Mother offers him a smile—the patronizing type adults give children. But she does not answer him. Instead she speaks to the dowager. “Your son’s feelings honor his fallen father, but also reveal his youth. You and I, Duchesse, have lived long enough to know how very short a time three years are when properly reckoned.”
The Duchesse curtsys. “Your Majesties, we will be patient, since that is the King’s will.” She touches her son on his shoulder and he bows, then the two make their way down the aisle. I see a mingling of confusion and impatience in the Duc’s eyes as he glances sideways at his mother. He is quite as handsome as he is tall.
My observations are arrested by the voice of a household officer. “Her Highness the Duchesse de Valois,” he announces.
I look at Madame and she nods. Down the aisle I go to a general murmuring while the others of my party, announced in the same officious tone, follow. Stopping at the foot of the dais, I am aware that all eyes are upon me. I stand as straight as I can before executing my curtsy.
“Sister,” Charles says, “we are pleased to have you at our Court. You will be a great ornament to it, we are certain, for we have received good report of your wit and of your dancing.”
I am surprised. I supposed my education beneath Charles’ notice. And if Mother is the source of Charles’ information, then I am astounded to hear him praise me. There have certainly been very few words of approbation in the letters she sends Madame—or at least in those portions read out to me. Why, I wonder, if she is willing to speak well of me to my brother, can Mother not spare a word of encouragement for me? I have worked so hard this past year—applying myself to every lesson, whether with the tutor she sent for me or with my dancing master.
Turning to Her Majesty, Charles says, “Madame, the collection of beauties in your household is already the envy of every court in Europe, and here is another lovely addition.”
I am to be a member of my Mother’s household!
“As Your Majesty’s grandfather King Francis was wont to say, ‘A court without beautiful women is springtime without roses,’” Mother replies, smiling.
*
Late in the afternoon I get my first glimpse of the roses. Dressed in the sort of finery seldom required at Amboise, I am shepherded to Mother’s apartment by the Baronne de Retz, who came with me from Amboise. The door of Her Majesty’s antechamber opens to reveal at least two dozen young women. The colors of their fine silks, velvets, and brocades set against the room’s brightly painted walls dazzle my eyes, and the smell of perfumes—both sweet and spicy—fills my nose. The entire scene is fantastical and made even more so by the arresting spectacle of a bright green bird flying above the gathered ladies.
“Here is the little princess!” The woman who exclaims over my arrival gives a small curtsy. Smiling, she reaches out her hand. I offer mine. “She is like a doll,” she says, spinning me around. The other ladies laugh and clap in admiration.
“Something is missing.” This new speaker has hair so blond, it looks like spun gold. She also has the tiniest waist I have ever seen. I simply cannot take my eyes from it. Stepping forward, she takes my chin and tips my face first this way and then that. “A little rouge, I think.”
There is a ripple through the assembled ladies and someone hands a small pot to the woman before me. Opening it, she dips her finger then touches it, now covered with a vermillion substance, to my lips. “Parfaite!” she declares. “She will break many hearts.”
The Baronne de Retz clears her throat softly. “Mademoiselle de Saussauy, Princess Marguerite is too young to think of such things.”
The pretty blonde laughs. “One is never too young to think of such things.”
I like Mademoiselle de Saussauy.
“Where is Charlotte?” the Baronne asks.
A girl with chestnut hair and carefully arched eyebrows comes forward. “Your Highness, may I present Mademoiselle Beaune Semblan?ay. She is the young lady nearest to your own age among the present company. Perhaps you would like to become better acquainted?”
The Mademoiselle holds out her hand. “Come,” she says, “let us go where we can see the dresses better as everyone enters.”
“This is not everyone?” I ask, amazed.
“No indeed, not by half,” my companion replies. “Her Majesty has four score ladies, from the best and oldest houses.”
My companion threads herself expertly through the crowd until we reach a spot that she adjudges satisfactory. As the door swings open to admit two ladies arm in arm, Charlotte screens her mouth with one hand and says, “The shorter is the Princesse de Porcien, the taller her sister the Duchesse de Nevers.”
I can see the resemblance. Both have luxurious hair with tones of auburn. Both have milk-white skin. The Duchesse, however, has the better features, for the Princesse has a childish roundness to her cheeks.
“How old is the Princesse?”
“Fifteen.” I detect envy in my companion’s tone.