I remember. Of course I do.
“This meeting with Spain is to be more than a reunion of family,” Mother continues. “Much as I long to embrace your sister, I have other, more diplomatic needs. Or rather, France does. And the Spanish desire something more than to invest Charles with the Order of the Golden Fleece.
“I have summoned you because you are a marriageable young woman. I understand that your courses have come regularly for more than half a year.”
I drop my eyes to the hem of Mother’s gown and blush. Much as I wanted her recognition of this change when it happened—recognition that never came—her frank, offhanded mention of it now mortifies me.
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
“Excellent. His Majesty the King desires closer ties with Spain. Beside ties of blood, ties of marriage are the surest. We will forward a match for you with King Philip’s son, the Prince of Asturias. Then you can wear the Spanish crown when your sister is Dowager.”
Queen of Spain! If my cheeks are pink now, it is with pleasure, not shame. I can hardly wait to tell Charlotte. No wonder Claude smiled at me.
“I, a bride!”
“Ah,” Mother says quickly, “but you must not speak of it openly. Not until it is signed and sealed.” Walking to the alcove of the nearest window, she brushes a pile of folded chemises from the seat as if they were inconsequential. Seating herself, she motions to the place beside her.
When I am settled, she leans in as if we are conspirators.
“I will do all I can to secure this match,” she says, stroking my hand where it rests upon the bench between us. “And I will employ your sister Elisabeth in the business. Her letters and my spies indicate she is highly regarded by her husband and allowed considerable influence. But you must do your part as well.”
I nod, eager to do what I can to please Mother.
“I have sent orders ahead to Bayonne for more than a dozen new gowns for your wardrobe. Every moment you are in company with the Spanish, you must be fashionable, you must be graceful, you must be modest. You have become a young lady of note based upon more than your birthright these last months…”
A compliment from Mother! I feel a rush of pleasure. I have been working hard to mold myself into a true lady of the Court, half Baronne de Retz and half—much to the Baronne’s hinted displeasure—Duchesse de Nevers. How wonderful to think Mother has noticed the results.
“… Display your natural wit, but never to the disadvantage of the Prince or any member of your sister’s retinue. Display your piety at every opportunity, for the Spanish are as fanatical in their devotion to the Church of Rome as Admiral Coligny and his fellows are to their so-called reformed religion.”
“Madame, I will obey you in everything.”
A sharp knock sounds.
Mother takes both my hands and kisses them. “Do your duty to me and to the King and you will be a Spanish princess before the year is out. Now go—that will be your brother Henri.”
“Henri?” I ask, rising. But Mother’s mind has already left me.
My brother bows to me on his way in, but there is no opportunity to tell him my news. I burn to tell him. So, though I have packing of my own to attend to, I wait outside for his business to be finished. Queen of Spain! I turn the title over in my mind. A queen like my mother. And like my sister. True, the crown of Spain must wait for my sister’s husband to die, but to be in line for such a crown is a mighty thing, and I will be Princess of Asturias in the meantime. If I must go to a strange land, it will be good to be part of my sister’s court. I hardly remember her, but family is family.
My thoughts turn to my prospective groom. I long to ask someone what the Prince of Asturias looks like. I wonder if he likes dancing. If he is as spritely of step as Henri? Oh, why did my brother interrupt my time with Mother before I could ask such questions?
Henri emerges, the door falling closed behind him with a tremendous bang. He strides past as if I were invisible. Following, I grab his arm. “I am going to be a Spanish princess,” I say. Only as he turns do I notice his black looks.
“Devil take the Spanish!” He gives a fierce shake to free himself of me.
“Henri, what is the matter?”
“Yours is not the only marriage being discussed. Our brother expects me to marry a woman old enough to be my mother.” He gives a kick to a small bench along the wall and it skitters away like an animal.
“Who?”
“The King of Spain’s widowed sister.” He spits the words out. “She is thirty. Thirty! I told Mother no. Said that the very suggestion shows my happiness means nothing to her.”
“You didn’t.” I am stricken that he would defy Mother when she loves him so dearly and when she has every right to expect his cooperation in the crown’s arrangement of his marriage.