“No, but it would certainly be a more practical use for the money, would it not?” Beth pointed out. “From Louis’ point of view, of course.”
Lord Winter glanced across the grass at Sir Anthony, who had now engaged the courtier in a spirited conversation. Another man dressed in long black clerical robes was approaching the pair. The lord sniffed again. It was his genteel way of showing disapproval. He sniffed a lot in the presence of Sir Anthony.
“Only if he considered throwing his money into the sea a worthwhile use for it,” he said. “For our navy would of course vanquish any invasion attempt. The British navy is the best in the world.”
“Maybe,” she replied. “But then, of course, King Louis may consider the money well spent on Versailles. Although the palace may not be to your taste, or mine for that matter, it undoubtedly proclaims to the world that France is a prosperous and powerful nation, which was surely the intention of the king’s grandfather when he built it.”
“Fine clothes do not a gentleman make,” the lord replied haughtily.
No, but they could certainly make a good impression. Sir Anthony was now returning across the ruthlessly trimmed grass, almost skipping in his glee. He deftly circled Miss Maynard and gripped his wife’s hands rapturously. When she kept herself at arm’s length, he pulled her towards him, planting a wet kiss on her nose before releasing her.
“You will never guess why I am so excited!” he chirruped to the company, not noticing Beth take out her kerchief and wipe his kiss from her nose. Lady Winter certainly noticed, though. It would be all over London in a week that the marriage of Sir Anthony and his wife was already foundering.
The baronet gave the company no time to make any suggestions as to the reasons for his ecstasy. “I have been talking to Count…ah…er....anyway, he has most kindly invited us to observe the service at one o’ clock today! Isn’t it exciting? The king himself will certainly be present.” He laughed and clapped his hands joyfully.
Anne smiled happily at Sir Anthony, moving forward to congratulate him.
“The service at one o’ clock?” Lord Winter spluttered. “Do you mean the mass, sir?”
“Well, yes, I suppose I do. It will be in the royal chapel, Elizabeth, which I have been told is the most remarkable building, decorated in the style of Bernini. You remember Bernini’s work, of course, from Rome. Quite glorious.”
She did.
“Sir Anthony, are you insane?” the lord cried. Anne hesitated. It seemed a smile was not appropriate after all, but as she was as yet unsure of a suitable expression with which to replace it, it remained in place, drooping a little at the corners.
Sir Anthony looked at the other man, perplexed.
“I hardly think a man can be called insane for admiring the style of Bernini, my lord,” he said coolly. “I am amongst exalted company in doing so. Why, even…”
“No, no,” Lord Winter just stopped himself from adding ‘you fool’. “I mean to consider going to a Papist mass, of course. Why it is unthinkable, even if you were the most devoted aficionado of Bernini. What would your countrymen think?”
“I am sure they would think I was extremely lucky in having the chance to view the Chapel Royal. The count assures me that he can procure us seats within a few feet of the royal family themselves, and many other prominent courtiers, of course. I had no idea you felt so strongly, my lord. I did not realise you were so weak in the Protestant faith as to feel your soul to be in danger from a single mass. However,” Sir Anthony continued, oblivious to the gathering clouds on the Winters’ faces, which was duplicated, after a hurried glance at them, on Anne’s, “if you are so adamant that you will not join us, I shall go and tell the count immediately. He will be disappointed, although I am sure he will have no difficulty in finding others to take your places.” He made a move towards the blue nobleman, and Beth found herself thrust aside almost rudely by Lady Winter, who took Sir Anthony’s arm to prevent him leaving.
“Let us not be so hasty. I must admit to a passion for the Italian style myself, although I have seen little of it, as Bartholomew has not yet seen fit to escort me to the Italian states in person. You say you have seen Bernini’s works in Rome?”
