To Serve a King (6 page)
“I have come to serve, if it pleases you, madame,” she said reverentially, keeping her head lowered. “I am Geneviève Gravois.”
“Ah yes, of course.” With graceful release, Anne plunked herself into the largest, fluffiest chair before the cold fireplace and motioned for Geneviève to rise. Her maids of honor eddied around her, one taking a brush to her hair, another pulling boots from her feet, while two others stood ready by her side.
“Ladies, our newest companion has arrived. Let us welcome her.”
As if within a well-choreographed dance, the four women turned together and curtsied to the newcomer. Anne reached up her hands in a wide gesture, and the two women at her shoulders clasped them affectionately.
“Geneviève, these are the Mesdames de Laval and d’Azel-leures, Sybille and Béatrice, sisters to each other, and cousins to me.”
Geneviève bowed in her turn, struck by the resemblance between the three women. The lovely pair shared the same heart-shaped face and high, prominent, freckle-flecked cheekbones with their relation, if not her mantle of preeminence.
The daughter of Guillaume, seigneur de Pisseleu, the duchesse d’Étampes’s family tree included many sisters and brothers, all of whom had Anne to thank for their elevated status. The Pisseleus now boasted bishops, abbesses, governors, and a cardinal, as well. Many a courtier complained of Anne’s use of her position to better those of her family, and yet they would do the same without a moment’s thought.
“This lovely one here is Arabelle d’Aiguillon. She is the daughter of the comte de Vandreuil.” Anne put one hand on the shoulder of the pert, golden-haired girl at her feet. “And behind me is Jecelyn du Fabiole, a distant cousin to the king himself.”
The raven-haired woman behind Anne continued brushing her mistress’s hair with no more than a black-eyed glance of acknowledgment spared for Geneviève.
“
Enchanté,
mademoiselle.” Arabelle released Anne’s second boot, rose, and curtsied once more, warmth of welcome in her shining blue eyes.
“Monique and Lisette are not among us today, but you will meet them in due time,” the duchesse remarked. “So tell us, Geneviève, how come you to court?”
Jecelyn continued to brush the long auburn curls. Anne closed her eyes now and again, luxuriating in the ministrations. The sisters fluttered about the room, straightening things needing no straightening, and finally sat, birds resting in their well-fashioned nest. Arabelle rang a small bell found upon the claw-foot table before the windows, and within seconds, an apron-clad girl rushed through the door.
Arabelle handed her Anne’s muddy boots. “Some wine, if you please, Clothilde. Come, Geneviève, sit with me here.”
Taking her by the hand as if they were old friends, Arabelle
brought Geneviève to the settee situated across from their mistress.
“It is my aging aunt’s greatest wish for me to be here,” Gen-eviève answered Anne’s query.
The pampered duchesse laughed, but not unkindly. “She must have indeed desired it greatly, for she paid a dear price. Why have you never married? You are what—twenty years old,
oui?
”
“Two and twenty, madame, as of last month.” Geneviève faltered not at all. “I have lived my entire life in the country, with no one but my aunt and our servants for company. There was little opportunity to meet anyone appropriate.”
“Well, that explains it. No doubt you’ve been sent here to find a husband.”
With a wave of her small-boned hand, Anne dismissed Jecelyn from her chore and sat up straight and tall. Arms draped casually over the arms of her chair, there was nonetheless undeniable intent in her posture and expression.
“You will find a loving home here,
ma chérie.
I am good and kind to those who are good and kind to me. But be warned—if you think you have come to seduce the king, you will feel my wrath.” There was no rancor in her tone; its cold conviction carried a far more believable and frightening threat.
Geneviève felt a surge of repulsion at the thought of a dalliance with the man responsible for the death of her parents, the man whom she’d been sent to destroy, but it was angst that must remain buried deep within.
She rose and crossed the few paces between her and Anne in a trice. Once more, she fanned out her skirts, lowering herself to within inches of the floor.
“My allegiance, madame, is to you and no other.”
She heard Anne’s satisfied sniff and looked up, accepting the well-pleased smile offered her.
“I believe our sister could do with a wash and a rest, Arabelle.
