The Diamond Slipper Read online

  Cor­de­lia frow­ned. She didn't be­li­eve for a mi­nu­te that he was truly as­le­ep. She rif­led thro­ugh the con­tents of her re­ti­cu­le with gre­at sighs and rus­t­les as if lo­oking for so­met­hing vi­tal. Then she hum­med a lit­tle tu­ne, tap­ping her fo­ot in ac­com­pa­ni­ment. Still the vis­co­unt re­ma­ined ap­pa­rently as­le­ep.

  She let down the win­dow and le­aned out to watch the pas­sing sce­nery. "Go­od­ness, you sho­uld see the crowds li­ning the way­si­de to watch us pass," she ob­ser­ved con­ver­sa­ti­onal­ly. "Oh, and the­re's a dan­cing be­ar on a cha­in. It lo­oks very sad, po­or cre­atu­re. Oh, and lo­ok, they're cha­sing a pic­k­poc­ket… and the­re's a gin­ger­b­re­ad stall. It's just li­ke a fa­ir, with stalls and en­ter­ta­iners." She wit­h­d­rew her he­ad and re­gar­ded her still-som­no­lent com­pa­ni­on. "It's a de­al mo­re en­ter­ta­ining out­si­de than it is in he­re."

  Leo ga­ve up. He ope­ned his eyes. "Has an­yo­ne ever sug­ges­ted wrin­ging yo­ur neck?"

  "Not to my know­led­ge," she sa­id with a twin­k­le. "But it's odi­o­us of you to pre­tend to be as­le­ep. I wo­uldn't ha­ve dis­tur­bed you if you we­re truly fa­ti­gu­ed, but you're not. And I ha­ve so many things I want to ask you."

  "Se­ri­o­us things?" he as­ked sus­pi­ci­o­usly.

  "Ut­terly. The em­p­ress told me you wo­uld use the jo­ur­ney to edu­ca­te me in the par­ti­cu­lars of li­fe at Ver­sa­il­les. To­inet­te will ha­ve the com­tes­se de No­a­il­les to tell her things, but I ha­ve only you."

  "Very well." They had to do so­met­hing to pass the ti­me, and this se­emed both sa­fe and use­ful. "What do you wish to know?"

  "Oh, a host of things, but be­fo­re we be­gin, I ha­ve anot­her wa­ger… no, not di­ce and not for mo­ney," she ad­ded, se­e­ing his dar­ke­ning ex­p­res­si­on. "So­met­hing much mo­re im­por­tant. Let us wa­ger on the pre­ci­se ti­me of ar­ri­val at Melk. Who­ever gets clo­sest wins."

  "And what are the sta­kes?" Why he was even con­si­de­ring it on past ex­pe­ri­en­ce, Leo didn't know.

  "If I win, I ri­de to­mor­row in­s­te­ad of sit­ting in this stuffy car­ri­age."

  "And if I win?" One black eyeb­row lif­ted. "Yo­ur cho­ice."

  "Oh, now, that is tem­p­ting in­de­ed." He stro­ked his chin, ref­lec­ting. Cor­de­lia wa­ited rat­her an­xi­o­usly. She co­uldn't ima­gi­ne what he'd cho­ose.

  "Very well. If I win, you will ref­ra­in from pes­te­ring or pro­vo­king me the en­ti­re day."

  "Is that what you think I do?" Hurt clo­uded her eyes but he re­fu­sed to see it.

  "I want no­ne of yo­ur bla­tant flir­ta­ti­on, no­ne of yo­ur tric­kery. You will be­ha­ve with per­fect de­co­rum in my pre­sen­ce, and you will spe­ak only when spo­ken to. Ag­re­ed?"

  Cor­de­lia nib­bled her lip. It se­emed a po­or wa­ger but she didn't ha­ve much op­ti­on. She'd just ha­ve to ho­pe she won. She shrug­ged her ag­re­ement. "So, let's wri­te our pro­j­ec­ti­ons now and put them away un­til we ar­ri­ve." She drew out a le­ad pen­cil and a small no­te­bo­ok from her re­ti­cu­le and han­ded them to him.

  Leo didn't he­si­ta­te. He wro­te swiftly, then to­re out the pa­ge and tuc­ked it in­to his co­at poc­ket.

  Cor­de­lia to­ok the pen­cil and pa­per. She frow­ned fi­er­cely, che­wing the end of the pen­cil, trying to cal­cu­la­te how far they had al­re­ady jo­ur­ne­yed. They wo­uld ha­ve to stop for ref­res­h­ment and to chan­ge hor­ses, and it wo­uld all be very ce­re­mo­ni­o­us, so it wo­uld ta­ke ti­me.

