The Queen's Necklace (41 page)

Listlessly, he moved his head on the padded bolster to look around him. The windows were heavily curtained, and there was only one candle, burned almost to the socket, on a table by the door. When he raised himself up on his elbows to get a better look, he caught a faint, ghostly reflection of himself in another one of the long mirrors.

A wave of dizziness forced him to lie back again. Though it passed, he still felt weak and drained. How had he come here? He had a vague recollection of cold kisses in the dark, a faint, teasing
memory of a necklace of pearls sliding across bare skin, winding around a pair of wrists and holding them together, then—

He felt himself go first hot and then cold, as the rest came flooding back into his memory:
The passion that melted his bones, that burned along every nerve in his body. The dark craving that seemed to grow greater the more that he strove to satisfy it
. He had been dreaming, of course, but what a remarkable dream!

Gradually, he realized that he was not alone, that a slender figure in a black dress was sitting on a chair near the foot of the bed. “What has happened to me?”

“You have been ill, Your Majesty, but you are better now,” said a soft, tremulous voice.

Jarred continued to lie there a little longer, staring at nothing, until it suddenly occurred to him, by the quick catch of her breathing, that Ys was crying. “You are unhappy,” he said. Somehow, he felt responsible. “Is it something I have said or done?”

“Then you—don't remember? Oh, sir, what will become of me if you do not honor any of your promises, if you didn't mean
anything
that you said to me? Have I ruined myself forever?”

So, it had not been a dream: the kisses, the perversely pleasing pain, it had all been real. He struggled to sit up, but he was still too dizzy. He could only lie there and listen to her weep, so bitterly, it made his heart hurt to hear her.

She gave a wrenching sob. “Perhaps it was my fault. I must have led you to think—but after all, we have been secretly engaged for almost four months. Was I wrong to let it happen this way?”

That was too much for him. “No. No, you have not ruined yourself, Mademoiselle. Believe me, I have nothing but respect and the deepest affection for you. And as you say—we are going to be married.”

Jarred closed his eyes. The words were spoken; he could never take them back again. What troubled him more than anything was how little he regretted saying them.

T
hroughout the city, in all the fashionable salons and coffee-houses, the king's astonishing betrothal—not yet officially announced but an open secret—was endlessly discussed. Silk-clad ladies whispered of it behind lace fans; dandies spoke of it over glasses of iced licorice-water in the cafés. The gossip circulated with the newspapers and the port in all of the clubs, was served up on silver trays and on painted porcelain plates along with afternoon tea. At supper parties, the scandal lent a subtle spice to every dish.

“Imagine,” said the women, “a mere nobody!”

“Imagine,” the gentlemen replied, “a beauty, of course, but just a trifle under-bred, wouldn't you say?”

At Lindenhoff, however, the matter was discussed tensely and behind closed doors. After several days of rampant speculation, Jarred called together his councilors, his government ministers, and a handful of ranking courtiers. Closeted with them in his trompe l' oeil council chamber, he announced his intentions formally.

As he expected, the news was greeted with shock and dismay, followed by voluble and vigorous protests. He listened carefully to all that was said, but could not be shaken; he believed he was acting according to principle and was determined to do the right thing.

“But, Your Majesty, so little is known of the young lady,” said the Prime Minister. In that room without windows, he looked flushed and over-heated in his fine clothes. “Aside from the fact that
nothing
is known.”

“What you need to know—the most significant thing—is that I have already pledged my honor. Also, that her birth is sufficient, her breeding impeccable, and her reputation without any blemish.”

“No doubt the young lady is virtuous enough. But she is generally regarded as highly eccentric.” This was the President of the Winterscar Senate. “The way she surrounds herself with Goblin servants—and have you considered, sir, the reaction among your
own
servants if she brings the creatures with her to Lindenhoff?”

Jarred felt his self-control slipping away. The debate had already been going on for hours; every conceivable argument had been advanced and refuted again and again.

