Isadora knew André could have been forgiven if he had fallen to his knees in shock. As it was, she felt the way his body stiffened by her side. Sensed his incredulity and surprise. But he didn’t lose his balance or disgrace himself before the woman.
After the piercing silence rang in everyone’s ears, André asked, ‘How can that be?’
Madame de Pompadour lifted a rounded shoulder. ‘Mademoiselle, turn and face him.’
Like a puppet, Isadora did as she was ordered, facing André.
‘Can’t you see it, monsieur? It’s the eyes.’
André’s gaze roamed over her face, and she could see the exact instant when he saw the resemblance.
He had an advantage over her. Portraits of her father had been commissioned for years, but she’d never had the privilege of seeing him up close.
‘Mon Dieu,’ he breathed. ‘It’s true. The truth was there all along.’
‘Thus the need for such secrecy,’ Madame de Pompadour said. ‘You can imagine what kind of scandal it would cause, can’t you?’
Isadora felt the resentment building inside of her. The woman talked over and about her as if she were some sort of inanimate doll who didn’t have ears that heard every word.
‘It’s extraordinary, really.’
That came from the rather ugly man who sauntered towards her, his large eyes shrewd and calculating. ‘I wouldn’t have believed it if I hadn’t seen it for myself.’ He peered into her face. ‘Creole women are rather beautiful, aren’t they?’ His nose wrinkled in distaste as he glanced down at her most unsuitable dress. ‘Really, that dress should be shredded. If it wasn’t for the secrecy of this meeting, I’d have it burned.’
Without looking behind her, Madame de Pompadour called over her shoulder, ‘Le Bel.’
Another man came forward, this one more humbly dressed than the others in the room. ‘I believe it is her, but we must make sure.’
Isadora peered at the man. ‘Who are you, monsieur?’
The man bowed respectfully. ‘Dominique Guillaume Le Bel, His Majesty’s valet de chambre. Everyone calls me Le Bel.’ He came closer, looking at her with the same intensity as Madame de Pompadour had. ‘It’s been almost twenty years since I saw her, but you do look very like your mother.’
Isadora’s breath caught in the centre of her throat. ‘How...how...do you know my mother?’
‘I was the one who introduced her to His Majesty.’
Her mouth opened and closed several times before she could ask, ‘Please, would you tell me about that?’
Le Bel glanced over at Madame de Pompadour. She gave a curt nod.
‘A courtier had recently returned from Saint-Domingue and brought a Creole woman with him. His Majesty had heard of the beauty of these women but had never seen one. Or, if he had, his interest was certainly piqued after his wife thrust him from her bed.’
Le Bel folded his arms. ‘His Majesty was intrigued by the idea of bedding such a woman, but he wanted to see her first. I invited her to dine in the palace, to which she agreed. Unbeknownst to her, there is a hole in the wall in the adjoining room. His Majesty peered through the hole and assessed her. He found her both lovely and desirable.’
‘That’s enough, Le Bel,’ Madame de Pompadour interrupted. ‘We can ascertain what happened after that. What I am interested in is what was told to you by the Baron de Beauchêne.’
Isadora grappled with the order. Everything rested on the people here confirming her story.
This life, the one of acknowledgement as the King’s daughter, wasn’t what she truly wanted. She’d thought she did, but that was before the intimate moments she’d shared with André. Those had filled her with a sense of completion that edged on the cusp of fulfilment.
Why was her life so complicated?
‘When my mother discovered she was with child by the King, the King summoned the Baron de Beauchêne to his private chambers. There, the King made him an offer. If he claimed paternity of me, he would reward him by granting him the rank of Baron. The Beauchênes leaped at the opportunity. The caveat to this was that he would have to spend my childhood on the island of Saint-Domingue.’
‘It was a simple decision for him, wouldn’t you say, mademoiselle?’
Isadora’s stomach quivered in reaction, seeing the cold indifference in the woman’s eyes. ‘Oui, madame.’
‘Go on.’
‘The Baron received his reward when the King, in secret, bought the baronetcy of a family whose male heirs had all died out. So he and my mother returned to Saint-Domingue. The King also gave the Baron a high governmental position on the island, and the authority to do whatever he wished.’
‘Le Bel?’ Madame de Pompadour looked at the man. ‘Can you confirm this?’
Le Bel nodded. ‘Everything she has said so far is true.’
‘It’s unnatural for the races to mix,’ the other man in the room muttered. ‘It weakens the bloodline and the intelligence.’
