"The whi­te silk ones," Cor­de­lia ag­re­ed. She didn't ha­ve any ot­her kind of stoc­kings, but pre­su­mably El­sie was not fa­mi­li­ar with the con­tents of her war­d­ro­be and dres­ser.

  It to­ok an ho­ur of fum­b­ling and in­nu­me­rab­le qu­es­ti­ons be­fo­re she was re­ady for the day. El­sie had vo­lun­te­ered no com­ment on Cor­de­lia's bru­ises, but she had pro­du­ced the ha­re's fo­ot and box of pow­der wit­ho­ut be­ing as­ked. Cor­de­lia brus­hed it lightly ac­ross her che­ek­bo­nes. It didn't con­ce­al the bru­ise com­p­le­tely, but as long as the marks on her neck and up­per arms we­re in­vi­sib­le, she co­uld find an ex­cu­se for a bru­ised che­ek.

  Mon­si­e­ur Bri­on awa­ited her in the sa­lon to es­cort her to the da­up­hi­ne's tem­po­rary apar­t­ments on the gro­und flo­or of the pa­la­ce.

  She hadn't se­en him sin­ce the­ir stran­ge, si­lent en­co­un­ter that mor­ning. She smi­led qu­ite na­tu­ral­ly and wis­hed him go­od mor­ning. He bo­wed and a tiny con­s­pi­ra­to­ri­al smi­le to­uc­hed his usu­al­ly so­lemn mo­uth. "I trust you slept well, ma­da­me?"

  "I find one sle­eps much bet­ter kno­wing who one's fri­ends are, Mon­si­e­ur Bri­on."

  "Qu­ite so, my lady." He held the do­or for her.

  To­inet­te was still in dis­ha­bil­le and jum­ped up from her cha­ir when Cor­de­lia was an­no­un­ced.

  "Oh, Cor­de­lia, how I've mis­sed you. Co­me in­to my bo­udo­ir whe­re we can talk pri­va­tely." She cast her men­tor, the Co­un­tess de No­a­il­les, a lo­ok, half de­fi­ant and half ap­pe­aling, as she sa­id this. For all her new­fo­und sta­tus as the wi­fe of the da­up­hin of Fran­ce, she was still awed by this stiff-nec­ked ar­bi­ter of co­urt ri­tu­al.

  "You ha­ve but half an ho­ur, ma­da­me, be­fo­re you must be dres­sed for the ope­ra."

  "It's Per­se­us, isn't it?" To­inet­te wrin­k­led her small no­se. "It's such a se­ri­o­us pi­ece, and the mu­sic is te­di­o­usly bo­ring."

  "It is His Ma­j­esty's cho­ice," the co­un­tess sta­ted, and that was the end of the dis­cus­si­on, at le­ast in front of her.

  "May­be he did cho­ose it, but I still think it a te­di­o­us and he­avy pi­ece," To­inet­te dec­la­red with a chuc­k­le as she clo­sed the do­or of her bo­udo­ir and at last they we­re alo­ne. She flung her arms aro­und Cor­de­lia. "I ha­ve be­en so des­pe­ra­te to talk to you. What do they say abo­ut me? Do you he­ar an­y­t­hing?"

  "You've be­en the cyno­su­re of every eye," Cor­de­lia sa­id, happy to gi­ve her fri­end the in­for­ma­ti­on she wan­ted. "Ever­yo­ne talks of yo­ur be­a­uty, yo­ur com­po­su­re, yo­ur gra­ce. They say Lo­u­is-Augus­te is a most for­tu­na­te man."

  To­inet­te plum­ped down on a cha­ise lon­gue. "What hap­pe­ned on yo­ur wed­ding night, Cor­de­lia?"

  Cor­de­lia sat be­si­de her. Not a com­for­tab­le qu­es­ti­on to an­s­wer. "The sa­me as on yo­urs, I ima­gi­ne," she sa­id non­com­mit­tal­ly.

  To­inet­te sho­ok her he­ad. "Not­hing hap­pe­ned! Ab­so­lu­tely not­hing. My hus­band kis­sed me on the lips at the do­or of my bed­c­ham­ber and went away. He ne­ver ca­me back."

  Cor­de­lia sta­red with in­c­re­du­lity at her fri­end. "Yo­ur mar­ri­age has not yet be­en con­sum­ma­ted, To­inet­te?"

  "No." The da­up­hi­ne shrug­ged hel­p­les­sly. "What am I to do?"

  "Yo­ur wo­men know this, of co­ur­se."

