The Diamond Slipper Read online

  What if she we­re re­al­ly mar­rying Vis­co­unt Ki­er­s­ton? Fu­eled by this qu­es­ti­on, her own res­pon­ses we­re so fer­vent they sur­p­ri­sed even the bis­hop, who pe­ered at her in the can­d­le­light.

  Leo's mo­uth tig­h­te­ned as he he­ard Cor­de­lia ma­ke her wed­ding vows. He knew what she was thin­king. She had dec­la­red that she lo­ved him, and ho­we­ver much he might dis­miss this as a yo­ut­h­ful fan­tasy, the ring of sin­ce­rity in her vo­ice, the po­wer of it in her eyes, co­uldn't be so easily dis­mis­sed.

  Any mo­re than he co­uld dis­miss the po­wer she held over him, aga­inst his will, aga­inst his de­ep-ro­oted con­vic­ti­ons, aga­inst all ra­ti­ona­lity.

  The bis­hop bles­sed the rings and they we­re re­tur­ned to the lit­tle gold ring box, to be pre­sen­ted at the se­cond wed­ding when the true bri­deg­ro­om wo­uld do his part.

  "Well, that went off fa­irly well," Du­ke Franz dec­la­red when they we­re out­si­de aga­in in the glo­omy, high-wal­led me­di­eval co­ur­t­yard out­si­de the cha­pel. "And I wish you joy of yo­ur char­ge, my lord." He to­ok snuff, flo­uris­hing his han­d­ker­c­hi­ef as if wa­ving away the bur­den­so­me ye­ars of his gu­ar­di­an­s­hip.

  Cor­de­lia, re­ce­iving the con­g­ra­tu­la­ti­ons of the em­p­ress, he­ard the so­ur com­ment, as did ever­yo­ne el­se. It was so chur­lish it pe­net­ra­ted the shell she'd early con­s­t­ruc­ted aro­und her­self. She tur­ned to lo­ok at her un­c­le, a te­ar of hurt shi­ning in her eyes.

  Ma­ria The­re­sa pat­ted her sho­ul­der, sa­ying kindly, "You ha­ve al­ways be­en very de­ar to us, Cor­de­lia. I con­si­der you as one of my own chil­d­ren, and I know that you and Ma­rie An­to­inet­te will con­ti­nue to be clo­se fri­ends and com­pa­ni­ons."

  Cor­de­lia cur­t­si­ed as low as she co­uld in her vo­lu­mi­no­us gown wit­ho­ut over­ba­lan­cing and fal­ling on her re­ar. "I am sen­sib­le of Yo­ur Ma­j­esty's every kin­d­ness to me over the ye­ars, and I can­not ex­p­ress my gra­ti­tu­de eno­ugh."

  Ma­ria The­re­sa smi­led ap­pro­vingly, tur­ning to the vis­co­unt. "I trust you'll be ab­le to in­s­t­ruct Prin­cess von Sac­h­sen in the nu­an­ces of li­fe at Ver­sa­il­les du­ring yo­ur jo­ur­ney, Lord Ki­er­s­ton. I know they ha­ve so­me dif­fe­rent cus­toms."

  Leo bo­wed. "I will do my best, ma­da­me." He sup­po­sed it was a task that fell to his hand-one of the gro­wing list of res­pon­si­bi­li­ti­es that ac­com­pa­ni­ed ta­king char­ge of Mic­ha­el's wi­fe. How he had ever ag­re­ed to this in­sa­ne pro­j­ect he co­uldn't ima­gi­ne. But then, if he'd ima­gi­ned Cor­de­lia, he cer­ta­inly wo­uldn't ha­ve ag­re­ed. But how co­uld any sa­ne man ima­gi­ne Cor­de­lia?

  How wo­uld Mic­ha­el re­act to her? He ex­pec­ted so­me de­mu­re, to­tal­ly inex­pe­ri­en­ced yo­ung girl of im­pec­cab­le bre­eding, well ver­sed in her ro­le of to­tal obe­di­en­ce to mo­narch, fat­her, hus­band. And he was go­ing to find him­self wed­ded to Cor­de­lia.

  "Stand still, Ame­lia, whi­le I tie yo­ur rib­bon. You're such a fid­get."

  "Yes, ma­da­me." Sylvie's eyes met her twin sis­ter's, and they both dis­sol­ved in gig­gles.

