"No!" The scre­am of pro­test burst from her as he pul­led her leg stra­ight and fas­te­ned her an­k­le to the post at the end of the bed. "No!" But he had se­cu­red her ot­her leg be­fo­re the cry had di­ed in the air, and she lay spre­ad-eag­led on the bed, sha­king with ter­ror, sta­ring up at him, her eyes dark with fe­ar.

  "Now, my de­ar." He sat down on the bed at the he­ad. "I am go­ing to gi­ve you so­met­hing to drink. The so­oner you drink it, the so­oner this, un­p­le­asan­t­ness will co­me to an end."

  She sho­ok her he­ad, her tan­g­led ha­ir fra­ming her fa­ce, blac­kest black aga­inst the ghastly whi­te­ness. He was go­ing to kill her as he'd kil­led El­vi­ra.

  She tri­ed to scre­am aga­in, but the so­und was thick and so­me­how cur­d­led in her thro­at, so gre­at was her ter­ror. She tri­ed to turn her he­ad asi­de as he bro­ught a shal­low sil­ver cup to­ward her.

  He le­aned over her and pin­c­hed her nos­t­rils bet­we­en fin­ger and thumb. She gas­ped for bre­ath, her mo­uth ope­ning. And he po­ured the con­tents of the cup stra­ight down her thro­at. She cho­ked, swal­lo­wed be­fo­re she drow­ned. It was bit­ter, her­bal, me­di­ci­nal.

  He held her no­se un­til he was cer­ta­in she had swal­lo­wed every drop, then he let go and sto­od up. "You'll not bre­ed a bas­tard," he sa­id cru­el­ly. "Wha­te­ver you're car­rying, you'll lo­se be­fo­re mor­ning. And then, my de­ce­it­ful who­re of a wi­fe, you'll lie be­ne­ath me night and mor­ning un­til you carry and de­li­ver my son."

  Uncom­p­re­hen­ding, she sta­red up at him, the hor­ror of what she had en­du­red, of what she fe­ared, in­de­lib­le in her eyes. "I'll le­ave you now to yo­ur ref­lec­ti­ons." He un­fas­te­ned the ro­pes that held her, then sto­od lo­oking down at her with his asp's smi­le. "I do­ubt you'll pass a com­for­tab­le night, my de­ar, but I be­li­eve the pu­nis­h­ment is ap­prop­ri­ate to the of­fen­se."

  He wal­ked away. She he­ard him lock the do­or to the sa­lon, then he left thro­ugh her dres­sing ro­om. The do­or clic­ked shut be­hind him and the key tur­ned from the out­si­de. She was alo­ne.

  Mer­ci­ful God, what had he gi­ven her? She fo­ught to con­t­rol the pa­nic that thre­ate­ned to over­w­helm her, to ba­nish all ra­ti­onal tho­ught. What had he sa­id? "You'll not bre­ed a bas­tard."

  Now she un­der­s­to­od what he'd do­ne. He had gi­ven her so­met­hing to abort a preg­nancy. A bas­tard preg­nancy. He must ha­ve dis­co­ve­red her re­la­ti­on­s­hip with Leo. But how? And she didn't even know if she was preg­nant, and, oh God, the fi­nal irony. If she was car­rying a child, it wo­uld be Mic­ha­el's. Leo was too ca­re­ful.

  She sat up, lo­oking aro­und the fa­mi­li­ar ro­om. When wo­uld it be­gin to work? What wo­uld it do to her? The tho­ught that so­me ali­en sub­s­tan­ce was wor­king wit­hin her to ca­use da­ma­ge and des­t­ruc­ti­on was so ter­rif­ying that the black mists of pa­nic this ti­me ne­arly en­gul­fed her, but she pus­hed them away with every fi­ber of her be­ing.

  What wo­uld hap­pen if she scre­amed? Not­hing. He'd loc­ked the do­ors, ta­ken the keys. And be­si­des, the ser­vants we­re ac­cus­to­med to the so­unds that ca­me from this cham­ber du­ring the long ho­urs of the night. And they we­re far too ter­ri­fi­ed of the­ir mas­ter to in­ter­ve­ne. Her al­li­an­ce with Bri­on didn't en­com­pass his ris­king his li­ve­li­ho­od.

  She clo­sed her eyes on the bit­ter te­ars and tri­ed to empty her mind so that she co­uld sle­ep. Even ten mi­nu­tes wo­uld be ten mi­nu­tes go­ne of this in­ter­mi­nab­le night.

