The Diamond Slipper

Chapter Twenty-one

At the first birdsong of the dawn chorus, as the king's hunting party were leaving for the boar hunt, Amelia had nudged her sister awake. Sylvie opened her eyes and sat up all in the same movement. "Where are we?" She gazed bemused at the strange bedchamber with its blue velvet hangings and gilded ceiling. A fresh, fragrant breeze blew through the long open windows.

"In the palace, stupid," her sister whispered, sitting up beside her. "We're going to meet the king."

Sylvie's mouth opened on a round O as memory flooded back. "With Cordelia." Only in the presence of others did they give their stepmother the courtesy title of Madame.

"Yes, and not with Madame de Nevry." Amelia stuffed the pillow against her mouth to stifle the excited giggles bubbling irrepressibly from her chest. "Change places, Sylvie." She wriggled over her sister.

"We can't do that here," Sylvie protested. "What about the king?"

"He won't know," Amelia said matter-of-factly. "No one ever does." She shoved against her sister, pushing her over to the other side of the bed.

Sylvie continued to look doubtful. The trick they played in the nursery and schoolroom at home was all very well, even when their father was their dupe, but to play it in the king's palace, in front of the king, was very different. "What about Cordelia?"

"She won't know either," Amelia stated, hiding her own doubts now under a show of bravado. "No one will know, 'cept us. Like always."

Had Sylvie been able to persevere in her doubts, she would have won over her sister; however, the door opened to admit their governess, still in dishabille, and the nursery maid.

Louise brandished the two hair ribbons and without so much as a morning greeting had labeled each twin while they were still in bed and she thought she could be certain which was which. She gave orders to the nursery maid through compressed lips and communicated with the children with little pushes and pinches, lacing them into their gowns as if they were insensate dolls, scraping back their hair, thrusting pins into the tight braids, retying the ribbons until they both felt as if their scalps were about to split.

When their little corsetted bodies were clothed in the formal, heavy brocaded gowns over stiff damask petticoats and wide swinging hoops, their governess shooed them ahead of her into the small salon next to the bedroom. She sat them side by side on a slippery chintz sofa, their feet on footstools so that they were in no danger of sliding off, and told them dourly not to move a muscle. They were to wait there until the princess came to fetch them for their state visit to the dauphine.

Amelia glanced at her sister, whose mouth turned down with dismay. The hands on the pretty gilded clock on the mantel meant nothing to them, but they knew it was still very early and Cordelia had said the previous day that she would come for them at eleven in the morning. The dauphine was not an early riser.

Louise instructed the nursery maid to watch them and make sure they didn't ruffle so much as a hair, and went off to her own chamber to dress.

"Are we to have no breakfast?" Sylvie asked timidly as her stomach grumbled beneath the stiff panel of her bodice.

"I don't know, madame," the nursery maid said. She too was hungry and lost in this vast palace. There was no kitchen attached to the children's apartments, and she slept on a thin mattress in a small closet in the corridor outside. She didn't know how to order food or fuel or water and felt as powerless to look after her own wants as any prisoner in the Bastille.

Louise returned in half an hour, a suspicious pink tinge to her cheekbones, her pale watery eyes as usual slightly yellow and bloodshot. She glared at the little girls.

"Are we to have no breakfast, madame?" Amelia this time inquired.

"We're very hungry," Sylvie added.

Madame was hungry too, but she was no more au fait with the workings of Versailles than the nursery maid. Supper had been brought to them the previous evening without any effort on her part. But how to initiate the production of a meal was beyond her. She wasn't about to admit that to her charges, however, let alone to the anxious nursery maid.

"You will wait," she declared loftily. "A little self-denial is good for the soul."

The children's dismay increased as they understood that their governess hadn't the faintest idea how to feed them. For four interminable hours, they sat side by side on the sofa, not daring to move a muscle, while their governess took nips from her silver flask to subdue her own hunger pangs, and dozed in between whiles. The nursery maid tidied the salon and the bedchambers, then stood miserably by the door. From beyond the closed double doors came sounds of life: hurrying footsteps, murmured voices, the occasional shout. There were smells too, food smells. In the courtyard below their window, horses clattered over cobbles, iron wheels clanged, military voices bellowed, trumpets sounded. Everyone, it seemed, in this vast place, was oblivious of the four newcomers huddling in a small salon on an outside staircase.