  "Of co­ur­se. And my hus­band's gen­t­le­men. I as­su­me so­me­one will tell the king. But was it my fa­ult, Cor­de­lia?" To­inet­te se­ized Cor­de­lia's hand. "What did you do to en­ti­ce yo­ur hus­band? I must ha­ve a child, you know that."

  "I didn't ne­ed to do an­y­t­hing to en­ti­ce my hus­band," Cor­de­lia sa­id on an acid no­te. "He was en­ti­ced eno­ugh."

  "Then I do not ap­pe­al to my hus­band," To­inet­te wa­iled.

  "Non­sen­se," Cor­de­lia sa­id briskly. "Even if that we­re the ca­se, he wo­uld still bed you to get you with child."

  "I sup­po­se so. So what is the mat­ter?"

  "I can't ima­gi­ne," Cor­de­lia sa­id. "Per­haps he's a vir­gin and he's sca­red."

  "Per­haps I sho­uld wri­te to ma­da­me ma me­re7." To­inet­te con­si­de­red. "But it's so em­bar­ras­sing, Cor­de­lia. I fe­el I'm lac­king in so­me way."

  "You are not," Cor­de­lia re­as­su­red with the sa­me bris­k­ness. "If an­yo­ne is lac­king, it's Lo­u­is-Augus­te."

  "Oh, hush!" To­inet­te put her hand over her mo­uth to sup­press a gig­gle. "You mustn't say such things abo­ut the da­up­hin."

  Cor­de­lia grin­ned. "Bet­we­en our­sel­ves, we can say an­y­t­hing."

  "Don't ever le­ave me." To­inet­te gras­ped Cor­de­lia's hand tightly, all la­ug­h­ter ba­nis­hed. "I fe­el so alo­ne. I don't know how I'm to find my way. The No­a­il­les is no help at all. She pre­ac­hes and pra­tes and sniffs and lo­oks down her no­se at me. She's so star­c­hed I think she must spend all day at the la­un­d­ress."

  Cor­de­lia hug­ged her, he­aring the te­ars in her vo­ice be­ne­ath the at­tempt at hu­mor. "All will be well, you'll see."

  "It will be on­ce my hus­band beds me and I con­ce­ive," To­inet­te sa­id with grim truth. For all her chil­dis­h­ness, she knew why she was mar­ri­ed to the da­up­hin. She was in Fran­ce to bre­ed, to pro­du­ce the chil­d­ren who wo­uld ce­ment the al­li­an­ce bet­we­en Aus­t­ria and Fran­ce-the chil­d­ren who, for the pe­op­le of Fran­ce, wo­uld jus­tify bur­ying the age-old en­mity bet­we­en the two co­un­t­ri­es.

  "So, what of you? Tell me abo­ut yo­ur hus­band." The da­up­hi­ne, with one of her swift mo­od chan­ges, tur­ned her at­ten­ti­on fully on Cor­de­lia. "Oh, what hap­pe­ned to yo­ur che­ek? Did you knock it on so­met­hing?" She to­uc­hed the sha­dow of the bru­ise with a gen­t­le fin­ger.

  Bet­we­en them­sel­ves they co­uld say an­y­t­hing. "Sin­ce you ask," Cor­de­lia sa­id de­ci­si­vely, "I knoc­ked it aga­inst my hus­band's hand."

  "What do you me­an?" To­inet­te lo­oked ag­hast. "Is he cru­el to you?"

  Cor­de­lia shrug­ged. "Let's just say that if Prin­ce Mic­ha­el sho­wed no in­te­rest in the mar­ri­age bed, I sho­uld be a happy wo­man."

  "Oh." To­inet­te to­ok hold of her hand and held it tightly. "Shall I tell the king?"

  "Oh, no, of co­ur­se not!" Cor­de­lia cri­ed in hor­ror. "The king wo­uldn't in­vol­ve him­self in such a mat­ter. A man is en­tit­led to tre­at his wi­fe as he se­es fit, you know that. If the king sa­id an­y­t­hing to Mic­ha­el, I don't know what he'd do."

  "But it's ter­rib­le." To­inet­te gla­red fi­er­cely at a crystal va­se of hot­ho­use or­c­hids on the tab­le be­si­de her. "We ha­ve to do so­met­hing. What abo­ut the chil­d­ren? Is he cru­el to them too?"

  "No, I don't think so. He le­aves them to the­ir go­ver­ness." She frow­ned. "That's the ot­her thing, To­inet­te. He has for­bid­den me to ma­ke fri­ends with them. I'm to te­ach them abo­ut so­ci­ety and pre­pa­re them for the­ir bet­rot­hals, but I'm not to lo­ve them or play with them."

