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It's a Monday morning when I finally understand.
I'm in town, strolling arm in arm with my dear friend Felicity, when the sudden appearance of a royal procession startles us from our walk.
Carriage after carriage rolls by, all bearing the French crest. People whisper around us, unsettled by the appearance of French royalty so deep into English territory. It's one thing to have French ambassadors here, it's quite another to see this.
An especially elaborate carriage is in the middle of the long line. The momentary glimpse of a gorgeous, powdered face peering through the carriage drapes with interest as she passes us by, is enough to send the town into an uproar. Could the Princess of France be visiting? Everyone immediately begins to debate what her appearance means, but the answer seems obvious enough to me.
She's here for James.
I'm not one for hysterics, but right now I feel like storming the castle gates, pounding on the front door, and demanding answers.
I want to believe in James, in the promises that he's told me over and over again. But everyone knows how this works. Marriages in this day and age are rarely for love, and this fact is magnified a thousand times over when it comes to The Monarchy. Whether he wants it or not, James is as good as gone.
I'm quiet for the rest of the afternoon, listening to my friends gossip about the presence of The French, and what it all means. My mind goes over every single experience I've had with him. The way that his eyes light up every time he sees me. How he tells me about issues he is facing, and actually seems to value my opinion. If love was enough, then nothing could come between us. Not the French, his father, his responsibilities to the country. Nothing.
But love is never enough.
We get the invitation by courier the next morning. A ball is to be held in the French princess's honor. I curse whatever fool was tasked with delivering invitations. This is one invitation that I would like to have never received.
My father of course is thrilled and doesn't even seem to hear my desire to not attend.
"Think of the trading opportunities with The French," he exclaims, as he pores over the details of the invitation. "My business can increase tenfold!"
In that moment I wish fervently that my mother was still alive. That I had a parent that I could have relied on to tell about my love affair. Someone who I could have trusted to bare my soul without worrying they would use it for profit. I like to imagine that my mother would have been that person. Looking at my father who is positively gleeful about a potential British union with the French, I know that person is not him.
I don't even bother trying to argue with him about attending. I'm certain he would drag me there if he had to. Although my father was lenient in many ways, when it came to his business, nothing else could compare.
There's been no word from James since The Princess's arrival.
It's the day of the event. As petty as it may seem, I've hired the best dressmaker in the area to create a dress that is sure to make me stand out. French Princess or not, I'm going to make sure that the only woman James has eyes for, is me. Servants twitter around me, tucking and sewing, curling and powdering, until I'm satisfied that I can look no better.
Although it's the style to wear a wig or powdered hair, I've left my hair black. It's been brushed, curled, and sprayed until it's in a glorious updo, but will still stand out from the many noblewomen that are in attendance. I've heard that powdered wigs are an absolute must in France so I'm sure that I will present a stark contrast to the French Princess. That's the goal.
The dress I've picked is scarlet. The sleeves are sheer and tight, and the dress dips down low, showcasing my ample décolletage. It goes perfectly with one of the necklaces that used to be my mother's.
As I slip into my gold slippers, I smooth down the full skirt that covers layers and layers of petticoats. I look perfect.
Father and I are quiet as we take the short ride to the castle, both lost in our own thoughts. Mine filled with seeing James again, Father's assumedly filled with profits and what the night will mean for his business.
We get to the front gates, and I steel myself for the night ahead.
"I will not cry," I promise myself sternly.
"What was that, dear?" Father asks.
"Just last-minute reminders to myself of how to act," I tell him, my voice falsely sweet.
"That's my girl," he tells me, and I roll my eyes as I walk behind him.
I immediately feel guilty for all the bad thoughts I've had towards him lately. None of this is his fault. He has no idea what's even going on.
We walk into the palace, and I feel like I can't breathe.
Sweat starts to trickle down my neck even though it's unseasonably cold in the large ballroom.
James is standing on the far side of the room, greeting various noblemen.
The Princess is standing next to him.
