by Jane Feather
It had been four in the morning when Mathilde had dressed Cordelia for the wedding in a sacque gown of crimson damask open over a petticoat of ivory silk sewn with pearls. A pearl tiara glimmered in her black hair, pearls encircled her throat and nestled in her earlobes. But the long carriage journey had inevitably caused some disarray.
"I would kill for a cup of coffee," Cordelia declared. "Can it be arranged, Monsieur Brion?"
The majordomo hesitated. It went against the grain to admit that he couldn't fulfill his employer's every wish, but on this occasion the cook and the servants had not yet arrived or were still struggling to make their way through the crowds.
"I don't know if the kitchen is ready for use, madame."
"Oh, you leave it to me. Just show me the way, monsieur." Mathilde brushed off her hands with an air of unmistakable competence.
Monsieur Brion had decided early on that Mathilde should be left to her own devices. She was no ordinary servant and he sensed that his customary authority wouldn't wash with her; in fact, they were all just a little frightened of the princess's abigail, although she was always perfectly pleasant and never put on airs, but sometimes there was a look in her sharp eyes that gave a man the chills.
Cordelia wandered into the bedchamber that by its feminine hangings was clearly intended for herself. She wondered if Elvira had used it, if it was the same now as it had been in Elvira's time. Or whether the prince had had the delicacy to change the decorations. That thought brought a grim turn to her mouth. Delicacy was not one of Prince Michael's hallmarks.
She explored her own dressing room and then on impulse pushed open the connecting door that led to the prince's. The chest stood beneath the small, high window. She stepped hesitantly into the room. Even though Michael hadn't entered it as yet on this visit to Versailles, it felt as if she were trespassing. She hadn't set foot in his bedchamber in the rue du Bac, not that she could ever imagine wishing to. She grimaced in disgust.
She bent over the chest, examining the small padlock, then with a shock realized that it hung loose in the lock. Had Michael forgotten to lock it the last time he'd used it? Or had it broken open on the journey? Unable to help herself, with a sense of almost delicious terror, she lifted the lid and gazed at her husband's secrets laid out before her.
A key, presumably a spare one for the padlock, lay on top of a purple bound book. She picked up the key and tried it in the padlock. It was a perfect fit. An idea nibbled at the back of her mind. She picked up the purple bound book and stared at the title. The Devil's Apothecary. Whatever could it mean? She flipped open the pages and her jaw dropped. It was a poisoner's manual. She flicked through the book, hardly aware that she had almost stopped breathing. There were enough poisons to do away with an army in any number of ingenious ways. Each substance was meticulously described, its various dosages and effects analyzed with a chilling objectivity.
What on earth was Michael doing with such a book? Did he have some intellectual interest in the poisoner's art? She knew enough history to know herself how fascinating it could be. Lucrezia Borgia… Catherine de Medicis… they'd rid themselves of their enemies with abandon and incredible ingenuity. Poisoned gloves, lip salves, perfumes. But historically poison was a woman's weapon. It was an odd interest for a man like Michael.
She put the book down and examined the contents of the chest again. The identical spines of a series of volumes faced upward. They all bore the date of a single year. She picked out the most recent. It fell open on the previous day's date, marked with a purple ribbon bookmark. It was a daily journal. She read the entry, then the preceding one. His dealings with her were meticulously, sickeningly described right down to a description and rating of the strength of his climax. His pleasure was directly related to the degree of pain and humiliation he inflicted upon his wife. Cordelia had suspected as much, hut it had seemed too perverse to consider seriously. And yet it was here, written with cold objectivity, as if it were some clinical analysis in a medical report.
She dropped the book with a shudder of disgust. What else was contained in this daily record of her husband's life? In here, she would find out about Elvira. She would discover whether he had treated Elvira as he treated her.
"Holy Mary, child! What are you doing?" Mathilde's shocked tones brought her swinging round with a cry of alarm. The woman stood in the door, clutching a breakfast tray.
"I couldn't help it." Cordelia flushed to the roots of her hair. "I know it's despicable to spy, but…" With a sudden movement, she bent over the chest, replaced the book she'd been reading, and picked up the tiny key. She darted across to the washstand, and pressed it into the cake of soap on the dish. "I'm mad, I know. It's a dreadful thing to do, but there're things I must know, Mathilde." She was muttering this rushed torrent almost to herself as she wiped the key clean of soap and put it back in the chest.
Mathilde continued to stare at her as if her nursling had indeed run mad. "If the prince finds you in here…" she began.
