by Jane Feather
"Now, Sylvie, come here and let me do your hair."
"Yes, madame." Amelia stepped obediently forward, her rosebud mouth quivering with laughter. It was one of the girls' greatest entertainments, this switching of identity. If they awoke before Nurse came to them in the morning, they would exchange positions in the bed before she saw them, and Amelia would be Sylvie and Sylvie Amelia for the rest of the day. And no one would be any the wiser.
Madame de Nevry tied the braid with the green ribbon that identified Sylvie for her father, as the lilac identified Amelia, then she turned the child around and scrutinized her critically. "This levity is unseemly," she scolded as the girl struggled with her laughter. "Both unseemly and foolish. What could you possibly have to laugh about?"
She glanced around the schoolroom with its dark paneled walls, bare oak floor, sparse furniture. The uncurtained windows were kept firmly shuttered so that no noise or distraction from the world outside could reach the girls at their lessons. She could see no encouragement for laughter in their surroundings; it was all exactly as it should be.
"The prince will be waiting for you. Is that ink on your hands, Sylvie?"
Amelia held out her hands. Her nails' were painted with a foul-tasting yellow paste to keep her from biting them. Not that Amelia bit her nails; that was Sylvie's habit. But Nurse hadn't even looked when she'd ritually anointed the supposedly bitten fingers that morning.
"What will your father think!" the governess grumbled.
"Go to the nursery and wash them at once." She looked up at the clock, worrying at her lip with her teeth; they mustn't be late for their weekly presentation to the prince.
Louise was a thin woman, with angular features and sparse gray hair that she kept hidden beneath a large wig on which perched a dormeuse cap. An embittered spinster, a distant relation of the von Sachsens, she was dependent on the charity of the prince, for which she was expected to educate his daughters. But since she had little education herself, serious study didn't feature too much in the schoolroom of the prince's Parisian palace on rue du Bac. Instead the girls were expected to sit still for long periods of time, holding their heads high, their shoulders erect, the posture maintained with the aid of backboards. They were taught to curtsy and walk with the tiny, quick gliding steps de rigueur at Versailles, so that they looked like two clockwork miniatures with their panniered skirts floating over the floor, seemingly unpropelled by anything as vulgar as legs and feet. Madame, an indifferent performer on the clavichord, nevertheless strove to impart the rudiments of the instrument to her charges, neither of whom appeared to show either interest or aptitude. It didn't occur to the governess that this lack might have something to do with her methods of teaching.
The child returned with her ink-stained fingers scrubbed red and raw by Nurse's pumice stone. She curtsied to her governess, holding out her hands for inspection.
"It's not like you to have dirty hands," Madame said. "Your sister is usually the one who gets more ink on her than on the page."
There was a snort of laughter from the other child. Madame stared suspiciously between her small charges. "Now stop that! I shall report this conduct to your father."
The girls exchanged quick looks and sobered swiftly. They saw their father once a week for ten minutes, but there was no question whose authority ruled the schoolroom. They knew that Madame de Nevry's knees knocked when in the presence of Prince Michael. They could tell because her face became even more pinched and pale, and she fussed and scolded even more than usual before the weekly presentation.
"Come, it's time to go down." The governess hustled the children out of the door in front of her. The schoolroom was under the eaves at the very top of the house, and they proceeded down three flights of back stairs, with worn carpet and faded flock wallpaper. Stairs used only by the servants.
In the small foyer at the bottom of the last staircase, Louise took one last look at her charges, straightening a green ribbon here, a crooked fichu there. "Now, you speak only when spoken to and you confine yourselves simply to answering His Highness's questions. Is that clear?"
The twins curtsied and murmured assent. They needed no reminding of the rules. Their father was a figure so distant and lofty in their lives, they couldn't imagine opening their mouths in his presence without a direct order.