  The cram­ping be­gan just be­fo­re dawn. She gro­aned, cur­ling on­to her si­de over the pa­in, trying to ease the mus­c­les in her belly. The pa­in was mo­re vi­olent than her cus­to­mary monthly terms, and the flow of blo­od felt stron­ger. She was sud­denly too de­bi­li­ta­ted to mo­ve, to exa­mi­ne what was hap­pe­ning to her. The she­et be­ne­ath her was so­on so­aked and sticky, and the gre­at wa­ves of las­si­tu­de bro­ke over her, ren­de­ring her al­most im­mo­bi­le.

  She was go­ing to ble­ed to de­ath, hel­p­less on this bed.

  Cor­de­lia ope­ned her mo­uth and scre­amed. She scre­amed and scre­amed un­til her thro­at was so­re. And now the­re we­re so­unds from the sa­lon. Vo­ices, fo­ot­s­teps. The han­d­le tur­ned, met the re­sis­tan­ce of the key. She scre­amed aga­in.

  The do­or to the dres­sing ro­om was flung open. Mic­ha­el stro­de in. "Stop yo­ur ca­ter­wa­uling, who­re!" He flung back the she­et and sta­red at the red mess be­ne­ath her. Then he lo­oked up in­to her fa­ce and sa­id with qu­i­et sa­tis­fac­ti­on, "You'll be bre­eding no bas­tards."

  Cor­de­lia had lit­tle strength left, but she scre­amed aga­in. It se­emed it was the only thing she knew how to do. She scre­amed in pa­in, in fe­ar, and in hat­red.

  Mic­ha­el lo­oked down at the blo­od aga­in. The­re was su­rely too much. He didn't want her to ble­ed to de­ath. He hadn't fi­nis­hed with her yet. He flung open the sa­lon do­or and bel­lo­wed, "Bri­on, fetch the physi­ci­an."

  Cor­de­lia ha­uled her­self on­to one el­bow. Her eyes fi­xed on him thro­ugh the tan­g­le of ha­ir. "If you don't want me to die, fetch Mat­hil­de." She spo­ke slowly, with an ef­fort, the words drag­ged from her. "Mat­hil­de will know how to stop it," She fell back aga­in.

  Mic­ha­el he­si­ta­ted. He didn't want her to die. He wan­ted to hurt her. To pu­nish her. To te­ar from her any li­fe that might not be of his own blo­od. But he wasn't fi­nis­hed with her yet.

  "Whe­re is she?"

  Even thro­ugh the agony, Cor­de­lia knew that by di­vul­ging Mat­hil­de's whe­re­abo­uts, she was put­ting all the­ir plans in dan­ger, but she did not want to die. And only Mat­hil­de co­uld help her. It was pos­sib­le Mic­ha­el was tric­king the ad­dress out of her, but it was a risk she had to ta­ke. "In. the town. At the sign of the Blue Bo­ar." She clo­sed her eyes aga­inst the te­aring pa­in in her vi­tals.

  When next she ope­ned her eyes, her blur­red ga­ze fell on­to Mat­hil­de's fa­ce, and un­s­top­pab­le te­ars spil­led down her che­eks. Mat­hil­de bent and kis­sed her che­ek. "It's all right, my ba­be. It's all right."

  "Am I go­ing to die?"

  "Bless you, no." She smi­led, but the smi­le didn't di­mi­nish the grim­ness in her eyes. "It's slo­wed now." "How?"

  "I ha­ve my ways, child. Sit up and ta­ke so­me of this." She slip­ped an arm be­ne­ath her and lif­ted Cor­de­lia up aga­inst the pil­lows.

  The she­ets we­re cle­an and crisp be­ne­ath her, her nig­h­t­gown freshly la­un­de­red. The­re was no sign an­y­w­he­re in the cham­ber of that blo­od-so­aked, pa­in-fil­led ter­rif­ying hor­ror of the night. Ex­cept for the red li­qu­id Mat­hil­de was hol­ding to her mo­uth.

  "What is it?" With in­s­tin­c­ti­ve re­vul­si­on she tri­ed to push it away.

  "Drink it down. You ne­ed yo­ur strength."

  "Is it blo­od?" She lo­oked in dis­gust at her nur­se.

  "And a few ot­her things."