"Don't even think of it." Cordelia shivered. "Quick, let's go back." She darted into her own dressing room and closed the door to Michael's. Her heart was hammering against her ribs, her palms were slippery with sweat. Gingerly, she put the cake of soap on the washstand. The imprint of the key was clear and deep.
"Do you know how to get a key copied, Mathilde?"
"Now, what in the name of mercy are you up to, Cordelia?" Mathilde set the tray down and stood, arms akimbo, frowning fiercely. "That man would flay you alive if you gave him the excuse." Her eyes were bitter, her mouth thin. She had not yet worked out a way to deal with Prince Michael that wouldn't in the end make matters even worse for Cordelia. The man enjoyed giving pain, it was inextricably bound up in his sexual pleasure, and he would relish the slightest pretext to punish his wife in the darkness of the bedcurtains.
"I know, but I won't let him break me, Mathilde." Cordelia spoke with fierce determination. "He has secrets in that chest, and maybe they'll help me. It won't hurt to find out everything I can about him, will it?"
Mathilde shook her head doubtfully, but she took the cake of soap and wrapped it carefully in a linen handkerchief before dropping it into her apron pocket. "I'll get the key cut and then we'll see," she stated noncommittally. "Now, let me do your hair."
She gestured brusquely to the tray where sat a pot of coffee and a basket of fruit and pastries that she had somehow conjured out of the air. "You'd best eat something. It's noontime and there's no knowing when you'll have the chance to eat again before the banquet." She busied herself with adjusting Cordelia's coiffure.
"I wonder how Toinette is feeling," Cordelia
mumbled through a mouthful of almond cake. "Monsieur Brion said she arrived here at half past ten this morning, but the queen's bedchamber is not renovated as yet. Something to do with repairs to the ceiling. Anyway, they had to put her in another room. They seem to be as disorganized here as at Compiegne. I wonder if the other royal palaces are the same."
"I daresay the archduchess is well enough." Mathilde removed the last pin from her mouth and drove it into the mass of black curls. "I just hope they remember to make sure she eats. When she gets excited, she forgets all about it, and we don't want her swooning at the altar."
Cordelia wished she could be with her friend at this moment. It would be especially hard for Toinette to have no intimate companion with her as she was dressed for her wedding. Cordelia felt years older than her childhood friend. True, Toinette was fourteen and a half to her own sixteen, but their age difference had never mattered in the past. Now she seemed separated from Toinette by much more than eighteen months.
Half an hour later, Prince Michael entered the apartment. Cordelia was standing in the salon, careful not to disturb her dress now that she was once more in perfect order. The prince's first thought, however, was not for his wife. "Brion, is my chest here?"
"In your dressing room, my lord."
The prince strode into the dressing room. Cordelia crept forward. She watched curiously through the open door as he bent over the chest. Then he let loose a bellow of fury. "Brion! Brion! Who's been tampering with my chest?"
"Oh, Your Highness… no one… what could you mean… what has happened?" Brion, his eyes round as saucers in his plump face, came racing from the kitchen.
The prince was raging. "The chest is unlocked! Look at it! The padlock is hanging loose!" He raised his cane and Brion cowered against the wall, all vestiges of his dignified major-domo persona vanished.
"Your Highness, I haven't touched it. I haven't been near it since Frederick brought it in from the coach," he babbled, creeping backward to the door.
"Where's Frederick?" The cane came down across a chair with a violent but harmless crack.
Cordelia darted to the window and stood gazing down into the gardens with every appearance of utter deafness.
Brion bellowed for Frederick, radiating relief at finding an alternative victim for his master. The footman came racing from the kitchen. "What is it? What have I done?"
Brion gestured with his head to the prince's dressing room, and Frederick nervously approached, the majordomo following him. Cordelia turned again, positioning herself so that she could see what was going on. It was not a pretty sight. The prince in a wild fit was belaboring the hapless footman with his cane, bringing it down over the man's shoulders even as Frederick protested his innocence.
Then the fit passed almost as quickly as it had arisen. The white-faced servants emerged from the dressing room and scuttled away to the relative safety of the servants' quarters, and silence emanated from the dressing room. Cordelia crept closer. Michael was kneeling before the chest, examining it so closely his head was almost inside. Her heart began to hammer again. Had she disturbed something, left some telltale sign of her intrusion?
Finally, Michael raised his head. He dropped the lid, locked it, and pocketed the key. He returned to the salon, his face wiped clear of all emotion, a beating pulse in his temple the only lingering sign of the fearsome rage of a few minutes earlier.
