Royal 02 - Royal Passion

by Jennifer Blake

  And how different was the court of Louis Philippe. There was no glory and no grandeur there. There was only pompous respectability, lean times, and, as one sage put it, “a chicken-hearted monarchy which allows France to be humiliated.” Their country, which had once stretched from the English Channel to the Rhine River, from the North Sea to the Ottoman Empire, had been reduced to less than the original boundaries before Napoleon. Stirring events, important revolutions, and alterations in the governments of other countries had taken place while France stood idly by. People were starving in the winter cold while nothing was being done to help. They were being ruled by a corrupt and vulgar middle class and a ridiculous usurping king, a cause for shame. A change would have to be better; it could not be worse.

  The poet-politician Lamartine's book, Histoire des Girondins, with its idealistic presentation of the revolution and excuses for the excesses of the Terror, was being read and quoted everywhere. Lamartine was much in demand as a speaker at the series of reformist banquets that were being given all over the country. At these banquets people were being fed great helpings of oratory concerning universal suffrage, the rule of the common man. It went down well. The king and his advisers watched the unusual feasts with mounting alarm.

  At the gatherings in the public salon at Ruthenia House, there was unimpaired complacency among the increasingly staid visitors. Louis Philippe was a decent and moderate man. His reign had been the most stable since the revolution. No one would be mad enough to resort once again to violent change with all its attendant dangers, no matter how much romantics such as Lamartine ranted about individual freedom.

  But as company in the public salon grew thinner and more middle class in complexion, the visitors to the private quarters of the prince not only increased in number, but became more rabidly opposed to the present government. Here came the writers and artists, sculptors and composers who had been in the vanguard of the romantic movement; Hugo, Balzac, Madame Dudevant, and Lamartine, with a dozen others. They talked, argued, drank, and sometimes smoked small Turkish cigars or the exotic hookah with pellets of opium. How seriously they took what they had to say, how much they truly desired the reforms that would bring about the rule by the common man they so avidly espoused, was difficult to say.

  The stream of merchants, modistes, doctors, lawyers, maids, hairdressers, and drivers of drays continued to flow through the house. The cadre came and went on mysterious missions. Mara would have expected that such activity would slow with the defeat of the assassination plot; instead it seemed to increase. The information gathered was seldom mentioned among the ladies, but from an occasional reference was assumed to be less than reassuring.

  Late one evening a fast, lightweight traveling carriage pulled into the courtyard. Its gilt-work was bright, its turquoise paint gleaming, and the arms on the door royal. Two liveried footmen stood up behind it, and outriders surrounded it. The door was opened and the steps let down. From it descended a lady dressed in green velvet trimmed with mink, with a plumed hat tilted forward on auburn hair only slightly fading into silver at the temples.

  By the time her elegantly shod foot had touched the cobbles, Roderic had clattered down the stairs to the courtyard while behind him Rolfe descended with more dignity. It was Rolfe, however, who stepped forward to take the lady's hand and raise it to his lips before dragging her into his arms.

  When they could speak, he said, “Angeline, wretched female, all curiosity and meddlesome instincts—who is minding my kingdom?"

  "A bevy of people from chamberlain to ministers, all more qualified than I,” she replied, blithely unrepentant. “You could not have thought that I would spend Christmas alone when you are all in Paris? Confess, you have been expecting my arrival for days."

  "And marveling at your restraint."

  "Odious man,” she said, her smile caressing. Straightening her hat, she turned to her son. “Well, then, where is your seductress?"

  "Outrageous, Maman; you might consider her feelings,” he said, laughing as he gave her a vigorous hug that once more required attention to her hat.

  "Now, why? If either of you has shown that much fore-bearance, I shall be extremely shocked."

  Mara had been waiting on the steps. She came forward, and Roderic stepped over to take her hand, presenting her in form. Angeline, a smile curving her generous mouth and rising to the soft gray-green of her eyes, enveloped her in a warm embrace.

