“Make way, make way,” the servant called.
The crowd formed an aisle of blue taffetas, green satins, yellow silks, and more. “Is she with Dr. Franklin?” “Why does she walk so awkwardly?” “What could the queen want with her?”
Walking through the crowd of whispering courtiers was like jumping into a cold lake. It was a shock at first, but one grew quickly accustomed to the remarks, even the unkind ones. Becca focused on the large round black table that had been carried to the center of the Hall of Mirrors. The servant was leading her there.
“Where are you going?” Patience Wright was suddenly beside her, moving forward in lockstep. Edward Bancroft followed in her wake.
“The queen wants to see me,” Becca said.
Patience stopped in surprise, then rushed to catch up. Her expression turned to cunning. “Ask if she would like me to sculpt her. I would do it for free.”
“Here is Mrs. Parcell, your Majesty.” The servant bowed.
Four women sat there, their attention caught by the cards in their hands. Becca recognized the princess. Lady Augusta stood behind her, equally focused on the cards.
The other three women could have been sisters. Their tall beehive hairdos glimmered in the candlelight with matching jewels and dyed feathers. Their collar bones were draped in heavy jeweled necklaces. One wore diamonds and emeralds, the next, rubies, and the third, sapphires. Their faces were masked by white makeup, bright round circles of rouge, and carmine-red lips.
“A warning, Mrs. Parcell.” Dr. Franklin materialized beside her, his jovial façade gone. “The rules of propriety here are ancient and complex.” He barely moved his mouth as he spoke. “‘Tis easy to offend. Do not stare at any of them, and only speak when spoken to. Keep your answers short.”
“You are scaring me, Dr. Franklin,” Becca whispered.
“I mean to.”
Three of the women at the table glanced up, then turned back to the cards. The fourth raised her head for a closer examination.
Becca’s heart hammered. Bend your knees. Keep your back straight. Augusta had taught her how to curtsy at court. She rose to find Marie-Antoinette’s large, bluish-gray eyes still examining her. Becca averted her gaze. Do not stare.
Becca tried to stare without being caught at it. Kings and queens were chosen by God, weren’t they? That is what King George III of England claimed. If that were true, Marie-Antoinette was touched by divinity. What did that look like?
It—she—looked like a pretty woman in her twenties with bright, curious eyes, a heavy lower lip, and an exuberant love of fashion.
Becca wondered how the petite queen managed to walk in her heavy court gown. The skirt was as wide as a small rowboat, and its pale green stripes were shot through with silver threads. The collar of her bodice was weighed down by diamonds and emeralds. Her hair was worn in a slighter softer, lower pouf than most of the other women here, and Becca wondered if female guests would all be copying the queen’s new style within the week.
It was a good thing Marie-Antoinette was a queen and not a farmer. She appeared too fragile to chop wood for a harsh winter. Becca rubbed her thumb along the palm of her right hand. Her calluses were fading. She had earned them last fall swinging a scythe to bring in the wheat and chopping mountains of wood for fires that winter.
“Your daughter-in-law, Lady Augusta?” Marie-Antoinette returned Becca’s scrutiny.
“Yes. Although her husband, my son, is deceased.”
“My condolences, Lady Augusta. And she is related to the English royal family by marriage to your son?”
Becca’s shoulder muscles unbunched. It was surprisingly restful to be discussed as if she were a potted plant.
Augusta nodded.
Royal? She was about as royal as a dandelion on the side of a road.
“She is like us, then,” one of the other women said, and they all laid their cards down to study Becca.
“You may introduce us,” the queen said.
“You are too gracious, your majesty,” Augusta murmured.
Becca repeated her formal curtsy to each of the four women.
“Mrs. Rebecca is but a small twig on the royal family tree for now,” Augusta said.
“What do you mean by ‘for now’?” Marie-Antoinette asked.
Becca almost answered, but Augusta shot her a warning look. “Mrs. Parcell will no longer be linked by marriage to the English royal family if she marries her betrothed, Mr. Alloway.”
Becca turned a gasp into a cough, and Augusta’s eyes widened. So much for the fiction that Becca was no longer Daniel’s fiancé.
“Ah, the famous Mr. Alloway,” Marie-Antoinette said.
“Mr. Alloway is famous?” Becca looked directly at the queen.