  "You aren't to be the­ir ma­ma?" To­inet­te was in­dig­nant. Her own mot­her had be­en the most im­por­tant per­son in her li­fe, and in many ways still was.

  Cor­de­lia sho­ok her he­ad. "They're so lo­vely, too,

  To­inet­te. They're com­p­le­tely iden­ti­cal and they ha­ve such funny ways. I know they li­ke to la­ugh, but the­re's not­hing for them to la­ugh abo­ut in that ghastly ma­uso­le­um with that pru­ne-fa­ced Nevry wo­man."

  To­inet­te's eyes sud­denly brig­h­te­ned. "I ha­ve an idea. Why don't we bring them he­re?"

  "He­re? To Ver­sa­il­les? Mic­ha­el wo­uld ne­ver per­mit it."

  "But I'm the da­up­hi­ne. The first lady at Ver­sa­il­les," To­inet­te dec­la­red with a ha­ughty lit­tle toss of her he­ad. "I can com­mand an­yo­ne, even yo­ur hus­band."

  "What are you sug­ges­ting?" Cor­de­lia as­ked, her own eyes now glo­wing with an­ti­ci­pa­ti­on.

  "I shall tell yo­ur hus­band that I wo­uld li­ke to me­et his da­ug­h­ters. I'll say that you've told me so much abo­ut yo­ur new step­da­ug­h­ters and for fri­en­d­s­hip's sa­ke I wish to ma­ke the­ir ac­qu­a­in­tan­ce."

  "Tell him to bring them to Ver­sa­il­les, you me­an?" To­inet­te was not usu­al­ly the in­ge­ni­o­us one in the­ir re­la­ti­on­s­hip, but she was do­ing very well this mor­ning.

  "Pre­ci­sely."

  "To­inet­te, you're bril­li­ant." Cor­de­lia flung her arms aro­und the da­up­hi­ne and kis­sed her so­undly. "It just might work."

  "Of co­ur­se it will work," To­inet­te dec­la­red with the sa­me mock ha­ug­h­ti­ness. "And sin­ce the king lo­ves me, I'm su­re he'll gi­ve me his sup­port if I ask for it. I'll wri­te the com­mand im­me­di­ately and you may ta­ke it back with you."

  "That might not be such a go­od idea," Cor­de­lia ref­lec­ted. "I don't re­lish be­ing the be­arer of ill ti­dings. He's go­ing to ha­te the idea and he cer­ta­inly won't ca­re to re­ce­ive a di­rect com­mand from you at my hands; it will hurt his pri­de."

  "Yes, I sup­po­se it might." To­inet­te was de­ep in tho­ught, then she clap­ped her hands. "I ha­ve it." She was flus­hed with ex­ci­te­ment. "At the ope­ra, I'll ask for you both to vi­sit me in my box, and then I'll ca­su­al­ly bring up the su­bj­ect of the chil­d­ren with the prin­ce, and then ha­ve my won­der­ful in­s­pi­ra­ti­on. How will that be?"

  "Per­fect." Cor­de­lia nod­ded her sa­tis­fac­ti­on. "You're a true fri­end, To­inet­te."

  "But isn't the­re an­y­t­hing I can do to help you?" To­inet­te as­ked pas­si­ona­tely. "How can you stay mar­ri­ed to a man who li­kes to hurt you?"

  Her fri­end's dis­t­ress was ge­nu­ine and Cor­de­lia knew it wo­uld tor­ment To­inet­te. She al­most told her that ever­y­t­hing was re­al­ly all right, that she co­uld en­du­re an­y­t­hing now. That Leo wo­uld ta­ke her away from her bon­da­ge when he co­uld. But she didn't da­re sha­re that sec­ret with an­yo­ne.

  "It might get bet­ter," she sa­id va­gu­ely. "Let's not talk of it an­y­mo­re, it'll only dep­ress us."

  "Oh, very well," To­inet­te ag­re­ed, sta­ting with anot­her lig­h­t­ning chan­ge of su­bj­ect, "I am de­ter­mi­ned that I shall not ac­k­now­led­ge Ma­da­me du Barry."

  "Why ever not?"

  "She's a who­re. The em­p­ress wo­uld ne­ver per­mit such a one at co­urt and I don't see why I sho­uld be in­sul­ted by her pre­sen­ce." To­inet­te lo­oked pro­udly at Cor­de­lia and she was sud­denly her mot­her's da­ug­h­ter.

