The Diamond Slipper (17 page)

“Good night, my lord.” She slipped past him, averting her face.

Mathilde’s appraising gaze was shrewd. Her nursling was
very pale, her eyes shadowed. “We’ll be meeting the prince soon, I daresay,” she observed casually as she unhooked and unlaced.

“Probably tomorrow.” Cordelia pulled pins from her hair. Her voice was tight with suppressed tears. “But I won’t have to go to his bed until after the wedding is solemnized.”

“Aye.” Mathilde contented herself with the simple agreement. Something had made her nursling particularly fragile at the moment, and it didn’t take much to guess what. The viscount had presumably dealt the death blow to Cordelia’s hopes, and Mathilde was not going to undo that with offers of sympathy and comfort. Her task now was to prepare Cordelia for her wedding night. She had ensured that the girl was not in ignorance of the carnal side of marriage. Viscount Kierston had carried that education beyond the boundaries that Mathilde considered necessary, but there was no point crying over spilled milk. She would impart a few more words of wisdom on the wedding night itself, when Cordelia would be at her most receptive.

She tucked Cordelia into bed as if she were once more a child in the nursery, kissed her good night, snuffed the candles, and left the room quietly.

Alone, Cordelia pulled the covers up over her head, burrowing into the darkness. It was something she’d done as a child when something bad had happened and she’d instinctively blocked out the world as if by not seeing it she could erase the bad thing. But she was no longer a child, and the defenses of childhood didn’t seem to work. Even in her burrow, the wretched thoughts focused, took on almost concrete form, crystallizing her despair.

She didn’t want to be married to anyone but Leo. The thought of being touched by anyone but Leo filled her with disgust and dread. How was she to endure what had to be endured?

Resolutely, she pushed the covers away from her face and lay on her back. Feeling sorry for herself would achieve nothing. She must look at what she feared and face it.

Leo didn’t like his brother-in-law. The recognition interrupted her train of thought. How did she know that? He’d never said anything, but there was a look in his eye when the prince had been mentioned—a dark, brooding look that was banished so swiftly that sometimes she thought she’d imagined it.

Did it perhaps have something to do with Leo’s sister? Had he been a tyrant in their marriage?

Should she be afraid of more than the physical act of marriage? Should she be afraid of the man himself?

The thought was so startling, Cordelia sat upright. Surely Leo would have warned her if he knew anything bad about her husband. Surely he would never have encouraged the marriage, played the part in it that he had done. Leo was too honorable to do anything against his conscience, as she knew only too well.

Cordelia lay down again, huddling beneath the feather quilt against the night chill. There now seemed so much she needed to know.

She’d begun the journey as if in an enchanted dream. The wonders of love had bathed everything in a soft rosy light. Ahead of her lay the golden palace of Versailles and a new life of freedom and pleasure. But that dream was now shattered by the coming dawn. Her love could never come to fulfillment while she was married to an elderly stranger. She was no longer adrift on a sea of rich promise, she was cold and frightened, shivering on the shore of a shrouded lake as for the first time since Vienna the reality of her situation became clear.

She rolled onto her side, drawing up her knees, trying to relax. She needed to sleep. But sleep evaded her. She tossed and turned, her head filled with disconnected thoughts and formless fears. She wondered if Toinette was going through the same agonizing apprehension and wished that they could have spent this night together, as they had spent so many nights of their girlhood, curled up in the same bed, exchanging secrets and dreams.

She finally fell into a heavy sleep just before dawn and awoke unrested, leaden, and miserable when Mathilde drew back the bedcurtains.

“Put out my riding habit, Mathilde, please. I think the fresh air will be good for me. It might wake me up.” She yawned as she sat on the edge of the bed, her body aching and tired.

Mathilde cast her a knowing glance. “Bad night?”

“I’m tired and out of sorts, Mathilde.” Cordelia jumped up and buried her head in Mathilde’s comforting bosom, her arms clasped tightly around her maid’s waist. “I’m frightened and miserable.”

Mathilde hugged her and stroked her hair. “There, there, dearie.”

Cordelia clung to her as she had done so often in her childhood, and as always Mathilde’s strength infused her. After a few minutes, she straightened and smiled a little waterily. “I’m better now.”

