The Shadow Queen

by Sandra Gulland

  The princess turned her head away and smiled.

  I wasn’t sure what was going on; it appeared that young Louvois wished to court the King’s favor, but was being held in check by his superior.

  “No need for La Roque, Messieurs,” Mother offered brightly. (As Medea, she’d become brazen!) “I’d be delighted to show you our secrets myself. The door to the understage is close by.”

  “Pathetic,” I heard my princess say under her breath, watching as Louvois waddled after my mother and the two men. I wondered if she’d heard the stories I had; stories that portrayed Louvois not so much pathetic, as dangerous.

  “You do not wish to join them, Mademoiselle? The machines are rather interesting,” I added, folding Mother’s shawl and placing it on the trunk, my hands trembling. “If grimy and forbidding,” I prattled on, talking without purpose.

  “Some other day, perhaps—when Monsieur Louvois is not of the party,” she added with a smirk. She stepped into the room, pressing a scent ball to her nose. “For some reason I seem to know you.”

  “I am Claude des Oeillets. I played Cupid tonight.”

  “I loved that. No, from before, but I can’t recall.”

  “We met … a very long time ago,” I admitted with a curtsy. How was it possible to have such a perfect face? It was in the blood, surely, in the refinement and breeding of the noble race. “Mademoiselle,” I added. I wasn’t sure how I should address her; the Mortemarts were such high nobility. She was Mademoiselle de Tonnay-Charente, I recalled—but might she be titled now? “Near Poitiers—my family was camped by a cave.”

  “Ah! The magical cave in the fearsome wilds. I remember thinking it a fantastical adventure, like something out of a storybook.” She laughed, a musical note that came from deep in her throat, charmingly trilling. “I also recall seeking a means to kill my loathsome governess.”

  I dipped my head. “And I failed to fulfill my promise.”

  “Indeed—you owe me,” she said with a mocking frown.

  She took off a fur-lined glove and ran her fingers over the decorative stitching on Mother’s gown. Her nails were long, pointed, and tinged with gold. She wore a cluster of emeralds set into a gold band on her middle finger. “Is this your handiwork?” she asked. “I have urgent need of a seamstress.”

  It took only a moment to register what was being offered. “It would be an honor to serve you, Mademoiselle,” I said, making a shaky but deep and heartfelt reverence.

  CHAPTER 20

  Up by candle the next morning, I brushed out my hair with bran flour and, shivering with the unseasonable cold, braided it with a long yellow ribbon, coiling the braids tightly and covering them with a starched white cap.

  By the thin light of dawn, I could see that it had snowed. Even so, I decided to wear my summer cloak, the only one that wasn’t patched. I took up the carrying basket I’d prepared the night before. Lined with hemp, it held my precious tools—a bone case of brass pins and needles, silk and metal threads, iron scissors and long-bladed shears.

  The Mortemart estate was on the other side of the river, in the parish of the Saint-Sulpice church. I would have liked to hire a litter, but I had only earned sixteen sous the night before—and the players nothing at all. The King had rewarded the troupe handsomely, but the debts were high and needed to be paid off first. I would call on Monsieur Martin that evening, explain that it would be a while yet before we would be able to pay him back for the money he’d so kindly advanced—money we’d needed to pay for Mother’s rich costumes. I would give him two of her complimentary tickets to appease.

  It took time to find the street the Mortemart residence was on, and once there I felt I was in another realm: the air was fresh after the frosting of snow, which made everything quiet. Above the high walls I could see the branches of great oak trees, the tips of dark pines cloaked in white.

  I walked up and down the rue Saint-Guillaume several times before identifying the emblem with the coiled snake over a carriage gate entrance. The courtyard behind the ironwork gates was large: a six-horse carriage stood at the ready, the driver sitting atop smoking a pipe as two footmen in white livery brushed off the snow.

  There seemed to be only one entrance. I pulled the bell rope. Three men in blue cloaks—the concierge and two guards—came to the gate.

  “Mademoiselle de Tonnay-Charente is expecting me.”

  “For what purpose?” the concierge demanded, his breath billowing.

  “I am a seamstress,” I said, praying he wouldn’t demand guild identification.

