The Adventurer (5 page)

Anyone, that is, except Isabella.

Unlike her older sister, who sparkled amongst company with whom she could exchange ideas and impart her many thoughts and opinions, Isabella was happiest as the quiet observer. She was content simply to record her thoughts in the private pages of her journal and sketching book, thoughts she would never dare dream of sharing with anyone else.

As she walked through the
labyrinthe,
along the hedge-lined
allées
and past covert hidey-holes perfect for a lover’s tryst, Isabella tried to convince herself she had nothing to be anxious about. If there was one thing she had perfected over her three-and-twenty years as a duke’s second daughter, it was a talent for making herself invisible in a crowded room. She would sit quietly and smile when called upon, pick over her plate, and stand back to watch the other players perform their parts. And then, as soon as propriety allowed, she would slip away, just as she had done at the countless country suppers hosted by her parents at Drayton Hall. Then come the morning, she would be on her way to England, and Versailles would be naught but a pleasant reminiscence to one day tell her children about before bedtime.

In the name of St. George, who did she think she was fooling?

A simple supper, indeed! There was nothing at all simple about the palace of Versailles. Even as she tried so very hard to say the opposite to it, a dozen different dilemmas buzzed through her head.

What would she say?

What was she going to wear?

How should she arrange her hair?

How would she manage to arrange her hair at all without her maid there to attend her?

Since they hadn’t anticipated staying the night at Versailles, Isabella had sent Sofia ahead with their trunks and parcels to be loaded onto the ship at Calais. Thus she had nothing with her but the elegant yet simple day gown she had chosen that morning, and the traveling clothes tucked away in her portmanteau that she had intended to wear while she made the crossing to England.

The coiffure Sofia had arranged for Isabella, a simple coil pinned at the back of her head, had been acceptable for visiting, and easily able to accommodate a smart straw hat for traveling. But supper was an entirely different circumstance, with an entirely different set of standards. And supper at Versailles with the King of France? The standard hadn’t yet been written for so eminent an occasion.

She could ask her aunt to help her, she knew, but the thought of the woman’s own usual coiffure, a style popular at least four decades past, was enough to give her pause. She had little choice. She would simply have to manage on her own. She had watched her own maid nearly every day of the past two decades, and had even attempted the occasional
tête de mouton
on her sisters. Surely she could accomplish the semblance of a style, albeit informal, if only—

Isabella didn’t see the gentleman standing on the path before her until the moment when she walked right into him.

“Oh, goodness! I am so sorry. I ...”

The collision sent the brim of her straw
bergère
hat to collapsing over one eye.

Setting the hat to rights, Isabella looked up into eyes that were a soft gray-blue—on a face that was almost ...

... familiar.

“Pardon, monsieur,”
she said quickly. “I’m afraid I was so caught up in my thoughts, I did not see you standing there.”

He was a younger gentleman, very close to her in age. His hair was light, although he wore it powdered so she couldn’t quite tell its natural color. He was dressed in a coat of beautiful silver-gray silk that matched his eyes with shining silver buttons and a brocaded waistcoat in shades of pale yellow and blue. He wore a sword at his side and had a tricorne tucked
à la chapeau bras
under his arm, and he was looking at her oddly as he said, “It was my doing, Mademoiselle Drayton. I should not have stepped out onto the path unannounced like that.”

He knew her name?

He spoke to her in French, but his voice carried the slight timbre of an accent—Italian perhaps?

“You know who I am?”

“Oui, mademoiselle.
I missed seeing you earlier in the salon. A palace guard told me I might find you here in the
labyrinthe,
so I came to seek you out.”

He had seen her with the king in the salon? Isabella was only growing more bewildered.

“I am afraid you have the advantage, monsieur, for while you already know my name, I am not in possession of yours. We have been acquainted before today?”

“Non, mademoiselle.
Not directly, though perhaps it would help if I told you I am acquainted with your sister ...”

“I have four sisters, monsieur.”

“Oh.” He was clearly surprised. “I speak of Lady MacKinnon, of course. She did me a great service once. In fact, if not for her assistance, I would not likely be standing here speaking with you now.”