Mathilde nodded and patted her cheek. “Things are never as bad as you expect them to be. I’ll fetch some witch hazel for your eyes.” She produced a cloth soaked in witch hazel, and Cordelia lay back on the bed, the soothing cloth pressed to her aching eyes, while Mathilde brushed out her riding habit of blue velvet edged with silver lace.

She was still feeling wan when she left her chamber, but at least knew that she didn’t look as bad as she felt. Leo was standing in the inn’s stableyard watching the ostler saddle their horses. He turned at her approach and gave her a nod of greeting. Her quick covert examination told her that he hadn’t slept much better than she had. He looked pale and drawn. Perhaps this wasn’t such a joyful day for him after all. But after what he’d said, how could she think that? She had to stop indulging in fantasy.

“There’s no reason why I shouldn’t ride today, is there, my lord?” She flicked her whip against her boots. She had determined to greet him normally, to speak to him as if that wretched scene had never taken place, as if he had never
spoken those dreadful words. But her voice was tight and the tears were a hard nut in her throat, and she found she couldn’t look him in the eye.

“You may ride this morning. But after lunch you should travel in the coach. Your husband will expect you to be journeying in state,” he said neutrally.

“Because to do otherwise would not be consonant with my position?” If she didn’t think about Leo, if she concentrated only on neutral topics, the knot of tears would dissolve and her voice would sound normal again.

“Possibly.” Leo fought the urge to stroke her cheek, smooth the tautness from her lovely mouth, banish her blatant unhappiness by denying what he’d said. But that way lay madness. He must stick to his guns or all his cruelty would have been for nothing.

“Is the prince much concerned with prestige and status and all its trappings?” She looked around at the entourage preparing to leave Soissons.

“Versailles is much concerned.”

Was he deliberately evading the question? “But is my husband?” she persisted.

“I believe he is,” he responded, swinging into the saddle. “But as I said, Versailles is ruled by the trappings of protocol.”

Cordelia gave her foot to the groom who was waiting to help her mount Lucette. “Is the prince more concerned than the average?” She gathered the reins together and turned her horse to walk beside his out of the yard.

Leo frowned. Elvira had once complained that Michael had very rigid attitudes. He hated deviations from what he considered due process. He had certain unvarying rituals. When Leo had pressed her for specifics, she’d laughed it off and changed the subject. But he remembered being faintly disturbed by the exchange. In fact, he’d been faintly disturbed by many of their conversations at that time. As much by what Elvira refused to say as by what she did say.

“Sir?” Cordelia prompted.

He shook his head free of shadows and spoke brusquely. “I don’t know. Michael is a diplomat, a politician. He follows the rules of all the games. He’s concerned with appearances, but then so is everyone at Versailles. You will learn for yourself.”

Cordelia had no heart for further questioning, and they rode in tense silence throughout the morning, stopping for midday refreshment on the right bank of the River Aisne. The local townsfolk crowded around the tables set up picnic-style, gawping at the dauphine and her entourage. Marie Antoinette was charmed with the rustic setting and the informality of the occasion. She summoned Cordelia to sit at her table and chattered like a magpie.

Toinette was clearly not apprehensive and certainly didn’t look as if she’d spent a sleepless night. Cordelia reflected that the woebegone homesick girl had vanished, transformed into this delighted and delightful princess who reveled in the attention and the homage with a child’s conspicuous pleasure mingled with the haughtiness of one who knew it was her due.

“Come, let us walk among the people.” Toinette rose to her feet in a billow of straw-colored silk. She tucked her hand in Cordelia’s arm. “We shall stroll among them and greet them. They are my subjects now and I do so want them to love me.”

The people certainly seemed very well disposed to their future queen and reluctant to let her go when it was time to return to the carriages.

Lucette had been unsaddled and returned to the rear of the procession, and the coach with the von Sachsen arms on its panels stood ready. Leo was already waiting at the footstep. As Cordelia made her way over to him, Christian appeared from the crowd, leading his horse.

Cordelia’s face lit up. With Christian she could be certain of her welcome. Christian’s loving friendship was no fantasy. She gathered up her skirts and ran toward him. “Christian, how are you?” She stood on tiptoe to kiss him,
forgetting the public arena. “I have been thinking of where you will lodge in Paris.”

