by Karleen Koen
Barbara was going to a birthday ball for the young king; yesterday she had gone to a Valentine's Day fête at Marie-Victorie's. Today her room was filled with flowers, camellias, from St. Michel, who had drawn her name as his Valentine at the fête. He said he came only to see her. She had flirted with him, once more trying her wings, unfurling them. There was such a gap she must close between Roger and herself… his worldliness, his sophistication, his elegance. She was hurrying as fast as she could; it was the height of fashion to have admirers. Surely Roger must notice and approve.
The Valentine's fête was a more adult party than those at Tamworth, where the unmarried young people had gathered and drawn lots as to who would be their Valentine. She had always thought it silly. One year Harry had drawn her name and been furious. You were supposed to give small presents to whoever was your Valentine for several days afterward, but at Tamworth they had simply held one dance. No one took it seriously, or believed, as some did, that the Valentine chosen was destined to be your future marriage partner. Annie said the birds chose mates on that day, and therefore it was special, while the villagers believed the first person seen was your destined mate. One year, Barbara and Jane, following Annie's advice, had taken five bay leaves and pinned them to their pillows that night, four to each corner and one in the middle. It was supposed to assure dreams of one's sweetheart, but Barbara dreamed of no one, and Jane never said.
At Marie-Victorie's there had been much laughing and smiling and significant looks between the men and women. It made her uncomfortable. She could feel a heightened sexual tension in the air. But perhaps it had also to do with Carnival, already in progress. Carnival was the celebration before Lent, the penitential season preceding Easter. And the Parisians celebrated with abandon. Someone had told her that Carnival was a time for sinning; to make up for time lost when the repenting, fasting season of Lent began, and she saw what he meant.
Already Richelieu had fought a duel with the Comte de Gacé and been wounded. It seemed that the young Comtesse de Gacé had gone to a party at the Prince de Soubice's, gotten drunk (as had most of the other guests), had been passed around naked from man to man, and then passed on to the servants. Richelieu had been laughing about it to friends, Barbara among them, at an opera ball, and the Comte had overheard him and challenged him to a duel, which they fought the next morning, not over whether the story was true or not, but over Richelieu's ungentlemanly conduct in repeating it.
Barbara was fascinated and shocked by it all. The Comtesse was only a few years older than she. In fact, the Comtesse had been at the ball, dancing and laughing and looking young and ethereal in a white gown and diamonds. Now rumors were flying that Richelieu and de Gacé were going to be imprisoned in the Bastille for dueling. Richelieu shrugged, but the Comtesse de Gacé cried; she did not want Richelieu imprisoned, even if he had talked about her. She really did not care where they put her husband. Everyone thought it was one of the best carnivals ever, and Barbara was intrigued by the sybaritic sophistication around her. There was an underside to it that she could only guess at, and its mysteriousness both attracted her and repelled her. Louise–Anne de Charolais, Richelieu, St. Michel, and so many others understood it, belonged to it, and she felt like a child, standing on the outside looking in. Here, she thought, lies another world, a world Roger knows and is at ease with, but its dark underside made her wary.
"Madame," Thérèse said, "you will be late."
Barbara opened her fan. Hyacinthe, dressed in suit of matching blue satin, and holding her cloak, was waiting. She stooped down and gave the puppies a last pat.
"Wish me good fortune," she said to them. They obligingly licked her hands.
Once the door closed behind them, the smile on Thérèse's face faded. She put a hand to her mouth, walked to the canopied bed, and pulled the china chamber pot from under it. She retched into it. The puppies, curious, came to the side of the bed, yapping at her. Finally, moving like an old woman, she rinsed out the chamber pot and then lay back down. The nausea was bad tonight, worse than it had ever been. She must act soon. People were not stupid. Today she had fainted in the washing room, and when she came to, the washerwoman and the majordomo, one Pierre LeBlanc, were staring at her with eyes that held the dawning of suspicion. The puppies barked until she leaned over and pulled them up beside her, but the effort made her sick again. She lay for a long time without moving, except for her hand fingering her beads as she whispered the rosary over and over again for strength.
There was a knock on the door. With a hand to her head, she sat up. White opened the door and came in, several books in his good hand. Thérèse stared at his deformed arm, at the tiny hand dangling from his elbow. She made a sound. White jumped. Then he saw her. The puppies never moved from the warm nest they had made in the bed covers.
"I beg your pardon," he said. "I thought no one was here. Have I frightened you? I am Caesar White, Lord Devane's clerk of the library. I was bringing Lady Devane some books about Paris I thought she might find interesting."
Thérèse nodded her head. She felt that if she said one word she would be sick again all over the bed, and him, even though there was nothing to spit up. He came closer.
"You are Thérèse Fuseau, are you not?" He smiled. He had a nice smile. "I have been wanting to meet you. My room is over in the other wing. I have a small sitting room with a good–sized fireplace. Perhaps sometime you will join me there for tea."
