Even though we are just five in the room, both Anne d’Este and my sister glance around nervously at this pronouncement.
“Are you through too with all ambition?” Henri’s mother asks. “Content to be a ruined man and stay one? Are you ready to cast all that your father achieved for this house aside and live—if you are allowed to live—at Joinville in obscurity?”
My beloved starts as if slapped. His arm goes slack for a moment as if he would release me, then tightens again. “Surely matters are not so serious.” He tries to laugh but fails. “Or at least not permanently so.”
“Your Highness,” the Duchesse de Nemours appeals to me, “speak to him.”
“Yes. Marguerite, speak,” Henri urges. “Tell them what we mean to each other.”
“Henri, you know that I love you”—I am surprised at the calm of my own voice—“but my sister is right: Charles will never allow us to be happy. He has set his mind against us and the only person who could turn it, my mother, wishes us ill.”
This time he does release me, taking a step away so he can see my face. The pain and confusion in his eyes wrings my heart.
“Will you urge me to marry another? For that is what the Duc de Lorraine proposes. He wants me to set the Princesse de Porcien in the place you thought to occupy.” His voice is urgent, but still tinged with confidence. Oh, Henri, how I love your boldness, but this is, sadly, no moment for bravado.
Impatiently he takes another step away, rounds on me and, with eyes as sharp as swords ever were, lowers his voice and demands, “Will you say you no longer wish to be my wife?”
“I need not give voice to a lie to urge prudence upon you. I want to be your wife more than I have ever wanted anything, but my experience of life tells me that what I want does not matter—it has never mattered. The King told me the night of the ball that he will see you dead before he will consent to see us wed.” I notice the Duchesse de Nemours put a hand out to steady herself at these words. “Do you believe that if I cannot have you I would wish you dead? Can you ask me to carry your destruction on my conscience?”
Henri hangs his head. And I know we are close to prevailing. Success has never seemed more unwelcome. The first tear rolls down my cheek and I brush it away angrily. I cannot afford to give in to my own emotions until I have finished.
“Henri, look at me.”
He does not look up.
Slowly, as if I were a woman of great age, my bones brittle, I move forward and get to my knees before him. I can see him watching through lowered lashes. “My love,” I plead, “you must save yourself. You cannot be my husband but you can yet thrive as one of the greatest and most powerful men in France. Do not let my brother take your future as he has taken mine.” My voice shakes and, despite my best efforts, tears continue to fall. Henri looks at me squarely.
“What would you have me do?” he asks, his voice breaking.
“Solicit the hand of the Princess de Porcien.”
“You condemn me to a life of unhappiness.”
“I condemn myself to one as well. And yet I think it a good bargain, for while you may despair of domestic contentment, I believe you will find purpose and satisfaction in other realms. I pray it may be so.” I mean what I say, but saying it takes the last of my strength. I collapse to the floor and, heedless of my dignity, lay on my side weeping.
Falling to his knees beside me, Henri gathers me to him so that he cradles me against his breast like a child. “Help her,” he says to my sister.
“Only you can do that.”
Henri rocks me gently, putting his lips first against my temple and then close to my ear. “I will marry her,” he whispers. “God forgive me for the lies I will tell at the altar when I do, and for the pain I have caused you.” Raising his head, he says to the others, “Make your plans. Seek the lady’s hand on my behalf and I will take it.”
I feel a tear drop from Henri’s face onto mine. Looking past my beloved, I see that the Duc de Lorraine has turned away—either moved or horrified by his cousin’s display of emotion. Claude and the Duchesse de Nemours cling to one another. Their eyes are wet, yet they shine with triumph. I ought to feel the victory as well—Henri is saved—but I am conscious of nothing but pain, my own and Henri’s.
My sister takes a step forward and reaches out a hand.
“No!” Henri’s voice is adamant. “Leave her. You have succeeded in separating us, but not yet. Not yet!”
I bury my face against his chest.
I sense rather than see the others retreat. A click of the great oak door marks their passing. I am seized by the sudden horrible thought that this is the last time Henri and I will ever be alone together.
Henri’s hand is on my hair, both catching and caressing it. He is shaking, not with desire, but with grief, and so am I. Tipping my face up, I see in his eyes a mirror of my own heartbreak. “We haven’t much time,” I sob. No, we have no time at all.