by Jane Feather
The door to the governess's chamber opened, and Louise stood glaring in silent accusation in the doorway.
Leo said with cold authority, "I have been sent by the king to escort your charges to his presence. Perhaps you would make certain their dress is in order."
"The princess has made it clear that my services are not required," Louise said spitefully, with downturned mouth. "The princess believes she can tend to her stepdaughters without assistance. Even though I've been doing it to the prince's satisfaction for close on four years."
Leo didn't deign to reply, he merely looked through her as if she were some transparent insect. Cordelia said curtly, "Whatever grievance you may have, madame, this is not the place to air it." She lifted Amelia and then Sylvie from their chairs, smoothing down their skirts, adjusting their muslin fichus.
Amelia, still troubled by the faint spot on her bodice, surreptitiously scratched at it with a fingernail while casting anxious glances toward the governess.
"Come." Leo took their hands. "We mustn't keep the king waiting."
Louise didn't move from her spot by her door until they had all left the room. Then she came over to the table. Her mouth was pursed, her eyes sharply speculative. Greedily, she began to eat the remains of the children's breakfast, cramming brioche into her mouth as if she hadn't eaten in a week, swallowing jam by the spoonful in between sips of the now cold chocolate remaining in the jug.
She would appeal directly to the prince. He must surely regard an affront to her authority as an affront to his own. It was common household gossip that he ruled his young bride with the same rod of iron he held over the rest of his staff.
She brushed crumbs from her lips with the back of her hand, heedless of a smear of jam that transferred itself to her gown. She took a long nip from her flask and sat down beside the empty grate. It was obvious that the princess was hand in glove with the viscount, which made the situation even more intolerable but would act in her favor with the prince. An alliance between stepmother and uncle would not be tolerated by the father. Prince Michael ruled alone.
"I know what it is!" Cordelia exclaimed suddenly as they began to walk down the corridor. She stopped and looked down at the children, stepping away to get a better look. "Amelia's wearing Sylvie's ribbon, and Sylvie's wearing Amelia's."
"What?" Leo dropped their hands and looked in astonishment at the twins, who were now covered in confusion, giggling behind their hands, their faces crimson. "How can you tell?"
"Well, I couldn't at first, but Sylvie has a beauty spot on the back of her neck." She touched the almost invisible mole on the supposed Amelia's neck. "I'm right, aren't I?" The child nodded, still convulsed with giggles.
"I'll be damned!" Leo shook his head. "How often do you play such a trick?"
Neither child answered, but they covered their faces with their hands.
"It must be such fun to fool everyone like that," Cordelia said, much struck by the possibilities of the masquerade. "Don't you agree, Leo?"
For a moment the shadows retreated. Leo couldn't help smiling at the thought of the governess, not to mention, Michael, never knowing which child they were talking to. The game must have lightened their dreary days.
"How many times have you deceived me?" he demanded.
"Oh, never," they assured him in unison. "Never!"
"Somehow I doubt that," he commented wryly. "But you'll not do it again, thanks to your observant stepmother."
His smile faded as they renewed their walk through the thronged corridor, he and Cordelia each holding a child's hand. "I will have passports for you and the children within two days." His lips barely moved as he spoke in the direction of her ear. "I must find a way to get the girls out of Versailles on some pretext. Something that will give you a few hours' start."
"Mathilde will come with us," she returned in the same almost soundless murmur, responding as if this were merely the continuation of a long previous discussion. Of course, there was no choice, no decisions to be made apart from the when and the how. And she didn't have to be told that Leo would not come with them. Michael might suspect his involvement, but he mustn't be given proof. It would be for her to ensure the girls' safety.
The children, hanging on their hands, gazed wide-eyed at the magnificence around them, their little feet taking the tiny gliding steps they'd been taught. The king's audience chamber was crowded with courtiers, but a word from Leo to one of the king's chancellors secured them clear passage to where the king sat with the dauphine and her husband. Amelia and Sylvie were engulfed. They saw only legs and hoops as they were wafted through the crowd, their cheeks brushing against rich silks and velvets, their tiny slippered feet barely touching the marble floors. They clung desperately to the supporting hands of their escorts, terrified that if they came adrift, they would be lost in the sea of gowns, drowned beneath the rising waves of noise way above them.
They had so little experience of the world outside their shuttered apartments on the rue du Bac that they were tongue-tied, staring at their feet, when they reached the king. They only remembered to curtsy when they saw Cordelia sweeping into a deep obeisance at the king's feet.