  Cor­de­lia clo­sed her eyes and tip­ped the warm, evil-smel­ling li­qu­id down her thro­at. Cu­ri­o­usly, it didn't tas­te bad at all. Didn't tas­te salty li­ke blo­od.

  "You'll drink so­me mo­re in an ho­ur." Mat­hil­de to­ok the cup away.

  Cor­de­lia lay back aga­inst the pil­lows, fe­eling warm and sle­epy. "Mat­hil­de?"

  "Yes, de­arie?" Mat­hil­de ca­me back to the bed. "Was I? I me­an did I lo­se…?"

  "If you we­re car­rying, my de­ar, it was too so­on to tell," Mat­hil­de sa­id briskly. "Whe­re's Mic­ha­el?"

  "That bas­tard son of a dit­ch-born drab!" Mat­hil­de was not gi­ven to swe­aring, but her fa­ce was as harshly sa­va­ge as her words. "I've not fi­nis­hed with him yet."

  "Is he he­re?"

  "No. He's go­ne to the king's le­vee, and I'm to be out of he­re be­fo­re he re­turns," she sa­id do­urly.

  "Did he say an­y­t­hing el­se to you?"

  Mat­hil­de sho­ok her he­ad. "Just told me he be­li­eved you we­re mis­car­rying and I'd bet­ter do so­met­hing abo­ut it."

  "He ga­ve me so­met­hing to ma­ke it hap­pen," Cor­de­lia sa­id dully. "I don't know what it was. But he must know abo­ut Leo."

  Mat­hil­de lo­oked up, and her eyes, bright, black, and ut­terly un­re­adab­le, res­ted on Cor­de­lia's fa­ce for a mi­nu­te. Then she nod­ded on­ce and, with the sa­me in­s­c­ru­tab­le ex­p­res­si­on, re­tur­ned to her task. She was pac­king things in the le­at­her bag that ac­com­pa­ni­ed her ever­y­w­he­re. Over the ye­ars, Cor­de­lia had grown to trust the con­tents of that bag as she trus­ted the wo­man who ad­mi­nis­te­red them. "That girl?" Mat­hil­de ges­tu­red with her he­ad to­ward the dres­sing ro­om. "Is she as gor­m­less as she se­ems?"

  A we­ak smi­le flic­ke­red. "Yes, but she's very wil­ling and go­od-he­ar­ted."

  Mat­hil­de cluc­ked crossly. "Well, I'd best tell her what to gi­ve you and when."

  "Tell me. I fe­el qu­ite strong now."

  "You lost a po­wer of blo­od," Mat­hil­de sta­ted. "And you ne­ed to put it back." She flo­uris­hed a jar of the red li­qu­id. "Ta­ke a glass of this every ho­ur un­til it's fi­nis­hed."

  "What is it?" Cor­de­lia as­ked aga­in.

  "Mar­row, gro­und li­ver and he­art, sal­sify, gin­ger… Oh, a host of things that you ne­edn't tro­ub­le yo­ur­self abo­ut." Mat­hil­de pla­ced the jar on the bed­si­de tab­le. "Now, if the ble­eding be­co­mes he­avy aga­in, mo­re than yo­ur usu­al terms, send the girl for me."

  Cor­de­lia nod­ded. "Mat­hil­de, Leo wants the chil­d­ren out of the pa­la­ce this af­ter­no­on. The­ir go­ver­ness be­li­eves they're go­ing to a mu­sic les­son. I ga­ve Chris­ti­an a no­te yes­ter­day af­ter­no­on, as­king him to no­tify the Nevry wo­man for­mal­ly that he will be gi­ving them a les­son at three o'clock this af­ter­no­on in his lod­gings in the town. I was go­ing to es­cort them myself, but I don't think I can. Will you ma­ke su­re they get the­re?"

  "Aye, le­ave it with me." Mat­hil­de bent over her aga­in, brus­hing her ha­ir from her fa­ce. "Tell me whe­re to find them in this war­ren."

  Cor­de­lia ga­ve her pre­ci­se in­s­t­ruc­ti­ons, Mat­hil­de nod­ding her com­p­re­hen­si­on. "I'll see to it, child. You've a bit mo­re co­lor in yo­ur che­eks now. How are the pa­ins?"

  "J­ust the usu­al dull kind of ac­he."

  "Rest in bed for to­day and you'll be right as ra­in to­mor­row." She kis­sed her nur­s­ling and pat­ted her che­ek. "We'll co­me thro­ugh this, ne­ver you fe­ar."