  "Mat­he­ma­tics is not yo­ur strong su­it?" Leo in­qu­ired with a so­li­ci­to­us smi­le.

  "On the con­t­rary," she re­tor­ted. "It's one of my best su­bj­ects." Stung, she ga­ve up cal­cu­la­ting and scrib­bled her pro­j­ec­ti­on. "The­re." She stuf­fed the pa­per back in­to her re­ti­cu­le and sat back. "Now we'll see."

  "So, you ha­ve qu­es­ti­ons."

  "When did yo­ur sis­ter die?"

  He hadn't ex­pec­ted that, but it se­emed an un­der­s­tan­dab­le qu­es­ti­on. "Fo­ur ye­ars ago. The girls we­re ni­ne months old." His ex­p­res­si­on was ne­ut­ral, his eyes ho­oded.

  "What did she die of?"

  "What has that to do with the par­ti­cu­lars of li­fe at Ver­sa­il­les?" His vo­ice was cold, his mo­uth sud­denly tight.

  "I'm sorry," she sa­id swiftly. "Do­es it pa­in you to talk of her?"

  She didn't know how much. But it wasn't so much pa­in as this de­ep ti­de of ra­ge that thre­ate­ned to burst its dams when he tho­ught of the was­te­ful­ness of such a de­ath, such a vib­rant, pre­ci­o­us li­fe ex­tin­gu­is­hed al­most over­night. He for­ced him­self to re­lax and an­s­we­red her first qu­es­ti­on, ig­no­ring the se­cond. "She di­ed of a fe­ver… a very swift was­ting sic­k­ness."

  It was far too com­mon a ca­use of de­ath to sur­p­ri­se Cor­de­lia. "You lo­ved her very much?" she as­ked ten­ta­ti­vely, her eyes gra­ve now, her ex­p­res­si­on soft.

  "My fe­elings for El­vi­ra can ha­ve not­hing to do with yo­ur new li­fe, Cor­de­lia," he sa­id, trying not to snap. He co­uld ne­ver bring him­self to talk abo­ut his sis­ter, not even to Mic­ha­el, who al­ways ma­in­ta­ined an un­der­s­tan­ding si­len­ce on the su­bj­ect.

  "El­vi­ra. That's a pretty na­me." Cor­de­lia se­emed not to ha­ve he­ard him. "Was she ol­der than you?"

  Cle­arly, she was not to be put off. "We we­re twins," he sa­id shortly.

  "Oh." Cor­de­lia nod­ded. "Twins ha­ve a very spe­ci­al bond, don't they?"

  "So it's sa­id. Can we talk abo­ut Ver­sa­il­les now?"

  "Yo­ur sis­ter ga­ve birth to twins. It must run in the fa­mily," Cor­de­lia con­ti­nu­ed. "Per­haps you'll fat­her twins when you marry. Ha­ve you ever wis­hed to marry?"

  "That is not a to­pic for this con­ver­sa­ti­on," he dec­la­red fri­gidly. "If you wish us to con­ti­nue, then you will con­fi­ne yo­ur­self to per­ti­nent qu­es­ti­ons."

  "I didn't in­tend to be im­per­ti­nent," she sa­id, frow­ning. "I was just be­ing in­te­res­ted and fri­endly."

  Leo won­de­red if she was be­ing di­sin­ge­nu­o­us and then de­ci­ded that he didn't wish to know. He of­fe­red no en­co­ura­ge­ment, and af­ter a mi­nu­te she sa­id, "Tell me abo­ut my hus­band. What kind of man is he?"

  This at le­ast was an unim­pe­ac­hab­le area of in­te­rest. "He's a man in his pri­me. A gre­at hun­t­s­man, which ma­kes him po­pu­lar with the king. He enj­oys co­urt li­fe and you'll find that you'll be in­vi­ted to most of the so­j­o­urns at the ot­her pa­la­ces, li­ke Fon­ta­ineb­leu, St. Clo­ud, the Tri­anon, the Ho­tel de Vil­le. The co­urt picks it­self up and go­es on the­se jo­ur­neys fo­ur or fi­ve ti­mes a ye­ar. The king grows im­pa­ti­ent if he stays in one pla­ce too long."

