he had it un­der con­t­rol. It was over with. El­vi­ra had pa­id the pri­ce. He had a new wi­fe.

  His eyes flic­ked open aga­in, stud­ying her. The­re was a bol­d­ness to this one too. He'd no­ti­ced it when she'd met his eye ear­li­er. She sho­uld ha­ve lo­we­red her ga­ze be­fo­re her hus­band, but she'd re­tur­ned his lo­ok with a chal­len­ging air that he didn't li­ke one bit. Ho­we­ver, she was yo­ung and in­no­cent. The an­tit­he­sis of El­vi­ra. He wo­uld so­on rid her of any un­de­si­rab­le bra­va­do.

  Cor­de­lia won­de­red why he didn't fi­nish his sen­ten­ce, but she didn't prompt him. His fa­ce was clo­sed and dark. What kind of man was this hus­band of hers? She wo­uld dis­co­ver so­on eno­ugh.

  Chapter Ten

  By the end of the eve­ning at Com­pi­eg­ne, Mic­ha­el was still un­de­ci­ded abo­ut his wi­fe. She lac­ked the sub­ser­vi­ent mo­desty he had ex­pec­ted to find in one so yo­ung, bro­ught up in the co­urt of Ma­ria The­re­sa. But her vo­ice was soft, her to­nes swe­et and me­lo­di­o­us, and he co­uld de­tect no sign of stri­dency or pre­sum­p­ti­on in spe­ech or be­aring.

  Also in her fa­vor, she was per­fectly at ho­me at co­urt. She had car­ri­ed off her in­t­ro­duc­ti­on to the king with im­pec­cab­le gra­ce, ne­it­her in­ti­mi­da­ted nor over­bold, and His Ma­j­esty had cle­arly be­en ple­ased with her. A wi­fe who was lo­oked kindly upon by the king and was in the con­fi­den­ce of the da­up­hi­ne wo­uld be a sig­ni­fi­cant as­set.

  He de­ci­ded to wit­h­hold jud­g­ment un­til he'd le­ar­ned a lit­tle mo­te of her. When the ro­yal party fi­nal­ly to­ok them­sel­ves off to bed, he went over to his bri­de, who was tal­king with or rat­her lis­te­ning to an el­derly duc­hess in full mo­no­lo­gue.

  "If you'll ex­cu­se me, ma­da­me, I must ta­ke my wi­fe away."

  Cor­de­lia lo­oked up at the slightly na­sal vo­ice at her sho­ul­der, and for a se­cond her re­li­ef at this res­cue was cle­ar in her eyes. But im­me­di­ately she drop­ped her ga­ze as re­li­ef at one res­cue me­rely he­ral­ded the mo­ment she'd be­en dre­ading all eve­ning. What wo­uld hap­pen now?

  Wo­uld her hus­band ex­pect so­me physi­cal in­ti­ma­ci­es? The tho­ught of as much as a kiss ma­de her shud­der.

  "Ah, yes, I wo­uldn't ke­ep you from yo­ur wi­fe, Prin­ce." The duc­hess un­fur­led her fan, sa­ying with a ma­li­ci­o­us smi­le, "It's well known how a yo­ung bri­de can en­li­ven the ener­gi­es of a man a lit­tle… past his pri­me, shall we say?"

  Prin­ce Mic­ha­el me­rely bo­wed, not a flic­ker of emo­ti­on cros­sing his fa­ce. "I bid you go­od night, ma­da­me."

  Cor­de­lia cur­t­si­ed to the duc­hess and step­ped back to ta­ke her hus­band's arm. "What a witch!" she sa­id.

  "What did you say?" Mic­ha­el co­uldn't be­li­eve his ears. He lo­oked aro­und to see if the out­ra­ge­o­us com­ment co­uld ha­ve be­en over­he­ard.

  "I sa­id she was a witch," Cor­de­lia re­pe­ated, se­emingly una­wa­re of her hus­band's shock. "What a nasty, ma­li­ci­o­us thing to say… to both of us."