“Yes, we have,” replied Beth, her eyes sparkling, keeping her expression neutral with some effort. “They are remarkable. The Baldacchino in St. Peter’s is…”
“How fascinating,” interrupted Lady Winter crisply. “Well, I think we should see this style for ourselves. By attending this idolatrous service, we are only showing the strength of our own faith, unafraid to walk into the Devil’s snare, knowing ourselves invulnerable to his machinations.”
Lord Winter subsided as always in the face of his wife’s determination. Sir Anthony beamed.
“I could not have put it better myself, my dear Wilhelmina,” he said.
“You test my composure to the limits, sometimes,” Beth whispered in his ear as they waited in the crowd to be admitted to the chapel, having mastered her impulse to laugh at the transparency of Lady Winter, who would rather die than be excluded from anything worth gossiping about. “How on earth did you procure us an invitation to mass?”
“I expressed a great interest in the Roman faith. They hope to convert us. Do not cross yourself or genuflect to the altar. We are Anglicans.”
It was hard not to do so automatically on entering the remarkable building. Beth had expected stained glass, a jewelled dimness within, and was pleasantly surprised by the cool red, green and white marble floor and the clear glassed windows which, coupled with the white walls and pillars, drenched the chapel in light, sparkling on the gilded highlights of the altar and the organ case, and drawing attention to the spectacular painted ceiling, which showed representations of the three parts of the Trinity. They were shown to their seats, where Beth immediately resumed her examination of the ceiling, head tilted back. The paintings were remarkable, beautifully executed.
She ignored her husband’s tug on her arm and turned round to look down the church; and straight into the dark eyes of King Louis XV, who had just entered and was making his way down the aisle with his entourage, and of whose entrance her husband had been trying to warn her.
The king’s eyes swept over and past her, then back. He smiled, briefly, then moved on before she could curtsey in acknowledgement of his notice, and took his place ahead of her in the front pews.
Anne was still clinging to Sir Anthony’s left arm, and next to her was Lady Winter, who became respectfully silent when the priest and his attendants entered. Beth’s right hand fluttered automatically upwards until her husband nudged her, after which it remained determinedly at her side throughout the service.
After a few moments, it being obvious that the general chatter, albeit subdued, was not going to cease in spite of the fact that a religious service was taking place, Lady Winter and Anne continued their whispered discussion of the handsomeness of the king and the ugliness of the overpainted hussy at his left, who was certainly one of his mistresses. Or was it the one on the right? Whichever it was, they were all hussies, and therefore ugly.
The service was short, irreverent, punctuated by bursts of wonderful music, and ribald laughter, which Beth had not expected, and of which she did not approve. Religious feasts and festivals should be joyous occasions; communion itself was serious, in her view. Not a time to chat and make obvious intrigues with your neighbours, as much of the French Court had been doing.
They had hardly exited the building before Lord Winter exploded in a froth of indignation at the lack of respect and licentiousness of the French papists towards the Almighty.
For once, Beth agreed with him.
“Well, that doesn’t seem to have done us a lot of good,” Beth commented, once they were safely back at the hotel. “Although I thought Lord Winter was going to have an apoplexy at one point. You’d think he’d be pleased that Catholics don’t take themselves seriously. He’ll be there at the pearly gates, sniffing merrily away, waiting for God to cast
the whole congregation down into the pit for daring to chatter and laugh in His house.”
“You were no’ exactly approving yourself,” Alex said.
“No, I wasn’t. Were you?”
“No, I must admit, when I go to mass, it’s generally to think about our Lord and the sacrifice he made for us, rather than to arrange to bed the lusty wench in the next pew. But it did give us a chance to listen for men wi’ speech impediments.”
“Did you hear any?” Beth asked.
“No, although I’d thought we had a chance. Let’s hope Angus has had better luck.”
He’d stayed below on their return to wash himself under the pump in the yard, and now made a smiling appearance, complete with a tray of tea and three cups. He surveyed their faces.
“No luck, then?” he said.
“How about yourself?” asked Alex.