Isabella peered at him, realization suddenly dawning. “You ... you are Charles Stuart,” she said softly. “The young Chevalier.”

Grandson of the deposed James II of England, Charles Edward Stuart—the Bonnie Prince—had arrived on Scotland’s coast two summers before to raise his father’s standard as the rightful holder of the united crowns of England and Scotland. Isabella and Elizabeth both had followed the reports of the rebellion closely. Isabella realized the reason he had looked familiar to her was because she had recognized him from the many engravings that had been published of him during those turbulent months.

It had been a very mixed rebellion. There were those who believed the Stuarts should rule simply by virtue of their place as most direct descendants of Charles II. Others would not countenance another Catholic ruler, and so had looked to the nearest Protestant cousin, George of Hanover, who spoke not a word of English and made no effort to disguise the fact that he preferred his native Hanover to this new realm. The Duke of Sudeleigh, Isabella’s own father, had held a tenuous position, both political and familial, caught by a blood tie to both sides that stretched all the way back to Henry the VIII.

“My sister has told me much about you.” Isabella dropped her eyes to her skirts and swept into an elegant curtsy. “It is an honor to make your acquaintance, Your Highness.”

“Come.” The prince took her hand and urged her to stand. “We are cousins, no? However remote the relation, such formality is not necessary among family.” He frowned deeply. “Nor, I daresay, is it required before a prince who is without his palace.”

The prince’s handsome face, Isabella noticed, had darkened with a cloud of melancholy at the memory of his defeat in the rebellion. She quickly sought to lighten the mood.

“It is a good thing you came to find me when you did, sir, for I fear I had gotten myself quite lost in this maze. I’ve been walking past that same statue for at least a quarter hour hoping someone might chance by who could rescue me from this impasse.”

“Well, let us see if we can remedy that.” The young Chevalier gave a soft smile and offered Isabella his arm. Together they walked along the hedge-lined pathway.

As they went, they passed a curious array of bronze and stone fountains concealed among the dense shrubbery. Nine-and-thirty in number—each one depicted a different Aesopian fable and its consequent moral. The prince told Isabella that Louis XIV had had the labyrinth built for his son, le Grand Dauphin, late the previous century, as a grand example of life’s twisting and turning journey—and the lessons to be learned along the way.

“It really is quite an innovation,” the prince went on as they came upon the figures of “The Fox and the Monkey King” frolicking amidst a shower of dancing water. “You see in the labyrinth, just as in the natural world, one can easily take the wrong path, or meet with an impasse that necessitates a retreat and often a different course altogether. But with fortitude and determination, he”—he looked at her—“or
she
will always find their way through, wiser for having made the journey.”

From the way he spoke, and the glint of determination in his eyes, it seemed to Isabella that the prince had not accepted any notion of defeat in his bid to regain his father’s crown, but fully intended to one day return to Scotland, to try again to take back the throne.

They had come to the labyrinth’s exit, with the windows of the palace glittering before them in the ebbing afternoon sunlight. Isabella had enjoyed her time in the prince’s company. He was pleasant to talk to, and had never pressed her to declare any loyalty, either to his cause or that of the rival Hanoverians. He simply seemed happy to have shared those few brief moments with her.

“I am afraid I must take my leave of you now and start back for Paris.” The prince gave a bow of his head. “I’ve plans to attend l’Opéra tonight, and it is my understanding that you are to sup with the king and the Marquise de Pompadour?”

For the brief time she’d been with him, Isabella had been able to forget about her anxiety of the evening to come. Now, however, she sighed. “Yes, though I fear I will make quite the fool of myself. I hadn’t expected to stay at the palace and I am without fitting attire or even a maid to help me dress my hair.”

The prince took her hand and kissed it. “Mademoiselle, you are a vision as you are. I’ve little doubt that you will sparkle amidst the rest of that swarm of buzzing courtiers.” He bowed his head again.
“Au revoir, ma chère cousine.
And may you have a safe journey on the morrow. Please send my compliments to your fair sister when next you see her.”

