Mistress of the Sun (23 page)

“You have to jump sooner,” the gentler said. “I’ll tell you when.”

Louis nodded:
You can do it.

This time, Petite got on as the horse cantered by.

“Bravo!” Louis called out.

Petite clutched the handles for balance. The trees were a blur. She tried to straighten, but she kept losing her footing. Twice she nearly fell off. “I can’t,” she called out to Azeem, lowering herself onto the horse’s back, her legs encircling his chest. “Ho, boy,” she said, slowing him to a trot, and then a walk. “It’s hard,” she said, discouraged, thinking of the Romany woman of her youth. She’d made it look like the most natural thing in the world—and the most wondrous.

“It takes time,” Azeem said. “You did well.”

“I’ve never seen anyone even try to do that,” Louis said.

T
HEY DID NOT SLEEP
very much that night, so great was their pleasure. Even so, they rose shortly after dawn, mounting their horses and riding into the untamed wasteland. Midday, over a repast—and love, always love—Louis asked Petite question upon question:
Did you and your father hunt wolf? bear? unicorn? He was astonished that a boar could be taken on foot, amazed that one good dog could put a hart to bay, that a hare or woodcock could be felled with a well-aimed stick. He wanted to know how her childhood home had been organized, how many cooks they’d had (only one?), how many equerries (none!), how many horses (only five?), what they ate, and when. Petite felt she was an exotic foreign country, and he her explorer.

As their horses grazed, she told him about her family, her father and her aunt, Sister Angélique. And then she told him about Diablo.

Louis sat up. “He was truly wild?”

“He was more than wild,” Petite said.
He was possessed.

“A horse in the wild is a beautiful thing,” Louis said reflectively.

Yes, Petite thought. She loved nothing better than to watch a horse galloping across an open field, tossing its head and bucking, its long tail flowing in the wind. “He taught me the language of horses.” She felt she could tell Louis anything—anything but bone magic. She didn’t want to tempt the Devil near.

They set off yet again, exploring marshes, swampy meadows, pits of sand. Petite pointed out the wildlife, the birds especially, for she knew most everything by its call. The place was teeming with game. “It’s a hunter’s paradise,” she said, dreading the thought of returning to the city the next day.

“Our paradise,” he said, clasping her hand.

Here, they could roam free.

“W
E’RE GOING TO SEE
my mother,” Petite informed Clorine on New Year’s Day. It was about time. She had not been to see her since the Court had returned to Paris. Madame Henriette had been sick with child, so Petite had been busy—but today, the first of the new year, all the attendants had been given the afternoon off. “I’ll hire a hackney for us,” she said, counting out coins. They could walk, but it was bitter, and the lanes would be icy. As well, after fall storms had ruined the harvest, starving peasants had been flocking into the city; one had to be careful.

Clorine tugged on her earlobe. “Do you have a gift for her?”

Petite looked over the items she had laid out on her trunk: six brass hairpins, a trinket box, a scent bottle of eau de Chypre—items to be given to Nicole, Athénaïs and Henriette later that evening. In a book stall by the river, she’d found a translation of
Xenophon’s
The Art of Horsemanship
to give to Louis. It would have to wait until they had a moment alone—which seemed impossible in Paris, where people were always watching (the queens especially, and their minions).

“I’ll give her my gauze shawl,” Petite said, “the green one.” It had been part of her nymph costume for the ballet at Fontaine Beleau that summer.

They wrapped warmly and set out, well muffed, to a stand of cabriolets. After close inspection, Petite engaged a one-horse open carriage, settling with the driver on a price. The cab was without a head, and not many would venture out in such cold without a cover, so he reluctantly agreed to half the usual rate. The nag looked more like a sumpter mule than a carriage horse, but the driver swore she was sound, so Petite and Clorine climbed in. Yelling out to people to clear the way, he cracked his whip. The old mare took fright, very nearly running over a man in a long matted wig before settling back to a reluctant walk.

“Here we go,” Clorine said excitedly, holding onto her hood.

It took forever to cross over the river; the bridge was congested with coaches and dog carts. Once on the other side, the clanging of the iron and wood cartwheels was deafening. On all sides, hawkers reached out to them, selling their wares: caps, songs, shawls, pies…Beggar children were everywhere, swarming for a coin.

“I have a knife in my basket,” Clorine confided, looking about uneasily.

At long last, they joined the line at the city gate. Clorine handed Petite a bit of cheese and bread, but Petite tossed it to a child in rags, who bit into it hungrily.

Petite was relieved when they finally gained entrance to the Palais d’Orléans. It was much as she remembered it: new (as palaces went) and stately. She found it hard to believe that she’d left for Court only seven months before. Much had happened in that time. She had much to be proud of—and much to hide.

The driver yelled out “whoa, whoa” as the nag headed for the horse trough at a distance from the entrance. As soon as the wheels stopped rolling, Clorine climbed down. Petite handed her their basket, but did not alight. She was apprehensive, suddenly, of seeing her mother.
Chastity, humility, piety:
these words had been drummed into her as a child.