  Cor­de­lia co­uld see that To­inet­te was go­ing to get her­self in­to tro­ub­le. "The du Barry is the king's fa­vo­ri­te. By slig­h­ting her it co­uld be sa­id you we­re slig­h­ting the king."

  To­inet­te sho­ok her he­ad, her pretty mo­uth ta­king a stub­born turn. "She is an im­mo­ral wo­man and the king is li­ving in sin. He can­not ma­ke con­fes­si­on whi­le he ke­eps a mis­t­ress, and it's my God-gi­ven duty to help him chan­ge his ways."

  Cor­de­lia sta­red in­c­re­du­lo­usly. She knew that To­inet­te co­uld ta­ke stran­ge no­ti­ons in­to her he­ad and be­co­me ob­ses­sed by them. She knew that the em­p­ress had im­bu­ed all her chil­d­ren with strong fa­ith and re­li­gi­o­us con­vic­ti­on. But Ma­ria The­re­sa, des­pi­te her high mo­ral to­ne, was al­so a prag­ma­tist. Such fo­olish op­po­si­ti­on to the king wo­uld ma­ke To­inet­te a la­ug­hin­g­s­tock.

  "I think you sho­uld con­si­der this very ca­re­ful­ly," she sa­id. "The­re's mo­re to this than sim­p­le im­mo­ra­lity."

  "I know my duty," To­inet­te sta­ted, fol­ding her lips to­get­her. "I know what my fa­ith re­qu­ires of me. I will not ac­k­now­led­ge that vul­ga­ri­an who­re."

  Cor­de­lia sen­sed she wo­uld get no fur­t­her at this po­int. Per­haps du­ring the wed­ding ce­leb­ra­ti­ons over the next few days To­inet­te's at­ti­tu­de to the king's mis­t­ress wo­uld not be no­ti­ced.

  "Ma­da­me, it is ti­me for you to dress." Co­un­tess de No­a­il­les ap­pe­ared unan­no­un­ced.

  Cor­de­lia ro­se to her fe­et. "I'll see you la­ter, To­inet­te." She kis­sed her, then step­ped back and drop­ped a low curtsy. "I beg le­ave to de­part, ma­da­me."

  To­inet­te chuc­k­led, much to the co­un­tess's di­sap­pro­val. "You're sup­po­sed to curtsy three ti­mes to the fu­tu­re qu­e­en of Fran­ce."

  Cor­de­lia did so, bac­king out of the da­up­hi­ne's pre­sen­ce. Her eyes, alight with mis­c­hi­ef, held To­inet­te's, who adop­ted an ar­ro­gant tilt of her he­ad, un­til her ever re­ady la­ug­h­ter got the bet­ter of her.

  Cor­de­lia, tho­ug­h­t­ful but still smi­ling, left the ro­yal apar­t­ments. She glan­ced aro­und the thron­ged hal­lway, whe­re co­ur­ti­ers gos­si­ped and ser­vants scur­ri­ed. She co­uld see no sign of Mon­si­e­ur Bri­on. He had sa­id that sin­ce she pre­su­mably had not yet le­ar­ned her way aro­und the pa­la­ce, she co­uld sum­mon any flunky to es­cort her back to the prin­ce's apar­t­ments on the im­pe­ri­al sta­ir­ca­se. Was it sa­fe to sup­po­se that for this mo­ment she was out of her hus­band's ob­ser­va­ti­on? Su­rely he wo­uldn't ha­ve spi­es in the crowd. It was worth the risk.

  But co­uld she re­mem­ber the way? It wo­uld ha­ve be­en easi­er if she'd wal­ked it her­self, but Leo had car­ri­ed her. On the way to his apar­t­ment, she had be­en al­most un­con­s­ci­o­us, and on the way back, she had be­en awa­re only of his arms aro­und her, his clo­se­ness, her mind and body fil­led to over­f­lo­wing with the me­mo­ri­es of his bed.

  She ma­de her way thro­ugh the throng to a fo­ot­man stan­ding at the fo­ot of a sta­ir­ca­se. He bo­wed as she ap­pro­ac­hed him.

  "Do you hap­pen to know whe­re Vis­co­unt Ki­er­s­ton is lod­ged?"

  "On one of the out­si­de sta­irs, ma­da­me." "Can you be mo­re pre­ci­se?"

  The man's eyes shar­pe­ned. He had no idea whom among the hun­d­reds of un­fa­mi­li­ar wed­ding gu­ests he was tal­king to, but his ser­vi­ce at Ver­sa­il­les had ta­ught him to smell out an in­t­ri­gue. "I co­uld es­cort you, ma­da­me."