  Cor­de­lia was lis­te­ning in­tently, but whi­le this ex­po­si­ti­on on co­urt tra­vels was mildly in­te­res­ting, it wasn't as per­ti­nent as her hus­band. "But will I li­ke him?" She le­aned for­ward aga­in, un­der­s­co­ring the se­ri­o­us­ness of the qu­es­ti­on.

  Leo shrug­ged ca­re­les­sly and drew away from her mad­de­ning pro­xi­mity. "How sho­uld I know, Cor­de­lia. Many pe­op­le do, but he has ene­mi­es. We all do."

  "Is he kind?" Cor­de­lia per­se­ve­red, la­ying a hand on his knee. "Is he go­od to the chil­d­ren?"

  He was a cold, in­dif­fe­rent pa­rent, one re­ason why Leo was so an­xi­o­us that they sho­uld ha­ve a con­cer­ned and ca­ring step­mot­her. Ho­we­ver, Leo kept this ref­lec­ti­on to him­self. "They are in the char­ge of a go­ver­ness. I don't be­li­eve the­ir fat­her has much to do with them."

  That, too, was not un­com­mon. She ope­ned her mo­uth for anot­her qu­es­ti­on when
the blast of a trum­pet rent the air. "Oh, we must be stop­ping so­mew­he­re. I own I shall be glad to stretch my legs."

  Leo swung open the do­or when the car­ri­age ca­me to a halt in the cen­ter of a small vil­la­ge. He jum­ped down to the cob­bled squ­are and held out his hand to as­sist Cor­de­lia in the de­li­ca­te ma­ne­uver re­qu­ired to get her­self and her wi­de skirts thro­ugh the do­or. He drop­ped her hand the mi­nu­te she was on so­lid gro­und.

  Cor­de­lia pro­ce­eded to tuck her hand in his arm. "You are my es­cort, proxy hus­band," she mur­mu­red. "You mustn't tre­at me as if I'm a pa­ri­ah dog."

  He lo­oked sharply down at her. As he'd ex­pec­ted, she was smi­ling with that out­ra­ge­o­us in­vi­ta­ti­on in her eyes. "Be­ha­ve yo­ur­self!" he com­man­ded in a fe­ro­ci­o­us un­der­to­ne.

  Cor­de­lia's smi­le bro­ade­ned. "I ha­ven't lost the wa­ger yet, my lord."

  He had no ti­me to res­pond, as the vil­la­ge ma­yor ca­me over to them, bo­wing low, of­fe­ring the hum­b­le hos­pi­ta­lity of his vil­la­ge. The da­up­hi­ne and her brot­her we­re in­s­tal­led in cha­irs on a ca­no­pi­ed da­is in the cen­ter of the squ­are, whi­le vil­la­ge ma­idens bro­ught them fo­od and drink and the in­ha­bi­tants of the co­un­t­r­y­si­de for mi­les aro­und ga­zed in won­der at the august pre­sen­ce in the­ir midst.

  Cor­de­lia and the vis­co­unt we­re es­cor­ted to the vil­la­ge inn, whe­re hos­pi­ta­lity for the da­up­hi­ne's re­ti­nue was pro­vi­ded. The­re we­re so many pe­op­le mil­ling aro­und in the small, low-be­amed tap­ro­om that con­ver­sa­ti­on was im­pos­sib­le and the he­at ra­pidly be­ca­me in­sup­por­tab­le. Cor­de­lia dab­bed her fo­re­he­ad with her han­d­ker­c­hi­ef. "Pray ex­cu­se my, my lord." She wit­h­d­rew her hand from his arm and tur­ned to le­ave the inn.

  "Whe­re are you go­ing?"

  "A mat­ter re­qu­iring pri­vacy, my lord." She ga­ve him an im­pish smi­le and pus­hed her way to the do­or.

  Leo dra­ined his tan­kard of ale with a he­ar­t­felt sigh. Twen­ty-th­ree days of her clo­se com­pany!

  Cor­de­lia fo­und the sin­g­le privy with a li­ne of co­ur­ti­ers wa­iting to use it. Her no­se wrin­k­led at the no­iso­me lit­tle shed. It wasn't con­s­t­ruc­ted for wo­men with skirts fi­ve fe­et wi­de. She tur­ned and ma­de her way thro­ugh the vil­la­ge in­to the fi­elds be­yond. A blac­k­ber­ry bush pro­vi­ded suf­fi­ci­ent co­ver and the air was a de­al fres­her, des­pi­te the cir­c­le of cows so­lemnly re­gar­ding this ex­t­ra­or­di­nary cre­atu­re who'd I ap­pe­ared in the­ir midst.