“Cordelia, you should know better than to indulge in public displays of affection,” Leo reproved sharply as he came over to them. “And you too, Christian. You know as well as anyone that the closeness of your friendship needs to be kept out of the public eye.”

Christian flushed. “I know where the boundaries of friendship lie, my lord,” he said pointedly.

“My lord, do you have any idea where Christian should go when we reach Paris?” Cordelia asked quickly.

“I don’t need the viscount’s help, Cordelia,” Christian protested stiffly. “I’m perfectly capable of looking after myself.”

“But it’s a strange city and Lord Kierston is sponsoring you. Of course he’ll help you, won’t you?” She turned her great turquoise eyes toward him. “You won’t renege on a promise, I trust, sir?”

It was almost a relief, he thought, to see her eyes filled now with an angry challenge, rather than the haunting shock of one whose trust has been abruptly abused. He ignored the challenge, saying calmly to Christian, “I’ll give you the address of a respectable and inexpensive lodging house. You’ll be quite comfortable there until you get settled.”

Leo opened the carriage door. “Come, the procession is moving.” He handed Cordelia in and climbed up after her.

Cordelia leaned out of the window. “We’ll talk about it when we get to Compiègne, Christian.” She watched him ride away toward the rear of the column and then leaned back against the squabs.

“You will help him, won’t you?”

“If he’ll accept it.” Leo turned his head to look out of the window. He regretted his necessary cruelty of the night before, but he was feeling much more than that regret at the moment. He had not expected to feel as he did. Bereft and sad. He had done his duty by Cordelia and by Michael. He
had resisted temptation, all but that once, even though it had been the hardest thing he’d ever done. Now he would be out of temptation. Cordelia from the moment of her introduction to her husband would belong body and soul to Michael. But the knowledge filled him with drear regret.

They reached the town of Berneuil on the outskirts of the forest of Compiègne at three o’clock. Two outriders from the king’s party awaited them with the news that His Majesty had decided to escort his new granddaughter to Compiègne himself. He and the dauphin were but five minutes away.

“An unlooked-for honor,” Leo observed. “The king doesn’t usually put himself out to such an extent.”

When Cordelia didn’t respond, Leo stepped out of the carriage. “Come.” He held up his hand.

Cordelia’s hand merely brushed his she stepped down. Unconsciously, she lifted her chin as she looked around.

It was such an obvious attempt to gather courage that his heart went out to her.

“Take heart. Things are never as bad as you expect.” He offered a bracing smile.

“I don’t wish to be married to him,” she said in a fierce undertone. “I love
you
, Leo.”

“Enough!” he commanded sharply. “That kind of talk will do you nothing but harm.”

Cordelia bit her lip hard. They reached the dauphine and her entourage, who were standing beside their carriages, awaiting the king. Toinette looked over her shoulder and caught Cordelia’s eye. She pulled a face and for a moment it was as if their old mischievous relationship were restored, except that Cordelia couldn’t summon the spirit to respond. Then the sound of hooves and iron wheels on the unpaved road filled the air, and the dauphine turned back hastily, straightening her shoulders.

The king’s cavalcade entered the small town square with the triumphant sound of drums, trumpets, timbals, and
hautbois. It was a massive company of guards, soldiers, cavaliers, and coaches.

The king stepped out of the first carriage, accompanied by a young man who looked stiffly and nervously around the assembled company.

“Is that the dauphin?” Cordelia whispered to Leo, her attention diverted from her own misery.

“Yes. He’s very shy.”

Cordelia wanted to comment on how unattractive the young man was, but she kept the remark to herself, watching as Toinette fell to her knees before the king, who raised her up, kissed her warmly, and drew forward his grandson. Louis-Auguste shyly kissed his bride to cheers and applause from the spectators.

Prince Michael von Sachsen made his way through the crowd toward his brother-in-law. For a few minutes, he had observed the young woman standing beside the viscount. She was dressed in the first style of elegance, as he would have expected. Her expression was very serious, sullen almost. He’d had enough levity in his married life to last through several marriages, he reflected, not displeased by the girl’s somber countenance. With luck, she would discourage his daughters’ tendency to flightiness as reported by Louise de Nevry. Not that he could imagine either of them producing so much as a smile, but presumably their governess knew them better than he did.