"I imagine so," I said. I sat up and swung my legs out of bed, checking cautiously for any residual signs of faintness. No swimming of head, ringing of ears, double vision, or inclination to fall on the floor. Vital signs all right.
"I need my yellow gown, and then would you send for the carriage, Louise?" I asked.
Louise looked at me in horror. "You are not meaning to go out? Nonsense! Monsieur Clouseau is coming to attend you! I have sent a messenger to fetch him here at once!"
The news that Monsieur Clouseau, a prominent society physician, was coming from Paris to examine me, would have been sufficient grounds to get me on my feet, had I needed them.
The eighteenth of July was ten days away. With a fast horse, good weather, and a disregard for bodily comfort, the journey from Paris to Orvieto could be made in six. That left me four days to contrive Jamie's release from the Bastille; no time to fiddle about with Monsieur Clouseau.
"Hmm," I said, looking round the room thoughtfully. "Well, call the maid to dress me, at any rate. I don't want Monsieur Clouseau to find me in my shift."
Though she still looked suspicious, this sounded plausible; most ladies of the Court would rise from a deathbed in order to make sure they were dressed appropriately for the occasion.
"All right," she agreed, turning to go. "But you stay in bed until Yvonne arrives, you hear?"
The yellow gown was one of my best, a loose, graceful thing made in the modish sacque style, with a wide rolled collar, full sleeves, and a beaded closure down the front. Powdered, combed, stockinged, and perfumed at last, I surveyed the pair of shoes Yvonne had laid out for me to step into. I turned my head this way and that, frowning appraisingly.
"Mm, no," I said at last. "I don't think so. I'll wear the others, the ones with the red morocco heels, instead."
The maid looked dubiously at my dress, as though mentally assessing the effect of red morocco with yellow moiré silk, but obediently turned to rummage in the foot of the huge armoire.
Tiptoeing silently up behind her in my stockinged feet, I shoved her headfirst into the armoire, and slammed the door on the heaving, shrieking mass beneath the pile of fallen dresses within. Turning the key in the door, I dropped it neatly into my pocket, mentally shaking hands with myself. Neat job, Beauchamp, I thought. All this political intrigue is teaching you things they never dreamt of in nursing school, no doubt about it.
"Don't worry," I told the shaking armoire soothingly. "Someone will be along to let you out soon, I imagine. And you can tell La Princesse that you didn't let me go anywhere."
A despairing wail from inside the armoire seemed to be mentioning Monsieur Clouseau's name.
"Tell him to have a look at the monkey," I called over my shoulder, "It's got mange."
The success of my encounter with Yvonne buoyed my mood. Once ensconced in the carriage, rattling back toward Paris, though, my spirits sank appreciably.
While I was no longer quite so angry at Jamie, I still did not wish to see him. My feelings were in complete turmoil, and I had no intention of examining them closely; it hurt too much. Grief was there, and a horrible sense of failure, and over all, the sense of betrayal; his and mine. He should never have gone to the Bois de Boulogne; I should never have gone after him.
But we both did as our natures and our feelings dictated, and together we had—perhaps—caused the death of our child. I had no wish to meet my partner in the crime, still less to expose my grief to him, to match my guilt with his. I fled from anything that reminded me of the dripping morning in the Bois; certainly I fled from any memory of Jamie, caught as I had last seen him, rising from the body of his victim, face glowing with the vengeance that would shortly claim his own family.
I could not think of it even in passing, without a terrible clenching in my stomach, that brought back the ghost of the pain of premature labor. I pressed my fists into the blue velvet of the carriage seat, raising myself to ease the imagined pressure on my back.
I turned to look out the window, hoping to distract myself, but the sights went blindly by, as my mind returned, unbidden, to thoughts of my journey. Whatever my feelings for Jamie, whether we would ever see each other again, what we might be, or not be, to one another—still the fact remained that he was in prison. And I rather thought I knew just what imprisonment might mean to him, with the memories of Wentworth that he carried; the groping hands that fondled him in dreams, the stone walls he hammered in his sleep.