  She'd just mo­ved her skirts and pet­ti­co­ats out of the way when she he­ard the crac­k­le of fo­ot­s­teps be­yond the bush. Of all the in­con­ve­ni­ent mo­ments for so­me vil­la­ge la­bo­rer to co­me along! She was not par­ti­cu­larly em­bar­ras­sed. Most of the pub­lic pri­vi­es in Schon­b­runn had no do­ors on them, and the com­mo­des be­hind the scre­ens in the cor­ri­dors we­re hardly pri­va­te.

  "Cor­de­lia, what the de­vil are you do­ing out he­re?" The vis­co­unt so­un­ded dis­tinctly an­no­yed and very clo­se. She co­uld see his fe­et be­ne­ath the bush.

  A lo­cal pe­asant was one thing, Vis­co­unt Ki­er­s­ton qu­ite anot­her. "I'm be­hind the bush," she sa­id has­tily. "Don't co­me any clo­ser."

  "What the hell… Oh!" La­ug­h­ter fil­led his vo­ice. "I do beg yo­ur par­don."

  Cor­de­lia sho­ok down her skirts and emer­ged from her open-air clo­set, "it was hardly chi­val­ro­us to fol­low me, my lord."

  "When I see my char­ge has­te­ning in­to the co­un­t­r­y­si­de at a mo­ment when the da­up­hi­ne and the em­pe­ror are abo­ut to re­en­ter the­ir car­ri­age, chi­valry do­esn't co­me in­to it," he re­tor­ted. "Why co­uldn't you use the vil­la­ge privy li­ke ever­yo­ne el­se?"

  "Pre­ci­sely be­ca­use ever­yo­ne el­se was using it," she dec­la­red, smo­ot­hing a wrin­k­le in her skirt. "Wo­men are at a se­ri­o­us di­sad­van­ta­ge, you sho­uld know, Lord Ki­er­s­ton."

  He la­ug­hed aga­in. "I see yo­ur po­int. Now co­me along.

  The car­ri­ages be­hind ours can't le­ave un­til we do." He to­ok her hand, hur­rying her back ac­ross the fi­eld, for­get­ting in his amu­se­ment to ke­ep his hands off her.

  Cor­de­lia, for her part, ma­de no pro­test at this un­ce­re­mo­ni­o­us es­cort.

  They re­ac­hed the pa­la­ti­al mo­nas­tery of Melk at six in the eve­ning. The da­up­hi­ne and the em­pe­ror had al­re­ady en­te­red the im­pe­ri­al apar­t­ments by the ti­me the von Sac­h­sen car­ri­age pas­sed be­ne­ath the west ga­te of the mo­nas­tery, which do­mi­na­ted a bend of the Da­nu­be be­low.

  Cor­de­lia lo­oked at the da­inty fob watch pin­ned to her gown. She ope­ned her re­ti­cu­le and drew out her fol­ded she­et. "What did you pro­j­ect, sir?"

  Leo pul­led out his pa­per. "Six-thirty," he sa­id with a con­fi­dent smi­le. Half an ho­ur out on such an im­pe­ded jo­ur­ney was ba­rely worth con­si­de­ring.

  But Cor­de­lia la­ug­hed, her eyes gle­aming with ple­asu­re. "Six twen­ty-se­ven. See." She held out her fol­ded she­et. "I ne­ver es­ti­ma­te re­gu­lar ti­mes be­ca­use in the re­al world not­hing ever hap­pens so ne­atly. I win."

  "Yes, you do. But the­re's no ne­ed to crow."

  "But it was cle­ver of me," she in­sis­ted.

  Leo step­ped out of the car­ri­age. "Yes, you may ri­de," he sa­id, gi­ving her his hand. "And I shall enj­oy a pe­ace­ful day alo­ne in the car­ri­age."

  Her fa­ce fell so lu­dic­ro­usly that he felt per­fectly re­pa­id for her glo­ating.

  "How co­uld you pos­sibly wish to tra­vel in a stuffy car­ri­age?"

  "As I sa­id, it will be pe­ace­ful and qu­i­et… Ah, he­re's the monk who will show you to yo­ur apar­t­ments." He han­ded her over to a smi­ling monk who in­t­ro­du­ced him­self as Fat­her Cor­ne­li­us and dec­la­red him­self res­pon­sib­le for the dis­po­si­ti­on of the mo­nas­tery's ho­no­red gu­ests.

