The French Bride (9 page)

As compensation there were the entertainments: splendid hunting in the park of fifteen thousand acres which was well stocked with game; boating expeditions down the Grand Canal on which the King delighted to sail to one of the smaller châteaux, such as the Trianon or its tiny counterpart, the Petit Trianon, there to disembark and enjoy a play or a firework display, or to go to the
ménagerie
where the wild animals were kept. There were the suppers, where everyone gathered to gossip and circulate and indulge in the general occupation of intrigue. Fortunes were made, offices obtained, friends advanced, and enemies undermined, and life rushed past on a tide of excitement that made the slower pace of living away from Versailles, no matter how luxuriously, seem intolerably dull to those who lived in attendance on the King.

Everyone who wished for a position or a favour made his way to the palace and began by bribing the servants for entry to the antechamber where the King was likely to pass, and then his ministers or intimates if they could afford it, in order to secure an audience. Among the crowd of hundreds waiting in the Salon d'Appollon for Louis to appear that night was a man who had travelled half across Europe for the chance to speak to him.

Francis O'Neil was twenty-eight years old; he had been an exile from his native Ireland all his life, and, since he was sixteen, a soldier in the army of anyone who paid him. Europe was full of his compatriots, English and Irish and Scottish Catholics, outlawed by the government of George III, disinherited and penniless, ready to do anything in order to exist as gentlemen should. War was their only trade; the profession of mercenary was the only one open to them. Francis O'Neil had spent most of his youth fighting in Germany in the Seven Years' War, and then in sporadic service after it, until the German prince who employed him disbanded his forces and made peace with his rivals.

It was always the lot of the money soldier, as the mercenaries were contemptuously called. If the mercenary survived the campaign, he was packed out of the country as quickly as possible, and with as little reward as his employers could give him. He was beloved by no side. Francis had taken his pay and sold off what loot he had managed to collect and equipped himself with enough clothes and two good horses for the journey to France. He had brought a one-eyed Bohemian grenadier with him as a servant. Like himself, Hans Boehmer was without family or friends and he, too, had been fighting since he was a boy. He followed Francis like a dog, and on that long journey he had stolen food for them with the expertise of an old campaigner who could make off with a couple of chickens as silently as he could slit a sentry's throat.

Francis was tired of wandering, and even more tired of serving the unpredictable Germanic war lords. He had come to Versailles to beg a commission in the King's Army. If it was refused, then he would set off in the direction of whatever war was being waged. He wore a plain coat of dark-blue silk and white breeches, stockings and buckled shoes. His lace cravat was adequate, a single sapphire sparkled in it, the legacy of his dead father, whose family had owned land in Ireland since the Norman Conquest, and had been torn from their possessions by the English and driven out to starve or beg.

Sir John O'Neil of Clonmere had joined the Catholic Stuarts in Rome and sailed to Scotland with Bonnie Prince Charlie in 1745 to win back his rights in the only way he knew. Defeat and disaster overtook the Prince and the Highlands; O'Neil survived and sailed back with him into a life of blighted hopes and bitter reproaches for the chances that some insisted had been wilfully lost. Francis was too poor to remain in that small unhappy circle; when his father died, he inherited nothing from him but his hatred of the English and the sapphire pin. He had buckled on his sword and sold himself to the highest bidder in the field. That had been the sum of his life until then.

His hair was unpowdered, it was thick and very blond, tied back by a dark blue ribbon; the face that turned so anxiously towards the door, watching for the King, was handsome and stern-featured, with the Celtic blue eyes and the sensitive mouth of his unhappy race. He looked in that company exactly what he was; a poorly dressed adventurer of noble birth, scarred by many battles and not unfamiliar with an empty stomach. As a natural consequence, no one considered speaking to him for a moment, though one or two of the women paused to look at him again. Personally, Francis saw them all and paid them as little attention as they did him. He was not impressed by the magnificence of dress, the flashing jewels, the affected voices and insufferable arrogance that surrounded him. He was not ashamed of his plain coat; in his own eyes he was the equal of any man there in breeding, and the superior of most of them in courage. He could only hope that His Majesty, King Louis, would evaluate him by the same standards.