  "Are you ac­cus­to­med to using such lan­gu­age in Vi­en­na?" he de­man­ded fri­gidly.

  "Oh." Cor­de­lia re­ali­zed her mis­ta­ke. She se­emed to ha­ve star­ted on the wrong fo­ot. "I do beg yo­ur par­don, sir. I'm af­ra­id I tend to be so­mew­hat out­s­po­ken." She of­fe­red him a ru­eful smi­le.

  "That is a ten­dency you will le­arn to con­t­rol, my de­ar," he sta­ted, cle­arly un­mo­ved by the smi­le. "And you will le­arn too that the duc­hess's ma­li­ce is mi­nor com­pa­red with most at Ver­sa­il­les. If you pay he­ed to it, you will be a la­ug­hin­g­s­tock. I as­su­re you I will not to­le­ra­te that in my wi­fe."

  This har­s­h­ness was so unex­pec­ted, so se­ve­re, she co­uldn't ke­ep the shock and dis­may from her eyes as she con­ti­nu­ed to lo­ok up at him, the smi­le fa­ding slowly from her fa­ce.

  Mic­ha­el wat­c­hed her dis­com­fi­tu­re with sa­tis­fac­ti­on, no­ting that her blue-gray eyes we­re ac­tu­al­ly qu­ite lo­vely, ma­de even mo­re so by her dis­t­ress. His lo­ins stir­red fa­intly.

  In hor­ror, Cor­de­lia re­cog­ni­zed the daw­ning of de­si­re in her hus­band's eyes. It was an ex­p­res­si­on she had le­ar­ned to dis­tin­gu­ish in the last ye­ar, sin­ce her po­si­ti­on at co­urt had chan­ged from child to de­bu­tan­te and she'd be­co­me the fo­cus of at­ten­ti­on for many a yo­ung co­ur­ti­er. But what she saw in her hus­band's sud­denly de­si­ro­us ga­ze ga­ve her the shi­vers. The­re was a rut­h­les­sness to this hun­ger.

  "You un­der­s­tand me," he sa­id.

  Only too well. Cor­de­lia nod­ded. "You ma­ke yo­ur­self very cle­ar, my lord."

  "Go­od. And so long as you he­ar me as cle­arly, then we shall get along very well. Co­me, I will es­cort you to our apar­t­ments." The prin­ce to­ok her hand and tuc­ked it firmly be­ne­ath his arm. Cor­de­lia won­de­red sickly if he was abo­ut to sa­tisfy his sud­den ap­pe­ti­te.

  "Will you be pla­ying at cards to­night, my lord?" The no­ise from the card ro­oms flan­king the sa­lon in­di­ca­ted that the usu­al in­ve­te­ra­te gam­b­lers we­re set­tling in for the night.

  "No, not to­night," he sa­id curtly, pa­ra­ding her thro­ugh the sa­lon, nod­ding and smi­ling his asp's smi­le from si­de to si­de as he met fa­mi­li­ar gre­etings. "To­mor­row will be a long day. The king has gra­ci­o­usly sug­ges­ted that we so­lem­ni­ze our mar­ri­age in the pri­va­te cha­pel of the Ho­tel de Vil­le in Pa­ris."

  "I un­der­s­to­od you to say it wo­uld be a very qu­i­et ce­re­mony." She wo­uld not let him de­tect the tre­mor in her vo­ice as she fo­ught to con­t­rol her pa­nic. She wasn't re­ady for her wed­ding night. Not to­night. She had pre­pa­red her­self to en­du­re it on the mor­row, but she co­uldn't pos­sibly fa­ce it un­p­re­pa­red.

  "It will be. Just Vis­co­unt Ki­er­s­ton and a few clo­se fri­ends."

  "And yo­ur da­ug­h­ters?"

  "Go­od God, why sho­uld they be pre­sent?" He lo­oked ge­nu­inely as­to­nis­hed at such a sug­ges­ti­on.

