Daughter of Silk (30 page)
Marguerite was speechless before the Queen Mother. At this last sen- tence, her lips parted as if to speak, but she restrained herself and was silent.
“The daughters of France,” Catherine continued, “do not consider personal feelings in marriage, but the good of the kingdom. We will dis- cuss this no more. Very shortly I hope to arrange a marriage for you with the King of Portugal. Au revoir, Princesse.”
Marguerite curtsied low before her mother, kissed her hand, and turned toward the door. As she did, Rachelle saw the pained and angry look on her white face. Rachelle curtsied and was about to follow when Catherine stopped her: “One moment, Mademoiselle Macquinet.”
Rachelle paused. “Yes, Madame?” Her voice was taut.
“You have heard all I have told the princesse. I have permitted you to hear for one purpose, for the good of Marguerite. Charlotte de Presney has failed me in that she has allowed my daughter to meet Monsieur de Guise in the woods. You will now see to it that the princesse does not make a fool of herself while the King of Portugal is here. If Marguerite plans to meet Henry again, it will be your obligation to inform me at once.”
The blood seemed to drain from Rachelle. The burden of such a task fell like bricks upon her shoulders.
“You may go, Mademoiselle Macquinet.”
Dazed, Rachelle fumbled a curtsy that her own maman, Madame Clair, would have groaned over had she the misfortune to see it, and left the presence of the Queen Mother.
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C
Charlotte de Presney spoke to her serving girl. “Were the violets
that arrived secretly brought to Mademoiselle Macquinet?”
“Oui, Madame, I put them as near her nightstand as was possible, just as you told me.”
Charlotte smiled to herself. The f lowers gave off a certain substance that brought on a severe headache —
poor petite Rachelle
.
When evening came and the moon rose over the Loire with silvery gleams, Louise de Fontaine, lady-in-waiting to Marguerite, commented to Charlotte, “You are looking most fine this evening, Charlotte, after so long a ride from Blois.”
“Merci. Where is Mademoiselle Macquinet? Will she not stroll with us tonight?”
“Rachelle is indisposed with a most dreadful headache.” “Oh? But what a pity. And so lovely an evening too.” “Rachelle blames it on some violets that were in her chamber.”
“But how odd . . . Oh, surely not! They must have come from one of her admirers.”
Louise looked at her thoughtfully. “One wonders.”
Later, Charlotte slipped from the castle and came into the garden.
After a few minutes she saw Marquis Fabien near the lattice arbor where crimson roses were lavished in bloom. She pulled the corners of her carmined lips into a smile.
Charlotte had gone to great care to prepare herself for this moon- light meeting with the marquis. She had washed and scented her golden tresses, curled and arranged them into a complicated crown of
intertwined ribbons of gold with braided locks. The ribbon matched the gold cloth of her gown, and seed pearls adorned the puffed sleeves and bodice. She carried a gold lace fan with f lecks of sapphires that matched her eyes, the jewels sparkling in the starlight. She had used her pots of creams and rouges and powders from Rene, and she had added some of the potion of amour to her throat and temples.
She came quietly into the garden and watched the marquis for a moment with unconcealed desire. He was dressed most handsomely in a coat of black velvet embroidered with his armorial bearings in rubies. His cap matched and there was an
aigrette
of rubies on it, with a golden
B
for Bourbon, signifying his princely lineage.
Tonight she would have him. She would feel his lips on hers, his arms enclosing her.
Fabien turned at her footsteps. She saw that he wore a scabbard housed with a jeweled sword. He looked momentarily surprised to see her, but the way he also noticed her body gave her confidence. He had expected Rachelle, but she was here now.
She dipped a low curtsy, then raised her eyes to his. “Monsieur de Vendôme.”
He bowed. “Madame de Presney.”
She walked closer, choosing a spot where the garden lamp shone to declare her beauty. She tried to form an expression of concern and even sadness.
“Monsieur Fabien, I fear I bring you trying news.”
She saw his gaze take her in and enjoyed the f licker of wariness that showed in his violet blue eyes. It made him more attractive. She wanted to break down his resistance.
“Madame,” he said politely, “I wonder what news can be as trying as your tempting presence?”
