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Authors: Jaclyn Reding

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BOOK: The Adventurer
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“Do you see him, dear?” said Aunt Idonia beside her. The woman stood barely four feet and ten, so Isabella could scarcely see her head even though she was standing on her toes and craning her pudgy neck above her lace neckerchief to try to see. “Do you see
le Roi Soleil?”

Isabella turned, smiling in apology to a young courtier whose elbow she’d brushed. “Aunt, that Louis isn’t the king any longer. ’Tis his great-grandson now, Louis the
Fifteenth.”

She decided not to mention that if by some stretch of divine providence the previous Louis were still king, he would by then be the rather ripe old age of one hundred and nine.

“Goodness,” was all Idonia could say before a trumpeter’s blast sounded out, signaling that the captain of the guard was readying to summon the next name on his list.

Isabella looked around the room. There was no possible way the king would be able to see them all. She began to wonder if her errand would prove a colossal waste of time as the door leading to the king’s private apartments opened and closed.

Voices hushed. Necks craned. The room fell so silent Isabella could hear the grumble of someone’s hungry stomach who was standing nearby. Suddenly, a voice bellowed out in French from the opposite side of the room.

“Lady Isabella Drayton and Lady Idonia Fenwycke of Drayton Hall in Northumbria!”

Isabella’s heart gave a nervous lurch.

Heads began turning left and then right, searching the crowd for the stranger who’d been called. Some whispered. Others muttered, grumbling that they hadn’t yet been chosen. Isabella quickly arranged the gift box under one arm, took her aunt by the hand, and headed off for the door, struggling to weave her way past the scores of others standing in her way.

Pardon ...

Excusez-moi ...

S’il vous plaît, monsieur ...

It took several minutes and a great deal of effort, and by the time they arrived, the captain was readying to call the next name on his list.

“Non!”
she cried out.

He gaped at Isabella as she shoved through the crowd.
“Oui, mademoiselle?”

“You just called for me. I am Lady Isabella Drayton,” she answered in practiced French. “And this is Lady Idonia Fenwycke.”

The captain frowned blandly. “The king does not much like to be kept waiting, mademoiselle.”

“Yes, I’m certain but I—”

He spun on his heel and marched through the door.

“Oh, no.” Isabella looked at her aunt. “We were too late getting through the crowd. Now we’ll never get to see—”

“Mademoiselle,” whispered a palace guardsman who stood like a statue to one side of the door. He motioned with a quick shake of with his periwigged head. “You are to follow the captain inside.”

Isabella smiled at him. “Oh, thank you so very—”

“Mademoiselle Drayton.”

The captain had reappeared, looking quite annoyed with her. “Do you or do you not wish to see the King of France this morning?”

“I do. I do,” she said again and hastened to meet him, quickly dragging Idonia behind her.

The captain didn’t say a word as he ushered them through a series of at least a half dozen different chambers, each more elegant than the last. Walls were papered in rich red silk beneath gleaming gold and sparkling chandeliers. Their footsteps echoed on floors tiled in gleaming black and white marble. It was quite like entering the gates of Olympus and leaving the mortal world behind; indeed the rooms reflected that same notion as they passed through chambers named for Venus, Diana, Mars, and Mercury, each with scenes of their divine namesake emblazoned across the lofty ceilings.

They arrived at the most magnificent chamber of them all, the Apollo Salon, which served as the king’s throne room. As she came through the doorway, Isabella found herself pausing to stare; it was impossible not to. What lay before her quite literally took her breath away.

The walls were covered with gold and silver silk that shimmered beneath the lights of the chandeliers. Gilded candelabras in the figures of life-sized goddesses surrounded the room beneath the image of Apollo racing his chariot across the ceiling above them. A portrait of Louis XIV dressed in royal ermine regalia hung on one wall. Directly across hung another, similar portrait, with the subject wearing the same robes and striking much the same pose. It was the image of the boy-king, Louis XV, and it looked to have been painted some two decades earlier. The king couldn’t have been any older than nineteen, perhaps twenty.