  Cor­de­lia's smi­le was a trif­le wan. Mat­hil­de's com­p­le­te lack of re­ac­ti­on to Mic­ha­el's part in all this was sur­p­ri­sing, but Mat­hil­de was of­ten sur­p­ri­sing. Now the nur­se ga­ve her anot­her brisk kiss and bus­t­led away in­to the dres­sing ro­om.

  Cor­de­lia he­ard her gi­ving slow in­s­t­ruc­ti­ons to El­sie as if the girl was in pos­ses­si­on of only half her sen­ses.

  She wo­uld not co­me thro­ugh this un­less she co­uld es­ca­pe her hus­band. Cor­de­lia knew this as she had ne­ver known it be­fo­re. The­re was not­hing that Mic­ha­el wo­uld not do if he felt in his vi­le, twis­ted mind that it was ne­ces­sary.

  And Leo was plan­ning so­met­hing. He had not be­en gi­ving her the en­ti­re re­ason why he wan­ted her out of Ver­sa­il­les this af­ter­no­on. She had tri­ed to con­vin­ce her­self that he had told her the who­le truth, but she knew that he hadn't. She clo­sed her eyes aga­in, thin­king. The­re was to be a play in Ma­da­me de Pom­pa­do­ur's the­ater at fo­ur o'clock. To­inet­te had be­en thril­led with the ex­qu­isi­tely de­sig­ned and de­co­ra­ted the­ater, eagerly re­li­ving the the­at­ri­cals of the­ir chil­d­ho­od in the lit­tle the­ater at Schon­b­runn whe­re all the ro­yal chil­d­ren had en­ter­ta­ined vi­si­ting dig­ni­ta­ri­es as well as mem­bers of the ro­yal ho­use­hold.

  The­re was the play. And not­hing el­se un­til the usu­al eve­ning fes­ti­vi­ti­es.

  But why wo­uld Leo not want her to at­tend the play?

  "Is the­re so­met­hing I can get you, mi­lady?" El­sie bob­bed a curtsy be­si­de the bed, and Cor­de­lia ope­ned her eyes.

  "Yes, po­ur me so­me of that fo­ul mix­tu­re in the jar," she sa­id. If she was to get her­self out of bed and to the play, she was go­ing to ne­ed all the strength she co­uld mus­ter.

  When Prin­ce Mic­ha­el re­tur­ned at no­on, he fo­und his wi­fe pe­ace­ful­ly as­le­ep. The nur­se had do­ne her work well and had then di­sap­pe­ared as or­de­red. He sur­ve­yed Cor­de­lia. She lo­oked al­most her­self, her che­eks slightly pink now aga­inst the whi­te of the pil­low. If the wo­man had fa­iled, she wo­uld ha­ve en­ded her days in the Bas­til­le. But she had suc­ce­eded. He wo­uld re­ward suc­cess in this in­s­tan­ce. For as long as she kept out of his sight, he wo­uld le­ave her be.

  Cor­de­lia's eyes flut­te­red open and for a mo­ment fe­ar sto­od out na­ked in the­ir blue depths as she saw her hus­band's frow­ning re­gard.

  "You are bet­ter, I see."

  She nod­ded we­akly. The fra­iler he be­li­eved her, the mo­re li­kely he was at this po­int to le­ave her alo­ne.

  "You will ke­ep to yo­ur bed," he dec­la­red, then tur­ned on his he­el and left the cham­ber.

  She wo­uld ke­ep to her bed un­til clo­se to fo­ur o'clock. Then so­me­how she wo­uld drag her­self to the the­ater.

  Chapter Twenty-four

  "Whe­re's Cor­de­lia?" Chris­ti­an sprang up from the spi­net as Mat­hil­de with Ame­lia and Sylvie en­te­red the ro­om in the lod­gings at the sign of the Blue Bo­ar. "The vis­co­unt sa­id she wo­uld be co­ming with the chil­d­ren." He ran a hand thro­ugh his ha­ir, lo­oking as dis­t­rac­ted and an­xi­o­us as he had felt sin­ce the vis­co­unt had ta­ken him in­to his con­fi­den­ce and la­id such a he­avy char­ge upon him.

  "She's ke­eping to her bed to­day," Mat­hil­de sa­id, ben­ding to un­tie the chil­d­ren's bon­nets.