His fingers curled around the arms of his white-and-gold chair. “It was not to discuss my servants that I called you together. Nor do I require your permission to wed—though I confess I had hoped to obtain your blessing.”

“And your heir?” said the president. “Have you notified Lord Rupert? Surely this must come as a great surprise, and even—I beg your pardon—a grave disappointment.”

“It could hardly be that,” Jarred answered coldly. “Being my father's cousin and of my father's generation rather than my own, Rupert could scarcely expect me to predecease him.”

The president stepped back, took out a silk handkerchief and mopped his brow, but another official stepped forward to take his place. “Sir, I never thought it would ever be necessary to remind the king of his duty. Your edicts have always been so reasonable, your judgements so fair, no one could ever accuse you of caprice or indifference when it comes to the welfare of your people. But you have another responsibility, which ought not to be treated lightly, to
provide the nation with a suitable successor to the gracious and lovely—”

Jarred rose from his chair, brought to his feet by a surge of indignation. “We will not speak of my late queen. Only
I
know what she was, what this nation lost—” The thought of any woman replacing Zelene was like a dagger through his heart.

With an effort he collected himself. Returning to his seat, he continued more quietly. “I don't forget my duty to my people. The truth is, I am thinking of them every moment. You mentioned, just now, my edicts. If my word is not good, if my signature means nothing, then how can anyone regard anything I do sign as carrying the full force of law?”

There was a stunned silence throughout the room, broken at last by Lord Hugo Sackville. “Your—signature—Your Majesty?” said the king's uncle. “Do you tell us, sir, that you have already signed a marriage contract?”

“I have. Yesterday afternoon, in the presence of a notary.”

There were chagrined faces throughout the room. Many looked as though they would have liked to protest further but did not know how. Indeed, there was nothing anyone
could
say. A notarized contract was legally binding and could not be set aside without significantly altering a code of laws that had remained constant in all its essentials for more than a millennium.

With a profound sense of relief, Jarred watched them file out of the room, and then sent for his Master of Ceremonies.

Lord Wittlesbeck came in looking self-important. During the months he had tutored Ys, the old man had grown—if not precisely fond of his pupil, at least to regard himself as her sponsor and Mademoiselle as his own creation. As might be expected, he was in his element planning the ceremony.

“You may leave it all to me, Your Majesty. I will attend to everything. A golden carriage—a thousand white doves released from the palace courtyard—no detail will be neglected.”

“A second marriage,” Jarred reminded him. After so many hours of heated debate, he was feeling jaded and a trifle ill. “And at my age, I wouldn't like to be made—ridiculous. There must be pageantry, of course, we must observe every tradition, but we should also show restraint.”

“You are not yet thirty,” said the Master of Ceremonies, with an indulgent smile. Then, seeing how the king compressed his lips into a hard line, he added hastily: “Of course, Your Majesty, it shall be as you wish. No doubt there are suitable precedents, somewhere in the archives, for a—restrained second marriage, and I will locate them. Now, as to the dinner when you make the official announcement?”

“As soon as possible.” Jarred felt a strong sense of urgency, quite inexplicable. After dreading this marriage for so long, the thought of any further delay was suddenly insupportable. “How long will it take for you to make the appropriate arrangements?”

Lord Wittlesbeck considered briefly. “We could not accomplish it in less than ten days. A fortnight would be even better.”

The king jerked his head from side to side. “As soon as possible,” he repeated firmly. “After such a long secret engagement, you must understand how impatient I am to claim my bride.”

“Of course,” said Lord Wittlesbeck, bowing so low that the high points of his powdered wig almost touched the floor. “In ten days, Your Majesty. I will speak to your major-domo and we will begin preparations for the betrothal dinner at once.”

On the night of the banquet, Ys was dressed and coiffed with special care. Her gown had been prepared many months in advance and stored since then in a great oak chest, along with sachets to keep it sweet. When the Ouph maid-servant opened the lid and drew out the gown, the scent of lavender filled the room. Made of white satin and yards of gauze, the dress was ruched, pleated, flounced,
adorned with ribbons and rows of lace—the very essence of fashion. Ys had never seen anything nearly so beautiful.

