“As you are not a spy, I need have no fear of doing so.” His smile never falters but his eyes are not so sure as his lips.
As we alight at our destination, the King of Navarre hesitates, looking about. We both see Charlotte at the same moment.
“Go on.”
My husband looks me in the eye.
“I meant what I said last evening—everything I said. Can you, Sir, say the same?” I glance in the direction of Guise. The Duc meets my gaze, his eyes hungry.
“Madame, I am a man who keeps his bargains. May I suggest, however, it is in neither of our interests to openly embarrass the other. I pledge to be discreet.”
“As do I.” Watching my husband move to Charlotte’s side and whisper in her ear, his face glowing, I wonder if I should have warned him Charlotte is Mother’s creature. Should I have hinted that Her Majesty may use the Baronne as a weapon? Perhaps, but I am not ready for such a denouncement.
Mother glides to my side. “Do not stare. People will think you are jealous.”
It is the first time we have spoken today, and this is what she chooses to say?
“I am not.”
She draws my arm through hers and we move up the steps. “If you are, you have only yourself to blame. The King of Navarre gave you every opportunity to win his heart and you would not be bothered.”
“Madame, a single night in my husband’s company has not changed me. I continue to be indifferent.”
“That is good. Indifference is power.”
“That smacks of bitterness.”
“Perhaps.” She pauses. “But it certainly reflects experience. I loved your father and it was folly. In the more than twenty-five years we were married, he never cared for me in that way. If I could have been indifferent to him, it would have been to my advantage.”
I suppose I ought to show sympathy, for surely this is a painful admission. But I am not inclined to be kind to Mother at the moment. “Then I am more fortunate than you.”
“Not yet. I have sons, and you have none. I must exhort you, daughter, not to use your friend Charlotte as an excuse for stinting your duty in that regard.”
“I should think, Madame, you would be the last one to cry if the King of Navarre lacked heirs. Another generation of Protestant Bourbons in the south can hardly be to your liking.”
“Perhaps they will be Catholic comme leur mère. Your cousin’s issue will be as much Valois as Bourbon, and that ought to cool religious strife.”
“Yes, because we are such a loving family—never jealous, never scheming to best each other.” I look pointedly at Anjou where he greets his guests. “After seeing how your sons behave, Madame, I would be afraid to have more than one.”
Mother releases me. The look in her eyes is very near to hate. Yet I find I am not afraid. For the first time I feel I may wound the one who has injured me most frequently with relative impunity.
My husband returns to my side and leads me to the table. During the banquet I have only smiles for him, until I notice that my pleasant looks fire the eyes of my Duc with anger. Tricky. I would convince my cousin our alliance is in earnest, but not at the expense of my beloved’s peace of mind.
Wait, love, when the dining is done I will be your partner, not his.
By the time the Court makes its way out for the return to the Louvre, a goodly number of its members are staggering. Charles, with one arm around the Comte de La Rochefoucauld and the other around my darling Henri, lectures the two boisterously that they should be friends. Rochefoucauld tries to look gracious. Henri does not. My husband, surrounded by his gentlemen, waves to me before taking a horse, I have no idea whose. A moment later he and two dozen gentlemen, my brothers among them, charge out of the courtyard. This leaves me in sole possession of our litter, an opportunity. Coming up behind Charlotte, I put a hand on her shoulder. “Ride with me.”
The moment the curtains are lowered, I ask, “My darling, how are you?”
“Fine. How else should I be?” Her eyes dart from mine and her cheeks color.
“Come, we agreed that we would not let the King of Navarre come between us. You must feel free to gossip and jest as you have about past conquests.”
“There is nothing to joke about. I find your cousin refreshing. He does not talk too much, and when he does he says what he means.”
I do not know how to respond. A week ago I would surely have made a quip about garlic—the same sort of jibe my cousin brushed off good-naturedly on our ride. Now I cannot. “I am glad you find him less displeasing than you anticipated. Glad that we both do. I will feel less guilty enjoying myself with Guise this evening knowing that I do not leave you in an intolerable situation.”
We hold hands and gossip for the rest of our journey about the strangely ardent glances my brother Anjou gave the Princesse de Condé this afternoon.