“Well, I got myself into the kitchens, thanks to a young lady by the name of Francoise, who took pity on me after I’d been stamping my feet and blowing on my hands and suchlike for twenty minutes. Oh, and I also got myself a promise of an evening wi’ Jeanne, who’s a chambermaid. She isna likely to have a deal of information, but…”
“It’ll be fun finding out,” Beth interrupted. “Won’t Francoise be jealous?”
“Ah, weel, now she was by far the bonniest o’ the two,” Angus replied sadly. “But she also has a husband who looks to be rather handy wi’ his fists.”
“Tae hell wi’ your love life,” Alex cut in impatiently, teapot in hand. “Did ye discover anything of import?”
“Aye, I was coming to that. There are either four or six thousand people working at the palace, depending on who you talk to. Of those, Louis has a couple of hundred who seem likely to be of our friend’s ilk. Clerks, servants of the bedchamber and suchlike. And around ten or so of those are called Henri. We should be glad he’s no’ called Pierre or Jean. It seems around a thousand of the servants are. Must get awfu’ confusing.”
“How did you find all this out? Wasn’t anyone suspicious?” Beth asked.
“Not at all,” Angus replied. “I tellt them I was a Catholic, you see, though of course my employer, the idiot Sir Anthony doesna ken that. They thought that was quite amusing, and it got them on my side. And my auntie’s husband’s sister upped and married a Frenchman, Henri something or other, I canna quite recall the surname, as she was no’ inclined to wed a Protestant, ye ken. And her son is also called Henri. She’s awfu’ proud, because he got himself a good job at the palace, and although I’ve never met my cousin, I thought I’d look him up, maybe, while I was here. The servants were verra helpful.”
Beth looked from Angus to his approving brother.
“God, you’re a devious pair,” she said. “How can I believe anything you tell me?”
“Because we only lie when there’s reason to,” Alex pointed out. “And with family, there isna reason to. That’s narrowed it down, at least. Did ye mention his ‘s’?”
“No. I had to admit I didna ken what my cousin looks like. They might have thought it strange I ken about the way he speaks, but no’ about the colour of his hair and suchlike.”
Alex sighed.
“Ye did well, man,” he said. “But it looks like Sir Anthony’ll have tae go and toady to another courtier tomorrow. D’ye think we can avoid the Winters altogether for a day? And the Maynard woman?”
They were just debating whether it would be possible to do that when they were all staying in the same hotel, when a message arrived. The man, being in the royal livery, was shown up to the room immediately, where Lady Elizabeth listened to his message, her husband being temporarily indisposed.
Inexplicably, it seemed that the king requested the pleasure of the company of Sir Anthony Peters and Lady Elizabeth his wife, of whom, as far as they knew, he had never heard, at a small dance to be held at the palace on Saturday. Four days from now.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
“No,” said Beth, subsiding ungracefully to the floor in a heap of blue velvet. “No more, not today.” She looked belligerently up at her torturer, who stood over her, feet planted apart, arms folded, face equally determined.
“We have at least two hours before the Winters expect us for dinner,” he said. “And you’ve no’ got the turns right yet.”
“I don’t care,” she replied sulkily. “I’ve had enough. There is a limit to human endurance, you know.” It was clear that she felt she had reached that limit long ago. It was equally as clear that Alex did not.
“Just be thankful that the prince isna here,” remarked Angus from his prone position near the fire. He had hardly moved all afternoon, and Beth glared across at him. “He’s an expert at the menuet, I’m tellt, and ye ken how energetic he is. He’d have had you practising in your sleep.”
“I have been practising in my sleep,” Beth moaned.
Since the invitation had arrived and Alex had discovered that Beth, whilst having learned several country dances in her childhood, did not know the first thing about the menuet, the favourite Court dance, he had driven her ruthlessly, first talking her through the steps and then practising, repeating the same step over and over again until she got it right, or dropped. Last night she had indeed dreamt that she was dancing alone in front of the French Court, her husband shouting disparaging remarks at her across the ballroom, Louis watching her amateur stumblings, his dark brows drawn low in a disapproving frown.