Bring her to her chamber and make yourselves ready for the evening’s festivities.”
With a swish of skirts Anne rose, and Geneviève was surprised to find the duchesse stood a few inches shorter than she; such regal demeanor as was Anne’s that she gave the impression of tall dominance.
“I look forward to our first evening together.”
Geneviève dipped once more. “As do I, madame.”
“Come
chérie
.” Arabelle took Geneviève’s hand again, leading her from the room and their mistress’s company.
“That was very well done of you,” Arabelle said as the women descended the staircase and entered the fray that was now the first-floor hallways of the palace.
The once quiet foyer and its small tributaries were now riotous with people and noise, color and cacophony. Though she felt like an intruder, an obvious imposter, Geneviève found they passed through the horde with the stealth of ghosts, two among the thousands who made their home with the king.
“What was?” Geneviève asked, raising her soft voice over the din.
“Your first audience with the duchesse.” Arabelle smiled brightly. “I scarcely spoke a word the first time I met her.”
“She is an imposing woman,” Geneviève agreed.
“Imposing, yes, but she is gracious and loving to those who are loyal.”
Geneviève caught a hint of a frown smudging the face of her new acquaintance.
“You mustn’t believe some of the things you will hear, Geneviève, but allow your own experiences to dictate your impressions of our mistress.”
Geneviève studied Arabelle. Glowing peach skin and a button nose above a sweet, smiling mouth; a true classic beauty—young and innocent—beneath the mass of luxurious curls, yet in her
words, Geneviève heard aged wisdom. She would keep close to this surprisingly bright woman.
Down the two stairs and along the winding corridors, the women trudged through the crowds.
“Do not worry about finding your way at first. Learning each palace can be a daunting task,” Arabelle told her as they came to a halt before a door along the outside of the ground floor corridor. “It will be my pleasure to escort you until you are comfortable on your own.”
Geneviève gave her the ghost of a smile that felt the most comfortable upon her lips.
“Oh, mademoiselle, there you are!” The excited squeal found them the instant they set foot into Geneviève’s chamber. Carine rushed forward, bobbing her curtsy midflight, and pulled her mistress farther into the room. “Is this not the loveliest chamber?”
Geneviève staggered forward on her maid’s arm, indeed pleased by what she found. All cherrywoods and maroon upholstery, her accommodations flaunted a serious sophistication suited to her. Her chirping maid preened at her accomplishments, for everywhere Geneviève looked, the room spoke of cozy familiarity. One trunk remained at the foot of her bed, the keeper of undergarments and special possessions. All others were gone, their con-tents—her gowns—no doubt hung tidily in the large garderobe standing sentinel in the corner. Upon the dainty vanity before the single wall-length window, her cosmetics had taken their place beside her brushes and trinket boxes, and upon her bedside table stood her miniatures of her parents and King François, and her book—
the
book—as well. Geneviève felt a profound sense of relief at seeing it there.
“You would not believe what a wonderful time I have been having. There are
so
many people here, so many servants, and they are all quite friendly and helpful. There is a handsome young scullion who was here, and he brought me the tiniest but sweetest of tarts and a mug of ale, without my having to ask at all.” Carine stopped
her twittering tirade when she ran out of breath, but her delighted smile continued unabated.
“Hush, Carine, hush yourself,” Geneviève chided gently, flicking an embarrassed glance between her servant and her guest. But Arabelle laughed a lovely giggle.
“Have not a worry, Geneviève. She has the right of it. It is most exciting to come to court. I cannot imagine how much more it would be for having lived forever in the country.”
“
Merci,
Arabelle, you are most understanding.”
“I have chosen your wardrobe for the evening, mademoiselle.” Carine had found her breath once again. “I hope you find them pleasing.”
Geneviève stepped over to the raised bed and found her lavender gown trimmed with ribbon and encrusted with bits of amethyst, and the matching headdress, laid out upon the covers; beneath them, the matching shoes, their thick ribbons tied in large, beautiful bows.
“It is perfect, Carine. Well done.” Geneviève offered the excited girl a deserved morsel of encouragement.
