The French Mistress (3 page)

But I would persevere. I took a deep breath to calm myself and whispered a hasty prayer as I unlatched the carriage door. I was already climbing down to the paving stones when a young footman in beautiful pale blue livery hurried forward to help me, clearly scandalized that I’d dare do such a thing without assistance.

“Good day,” I said, keeping my chin high to mask my uncertainty. “I am here at the bidding of Her Highness the duchess.”

“You and everyone else,” he said with a bold-faced flippancy that shocked me. “Why else come at all, eh?”

I raised my chin a little higher. I’d no wish for him to see my discomfort, even as I felt my cheeks flush to betray me. “I have letters of introduction to Her Highness. She will be expecting me.”

With further impudence, he pointedly looked from my hired carriage to my battered and worn trunks, and finally to my dress, clearly finding every article wanting.

“Please tell Her Highness that I have come,” I said, fumbling in my pocket for my precious letters. “My name is Mademoiselle de Keroualle.”

“Oh, aye, I’m certain Her Highness is waiting for
you
,” he said with a sly rascal’s wink. “Go on to the porter, there at the door, and if he believes you, he’ll send you to Her Highness’s quarters.”

I gasped, horrified that I might yet be rejected after my journey. It was unthinkable that I should return home having failed before I’d begun, and impossible, too, for I’d not nearly enough money to continue the hire of the carriage. I blinked back my tears and clutched my bundled letters before my breast like a talisman of truth.

“I am who I say,” I whispered miserably. “Truly. My letters will—”

“Hush, mademoiselle. I meant only to tease,” he said, turning kind. “Her Highness won’t send you back, not yet. But take care, pretty lamb. There are plenty of wolves waiting in Paris with far sharper teeth than mine.”

I dashed away my tears with the heel of my glove and hurried inside the tall doors. I felt shamed that I’d let a servant unsettle me so. He was right, too: there would be plenty of others who’d be less kind to me, and I resolved not to be so tender again.

But oh, how insignificant I felt as I presented myself to the stern-faced porter in his blue-laced coat and curled wig, and then again as I hurried to keep pace with yet another footman as he led me through the palace. I’d never been in any house so large, nor so fine, and by comparison my family’s ancient château with its rough stone walls and faded tapestries seemed shabby indeed. Paintings as big as life hung on the walls, the images so vivid I expected them to address me as we passed. There were looking glasses to magnify the light that filtered through the leaded windows, and narrow long tables with marble tops, and bouquets of marvelous flowers in porcelain vases.

Breathlessly I followed the silent footman through one hall, turned, then passed through a long gallery, up one staircase and then down another, twisting and turning until my head fair spun. I despaired of ever learning to find my way or, worse, of falling behind my guide and being doomed to wander this grand house forever like some unshriven soul.

But at last he stopped before a set of double doors, carved and gilded to herald their importance, and guarded by two tall soldiers with plumed hats, swords, and fearsome pikes against their shoulders. My footman’s knock was answered at once by a man who could have been his twin, and as soon as my name was murmured between them, I was passed through the opening, and the doors closed behind me. Beyond a tall lacquered screen I could hear ladies’ voices and laughter, and I’d only time to whisper the swiftest prayer before I was announced and introduced, and abruptly cast into their midst.

At once the voices stilled, and every face turned to face me. There were a dozen or so young women in the room, maids of honor and ladies-in-waiting, some at cards around a small table, others sitting on low cushioned stools to gossip and pretending to labor at the handwork in their laps. I was too stunned to distinguish one from another, gathering only the most general impression of glorious beauty and jewels and dresses richer and more elegant than I’d ever before seen, or even imagined. If I’d been heaved over the side of a boat into the deepest ocean, I couldn’t have felt more adrift, nor more overwhelmed in my panic, than I did in that chamber.

Then the woman at the center of the blur smiled at me, and my fears fell away.

“Mademoiselle de Keroualle,” Madame said with the easy assurance of one who knows all others will stop to listen to her words. “Welcome to Paris.”