A disapproving hiss rose from the guests. Becca clamped her lips together. One did not speak to the sovereign unless directed.
“Some of the ladies of the court are quite taken with him. And you have captured his heart, you say?” The queen sounded disbelieving.
Becca bristled. “I have, your Majesty. Indeed I have.”
“Yet you have been in France a while, I understand, and you have not yet married him.” Marie-Antoinette gnawed on her bottom lip. No one spoke. “Ahh. I understand. Mrs. Parcell does not want to lose her connection by marriage to England’s royal family.”
The queen leaned forward and whispered loudly, “Under such a circumstance, it is preferable to be a mistress.”
A hush fell over everyone within a ten-foot radius of the queen. “I told you. She is his Paris mistress,” a guest said. They’d all heard the queen’s hushed message to Becca. Her heartbeat pounded in her throat.
“Do they care about titles in America, Mrs. Parcell?” one of the princesses at the table asked. Her forehead creased.
The four women waited for Becca’s answer.
“I cannot say that I give the question of titles much thought,” she stuttered, forcing her attention back to the women at the card table.
Their eyebrows rose in shock.
“Then it is true,” the princess said. “There are no titles in America.”
“Without titles, how can you tell if someone is the right sort?” One of the women narrowed her eyes as if Becca were dangerous.
America was not meant to be a land of the ‘right sort,’ Becca did not say. It was meant to welcome everyone.
“Monsieur d’Aumont was right,” another added.
“Right about what?” Becca asked cautiously. Where was Gabriel? She hadn’t seen him in the crowd.
“He says that your country is pêle-mêle,” one of the women said. At the look of confusion on Becca’s face, she added, “higgledy-piggledy, you say in English. Your country is all disorder and confusion.”
Becca agreed. But she didn’t care to have a foreigner express the thought.
“Melodié, you are being rude,” Marie-Antoinette said. “We will not speak of politics.” The subject was closed.
Melodié ducked her head at the rebuke, which caused the purple feathers in her hair to shiver. “Then I shall talk about tea. You must thank Dr. Franklin for the special tea he gives to Monsieur d’Aumont. It is rare, but we have all enjoyed it, yes?”
“Monsieur d’Aumont and tea? You are certain?” Becca asked with surprise. Gabriel had presented hot chocolate—not tea—to Daniel with a flourish worthy of an actor. She had never heard the Frenchman mention tea.
And Dr. Franklin wasn’t one to hide his light under a bushel. If he’d presented a gift to the court of King Louis XVI, he would have bragged of it. There had been no bragging.
“Yes, Monsieur d’Aumont and relaxation tea. I said so, didn’t I?” Melodié snapped.
“Pardon, madam.” Becca bowed her head, suitably chastised. She might be related by marriage to royalty, but it seemed she was still a commoner in Melodié’s eyes. “I will be happy to thank Dr. Franklin on your behalf.”
What was it about tea? Something Melodié said struck a chord. “I wish I knew more about tea,” Becca prodded. “Was it very special, this tea?”
“Yes, it is the most relaxing of teas,” Melodié said.
The most relaxing of teas. Relaxation tea. Becca was missing something
“And Monsieur d’Aumont shared the tea with you?” one of the other women asked.
Melodié preened, stroking the side of her saffron-colored bodice from bosom to waist.
“Ahh, you went to his apartment.” The queen giggled. “Does your husband know?”
“He wouldn’t care.” Melodié’s slow smile suggested she had enjoyed other affairs of the heart. “There was a lovely sweet and smoky scent. It was the tea, and I asked for a cup. Monsieur d’Aumont is a gentleman, and he agreed to my request. That was all.” Her forehead might have furrowed. The thick white cosmetics Melodié wore made it difficult to tell. “I hardly recall the rest of that evening.” She tossed her head as if flinging away some concern she chose not to share.
The tea had put Melodié to sleep, Becca guessed. She didn’t remember the rest of the evening.
“Oh, you asked for some tea, and that was all,” one of the women drawled in a sing-song voice. The others laughed. Melodié turned away from them; her lips pressed tightly together.
Becca almost felt sorry for her.