She smiled sweetly, knowing there came at such a moment a dim- pling about her mouth. “That you find me so, Monsieur, pleases me, but that you do not trust me brings grief to my heart.”
“Tell me, Madame,” he said dryly, “what does your husband think of his wife at court luring men to her bed for the Queen Mother’s political ambitions?”
“Ah, I confess, Monsieur, I have not always lived the dutiful life of virtue, but I assure you, my devotion to you is not to please the Queen Mother but to satisfy my own lonely heart. You see, Her Majesty
forced
me to betray my husband. If not, she would send him to the Bastille. Although I fear he thinks I have done him injury, it was in loyalty and amour that I sacrificed my virtue.”
“Ah yes, I see. A great saga, Madame. But you need not confess your lost virtue to me. I have been familiar with the ways of court since a small boy. Naught surprises me where an exchange of virtue is bartered for mere trifles. But I am even less surprised when it is sought with little more than deception. And with your leave, Madame, I choose not to be deceived by your charms, which I confess are many.”
Charlotte heard only what she wanted to hear, which had been enough. He had confessed to her charms, which strengthened her resolve to crack through his veneer. She walked slowly toward him, humbly and sweetly, innocently in need of his masculine protection.
“Oh, Monsieur Fabien, you are right, I am a woman to be scorned and pitied —”
“I did not say so, Madame.”
“But it is true! I am unworthy of you, but my heart is smitten and wishes only for your friendship, your galant consideration of my grow- ing feelings for you. Would you be so hard on a woman who loves you so?”
“If you were my wife, you would not be here at court walking in the garden in the spring moonlight. I would go to the Bastille if necessary to keep you from the bed of knaves.”
“Oh Monsieur, if I were but yours, and yours alone, I would run away just to be with you wherever you were, to be in your arms in such moon- light, and even rain.”
He laughed, and she was surprised he did not appear overwhelmed by her amorous words.
“If your words, so fair, were but spoken by another . . .”
She tightened her mouth.
Rachelle
. Charlotte almost lost her facade and spat out her venom for Rachelle Macquinet, but she caught herself in time, for it would have cost her the advantage she believed she was now gaining.
Her spoken words sought to bind him in a silken net so that she might draw him to her. That he made no effort to escape alerted her.
The potion of Rene, it is working!
“What is this trying news you brought me?”
“I confess now that I am with you where she would have been, and that though I am pleased she is indisposed, even so, I assure you that I am most sympathetic of her unfortunate headache. She has asked me to inform you and to keep you company.”
“How thoughtful of Mademoiselle.”
“I am sure her sickness was brought on because she is in the Queen Mother’s displeasure over the incident in the woods this afternoon. Her Majesty guessed at once that it was Monsieur Henry de Guise who rode to meet the princesse. Mademoiselle Macquinet, so young, so inexperi- enced at court, went into hysterics. It was dreadful to watch.”
She had thought the implication of Rachelle’s weakness under the frown of Catherine would diminish her in Fabien’s estimation. She was surprised to see concern. It stung as her jealousy came to the forefront. If only he would show such depth of gravity for her troubles and dangers at court.
“Are you saying Mademoiselle Macquinet was called in alone before Catherine this afternoon?”
“She was called into the Queen Mother’s private appartements and questioned about Henry de Guise, and you also, Monsieur, were mentioned.”
“I should have understood our antics might have put her at risk with the queen. What happened? Is Catherine then displeased with her enough to send her back to Lyon?”
Charlotte lifted her brows. “You sound as if you wish her to go.” “But yes, bien sûr. I had hoped she would return to the Chateau de
Silk with her family this morning.”
His reasons could only be because he wished to protect Rachelle. Well, it would also suit Charlotte quite well if the Macquinet grisette- couturière were sent back to Lyon.
“It may be that she will so displease the Queen Mother she will be sent away. She is a novice and knows little of how to behave among roy- alty and nobles such as you, Monsieur de Vendôme.”
“Is she? I had not the faintest inclination of that. Tell me, and what of your Princesse? How has she fared with the Queen Mother over Henry de Guise?”