Surrounded by her beautiful attendants, Madame was herself not a conventional beauty in the fashion of the time. Dressed in green silk with pearls around her throat and more hanging from her ears, she was small and delicately thin with sleepy blue eyes, a wide forehead, dark hair, and a nose no poet would find lovely. But she was also blessed with an exquisite complexion, always (as I soon learned) referred to as “jasmine and roses,” and a sweetness to her expression that gave her a kind of beauty all her own. Further, from that first moment in her presence, I sensed both the warmth of her nature and the rare charm of her person that made it impossible not to love her, and believe her to be far prettier and more beguiling than in truth she was.

“Thank you, Madame,” I said, gaping and grinning so widely with relief that I must have looked a fool. “I am most pleased to be here.”

In her kindness, Madame only smiled in return, stroking her hand along the long silky ears of the small spaniel asleep in her lap. I stood before her another long moment until, to my mortification, I realized she was waiting for me to curtsy. At once I sank low, heels together, head bowed, and skirts spread as I’d been taught by both my mother and the good sisters. If I could have, I would have stayed like that, and hidden my shame from the others.

“You may stand,” Madame said, unaware of my distress. “You come from Brittany, yes?”

“Yes, Your Grace,” I said, struggling to keep my voice even
.
I
would
be brave. For the sake of those who were depending upon me, I would not falter. “My father’s château is not far from the port of Brest.”

“Oh, yes, now I do recall the particulars of your situation, mademoiselle,” Madame said eagerly. “Your parents offered comfort and succor to my brother’s supporters when they were forced into exile here in France.”

“Yes, Madame,” I said promptly, eager to seize upon any topic that did not include me. As a child I’d heard the sad-eyed Englishmen speaking to Papa about the grievous civil war in their country, and how wicked Protestants had seized the government and murdered King Charles I. This martyred king was the father of Madame and her brother, Charles II, who sat on the throne of England now.

“My mother took the most tender care of the English gentlemen visiting us,” I continued, prattling on far longer than I should have. “Maman was especially mindful of the state of their eternal souls. She would read sermons to them, and stood as sponsor to any who would agree to be baptized in the True Church, and renounce their Protestant follies.”

“Indeed.” Madame’s brows arched with surprise, doubtless mar veling at my mother’s piety, as everyone did. “I’d not heard of that, ah, aspect of your family’s hospitality.”

“It is true, Madame,” I said blithely. Although Madame was English by birth, she was the only member of the royal family who had been raised a Catholic, instead of a Protestant; if she hadn’t, I doubt Maman would have consented to my joining her. “My mother said it didn’t matter to her if a soul had been born in France or England or Rome itself, so long as it rose straight to heaven when its mortal life was done.”

“Souls are perilously frail, mademoiselle,” Madame noted gravely. “I fear at the time of my brother’s exile, he was more concerned with the mortal bodies of his followers than their souls.”

“He still is,” whispered one of the other ladies, a sly whisper loud enough that all around her heard and laughed behind their hands or fans. “Or rather, those luscious mortal bodies he follows as well as those who follow him.”

Such audacity shocked me. Not only was this man the King of England, but he was also Madame’s brother, and wedded to the queen. If he did what this lady said, then he would surely be damned for the sin of adultery, and to venture such disrespectful scandal about him in Madame’s hearing struck me as both unwise and ill-mannered. Ah, how much I had to learn of Court, and of men!

And Madame, it seemed, agreed. “My brother may be a king, Mademoiselle de Fiennes, but he is only a man, with a man’s weaknesses,” she said, her smile still upon her face, but the tension in her words offered an unspoken warning. “For all their strength, men lack a woman’s constancy in love.”

“They are all alike, Madame, faithless as mongrel dogs who sniff at every stray bitch,” said the other lady, unperturbed, as she idly wrapped one lock of her golden hair around her finger. She was undeniably the most beautiful of the maids of honor, with blue eyes of a color to send gentlemen to sighing. But her beauty was kept from perfection by a certain sullenness about her mouth and in her general expression, marking her as the sort of lady who expected admiration and indulgence as her due.

“The truth cannot be denied,” she continued in a languid drawl. “Whether highborn noblemen or low scoundrels, it makes no difference.”