More importantly, there was the matter of Charles and the ship from Portugal; the loan from Monsieur Duverney, and Murtagh, about to take ship from Lisbon for a rendezvous off Orvieto. The stakes were too high to allow my own emotions any play. For the sake of the Scottish clans, and the Highlands themselves, for Jamie's family and tenants at Lallybroch, for the thousands who would die at Culloden and in its aftermath—it had to be tried. And to try, Jamie would have to be free; it wasn't something I could undertake myself.
No, there was no question. I would have to do whatever I must to have him released from the Bastille.
And just what could I do?
I watched the beggars scramble and gesture toward the windows as we entered the Rue du Faubourg St.-Honoré. When in doubt, I thought, seek the assistance of a Higher Authority.
I rapped on the panel beside the driver's seat. It slid back with a grating noise, and the mustached face of Louise's coachman peered down at me.
"Madame?"
"Left," I said. "To L'Hôpital des Anges."
Mother Hildegarde tapped her blunt fingers thoughtfully on a sheet of music paper, as though drumming out a troublesome sequence. She sat at the mosaic table in her private office, across from Herr Gerstmann, summoned to join us in urgent council.
"Well, yes," said Herr Gerstmann doubtfully. "Yes, I believe I can arrange a private audience with His Majesty, but…you are certain that your husband…um…" The music master seemed to be having unusual trouble in expressing himself, which made me suspect that petitioning the King for Jamie's release might be just a trifle more complicated than I had thought. Mother Hildegarde verified this suspicion with her own reaction.
"Johannes!" she exclaimed, so agitated as to drop her usual formal manner of address. "She cannot do that! After all, Madame Fraser is not one of the Court ladies—she is a person of virtue!"
"Er, thank you," I said politely. "If you don't mind, though…what, precisely, would my state of virtue have to do with my seeing the King to ask for Jamie's release?"
The nun and the singing-master exchanged looks in which horror at my naiveté was mingled with a general reluctance to remedy it. At last Mother Hildegarde, braver of the two, bit the bullet.
"If you go alone to ask such a favor from the King, he will expect to lie with you," she said bluntly. After all the carry-on over telling me, I was hardly surprised, but I glanced at Herr Gerstmann for confirmation, which he gave in the form of a reluctant nod.
"His Majesty is susceptible to requests from ladies of a certain personal charm," he said delicately, taking a sudden interest in one of the ornaments on the desk.
"But there is a price to such requests," added Mother Hildegarde, not nearly so delicate. "Most of the courtiers are only too pleased when their wives find Royal favor; the gain to them is well worth the sacrifice of their wives' virtue." The wide mouth curled with scorn at the thought, then straightened into its usual grimly humorous line.
"But your husband," she said, "does not appear to me to be the sort who makes a complaisant cuckold." The heavy arched brows supplied the question mark at the end of the sentence, and I shook my head in response.
"I shouldn't think so." In fact, this was one of the grosser understatements I had ever heard. If "complaisant" was not the very last word that came to mind at the thought of Jamie Fraser, it was certainly well down toward the bottom of the list. I tried to imagine just what Jamie would think, say, or do, if he ever learned that I had lain with another man, up to and including the King of France.
The thought made me remember the trust that had existed between us, almost since the day of our marriage, and a sudden feeling of desolation swept over me. I shut my eyes for a moment, fighting illness, but the prospect had to be faced.
"Well," I said, taking a deep breath, "is there another way?"
Mother Hildegarde knitted her brows, frowning at Herr Gerstmann, as though expecting him to produce the answer. The little music master shrugged, though, frowning in his turn.
"If there were a friend of some importance, who might intercede for your husband with His Majesty?" he asked tentatively.
"Not likely." I had examined all such alternatives myself, in the coach from Fontainebleau, and been forced to conclude that there was no one whom I could reasonably ask to undertake such an ambassage. Owing to the illegal and scandalous nature of the duel—for of course Marie d'Arbanville had spread her gossip all over Paris—none of the Frenchmen of our acquaintance could very well afford to take an interest in it. Monsieur Duverney, who had agreed to see me, had been kind, but discouraging. Wait, had been his advice. In a few months, when the scandal has died down a bit, then His Majesty might be approached. But now…
Likewise the Duke of Sandringham, so bound by the delicate proprieties of diplomacy that he had dismissed his private secretary for only the appearance of involvement in scandal, was in no position to petition Louis for a favor of this sort.