Toinette leaned forward in her chair, beckoning them to her. "I have some sweetmeats," she said warmly, gesturing to a flunky holding a silver salver of cakes and pastries. The children looked up at Leo and Cordelia, too shy to move a muscle. The king laughed, selected two marzipan roses from the salver, and gave one to each child, then with great good humor turned to Madame du Barry, signaling that the audience was over.
Toinette rose from her chair. "Let us walk with the children, Cordelia. Do you accompany us, Viscount Kierston?" This last was a trifle imperious, breaking into Leo's conversation with Madame du Barry, who stood at the king's right shoulder.
Leo smiled politely but his eyebrows lifted a little as he bowed to the young woman, whose nose was definitely in the air, her eyes studiously averted from the king's mistress. "I am yours to command, of course, madame."
"Then I command that you accompany us," Toinette declared, now trying to sound lighthearted and teasing. But the attempt was too late to reverse the effect of her outright snub to Madame du Barry, who stood glaring, her mouth pinched, her cheeks white beneath the rouge. The king was looking most displeased, but Toinette appeared not to notice.
"I do not believe madame ma mere would expect me to mingle with whores," she said in a defiant undertone as they moved away from the circle fawning at the king's feet.
"I imagine the empress would expect her daughter to behave with courtesy," Leo said. Despite his own wretchedness, he couldn't stand aside and see the c
hild make such a dreadful mistake. "If you make an enemy of the du Barry, madame, you will play into the hands of those who would use you to cause trouble at court. That will not please the king."
"I follow my conscience, my lord," Toinette declared loftily. "And my conscience is answerable only to God." She gave a short nod of her head in punctuation. "Let's go into the gardens and show Amelia and Sylvie the peacocks and the fountains."
The girls, who were beginning to recover from the ordeal of the king's audience and to examine their exotic surroundings with more interest, exclaimed with delight at this prospect, tugging on Leo's hands.
Leo bowed with more than a hint of irony and gave up. He had far more pressing concerns. "If you'll excuse me, madame." He strode away.
Toinette seemed barely to notice. "I am having a concert this afternoon, Cordelia; you must bring the children. Signer Percossi is to play for us. And there's to be a dancer too."
"A dancer?"
"Yes, she's called Clothilde, I believe. He requested it most specifically."
"Oh." Despite everything, Cordelia smiled with pleasure, Christian must have summoned up his courage to approach the dancer. "Do you have music lessons, Sylvie?"
Sylvie's nose wrinkled. "Madame de Nevry teaches us."
"But we don't think she can play," Amelia interjected. "She makes a terrible noise."
"Yes, all thumps. It doesn't sound a bit like music," her sister continued. "And she makes us go up and down the keys." They both ran their fingers over an imaginary keyboard, singing out the scales in their high and not very tuneful voices.
"Oh, how unpleasant." Cordelia grimaced sympathetically, but her mind was racing as a plan took shape. "I'll have to see if I can't arrange a better music teacher for you. All girls must learn to play, isn't that so, Toinette?"
The dauphine nodded in fervent agreement. "And sing and dance too. You'll see how amusing it can be."
The girls didn't look convinced, but they had reached the gardens now and all thought of music lessons vanished in the pleasures of the outdoors.
"His Highness is not receiving today," Monsieur Brion haughtily informed the governess, who stood in the corridor outside their apartments. He held the door at his back, effectively barring her entrance.
"And when will the prince be receiving?" Louise put on all her airs. She was a relative of the prince's, not to be put off by a mere servant.
"He hasn't said. I suggest you return to your own quarters, madame, and he will send for you when he is so inclined." Brion stepped back into the room and began to close the door.
"You will tell him I wish to speak with him?" Louise pleaded desperately as the door closed against her nose. There was no response.
She lurked in the corridor, muttering to herself. She didn't trust Brion to pass on her message, or at least not in a timely fashion. And it was vitally important she tell her tale to the prince as soon as possible. She would tell him that if her authority was to be flouted after all these years, then she must hear it from his own lips. Of course, she would bow to the prince's commands, but he would understand her position. The princess was so young; she was playing at the novelty of motherhood. Soon she would become bored, and court pleasures would seduce her from the schoolroom. And the governess would be left with fractious, disappointed, spoiled children.
She hovered outside the door, rehearsing her speech under her breath, trying to look assured, as if she had good reason to be where she was, becalmed on the tide of scurrying servants and chattering, fan-flourishing courtiers whose jeweled heels taptapped on the marble floors as they hurried past. Everyone was in a hurry and no one cast a sideways glance at the red-nosed, watery-eyed governess with her unfashionable wig and dowdy gown.