I saw how the other ladies shared glances of concern among themselves, as if this exchange was ominously familiar. The spaniel in the duchess’s lap roused with a low grumbling growl, as if he, too, had been displeased.

“How unfortunate that you must speak from your own experience, mademoiselle,” Madame said, her hand sleeking along the length of the little dog to calm it, or perhaps herself. “Why, I wonder, should you wish to share such sordid recollections with us? What is your reason for offending me in this manner?”

“I regret the offense I have given you, Madame,” Mademoiselle de Fiennes said, at last slipping from her seat to curtsy in contrition. “I beg you to forgive me.”

Yet as abject as the lady’s apology might appear, even I could see that it was false, and not well meant.

“I should much rather you consider your words before you speak them, mademoiselle,” she said, “than pardon them after.”

“Yes, Madame,” murmured Mademoiselle de Fiennes, still bent low, as she must until she was granted permission to rise.

“How much better it would be for your own soul,” Madame continued, “as well as for these wayward gentlemen if you should pray for their enlightenment, rather than find fault for things they cannot change themselves. Is that not so, Mademoiselle de Keroualle?”

“Yes, Madame,” I swiftly agreed, startled to be drawn into their quarrel.

“You see, Mademoiselle de Fiennes, how even my newest lady understands what you willfully refuse to see.” Madame sighed wearily, more pale than before. “Rise, then, and pray be civil.”

Purposefully she looked away from Mademoiselle de Fiennes, and back to me.

“The Duc de Beaufort claimed that you speak English,” she said, employing that language to test me. “Is that true, mademoiselle?”

“Yes, Madame, I do speak it a little,” I said, answering in kind as proof. “I learned from those same exiled English gentlemen who supported His Majesty your brother.”

“Then perhaps one day my brother will be able to thank you himself in the language of our birth,” she said. “He has chided me in the past for not having any ladies about me who spoke our father’s tongue, and could give me that small comfort. But he would, I believe, approve of you most heartily.”

“Thank you, Madame,” I murmured, awed even to think that my presence would be noted by the English King Charles. “I shall do my best to serve you however I can.”

“I am certain you will.” She smiled warmly, and glanced toward the other ladies around her. “Has Madame du Frayne prepared a place for Mademoiselle de Keroualle in your quarters?”

“She has, Madame,” replied a young lady with coppery curls whose expression seemed to reflect and embrace Madame’s kindness. “Everything is ready to welcome Mademoiselle de Keroualle. Her bed’s to be next to mine.”

She placed her hand over her heart with graceful humility. “I am Mademoiselle Gabrielle Marie-Anne de la Touraine, and I am pleased to welcome you among us.”

Gratefully I smiled in return, eager for a kindness, perhaps even a friend. I’d need one in this place.

“Yes, Madame, we are all delighted to welcome the new mademoiselle among us,” Mademoiselle de Fiennes said now, studying me in a manner that reminded me uncomfortably of a stable yard cat intent upon a wayward mouse. “But I wonder if she is in turn prepared for us. She seems so . . .
young
to be here, away from her mama. I worry for one so tender, Madame.”

Concern flickered across Madame’s face. “That is true,” she said. “I should not want my own daughter thrust into this world before her time.”

“But I am not so young, Madame!” I exclaimed, fearing my glorious new post would be taken from me before I’d so much as removed my cloak.

“No?” Madame regarded me carefully. “What is your age, Mademoiselle de Keroualle?”

“I am eighteen, Madame,” I said, the truth, and my heart sank as I saw the fresh doubt flood her face. I was sure I was older than several of the other maids of honor gathered here, yet to my sorrow, I understood Madame’s confusion. I did not look my years. My face had never lost the plumpness of a young child’s, my cheeks being round and rosy and my lips full with a natural pout. Further, my mother had forbidden me paint, saying its use was the brand of a strumpet, not a lady. Despite her words, when I looked at the ladies’ faces around me, all had lips reddened with carmine and eyes exotically rimmed with lampblack. I felt as scrubbed clean as last night’s pots, and as unattractive, too.

“Eighteen!” repeated Mademoiselle de Fiennes, her eyes wide with incredulity as she appealed to the others. “If she is eighteen, why, then so am I!”