‘Really, Voltaire,’ Madame de Pompadour replied in an admonishing tone.
Isadora’s face burned with anger. ‘Is that so, Monsieur Voltaire? You wouldn’t be able to ascertain that on the island of Saint-Domingue. For all these protestations of racial purity, you’d be hard-pressed to find it there.’
‘I am aware of the intermixing of blood there.’
‘Are you?’ Something within her recoiled at his attitude. ‘I have heard many of the Grand Blancs say such things, but one cannot prevent them from taking the women of the island as their mistresses and lovers whether that is agreed to by them or not.’
Her nostrils flared. ‘And as for my intelligence, ask me anything and see if my proud Creole blood can withstand your scrutiny.’
‘She is exquisite, isn’t she?’
The Marquis de Bertier de Sauvigny’s voice jerked André out of his stupor. Smoothing the front of his jacket, he agreed dutifully. ‘She is.’
Isadora had sat before Madame de Pompadour, Le Bel and Voltaire and held her own. His chest expanded as he listened to her converse intelligibly on a variety of topics. Art, politics, economics and more. He had always known deep down that Isadora was a bright woman, but her intelligence, wit and even her charm were on display and no one could fault her.
He’d never known this side of her, and for that, a sense of shame went through him.
‘I wonder if they will present her to the King or not.’ The Marquis slanted an eye in his direction. ‘You know that this is why they are being so rigorous in their scrutiny of her.’
‘What do you think they will say?’
‘If Madame de Pompadour reports back that she is suitable, then Mademoiselle de Beauchêne will meet with the King himself. In secret and in privacy, of course, but they will meet.’
‘Will I be invited to this meeting?’
‘Undoubtedly. The King would want to secure your confidence.’
‘I will never betray the King.’
No matter how much I detest the man.
The Marquis de Bertier de Sauvigny smiled. ‘Of that, I am sure.’
Going over to a lone chaise in the corner, André sat upon the velvety cushion as he tried to come to grips with the sudden change of his governess’s circumstances.
Isadora had risen in status from being the daughter of a Grand Blanc and his mistress to a princesse du sang. Legitimate or not, nothing changed the fact that the blood of King Louis XV flowed through her veins.
In a world without bias, Isadora could rightly take her place in the world as the King’s daughter. Everyone knew the illegitimate children of the King’s other mistresses could hold their heads high in society. They were allowed to make advantageous matches with men of rank.
But a Creole daughter? It just wasn’t done.
It was rumoured that many of the King’s mistresses and lovers were given to men of rank as a prize of sorts. Thinking of Édeline, André knew that same fate would likely have befallen her three years ago when she’d found herself gifted with only a single night with the King. He hadn’t bothered to find out.
It all made sense to him now. Why the Baron, in loyalty to his sovereign, had given Isadora his name and raised her far from the eyes of the Parisian court. For a man like the Baron, the mere sight of Isadora would be a daily reminder of what he had done.
Where did any of them go from here?
For it was obvious to him now that Isadora couldn’t continue as his governess, though Dieudonné, dare he say it, loved her like a son would. It wasn’t at all likely the King would allow it.
Though André had tried to resist his mother’s plans, there was no more resisting them now.
He would have to marry a woman who could care for Dieudonné. Who other than Isadora could be that woman? She’d shown over and over again her deep love for his nephew. By the power of her affection, she’d unleashed his own for the child. She’d demanded, and never accepted anything less regarding his nephew.
Now she was going to go away...and never grace his house, his home, his arms, again.
Why did the world seem like a dungeon he’d never escape from? He’d thought the seemingly endless cycle of cleaning up after Thierry had been like a kind of prison to him. No. That was nothing compared to living without Isadora in his life.
‘Marquis de Lyonnais?’
André came to his feet, seeing that the frightful interrogation of Isadora had finally come to an end.
‘Madame de Pompadour?’
‘Mademoiselle de Beauchêne is ready to leave.’
He nodded, seeing that Isadora stood wearily, her topaz eyes drooping at the corners. ‘What happens now?’
‘I will report back to the King, monsieur. You will hear from me in a few days.’ Her face remained clear, revealing nothing of her thoughts. Voltaire and Le Bel stood to the side, wearing similar blank expressions.
Which could mean anything.
How long did he have left with her? A fortnight? A month? Days? However long it was, he wanted to enjoy the time they had left. No matter what the future held, they at least had this present moment.