Louise glanced anxiously at her fob watch. It was nearing one o'clock and the children had been gone for two hours. She should return to her own quarters, but she kept hoping that the prince would emerge. Just because Brion said he wasn't receiving didn't necessarily mean that he wasn't.
Brion was a malicious beast and would enjoy her discomfiture, she thought with compressed lips.
A servant walked by with a pair of spaniels straining at a leash. The dogs stopped and sniffed at the governess's shoes, the hem of her gown. In one disdainful glance, the manservant appraised Madame de Nevry, put her down as a charity case, a poor relation, maybe even an upper servant, although her dress was a trifle dowdy for the upper echelons of a servants' hall in any powerful household. He let the leash go slack and a wet nose pushed up beneath Louise's petticoat. The servant stared indifferently around, making no attempt to drag the animals away, as if the governess were merely a tree trunk for the dogs' convenience.
"Oh, go away!" she squeaked, backing against the wall.
The servant grinned. "They're only being friendly," he said.
"Take them away!" She brushed at them, trying to straighten her skirt. "Horrible little animals."
"Don't you let His Grace of Burgundy hear you say that. Dear me, no." The man shook his head in mock reproof. "These two are more precious to the duke than his own children."
He was making game of her and she could do nothing about it, backed up as she was against the wall with the slobbering snuffling dogs at her ankles. Tears of frustration pricked behind her eyes. She knew she was the butt of kitchen jokes in the rue du Bac, but why some complete stranger should pick upon her she couldn't imagine.
"Madame de Nevry!" The princess's voice chimed from behind the odious footman. "Did you wish for something? For goodness sake, man, pull those dogs off. Can't you see that Madame has a dislike of the animals?"
The servant, recognizing the voice of authority, tugged his forelock and dragged the dogs away. Cordelia surveyed the red-faced governess with a raised eyebrow. "The children are with the nursemaid. They should have dinner and a
rest before they attend the dauphine's musical entertainment this afternoon."
The princess's coldly arrogant tone was a timely reminder of Madame's grievances. She drew herself upright, her pursed mouth almost disappearing. "I understood that you had taken responsibility for the children, Princess. You made it very clear that I was not needed."
"And you were perhaps going to discuss that with my husband?" Cordelia asked softly, her eyes narrowed.
Louise almost flinched. "I wish to clarify matters with my cousin."
Cordelia stood in frowning silence for a minute.
"Walk with me awhile, madame." She took the governess's arm and marched her away down the corridor before Louise had time to recover from her astonishment. "Listen carefully," Cordelia continued in a conversational ton
e of voice that passed unnoticed among the chattering crowds. "I can only assume that my husband hasn't noticed that you reek like a pickle barrel, but I assure you that everyone else is aware of it. Myself, Viscount Kierston, Monsieur Brion, every member of the household right down to the potboy."
Louise gave an outraged gasp and tried to pull her arm free, but the princess for all her slenderness was more than a physical match for the governess. "I will not be spoken to-"
"Tush!" Cordelia interrupted. "You will listen, madame. I intend to involve myself in the children's welfare, and in every aspect of their education. You will say nothing of this to Prince Michael, and you will make no attempt to thwart me. If you do, then I promise you that the prince will know that a drunken sot has charge of his daughters. I leave you to imagine the consequences for yourself."
Louise was winded. She gasped like a gaffed fish, her face gray. It had never occurred to her that her numerous dips into her little silver flask left any trace. She had no idea she smelled of brandy. No idea that her bloodshot eyes and sometimes unsteady gait and her frequent dozes gave her away. She had thought herself perfectly safe from detection in the schoolroom with two tiny children.
"Do we have an understanding, madame?" Cordelia demanded crisply, plying her fan with her free hand. She smiled and curtsied to an acquaintance as she continued to march the governess along. "Your silence in exchange for mine."
Louise's head reeled. More than anything, she wanted a nip from her flask to clear her thoughts. "I… I will deny it. How dare you talk to me in such fashion," she managed to say.
Cordelia gave a short laugh. "There are too many witnesses for a denial to pass muster, madame. And I can safely promise you that they will step forward if I ask it of them. You are not very popular, you know," she added almost cajolingly, suddenly switching tactics. "And I have only the children's best interests at heart, as I am sure have you. We will work together to make them happy."