  The concierge nodded to one of the guards, who sprinted across the courtyard toward the entrance.

  I blew into my cupped hands to warm them. I feared I would be shown in with chattering teeth, my cheeks chapped and reddened, my eyes and nose running. Just as I was about to expire of the cold, one of the guards and a maid appeared. The guard fumbled with a big iron key and the creaking gate slowly opened. “You may enter,” he said. Ushering me into the realm of the blessed.

  The maid led me through a guardroom and down some stairs into the kitchens—a vast, warm, subterranean domain of enormous vats, emitting delicious (and some noxious) smells. Loaves of bread were being lifted out of the great ovens and gutted chickens draped over glowing embers. Five pies sat cooling.

  I followed the maid past a buttery, a spicery, a chandlery, and into a narrow corridor which opened onto a dining hall for the servants of the house. Six men—a pantler (I guessed), two butlers, three yeomen of the kitchen—sat at a table covered with platters of grilled meats, boiled eggs, bread, bowls of thick soup.

  Working for such a family would not be a hardship, I thought enviously. I imagined that the servants’ living arrangements would not be shabby, either—beds of good straw, perhaps even comforters.

  “This way,” said the maid, heading up into a maze of narrow, dark stairs, the servants’ side of the mansion. Finally we stepped through a door, emerging into a bright antechamber decorated with tapestries. Six richly upholstered chairs were lined up against one wall. Somewhere, canaries were singing and a cat mewled.

  The maid stopped before a door. “Take off your cloak,” she commanded imperiously, as if her own status had risen with each floor.

  I passed her my humble wrap. The maid draped it over one arm and scratched at the door. I fluffed out my skirts, arranging the folds so that the stained parts didn’t show. I felt like a beast in such a refined setting, like a pagan or wolf-child, one of the grotesque and wild creatures displayed at country fairs.

  Mademoiselle de Tonnay-Charente opened the door herself, dressed in a charmingly laced confection. Behind her were the bent-over figures of three aged serving women, one of them her governess (still alive).

  “You’re early,” Mademoiselle de Tonnay-Charente said, firmly shooing the shuffling old women out.

  “I’m sorry.”

  She closed the door and fixed the latch. “Be gone, ye witches!” she hissed with a comic flourish. “Welcome to my cave, Mademoiselle.” She put out her arms. “I can’t claim that it’s enchanted, however.”

  The majestic room was warm, adorned with great paintings, tapestries, carpets from Turkey (worn thin in spots), and a candleholder of many branches. A fire burned brightly, giving off heat. Two latticed windows faced onto the courtyard. The air smelled strongly of cat, woodsmoke, and lavender—this last from a brass perfume burner set by the door. Everywhere I looked there were piles of leather-bound books, plates of artfully arranged sweetmeats. A gray parrot rattled a chain that was secured to a brass stand.

  So, I thought. This is the lair of a princess.

  I was startled out of my reverie by a shriek. I turned to see Mademoiselle de Tonnay-Charente pulling her skirts up to her knees. “Ugly Thing!”

  A monkey dressed in a quilted velvet jacket and cap was grasping her calf. She pulled the creature off and handed him to me.

  I cradled him like a baby, trying to appear at ease holding this strange animal. The monkey his
sed, but I hissed back, and that made him stare.

  “He’s not hard to amuse,” Mademoiselle de Tonnay-Charente said, tickling him under his ribs. The monkey squirmed free, climbing on top of my head. I didn’t like the feel of his little fingers. I reached up, but he bared his teeth, chattering angrily.

  At that Mademoiselle de Tonnay-Charente and I both began to giggle: the absurdity of it!

  I bent my knees to put the monkey within her reach, but he jumped over the top of a chair and made a flying leap onto a tapestry and up onto a hanging rod.

  “Curses. He’s not to be on the hangings. The ancients will scold,” Mademoiselle de Tonnay-Charente said, opening a cabinet and withdrawing a bowl. “Nuts for Ugly,” she said brightly, “and a little something for me and my guest,” she added, filling two mugs from a jug.

  I was a guest?

