The Heiress (8 page)

‘Yes,' Marie-Jeanne whispered back, ‘yes, she is happy; how it is possible with that brute, God knows. At least we can be glad for her. For me, I'd as soon lie with the devil!'

When Anne awoke he was gone; it was already late and the sun was streaming through the curtain cracks. She had slept on for hours; his pillow was cold when she touched it. She slipped out of bed and saw the ruined nightdress lying on the floor; she hid it in a drawer and put on another. It was the only time in her life that she had dressed herself without help. The thought made her smile, but then everything was touched by the over whelming happiness that filled her heart. She had forgotten nothing; there were marks on her arms and shoulders which would take many days to fade, but of what consequence were they when she had gone to sleep cradled in his arms, nursed as gently as if she were a little child.…

‘Marie-Jeanne, where is Monsieur?'

‘I do not know, Madame. But Madame his mother and sister have been asking for you. They would not permit us to disturb you, and so they left an hour ago.'

‘Oh.' She was disappointed; she would have liked nothing better than to tell them both how wrong they were when they feared for her happiness. All had come right, and sooner than she had ever dared to hope. She dressed with great care, choosing one of the simple morning dresses which had been made by the Versailles dressmaker. Pale blue broadcloth, severely cut with a crisp frill of white linen outlining her throat and circling the narrow sleeves. A short pelisse lined with dark fox made it a dress in which a great lady could walk comfortably through her gardens or take a drive out through her park.

‘Marie-Jeanne, go down and see if Monsieur is in the house.'

‘Yes, Madame la Marquise.'

‘One moment,' Anne said. ‘You must remember not to call me that. I am Madame Macdonald now.'

The girl curtsied. ‘Yes, Madame, I will try to remember.'

It seemed a very long time to Anne before she returned, but it was only a few minutes. One of the hall footmen had answered her question with a grimace. Monsieur had been out riding early. He was in the library if Madame wanted him.

Charles was reading when she came in; he was sitting on top of the tall library steps, turning the pages of a book.

‘Charles.'

He looked up and then turned another page.

‘I am reading,' he said curtly. ‘What do you want?'

For a moment she could not answer him; she felt her colour changing and all her happiness disintegrated in the second when she looked into the cold, disinterested face.

‘You have a very good library,' he remarked. ‘Thank God I shall have some means of passing the time here.'

He put the book back and came down the steps; he was still in his riding dress, his boots covered with dust and the crop thrown on a chair. ‘That and your horses,' he went on. ‘I've taken the black gelding for myself. No one is to ride him in future.'

‘No,' she said at last. ‘No one will, if that is your wish.'

‘It's my order,' he snapped. ‘Well, I asked you what you wanted?'

She came towards him; she felt sick, sick and desperately near to tears, and she knew instinctively that it was not the moment to cry in front of him.

‘Has nothing changed between us, then? Last night—you meant none of it?'

He sat down and stretched his legs out and laughed at her. It was not a pleasant laugh and there was no humour in it.

‘What exactly do you mean by that; to which incident are you referring? The little lesson in obedience I taught you?'

‘No,' she said desperately. ‘I accept that, it's past. But the other time. You were so gentle, I thought …'

‘My dear Anne, I am not responsible for what you think,' he said. ‘Are you so ignorant of men that you suppose they always behave in the same fashion. One must have variety, even with one's wife. Come, don't let's embark on a sentimental scene; it would bore me to death. And I'm an unpleasant fellow when I'm bored. I shall see you at dinner. There's a letter for you from my mother and one from Jeanne. I opened them, naturally, in case there was anything of interest to me. Both made me feel profoundly glad that they had the tact to take their leave so quickly.'

‘How dare you! You have no right to open my letters!' There was no danger of tears now; she was angrier than she had ever been in her life, her anger was that of a woman whose will had never once been thwarted, hereditary mistress of herself and the great Château and thousands of acres of land. Not even her guardian, the Comte, had ever committed such an outrage. She came very close to him.

‘You have the manners of a lackey,' she said. ‘If I were not your wife I'd call my servants and have you whipped out of the house. If ever you do such a thing again that's exactly what I shall do!'

Before he could answer she picked up the letters and left the room, slamming the door after her. For a moment Charles stayed on in the chair; he whistled a little tune to himself and smiled. At least she had some spirit in her. He could respect that, even though he intended to crush it. Still whistling, he climbed the library steps again and resumed his inspection of her books.

Three

The atmosphere in the Salon d'Appollon was stifling; the King held his evening reception in the magnificent hall, one of the most splendid in all the superb salons and halls of the
grands apartements
of Versailles, but much of its beauty was hidden by the crowd of more than three hundred courtiers who pushed and trampled their way into it, fighting for places at the front where they could see the King and be seen by him. The same scenes were repeated every day, beginning at the Salon de l'œil de Bœuf, which was the ante-chamber to the Royal bedchamber; to be received by Louis while still in his shirt was a mark of outstanding favour. Ladies and gentlemen elbowed and trod on one another from the moment the King rose in the morning until the hour when he retired on the Dubarry's arm at night. To be at Versailles without being noticed was nearly as bad as not being there at all. Hundreds flocked to Versailles every day from their homes in Paris and the surrounding country, enduring the nightmare roads in the early dawn, risking the attacks of thieves who waited in the woodlands and suffering the rigours of a particularly bitter winter rather than miss the Court for a single day. Others, richer and more privileged, lived in Versailles itself, but so many were the applicants for rooms that even the vast Palace could not accommodate them with any degree of privacy or comfort. Comtesses and marquises fought like cats over the smallest chamber with a bed and a chair in it; owners of great Châteaux contented themselves with sharing a room with two or three others; their servants disposed themselves as and where they could; nobody cared about them when the plight of their masters and mistresses was so miserably uncomfortable. The life at Court was incredibly arduous; the highest standard of dress was required, and there were few who could lay legitimate claim to a cupboard in which to keep their clothes. Etiquette was pitiless. The King's courtiers witnessed every moment of his day, he sat and gave audience, hunted, went to Mass and amused himself in public, but spectators stood while he sat, and it was nothing for great ladies to find themselves ten hours or more on their feet. The highest mark of Royal favour was to be given a folding stool on which to rest while in attendance on His Majesty, and it was not a privilege that he gave to many. 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 like the Trianon or its tiny counterpart, the Petit Trianon, there to disembark and enjoy a play or a firework display, or go to the menagerie 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 which 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 their way to the Palace and began by bribing the servants for entry to the ante-chamber 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 a soldier in the army of anyone who paid him since he was sixteen. Europe was full of his compatriots, 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 soldiers, 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 warlords. 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 been torn from 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; the 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 blonde, 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 which surrounded him. 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, perched upon their precious stools near the door and fanned themselves. Francis had eaten nothing since the early morning; he had not known where the mid-day 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 they in turn were 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 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 thought I was going to fall!'

‘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.'

‘Madame 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 the Macdonald; I am French born.'

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