As the maid-servant laced her up, as she slipped her feet into a pair of pretty red shoes with diamond buckles, Ys struggled to master a sudden attack of nerves. This, after all, was her moment of triumph. There would be no sneaking about in tattered sealskin cloaks, no surreptitious entry by the back gate. She would enter the palace openly, on the arm of Lord Vif, and the king himself would come to greet her.

Down in the first-floor parlor, she found Madame and the other Maglore practically delirious, certain that the time was drawing near when everything they had lost would be restored to them. Ys was excited, too, but for a different reason. Tucked into the front of her bodice, between her whalebone corset and the fashionable ruched satin, was a tiny glass phial containing a deadly poison. As she left the house and climbed into her coach, she felt a queer fluttering sensation in the region of her heart.

She tried to calm herself, sitting in the coach with her hands knotted so tightly in her lap that the knuckles turned white, hoping that no one would see how her whole body shook with anticipation.

She glanced at Madame across the carriage. Her former governess looked uncommonly smug.
How surprised she is going to be
, Ys thought.
Let us hope that she profits by it. She may have frightened me in the past—made me do her bidding in all things—but she will never do so again. Before this evening is over, she will understand that I am a force to be reckoned with!

By the time the carriage stopped at the foot of the palace steps, her heart was beating so hard, Ys marveled that Madame and the rest could not hear it.

The evening was wearing on and the banquet was almost over, but the room was abuzz with anticipation. Everyone knew that when
the clock struck midnight the king would make his unpopular announcement.

Though all the windows were standing open, the room was warm. It was nearly eleven o'clock and the light outside had scarcely faded. Jarred turned away from his conversation with Lord Rupert, and he signaled to his uncle across the room. With an apology to the lady seated beside him, Lord Hugo left his seat and hurried over to speak to the king.

There was a sheen of perspiration on Jarred's brow, and he laughed often. Lord Hugo had never seen his nephew in such an exalted mood, not even at his first marriage. Odder still was a restless, unsteady movement of the king's eyes, particularly whenever his gaze chanced to cross that of his bride-to-be.

I have seen old men make fools of themselves over pretty faces
, thought Hugo.
And striplings, too. But I never imagined that a man of Jarred's years and temperament would be susceptible
.

“More wine,” said Jarred, with a broad, sweeping gesture.

Lord Hugo signaled to a passing footman, and the lackey brought over a wrought-silver flagon with a mermaid handle, enriched with enamel and precious stones, which was always used on state occasions. Hugo sniffed at the wine, poured a little into the silver thimble cup that accompanied the flagon, and made a great show of tasting it. Finding it good, he served his nephew with elaborate formality.

“Drink with me,” Jarred demanded, raising his crystal goblet. Momentarily startled, Hugo swiftly recovered and bowed his assent. This peremptory order was
not
according to form, and certainly unusual for Jarred, who was the soul of courtesy. The stout old gentleman trudged across the room, picked up a crystal wine-glass from his place at the table, made a half bow to Mademoiselle Debrûle who was seated nearby, and then returned to the king.

“I propose a toast: To youth and beauty. May they never fade.” As
Jarred lifted his goblet to his lips, Lord Hugo raised his own cup and drank deeply. Two minutes later—his face suffused with blood, his eyes bulging, and one hand clutching his throat—he fell forward on the table, scattering the silver and shattering the glassware.

The royal physician sprang from his seat next to Doctor Purcell and bustled across the room. But by the time he had loosened his patient's neckcloth, by the time he put two fingers on the old man's throat, feeling for a pulse, Lord Hugo Sackville was already dead.

In his bedroom later that night, a shocked and grief-stricken Jarred dismissed the physician and all of his servants, and spoke privately with his Master of Ceremonies.

“Am I to assume,” said Lord Wittlesbeck, “that since this tragedy prevented you from making the expected announcement, no such announcement may be expected in the near future?”