  "For mercy's sa­ke, child, what is the mat­ter with you to­day?" Lo­u­ise de Nevry, the chil­d­ren's go­ver­ness, pul­led Sylvie's ha­ir back with an un­ne­ces­sa­rily hard tug. She co­uldn't un­der­s­tand what got in­to them on days li­ke this. From the mo­ment they wo­ke, they se­emed to sha­re so­me sec­ret that sent them in­to fits of gig­gles at the slig­h­test thing an­yo­ne sa­id to them. And all the scol­ding in the world did no go­od. She ti­ed the la­ven­der ha­ir rib­bon in a cram­ped lit­tle knot and pus­hed the child away.

  "Now, Sylvie, co­me he­re and let me do yo­ur ha­ir."

  "Yes, ma­da­me." Ame­lia step­ped obe­di­ently for­ward, her ro­se­bud mo­uth qu­ive­ring with la­ug­h­ter. It was one of the girls' gre­atest en­ter­ta­in­ments, this swit­c­hing of iden­tity. If they awo­ke be­fo­re Nur­se ca­me to them in the mor­ning, they wo­uld ex­c­han­ge po­si­ti­ons in the bed be­fo­re she saw them, and Ame­lia wo­uld be Sylvie and Sylvie Ame­lia for the rest of the day. And no one wo­uld be any the wi­ser.

  Ma­da­me de Nevry ti­ed the bra­id with the gre­en rib­bon that iden­ti­fi­ed Sylvie for her fat­her, as the li­lac iden­ti­fi­ed Ame­lia, then she tur­ned the child aro­und and scru­ti­ni­zed her cri­ti­cal­ly. "This le­vity is un­se­emly," she scol­ded as the girl strug­gled with her la­ug­h­ter. "Both un­se­emly and fo­olish. What co­uld you pos­sibly ha­ve to la­ugh abo­ut?"

  She glan­ced aro­und the scho­ol­ro­om with its dark pa­ne­led walls, ba­re oak flo­or, spar­se fur­ni­tu­re. The un­cur­ta­ined win­dows we­re kept firmly shut­te­red so that no no­ise or dis­t­rac­ti­on from the world out­si­de co­uld re­ach the girls at the­ir les­sons. She co­uld see no en­co­ura­ge­ment for la­ug­h­ter in the­ir sur­ro­un­dings; it was all exactly as it sho­uld be.

  "The prin­ce will be wa­iting for you. Is that ink on yo­ur hands, Sylvie?"

  Ame­lia held out her hands. Her na­ils' we­re pa­in­ted with a fo­ul-tas­ting yel­low pas­te to ke­ep her from bi­ting them. Not that Ame­lia bit her na­ils; that was Sylvie's ha­bit. But Nur­se hadn't even lo­oked when she'd ri­tu­al­ly ano­in­ted the sup­po­sedly bit­ten fin­gers that mor­ning.

  "What will yo­ur fat­her think!" the go­ver­ness grum­b­led.

  "Go to the nur­sery and wash them at on­ce." She lo­oked up at the clock, wor­rying at her lip with her te­eth; they mustn't be la­te for the­ir we­ekly pre­sen­ta­ti­on to the prin­ce.

  Lo­u­ise was a thin wo­man, with an­gu­lar fe­atu­res and spar­se gray ha­ir that she kept hid­den be­ne­ath a lar­ge wig on which per­c­hed a dor­me­use cap. An em­bit­te­red spin­s­ter, a dis­tant re­la­ti­on of the von Sac­h­sens, she was de­pen­dent on the cha­rity of the prin­ce, for which she was ex­pec­ted to edu­ca­te his da­ug­h­ters. But sin­ce she had lit­tle edu­ca­ti­on her­self, se­ri­o­us study didn't fe­atu­re too much in the scho­ol­ro­om of the prin­ce's Pa­ri­si­an pa­la­ce on rue du Bac. In­s­te­ad the girls we­re ex­pec­ted to sit still for long pe­ri­ods of ti­me, hol­ding the­ir he­ads high, the­ir sho­ul­ders erect, the pos­tu­re ma­in­ta­ined with the aid of bac­k­bo­ards. They we­re ta­ught to curtsy and walk with the tiny, qu­ick gli­ding steps de ri­gu­e­ur at Ver­sa­il­les, so that they lo­oked li­ke two cloc­k­work mi­ni­atu­res with the­ir pan­ni­ered skirts flo­ating over the flo­or, se­emingly un­p­ro­pel­led by an­y­t­hing as vul­gar as legs and fe­et. Ma­da­me, an in­dif­fe­rent per­for­mer on the cla­vic­hord, ne­ver­t­he­less stro­ve to im­part the ru­di­ments of the in­s­t­ru­ment to her char­ges, ne­it­her of whom ap­pe­ared to show eit­her in­te­rest or ap­ti­tu­de. It didn't oc­cur to the go­ver­ness that this lack might ha­ve so­met­hing to do with her met­hods of te­ac­hing.

