Before Versailles (46 page)

“I
WANT HER
dismissed from court,” Maria Teresa said. It had taken a day, but her mind was made up.

Anne, in the midst of details for the first small fête she’d given since the cardinal’s death, drew in her breath sharply and put down the pen with which she had been busily matching presents to names. “That’s impossible.”

Maria Teresa began to cry. Anne moved from behind the table at which she sat, drew her daughter-in-law into her arms. “Hush now. What you ask simply isn’t possible, nor is it necessary.”

“He loves her! I know it!” Maria Teresa was shrill, and Anne could sense hysteria close.

“Nonsense! He loves you. Everyone knows that. It’s all people talk of, his devotion to you.” I’ll say extra rosaries for this, thought Anne, dedicate a convent or something.

“Really?”

“Really. Come, help me with my fête tonight. I’m planning who is to get what prize. Which of your ladies do you want me to reward?” Spanish ricocheted between them, like balls from opponents on the tennis court.

“He’s always talking with her.”

“Of course he is. They grew up together. They’re practically childhood friends, and don’t forget, they’re cousins.”

“I’m his cousin,” hissed Maria Teresa.

“Shall I choose the Countess de Soissons for an ivory fan or someone else? Miss de Chimerault? What have I said? Why are you weeping again, my dear? I must insist you stop. It’s bad for the dauphin. Here, come kneel with me at my prayer stand, and we’ll turn our thoughts and emotions in a more proper direction.”

Both knelt, Anne pampering her creaking knees with pillows. The familiar murmur of prayers seemed to lull Maria Teresa for a time, but in the middle of them, she said, “You’ll tell him not to talk to her so much? Tell him it isn’t seemly.”

Such has already been done, thought Anne, but there was a knock at the door, and Madame de Motteville glided in, leaned over to whisper in Anne’s ear, but before she could finish, Henriette was there, her mother with her. Henriette seemed nonchalant and breezy, queen of this castle, thought Anne frostily. That must change. There was only one queen.

“I’ve brought my list of favorite ladies for you to reward, majesty—oh, good afternoon, your majesty.” Henriette curtsied deeply to Maria Teresa.

“Tell her,” Maria Teresa said to Anne.

“Tell me what?” asked Henriette, looking from one to the other.

“There’s been talk,” Anne said, “frivolous talk about you and his majesty.” Yet more frivolous talk, she managed, not without effort, to keep herself from saying.

Henriette gasped and stepped back.

“I was just telling our dear majesty,” continued Anne, “that there was nothing to it but idle court gossip.”

“My daughter is a princess of France and England,” Henriette’s mother sneered, “who knows her duty. There is nothing she would do that is dishonorable.”

“And our queen,” said Anne, iron in her voice, “is a princess of Spain as well as queen of us all, and she carries the dauphin of France under her heart, and I will not have her disturbed in the least way!”

“Disturbed!” cried Henriette. “I am disturbing? I, too, carry a child, a prince of the blood. What of my upset?”

And then she swooned to the ground, and the three queens stood staring at her for what seemed like a long moment before Maria Teresa staggered backward and fell into a heap of silk skirts herself.

Well, wonderful, thought Anne bitterly.

Bent over her daughter, chafing her hands, Henriette’s mother said to Anne through gritted teeth, “If she loses this baby, I will never forgive you!”

Anne knelt over Maria Teresa. “If our dauphin is hurt in any way, his majesty will never forgive you or her! Nor will I!”

Later, when both young women had been revived, and there had been more tears, but also a little sweet brandy swallowed by the expectant mothers, the three queens and Henriette sat alone again in Anne’s closet. There had been a great deal of fussing and oh-noing over both young women by Anne’s ladies-in-waiting, perhaps more than was good for them, and both were feeling fragile and righteous.

“I’ve sent for my confessor,” said Anne. “He’s going to pray with us.”

Henriette stood up as if she’d just been pricked by a nettle. “I don’t want your confessor. I have my own. I’m going to my chambers.”

“I command you,” said Anne in a voice that brooked no refusal, “to assure her majesty that what had been said is idle gossip and nothing more.”

Without looking at Maria Teresa, Henriette jerked into a small curtsey, the gesture just on the edge of complete rudeness by court standards. “It’s idle gossip, your majesty. I am your servant in all things, I’m sure.”

And then she held out her hand for her mother, and the two of them left the chamber arm in arm.

“There.” Anne leaned over and patted Maria Teresa’s hand.

“She has no manners,” said Maria Teresa.

But Anne’s confessor was stepping into the closet, and Anne told him that there had been a small quarrel between the sisters-in-law and that they needed his guidance not to harbor hard hearts, yet didn’t listen to a word of his slick homily about sins of pride and listening to gossip. All she could think about was that this affair between Louis and Henriette, whatever it was, was beginning to create just what she’d dreaded.

The confessor was gone; Maria Teresa seemed calmer.

Anne looked down at her hands, then said what she must, “You know you mustn’t speak of this to his majesty.”

Looking very plain, very grumpy, and very stubborn, Maria Teresa made no reply.

Anne couldn’t bring herself to tell her that it wasn’t a good idea to point out a woman and then tell a man not to notice her, particularly a man as proud as her son. “He wouldn’t be happy at this quarrel,” she said instead. “He will think it beneath the dignity of a Spanish princess to think ill of anyone.”

Maria Teresa blushed and then nodded her head; her years of isolation and ritual, her pride in her birth, gave her no choice but to believe.

