Mother, of course, has dancing planned. No performance—there will be time enough for those by the score in the weeks that lie between this day and my wedding—but the first of a string of increasingly elaborate balls culminating in the nuptial celebrations themselves. The King of Navarre and I are to open the dancing. But I have had enough of my mother’s script. The next part I act will be to my own liking.
As we descend from the dais, I make a little stumble and then, with a small cry, let myself collapse off the bottom step, the corner of which catches me in the lower back, causing me to cry out again—this time in genuine painful surprise. There will be a bruise there later. My cousin looks down at me. His eyes are not unkind but nor do they seem concerned. He has either guessed my ruse or truly does not care whether I have injured myself. Her Majesty bustles forward.
“Daughter, what is the matter?” Her tone is all concern but her eyes are sharp.
“Nothing serious, Madame,” I declare. Then, trying to sound regretful, “But I fear I have twisted my ankle.”
“You cannot dance.” It is a statement, not a question. She gestures to a knot of ladies nearby to assist me and, before Charlotte and Henriette can even separate themselves from the throng, turns her back, leaving me to sit where I fell. “Your Majesty,” she says to the King of Navarre, “I will be sorry not to see you dance with my daughter on this occasion, but you will have a lifetime to partner the Duchesse de Valois. For this evening I hope you will allow me the pleasure of choosing you a pretty partner to stand in her stead.”
“With your permission.” I do not realize he is addressing me until I feel all eyes upon me where I stand, balanced on one foot, with an arm around each Henriette and Charlotte. My cousin inclines his head deferentially. “If you wish it, I will be quite content to forgo dancing and bear you company.”
Why, I wonder, am I always left feeling vaguely guilty by this man?
“Sir, you must not abridge your evening’s entertainments on my account. I will be very happy to watch you dance with another.” There is no lie in this.
“Duchesse de Nevers,” Mother says, “can you manage the Duchesse de Valois? Good.” Mother takes Charlotte’s hand. “Your Majesty, may I present the Baronne de Sauve. She will stand well in my daughter’s place.”
Charlotte offers her famed shy, intriguing smile. She looks slightly in awe of my cousin—like a deer who might be lured in to eat from one’s hand or, by a single wrong move, sent bounding into the forest. The look is a lovely lie, of course. My friend is not timid. She is not waiting to be beguiled. She is as much the King of Navarre’s as I am—both of us condemned to his use by Mother.
I am nearly forgotten once the music begins. Nearly. Mother glances my way periodically, weighing perhaps both my actions and what may be expected next from me. Henri sees this as he circles the room, unsmiling, and is careful to stay at a distance as he passes me. During one such pass I raise my skirt a bit and wiggle my ankle to make certain he understands my ruse. Even this fails to draw a smile.
Unlike my beloved, the King of Navarre comes more than once to where I sit. On the first occasion he inquires after my ankle. On subsequent ones he introduces me to various gentlemen, each of whom looks vaguely the same in a dark doublet. Each also wears the same polite but distrustful expression, and offers a bow that is correct but betrays no real sense of honor in meeting me.
At last the tedious evening winds to a close. The King of Navarre goes off with his companions and I, on the arm of Henriette and limping noticeably until I am sure we are alone, retreat to my apartment. As we enter my bedchamber, my friend begins at once. “Well, the welcome is over,” she says, motioning for me to turn so that she and Gillone can begin to undress me. “You were very clever, contriving not to dance with the King of Navarre. I was not so fortunate.”
“And what did you think of my groom?”
“His accent is bad and his odor, Mon Dieu, it is worse. My poor dear!” Henriette hugs me impulsively. “You are to be married to a mountain goat, but I dare say you will survive and give him a proper goat’s horns. Apropos of which, Guise was pale tonight. And that broken glass! I told him that you will give him every sort of tender reassurance when he comes ce soir. But even that seemed insufficient to lighten his mood.”
“I will give him more than you think.”
“Really? You astonish me! I can think of nothing you have not already given him and nothing he has not given you. I am quite envious, in fact, of all the ways you have enjoyed him. Now that Monsieur has been recalled to Portugal, I have nothing better to take between my legs than my husband. Heaven help me.”
“I will give him a promise,” I reply, stepping out of the underskirt and farthingale that ring my feet and waiting patiently until Gillone disappears into my wardrobe to finish my thought. “A promise of fidelity. Do you know what I told my cousin this evening?”
“I cannot imagine.”
“That he will never kiss more than the hand of mine he takes unwillingly.”