The governess smoothed down her own skirts, adjusted her cap, and sailed through the door leading to the grand hall of the mansion. Her charges followed, all levity vanished as they concentrated on taking little gliding steps while keeping their heads still, their backs rigid. They entered the main part of the house only on these weekly occasions, but they were trying so hard not to make a mistake, they never saw anything of their surroundings, retaining only a confused melange of gilt and soft pretty colors, rich carpets or the click of marble beneath their tiny feet.
A liveried, powdered footman bowed as they passed. The children ignored him because they had been taught that servants were not to be acknowledged unless one was giving an order. Another footman flung open the painted paneled doors, announcing in ringing tones, "Mesdames Amelia and Sylvie. Madame de Nevry."
The children entered before the governess, both keeping their eyes on the floor, aware of the great expanse of carpet stretching between them and the figure of their father at the far end of the salon. Everything seemed huge in this room. A console table on the wall beside the door was at the level of their heads. The sofas and chairs were made for giants. They would have to climb up the slippery legs in order to sit in them. But since they were never expected to sit down, the question was academic.
Prince Michael beckoned them over. He remained leaning against the mantel, something nestled in the palm of his hand. He was dressed for court. His pale eyes were sharp beneath his elaborately curled wig as he took in his daughters' appearance.
"Your report, madame."
The children held their breaths. Sometimes Madame would list a catalogue of minor offenses, things they had either forgotten or had never even been pointed out to them. They never knew why she did this, except that it seemed to happen when she had been complaining to Nurse about how her troubles were on her. Other times, she would report an uneventful week and the prince would dismiss them with a satisfied nod.
Madame curtsied. "Amelia continues to have difficulty mastering cursive, sir, and Sylvie is sometimes reluctant to practice her music."
Michael frowned. Was it Sylvie who wore the green ribbon or Amelia? He could never remember, although he'd decreed the identifiers himself. They both looked dutifully at the carpet, but he could see that they each held their dimpled hands tightly gripped in front of them. They seemed very small, and it astonished him how two separate individuals could be so utterly identical. Presumably, they had different characters-not that their individual personalities were particularly relevant to anything.
"Anything else?"
"A degree of unseemly levity, sir." The children remained motionless. How could such stiff, expressionless little dolls show unseemly levity? It struck Prince Michael as extraordinary.
However, he had other things on his mind and decided these peccadilloes weren't worth considering.
"I daresay their mother will correct these faults," he stated.
Louise looked as if she'd been struck by a lightning bolt. "I… I beg your pardon, sir? Their… their mother?"
Amelia and Sylvie forgot their fear and looked up, showing their father two pairs of wide blue eyes, two rosebud mouths, two small noses. Elvira's features. He could see nothing of himself in them, but their paternity didn't interest him. Had they been boys, it would have been very different. But girls were simply currency and he would spend them wisely. They were bidding fair to be as beautiful as Elvira, and if they fulfilled that potential, he should have little difficulty making advantageous marriages for them.
"B-b-but our… our m-mother's dead, sir." They spoke in stammering unison.
"Your first mother, yes," he said with a touch of imp
atience. "But you are to have a new mother. You may look at her likeness." He held out the miniature.
Amelia took it from him with a quick, darting movement as if she were afraid she was putting her fingers in a trap. The two girls stared at the face and said nothing.
Louise felt the earth slipping beneath her feet. A mistress in the house was bad news for a governess. She would have to make herself agreeable to the new princess, who could well threaten her hitherto undisputed authority over the girls.
"Pray allow me to congratulate you, Prince." She curtsied stiffly. "Is the marriage to be soon?"
"The wedding has already taken place by proxy in Vienna. Viscount Kierston is accompanying the princess here with the dauphine's party." He held out his hand for the miniature. Amelia handed it back with a curtsy, immediately lowering her eyes to the carpet again.
Louise struggled to keep the chagrin and vexation from her face. It didn't surprise her that her employer hadn't considered it necessary to impart this information before, but it surprised her that Viscount Kierston had kept silent about it. He was so interested in the girls, it seemed extraordinary that he wouldn't have hinted at something this important. She longed to see the portrait, but it seemed it was not to be. The prince dropped it into his coat pocket. "You are dismissed."