“Need a hand?” the driver asked, picking at his teeth with a dirty nail.

“No, Monsieur,” Petite said, resolutely jumping down.

The butler at the entrance sent a torch boy to see if Petite’s mother was receiving. The boy returned huffing and puffing—“Yes! she said”—and they headed down the long gallery and up the winding stone stairs into the turret.

At the door, Petite paused. Inevitably, there would be a discussion about finding a husband for her. “Clorine, don’t say anything to my mother about Monsieur le Duc de Gautier,” she whispered. “It’s privity for now—and you know how my mother talks.” The
secrecy and subterfuge seemed never-ending, one falsehood leading to another, and another.

Clorine nodded conspiratorially.

Françoise opened the door herself and gave Petite a vigorous embrace. She’d become rounder since Petite last saw her. “What a surprise,” she exclaimed, fussing with her coif and tucker.

Petite kissed her mother’s powdery cheek, inhaled her vanilla scent, unexpectedly moved. Her mother’s face was lined with wrinkles.

“Pity the Marquis isn’t in,” Françoise fussed, but noting with interest the mouche on Petite’s chin, the fashionable details of her gown (the wide chemise sleeves runched with ribbons, the long, pointed stomacher).

“Yes,” Petite said, but relieved. She’d not brought her stepfather a gift.

Françoise sent her maid for posset and sweetmeats and they settled in the chairs by the fire, exchanging news: Petite’s duties at Court (not too demanding), the weather that summer (hot and stormy), the Marquis’s health (dropsical), a letter from Jean (bored in Amboise and short of money).

“I almost forgot.” Petite glanced back at Clorine, standing by the shuttered window. “The basket?” She reached in for the shawl. “For you—for the new year.”

“I love it,” Françoise said, holding the thin tissue to the light, “but where will I wear it?”

“Wear it now,” Petite said, arranging the fabric around her mother’s shoulders. “It looks pretty on you.”

Françoise stilled Petite’s hand with her own. “You should not be spending money on fripperies, Louise. How much have you saved toward your dowry?”

“A little,” she lied, feeling the blood rush to her cheeks. Surely her mother could see right through her, could sense, with a mother’s instinct, the momentous change that had taken place in her daughter, know that she was no longer a girl, but a woman—and a fallen woman at that, a woman who knew what it meant to swoon in her lover’s arms.

“Your brother has been looking out for a husband for you.”

“How is Jean?” Petite asked, changing the subject. She didn’t trust Clorine to hold her tongue.

“He guarded that minister of finance, I forget his name.”

“Monsieur Fouquet?” The former minister of finance was being brought to Paris to be tried. It had never occurred to Petite that he might be held at Amboise on the way.

“Jean guarded him for almost two weeks, but as for finding a husband for you, he thinks you should—”

Petite stood abruptly. “I’m afraid I must be leaving, Mother,” she announced. “Our driver is expecting us, and I’ve duties to attend to.”

I
T WAS LATE
afternoon by the time Petite and Clorine arrived back at their attic room in the Tuileries Palace. “I’m going riding,” Petite told her maid. The emotions provoked by the visit with her mother had unnerved her and she needed to settle.

She had just put on her overskirt when there was a tap-tap at the door.

“I believe that must be your suitor,” Clorine said cheerily. She stopped at the cracked mirror to adjust her frilly cap before unlatching the bolt. “It
is
you.”

“I’m the bearer of heathenish New Year’s tidings,” Gautier announced. He was wearing a jaunty beaver top hat, and his cape was short, showing off petticoat breeches like those the young men wore.

“Happy New Year, Monsieur,” Petite said, wondering if he had a message from Louis.

“Mademoiselle, for you, with best wishes for an excellent New Year, a bowl of fruit—note the enclosure within—as well as a smaller parcel,” Gautier said, ceremoniously plucking a beribboned box out of the bowl, “for your ever-so-capable maid.”

“For me, Monsieur?” Clorine wiped her hands on her apron before unraveling the knotted ribbon.

“I wrapped it myself,” he said proudly.

“And most securely,” Clorine said, using the point of a letter-opener to pry the knot loose.

Petite set the bowl on the table. It was filled with fresh pears, oranges and figs. Such luxury in winter. She spied a rolled paper tied with a white ribbon tucked under the fruit. She took advantage of Clorine’s distraction to slip behind the cloth partition.

My love, I am desperate to see you. Feign to be ill tomorrow. I will come to your room at three of the clock. You may entrust Gautier with your answer. I impatiently await the moment when I can hold you again in my arms. L.

Petite pressed the note to her heart. Since the trip to Versaie, she’d hardly had a chance to even talk to Louis—but to meet him
here
, in her own room?

She stepped out from behind the screen. Gautier was demonstrating how to operate a mechanical device.

“Zut!” Clorine exclaimed, lifting her skirts as the object clattered across the floor like a rodent possessed.

“I thought you’d enjoy it,” Gautier said, chuckling.

“Monsieur?” Petite’s solemn demeanor broke the general levity. “My answer is yes.”

It took a moment for Gautier to comprehend.