The heat was intense; the candles in the enormous ormolu chandeliers above their heads dripped hot wax on to the company, some of the women were leaning exhausted against the painted walls; two women, both duchesses, were perched upon their precious stools near the door fanning themselves.

Francis had eaten nothing since the early morning; he had not known where the midday dinner was dispensed in the palace, and by the time he came to the Salle de Venus, everything was cleared away, and the servants would not give him so much as a cup of wine. He felt empty and tired, and for the third time someone bumped against him as that person in turn was pushed by someone else. He turned with a frown, and was just quick enough to catch a young woman as she stumbled and nearly lost her balance. A very pretty face was turned up to him; she had large blue eyes and an exquisite complexion, more dazzling than her jewels, and for the first time in twenty-four hours, someone smiled at him.

‘Thank you, monsieur; my heel was caught and for a moment I felt sure I should sit down on the floor!'

‘I'm afraid I pushed against you, madame,' he answered. ‘I do beg your pardon. It's like a battlefield in here.'

‘You must have only just arrived or you'd be used to it,' the lady said. She was not only beautiful but very rich; her rubies were enormous, her crimson dress blazed with gold embroidery. Her hair was powdered and dressed rather high in the new fashion adopted by the Austrian-born dauphine, Marie Antoinette. Francis bowed to her.

‘Captain O'Neil, at your service, madame.'

‘Mme. Macdonald, monsieur.' Anne smiled at him; he looked very lonely and thin standing there, a petitioner if ever she had seen one in that pitiless jungle of self-seekers. And not French. Definitely not French.

‘I know that name,' he said. ‘I've known a good many Macdonalds in my time; there are no fighters to compare with that clan.'

‘None except the O'Neils of Ireland,' she said gently. ‘My husband is a Macdonald; I am French-born.'

‘My compliments to your husband, madame. Is he here?'

‘I believe so.' For a moment the smile faded. ‘It's only too easy to lose one another here.'

It was a poor excuse, made to this strange young man, and she could see by his eyes that it did not deceive him for a moment. Charles was indeed at Versailles; he had been there for the past three months and she had followed him in despair, unable to obey and stay behind at Charantaise, and now enduring the agony of his indifference and the positive proof that he was being unfaithful to her. She flushed and turned away from the penetrating eyes of the man beside her.

‘I expect he will come here to find me,' she said. ‘Everyone will go to the supper room after the King's reception.'

‘Is your husband in the King's household, madame?' he asked.

‘He has an appointment in the Foreign Ministry,' Anne answered.

The office was granted Charles soon after their marriage; she had not understood its significance at the time, supposing his parents had secured it for him; only now, when she knew the means by which such posts were filled, did she realise that Charles's mistress had obtained it for him in order to keep him at Versailles. Once only she had seen Louise de Vitale; here in the Salon d'Appollon, standing by the window with her hand on Charles's arm, laughing up into his face. And Anne had known who she was and what they were to each other even before a malicious whisper from her neighbour told her. ‘The Baroness de Vitale, the friend of the Du Barry. And her lover who had just married a rich, plain little heiress who was buried in the country.…' Anne had not approached them.

Later that night Charles came to visit Anne, for her wealth and position had secured her a tiny suite of two rooms, a privilege that made a hundred enemies in a moment among the less fortunate who had been at Versailles for years. Charles had seen her in the Salon, and his mockery had been unbearable. Thinking of it all again, she felt as if her heart would burst with pain. With an effort she turned to the Irishman.

‘Are you waiting to see the King?' she asked. He smiled and shrugged; it made him look nearly as young as his age.

‘Madame, I've been travelling for weeks and I've spent my last louis in the hope of seeing him. I want a commission in the army. I shall just have to wait until he speaks to me, that's all.'

‘But you could wait for weeks, months, perhaps for ever, and he might never notice you! Monsieur O'Neil, you can't just
wait
at Versailles!'