  The child re­tur­ned with her ink-sta­ined fin­gers scrub­bed red and raw by Nur­se's pu­mi­ce sto­ne. She cur­t­si­ed to her go­ver­ness, hol­ding out her hands for in­s­pec­ti­on.

  "It's not li­ke you to ha­ve dirty hands," Ma­da­me sa­id. "Yo­ur sis­ter is usu­al­ly the one who gets mo­re ink on her than on the pa­ge."

  The­re was a snort of la­ug­h­ter from the ot­her child. Ma­da­me sta­red sus­pi­ci­o­usly bet­we­en her small char­ges. "Now stop that! I shall re­port this con­duct to yo­ur fat­her."

  The girls ex­c­han­ged qu­ick lo­oks and so­be­red swiftly. They saw the­ir fat­her on­ce a we­ek for ten mi­nu­tes, but the­re was no qu­es­ti­on who­se aut­ho­rity ru­led the scho­ol­ro­om. They knew that Ma­da­me de Nevry's kne­es knoc­ked when in the pre­sen­ce of Prin­ce Mic­ha­el. They co­
uld tell be­ca­use her fa­ce be­ca­me even mo­re pin­c­hed and pa­le, and she fus­sed and scol­ded even mo­re than usu­al be­fo­re the we­ekly pre­sen­ta­ti­on.

  "Co­me, it's ti­me to go down." The go­ver­ness hus­t­led the chil­d­ren out of the do­or in front of her. The scho­ol­ro­om was un­der the eaves at the very top of the ho­use, and they pro­ce­eded down three flights of back sta­irs, with worn car­pet and fa­ded flock wal­lpa­per. Sta­irs used only by the ser­vants.

  In the small fo­yer at the bot­tom of the last sta­ir­ca­se, Lo­u­ise to­ok one last lo­ok at her char­ges, stra­ig­h­te­ning a gre­en rib­bon he­re, a cro­oked fic­hu the­re. "Now, you spe­ak only when spo­ken to and you con­fi­ne yo­ur­sel­ves simply to an­s­we­ring His Hig­h­ness's qu­es­ti­ons. Is that cle­ar?"

  The twins cur­t­si­ed and mur­mu­red as­sent. They ne­eded no re­min­ding of the ru­les. The­ir fat­her was a fi­gu­re so dis­tant and lofty in the­ir li­ves, they co­uldn't ima­gi­ne ope­ning the­ir mo­uths in his pre­sen­ce wit­ho­ut a di­rect or­der.

  The go­ver­ness smo­ot­hed down her own skirts, adj­us­ted her cap, and sa­iled thro­ugh the do­or le­ading to the grand hall of the man­si­on. Her char­ges fol­lo­wed, all le­vity va­nis­hed as they con­cen­t­ra­ted on ta­king lit­tle gli­ding steps whi­le ke­eping the­ir he­ads still, the­ir backs ri­gid. They en­te­red the ma­in part of the ho­use only on the­se we­ekly oc­ca­si­ons, but they we­re trying so hard not to ma­ke a mis­ta­ke, they ne­ver saw an­y­t­hing of the­ir sur­ro­un­dings, re­ta­ining only a con­fu­sed me­lan­ge of gilt and soft pretty co­lors, rich car­pets or the click of mar­b­le be­ne­ath the­ir tiny fe­et.

  A li­ve­ri­ed, pow­de­red fo­ot­man bo­wed as they pas­sed. The chil­d­ren ig­no­red him be­ca­use they had be­en ta­ught that ser­vants we­re not to be ac­k­now­led­ged un­less one was gi­ving an or­der. Anot­her fo­ot­man flung open the pa­in­ted pa­ne­led do­ors, an­no­un­cing in rin­ging to­nes, "Mes­da­mes Ame­lia and Sylvie. Ma­da­me de Nevry."

  The chil­d­ren en­te­red be­fo­re the go­ver­ness, both ke­eping the­ir eyes on the flo­or, awa­re of the gre­at ex­pan­se of car­pet stret­c­hing bet­we­en them and the fi­gu­re of the­ir fat­her at the far end of the sa­lon. Ever­y­t­hing se­emed hu­ge in this ro­om. A con­so­le tab­le on the wall be­si­de the do­or was at the le­vel of the­ir he­ads. The so­fas and cha­irs we­re ma­de for gi­ants. They wo­uld ha­ve to climb up the slip­pery legs in or­der to sit in them. But sin­ce they we­re ne­ver ex­pec­ted to sit down, the qu­es­ti­on was aca­de­mic.