Several guards and ministers stood about the room, chatting quietly together and watching her entrance. The throne stood at the opposite end of the room, on a dais that was covered with a rich golden carpet beneath a large red and gold canopy.

The captain who had shown her there stopped before the dais, bowed his head, and announced, “Lady Isabella Drayton and Lady Idonia Fenwycke of Drayton Hall in Northumbria, Your Majesty.”

There was a pregnant moment before a voice finally summoned, “Come. Come forward, mademoiselle.”

Isabella walked cautiously forward.

She had heard tell amidst the drawing rooms in Paris that Louis was a handsome man, and indeed he was, from his perfectly coiffed and powdered wig to the high red heels of his jeweled and buckled shoes. His was a stately beauty, his mouth slightly pursed, and dark heavy eyes above a prominent Bourbon nose. He appeared to be of a middling height, yet somehow, even sitting, everyone else in the room seemed to shrink in comparison.

Isabella stopped before the dais and swept into a low and graceful curtsy. Beside her, Idonia did the same though not so low and not so graceful.

“It is an honor to meet you, Your Majesty,” Isabella said upon rising. “My parents, the duke and duchess, send their warmest regards to you and Her Majesty, the queen.”

The king regarded her with a pleasant smile, his fingers steepled before him. “We have been anticipating your arrival, mademoiselle.” He sat forward on the throne. “I understand from your father’s letter that you have been to Paris these many weeks?”

“Yes, Your Majesty. This was my first visit to France.”

“Tell us, did you find our fair city to your liking?”

“Oh, indeed. I think it the most beautiful place I have ever been.”

Her answer seemed to please the king. His smile deepened and he nodded in agreement. “Well, then, may this not be your last visit to us, eh?”

Isabella looked down and noticed the gift box she’d set at her feet. She bent to retrieve it, holding up the round, brightly wrapped parcel. “May I present a token from my father?”

The king moved to take the box from her. “This looks like a hatbox, mademoiselle? Tell me, does my friend the duke send me
un chapeau Anglais
to take the place of my French crown?”

He chuckled as his own jest as he took hold of the box. Just then a sound came from inside of it, a highly pitched, mewling sort of noise that seemed doubly loud in the quiet of the room.

“What is this?” Louis said, obviously puzzled. “A hat ... that whimpers?”

He pulled the ribbon bow that held the lid in place and opened the box to reveal a small white kitten tucked away inside on a tasseled pillow. It was a rare angora Persian that had taken her father some trouble to acquire, and the kitten had spent the past weeks in Paris with Isabella, skulking about the town house. He would now have an entire palace to explore.

The kitten lifted its sleepy head from the pillow, blinked at the king, and mewed.

“La!
It isn’t a hatbox at all. It is a
cat
box!”

As the others in the room laughed at the king’s jest, Louis lifted the kitten out of the box, cradled him in his silk-clad arm, and scratched him behind his pointed ears.

The kitten responded with a happy purr.

“Your father, he knows how much I love
les chats.”
He held up the kitten before him, very close to his nose. “But what shall we call you,
petit?”

“If I may be so bold, Your Majesty. I had taken to calling him Étoile while we were in Paris.”

“La! C’est parfait!
Because he is so brilliant and so bright ...”

“And he is quite a happy traveler, too. He sat curled upon the back of the coach seat all the way here, watching the scenery pass through the windows.”

Louis glanced to where a young woman, uncommonly beautiful with large eyes and an elegant mouth, had come forward to stand beside him. She stood poised like a delicate dove. “Look,
ma chère?
Is not
le petit chat
beautiful?”

The lady smiled and inclined her head, stroking the kitten softly. There was an ease and informality in the touch of her slim fingers as she stood beside the king, their heads bowed together. She could not be the queen, this woman, Isabella knew, for Queen Marie was some seven years older than Louis and it was quite known that since the birth of their tenth child, they did not much associate with one another. These two whispered together and when the woman laughed and reached up to touch Louis softly on the side of his face, Isabella realized she must be none other than the king’s inimitable mistress, the Marquise de Pompadour.

It was a thought confirmed not a moment later by the king himself.

“The marquise would be honored if you would grace us with your company this evening at a small supper in her apartments here at the palace.”