"The dauphine is to be conducted to meet the royal family in the Cabinet du Conseil at one o'clock. We must take up our positions in the Salon d'Hercule immediately." He examined his wife critically as he spoke.
"Is there some significance in the Salon d'Hercule?" Cordelia lifted her chin. She knew perfectly well that no fault could be found with her appearance and couldn't help resenting his scrutiny.
"It's the station immediately before the chapel. We will follow the royal party into the chapel. It's a great honor," he told her, frowning. That lifted chin was disagreeable. One of these days he could cure her of it, but now was not the moment. Tight-lipped, he offered his arm.
The Hall of Mirrors was lined on both sides by glittering courtiers, already awaiting the royal procession. Michael walked sedately between the lines, smiling and bowing to some, loftily ignoring others who tried to catch his eye. Cordelia's eyes darted from side to side as she tried to absorb the scene.
They continued through the long series of linked rooms that made up the state rooms, these also lined with men and women perspiring freely in the heat, packed too close together to wield their fans to good effect. The Salon d'Hercule, immediately before the royal chapel, was less crowded, and Cordelia guessed positions here were by royal command only. Her husband proceeded to the very head of the room. In this salon he acknowledged with a small bow everyone who caught his eye, and Cordelia, taking her cue, curtsied in her turn.
Viscount Kierston was one of the honored few. He was dressed in emerald green thickly embroidered with silver thread. The color deepened his eyes, accentuated the hazel glints. He was standing with Madame du Barry across the salon from Cordelia and her husband. He raised his eyes and bowed. His gaze was both troubled and intently questioning. The king's mistress smiled and dropped a slight curtsy. Cordelia responded in kind.
She had seen Leo twice since her wedding. On the second occasion, he'd brought her a letter from Christian and with obvious reluctance had taken her answer back to Christian. On that second time, she'd stood away from the light of the window, her fingers nervously adjusting the fichu at her neck. The bruises beneath the muslin were large and dark, despite Mathilde's ministrations and a liberal dusting of powder. She had not encouraged him to prolong his visit, and she'd seen how her behavior had puzzled and disturbed him.
Now Cordelia closed her gloved hands tightly, her nails digging into her palms, and forced herself to smile nonchalantly into his questioning gaze. Leo must not know. But she could see that he was not at ease. There was too much tension in his jaw, in the gripped mouth, in the set of his shoulders. She glanced sideways at her husband. The thin mouth, the slightly fleshy face, the cold eyes. She could feel his hands, clammy on her body, the weight of him when he fell onto her, satiated, before rolling sideways to snore until he'd recovered his strength. She closed her eyes on a graveyard shudder.
A herald's trumpet sounded. There was a stir around them. People leaned forward slightly, looking back down the series of rooms. The royal party was approaching.
Toinette was tiny. A slender, almost childish figure smothered in diamonds. But she looked around her, acknowledging the homage
of the court with a grace and dignity that belied her childlike appearance. Beside her walked the dauphin, who seemed much more ill at ease than his bride. There was a moment when Toinette caught
Cordelia's eye, then she had passed and Cordelia wasn't sure whether the gleam in the round blue eyes had been laughter or tears.
During the wedding, gaming tables were set up in the chain of state rooms, with cards and dice for the king and his courtiers to while away the remainder of the day until the banquet. Roped barriers kept the witnessing crowds from getting too close as they gawked at the court at play. It had begun to rain heavily, sending the masses inside from the gardens, and the smell of wet cloth pervaded the air already heavy with scented candles.
Cordelia saw her husband and. Leo at the king's table playing lansquenet. The ladies of the court, including the dauphine, were also at cards. Cordelia strolled among the tables, trying to decide whether to dice or join the card-players. As she passed her husband, the king looked up from his cards. "Princess von Sachsen. Pray take a seat at our table. If you don't play, then you may bring your husband luck." He beamed with great good humor.
"Oh, but I do play, Your Majesty." Cordelia's eyes suddenly sharpened. Lansquenet, a game of German origin, had been played a great deal at the Viennese court. She and Toinette had perfected their somewhat dubious skills at the tables and had become adept at defeating the archdukes.
She took the chair held for her by a footman, arranging her skirts of crimson and ivory with a deft hand, her dazzling smile embracing the table.
Leo recognized that look. That mischievous, calculating, gleeful gloat. He had seen it in the carriage as they played dice to pass the time, and he had seen it over chess one memorable night. And now he was seeing it again, only she was at the king's table in the state rooms of Versailles, surrounded by courtiers and gaping spectators.