Promised to the Crown

“I really, really, really hate Latin,” Claudine announced, laying her head on the wooden desk in defeat. “I’ll never wrap my head around the stuff. I told you I wouldn’t.” True to her word, Rose welcomed them for four hours every afternoon for their studies. Henri had converted a small room into a classroom, allowing the girls to escape from their home for a few hours and Rose to stay within earshot of the baby.

“That simply isn’t true, my dear,” Rose said, patting the girl’s back. “You’ve already made progress. A month ago you couldn’t read a syllable of Latin, and now you’re able to conjugate verbs and make out simple poems. You are making progress.”

Their curriculum was an evolving thing as Rose endeavored to follow in the Ursulines’ footsteps and played to her pupils’ strengths and weaknesses. Since the sisters opposed each other in their talents, Rose found that every lesson pleased one Deschamps girl as much as it dismayed the other.

Claudine raised her head and gave a baleful look Emmanuelle-ward. “Not as fast as she is.”

“Emmanuelle, what do you love above all things?” Rose asked, turning to the studious child, who just then looked up from her text. Her leg, still sore months after the accident, was propped up on a cushion while she studied.

“Study,” Emmanuelle said. “Reading. Languages. All of it.”

“And what do you do in your spare time?” Rose asked, standing to her full height and smoothing her dress.

“I read,” Emmanuelle said, placing her book aside and making eye contact with Rose as though she were answering questions for an examination. “Latin and Greek from our text sometimes. Mostly French because it’s what Monsieur Lefebvre has in his library to lend me.”

“And, Claudine, what do you do in your spare time?” Rose asked, turning to the older sister.

“I sew and embroider,” Claudine answered, sitting up straight. “I enjoy doing fancy work.”

“As do I,” Rose said with a smile. “So, Claudine, is it so surprising that your sister should excel in Latin and you in needlework when you devote so many extra hours to those pursuits?”

“I suppose not,” Claudine admitted. “But Latin is so terribly dull. I’ll never use it in my life, I know.”

“Wouldn’t you like to understand the prayers in church?” Rose asked, sitting down at her own desk so she could sit at the girls’ level.

“I don’t see why,” Claudine said. “God understands them, so what difference does it make if I do?”

“You sound more like your brother-in-law every day,” Rose said.

“Good. I hope to be just like him,” Claudine said. Rose wasn’t quite sure if she should smile or shake her head. Alexandre’s irreverence and bitter jibes were tolerated because of his status and his ability to know when to hold his tongue—neither virtue had Claudine yet attained. Goodness knew Nicole’s sweet temper was needed to balance out his acerbic tongue. No matter how unsuited she had felt for life in the upper crusts of society, he needed her unique blend of gentleness and social cunning to maintain his standing. Rose could tell her friend derived as much satisfaction from her role as Elisabeth did from running her bakery. She had envied them their place, many times, but now she had her teaching and her family to which she could devote herself.

“Darling, what is it you want from life?” Rose asked, taking Claudine’s hands in her own.

“A husband, a comfortable home in town,” Claudine answered without pause.

“Things most girls wish for, to be sure,” Rose said. “But do you think those things alone will bring you happiness? What of friendship?”

“Oh, I want lots of friends,” Claudine responded, her eyes wide and earnest. “A nice group of girls to trade stories with and who will tell me how pretty I look.”

Rose refrained from rolling her eyes, knowing Claudine would turn a deaf ear to everything she said if she did. “Remember, darling girl, admirers and friends are rarely the same thing.”

“So how goes progress with your young scholars, my love?” Henri asked that evening as they climbed into bed.

“Not too bad. Emmanuelle is as smart as a whip and eager to please. She reminds me so much of Manon.” A frown crossed Rose’s face at the thought of the sweet girl who seemed so very far away. She had spent more than a few hours sharing tears with Nicole over the departed girl. She prayed every night for Manon’s safety . . . and hoped that the child could find some measure of happiness among her people.

“And her rascal of a sister?”

“Just as you describe—a rascal,” Rose said. “I worry for her. She’s better suited for a Parisian ballroom than the wilderness.”

“Just like her auntie Rose?” Henri asked, wrapping his arm around her and kissing her forehead.

“Hardly,” Rose said. “These days it seems as though Paris might as well be as far away as the moon. To tell the truth, I would not wish it any closer.”

“You don’t long for the fine clothes? The elegant salons?” Henri asked, no trace of humor in his voice.

“No,” Rose said, the certainty in her voice shocking even herself. “There are days I miss being in a town, I admit freely. But I have learned some lessons our young Claudine is not yet able to. I have a loving husband. I have a strong son. I have two dear friends who mean more to me than a legion of two-faced courtiers . . . and if I am very lucky, in seven months or so, I may be blessed with a daughter as well.”

“You minx!” Henri said, sitting up in bed. “Is this how you tell me I’m going to be a father once more?”

“Ah, so it’s you who longs for the life of a courtier,” Rose said, sitting up nose to nose with Henri, her eyes flashing with glee. “Shall I make a formal declaration before our families so they might give us their blessing?”

“No need, my love,” Henri said, pulling her onto his lap. “My God, I am the luckiest man alive.” He pulled her face to his in a kiss that, less than two years prior, would have caused Rose to recoil in fear. Tonight, she was able to breathe, to embrace her husband, to love him as she had longed to do during all the months of cold and solitude of their early marriage.

“And I, the luckiest woman to ever draw breath, my darling,” Rose said, returning his kisses, breathing in his masculine scent—honest sweat and pine—as though it were a fine perfume.

She looked into his hazel-brown eyes and was unafraid. Could not bring herself to remember ever being so. She motioned for him to wait, but this time not to brace herself or steady her nerves. She only wished to revel in the freedom from the ghosts of her past.