“The queen is exceedingly displeased, I assure you. Marguerite will marry the King of Portugal. Her Majesty has made that clear, but the princesse is stubborn, as you yourself know, Monsieur Fabien. She is bent by the winds of her declared amour for Monsieur Guise, even as I am for you.” And not waiting a moment longer for fear he would take his leave, she threw her arms around him.
“Kiss me, Monsieur Fabien . . .”
He removed her arms from around his neck, but she threw herself against him, reaching out again. She pulled his face toward her lips and kissed with abandon, trying to break down his resistance, her own desires leaping out of control.
Louise de Fontaine, upon hearing voices in the garden, crept up to the rose lattice on tiptoe and looked over into the garden where the lamp was lit.
I knew it. That wanton Jezebel!
Louise saw enough to narrow her eyes. She must warn Rachelle that Marquis de Vendôme had succumbed most easily to Charlotte’s wom- anly charms.
Rachelle was resting on her bed with pillows behind her. She had never experienced such a headache, so much pressure inside of her pounding temples, daggerlike stabs that plundered her strength with each thump of her heart sounding loudly in her ears. She turned her head to the side and the pain seemed to f low. She stif led a groan. If only Maman or Grandmère were here . . . a cup of special tea and cold cloths on her forehead would make her
think
she was gaining some minor relief. She moaned, for her stomach turned nauseous. Any moment she feared she would be sick.
She was aware that her chamber door opened, and she slowly turned to see if it was Louise, who had promised to look in on her before bed.
Louise tiptoed over to the side of the bed and peered down.
“I hate Charlotte de Presney,” Louise said forthrightly. “I found her in the garden with Marquis Fabien.”
Something in Louise’s voice caused Rachelle to focus on her face.
With Fabien
. Rachelle moistened her dry lips and tried to swallow.
“I knew she would not give up until she had worn down his resis- tance. They were together. Locked in one another’s embrace — and he seemed most obliging. I left quickly enough, for it appeared to me as though . . . well, she was trying to unloosen his shirt.”
Rachelle’s heart thudded, causing the pounding in her head to swell to a groan that escaped her lips.
“M’amie, oh, I should not have told you now. Do forgive me,” Louise cried, “but I hate her, and now she has stolen your beau galante.”
Charlotte gasped, startled. Had she tripped or had he pushed her aside? Dazed, she sat staring at him. He was straightening his jacket and tucking in his shirt that was awry.
“Saint Denis! If I did not know the truth, I would not believe it,” he said. “I have heard of lusty musketeers attacking belles dames, but rare is the occasion when it is the other way around. You have actually ripped the lace on my shirt.” He looked down at her with a malicious grin.
“Because I love you!” He laughed.
Charlotte, humiliated, cried tearfully, “Fabien, no, I beg of you — my leg, I hurt it when I fell . . .”
There was no smile on his face now, and his eyes were like hard jew- els gazing down at her. “You lied. Rachelle is not ill.”
“Non, she is, I swear it. Oh — ouch — my leg — oh!”
He looked down at her in his indomitable way. She shrank away. She had gone too far and now he was disgusted with her boldness. She tried tears. She buried her face in her palms and cried softly. “Oh, Monsieur, what have I done? Oh, forgive me, I was such a fool. But my love for you
is so great, I do not mind being a fool if only you would care for me a little . . .”
He hesitated, bent down, and lifted her up. She clung to him. “I do not suppose you can walk on your own?”
“Non, my leg hurts too much.” “As I expected you to say.”
“You will need to take me to my chamber.” “And then to your bed? You little witch.” “Whatever you say, Monsieur Fabien.”
“I say the men you hunt with your gilded net, Charlotte, are to be most pitied, for I suspect few, if any, have escaped.”
She smiled, her arms reaching. “Forget that child Rachelle, Monsieur.
It is a woman you need to make you happy.”
He removed her arms again. “You will not make a man happy for long, Madame, I assure you. You may give your husband my condo- lences. I bid you adieu.” He snatched his hat from the lawn where it had fallen, turned, and walked away.
“But how shall I get to my chamber?” she cried. “My leg is hurt, I promise you.”
“I shall send one of my pages.
À bientôt
, Madame.”
Desperate, she hissed: “But I can help you prove that le Duc de Guise assassinated Jean-Louis de Vendôme.”