The King wasn’t likely to acknowledge her publicly. He would probably send her back to Saint-Domingue, safely away from even the possibility of causing a scandal.
His heart lurched painfully. It took all his skill to keep his face from showing the ache he felt inside.
You have the memories of her kisses, a voice in his head said as he grappled with the unfairness of it all. This month and a half have been the sweetest time of your life. You were the one to taste her lips and give her such ecstasy that she trembled in your arms. No one else will ever have her first brush with pleasure.
Perhaps. But I don’t want secret moments to hoard. I want—
‘Adieu, mademoiselle, monsieur.’
André bowed as Isadora curtsied before they took their leave.
‘Please, André, say something to me.’
Isadora let the sway of the carriage rock her as she stared into André’s face. He hadn’t said anything since they’d entered the cab besides seeing to her comfort.
‘There’s nothing to say, mademoiselle.’
‘I seek your counsel. What do you think will happen next?’
‘The King will decide if he wishes to see you. Perhaps he will begin to send you financial support and you can return to Saint-Domingue and live your life again there.’
Isadora bit her lower lip. For so long, she’d missed the sun-drenched island she’d called home. Now the idea of going back to it filled her with unease.
She wasn’t that woman any more. André and Dieudonné had changed her. From a carefree girl in Saint-Domingue, to a governess, to now a woman of standing, she knew none of that meant anything without having the two of them in her life.
‘I see. Is that all you have to say?’
No one looking at his profile would think he was at all affected by the revelations of the day. But she knew him well enough to see he kept his mask firmly in place. Thinking of what he had revealed to her about his former fiancée, about his brother’s actions, and everything else, she knew that her secrecy had hurt him. Not only that, but the fact she was the daughter of the man who’d stolen his fiancée had to sting.
A lesser man would have crumbled under the shock. André Godier wasn’t a lesser man, but a man above all others.
‘I’m sorry I didn’t tell you.’
A muscle ticked along his jaw, but when he spoke, André asked in a low, even voice. ‘Why didn’t you tell me, Isadora?’
‘I was forbidden to speak to anyone about it.’
‘I can appreciate the magnitude of the secret you’ve been carrying. That’s hidden in your blood for that matter. The weight of it must have been so heavy. All the more reason for you to have trusted me.’
Her chin dipped. ‘I wanted to so many times. The Baron insisted I tell no one.’
‘If you had told me, I could have expedited a response from the King. I could have found the answers you sought much more quickly.’
‘Perhaps,’ she acquiesced.
‘Even if I couldn’t do anything, you still should have told me. Especially after that day in the sauna. I thought we’d become close enough for you to confide in me.’
‘And after last night,’ she added.
‘Last night was an aberration.’
No, she wouldn’t let him belittle those wonderful, sweet moments. ‘Last night was wonderful, André. If that was only a taste of the delights you could offer me, what shall a full meal provide me with?’
‘Isadora, please. I’m not made of stone. I’m glad we didn’t do more than share a few kisses and caresses. You remaining untouched will help should the King decide to partner you with somebody.’
Madame de Pompadour had quietly asked after her sexual experience, nodding with approval when Isadora had told her she was a virgin.
‘I’m glad to hear it. Although the Marquis’s control and lack of interest in women is something of a joke among the court. Any other man who’d had you under their roof for so long would have bedded you by now,’ she’d said rather maliciously.
André wasn’t any other man though.
She admired his commitment to lead an upright life, even at the expense of others’ ridicule. Yet, she couldn’t help but respond to what he’d just said with a touch of heat. ‘Is that so? If you were so committed to looking for a suitable wife to care for your nephew, why did you touch me when you shouldn’t have?’
‘What are you saying?’
She didn’t know what she was saying. But the resentment built up anyway. She clearly wasn’t good enough to be his wife, nor his mistress.
‘I was forced to keep my secret, but I’ve apologised for it. What of you, André? Did you think to apologise to me for kissing me while you’re still searching for your bride? For making me—’
‘Die in my arms?’ he finished for her. ‘I won’t apologise for that. No man would.’
His arrogance made her almost want to strike him!
‘Of all the vain, conceited—’
‘If you aren’t careful, I may have to show you again why I wouldn’t apologise for it.’
‘As if I would ever let you touch me again. I’ll be gone before long!’
As the carriage pulled up at the mansion, she opened the cab door and, without waiting to hear what he had to say, she swiftly got out, trying to keep back the tears.