  "What a delightful surprise to meet my goddaughter at last and to discover her to be something quite out of the ordinary. I see your father in you, a little. I understand Helene is with you? Let us go inside and all have a long talk."

  The arrival of Roderic's mother brought a greater lightness to the atmosphere of Ruthenia House, and crowded the public salon once more with her friends, acquaintances, and those who thought it proper to welcome her formally to the city. The days whirled past in a round of visits, soirées, balls, and performances at the theater and the opera; of shopping for gifts to be exchanged at the new year; and of carriage rides about the city. Angeline, after that first evening when she had heard the full tale of the relationship between Mara and Roderic, said little more about it. She treated Mara with a certain familiar fondness, but did not take sides in any way in the quarrel between Roderic and his father.

  There was one incident to disturb the smooth tenor of the days. At the Comédie Française one evening, Mara lifted her opera glasses to the box across from the one occupied by the Ruthenian party and saw de Landes. The man had the temerity to smile and bow. He was not pleased, not at all, when Mara allowed her gaze to pass over him without a sign of recognition.

  The Yuletide season came and went. They attended midnight mass on Christmas Eve, a beautiful ceremony celebrated by the light of thousands of candles. On Christmas Day, they carried several carriageloads of food baskets to orphanages and hospitals, baskets personally packed by Angeline, with the help of Juliana and Mara. The principal day for the giving of gifts, the first day of the new year, was clouded, however, by the death the evening before of Madame Adelaide, sister to King Louis Philippe.

  The city was thrown into gloom. The court went at once into deepest mourning. Entertainments were canceled. Black draped the windows of houses and shops. Draper's shops were inundated with the demand for cloth in the mourning colors of black and purple, gray and lavender. Modistes and the seamstresses who labored for them in the ill-lighted back rooms of Paris worked through the night for weeks to supply the demand for garments. Because Angeline was related in the most distant of fashions to the royal family, black arm bands were ordered for the men at Ruthenia House and a pair of gowns in somber, black-trimmed gray for each of the ladies, one for day and one for evening.

  With the sudden decline in amusements, those at Ruthenia House were thrown back upon themselves. Mara spent one evening writing to her father, a task she had been putting off for some time. She began and then tore up so many drafts that she very nearly exhausted her stock of writing paper. There seemed to be no delicate way of setting down what had taken place, no way of explaining without sounding either as if she were making excuses for her conduct or blaming what had happened on her grandmother. At last she had written down the sorry tale as simply and completely as she could, then sealed it before she could change her mind yet again.

  Roderic came upon her as she was setting the letter out for Sarus to carry to the sending office. He strolled with her to the salon. The situation between them was fresh in her mind after having just written of it. She had managed in the round of daily events to distance herself from it somewhat, but now it troubled her once more.

  "The world is spinning toward destruction and France toward anarchy, but the fault isn't yours. Why then the scowl?"

  "I'm not scowling,” she said, and ruined the effect of a ferocious frown by allowing the corners of her mouth to twitch into a smile. She sobered at once. “No, I was thinking of your father. He doesn't seem overly concerned with the trappings of royalty;
certainly he doesn't stand on ceremony. Your mother, despite a connection to the Bourbons, disclaims all pretense of being a blue blood. What then is it that King Rolfe objects to in me? Is it my character? My appearance? Or is it the part I played in involving you in the attempt on the life of Louis Philippe? It can make no real difference, but I would like to understand it."

  Roderic, watching the play of emotions across her face, recognized her quiet courage in her search for the truth. She was not the fiery type of woman, quick to anger, flamboyant in her passions, and yet there burned inside her a steady and unquenchable flame. He saluted it by offering her what she needed to know.

  "You need not trouble yourself. It's much more likely that it's my defects that stir his wrath. You assume he protects me, a grave error. He is much more likely to be protecting you."

  She stopped still. “It cannot be."

  "He is a loving parent and a devious one, but it would not, I think, occur to him that I stood in need of his defense."

  "But why guard me?"

