Lady Medeiros reads my mind and casts me a sly smile that communicates her approval.
Once my hair is bound and my hat affixed, each of the three ladies takes turn after turn adorning me with smaller accessories. Far too many: a watch pinned just above my breast, a chain of delicate white gold around my neck, a row of lace tucked carefully into my low neckline—not awkward for anyone, that move—a bracelet, thin leather gloves, teardrop pearl earrings, a brooch on my hat, two more for my silk shoes, a ring big enough to be worn on the outside of my glove, a sash about my waist. Finally, another spritz of rose water and then the three ladies—I suppose I must call them ladies, girlish as they are, since each has more than ten years on me—adopt a posture of attention, brimming with anticipation.
Of what?
“Kiss their fingers,” Lady Medeiros hisses at me.
This I remember. A Queenly tradition for more than just the lever. I step forward and offer each lady my hands, palms up. They place their fingertips in mine and I raise their fingers to my lips and kiss them quickly, and as I release them, each woman drops into a deep curtsy, her skirts a perfect circle around her.
They stay low, their heads bowed, until I kiss Lady Medeiros’s hands and she joins them in their subservient position. As soon as she does, the room bursts into applause, and it’s all I can do not to flinch away from the din.
Without so much as glancing at their audience, the ladies rise and file out the back door—the very one through which the infamous Marie-Antoinette made her fabled escape, so many centuries ago. I’m not sure what exactly I’m supposed to do, but in a fit of improvisation, I follow them.
As soon as the door closes behind us, the false smiles are gone and Lady Medeiros heaves a sigh of relief, rubbing at her fingers. “We all expect double pay for that circus.”
“My thanks” is all I manage in reply, but I know she hears the acquiescence in my voice. I have no idea how difficult it will be to wrangle extra credits from the King, who has given me exactly enough control over my finances to maximize his convenience and my dependence, but I’ll probably manage.
Satisfied, my erstwhile attendants traipse away, down to the less-gawked-at lower level of the palace where they all, no doubt, reside.
“You were worth triple,” I whisper once they’ve gone.
IT WAS ONE tiny clause that France had hoped to use to revoke the sale of the Palace of Versailles and its grounds when the true identity of the Haroldson Historical Society was revealed. I once looked up the exact wording in the archives; France’s contract had included an obligation to “restore, maintain, and display the Palace of Versailles as a museum of the French Baroque.” The archives included a formal letter from France insisting that the newly installed King of Sonoman-Versailles fulfill the contractual obligation or return the property.
King Kevin Wyndham, the great-grandfather of my current fiancé, replied that of course they would be displaying the palace. “Why,” he wrote in flourish-heavy script, “would I spend billions to renovate a historical landmark if I had no intention of showing it off?”
Thus we have our Wednesdays.
One day a week, the Palace of Versailles is open to the public. Meaning that we, the palace’s regular inhabitants, are also open to the public.
Not our private apartments. Well, not the typical citizens’ private apartments. As I’ve been so rudely reminded, the suites of the King and Queen—or not-yet-the-Queen, in my case—are fair game. We’re separated from the masses by velvet ropes and are welcome to ignore or indulge their attentions at will. But we must be appropriately garbed, eschew uncamouflaged electronic devices, and speak French.
France tried to argue that one day a week wasn’t sufficient display, but the original King Wyndham had already tripled the number of viewable rooms and added to them period dress, with reenactments of such cultural events as the levers. This, he argued, far outstripped any previous restoration efforts and should absolutely count as a display. And his enthusiasm spoke for itself. After a complimentary day at the palace, an afternoon exploring every corner of the restored Grand Trianon, and a sumptuous feast and formal ball in the Hall of Mirrors, the judge ruled in Sonoma’s favor. I suppose not all bribery need be subtle.