Thérèse shook her head. He stared at her, puzzled. "On your day off, then, you might care to go for a walk or supper?" His voice trailed off at her lack of response. He blushed and set the books on a table.
"I am glad to have met you," he said, more formally now. She was aware that she had hurt his feelings, but she felt too sick to care. He shut the door behind him without looking back. Thérèse lay back down. He seemed nice, but just now she had no use for any man, nice or otherwise.
* * *
Barbara waited at the top of the stairs, as excited as if she were going to a fête in her honor. She was waiting for Hyacinthe to announce her name, at which time she would slowly, elegantly, maturely walk down the stairs and dazzle Roger with her new sophistication. She heard her name. Slowly, she said to herself, walk down very slowly. Smile just so. Yes. Roger was at the bottom of the staircase with Hyacinthe.
"You kept me waiting—" he began, but stopped. She stood still midway down the stairs so that he should have a good took at her. Let him like me, she prayed. Please.
"Barbara," he said, letting her name out on a long breath. His eyes were a sky blue, lighter, more beautiful than her gown. "You look beautiful."
She flew down the remaining stairs. "Oh, Roger, do you like it? Are you pleased? Tell me the truth. Look, I have on three patches. They are called the gallant, the rogue, and the—"
Roger kissed her on the lips. "I know, Barbara, and the kissing." To her delight, he kissed her hands also. His eyes glowed at her. She wanted him to kiss her again.
In the Tuileries ballroom, she stood for a moment under the chandeliers, languidly waving her fan. She knew she looked beautiful. But what was more important by far, according to Thérèse, was that she felt beautiful. The Prince de Dombes, the Comte de Coigny, and the Duc de Melun were immediately around her, asking for dances. She sighed and fanned herself. She would check her dance card, of course. At her side, Roger smiled to himself at her coolness.
"Save the first dance after supper for me," he said, chucking her under the chin, walking away without bothering to see if she wrote down his name. She frowned after him, but then the men around her moved closer, all talking, all wanting her attention. The Chevalier de Bavi`ere joined them, as did the Duc de Richelieu. Obligingly, she wrote down their requests on her dance card. She fanned herself. Bavi`ere offered to bring her punch. She sighed. Richelieu, watching her, grinned. St. Michel shouldered his way through the crowd around her. Marie–Victorie was on his arm.
"You look superb," she cried.
"Bab,"
said St. Michel. "Tonight you are beyond compare—a goddess among mortals. Grant me the favor of the first dance, or I shall perish."
She smiled. The music was starting. Richelieu gave her his arm. "Henri, my card seems to be filled for now," she said, enjoying her triumph and his frown. "Perhaps after the supper interval…"
Enormously pleased with herself, she smiled at Richelieu, who escorted her into one of the circles of couples forming to dance.
"You do look better," Richelieu said as they began the opening movements to the dance. "At long last you match the promise in your voice. The woman in you is emerging. I await her arrival with bated breath."
Louise–Anne, standing behind in an adjoining circle, with St. Michel as her sulking partner, heard him.
"Does Henri know he is wasting his time?" asked Richelieu. He winked at St. Michel, who could not hear now that the music was beginning.
"No," said Barbara. "And I wish you would not tell him. I am having too good a time." Sometimes Richelieu made her angry. She never knew what to expect from him. His compliments were always double–edged. She did not like him at all. She could not understand where he got his reputation as a great lover. She wished she had not given him a dance.
"How was your duel?" she asked, hoping to embarrass him.
He grinned. "It only hurts me when I laugh. I think I will go to the Bastille."
She was silent. He watched her.
"Would you be sad?" he asked. She shivered. His voice was as caressing as a hand against her naked spine. She tossed her head.
"Sell me that black horse you ride. You will not need her if you go to the Bastille."
Richelieu forgot his attitude of the bored young duke. "You cannot possibly ride her!"
"Of course I can."
"You cannot!"
"Let me try."
"You will be hurt—"
"I will not!"
"All right," he said slowly, his strange yellow–brown eyes glinting. "For a bet then."
"A bet? I do not know if—"
"Ah, I see that under the woman is still the child. Never mind. I never do business with children."
"You have a bet, sir! What are we wagering?"
He threw back his head and laughed. Louise–Anne, trying to watch them, tripped over St. Michel's foot.
"I will give you the horse if you can ride her," said Richelieu.
"No. I will buy her."
"How tiresome you are. Forget the bet."
"No. I accept your terms. And if I lose?"
"You buy me a new hat."
She laughed at him. She had been afraid he would ask for something fast, forbidden, such as a kiss. She was so relieved that she decided she did like him, after all. St. Michel and Louise–Anne, who had run into another couple in their efforts to keep Richelieu and Barbara in view, agreed to leave their circle of dancers. They watched from the sides.
"What is he saying?" cried St. Michel. "Armand is pursuing her. I can see it. Bastard! He promised me!"
"What did he promise?" Louise–Anne demanded. "What?"