Of course in reality Alex, or rather Sir Anthony, would be on the floor with her tomorrow, and expected a graceful, accomplished performance, which was why he was driving her so hard now.
“No one will notice us anyway. There’ll be hundreds of people there,” she reasoned, attempting a pitiful look upwards.
“They will,” he said, unmoved. “I’ve already tellt ye, in the menuet, the couples get up one at a time, starting wi’ the king and his latest mistress, and moving down the aristocracy from there. Your performance is all important. Everyone will be watching and criticising. Our future reception at Court could depend on you getting the turns right.”
He leaned down and placing his hands under her armpits, lifted her off the floor as though she were a child, in spite of her attempts to make herself heavy.
“Have some mercy, Alex,” she begged. “We’ll be at the bottom of the pecking order. I’ll wager we never even get to perform one step.” He retained his hold on her arms, as though he expected her to run away if he released her. She doubted that she was capable of crawling away at the moment, let alone running. “And even if we do, I can’t believe that the whole future of the Stuart dynasty depends on whether I can perform a demi-coupé correctly or not.”
At last. His face relaxed a little, the corners of his mouth turning upwards.
“No, that’s true,” he conceded. “It may depend on us finding Henri, though. And we have a much better chance of doing that if we’re invited back to the palace. And our best chance of being invited back is…”
“To impress them with our dexterity and grace in the menuet,” she said tiredly.
“Exactly. And in spite of being low in the pecking order, we will be asked to demonstrate our skill, because we’re new to the Court, and because it seems King Louis has invited us personally.” That still puzzled him. But the important thing was that they were in. Now they had to stay in. “So,” he said, planting a kiss on her forehead before releasing her and moving back into the starting position, arms forward and down, hands out, palms facing the floor. “Let’s try it one more time.”
Defeated, she stood, hands folded, heels together and took her weight on her left foot, preparing to step forward onto her right. She felt the sharp stab under her little toe as the blister burst. He had got his way, again. He always got his way. It was one of the things she loved about him. It was one of the things she hated about him.
* * *
To Beth’s great relief, they practised the now detested menuet for only an hour the following morning, as she had finally mastered the
dreaded turns. The final rehearsal was conducted in front of Lord and Lady Winter, Miss Maynard, and half a dozen other assorted guests staying at the hotel, one of whom helpfully produced a violin and proceeded to play a menuet for the couple, which was a great improvement on Angus humming and beating the rhythm out on the arm of the chair. Their performance was greeted with applause, and a few very minor improvements to hand position, elevation of leg etc were suggested.
Lady Winter also informed Beth of the best way to cure a blister, and to that young lady’s surprise, called for water, a cloth, and needle and thread, and personally cleaned and dried Beth’s foot, before running a thread through the blister.
“I have worn enough beautiful but impractical shoes in my time to know how to deal with such things,” she said, replacing her needle in its little embroidered case. “The trick is to leave the thread protruding a little from each side. That way the blister cannot keep refilling, as the water will drain out along the thread.”
To Beth’s amazement, the trick worked, and although the toe was still a little sore in the evening, the blister had not swollen again. In return, she promised to give the envious ladies a blow-by-blow account of the evening when she returned.
Sir Anthony was resplendent in burgundy and gold-embroidered velvet. Beth, complementing him, wore a dress of the same wine-red colour, cut almost indecently low at the neckline, but relieved by a fichu of gold lace, which partially hid her cleavage. She had rarely looked more beautiful. Or more nervous.
“Relax,” he whispered as they carefully ascended the stairway which led to the king’s apartments. Beth hardly noticed the coloured marbles and wall paintings; she was too busy trying to stop her legs, which were trembling violently, from giving way beneath her. It was not the thought of meeting the king that bothered her; he meant nothing to her. She had been more nervous about meeting Prince Charles, but had not shaken like this. It was not even the thought of dancing in front of the French Court that terrified her, although it was a little unnerving.
The Mask Revealed (The Jacobite Chronicles Book 2) Page 22