The little girls curtsied and backed out of the room. Amelia's hand crept into Sylvie's as they edged out of the door. Their governess, after another stiff curtsy, followed them. No one said anything until they were back in the schoolroom, then Amelia gave a joyful jump.
"She's so pretty."
"Yes, like a real princess," Sylvie agreed, doing a little dance. "And Monsieur Leo will be coming back too."
"Now stop that at once!" Madame was looking very pinched and cross. "I will not have you dancing and jumping like a pair of peasant hoydens."
The girls composed themselves, but their eyes still shone. For once they had the advantage of their governess. They knew that she hadn't seen the miniature of the new princess, and they knew how vexed she was.
"She had black hair, madame," Sylvie said kindly.
The governess wanted to ask the single burning question: How old was this new Princess von Sachsen? But she wouldn't demean herself by asking it of her charges. The majordomo would know everything. Monsieur Brion always knew everything- before anyone else. It would be almost as demeaning to beg information from him, but it was necessary.
"It's time you were in bed," she announced.
The girls couldn't yet tell the time, but they knew it was far too early. The sun hadn't gone down and they hadn't had supper. They gazed at their governess in dismay.
"You have both been exceedingly ill behaved," Madame declared. "This unseemly laughter has to stop. You will have bread and milk for supper and go to bed immediately."
They knew protestation would only make matters worse. Just as they knew they were suffering for their governess's pique. At least in bed, tucked behind the drawn bedcurtains, they could whisper about this amazing new event and speculate in perfect safety about the pretty young girl who was going to come to live with them.
And Monsieur Leo would come with her. They hadn't seen him for weeks and weeks, and they missed the one ray of sunshine in their drab little lives.
Chapter Six
"Adieu, my dear daughter. Do so much good to the people of France that they will be able to say that I have sent them an angel." Maria Theresa embraced her weeping daughter for the last time. The whole Hapsburg family, the entire Austrian court, the highest echelons of the aristocracy, were all witnesses to this final meeting between mother and daughter in the great hall of the Hofburg Palace.
"Poor Toinette," Cordelia murmured, blinking back her own tears. "To have to make such a public farewell. She loves her mother so dearly. How will she manage without her?"
Viscount Kierston made no response. He too was moved by the poignancy of this farewell. The new dauphine of France knew that she would probably never see her mother again, and it seemed a brutal separation for a girl not yet fifteen. But the sentiments of private people had no place in the lofty reaches of international diplomacy. The archduchess's marriage to the dauphin would cement the vital alliance between Austria and France as nothing else could.
Still weeping, Toinette was escorted from the palace to the coach that would take her to her new country. She was accompanied by her brother, the emperor Joseph, who seemed nonplussed by his little sister's emotional state. Toinette had begged that Cordelia be allowed to accompany her in the coach as well, but the empress had refused. Her daughter must make her ceremonial departure from the land of her fathers in state. She must be seen to be strong, mature, ready to assume her royal duties.
As the coach moved sedately out of the courtyard, Toinette could be seen through the glass window, leaning back in a corner, her hand covering her eyes with her handkerchief, but as the carriage passed through the gates, she leaned out, gazing backward at her home, tears streaming down her face. Her brother's hand appeared on her shoulder, drawing her within.
"Her brother won't be much comfort," Cordelia observed. "He's so stiff and formal."
"You'll be able to be with her when we reach Melk," Leo said. "You had better make your own farewells now."
The empress took a fonder farewell of her godchild than Duke Franz did of his niece. Maria Theresa gave her a silver locket with her own portrait inside and embraced her warmly. The duke acknowledged her curtsy with a cold nod and the command that she obey her husband. Her marriage settlements were generous and she should be grateful to all those who had looked after her interests hitherto.
If she never saw her uncle again, she wouldn't shed a tear, Cordelia decided, moving to her own carriage, where Leo Beaumont waited to hand her in. The von Sachsen arms were emblazoned upon the panels.