  "I had tho­ught it per­haps ap­prop­ri­ate," Cor­de­lia sa­id. Ob­vi­o­usly she'd ma­de anot­her er­ror.

  "Ab­so­lu­tely not," he sta­ted with fi­na­lity, ope­ning the do­or to Cor­de­lia's cham­ber. "They will be wa­iting at the ho­use to pay the­ir res­pects to you."

  Cor­de­lia pul­led a wry fa­ce, aver­ting her he­ad as she step­ped past him in­to the ro­om. It didn't so­und as if it wo­uld be a warm and en­co­ura­ging mo­ment of in­t­ro­duc­ti­on. The prin­ce mo­ved in­si­de af­ter her, clo­sing the do­or at his back. The wa­ve of qu­e­asi­ness bro­ke over her aga­in. But su­rely he wo­uldn't do an­y­t­hing in front of Mat­hil­de.

  Mat­hil­de ro­se from her cha­ir, whe­re she'd be­en men­ding a torn flo­un­ce on one of Cor­de­lia's gowns, and cur­t­si­ed to her new mas­ter.

  "You're the prin­cess's ma­id, I un­der­s­tand."

  "Yes, my lord. Mat­hil­de. I've lo­oked af­ter my lady sin­ce she was a ba­be." Mat­hil­de was the pic­tu­re of an­xi­o­us sub­ser­vi­en­ce as she cur­t­si­ed aga­in. The­re was no sign i
n this hum­b­le ma­id of the as­ser­ti­ve wo­man whom Vis­co­unt Ki­er­s­ton knew. But both she and Cor­de­lia knew that if Mat­hil­de didn't find fa­vor with Prin­ce Mic­ha­el, he co­uld cast her out of his ho­use­hold wit­ho­ut com­pun­c­ti­on.

  "Mat­hil­de was my wet nur­se."

  Mic­ha­el frow­ned. "You ne­ed an abi­ga­il well ver­sed in the fas­hi­ons of the co­urt. An el­derly wet nur­se is hardly an ap­prop­ri­ate at­ten­dant for the wi­fe of the Prus­si­an am­bas­sa­dor."

  Cor­de­lia tho­ught qu­ickly. "It must be as you ple­ase, my lord," she sa­id, trying to so­und softly sub­mis­si­ve. "You know bet­ter than I, of co­ur­se. But Mat­hil­de was in gre­at fa­vor with the em­p­ress Ma­ria The­re­sa. She has of­ten at­ten­ded the da­up­hi­ne and was in the em­p­ress's con­fi­den­ce."

  Mic­ha­el con­si­de­red this. Whi­le they we­re a long way from Vi­en­na, it was well known that Ma­ria The­re­sa had ears and eyes in every co­urt. It wo­uldn't do for an am­bas­sa­dor to of­fend the em­p­ress of Aus­t­ria even in such a slight mat­ter as the dis­po­si­ti­on of an el­derly ma­id­ser­vant. "Well, we shall see how she works out. If ne­ces­sary, I will em­p­loy a pro­per abi­ga­il for you, and yo­ur nur­se can work un­der her as la­un­d­ress and se­am­s­t­ress."

  Cor­de­lia glan­ced at Mat­hil­de, who­se ex­p­res­si­on was com­p­le­tely im­pas­si­ve as she re­ma­ined in a de­ep curtsy. "I'm su­re you will find Mat­hil­de is as well ver­sed in the du­ti­es of a lady's ma­id as any ot­her, sir."

  Mic­ha­el lo­oked an­no­yed at this per­sis­ten­ce. "I will be the best jud­ge of that. I do­ubt eit­her of you know exactly what's re­qu­ired of such a po­si­ti­on at Ver­sa­il­les. How co­uld you, in­de­ed?" He ges­tu­red to Mat­hil­de. "Put yo­ur mis­t­ress to bed, wo­man, and send me word when she's pre­pa­red."

 

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