I stared down at the inlaid tabletop, scarcely seeing the complex curves of enamel that swept through abstractions of geometry and color. My forefinger traced the loops and whorls before me, providing a precarious anchor for my racing thoughts. If it was indeed necessary for Jamie to be released from prison, in order to prevent the Jacobite invasion of Scotland, then it seemed that I would have to do the releasing, whatever the method, and whatever its consequences.
At last I looked up, meeting the music master's eyes. "I'll have to," I said softly. "There's no other way."
There was a moment of silence. Then Herr Gerstmann glanced at Mother Hildegarde.
"She will stay here," Mother Hildegarde declared firmly. "You may send to tell her the time of the audience, Johannes, once you have arranged it."
She turned to me. "After all, if you are really set upon this course, my dear friend…" Her lips pressed tightly together, then opened to say, "It may be a sin to assist you in committing immorality. Still, I will do it. I know that your reasons seem good to you, whatever they may be. And perhaps the sin will be outweighed by the grace of your friendship."
"Oh, Mother." I thought I might cry if I said more, so contented myself with merely squeezing the big, work-roughened hand that rested on my shoulder. I had a sudden longing to fling myself into her arms and bury my face against the comforting black serge bosom, but her hand left my shoulder and went to the long jet rosary that clicked among the folds of her skirt as she walked.
"I will pray for you," she said, smiling what would have been a tremulous smile on a face less solidly carved. Her expression changed suddenly to one of deep consideration. "Though I do wonder," she added meditatively, "exactly who would be the proper patron saint to invoke in the circumstances?"
Mary Magdalene was the name that came to mind as I raised my hands overhead in a simulation of prayer, to allow the small wicker dress frame to slip over my shoulders and settle onto my hips. Or Mata Hari, but I was quite sure she'd never make the Calendar of Saints. I wasn't sure about the Magdalene, for that matter, but a reformed prostitute seemed the most likely among the heavenly host to be sympathetic to the venture being now undertaken.
I reflected that the Convent of the Angels had probably never before seen a robing such as this. While the postulants about to take their final vows were most splendidly arrayed as brides of Christ, red silk and rice powder probably didn't figure heavily in the ceremonies.
Very symbolic, I thought, as the rich scarlet folds slithered over my upturned face. White for purity, and red for…whatever this was. Sister Minèrve, a young sister from a wealthy noble family, had been selected to assist me in my toilette; with considerable skill and aplomb, she dressed my hair, tucking in the merest scrap of ostrich feather trimmed with seed pearls. She combed my brows carefully, darkening them with the small lead combs, and painted my lips with a feather dipped in a pot of rouge. The feel of it on my lips tickled unbearably, exaggerating my tendency to break into unhinged giggles. Not hilarity; hysteria.
Sister Minèrve reached for the hand mirror. I stopped her with a gesture; I didn't want to look myself in the eye. I took a deep breath, and nodded.
"I'm ready," I said. "Send for the coach."
I had never been in this part of the palace before. In fact, after the multiple twists and turnings through the candle-lit corridors of mirrors, I was no longer sure exactly how many of me there were, let alone where any of them were going.
The discreet and anonymous Gentleman of the Bedchamber led me to a small paneled door in an alcove. He rapped once, then bowed to me, whirled, and left without waiting for an answer. The door swung inward, and I entered.
The King still had his breeches on. The realization slowed my heartbeat to something like a tolerable rate, and I ceased feeling as though I might throw up any minute.
I didn't know quite what I had been expecting, but the reality was mildly reassuring. He was informally dressed, in shirt and breeches, with a dressing gown of brown silk draped across his shoulders for warmth. His Majesty smiled, and urged me to rise with a hand under my arm. His palm was warm—I had subconsciously expected his touch to be clammy—and I smiled back, as best I could.
