“Mademoiselle Marguerite, do you not get exercise enough hunting?” she asks. “Must you run about like a child when left to your own devices? Such is the behavior of the Prince of Navarre, not a princess of France.”
The comparison stings. I’ve seldom thought of my cousin since his mother outwitted mine and took him from Court shortly after the New Year. Jeanne d’Albret told Mother she would show the Prince his patrimony. She had Mother’s blessing for that, but then she rode onward to Poitou and Gascony beyond, without Mother’s leave—or Charles’. Everyone says it is unlikely we will see the Prince of Navarre in France again, unless the peace breaks and he is at the head of an army. This talk vexes Mother. But while I recognize my cousin’s absence is some sort of political loss, I find it entirely positive. I do not miss him and cannot imagine anyone else does. I certainly do not want my behavior compared to his.
“Anjou wishes me to make changes to our costumes and, given the short time before the ball, I was eager to start,” I mumble apologetically.
“Hm.” The Baronne gives me one last stern look, then says, “Here is someone who can assist you.” She gestures to the girl. “Your mother has decided you are old enough to have your own attendant.”
This is startling and pleasing news—a recognition of my maturity, even if the thus-far-silent gray-eyed girl looks very young.
“May I present Gillone de Goyon de Matignon, daughter of Count de Matignon and Thorigny.” The girl curtsys neatly. “A cot has been placed in your wardrobe for the Mademoiselle.” My gouvernante looks about as if determining whether there is other business to attend to. Apparently concluding there is not, she says, “I will leave the two of you to become acquainted.”
I stand looking stupidly at this Gillone. She lowers her eyes under my gaze as I might under Mother’s, stirring empathy in my breast. I’ve been made to feel uncomfortable sufficiently often that I do not wish to make this girl so. Looking about, I spot Henri’s costume in a heap on my bed.
“Gillone,” I say, “please go to my wardrobe and fetch my pale blue robe in the Grecian style.” She curtsys again and departs without a word. While she is gone, I find my sewing and embroidery things and begin to pull the trim from Henri’s costume. Head bent over my work, I start when a skirt comes into my field of vision. Gillone returned so quietly that I did not hear her. When I raise my eyes, she curtsys.
“Goodness, you move as silently as a shadow! It is not necessary to curtsy every time you come into my presence. You will exhaust yourself.”
“Yes, Your Highness.” She nearly curtsys, but catches herself.
Gazing at her standing with my robe over her arm, wondering what to do next, I realize that I am nearly as uncertain. I think of those among my mother’s household who have been with her the longest. These ladies are not merely the women who dress the Queen or sit to embroider with her: they hear her worries and hold her confidences; they are friends. That is what I want.
“How old are you?” I ask.
“Twelve last January.”
So she is older than she looks. Closer to my age, fourteen, than any member of Mother’s household. Closer than either of my dearest friends, for Charlotte is seventeen and Henriette will soon be five-and-twenty.
“I was younger than you when I joined Her Majesty’s household. The Court can be overwhelming. When I came, the Baronne de Sauve helped me to find my feet. I will help you, and we will be great friends.” I smile broadly and am rewarded by just the slightest upturn at the corners of her mouth. “Now help me with these costumes. The Duc d’Anjou demands they be made over, and I do not like to disappoint my brother.”
*
Henri is not disappointed. “Wonderful!” he says, putting his arm about my waist and examining our images in my glass.
“We do not really look like twins, for you are much taller,” I say.
“I am sure Apollo was taller than Artemis. Men are always taller. And we are alike in a more important way. We each set the standard for our sex. We have no equal—not on the dance floor, nor in conversation, nor in looks—save the other.” He puffs up his chest importantly. I feel a great urge to laugh, but know better. Henri’s pride is a serious thing.
“I am pleased that you think me the loveliest woman at Court. Or perhaps you only flatter me to make certain I will continue to make over your costumes at short notice. After all, I see you looking at Mademoiselle de Rieux a great deal these days.”
My brother blushes. “That is a different matter,” he mutters. “Her face cannot compare to yours.”
I might say it is not her face he looks at. But the observation would make me more uncomfortable than it would make him. Renée has been flirting with Henri for as long as I can remember, sometimes less, sometimes more. Presently more. Much more. I have never liked her and I like her less still when she sits upon my brother’s lap or I catch him staring at her bosom.