  CHAPTER 21

  May I?” I dared to suggest. “I think I know how to tempt Ugly.” I’d had a lifetime of experience luring animals (in order to eat them). I moved the bowl onto a low table and made a trail of nuts leading up to it. “We need to pretend we’re not watching,” I told her, stepping well back.

  We turned our backs to the monkey and stood talking by the sideboard. “Are you a player, as well as your mother?” Mademoiselle de Tonnay-Charente asked in a hushed voice. “I love theater so much, but I was lucky to even get to go. The ancients claim it stirs a girl’s emotions in an unnatural way.”

  I gathered that the “ancients” were her old serving women. “I’m not really a player,” I said. “I’m too tall to play female roles, but I do perform parts in crowd scenes from time to time.” And most often in travesty, as a man.

  “I’ve never met a woman as tall as you—other than the King’s cousin La Grande Mademoiselle.”

  “Damnation!” the parrot screeched, making me jump.

  “Silence, Jolie!” she commanded, and the parrot obediently quieted.

  “I believe La Grande Mademoiselle is even taller than I am.”

  “She only looks taller because of the stupid hats she wears.”

  We smiled to hear the monkey chattering happily at the table behind us. He was on the floor in front of his bowl of nuts, picking them out one by one with great delicacy.

  “Your trick worked,” she whispered, handing me one of the mugs. “It’s called coffey, a hot Turkish liqueur.” She lowered herself onto a chair. “Sit, please.”

  I stood without moving, holding the warm mug in my hands. “Mademoiselle, I—”

  “I insist,” she said brightly. “The ancients would never allow it, but I am moderne.”

  I wasn’t sure what being “moderne” meant, but I did as instructed and perched on the edge of a footstool.

  “Just because you’re of the theater, Mademoiselle, doesn’t mean I’ll treat you like a peasant—or worse—no matter what they say. The ancients go on and on about how going to the theater causes a disorder of the senses, that young women are especially in danger of becoming inflamed.” She laughed with delight. “They say it detaches the soul into an imaginary world, unregulated by ‘the laws of nature.’ Imagine if they had seen you flying! It must have been wonderful to go through the air like that. Were you scared?”

  “At first,” I admitted. The mug was filled with a vile-looking brown liquid. I took a cautious sip. At least it was sweet.

  “What animals do you keep?” she asked, caressing Ugly’s head.

  “I love animals,” I lied, “but we don’t keep any.” The pigeons hardly counted.

  “Not even a horse?”

  “We used to have a donkey named Bravo.” Speaking his name made me feel sad. The steadfast creature had died not long after Father.

  “Frankly, I prefer animals to people,” she said, pouring what I thought might be spirits into our mugs. “Coffey is best this way,” she said in a staged whisper. “It’s my little secret.”

  I sniffed it. It was spirits. How daring! “Why do you prefer animals?” There seemed to be a number. I glimpsed two cats skulking behind the close stool and realized that the mound by the fire was a sleeping pug with a litter of pups.

  “Because they never lie.”

  I didn’t care for the coffey—with or without spirits—but I finished it to be polite. Then she filled my mug again. It was discomforting to be seated in a noblewoman’s presence, and even more so to be served by her. It felt like Mardi Gras, the day everything went topsy-turvy. I wondered if the coffey was affecting my wits.

  “My father lies,” Mademoiselle de Tonnay-Charente went on, leaning forward, her full breasts bulging out over her stays. I adjusted my fichu to make sure I was covered, as was proper for a servant. “He says he’s going to the theater or to the gaming tables, when really he’s going to see his concubine.”

  I’d been taught that it wasn’t appropriate to speak of such things. Apparently it was different for nobility. “Oh,” I said again (stupidly).

  “His harlot is the wife of a commoner,” she said, “so of course he’s ashamed. My mother lies too—she says she’s going to visit a friend, when she’s really going to a convent to pray … for hours. Do you lie?”

  “Sometimes,” I admitted. Why had I said that? No one would hire a dishonest seamstress.

  “Yet you didn’t lie to me just now,” she observed, running the pearls of her necklace through her fingers.

  “I was tempted.” I could feel the heat in my cheeks.

  “Do you have secrets?”

  “Of course.” I felt lively, tingly. “How do you know that your parents are lying?” It was brazen of me to ask!