Until the door opened to admit Cordelia in her gray gown and heather pink petticoat, her hair cascading in loose ringlets as black as night to her creamy shoulders. "I give you good morning," she declared, bending to take the girls' hands in both of hers and kissing their smooth round cheeks. Her eyes were haunted but her smile was as warm as apprehension and anxiety would permit.

"Oh, but you're so cold!" she exclaimed. "How can you be cold on such a beautiful day?" She looked almost accusingly at the governess, who had. risen, blinking, from her chair. "They're frozen, poor darlings. They must have some tea or something to warm them."

"We're hungry!" they announced in unison.

"Hungry? But have you had no breakfast?"

Louise sniffed audibly. "The prince believes his children should exercise self-discipline on occasion."

"I'm sure that's very laudable," Cordelia said acidly. "But I cannot believe he would expect them to starve." She examined the woman in frowning silence for a minute, then cast a swift glance at the pale nursery maid. "Could it be that you didn't know how to order breakfast?" she murmured wonderingly. She whirled around to pull the bell rope by the door. "This bell rings in our own apartments. It will bring Frederick from our own household. You may order whatever you wish from him."

"I am aware, madame," the governess said, pursing her lips. "But as I said, it's good for children to-"

"It is not good for children to face the day on empty bellies," Cordelia interrupted vigorously. "They have a long and tiring day ahead of them, and they look like ghosts. How long have they been sitting there?"

"Since early morning, madame," the nursery maid put in, emboldened both by her own hunger and the governess's clear discomfiture.

Cordelia spun round on Louise. "You exceed your authority, madame." Her voice was ice, her eyes were blue flame. "As I understand it, you are paid to care for the prince's children, not to torture them!" She turned back to the opening door in a gray and pink swirl of skirts. "Frederick, bring chocolate and brioche and jam for the children, and show the nursery maid where she may break her own fast."

Silence fell in the wake of the footman's departure with the maid. The governess fulminated, her chest swelling like an outraged bullfrog's. The children, eyes bright with curiosity and excitement, still sat on the sofa, but their gaze never left Cordelia's face. Cordelia paced the small salon, her brain working furiously. She had broken one of her rules in this new life and declared war on the governess, instead of offering an alliance. But the woman was so odious, how could she bear to court her?

She paused in her pacing for a minute, her eyes resting on the children. Something wasn't right with their appearance. But what could possibly be wrong?

"Princess, I must protest your tone." The governess finally gave voice to her anger. "My kinsman, Prince Michael, has entrusted his children to my care and authority since their infancy and-"

"Ah, here's Frederick." Cordelia brusquely interrupted this seething beginning. "Frederick, set the tray down there." Having thus reduced the governess to the status of a piece of furniture, she issued a stream of orders to the returning footman, who set his laden tray down and scurried around, placing two chairs with extra cushions, lifting Amelia and Sylvie onto the chairs, pouring hot chocolate, shaking out napkins, passing a basket of brioches.

Cordelia hovered over the table, breaking the brioches, spreading jam, encouraging the children, who required little encouragement, to eat their fill of this succulent feast, so vastly different from their usual fare of weak tea and bread and butter.

When Louise realized that she was excluded from this meal, she stalked out of the room to her own chamber, banging the door behind her. Cordelia stuck her tongue out at the door and the twins choked on their hot chocolate, splattering drips across the table.

"I've spilled it on my dress!" Amelia wailed, rubbing fiercely at a spot of chocolate on her bodice, all desire to laugh vanished at this disaster.

"Oh, it's nothing much." Cordelia spat on the corner of a napkin and dabbed at the mark. "No one will notice." She stood back to examine the tiny stain, and that same puzzled frown drew her arched brows together.

"But… but… we're to see the dauphine," Sylvie breathed, shocked at this insouciance.

"Toinette knows how easy it is to spill something," Cordelia reassured, shaking off the moment of puzzlement.

"But… but what of the king?" Their eyes, twinned, gazed at her across the table.

"What of the king?" came a voice from the door.

"It's Monsieur Leo!" they squealed in unison. "Did you find us?"