  "Being of such a devious turn of mind, he suspects me of planning your seduction and foiling a coup in a single operation."

  She stared at him. “You mean he thinks that you might have sent de Landes with instructions to embroil Grandmère Helene in illegal gambling, in order to persuade me to do his bidding? Why would de Landes do that?"

  She was very quick, something to remember. Or else the possibility had occurred to her before. “For the sake of my aid in assassinating Louis Philippe."

  "But you didn't aid him. You protected the king."

  "A fine double cross, in that case."

  She put her hand to her forehead, trying to think clearly. What he was saying made sense in a terrible kind of way. Abruptly, her face cleared. “No. You had no idea I existed until that night at the gypsy camp."

  "You had been in Paris some weeks. Perhaps I had seen you somewhere, on the street, at the theater? Perhaps I knew you had arrived due to some communication between my mother and your grandmother and made discreet inquiries. Once I had seen you, I might have decided to make you my mistress, an impossibility if we had met in the respectable family circle."

  "Surely you would have known that our—that the association would become known, with the attendant scandal?"

  "Perhaps I never intended it to last beyond a few nights. Perhaps once I had held you in my arms I was content to let matters take their course, content to accept the consequences that would tie me to you."

  It was no more than a game of words and ideas. That was all it was. “How could your father believe such a thing of his own son?"

  "Easily,” he answered, his eyes shadowed in the echoing dimness of the great corridor. “Why should he not since you half believe it yourself?"

  "That I do not!"

  "Don't you, chère? Don't you?"

  She gave him a cold look. “It might help to clarify my feelings if you could tell me why it is that de Landes is still free, still going about his duties at the ministry?"

  "How is it,” he inquired softly, “that you know what he is doing and where?"

  "What are you suggesting?” she asked, her spine stiffening. Her face paled with a fearful anger.

  "It was a civil question."

  "In whose opinion? But you need not exercise your mind upon the problem; there is no mystery, no subterfuge. I saw him at the theater, as you might have if you had not been occupied with your reformist friends."

  His gaze was opaque behind the gold spies of his lashes as he studied her. Finally, he said, “There is a saying, hackneyed but expressive: ‘Better the devil you know ... ‘"

  "Meaning you are watching him?"

  "Something like that."

  "Why?"

  The question was bald, but she thought he would respond to it as well as to any attempt at subtlety.

  "To see what may be seen."

  If she had thought to learn what manner of man he was by direct methods, she must accept defeat. Her face tightened. “Very well. Be secretive if it pleases you."

  "You suspect me of evasion?"

  "Do you deny it?"

  "Do you think,” he asked, his tone pensive, “that if I wished I could not find a more pleasing lie?"

  "I think that for you simplicity may pass admirably for a devious ruse."

  It was not fair that he should stand so straight and tall, the embodiment, in his perfection of form and masculine beauty, of all that was proud and honorable.

  He answered, unsmiling, “Then you will have to decide for yourself which it is, won't you?"

  The weather moderated, becoming almost mild. The sun shone so bright that it hurt the eyes, and there was a feeling of spring in the air though it was only late January. The poor of Paris stirred from their dank rooms, coming into the streets to lift their faces to the sun; women with thin, silent children, beggars in their rags. Men gathered on the corners, talking, arguing, sometimes marching and shouting until dispersed by gendarmes on horseback armed with sticks and swords.

  The ladies of Ruthenia House, drawn out by the warmth, went for a walk, down to the rue de Faubourg St. Antoine and along it to the Place de la Bastille, then to the right over the Pont d'Austerlitz to the Jardin des Plantes. The gardens were extensive, with thousands of botanical specimens collected from the far reaches of the world and methodically cultivated within its precincts. There were huge conservatories with arched glass roofs shining in the winter sun, and also a collection of exotic animals, including lions and giraffes from Africa.

  They strolled along the gravel paths between the rectangular flower beds with their layers of mulch. They nodded at the nurses with young charges in prams and the elderly gentlemen who tipped their hats as they sat sunning on the benches beneath the bare-limbed trees. By degrees, Juliana and Mara drew ahead of Angeline and Grandmère Helene, who were walking at the pace of the older woman.