  “I spy on them,” she gloated.

  I mimed a skulk and she laughed with delight. “Truly. My mother keeps a journal. Her spiritual notes, she calls them, but it’s full of fury—at my father. And as for my father—well, all of Paris knows his so-called secret vice. What’s yours?”

  “I have big feet.”

  “That doesn’t count,” she said, but exclaimed at their size when I showed her. “Answer my question,” she said in the voice of a tutor, pouring out yet more spirits.

  Should I tell her the truth? “I aspire to be among the blessed.”

  She snorted with amusement. “I aspire to be queen.”

  “And sometimes I steal,” I added. The spirit of intimate disclosure had made me reckless. Or perhaps it was the coffey. And spirits.

  “Ah, I remember. I caught you stealing a fritter.”

  “Four beignets.”

  “Why so many?”

  “We were hungry.”

  “Were you poor?” She spoke the word as if it were a foreign tongue. “I’ve read about people like you in books.”

  Did she think it an imaginary world? There was talk of starvation in the provinces, entire families perishing. “And I’ve read about people like you,” I said.

  “You read? I adore stories. I’ve changed my name to Athénaïs, the virgin goddess of war.”

  Bright-eyed Athena. How apt, I thought.

  “My father and mother don’t approve—” She flicked her hand, her nails sharp. “But soon I will be married and may do as I wish.”

  My head was buzzing pleasantly. I wished she would offer to refill my mug. “In the theater, people often change their name, Mademoiselle de—”

  “You’re to address me as Athénaïs,” she chided.

  “Mademoiselle … Athénaïs?” To speak to her so familiarly felt dangerous.

  She laughed at my droll face. “Queen Athénaïs, if you insist. Tell me about magic. You practice it, do you not?”

  But before I could respond, chimes sounded and Mademoiselle de Tonnay-Charente—Athénaïs—jumped up. “Mort Dieu, we don’t have much time. Quick: unlace me,” she commanded. “I need a gown for a ball at the Palais-Royal. The Marquis Alexandre de Noirmoutier—my betrothed—will be attending, so it must be special, but my father doesn’t give me any coin, so …”

  “So perhaps we should have a look in your wardrobe chests,” I suggested.<
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  SUCH GOWNS! I’d never seen—much less touched—such luxury. A laced silk with a skirt of scarlet brocade, its fine knife pleats making it narrow at the hip; a black velvet ensemble; a white taffeta underskirt with ermine trim; a sable snug. I felt breathless with the feel of the billowing silks, the crusty, shimmering silver embroidery.

  I held up a skirt embroidered with tiny pearls, fingering the tiny gems. Could they possibly be real?

  “But that skirt is so heavy it can stand by itself,” Athénaïs said derisively. “I certainly couldn’t dance in it.”

  I studied the black velvet. “This would look lovely over the white taffeta,” I suggested. “I could change the folds to make it lighter.” I held the two up together.

  “Perfect. Have it ready for a fitting tomorrow.”

  “Certainly,” I said lightly, knowing I would have to be up all night. Could I even afford the candles? There had been no mention of a fee, but I was confident that serving Mademoiselle Athénaïs would prove lucrative.

  And in any case, I couldn’t resist.

  CHAPTER 22

  Athénaïs twirled, kicking back the black velvet overskirt. She was enormously pleased with my creation, exclaiming over it effusively. “It’s so light yet perfectly weighted. Watch.” She twirled and dropped to the floor, her skirts forming a circle around her. “That’s the third perfect one so far,” she said, rising, twirling, and dropping again, but this time scowling at the imperfect formation. It amused and surprised me to see her playing Mushrooms, a game I associated with young girls, who were content to twirl and drop for hours, seeking those rare moments when their skirts formed a perfect circle around them.

  “I want you there as my attendant,” she said, standing and shaking out her gown.

  “At the … ball, Mademoiselle?” Surely not. I puffed out her sleeves, which were full above the elbow. I had used a running stitch to gather the top of the sleeve and then sewn each fold flat lengthwise before mounting it into the armhole. I was pleased with the effect. The pointed satin bodice emphasized her voluptuous figure.