Read Online The Virgin's Daughter by Laura Andersen - Free Book Online
Authors: Laura Andersen
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primary aim. He tried to pick out, from the crowd around Dee, Lucette Courtenay. There were half a dozen women of the right age that Julien could see, but none were familiar to him. Her hair had been dark, he remembered—much darker than her mother’s honey gold—but beyond that his memories were hazy.
And then one of the women near Dee turned in his direction. She wore a gown of rosy plum, an unusual shade for springtime, and the starched lace ruff at her neck highlighted her elegant pose. Hecould see even from here that her eyes were blue. She was not French, for he would have remembered seeing her before. But surely life was not so capricious as to turn his heart with the English girl he’d been scoffing at in his head?
Apparently it was exactly that capricious. “Lucie!” Charlotte’s voice pealed above the babble and several heads turned their way as the blue-eyed woman returned Charlotte’s smile and Julien felt, with a shock of dismay, his own heart turn over in reply.
He did not have the right to fall in love.
—
From the moment the French coastline came into sight, Lucette had been in a state of acute aliveness. They landed at Calais, once again precariously held by the English after its brief loss in the 1550s to the French. (King Philip had sent Spanish soldiers to retrieve Calais from the French in 1559 and offered the return of the city to Elizabeth as a wedding gift.) They spent one night at the governor’s home, then set out on horseback for Paris.
The French countryside was a revelation of colour and scent, though Lucette could imagine her practical brothers asking her what was so different about French grass and flowers. She argued against that practicality in her head, silently assuring them that the green of the Picardy hills was an entirely different shade from that of Warwickshire, and the poppies that edged the roads and fields were a much deeper red than anything seen in England.
The language that surrounded her was a hundred different tones of melody, and the French cheeses were sharp on her tongue. And the wine? Well, everyone knew French wine was superior and Lucette enjoyed tasting the different varieties at each meal.
Logically, she knew it for what it was—the rush of excitement at being more or less on her own, at going somewhere wholly for herself, at having a task before her that would call on all her skills of mind and wit. But she reveled in the rush nonetheless.
They stopped in Amiens to view the cathedral, Dr. Dee pointingout the 126 pillars that made the nave the largest interior space in Europe. Although they mostly spoke in French, their group was unmistakably English and there were many curious glances cast at her—and perhaps a few hostile ones as well. The closer they got to Paris, the more she began to grasp the reality of European opposition to her queen and country.
She was not officially presented at the French court, for that would entail a different sort of visit entirely, but when they reached Paris she and Dr. Dee were invited to a feast at the Louvre. Though Henri III was not present, nor his formidable mother, Catherine de Medici, even the edges of Henri’s court were brilliant. She thought herself immune to the trappings of earthly power, made cynical by her long exposure to Elizabeth’s court. But the elegant details of the dresses, the bold behavior of the women, not to mention the noticeable presence of many red-cassocked prelates of the Catholic church, combined to leave Lucette with a hint of unease beneath her pleasure.
In Paris, they were quartered in the luxurious home of Edmund and Marguerite Pearce, a couple who managed to combine their disparate religions and cultures into a pleasing combination of art and scholarship. Edmund Pearce and Dr. Dee were longstanding friends and correspondents and spent many happy hours the first two days wrangling over books in Pearce’s library. Marguerite took Lucette to Notre Dame (to visit, not
And then one of the women near Dee turned in his direction. She wore a gown of rosy plum, an unusual shade for springtime, and the starched lace ruff at her neck highlighted her elegant pose. Hecould see even from here that her eyes were blue. She was not French, for he would have remembered seeing her before. But surely life was not so capricious as to turn his heart with the English girl he’d been scoffing at in his head?
Apparently it was exactly that capricious. “Lucie!” Charlotte’s voice pealed above the babble and several heads turned their way as the blue-eyed woman returned Charlotte’s smile and Julien felt, with a shock of dismay, his own heart turn over in reply.
He did not have the right to fall in love.
—
From the moment the French coastline came into sight, Lucette had been in a state of acute aliveness. They landed at Calais, once again precariously held by the English after its brief loss in the 1550s to the French. (King Philip had sent Spanish soldiers to retrieve Calais from the French in 1559 and offered the return of the city to Elizabeth as a wedding gift.) They spent one night at the governor’s home, then set out on horseback for Paris.
The French countryside was a revelation of colour and scent, though Lucette could imagine her practical brothers asking her what was so different about French grass and flowers. She argued against that practicality in her head, silently assuring them that the green of the Picardy hills was an entirely different shade from that of Warwickshire, and the poppies that edged the roads and fields were a much deeper red than anything seen in England.
The language that surrounded her was a hundred different tones of melody, and the French cheeses were sharp on her tongue. And the wine? Well, everyone knew French wine was superior and Lucette enjoyed tasting the different varieties at each meal.
Logically, she knew it for what it was—the rush of excitement at being more or less on her own, at going somewhere wholly for herself, at having a task before her that would call on all her skills of mind and wit. But she reveled in the rush nonetheless.
They stopped in Amiens to view the cathedral, Dr. Dee pointingout the 126 pillars that made the nave the largest interior space in Europe. Although they mostly spoke in French, their group was unmistakably English and there were many curious glances cast at her—and perhaps a few hostile ones as well. The closer they got to Paris, the more she began to grasp the reality of European opposition to her queen and country.
She was not officially presented at the French court, for that would entail a different sort of visit entirely, but when they reached Paris she and Dr. Dee were invited to a feast at the Louvre. Though Henri III was not present, nor his formidable mother, Catherine de Medici, even the edges of Henri’s court were brilliant. She thought herself immune to the trappings of earthly power, made cynical by her long exposure to Elizabeth’s court. But the elegant details of the dresses, the bold behavior of the women, not to mention the noticeable presence of many red-cassocked prelates of the Catholic church, combined to leave Lucette with a hint of unease beneath her pleasure.
In Paris, they were quartered in the luxurious home of Edmund and Marguerite Pearce, a couple who managed to combine their disparate religions and cultures into a pleasing combination of art and scholarship. Edmund Pearce and Dr. Dee were longstanding friends and correspondents and spent many happy hours the first two days wrangling over books in Pearce’s library. Marguerite took Lucette to Notre Dame (to visit, not
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