“I will be here tomorrow, at three.”

“Oh?” he said, as if he’d forgotten the purpose of his excursion. “
Excellent
,” he said, clearly remembering, then tipped his plumed hat and took his leave.

“Step back.” Clorine wound up the toy. “It jumps.” She squealed with laughter as it leapt across the room.

Petite sat down on the chair by the table. She took a pear out of the bowl and held it. Such beautiful fruit. Louis took a personal
interest in his gardens. Were he not king, he would happily have been a gentleman farmer.

“Clorine, we must talk.”

Clorine picked up the contraption, waited for it to run quiet and then placed it on top of her trunk.

“I believe you should sit down,” Petite said, steeling herself.

Apprehensively, Clorine lowered herself onto the wooden bench by the door.

“First: you must vow
never
to reveal what I’m about to tell you.”

Clorine nodded solemnly.

Petite took a deep breath. She would give her life for Louis, but this seemed so much harder. “In the morning, I’m going to send you to inform Madame Henriette that I’m ill and that I won’t be able to be in attendance.”

“You’re ill?”

“I’m not.”

“You’re not ill, but you will be tomorrow?” Clorine frowned. “How do you know?”

“Because it won’t be true.”
O God, please forgive me.
“It will be a story, a cover. I’ve agreed to…to receive someone.”

“Here?”

“Yes, but—” Petite closed her eyes. She didn’t want to see Clorine’s face. “But privately,” she said finally, taking a deep breath. For a loveday.
Mercy.
She opened her eyes and added, in a matter-of-fact
way, “It would be a good time for you to go to the market.”

Clorine squinted. “Has this to do with the Duke?”

“No, Clorine, it has nothing to do with him.” Petite pressed her fingertips to her eyes, then looked up, blinking away stars. “It’s time I told you the truth.” She felt her heart sink. “I am not betrothed to Monsieur le Duc de Gautier.”

Clorine started. Petite held up her hand. She had to see this through. “I do have a…” She thought of all the words women used:
love-lad, galant, swain, amoroso, squire.
None of these were right. Her sweeting, her beloved…her life. “A gallant,” she said finally. It was the most refined. “But he is not the Duke.”
Dear Mary, Mother of God, give me the strength to tell the truth, even if it is a sin.
“It’s the King.”

Clorine sat still as a wax figure, her heavy eyes fixed, and then slumped to the floor in a faint.

That, Petite had expected. What she hadn’t anticipated was the torrent of tears that burst from her maid once she’d revived.

“The King’s mistress? You’ll spend eternity in Hell! Oh, your poor old mother. This will be the death of her—”

“My mother must never know, Clorine.”
Never.

“—the death of
me.
How could you? You’re so much more sensible than other girls. You were raised in a convent! Just imagine what your aunt will think—your aunt Angélique who sends you such lovely laces.”

I know
, Petite thought, tears streaming.

“Oh, the shame of it! You’re ruined.”

I know.

“Who would marry you now? Not even that old merchant who couldn’t read would have you. All my life, I’ve wanted only one thing,” she ranted on, sobbing as if her heart would break, “and that was to serve the wife of a highborn man. I had such hopes that you would marry dear old Gautier. He’s highborn, a titled gentleman, and a good,
good
man—but now…Now you can’t even become a nun. Oh, my girl—how could you?”

T
HE COURTIERS GATHERED
in Madame Henriette’s bedchamber that evening to celebrate the new year. Henriette’s pregnancy had rendered her dangerously ill and her doctor had confined her to bed, so the courtiers had come to her, in sympathy. The room was abuzz with talk and laughter, warm from the heat of blazing Yule logs, the smoky air sweetly scented by the Hungary water Henriette sprinkled over the carpets.

“What’s wrong?” Nicole asked, embracing Petite, very nearly tipping her goblet of mulled wine. “You look like a death mask in a procession.”

Petite felt drained, in truth. Her conversation with Clorine had been unsettling. “I told my maid,” she whispered. It was a relief to have it over, but she felt shattered. No matter how sacred her love for Louis, she was, after all, a married man’s mistress.

“About Ludmilla?”

“She fainted.”

“She’s always fainting. I should think she’d be pleased. I have good news—but first, my new year’s gift for you.” She handed Petite a small packet. “Not fancy, but…well, amusing?”

Petite read the label. “Passion powder?”

Nicole glanced around the crowded salon. “It’s from that woman all the ladies go to,” she whispered. “Madame la Voisin—out in Villeneuve-Beauregard.”

“
You
went?” The district was known to be rough, a haven for criminals.

“It’s to make a man crazy for you…although I don’t think you need it.” She smiled.

“What’s the good news?” Petite asked, giving Nicole her gift of brass hairpins.

“It has to do with our Goddess of Virginity.” Nicole pinned her black ringlets back behind her ears and checked her reflection in the window.

“Athénaïs?” Petite had sat beside the lovely Marquise at Mass the day before.

“And Alexandre, the Marquis de Noirmoutiers—” Nicole pulled one curl loose so that it would fall at her cheek.