Once alone, Anne went to her window and stared out at her gardens, at blossoming vines and lilies, at basil and carnations, without seeing any of them. What a ghastly little scene to have been party to, she thought. This was what she’d been trying to avoid, why she’d taken Madame away, so things might cool and Henriette might be brought to a sense of consequence. If Maria Teresa was suspicious, this little affair had already done enough damage. What else to do? She sent for the viscount, needing someone to talk to, someone to shoulder the responsibility of this not exploding in their faces and sending clouds of scandal all the way to Rome and the Vatican’s practical, political heart.

“I
T’S TOO FUNNY
.” Athénaïs sat with Fanny and Louise the next afternoon, abandoning for the moment her own band of companions. In fact, she joined Fanny and Louise now whenever possible. I like you both so much, she told them, and both were flattered to have the approval and attention of a duke’s daughter. They were all in the queen’s gallery, maids of honor and ladies-in-waiting gathered yet again to sew like nuns on christening clothes for the dauphin. The combined presence of the two older queens was affecting the younger court, settling it down, dispersing heedless, heady vigor. One might say, it was becoming boring.

“Her father simply appeared this afternoon and ordered her trunk packed. He called upon the Countess of Soissons,” Athénaïs continued, “and then left within the hour. Poor dear Pon was livid, weeping in our bedchamber in rage, but what could she do? Her father insisted she had to leave. I helped her to pack. Poor thing.”

“So Pon is out of the game,” said Fanny.

“Was she ever in?” Athénaïs laughed.

“His majesty liked her,” said Louise. She felt sorry for Miss de Pon.

“Well, it is true that his majesty did seem to notice her,” agreed Athénaïs, “but she has been saved by her father, as if dancing with his majesty were fatal.”

“Silly, isn’t it?” agreed Fanny, and when Athénaïs went away to gleefully spread the gossip with another cluster of women, Fanny said to Louise, “I admire Athénaïs, I really do, but she would give her back teeth for an extra dance with his majesty, and as for going out into the gardens with him, she’d lead the way and kiss him first, I bet.”

“That’s spiteful.”

“Oh, open your eyes, and if he deigns to talk to you again, open your mouth.”

Henriette and Catherine discussed the maid of honor’s departure at one long end of the gallery under a tapestry of Ulysses’ faithful wife, Penelope.

“I feel at fault. It’s terrible that her father’s taking her away,” Henriette said.

“It will give the court something to chew on,” said Catherine. “Better her than you. What an extreme reaction, though. Wouldn’t that be awful, to be swept from court like that? And she must be devastated, particularly since she thinks she has his majesty’s interest.”

Both shuddered. This was the center of the world, but a father or a brother or a husband could remove you from it if they so desired. It wasn’t a question of fairness; it was life. Henriette thought about Philippe, thought about the fact that he hadn’t ordered her away to one of his estates. I’m going to be kinder when he returns, she thought. She was on edge. Act the way you would if you were innocent, advised Catherine. She was innocent. Some kisses, some unwise words, that was all she’d done. This wasn’t her fault, not all of it. Too many people wished to blame her, and her alone.

L
ATER, NEAR TO
dusk, cloaked and masked, Catherine walked to Nicolas’s house in the minister’s courtyard of the palace.

“Can you imagine it?” she said, pacing up and down his chamber as she described the quarrel among the women of the royal family. “Queen Anne demanded that she apologize. Madame was beside herself, and as for her mother, well, she swears she will never speak to Queen Anne again. In fact, she’s ordered her trunks packed and is leaving tomorrow morning early, which is, as Madame says, the one blessing out of all this. But the insult, the indignity is just too much! Madame says she will not talk to Queen Anne or her majesty willingly again.”

“Has she spoken to his majesty?”

“She sent a note.”

“And his response?”

“He hasn’t responded.”

“If I may say so, Madame needs to tread lightly around this, Catherine.”

Her expression was disdainful. Nicolas made a steeple with his fingers and regarded her over them. How strong-willed she is, he thought. She and her brother needed something large like a war to be happy. “When a man’s mistress begins to make trouble, a man may choose to let her go,” he said.

“She isn’t his mistress yet.”

“She’d have more power if she were. What is she waiting for?”

“What fools you all are. Ruled by that thing between your legs.”

“We’re only ruled by it until we get what we want. Then we can be remarkably cool-headed.”

Catherine knelt before him in a rush of fabric and skirts. “What do you know? What has his majesty said? Is he angry with Madame?”

“He hasn’t done me the honor of sharing his state of mind.” Queen Anne had, however, but that was not something Catherine or anyone needed to know. “I simply advise you and Madame to play this carefully.” This was going to be a massive storm if the principals weren’t more discreet, he thought. Queen Anne was furious, ready to do anything to see it ended.

“Tell Madame I have a shipment from Italy. In it are many beautiful things her majesty might admire, relics of saints’ bones, rosaries, prayer books. A gift will make her apology seem more genuine. She must reassure the queen, Catherine. If she were wise, she’d throw herself at the queen’s feet and beg forgiveness for being too flirtatious, or too flighty, or something. His majesty is not going to be happy if his queen is not happy. Advise Madame to think about that. Advise Madame to take love to its next level. Now, that being said, put your arms around me and take our love there.”

“Are you remarkably cool-headed?”

“Never when I am with you.”

Later, when Catherine slipped back to Madame’s part of the palace, she found Henriette crying.

“Look what he writes me,” Henriette said.