Read Online The French Mistress by Susan Holloway Scott - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Susan Holloway Scott
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Louise, I beg you, don’t!”
She caught up her petticoats with one hand and began to run down the next path and away from me, her hood flopping back over her shoulders and her dark curls bobbing. This I took as invitation enough to chase her, laughing still with my hands filled with the snow.
“Wait, Madame, you’ve forgotten something,” I called gaily, laughing so hard my words could scarce be understood. “Here, Madame, here, a most luscious favor for you!”
Yet just as I came within reach, she stopped abruptly, pressing one hand to her side. Her eyes were squeezed shut, her mouth open as if in pain.
“Madame, what is wrong?” I let the snow drop from my hands and swiftly went to take her by the arm and guide her to the nearest bench, sweeping the snow away now with a purpose beyond frivolous play. “Are you unwell? Sit, if you please, and I’ll go fetch—”
“No, Louise, stay with me.” Her voice wavered unsteadily, and she sucked in a deep breath, then another, before she finally opened her eyes again. “I didn’t mean to frighten you. I—I was laced too tightly, that was all, and my busk felt as if it were pressing the very air from me.”
“Then let me go—”
“Stay,” she said, taking my hand and linking her fingers into mine to make sure I didn’t leave. “That is, please stay with me. Please. I’ll be better in a moment.”
We sat together, and I watched her anxiously, wishing the color would return to her cheeks. I’d seen for myself that Madame’s health was fragile at best. Because she was as delicate as a songbird, her bones were apparent through her flesh, her translucent skin stretched so tautly over them that it was possible to see her lifeblood beat within her veins. I was convinced that only her determinedly bright spirit kept her from failing, as any other woman would.
To see Madame falter like this made me recall the grim whispered portents I’d heard, predicting an early death for her. Four older sisters of hers had already died young, claimed well before their time. She was the last of the Stuart princesses, and I prayed Madame would not be soon to join them.
“Are you certain you are well, Madame?” I asked again. “You are sure?”
“I am.” Her fingers tightened around mine, though from gratitude or pain, I could not say. “Besides, I can’t be ill today. I’ve finally agreed to receive that wretched Duke of Buckingham, and if I don’t, he’ll go back to Charles with all manner of tales about how ill I am.”
She forced herself to smile, more a grimace. “And I won’t have that, Louise. Buckingham has always been a charming dissembler on his own without me supplying him with any further falsehoods.”
“He’s the ginger-haired Englishman, isn’t he?” I asked, deciding to follow her lead to other subjects, and let my concern for her health pass. I’d seen the Duke of Buckingham both at the Palais-Royal and at the Louvre, one of many highborn Englishmen who presented themselves to Louis while visiting Paris. I’d remembered him because he reminded me of a fox. It wasn’t just the color of his hair or the small pointed beard he affected. He’d a sly, glib air of superiority, as if he believed himself to be a thousand times more clever than these dullard French, and it was not pleasant. “The one who thinks so highly of himself ?”
“The same,” she said, her expression showing both her disdain and dislike. “That gentleman has plagued me all my life, Louise. Even now his sister is a lady-in-waiting to my mother, and the pair of them cannot be avoided here in Paris. Our fathers were friends, and he was as good as raised as another brother with my own. Surely Charles treats him so. But, fa, what a cuckoo he’s been in our family’s nest! Over and over again, Buckingham behaves with no regard to the laws of men or God, and again and again my brother will forgive him.”
“I do not believe the duke finds much favor at our Court,” I
She caught up her petticoats with one hand and began to run down the next path and away from me, her hood flopping back over her shoulders and her dark curls bobbing. This I took as invitation enough to chase her, laughing still with my hands filled with the snow.
“Wait, Madame, you’ve forgotten something,” I called gaily, laughing so hard my words could scarce be understood. “Here, Madame, here, a most luscious favor for you!”
Yet just as I came within reach, she stopped abruptly, pressing one hand to her side. Her eyes were squeezed shut, her mouth open as if in pain.
“Madame, what is wrong?” I let the snow drop from my hands and swiftly went to take her by the arm and guide her to the nearest bench, sweeping the snow away now with a purpose beyond frivolous play. “Are you unwell? Sit, if you please, and I’ll go fetch—”
“No, Louise, stay with me.” Her voice wavered unsteadily, and she sucked in a deep breath, then another, before she finally opened her eyes again. “I didn’t mean to frighten you. I—I was laced too tightly, that was all, and my busk felt as if it were pressing the very air from me.”
“Then let me go—”
“Stay,” she said, taking my hand and linking her fingers into mine to make sure I didn’t leave. “That is, please stay with me. Please. I’ll be better in a moment.”
We sat together, and I watched her anxiously, wishing the color would return to her cheeks. I’d seen for myself that Madame’s health was fragile at best. Because she was as delicate as a songbird, her bones were apparent through her flesh, her translucent skin stretched so tautly over them that it was possible to see her lifeblood beat within her veins. I was convinced that only her determinedly bright spirit kept her from failing, as any other woman would.
To see Madame falter like this made me recall the grim whispered portents I’d heard, predicting an early death for her. Four older sisters of hers had already died young, claimed well before their time. She was the last of the Stuart princesses, and I prayed Madame would not be soon to join them.
“Are you certain you are well, Madame?” I asked again. “You are sure?”
“I am.” Her fingers tightened around mine, though from gratitude or pain, I could not say. “Besides, I can’t be ill today. I’ve finally agreed to receive that wretched Duke of Buckingham, and if I don’t, he’ll go back to Charles with all manner of tales about how ill I am.”
She forced herself to smile, more a grimace. “And I won’t have that, Louise. Buckingham has always been a charming dissembler on his own without me supplying him with any further falsehoods.”
“He’s the ginger-haired Englishman, isn’t he?” I asked, deciding to follow her lead to other subjects, and let my concern for her health pass. I’d seen the Duke of Buckingham both at the Palais-Royal and at the Louvre, one of many highborn Englishmen who presented themselves to Louis while visiting Paris. I’d remembered him because he reminded me of a fox. It wasn’t just the color of his hair or the small pointed beard he affected. He’d a sly, glib air of superiority, as if he believed himself to be a thousand times more clever than these dullard French, and it was not pleasant. “The one who thinks so highly of himself ?”
“The same,” she said, her expression showing both her disdain and dislike. “That gentleman has plagued me all my life, Louise. Even now his sister is a lady-in-waiting to my mother, and the pair of them cannot be avoided here in Paris. Our fathers were friends, and he was as good as raised as another brother with my own. Surely Charles treats him so. But, fa, what a cuckoo he’s been in our family’s nest! Over and over again, Buckingham behaves with no regard to the laws of men or God, and again and again my brother will forgive him.”
“I do not believe the duke finds much favor at our Court,” I
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