‘I don’t envy the position you find yourself in, Monsieur le Marquis. There is much at stake for you and the House of Godier.’
A scented breeze, perfumed by the well-maintained crop of laurel centred in the courtyard of the cloister, cooled André’s warmed flesh. The wind whistled through the archways of the Gothic-inspired arcade.
In the past, whenever André sought refuge at the priory of Saint Fabien the Peaceful, that pungent aroma had soothed the beast of wild emotion within his breast. Today, he needed the comforting effects of the cloister more than ever.
His mind had been in more turmoil than it ever had before. Isadora’s identity had made her even more unattainable to him. And like anyone who wanted what they could not have, his desire for her seemed to have only increased tenfold.
Not just desire, but longing for her to be in his life in whatever way he could have her there. Every day, there was a silent awareness between them of time slipping away. Of the sand in some invisible hourglass dwindling down and soon, their time with each other would come to an end.
André clasped his hands behind his back, holding them tightly together even though they vibrated with the effort to restrain his emotions. The last time he had walked these hallowed halls of the cloister was when he’d come to beg the priest to perform the burial ceremony for Thierry.
Then, his mother’s grief-stricken visage, weeping at the news of the death of her beloved son, had urged him to do all he could to gain the priest’s acquiescence.
Today, he was only concerned with his own emotions.
‘Monsieur l’Abbé, I have spent much of my life doing what is best for myself and my family. When my brother decided to abandon his position, I assumed his duty, even before I inherited the title. Why am I being punished again now?’
‘How do you feel you are being punished?’
A vision of Isadora rose in his head. ‘Something I desperately want is unattainable to me.’
‘Ah,’ the priest said wisely. ‘It sounds like you are having trouble with a woman.’
André stumbled and the priest chuckled. ‘Do not be surprised, monsieur. I may be a priest, but I am also a man who understands the frailties of the heart.’
‘Is it so obvious then?’
‘I do not believe so, but it would not be terrible if it were, would it?’
It would be awful to think that his growing feelings for Isadora, as hopeless as they were, were visible to everyone who looked at him. Every day for the past fortnight, he’d fought to keep himself aloof from her as they waited to hear back from Madame de Pompadour.
Every day they spent together they could both hear the invisible ticking of a clock. He knew that time was winding down. Soon, Isadora would leave the protection of his home and family and go...away.
Pain sliced at his chest. He didn’t want her to leave him.
‘The woman is in a delicate situation.’
The priest’s eyes widened. ‘You don’t mean—!’
André hastened to reassure the man. ‘Nothing of that sort. The King protects her. He will decide her fate. And I know for certain it will not be with me.’
‘Why can’t it be you, monsieur?’
The priest’s words still lingered in his ears as the carriage made its way back to Hôtelde Godier. So many things had changed since Isadora had come into his life. They’d argued, fought and kissed, with each encounter building a bridge between them.
If the King decided to openly acknowledge her in some way, then she would be swept away by the grandeur of Versailles.
André couldn’t compete with such luxury.
And if the King chose to send her home? Well, he knew she’d been missing Saint-Domingue.
When he arrived home, there was a messenger arriving in an ornate carriage bearing a letter that had to be from none other than the King himself.
He gulped. What would the contents contain?
Only when the messenger left and he reached his study, did he glance down at the envelope. The King’s seal was upon it, as he’d expected. Setting it down, he walked over to the fireplace and pulled the rope. Moments later, a servant arrived.
‘Monsieur?’
‘Bring Mademoiselle de Beauchêne to me.’
When Isadora came to the study where André was, she made sure to keep silent. He sat at the desk, but his back was to the door, giving her the advantage of studying him.
The past two weeks had been filled with an uneasy tension. She and André were bound by the secret of the King. Every day, they waited with bated breath, wondering when the summons would come. Not only that, but André had refrained from touching her at all, having obviously taken her words to heart about his hypocritical ways.
Unfortunately, her body detested his restraint, for despite what she’d said to him, Isadora longed to feel his touch on her once again. She knew she was being irrational, but there was nothing for it.
On the other hand, it had felt so good to finally share the burden of her secret with someone else, especially André. In his own way, he’d taken matters into his own hands.
Not too long after they’d come back from Madame de Pompadour’s apartments, Isadora had asked, ‘What do you think will happen to me?’
‘I don’t know, but we must prepare for every eventuality,’ had been his response.