Isabella nodded, then stood and watched as he walked away. She didn’t turn until he had vanished around the flowering hedge line.

Idonia appeared at her side. “I was beginning to fear I’d have to send in the palace guard after you.” She had been waiting for Isabella at the maze’s exit. “But I see you found a gentleman to help you. And quite a handsome one, at that. Who was he, dear?”

Isabella, who knew that few were aware of her sister’s part in helping the prince escape that previous summer, simply answered, “I’ve never met him before, Aunt. He was nice enough to help me find my way out.”

“He did not try to take any liberties with you, did he?” For all her eccentricities, Idonia took her role of chaperone quite seriously. “The French are never proper when it comes to matters of passion. Believe me, dear. I know this well.”

Isabella fought back a smile. “No, Aunt, he was a perfect gentleman. In fact, I would venture to say he had the manners of a
prince.”
She turned. “Now shall we go and see if we can come up with a proper coiffure in time for this evening’s supper?”

For their stay, the ladies had been given a courtier’s apartments in the north wing of the main palace that looked out onto the gardens. Though spare in size, the two rooms were richly decorated with brocades and gilding, and high carved ceilings. To make the most efficient use of the minimal floor space, the bed had been built nichelike into the wall, with a rolled pillow and heavy bedcovers of rich ruby damask. There was a corner washstand, a small dressing table, and an armchair near the small marble-framed hearth. The only other furnishing was a tall mahogany armoire that took up the better part of one wall.

Isabella was sitting at the dressing table, twisting and pinning her hair into a succession of different coiffures, each equally disastrous, when she heard a knocking at the door. She glanced to the ormolu clock on the mantel, which read half past five, then at the reclining figure of Idonia who was napping on the bed in the adjacent chamber.

“That cannot be the footman come to fetch us already ...”

She was right. It wasn’t a footman at all, but a maid, who smiled sweetly when Isabella opened the door and bobbed a polite curtsy.

“Bonjour, mademoiselle.
I have been sent to bring this to you.”

A swathe of deep green was draped over her arms.

“Oh, ’tis lovely, but I think you must have the wrong room. Much as I wish differently, I’m afraid that does not belong to me.”

But the maid only stepped around her and came into the room.
“Mais oui, mademoiselle.
This is the room. And you are the very lady the gentleman described.”

“Gentleman?”

“Oui, mademoiselle.
He asked that I give you this note.” Isabella took the folded parchment from the girl and turned to read it in the light of the wall sconce.

My Dear Mademoiselle,

Minette is at your disposal to assist you with your coiffure and your gown. Though time would not permit me to procure you a fitting court gown, this jupe gown and Minette’s expertise with the needle and thread should do the trick for supper this evening. She is in the employ of one of the palace’s most respected modistes. Please accept this small gesture. It is the least I can do in return for the kindnesses shown me by your sister when I, too, was in desperate need.

Yours, C. E. S.

When she looked up again, Isabella saw that the maid, Minette, had draped the skirt over the back of the chair for Isabella to see.

It really was beautiful. Made of a rich emerald green satin, the full petticoat skirt was figured with designs of seashells and dolphins in fine threads of gold and silver. It had been woven in such a way that when the candlelight shone just right, the fabric rippled, as if it had been magically crafted of seawater. Isabella could but stare at it in silence. It was the most thoughtful gift she’d ever received.

“Should you wish to try it on?”

Isabella spent the next two hours being coiffed and primped and fitted for the impending evening. Minette was indeed a mistress of her craft. In minutes, it seemed, she had taken in the skirt to fit it to Isabella’s narrow waist, setting it off with an ivory lustring robe embroidered with blue and green flowers. The sleeves of the robe fitted tightly to Isabella’s arms, ending at her elbows in a triple row of flounces, each wider than the last, edged with a cascade of lace that fluttered elegantly whenever Isabella moved her arms. She replaced Isabella’s own smaller traveling skirt hoops with the much wider
panier à coudes
worn by the ladies of the court.