  "Yo­ur ma­id will be di­rec­ted to yo­ur apar­t­ments as so­on as she ar­ri­ves, Prin­cess." He ges­tu­red co­ur­te­o­usly to­ward the en­t­ran­ce to the bu­il­ding. "Her Hig­h­ness the Da­up­hi­ne has re­qu­es­ted that you be lod­ged in the im­pe­ri­al apar­t­ments."

  Cor­de­lia he­si­ta­ted. She tur­ned back to Leo. "You will not ri­de with me to­mor­row?"

  "That was not part of the wa­ger." He co­uldn't help enj­oying this tiny mo­ment of re­ven­ge.

  But Cor­de­lia was not long at a loss. "I'll en­su­re in fu­tu­re, my lord, that I phra­se the­se mat­ters cor­rectly." She swept him a per­fectly exe­cu­ted curtsy and gli­ded away with Fat­her Cor­ne­li­us, le­aving Leo won­de­ring whet­her he'd won or lost that ex­c­han­ge.

  Chapter Seven

  "I am so un­hap­py, Cor­de­lia!" To­inet­te flung her­self in­to her fri­end's arms when Cor­de­lia en­te­red the da­up­hi­ne's bo­udo­ir ten mi­nu­tes la­ter. "How can I be­ar to go so far away?"

  "Now, now, To­inet­te, this is most un­dig­ni­fi­ed," the em­pe­ror pro­tes­ted, at a loss as to how to de­al with his lit­tle sis­ter's te­ars. He was not an unaf­fec­ti­ona­te man, but he'd be­en scho­oled to con­t­rol his own emo­ti­ons at all costs and was both em­bar­ras­sed and shoc­ked by To­inet­te's un­b­rid­led gri­ef.

  "Hush, now." Cor­de­lia stro­ked her back. "It won't be so bad when you get used to it. Think of how ex­ci­ted you we­re be­fo­re at the tho­ught of be­ing qu­e­en of Fran­ce. Think of lor­ding it over the co­urt at Ver­sa­il­les. Think of all the amu­se­ments… think of the fre­edom to do as you ple­ase."

  To­inet­te hic­cu­ped in her arms, but her vi­olent sobs slo­wed. Fi­nal­ly, she stra­ig­h­te�
�ned and snif­fed vi­go­ro­usly. "I know you're right, but it's so hard. I'll ne­ver see Ma­ma aga­in. Or my brot­hers and sis­ters."

  She dab­bed at her no­se with her han­d­ker­c­hi­ef and sa­id with a bra­ve at­tempt at com­po­su­re, "I will try to mas­ter myself. But I will di­ne in my apar­t­ments to­night… Cor­de­lia shall be­ar me com­pany."

  "Go­od God, girl, you can't do that!" Joseph pro­tes­ted. "You are re­ce­iving the hos­pi­ta­lity of Melk. It wo­uld be con­si­de­red un­for­gi­vably dis­co­ur­te­o­us to hi­de yo­ur­self away."

  "But I am ill!" To­inet­te cri­ed. "So fa­ti­gu­ed. And I fe­el so un­well, brot­her."

  "That is no ex­cu­se," he sta­ted flatly.

  "His ma­j­esty is right, To­inet­te." Cor­de­lia to­ok her fri­end's hand, cha­fing it. "The ab­bot wo­uld be slig­h­ted if you don't ap­pe­ar." Slip­ping her arm aro­und To­inet­te's sho­ul­ders, she drew her to­ward the bed­c­ham­ber next do­or. "Shall you we­ar the di­amond col­lar to­night? The one the king sent you from Fran­ce?" The two di­sap­pe­ared in­to the ne­ig­h­bo­ring cham­ber, and so­on To­inet­te's vo­ice co­uld be he­ard res­pon­ding to Cor­de­lia's che­er­ful chat­ter.

  The em­pe­ror sig­hed with re­li­ef. Cor­de­lia had al­ways be­en ab­le to calm To­inet­te in one of her emo­ti­onal out­bursts. "I will re­turn to es­cort the da­up­hi­ne to din­ner," he dec­la­red to the la­di­es-in-wa­iting, and to­ok him­self off to the tran­qu­ility of his own apar­t­ments.

  When Cor­de­lia left To­inet­te an ho­ur la­ter, the da­up­hi­ne was al­most her usu­al che­er­ful self. Cor­de­lia had ma­de her la­ugh with a wic­ked mi­micry of va­ri­o­us mem­bers of the French en­to­ura­ge, and Cor­de­lia was still grin­ning at her own per­for­man­ce as she ma­de her way to her own cham­ber in the im­pe­ri­al su­ite.