  Demon, who had attached himself to Mara for the day, raced up and down inspecting this new territory. Juliana's Sophie trotted on her leash with her head up, sniffing the air, starting and darting momentarily under Juliana's skirts as a lion roared. Pigeons swooped here and there in flocks, descending en masse to strut about the walks, scratching in the gravel. Sparrows fluttered about like dry leaves. Children ran up and down, some bowling hoops along, all happily scattering the pigeons.

  The Pekingese, being a dog with a superior pedigree, took exception to the looks of a common poodle, barking in pitched excitement. Demon joined in for support. The poodle, not to be intimidated, spread its forelegs and stood its ground beside its mistress.

  "For shame, Sophie!” Juliana exclaimed. “What conduct is this for a dog who is in a delicate condition. You have no more manners than morals.” She turned on Demon. “As for you, you Casanova, quiet!"

  The poodle's owner, a lady in an expensive toilette of varying shades of apricot beginning with the darkest color at the hem of her gown and gradually lightening to the palest at the silk flowers on her extremely fashionable bonnet, laughed and scolded her pet.

  The poodle looked away in disdain. Incensed, the other two dogs increased their protests at its presence. In annoyance, Juliana commanded her Pekingese to be quiet in such quelling tones that Sophie flattened herself on the ground with a final, deep-throated growl. Demon, his assistance no longer needed, sat down with his tongue lolling out and awaited developments.

  When she could make herself heard, Juliana apologized for her dog, and Mara added her own excuses for Demon.

  "Please do not concern yourselves! It's only natural.” The woman glanced over their gray costumes. “You are, I think, the ladies from Ruthenia House?"

  s"Have we met?” Juliana inquired, her tone a little distant. There was a dashing veil attached to the lady's apricot bonnet, and on closer inspection it could be seen that the jacket of her ensemble was cut with pronounced fidelity to the curves of her breasts.

  "Oh, no. It would not be very likely. You were pointed out to me at the opera." />
  "I ... see."

  "Yes, you are quite right. I am indeed one of those ‘dangerous and wonderful’ women of the world, as we have been called. I prefer that to other names less complimentary. You need not fear, however, Your Highness, that I will claim an acquaintance when next we meet; I know my place better than that."

  The words were spoken with such dignity and obvious sincerity that Juliana relaxed. She turned away. “Well, we are sorry to have inconvenienced you."

  "Don't go, please! I would not speak ordinarily, but since the opportunity has come, I would like a few words with the other young lady."

  "With me?” Mara inquired.

  "If you will permit? You have been called in the gossip sheets an adventuress, one who has allowed herself to become involved with a most unstable prince. I would like to warn you, ma chère, of the danger you run."

  "You know Prince Roderic?"

  "Only by reputation. But though you have advantages of birth that have not been given to other women he has known, there can be no future for you there. He will have told you so himself; it's his way, or so I'm told. Believe him. Believe me."

  "Spite and fatalism make a poisonous combination. Don't listen to her,” Juliana said, catching Mara's arm.

  "His affections are violent, compulsive, but are quickly over. You will be left to make your own way, and that way will lead you to this half-life that I live. Be warned."

  There was, as Juliana had said, an undertone of defeat in the woman's words. Moreover, the things she said had occurred to Mara a hundred times over. She thanked the woman with a few stiff words and walked away with the princess. Still, the things that had been said would not leave her mind. Adventuress. Was that how Paris saw her? Was that how King Rolfe and Queen Angeline saw her? It did not bear thinking about.

  There was only one aspect of the situation for which she could be grateful. Unlike poor little Sophie, she was not enceinte. There would be no consequences of that nature from her sojourn in Roderic's bed. It was a relief, and yet she could not be entirely happy. The complications that would have arisen were not something she cared to contemplate; still, the thought of carrying Roderic's child had an insidious and warming appeal.