Behind them Arabelle poked through Geneviève’s things—curious, not intrusive—as if through the touch she might learn more about her new companion.
“It is a shame you did not arrive a few hours earlier. It was a rousing hunt today to be sure. Do you hunt?” she asked.
Geneviève almost laughed. If this woman knew her truth, how confounded would her delicate sensibilities have been. “Oh, I do. I enjoy it very much.”
“Then I cannot wait to partake of it with you by my side. What fun it shall be. Hopefully it will not be as long or as tiring as today’s. I swear we had to chase that stag for hours, but the king was most determined to bag this particular one, having spotted him weeks ago when we arrived.” Arabelle covered an indecorous yawn with the back of her hand. “Pray forgive me. I fear I am more tired than I thought. As you both must be after your long journey.”
With a nod and a glance to Carine, whose own eyelids looked heavy despite her zest, Geneviève agreed. “It has been a long day.”
“And it is far from over,” Arabelle said as she stepped toward the door. “Let us all take a few minutes’ rest. I shall return in an hour to escort you back to Madame’s chamber where we will make her ready for tonight’s banquet.”
“
Merci,
Arabelle, you are most kind.” Geneviève dipped as the young woman retreated, and flopped upon the bed once the door closed behind her. Already she felt exhausted by the stress of her charade, though in truth she had spoken not a single falsehood.
Allowing Carine to strip her down to her chemise and to draw the heavy velvet curtains closed, Geneviève lay upon her bed as the maid tiptoed from the chamber. Staring at the maroon and gold canopy hanging overhead, she rubbed her flat stomach as if to quell the fluttering beneath her young skin.
So far, so good,
she thought, and closed her eyes.
The king of gentlemen,
and the gentleman King.
—Frederic V. Grunfeld,
The French Kings
T
he flock of ladies stepped back and gazed upon their handiwork, each with a critical eye for the smallest detail.
“I think she needs another strand of pearls,” Sybille clucked as she walked a circle around her cousin, squinting with a critical eye.
Béatrice sucked her teeth with impatience. “No, dear, it will be too much. Her beauty is more than any adornment could add.”
Geneviève followed Arabelle’s lead, fetching whatever accessory Madame de Laval requested, returning them as Madame d’Azelleures instructed. Jecelyn primped the duchesse’s hair, showing no response to the menial requests, her haughty demeanor denouncing them as beneath her. Monique and Lisette now among them—one tall and thin, one short and plump, both plain but pleasant—tidied up the chaos such bustle left behind.
Anne stood as impassively under the scrutiny as she had during the long tedium of the dressing, as the layers of clothing—shift, underskirt, hose, gown—encased her body. Certain in her splendor, she trusted her maids of honor had done their due diligence. Upon her resplendent gown, alternating stripes of emerald satin sat beside those of cream velvet on the full, heavy skirt. The huge,
puffed upper sleeves of the emerald satin and the more fitted cream velvet of the lower arms flanked the jewel-encrusted green bodice. The same pearls and emeralds adorning her neck and ears sparkled from her matching crescent-shaped headdress. Below the few exposed inches of her rich chestnut hair, her exquisite eyes—huge within the small, delicate face—shone with the same brilliance as the jewels gilding her gown.
“Is she not the loveliest you have ever seen?” Arabelle whispered to Geneviève.
There was no denying the beauty of the woman’s features—the sensual mouth and the creamy skin. If her foothold as one of the land’s most beautiful women was not set in stone by the splendor of her face, her figure was equal evidence. With a tiny waist—smaller for the tightly laced stays she wore—and her full, firm breasts, her king and lover often boasted that her body was no less perfect than that of Venus herself. She was a knight’s daughter, and the lofty bloodline revealed itself in every bit of her aspect.
“She is a beauty to behold,” Geneviève responded with no need for subterfuge, but unlike Arabelle, she found no fulfillment in decorating her enemy’s lover.
Arabelle’s reply never left her lips as the door burst open and a bear of a man filled the space, arms thrown as wide as his full-lipped smile.
“I have come to take you to dine.” His booming voice thundered with conviviality.
