Paris, 1679
The Poullard hôtel did much to dispel my misgivings about returning to Paris. I had not been to the city often since my husband’s death—the memories of creditors and the police assaulted me at every turn. But when my friend Aimee’s carriage bore me through a gateway into the majestic courtyard of her father’s home, and I spied the line of footmen waiting to assist me down, I realized how very different this visit to Paris would be.
Red-haired Aimee Poullard, with whom I shared a cramped bed at Versailles where we were ladies-in-waiting to the queen of France, met me in the elegant chamber that was to be my own for a fortnight. The chamber held a bed large enough for four, a gilded cupboard for my meager wardrobe, and not one, but three real chairs with cushions. At court, I was allowed to sit on nothing but stools, and then only when a senior lady was not present. I imagined I’d spend much of my visit hopping from chair to chair to chair, reveling in my luxury.
Aimee and I embraced as though we hadn’t seen each other for months instead of only a few days. She’d gained a leave of absence to return home for a visit to her family, and remarkably, had obtained permission for me to stay with her. Aimee, for all her flightiness, was a favorite of the queen and had learned how to pry any favor she wanted out of Marie-Therese. It also did not hurt that her father was rich, not to mention loudly loyal to Louis of France.
Aimee released me and reclined in one of the damask-upholstered chairs to watch my maid Beatrice help me unpack.
“This was Angél’s room,” Aimee said, waving a languid hand at the portrait over the fireplace.
A young woman with doe-like eyes gazed down at us from a painting that had been competently though not brilliantly done. She had light brown curls arranged in a style of five years ago, which trickled over a bodice that was cream-colored and virginal.
“She was married to my brother, Renaud,” Aimee went on. “One evening, we found her dead at the bottom of the staircase.”
I thought of the steep and creaking staircase I’d traversed to reach this room and suppressed a shiver. A tumble from it would doubtless kill anyone. I had a sudden and unnerving vision of the lovely young woman lying broken on the slates three floors below, her hair splaying over her lifeless face.
The morbid image dissolved as Aimee came off the chair to crush me in another perfume-and-satin scented hug. “I am so glad you’ve come, Émilie. I will show you the Paris your husband never let you see. I promise you myriad delights.” She kissed my cheek, flashed me a dimpled smile, then left me alone.
Beatrice, who shared my vivid imagination, gazed up at Angél’s portrait in worry. When she caught my eye, she gulped, crossed herself, and began to frantically stuff my gowns into the cupboard.
Beatrice was not a good maid, but she was steadfast and loyal, and best of all, cheap. My husband, Marcel D’Armand, had left me with next to nothing, and at the moment, I lived upon the charity of Madame de Montespan, the Sun King’s former mistress. Though I nominally worked for the queen, it was Montespan I needed to keep happy. She was not pleased that I’d wanted to leave for two weeks, but she had grudgingly conceded to let me go. The queen had given permission, and Montespan wouldn’t risk annoying the king by defying her.
Montespan let others believe she liked having me about because of my shrewd observations of members of the court, but the truth was that I knew things she was keen to keep secret. I was not proud of my hold over her, but when one’s husband dies in scandalous circumstances, leaving his wife destitute and facing life on the streets or in prison, one does whatever one must to survive. Marcel had been a reckless gambler, but whenever he’d won, he’d taken not only money but knowledge as payment. Thus, though he’d not left me a sou, I’d found some very interesting notes among his meager belongings.
Beatrice dressed me for supper in a pale silk gown whose bodice bared my neck and top of my bosom, and placed each of my dark curls across my shoulders with care. When a servant came to fetch me, I followed him to the perilous staircase. The footman, adolescent and agile, skimmed his way down and disappeared into the hall, while I gripped the banister and shuffled along in my high-heeled slippers.
I wondered if Angél had been hurrying down to supper, as I was now, when she’d slipped on the polished wood and lost her footing in her awkward shoes. I stopped, clutched the rail, and squeezed my eyes shut.
When I opened them again, a man in red velvets was striding into the empty passage below. Candlelight flared on a gold crucifix studded with gems that hung against his chest, and on fiery hair that was the same color as Aimee’s. He moved like a young man, and when he turned to look upward, I saw that his handsome face was unlined, his eyes sharp and glittering.
He caught sight of me and halted, his lips parting in shock. He stood fixed in place for a long moment, then he said, very softly, “Angél?”
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