"It certainly looks that way," he said solemnly, closing the door behind him. "I am sent by the king, who wishes to make the acquaintance of my nieces." This last was directed more at Cordelia than at the girls.

His expression was calm, his manner easy. Leo was a past master at the courtly art of dissembling. Only in his eyes could the truth be seen. They were no longer lightless, but they burned with a dreadful rage, akin to despair, and Cordelia's scalp lifted with cold dread. He was blaming himself. She had known that would be his first response, and she had no idea how to reach him in that bitter slough of self-denunciation. Even to attempt ordinary words of comfort would be insulting, especially since she had not known Elvira.

Michael was presumably still keeping to his bed, but he knew that she would be escorting the children to Toinette, so there was no danger of falling foul of him at this point. He could hardly expect her to refuse to obey a royal summons while she waited for him to recover.

"Then we should not delay," she said neutrally. She didn't look at Leo, because she knew that her eyes were filled with compassion and her own fear, and to see that would only add to his burdens. She wiped chocolate from one child's mouth and turned to the jam on the other's fingers.

The door to the governess's chamber opened, and Louise stood glaring in silent accusation in the doorway.

Leo said with cold authority, "I have been sent by the king to escort your charges to his presence. Perhaps you would make certain their dress is in order."

"The princess has made it clear that my services are not required," Louise said spitefully, with downturned mouth. "The princess believes she can tend to her stepdaughters without assistance. Even though I've been doing it to the prince's satisfaction for close on four years."

Leo didn't deign to reply, he merely looked through her as if she were some transparent insect. Cordelia said curtly, "Whatever grievance you may have, madame, this is not the place to air it." She lifted Amelia and then Sylvie from their chairs, smoothing down their skirts, adjusting their muslin fichus.

Amelia, still troubled by the faint spot on her bodice, surreptitiously scratched at it with a fingernail while casting anxious glances toward the governess.

"Come." Leo took their hands. "We mustn't keep the king waiting."

Louise didn't move from her spot by her door until they had all left the room. Then she came over to the table. Her mouth was pursed, her eyes sharply speculative. Greedily, she began to eat the remains of the children's breakfast, cramming brioche into her mouth as if she hadn't eaten in a week, swallowing jam by the spoonful in between sips of the now cold chocolate remaining in the jug.

She would appeal directly to the prince. He must surely regard an affront to her authority as an affront to his own. It was common household gossip that he ruled his young bride with the same rod of iron he held over the rest of his staff.

She brushed crumbs from her lips with the back of her hand, heedless of a smear of jam that transferred itself to her gown. She took a long nip from her flask and sat down beside the empty grate. It was obvious that the princess was hand in glove with the viscount, which made the situation even more intolerable but would act in her favor with the prince. An alliance between stepmother and uncle would not be tolerated by the father. Prince Michael ruled alone.

"I know what it is!" Cordelia exclaimed suddenly as they began to walk down the corridor. She stopped and looked down at the children, stepping away to get a better look. "Amelia's wearing Sylvie's ribbon, and Sylvie's wearing Amelia's."

"What?" Leo dropped their hands and looked in astonishment at the twins, who were now covered in confusion, giggling behind their hands, their faces crimson. "How can you tell?"

"Well, I couldn't at first, but Sylvie has a beauty spot on the back of her neck." She touched the almost invisible mole on the supposed Amelia's neck. "I'm right, aren't I?" The child nodded, still convulsed with giggles.

"I'll be damned!" Leo shook his head. "How often do you play such a trick?"

Neither child answered, but they covered their faces with their hands.

"It must be such fun to fool everyone like that," Cordelia said, much struck by the possibilities of the masquerade. "Don't you agree, Leo?"

For a moment the shadows retreated. Leo couldn't help smiling at the thought of the governess, not to mention, Michael, never knowing which child they were talking to. The game must have lightened their dreary days.

"How many times have you deceived me?" he demanded.

"Oh, never," they assured him in unison. "Never!"

"Somehow I doubt that," he commented wryly. "But you'll not do it again, thanks to your observant stepmother."

His smile faded as they renewed their walk through the thronged corridor, he and Cordelia each holding a child's hand. "I will have passports for you and the children within two days." His lips barely moved as he spoke in the direction of her ear. "I must find a way to get the girls out of Versailles on some pretext. Something that will give you a few hours' start."