  "That will not be ne­ces­sary. Just gi­ve me di­rec­ti­ons."

  She lis­te­ned at­ten­ti­vely. It so­un­ded re­la­ti­vely stra­ig­h­t­for­ward, and if she be­ca­me lost, she co­uld al­ways ask so­me­one el­se. With a nod of thanks, she di­sap­pe­ared in­to the crowd, le­aving the cu­ri­o­us fo­ot­man to his spe­cu­la­ti­ons.

  Once Cor­de­lia had left the sta­te apar­t­ments, she fo­und her­self tra­ver­sing long mar­b­le cor­ri­dors, clim­bing wi­de, shal­low mar­b­le sta­ir­ca­ses, me­eting only ser­vants and the oc­ca­si­onal hur­rying co­ur­ti­er. Ever­yo­ne at Ver­sa­il­les se­emed to be in a te­aring hurry, which, gi­ven the vast dis­tan­ces they had to tra­vel and the fre­qu­ent events they we­re re­qu­ired to at­tend, was per­haps un­der­s­tan­dab­le.

  By the ti­me Cor­de­lia re­ac­hed the sta­ir­ca­se whe­re Leo's apar­t­ment was si­tu­ated, she felt as if she'd wal­ked mi­les, but she'd re­cog­ni­zed cer­ta­in lan­d­marks on the way and was cer­ta­in she co­uld find her way back to her own apar­t­ments.

  Cor­de­lia ra­ised her hand to knock on the nar­row wo­oden do­or, then de­ci­ded aga­inst it. Boldly, she lif­ted the latch and pus­hed open the do­or. The ro­om was empty. She step­ped in­si­de, clo­sing the do­or qu­i­etly be­hind her. Then she to­ok a de­ep bre­ath of re­li­ef. For the mo­ment, she was sa­fe from prying eyes. She lo­oked aro­und the small cham­ber with a sen­se of won­der. Ever­y­t­hing was just as she re­mem­be­red it. The ro­om was fil­led with Leo's pre­sen­ce. She co­uld al­most smell his own spe­ci­al scent in the air. She to­uc­hed the bed, the pil­low, lo­oking for the in­den­ta­ti­on of his he­ad, his body, re­mem­be­ring the cris­p­ness of the she­et aga­inst her back as he held him­self abo­ve her.

  She ope­ned the ar­mo­ire and stro­ked his clot­hes, ta­king sec­ret gu­ilty ple­asu­re in the fe­el of the gar­ments that had to­uc­hed his skin. She res­ted her che­ek aga­inst a vel­vet co­at that she re­mem­be­red him we­aring at Com­pi­eg­ne.

  "Cor­de­lia, what in the de­vil's na­me are you do­ing he­re?"

  She jum­ped, spun ro­und. Leo sto­od in the do­or.

  "What's hap­pe­ned?" He kic­ked the do­or shut be­hind him and ca­me to­ward her.

  "Not­hing." She ran to him, flin­ging her arms aro­und his wa­ist. "Not­hing's hap­pe­ned, but I had to find out if it was re­al. Did it re­al­ly hap­pen? Do you re­al­ly lo­ve me, Leo?" She lo­oked up at him, her he­ad til­ted aga­inst his bre­ast. "Tell me I didn't dre­am it all."

  "You didn't dre­am it all," he sa­id wryly. "But you sho­uldn't be he­re, Cor­de­lia."

  "No one saw me." She re­le­ased his wa­ist and sto­od on tip­toe to kiss him. "Pro­ve that it wasn't a dre­am, lo­ve."

  The pas­si­on in the sap­phi­re depths of her eyes was pu­rely ero­tic, and Leo felt his be­arings slip. She ca­me in­to his em­b­ra­ce with a lit­tle sigh, her fa­ce lif­ting for his kiss, her eyes wi­de open, her lips par­ted eagerly, a soft flush on her che­eks.

  He to­ok her mo­uth with his, felt her le­an in­to him, yi­el­ding every mus­c­le and fi­ber to his hold so that if he drop­ped his arms from aro­und her, she wo­uld sink to the flo­or.

  He bo­re her bac­k­ward to the bed. She fell in a tan­g­le of skirts, her arms aro­und him, pul­ling him down with her. She wo­uldn't re­le­ase his mo­uth, her hands clas­ping his he­ad as she drank gre­edily of his mo­uth as if it we­re a gob­let full of the swe­etest hip­poc­ras.

 

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