Supper? Her father hadn’t said anything about her staying at the palace any longer than to exchange a few pleasant words and curtsies.

“Oh, I do thank you, Your Majesty. It would indeed be a great honor, but I’m afraid I must decline.”

Isabella heard a soft gasp behind her. She noticed several of the courtiers standing nearby open their mouths in astonishment. One of them even shook his head at her in disapproval. Apparently the king and his mistress were not customarily refused.

She quickly explained. “I am traveling with my aunt, you see, on our way back to England. We had not planned to stay the night at Versailles, but were going to continue onward for the coast. I’m afraid we did not engage rooms for the evening.”

“That can be easily remedied by
mon secrétaire,
Pitou. We shall find an apartment for you and
ta chère tante
here, at the palace, for the night.”

He glanced to his right, apparently to Pitou, who stepped forward, nodded, bowed, and immediately set off.

“There. You see, it is already settled. Now you may spend the day enjoying the pleasures of Versailles instead of stuffed away inside some creaking carriage. Then you may depart for Calais on the morrow refreshed and rested.
Oui?
And I can even provide you with company for your journey.” He waved to a man who stood across the room. The man walked quickly forward, an older gentleman who wore a rather large periwig.

“Lord Belcourt here has been visiting us from England and departs on the morrow from Calais as well. I’m certain he would welcome the company of two ladies in his coach.”

“Oh, indeed, Your Majesty,” the man said. “In fact, as it seems we are on the same ship, and since I am personally acquainted with Lady Isabella’s father, the duke, it would be an honor to see the ladies safely delivered all the way to Edinburgh.”

Isabella could see no polite way of refusing. “Thank you very much, my lord. Your Majesty.” She dipped into another curtsy. “We would be honored.”

Louis took her hand and pressed a light kiss to it.

“Until tonight then, Mademoiselle Drayton.”

Chapter Three

The palace gardens were every bit as grandiose and fantastic as the château itself.

Mythical fountains in gold and bronze shimmered beneath the summer sun. The roses and wisteria bloomed brighter, smelled sweeter than any Isabella had ever before seen. There were boxwood hedges, clipped and shaped in symmetrical elegance. Even the birds flitting about the cherry trees seemed to sing with an airier song, all lending to the illusion of a flawless unspoiled paradise.

With the help of one of the palace pages assigned by the king to act as their guide, Isabella and Idonia spent the afternoon taking in every wonder—the glorious fountains of Apollo and Neptune, the perfectly formed parterres lined with exotic trees. They enjoyed a gondola ride on the elegant Grand Canal, and sampled succulent fruit fresh from the trees in the
Orangerie.
They climbed each and every one of the famed Hundred Steps and then paused to catch their breath against the tightness of their stays on the Terrace overlooking the long stretch of
le Tapis Vert.

It was amazing, really, that not a century before that same magnificent panorama had been naught but a modest hunting lodge amidst miles of barren marshland, with no woods, no water, and no view. Within the space of an age it had been magically transformed into a collection of fourteen different groves, brilliant chambers in an outdoor garden palace, separated by grand arbors of chestnut and elm. Fountains powered by hydraulics that made streams of water dance and bubble were hidden all throughout, complemented by marble statuary reminiscent of an ancient Grecian grotto.

It was impossible to see it all in that one short afternoon, but they took in the highlights, ending their tour at the famed Pall Mall lawn. There, while Idonia stopped to watch some of the courtiers at play, Isabella slipped away for a stroll through the Topiary Maze to reflect privately on the evening ahead.

Just the idea of being surrounded by strangers, on display, having to actually
talk
about herself, was enough to make her stomach turn a reel. She was only supposed to have stopped at the palace
briefly,
to make a momentary gesture of goodwill on her father’s behalf. She was to have been announced to the king, present him with the gift her father had sent, and then she was to be off.

But, now, somehow suddenly, she was staying on for the night, and more so than that, she was supping with the king in the private apartments of his most notorious mistress!

How had this happened?

Anyone else would be turning cartwheels at such a boon opportunity.

BOOK: The Adventurer
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