"Mathilde will come with us," she returned in the same almost soundless murmur, responding as if this were merely the continuation of a long previous discussion. Of course, there was no choice, no decisions to be made apart from the when and the how. And she didn't have to be told that Leo would not come with them. Michael might suspect his involvement, but he mustn't be given proof. It would be for her to ensure the girls' safety.

The children, hanging on their hands, gazed wide-eyed at the magnificence around them, their little feet taking the tiny gliding steps they'd been taught. The king's audience chamber was crowded with courtiers, but a word from Leo to one of the king's chancellors secured them clear passage to where the king sat with the dauphine and her husband. Amelia and Sylvie were engulfed. They saw only legs and hoops as they were wafted through the crowd, their cheeks brushing against rich silks and velvets, their tiny slippered feet barely touching the marble floors. They clung desperately to the supporting hands of their escorts, terrified that if they came adrift, they would be lost in the sea of gowns, drowned beneath the rising waves of noise way above them.

They had so little experience of the world outside their shuttered apartments on the rue du Bac that they were tongue-tied, staring at their feet, when they reached the king. They only remembered to curtsy when they saw Cordelia sweeping into a deep obeisance at the king's feet.

Toinette leaned forward in her chair, beckoning them to her. "I have some sweetmeats," she said warmly, gesturing to a flunky holding a silver salver of cakes and pastries. The children looked up at Leo and Cordelia, too shy to move a muscle. The king laughed, selected two marzipan roses from the salver, and gave one to each child, then with great good humor turned to Madame du Barry, signaling that the audience was over.

Toinette rose from her chair. "Let us walk with the children, Cordelia. Do you accompany us, Viscount Kierston?" This last was a trifle imperious, breaking into Leo's conversation with Madame du Barry, who stood at the king's right shoulder.

Leo smiled politely but his eyebrows lifted a little as he bowed to the young woman, whose nose was definitely in the air, her eyes studiously averted from the king's mistress. "I am yours to command, of course, madame."

"Then I command that you accompany us," Toinette declared, now trying to sound lighthearted and teasing. But the attempt was too late to reverse the effect of her outright snub to Madame du Barry, who stood glaring, her mouth pinched, her cheeks white beneath the rouge. The king was looking most displeased, but Toinette appeared not to notice.

"I do not believe madame ma mere would expect me to mingle with whores," she said in a defiant undertone as they moved away from the circle fawning at the king's feet.

"I imagine the empress would expect her daughter to behave with courtesy," Leo said. Despite his own wretchedness, he couldn't stand aside and see the child make such a dreadful mistake. "If you make an enemy of the du Barry, madame, you will play into the hands of those who would use you to cause trouble at court. That will not please the king."

"I follow my conscience, my lord," Toinette declared loftily. "And my conscience is answerable only to God." She gave a short nod of her head in punctuation. "Let's go into the gardens and show Amelia and Sylvie the peacocks and the fountains."

The girls, who were beginning to recover from the ordeal of the king's audience and to examine their exotic surroundings with more interest, exclaimed with delight at this prospect, tugging on Leo's hands.

Leo bowed with more than a hint of irony and gave up. He had far more pressing concerns. "If you'll excuse me, madame." He strode away.

Toinette seemed barely to notice. "I am having a concert this afternoon, Cordelia; you must bring the children. Signer Percossi is to play for us. And there's to be a dancer too."

"A dancer?"

"Yes, she's called Clothilde, I believe. He requested it most specifically."

"Oh." Despite everything, Cordelia smiled with pleasure, Christian must have summoned up his courage to approach the dancer. "Do you have music lessons, Sylvie?"

Sylvie's nose wrinkled. "Madame de Nevry teaches us."

"But we don't think she can play," Amelia interjected. "She makes a terrible noise."

"Yes, all thumps. It doesn't sound a bit like music," her sister continued. "And she makes us go up and down the keys." They both ran their fingers over an imaginary keyboard, singing out the scales in their high and not very tuneful voices.

"Oh, how unpleasant." Cordelia grimaced sympathetically, but her mind was racing as a plan took shape. "I'll have to see if I can't arrange a better music teacher for you. All girls must learn to play, isn't that so, Toinette?"

