3

I see no point in reading.

LOUIS XIV

Château de Saint-Germain-en-Laye
France

French court etiquette swam through Blythe’s mind like the teeming carp with golden chokers in Versailles’ ornate pools.

Do not address someone of higher rank than yourself. Never turn your back on royalty. One must curtsy to the king’s portrait if he is not present. One must not knock at a door but scratch. Do not leave the room until an usher opens the door. As soon as you are seated for supper, remove your gloves and place your serviette across your lap, your gloves beneath. A lady never holds hands or locks arms with a gentleman . . .

Tonight was Blythe’s last court ball at the Château de Sceaux, hosted by La Duchesse du Maine. It would be a violently late night followed by a hideously early morning.

Tomorrow—could it be?—she’d begin the long journey home to England. But for now she was too distracted to dwell on the delight of it.

Lady Catherine and Lady Mary Stuart hovered around the dressing table with their French maids, painting their faces with fashionable white lead powder, rouging their cheeks into scarlet dots, and coloring their lips beetroot red. Their elaborate wigs eclipsed Blythe’s, though her own flaxen hair was teased into a rather large, unrecognizable pouf. She shied away from the glittering gold, lilac, and blue powder that came next.

“But, mademoiselle”—the French maid looked aghast—“you may be the only woman in the room so unadorned!”

“Is it required by the king?”

The maid pursed her lips. “Non, but . . .”

Blythe simply smiled and stood back as the Stuart ladies received the coveted, colorful powder by way of a small bellows. They sneezed prettily into their lace handkerchiefs when all was said and done.

Alas, the price of beauty.

Blythe gave silent thanks there was none of this foolishness in Northumbria or even the rustic reaches of Scotland where the Stuarts’ Traquair House held sway. But it seemed her friends wanted to make the most of their French experience, even donning the exaggerated hoop panniers that stretched several feet wide and required the utmost care maneuvering. In her own smaller petticoats, Blythe looked quite deflated beside them. If she were an influencer of fashion, she would hasten this ridiculous extreme to its deathbed. No gallant could get near enough to press his suit!

Eye on the clock, Blythe slipped a hand into her pocket, which was cleverly disguised beneath the ball gown’s petticoat to hold essentials. Spectacles. Handkerchief. Watch. Pencil case. Her father’s latest letter. Even a tiny book of verse. Nary a mirror, scent bottle, comb, or snuff box to be had. Vain trinkets, all.

Blythe danced with an aged, half-blind count and then a young, balding silk merchant while the ladies of Traquair never lacked handsome, willing partners. Was it her imagination, or did these people regard her with a sort of veiled derision—a haughty superiority—as if she were shadowed or stained, her very garments besmirched or marked by Clementine Hedley’s scandalous history?

She drank two cups of punch, all the while inching her way nearer a small door, no easy feat given the press of people and panniers on all sides. Finally, she made her escape into a crimson-and-gold antechamber and up a back stair to she knew not where. A footman eyed her departure warily.

She might be plain, but she was not timid, nor was she above using her standing when it suited her purpose, including roaming another’s château at will.

Voilà! At the top of the stairs was an open window. Leaning in, Blythe breathed the blissful fragrance of magnolias and the pink-blossomed trees she’d seen from the coach but had no name for. If she closed her eyes, she could almost believe she was in Bellbroke’s garden, the stone walls holding in the scent of age-old roses. White roses foremost, her mother’s favorite, cultivated in honor of the Jacobite cause and her family’s allegiance to the Stuart kings.

Blessedly alone, Blythe sought an upholstered bench in a little alcove where she was hidden from sight, uncaring about the crush of her violet taffeta skirts. Her mind was on dusty roads, a water crossing, cramped carriages, lukewarm cuisine, and questionable coaching inns.

She took her father’s letter from her pocket and smoothed the paper’s creases. The ducal seal bore a coronet, knight’s helmet, and quiver and arrows, each as familiar as his handsome, scrolling hand. She reread the last lines.

Perhaps I erred in sending you to France, though I sensed you needed a change, a respite from your books and papers. I misjudged how the frivolities and decadence found amongst courtiers even in exile are so contrary to your nature that you would feel a fish out of water. Though you rarely complain, I sense this has been more trial than holiday for you. And since you mention no suitor to sweeten your stay, thus ends the matter. Foremost, I beg you to dismiss joining a religious order once and for all. Your reasons for doing so are hardly holy.

How that last line stung. He sensed her desperation to quit this place. While she might have been dazzled by the French court as a girl of eight and ten, at eight and twenty she saw through the luster. Though the Stuarts had once reigned supreme, their royal trappings were now tarnished. They themselves were at the mercy of the French king, who stood to gain from his allegiance should the Stuarts be restored to the throne.

You asked in an earlier letter if you might tarry awhile at Traquair House with Lady Catherine and Lady Mary before your return home. By now you may know Charles Stuart has told me his daughters are to continue in France, going with the dowager Queen Mary to spend the summer in Lorraine.

I have a different plan in mind for you, which I will tell you about once we are face-to-face.

She looked out the window. A different plan? How odd that sounded. And how intriguing.

You shall cross the channel and come north up the English coast to Newcastle-upon-Tyne. Arrangements have been secured, and I caution you to stay close to Bell and heed the direction of Father Beverly.

She refolded the letter. Not Dover to Calais as she’d come, which was always the most direct, preferred route. Why the change? She disliked the rigors of travel, but in the company of her maid and her family’s priest, she would make the best of it.

A footfall in the corridor made her press her back against the paneled wall. Someone hastened past, not bothering to look in the small alcove where she hid but stopping just beyond.

“How fortunate we are able to conduct business under the guise of a ball.” The male voice was subdued and clearly British. “And in King’s English too, though French shall forever be the language of intrigue.”

Another man chuckled. “For now, let us anticipate the coming campaign. We’ve not had such profitable news in some time as we’ve had tonight. At long last, Royalist armies are being raised in the north country—one in Northumberland and one in Scotland, is that correct?”

“Aye. A fleet of French ships will soon be at hand.”

“By June, ’tis said. Have you confirmation?”

“I do, indeed. Thrice. From Viscount Bolingbroke, the Earl of Mar, and the Duke of Ormonde. None better.”

“Brilliant! The current riots and protests in London and Edinburgh against the Hanoverian king are in our favor.”

“’Twould seem so. Still, his red-coated swine and a great many mounted government troops will soon be crawling all over the country.”

“They dare not encroach on the Highlands. All the dragoons in the kingdom are no match for a Highland charge.”

“Or a Lowland one if the Radcliffes and Swinburnes and Haggerstons have their way.”

“Dinna forget the Blacketts of Newcastle and the Forsters of Bamburgh, all leading, loyal Jacobites.”

Blythe listened with a sort of bemused detachment to the whispered names of powerful Catholic nobles she knew.

“And then there is the Duke of Northumbria, who has not only contributed so generously to the cause but stands to lose the most of any noble if the Rising fails.”

At the mention of her father, Blythe went still.

The Rising. Spoken of with such gravity, as if the whole world hinged upon it.

What did that even mean?