From there, Isadora had received a personal glimpse of André’s vast wealth. Modistes were hired to create a limited wardrobe for her in a short period of time.
For the amount of money André had laid out, the modistes bent over backward to produce several gowns varying in material suitable for occasions of formality or casual outings. Secretly, it pleased Isadora. She had been wearing rags for far too long.
When she’d tried to discourage him from spending so much on her, André gave her an irritated look. He’d snorted, ‘I’ve had to suffer watching you clothe yourself in garments that should have only been used to drown rats in the Seine. You looked worse than the English with their drab, dull clothes and complete lack of fashion. We certainly aren’t them!’
Isadora allowed herself to enjoy the lost luxury, her fingers smoothing over the patterned silk, or the soft velvet. Fur-lined cloaks and hoods, delicate white stockings and fragile lace cuffs. Tiny shoes decorated with jewellery with coloured heels that lifted the hems of her ornate gowns several inches above the floor.
Seeing her newly improved wardrobe was like a visit from old friends. Even in Saint-Domingue she’d enjoyed pretty things.
Now, as she stood studying the back of André’s wigged head, she smoothed her hand over the plain silk front of one of her new gowns. So much better than the plain cotton.
‘Are you going to come in, Isadora, or are you simply going to stand there watching me?’
She jumped and then gave a shaky laugh. ‘I did not know you had eyes in the back of your head, André.’
‘I would be aware of you even if I lost all my senses,’ he said almost bleakly. ‘Please close the door behind you.’
She did as he said, wondering at the burgeoning tension in the room. Only when the door clicked, did he turn around to face her.
His eyes were unreadable.
‘Where is my nephew?’
‘Jacqueline is giving him a bath. I was going to do it, but Dieudonné insisted.’
‘That’s just as well for we have much to discuss.’
‘Such as?’
He pointed to an ornate envelope on the table. Isadora’s breath caught in her throat. On wobbly legs, she came forward. Her words came out on a whisper. ‘Is that—?’
‘It’s from the King.’
How could she differentiate between the anticipation and the dread she felt? They were two sides of the same coin. Lowering herself into the chair, she asked, ‘What does it say?’
‘I don’t know. I thought perhaps...you should be the one to open it.’
Tears smarted at the corners of her eyes as André held her gaze with his own. She didn’t know what to say. From her mother’s death until now, everyone seemed to have had a say in what she would do with her life. With this gesture, André was putting just a little power back into her own hands.
If the King was willing to give her a choice, she would tell him that she wished to remain as a governess. Even the pain of knowing that André would wed some suitable woman, to be away from him would be torture.
Though she would always miss the island, now that her mother was gone and Stéphane no longer wished to have her in his life, there was no reason to suppose she had a future there. Paris was her home now simply because André and Dieudonné were there.
‘Whatever it says, it involves you. Please know that whatever the King has decided, I will be with you until such a time as you no longer require me.’
I will always require you.
The depth of feeling that encompassed that thought threatened to overwhelm her. Somehow, she’d fallen in love with André. What he felt for her in return, she didn’t know. It was true that he desired her, but what man she’d ever met hadn’t?
Silently, André handed over the envelope. Breaking the wax seal, Isadora unfolded the letter with all the consideration one would give some fragile material.
Her eyes fell onto the bold, neat handwriting.
Dear Mademoiselle de Beauchêne,
It is my ardent wish that you accept this invitation to join me in my private chambers. There are many things I am certain you would wish to know. I, too, also desire to have a conversation with you.
Please have the Marquis de Lyonnais escort you to my private chambers three weeks from the date of this letter. It should give you ample time to prepare to join me at the palace.
After our evening together, we will be able to decide what to do.
Please believe me when I say I shall count the days until I see you.
Louis
‘What does it say, Isadora?’
She dragged her eyes away from the letter, having read the short note several times. ‘He would like to meet with us in three weeks.’
André nodded. ‘Good. That will give us enough time for you to learn proper court etiquette, have a gown made and practice your cosmetics being appropriately applied.’
‘That sounds frightfully expensive,’ Isadora said. ‘You shouldn’t spend so much of your money on me.’
André’s left brow lifted into his hairline. ‘You’re going to see your father, the King of France. No expense shall be spared for you.’
Isadora’s eyes drifted down, hiding her emotions. Part of her was excited to meet her father at last. At least he’d expressed a sincere desire to see her. But meeting him could also mean leaving André and Dieudonné shortly afterwards.