‘I know that.' Again the engaging smile flashed at her. ‘I've laid out a little money to help catch His Majesty's attention. There's a gentleman here who's a member of the King's bedchamber. He's promised to call the King's attention to me.'

‘Oh, I see.' Anne had been at court long enough to know exactly how much that promise was worth. Whoever had taken the captain's bribe was most likely an upper servant who would pocket the bribe and forget who had given it within five minutes. Duping strangers to the court in this way was common practice among the household; many a hard-pressed nobleman had played the same trick upon a newcomer.

‘You're a professional soldier then,' she said.

‘Thank you for that, madame,' O'Neil said gently. ‘I'm a common mercenary with a mind to settle in French service. I've neither land nor money in my own country – indeed, they'd hang me if I ever showed my face there. I'm for sale, my dear lady, and my only trouble is to find a buyer!'

‘Let me help you,' Anne said suddenly. To her surprise the handsome face flushed. ‘No thank you, madame. I appreciate it, but I've never cared for favours from women. It should be the other way round.'

‘Don't be angry,' she said. ‘I didn't mean any hurt to your pride. But I know this place; I must tell you, you'll never have a word with the King and you've just dropped your money into a rascal's pocket. I'd like to help you if I can, and I can't promise anything. But if the King should speak to me at any time and you're near, I'll present you to him. That's all.'

Francis looked down at her. He had met a great many women in his travels, women of all classes and conditions, and until that moment, his only experience of the wellborn was one of selfishness, arrogance, and lack of morals. He had never received a kindness at the hands of any of them. Now, something insisted that this woman was not to be compared with the others. She was not inviting an amorous adventure or seeking to put him under an obligation for a sinister purpose. One Bohemian countess had used her influence to secure him a lieutenancy once, and then asked him to murder one of her husband's political enemies. Francis had little faith in the charity of the great of either sex.

‘Please forgive me,' he said. ‘I should be everlastingly in your debt if you could speak a word for me. Indeed, my dear madame, I can't afford to wait for more than a week or two.'

‘Let us hope the opportunity comes then,' Anne answered. ‘But don't hope that it will be tonight. When the King is late he usually hurries through the salon.'

A few minutes after she had spoken, the doors opened and the King was announced, preceded by his gentlemen ushers, the Constable of France and a train of gentlemen in waiting and his Minister of the Government, the unpopular, enigmatic Fleury.

Fleury was beloved of his sovereign because he had the same disinclination to do anything positive in the government of France as the King himself. The King disliked disturbance as much as he disliked decisions. Fleury took care not to trouble him with either. Louis passed through the double line into which the crowd had divided itself, pausing to speak to less than half a dozen, and his words to them were brief. He looked tired and irritable and he passed within a foot of Anne and O'Neil without glancing at either of them.

‘Bah!' exclaimed a young man on Anne's left. ‘Three hours waiting here, all this morning in the antechamber, and not even a flicker of his eye towards me! What a misery life is!'

‘It is indeed,' she agreed. ‘Is your need so pressing then?'

‘Pressing?' The young man stared at her in astonishment. His eyebrows were outlined in black like a woman's and he wore a huge diamond in each ear. ‘My dear madame, what village have you come from? I am the Comte de Tallieu … I have no need of anything except that His Majesty should know that I am here!' He gave her a look of contempt and turned his back on her.

‘You may be the Comte de Tallieu, sir,' a quiet voice said in his ear, ‘but you have the manners of a dog, and dogs get kicked when they misbehave. Apologise to this lady before I show you what I mean!'

The Comte swung round with a gasp; it was so feminine that Anne almost laughed. His painted eyes narrowed as he met the furious glare of the O'Neil. ‘Whoever you are, and obviously—' He stared contemptuously at the captain, from his plain buckled shoes to his unpowdered head. ‘Obviously you're
no one,
you should be careful who you offend with your taproom manners, monsieur. A De Tallieu does not fight with inferiors or I should teach you a very unpleasant lesson!' Before Francis could reply he had vanished into the crowd.