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Burning with curiosity, Mélisande strained to hear her mother.
“No matter how Louis ignores it, there is deep unrest here. If there is a rebellion while France is fighting a war—and I fully expect him to declare war on England, now that he has agreed to shelter Charles Stuart—the members of this court will grasp at any straw for their own gain. Mélisande would provide a most convenient means to an end. She must be on guard against treachery. It could mean her life. I hate this as much as you, Spencer, but it must be done.”
Her father sighed, at once sounding frustrated and resigned. “When?”
“He has arranged a private audience this afternoon. You do not have to be present. I would certainly understand if—”
“No,” he cut in. “She’ll need both of us when she learns the truth.”
Dread gripped Mélisande’s heart. Her mind focused on maintaining the semblance of slumber, on holding her tongue and remaining motionless. She waited while her mother summoned Marie, waited until the noises in the room gradually changed to the normal sounds of morning preparations.
After a suitable amount of time had elapsed, Mélisande inhaled and stirred, stretching.
“Bonjour, ma fille. Today is a very important day. You are to be presented to His Majesty,” her mother announced. “You must make a good impression—the best impression!” Snapping her fingers for Marie, she began pulling gowns from the wardrobe.
“Why should the king wish to see me?” Mélisande asked, sliding a leg out from beneath the covers. Easing her foot down to the floor, she winced at the contact. It was like ice, in spite of the roaring fire in the hearth.
As her mother’s hands stilled momentarily in their task, Mélisande noted their trembling. That, more than anything she’d heard this morning, caused her gut to twist with fear. Not even Uncle George in a tearing rage gave her maman pause.
“I’ve told you of my youth here,” Isabelle replied, smoothing the wrinkles out of the fabric in her hands. “The king and I are old friends, and I have written of you many times. Now, he wishes to meet you in person. It is a great honor,” she finished, picking up a corset and loosening the ties with nervous little jerks. “Now, come. Your hair must be washed and restyled.” She frowned, lifting a dull, lifeless hank that had worked loose from Mélisande’s braid. “You cannot meet the king like this.”
“Maman, you made me wear the wig and powder last night, remember? And that hideous gown!”
“Oui,” Isabelle clipped. “It, and the gown, was appropriate for the occasion. Now, it is not.” She raised a delicate brow, quelling further protest. “Marie,” she called, “heat the water. And get out the green calèche.”
As the little maid rushed to comply, Isabelle shook out a deep green silk brocade manteau trimmed with gold wire and picked with gold and amber Venetian glass beads. Laying it aside, she then held up and examined a matching stomacher so heavily ornamented the underlying cloth could hardly be seen. Maman would look like a queen dressed in it. Leaving it on the bed, her mother went to pour some fragrance into the washbasin.
Knowing she had nothing nearly as grand, Mélisande went and looked over the few adult dresses they’d brought along for her to wear. She selected a pale blue silk ensemble with a modest neckline. It was rather plain when compared to the green gown, but at least it wasn’t ugly—unlike the monstrosity she’d worn last night. The graduated row of gossamer bows down the front was a nice touch, reminding her of Madam de Pompadour’s gown the night before.
“You will not be wearing any of those,” her mother announced from across the room. “You will wear this.”
Mélisande’s eyes widened with incredulity as she looked at the green gown. “But, Maman, you and Papa said you did not wish me to attract attention.”
Her mother pinched the bridge of her nose, screwing her eyes shut for a moment. “Mélisande, this is the king. You must look your very best. And Papa and I will be with you every moment,” she reassured. “Come, the water is ready and we must hurry if your hair is to be finished in time.”
Together the women washed and dried Mélisande’s long, dark hair, rubbing it with a silk cloth until the soft tresses shone. It was like finest bistre ink, so dark a brown as to appear nearly black. Then came the braiding, coiling, and curling.
While they worked, Mélisande ate a cold breakfast of bread and fruit. When her coiffure was finished, her mother carefully placed some jeweled pins among the curls. A silk wrapper was tied over the arrangement to preserve their work while they lightly dusted her face with powder. Then on went stockings, garters, stays, panniers, petticoats, jupe, stomacher, and manteau. Les engageantes were added to the cuffs of the tight, elbow-length sleeves—five layers of creamy, diaphanous lace.
Her mother clasped a thick gold chain about her neck, from which was suspended the d’Orleans crest worked in gold and rubies. The silk wrapper was removed from her coiffure, and Marie buckled on her high-heeled shoes and daubed expensive parfum on her wrists and throat.
&
nbsp; When Mélisande looked in the mirror, she hardly recognized herself.
Isabelle quickly finished her own toilette, having already styled her hair in a simple chignon with a few loose curls about her lovely face. As they prepared to leave, she and Marie carefully draped the calèche over Mélisande’s shoulders, pulling the wired hood up and over to cast her face into deep shadow.
Ladies often wore such garments in order to conceal their identities; people would merely assume she was on her way to a rendezvous. Still, Isabelle was concerned. The less people saw, the better. It was one thing for her daughter to appear as a young girl or to have her heavily disguised so as to be unrecognizable, as she’d been last night, but to have her look like an adult was quite different, given the circumstances.
The couple flanked their daughter as they wended their way through the palace.
“Keep your head bowed,” her mother reminded her in a low whisper. “Only when we are in the presence of the king are you to raise your eyes, and only when I tell you.”
The guards admitted them into the outer receiving room to join the others who cooled their heels awaiting the king’s leisure. They did not have to wait long.
Mélisande followed them in, her stomach in knots. She kept her head bowed while the king dismissed his servants and guards, seeing only the passing of shoes and stockinged legs. At last, the door closed.
“Isabelle, Wilmington,” a deep voice greeted them softly.