The dauphine nodded in fervent agreement. "And sing and dance too. You'll see how amusing it can be."

The girls didn't look convinced, but they had reached the gardens now and all thought of music lessons vanished in the pleasures of the outdoors.

"His Highness is not receiving today," Monsieur Brion haughtily informed the governess, who stood in the corridor outside their apartments. He held the door at his back, effectively barring her entrance.

"And when will the prince be receiving?" Louise put on all her airs. She was a relative of the prince's, not to be put off by a mere servant.

"He hasn't said. I suggest you return to your own quarters, madame, and he will send for you when he is so inclined." Brion stepped back into the room and began to close the door.

"You will tell him I wish to speak with him?" Louise pleaded desperately as the door closed against her nose. There was no response.

She lurked in the corridor, muttering to herself. She didn't trust Brion to pass on her message, or at least not in a timely fashion. And it was vitally important she tell her tale to the prince as soon as possible. She would tell him that if her authority was to be flouted after all these years, then she must hear it from his own lips. Of course, she would bow to the prince's commands, but he would understand her position. The princess was so young; she was playing at the novelty of motherhood. Soon she would become bored, and court pleasures would seduce her from the schoolroom. And the governess would be left with fractious, disappointed, spoiled children.

She hovered outside the door, rehearsing her speech under her breath, trying to look assured, as if she had good reason to be where she was, becalmed on the tide of scurrying servants and chattering, fan-flourishing courtiers whose jeweled heels taptapped on the marble floors as they hurried past. Everyone was in a hurry and no one cast a sideways glance at the red-nosed, watery-eyed governess with her unfashionable wig and dowdy gown.

Louise glanced anxiously at her fob watch. It was nearing one o'clock and the children had been gone for two hours. She should return to her own quarters, but she kept hoping that the prince would emerge. Just because Brion said he wasn't receiving didn't necessarily mean that he wasn't.

Brion was a malicious beast and would enjoy her discomfiture, she thought with compressed lips.

A servant walked by with a pair of spaniels straining at a leash. The dogs stopped and sniffed at the governess's shoes, the hem of her gown. In one disdainful glance, the manservant appraised Madame de Nevry, put her down as a charity case, a poor relation, maybe even an upper servant, although her dress was a trifle dowdy for the upper echelons of a servants' hall in any powerful household. He let the leash go slack and a wet nose pushed up beneath Louise's petticoat. The servant stared indifferently around, making no attempt to drag the animals away, as if the governess were merely a tree trunk for the dogs' convenience.

"Oh, go away!" she squeaked, backing against the wall.

The servant grinned. "They're only being friendly," he said.

"Take them away!" She brushed at them, trying to straighten her skirt. "Horrible little animals."

"Don't you let His Grace of Burgundy hear you say that. Dear me, no." The man shook his head in mock reproof. "These two are more precious to the duke than his own children."

He was making game of her and she could do nothing about it, backed up as she was against the wall with the slobbering snuffling dogs at her ankles. Tears of frustration pricked behind her eyes. She knew she was the butt of kitchen jokes in the rue du Bac, but why some complete stranger should pick upon her she couldn't imagine.

"Madame de Nevry!" The princess's voice chimed from behind the odious footman. "Did you wish for something? For goodness sake, man, pull those dogs off. Can't you see that Madame has a dislike of the animals?"

The servant, recognizing the voice of authority, tugged his forelock and dragged the dogs away. Cordelia surveyed the red-faced governess with a raised eyebrow. "The children are with the nursemaid. They should have dinner and a

rest before they attend the dauphine's musical entertainment this afternoon."

The princess's coldly arrogant tone was a timely reminder of Madame's grievances. She drew herself upright, her pursed mouth almost disappearing. "I understood that you had taken responsibility for the children, Princess. You made it very clear that I was not needed."

"And you were perhaps going to discuss that with my husband?" Cordelia asked softly, her eyes narrowed.

Louise almost flinched. "I wish to clarify matters with my cousin."

Cordelia stood in frowning silence for a minute.