The attempt must not have been altogether successful, for he patted my arm kindly, and said "Don't be afraid of me, chère Madame. I don't bite."
"No," I said. "Of course not."
He was a lot more poised than I was. Well, of course he is, I thought to myself, he does this all the time. I took a deep breath and tried to relax.
"You will have a little wine, Madame?" he asked. We were alone; there were no servants, but the wine was already poured, in a pair of goblets that stood on the table, glowing like rubies in the candlelight. The chamber was ornate, but very small, and aside from the table and a pair of oval-backed chairs, held only a luxuriously padded green-velvet chaise longue. I tried to avoid looking at it as I took my goblet, with a murmur of thanks.
"Sit, please." Louis sank down upon one of the chairs, gesturing to me to take the other. "Now please," he said, smiling at me, "tell me what it is that I may do for you."
"M-my husband," I began, stammering a little from nervousness. "He's in the Bastille."
"Of course," the King murmured. "For dueling. I recall." He took my free hand in his own, fingers resting lightly on my pulse. "What would you have me do, chère Madame? You know it is a serious offense; your husband has broken my own decree." One finger stroked the underside of my wrist, sending small tickling sensations up my arm.
"Y-yes, I understand that. But he was…provoked." I had an idea. "You know he's a Scot; men of that country are"—I tried to think of a good synonym for "berserk"—"most fierce where questions of their honor are concerned."
Louis nodded, head bent in apparent absorption over the hand he held. I could see the faint greasy shine to his skin, and smell his perfume. Violets. A strong, sweet smell, but not enough to completely mask his own acrid maleness.
He drained his wine in two long swallows and discarded the goblet, the better to clasp my hand in both his own. One short-nailed finger traced the lines of my wedding ring, with its interlaced links and thistle blossoms.
"Quite so," he said, bringing my hand closer, as though to examine the ring. "Quite so, Madame. However…"
"I'd be…most grateful, Your Majesty," I interrupted. His head rose and I met his eyes, dark and quizzical. My heart was going like a trip-hammer. "Most…grateful."
He had thin lips and bad teeth; I could smell his breath, thick with onion and decay. I tried holding my own breath, but this could hardly be more than a temporary expedient.
"Well…" he said slowly, as though thinking it over. "I would myself be inclined toward mercy, Madame…"
I released my breath in a short gasp, and his fingers tightened on mine in warning. "But you see, there are complications."
"There are?" I said faintly.
He nodded, eyes still fixed on my face. His fingers wandered lightly over the back of my hand, tracing the veins.
"The Englishman who was so unfortunate as to have offended milord Broch Tuarach," he said. "He was in the employ of…a certain man—an English noble of some importance."
Sandringham. My heart lurched at the mention of him, indirect as it was.
"This noble is engaged in—shall we say, certain negotiations which entitle him to consideration?" The thin lips smiled, emphasizing the imperious prow of the nose above. "And this nobleman has interested himself in the matter of the duel between your husband and the English Captain Randall. I am afraid that he was most exigent in demanding that your husband suffer the full penalty of his indiscretion, Madame."
Bloody tub of lard, I thought. Of course—since Jamie had refused the bribe of a pardon, what better way to prevent his "involving himself" in the Stuarts' affairs than to ensure Jamie's staying safely jugged in the Bastille for the next few years? Sure, discreet, and inexpensive; a method bound to appeal to the Duke.
On the other hand, Louis was still breathing heavily on my hand, which I took as a sign that all was not necessarily lost. If he wasn't going to grant my request, he could scarcely expect me to go to bed with him—or if he did, he was in for a rude surprise.
I girded my loins for another try.
"And does Your Majesty take orders from the English?" I asked boldly.
Louis's eyes flew open with momentary shock. Then he smiled wryly, seeing what I intended. Still, I had touched a nerve; I saw the small twitch of his shoulders as he resettled his conviction of power like an invisible mantle.
"No, Madame, I do not," he said with some dryness. "I do, however, take account of…various factors." The heavy lids drooped over his eyes for a moment, but he still held my hand.
"I have heard that your husband interests himself in the affairs of my cousin," he said.