  "Is she ill?" Chris­ti­an so­un­ded al­most pa­nic­ked. "The vis­co­unt sa­id I was to ke­ep her he­re un­til this eve­ning."

  "Not ill, just a to­uch of the fe­ma­le com­p­la­int," Mat­hil­de res­pon­ded sto­lidly, ig­no­ring Chris­ti­an's sud­den flush. "Now, stop yo­ur fret­ting and me­et the girls."

  Chris­ti­an pul­led him­self to­get­her. So­me­how, in Mat­hil­de's com­pany it was im­pos­sib­le to in­dul­ge his an­xi­eti­es. He tur­ned his at­ten­ti­on to the two lit­tle girls, who we­re re­gar­ding him so­lemnly.

  "We saw you at the con­cert with the dan­cer," one of them sa­id.

  "She was so pretty," the ot­her sa­id. "I wish we co­uld dan­ce li­ke that. Cor­de­lia sa­id we can ha­ve les­sons."

  "This is Ame­lia and this is Sylvie." Mat­hil­de to­uc­hed each child in turn.

  The chil­d­ren lo­oked at each ot­her, star­t­led. They had do­ne the­ir mor­ning switch and had only met Mat­hil­de on­ce or twi­ce be­fo­re. How co­uld she get them right wit­ho­ut kno­wing?

  Mat­hil­de's smi­le was tran­qu­il. "You'll not fo­ol me, m'de­ars."

  "Oh," they sa­id in uni­son.

  Chris­ti­an lo­oked be­wil­de­red, but he to­ok the­ir hands and sho­ok them ear­nestly. "I'm to gi­ve you mu­sic les­sons."

  "Yes." The­ir twin­ned no­ses wrin­k­led si­mul­ta­ne­o­usly.

  "Don't you ca­re for mu­sic?" he as­ked, in­c­re­du­lo­us. At the­ir age he was al­re­ady com­po­sing and was an ac­com­p­lis­hed pla­yer on both har­p­sic­hord and spi­net.

  "Ma­da­me de Nevry says we're very bad at it," Sylvie con­fi­ded.

  "But she's very bad," Ame­lia put in. "She plays but it do­esn't so­und li­ke mu­sic at all."

  "Co­me." Chris­ti­an bec­ko­ned them over to the spi­net. He sat down. "Lis­ten to this and tell me if it so­unds li­ke mu­sic."

  He pla­yed a light air, but for on­ce the mu­sic didn't so­ot­he him. Cor­de­lia was sup­po­sed to be he­re too. How co­uld he ful­fill his res­pon­si­bi­li­ti­es to the vis­co­unt if the plans chan­ged? The vis­co­unt had sa­id he didn't think they wo­uld ne­ed to le­ave Ver­sa­il­les this af­ter­no­on, but he was to hold him­self re­ady for an­y­t­hing. A co­ach and fast te­am we­re re­ady to start at a word. Mat­hil­de had ar­ran­ged boys' clot­hes for the chil­d­ren, and a gro­om's brit­c­hes and jer­kin for Cor­de­lia. Chris­ti­an had the pas­sports and pa­pers.

  But the­re was no Cor­de­lia. They co­uldn't le­ave wit­ho­ut Cor­de­lia. He was con­fu­sed and dis­ma­yed. The en­ti­re ope­ra­ti­on was risky eno­ugh wit­ho­ut unex­pec­ted hit­c­hes.

  He bro­ught his hands down on the keys in a fi­nal chord and sat sta­ring at a crack in the wall abo­ve the spi­net, tal­king sternly to him­self. Mat­hil­de didn't se­em con­cer­ned. And this was only sup­po­sed to be a tri­al run. When it was ti­me to go, Cor­de­lia wo­uld be he­re. Ever­y­t­hing then wo­uld go ac­cor­ding to plan. And if he co­uldn't con­t­rol his an­xi­ety on a tri­al run, what go­od wo­uld he be when it ca­me to the re­al thing?

  He swung aro­und on the se­at and re­gar­ded the chil­d­ren, stan­ding hand in hand be­hind him. "Well, did that so­und li­ke mu­sic?"

  They nod­ded in uni­son.

  "Wo­uld you li­ke to le­arn to play li­ke that?"

  Anot­her vi­go­ro­us nod.

  "Then sit down, you… Sylvie, is it? You first." "I'm Me­lia."

  "Oh. Well, you go first, then. Show me what you've le­ar­ned so far."

 

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