Hannah gave Jude a tea for his stomach on their crossing to France. She called it relaxation tea, too. That was the memory that had eluded her. It helped quell his pain and made him sleep. And Becca had mixed relaxation tea powder into hot water for Daniel’s head injury to soothe the pain.
Why did Gabriel need relaxation tea? Did he have an old injury or a new malady? Was he having trouble sleeping? Sweet and smoky. The tea was sweet and smoky.
The buzzing of hundreds of voices faded as other memories rose. Faded. On the roof, she’s seen faded brown stains on Jude Fenimore’s clothing. Blood stains, Becca had thought, dulled by the rain. Blood stains or tea stains? Relaxation tea could have put Jude to sleep. Would enough have killed him? Becca wished her mother was here. She would know more about the herb that made the tea.
Becca launched into speech. “You went to Monsieur d’Aumont’s apartment?” she asked Melodié. What had Gabriel told her about his apartment?
“The one in the South Wing? Apartment eighty-seven?” Gabriel had not mentioned his apartment number. She’d made up the number. She needed to see the tea.
Lady Augusta’s mouth opened, then snapped shut. One of the women at the table gasped. They all turned to the queen.
A trickle of perspiration crept down the base of Becca’s spine. What she’d said was brazen. Announcing that she knew Gabriel’s apartment number was akin to saying that they were having an affair or that she was seeking him out. Even worse, she’d broken Versailles rules of civility. She’d spoken out of turn. Becca could just imagine the gossip. The Paris mistress, indeed.
“It seems we do not keep Monsieur d’Aumont busy enough with work.” The queen flicked open an ivory fan and raised it to her face. Her laugh was surprisingly earthy.
The three women at the table laughed dutifully. One said to Becca with a mischievous grin, “Not eighty-seven. Monsieur d’Aumont resides in apartment ninety-two. Halfway down the hall. The door is chipped near the knob.”
“How do you know that, you cow,” Melodié demanded, her voice cracking.
“That is enough,” the queen said. Her amusement quickly turned to boredom. “I hear that you have transformed Dr. Franklin’s cap into a decoration quite feminine. I cannot imagine such a thing. Come closer.”
Becca felt the eyes of the entire room on her as she walked to the queen.
Marie-Antoinette stood, peering up at Becca’s hair. “Make yourself shorter.” The queen was a good four to five inches shorter than Becca, she estimated. And Becca had been right about the gown. She had never seen a skirt as wide. The material alone must have made Marie-Antoinette’s gown uncomfortably heavy.
The queen called to Augusta. “Are all American women so tall?”
“No, your Majesty. We come in all sizes,” Lady Augusta said. In English, she added to Becca, “Just stoop, dear.”
Becca froze herself into a demi-curtsy.
Marie-Antoinette examined the miniature hat and pheasant feathers, tilting her head one way, then the other. “If you don’t care about your own ties to the English royals, why don’t you marry Mr. Alloway?” she whispered. “You should.”
“France’s laws make marriage almost impossible for foreigners. I mean no disrespect, your Majesty. It is difficult here.”
Hmmpf. Their eyes met for one moment before Marie-Antoinette’s gaze dropped.
Becca winced at her latest verbal misstep. France was still making life difficult for the queen, a foreigner born in a country long considered an enemy of France. The man Gabriel had punched tonight called Marie-Antoinette “that Austrian slut.”
“Go home, Mrs. Parcell.” The queen’s lips barely moved. “Home is best.” Raising her childlike voice, she turned to the crowd, “Madame Parcell’s coiffure is quite witty. An excellent homage to America and the natural world. I approve.”
Becca deepened her curtsy and rose. She’d almost forgotten her promise. “A wonderful sculptor is asking to create your image in wax. Her name is Patience Wright, and she says that it would be her honor.”
The queen seemed to grow more distant without moving. Becca wondered whether she’d broken another Versailles rule of civility by offering Patience’s services. Without another word to Becca, the queen took her seat, picked up her cards, and set one face-up on the table.
“You have all the luck,” her tablemates trilled.
Becca hovered, uncertain what to do now until Patience Wright pulled her away.
“You have been dismissed,” Patience said. “It happens quickly. I don’t think we are quite real to the French court. Did you ask for me?”
“I asked, but the queen did not respond. I am sorry.”
Patience’s face brightened. “Perhaps she is thinking it over. I cannot thank you enough.”