"Your uncle has a harsh manner," Leo observed, with a frown. "I daresay he's uncomfortable with emotion."
Cordelia glanced up at him as he handed her inside. "There's no need to make excuses for my uncle, Viscount. I assure you there's no love lost on either side." Her face was tight, though, and her eyes were tinged with sadness. "My parents died of smallpox when I was a baby. If they had lived, perhaps this leaving would have been difficult. As it is, I can't wait." She seated herself on the crimson velvet squabs of the luxuriously appointed vehicle, her skirts billowing out on either side, filling the entire length of the bench. The tightness of her expression relaxed. "Is Versailles really as much of a fairy-tale palace as they say?"
"Only for the naive," he said dryly, putting a foot on the footstep.
"I don't consider myself to be naive," she protested.
He laughed, but not unkindly, as he stepped into the coach. "My dear, you are an ingenue, you know nothing of the darker side of court life, but if it pleases you to imagine a glittering fantasy, then do so. You'll be disillusioned soon enough." He sat back on the opposite bench, careful not to tread on the flounced hem of her gown as he adjusted his sword to his hip.
"I might surprise you, my lord," Cordelia said, not at all pleased at his somewhat patronizing tone.
"I'm not sure that anything you do could surprise me," he observed amiably, determined neither to quarrel in the close confines of the carriage, nor to offer an opportunity for one of her impulsive flights of passion. And after this ceremonial departure from Vienna, he would be able to ride while his charge journeyed by coach in decorous solitude.
The carriage started forward. Cordelia leaned out of the window to watch the procession fall in behind her. There were coaches laden with baggage and servants. Mathilde was traveling with Cordelia's trunks at the rear of the procession. A troop of cavalry escorted the procession, banners snapping in the breeze, the sun shining on the embroidered ceremonial trappings, the silver of bridle and stirrup. At the very rear, spare horses were led by troopers, her own Lucette, a Lippizaner like the viscount's, among them.
"Is Christian traveling with your staff?"
"I b
elieve so. But how he chooses to make the journey is up to him."
"I wish I could be a fly on the wall when the broadsheet hits the street tomorrow and Poligny finds himself exposed." She chuckled, fanning herself lightly.
Leo didn't offer a response. He had less confidence than Cordelia and Christian in the power of the truth to bring down someone as slippery and influential as Poligny, but the man would at least be embarrassed, especially by the defection of the pupil whose work brought the master his greatest credit.
"The empress was very gracious when Christian asked her to release him," Cordelia continued, regardless of her companion's silence. "She even gave him a purse." "Mm."
"How far is it to Melk?" "Fifty kilometers."
The viscount was obviously not in a talkative mood. They were to stop for the night at the Benedictine monastery of Melk, and fifty kilometers of jolting on ill-made roads in such severely silent company was hardly appealing.
"Is something vexing you, my lord?" She offered what she hoped was an innocent and supplicating smile. "I'll try very hard not to be a tedious traveling companion."
"I'm very much afraid that if you try too hard, you'll achieve the opposite effect," he observed, leaning back, his arms folded, regarding her through half-closed eyes. She was wearing an enchanting velvet cap perched atop the piled mass of black ringlets. An Indian shawl was draped carelessly over her shoulders against drafts, and one perfectly rounded forearm rested on the sill of the carriage. Prince Michael's bracelet circled her wrist, the little diamond slipper clicking softly against the side of the door with the swaying of the carriage.
"That's unkind, but if you wish me to sit in silence, my lord, then I will." Cordelia folded her lips together, placed both hands in her lap, and stared fixedly at the carved wooden paneling above the viscount's head.
It was such an absurd picture that his lips twitched and the merry hazel glints appeared in his eyes. "What an annoying creature you are."
"Oh, that is unfair!" she protested. "I'm trying to be exactly what you wish in a traveling companion and you accuse me of being annoying."