"Listen to me, Barbara," Richelieu was saying. "I will allow you to try riding Sheba only under certain circumstances. One, that your husband knows and approves, and two, that your groom is with you the entire time."
"Roger will not care—"
"He will care if you break your neck, and I do not want to fight a duel with him."
"Whyever not? Are two in one month too much for you?"
"What an impudent mouth you have. Someone ought to take care of that. No, because he always kills his man."
"No! Tell me more."
"I cannot imagine why I wanted to dance with you. Women who love their husbands are a bore."
"How fortunate then that this dance is ending. Is our wager still on?"
"Yes. Go away, little girl."
She stuck her tongue out at him. Several people saw her, but it only made Richelieu laugh. She turned to her next partner, who would treat her with more respect, and with whom she knew she would enjoy dancing far more than she had with Richelieu. But she could not resist checking to see if he was still watching her. He was not. She tossed her head and smiled at her partner.
Louise–Anne grabbed Richelieu's arm as soon as he got near enough. "What promise did you make to Henri? Tell me."
Richelieu shrugged. "I have no idea. Did I promise something?"
"He seems to think so. I saw you romancing the skinny little English. God, what fools you all are over a new face. She would squeal if you touched her. I told Henri so, but he did not believe me. He seems to think she is burning with passion under all that innocence. Do you believe me, Armand?"
"Indeed I do, pet." He smiled down at her. "Did you really say that to Henri?"
She nodded, uncertain of his mood. He was sometimes so cruel. To her surprise, he kissed her hand.
"Thank you, Louise–Anne. You are a treasure."
* * *
Barbara was having a wonderful time. The other men did not talk to her the way Richelieu did. They smiled and said flattering things, and she enjoyed herself by smiling back and flirting and encouraging them to say even more flattering things. It was a delightful game, except that Roger was not around to see it. He stayed in the card room. When the supper interval came, and Roger had not appeared, and St. Michel, who seemed always to be at her side when Roger was not, suggested a stroll, she agreed. Let Roger come and find her. Let him find her enjoying supper with St. Michel. It would do him good. She was always standing around waiting for him. Tonight, she looked beautiful. He had said so himself. She had made herself beautiful for him. No one else. And he strolled off and left her on her own as if her transformation were nothing. She hoped he was losing at cards. She hoped he had to search an hour to find her. She was so busy hoping that she paid no attention to where St. Michel was leading her. Before she knew it, she was standing with him in a curtained alcove. There was room only for a settee, a kind of lengthened armchair that could seat two people.
"Sit down, Bab," St. Michel was saying. "I will bring you supper."
But then he was sitting down beside her. The settee was smaller than she thought. St. Michel sat very close. The dimness of the room made her nervous. St. Michel, at ease, leaned back, one arm across the back of the settee. Barbara moved forward so that she was sitting on the edge. St. Michel laughed softly.
"What a baby you are. What can I do to you here, my dear Bab? The settee is far too small for any particular intimacy. I merely wish to rest a moment before I go for our supper."
"I am hungry," Barbara said in a small voice. Sweet Jesus, where was Roger? What if he should walk in and find her sitting so close to Henri? First he missed her social triumph and now he left her on her own with a man who was obviously up to no good. Five minutes. She would let Henri rest five minutes—she jumped. His hand, the one that had rested across the back of she settee, had just touched her bare shoulder, so briefly that she might have thought she had imagined it if the same hand were not now on her neck, caressing it. She tried to twist away.
"How lovely you look tonight."
Now both his hands were on her shoulders, holding her, and he was whispering against her neck and back. "Lovely and exciting. Do you know how exciting you are?"
She could feel his breath on her neck. She pulled away and stood up. He did, too, and his arms were around her, turning her, and they were strong, and he was kissing her.
"Let me go!" She pushed at him.
"Barbara!"
St. Michel's arms dropped from around her. He stepped back and put a hand to his sword. Roger stood at the alcove opening, one of the curtains pushed aside by his hand.
"Are you well, my dear?" Roger stepped into the alcove and touched her arm.
"Yes! No! He tried to k—" Roger suddenly squeezed her arm so hard that it silenced her.
St. Michel and Roger stared at each other. She could hear their breathing, short, staccato breaths, as if each had been running hard. God only
knew what she sounded like. She looked from the face of one man to the other. What she saw made her tremble. If Roger had not been holding her arm in a death grip, she would have fallen to the floor. All the glamour of the evening faded beside reality. Roger was going to challenge Henri to a duel. In which one or both of them would be hurt. Or killed. It happened all the time. Over things far sillier than an attempted kiss. Oh, dear God, she had never realized.
After a moment, which seemed an hour to her nerves, St. Michel bowed and left. As soon as the curtain swung shut behind him, Roger jerked her arm so hard that she stumbled, and said, "You little fool!"
"He tried to kiss me!"
"Did he?" He was still holding her arm.
She wrenched it away. He must not talk to her this way. It was not her fault. She was going to cry if he did not stop staring at her. He was so angry.