"Walk with me awhile, madame." She took the governess's arm and marched her away down the corridor before Louise had time to recover from her astonishment. "Listen carefully," Cordelia continued in a conversational tone of voice that passed unnoticed among the chattering crowds. "I can only assume that my husband hasn't noticed that you reek like a pickle barrel, but I assure you that everyone else is aware of it. Myself, Viscount Kierston, Monsieur Brion, every member of the household right down to the potboy."

Louise gave an outraged gasp and tried to pull her arm free, but the princess for all her slenderness was more than a physical match for the governess. "I will not be spoken to-"

"Tush!" Cordelia interrupted. "You will listen, madame. I intend to involve myself in the children's welfare, and in every aspect of their education. You will say nothing of this to Prince Michael, and you will make no attempt to thwart me. If you do, then I promise you that the prince will know that a drunken sot has charge of his daughters. I leave you to imagine the consequences for yourself."

Louise was winded. She gasped like a gaffed fish, her face gray. It had never occurred to her that her numerous dips into her little silver flask left any trace. She had no idea she smelled of brandy. No idea that her bloodshot eyes and sometimes unsteady gait and her frequent dozes gave her away. She had thought herself perfectly safe from detection in the schoolroom with two tiny children.

"Do we have an understanding, madame?" Cordelia demanded crisply, plying her fan with her free hand. She smiled and curtsied to an acquaintance as she continued to march the governess along. "Your silence in exchange for mine."

Louise's head reeled. More than anything, she wanted a nip from her flask to clear her thoughts. "I… I will deny it. How dare you talk to me in such fashion," she managed to say.

Cordelia gave a short laugh. "There are too many witnesses for a denial to pass muster, madame. And I can safely promise you that they will step forward if I ask it of them. You are not very popular, you know," she added almost cajolingly, suddenly switching tactics. "And I have only the children's best interests at heart, as I am sure have you. We will work together to make them happy."

Louise's only response was an inarticulate moan, but Cordelia judged she had won the day. "We will start tomorrow," she said cheerfully. "I will introduce the girls to a musician friend of mine. A very influential friend," she fibbed, "who will undertake their musical instruction. And since I'm certain they'll make great progress under his tuition, their father will be very pleased. And, of course, you will take all the credit."

She stopped where two corridors branched, the left one leading to the children's quarters. "So, do we have an understanding?"

Louise was now flushed, but she could think of nothing to say. She ducked her head in a gesture that could have been agreement, pulled her arm free of Cordelia's, and scuttled away.

Cordelia nibbled her bottom lip, wondering if she'd overreached herself. She'd offered both blackmail and bribery.

Would it be enough to keep the governess silent and turning a blind eye for the necessary time? Leo had said he would have passports within two days. If she could get the children into the town to Mathilde in Christian's lodgings without Michael's being aware of it, then they would have taken an important step. Just as long as Louise would keep quiet about a supposed music lesson.

She turned and thoughtfully made her way back to her own apartments. Michael was sitting in the salon, looking pale and drawn, when she entered.

"The king was very pleased with your daughters, my lord," she said almost indifferently. "The dauphine walked with them in the gardens, and they are bidden to attend her at a concert this afternoon."

Michael glowered. The leech had taken copious amounts of blood, and he felt too weak to take exception to her tone. "I will accompany you myself," he stated, taking a deep draught of the hot milk punch that he hoped would put blood back in his veins.

Cordelia curtsied. "If you feel well enough, my lord."

"Damn you! Of course I'm well enough!" He stared at her and the horrendous suspicion popped into his head that perhaps she had done this to him. Witchcraft? Could she be a witch? Absurd thought. But it wouldn't leave him. Something had drained all the strength from him while he'd been sleeping. While he'd been unconscious, something had filled his head with those ghastly images, those fearful premonitions that still haunted him in the bright sunlight of a new day.

His wife? His child bride? That willful, defiant, intractable chit?

Under his fixed stare, Cordelia felt pinned like a rabbit mesmerized by the fox. She couldn't imagine what thoughts could produce such dreadful menace. Had he looked at Elvira in that way? When he'd decided to kill her?

O God, help me. The prayer went round and around in her head. She who put little faith in prayer. With a supreme effort of will, she smiled into those terrible pale eyes and excused herself. And in her deserted chamber, she hung over the commode, dryly retching as if she could rid herself of her terror.