  Prin­ce Mic­ha­el bec­ko­ned them over. He re­ma­ined le­aning aga­inst the man­tel, so­met­hing nes­t­led in the palm of his hand. He was dres­sed for co­urt. His pa­le eyes we­re sharp be­ne­ath his ela­bo­ra­tely cur­led wig as he to­ok in his da­ug­h­ters' ap­pe­aran­ce.

  "Yo­ur re­port, ma­da­me."

  The chil­d­ren held the­ir bre­aths. So­me­ti­mes Ma­da­me wo­uld list a ca­ta­lo­gue of mi­nor of­fen­ses, things they had eit­her for­got­ten or had ne­ver even be­en po­in­ted out to them. They ne­ver knew why she did this, ex­cept that it se­emed to hap­pen when she had be­en com­p­la­ining to Nur­se abo­ut how her tro­ub­les we­re on her. Ot­her ti­mes, she wo­uld re­port an une­ven­t­ful we­ek and the prin­ce wo­uld dis­miss them with a sa­tis­fi­ed nod.

  Ma­da­me cur­t­si­ed. "Ame­lia con­ti­nu­es to ha­ve dif­fi­culty mas­te­ring cur­si­ve, sir, and Sylvie is so­me­ti­mes re­luc­tant to prac­ti­ce her mu­sic."

  Mic­ha­el frow­ned. Was it Sylvie who wo­re the gre­en rib­bon or Ame­lia? He co­uld ne­ver re­mem­ber, al­t­ho­ugh he'd dec­re­ed the iden­ti­fi­ers him­self. They both lo­oked du­ti­ful­ly at the car­pet, but he co­uld see that they each held the­ir dim­p­led hands tightly grip­ped in front of them. They se­emed very small, and it as­to­nis­hed him how two se­pa­ra­te in­di­vi­du­als co­uld be so ut­terly iden­ti­cal. Pre­su­mably, they had dif­fe­rent cha­rac­ters-not that the­ir in­di­vi­du­al per­so­na­li­ti­es we­re par­ti­cu­larly re­le­vant to an­y­t­hing.

  "An­y­t­hing el­se?"

  "A deg­ree of un­se­emly le­vity, sir." The chil­d­ren re­ma­ined mo­ti­on­less. How co­uld such stiff, ex­p­res­si­on­less lit­tle dolls show un­se­emly le­vity? It struck Prin­ce Mic­ha­el as ex­t­ra­or­di­nary.

  Ho­we­ver, he had ot­her things on his mind and de­ci­ded the­se pec­ca­dil­lo­es we­ren't worth con­si­de­ring.

  "I da­re­say the­ir mot­her will cor­rect the­se fa­ults," he sta­ted.

  Lo­u­ise lo­oked as if she'd be­en struck by a lig­h­t­ning bolt. "I… I beg yo­ur par­don, sir? The­ir… the­ir mot­her?"

  Ame­lia and Sylvie for­got the­ir fe­ar and lo­oked up, sho­wing the­ir fat­her two pa­irs of wi­de blue eyes, two ro­se­bud mo­uths, two small no­ses. El­vi­ra's fe­atu­res. He co­uld see not­hing of him­self in them, but the­ir pa­ter­nity didn't in­te­rest him. Had they be­en boys, it wo­uld ha­ve be­en very dif­fe­rent. But girls we­re simply cur­rency and he wo­uld spend them wi­sely. They we­re bid­ding fa­ir to be as be­a­uti­ful as El­vi­ra, and if they ful­fil­led that po­ten­ti­al, he sho­uld ha­ve lit­tle dif­fi­culty ma­king ad­van­ta­ge­o­us mar­ri­ages for them.

  "B- b-but our… our m-mot­her's de­ad, sir." They spo­ke in stam­me­ring uni­son.

  "Yo­ur first mot­her, yes," he sa­id with a to­uch of im­pa­ti­en­ce. "But you are to ha­ve a new mot­her. You may lo­ok at her li­ke­ness." He held out the mi­ni­atu­re.

  Ame­lia to­ok it from him with a qu­ick, dar­ting mo­ve­ment as if she we­re af­ra­id she was put­ting her fin­gers in a trap. The two girls sta­red at the fa­ce and sa­id not­hing.

  Lo­u­ise felt the earth slip­ping be­ne­ath her fe­et. A mis­t­ress in the ho­use was bad news for a go­ver­ness. She wo­uld ha­ve to ma­ke her­self ag­re­e­ab­le to the new prin­cess, who co­uld well thre­aten her hit­her­to un­dis­pu­ted aut­ho­rity over the girls.

  "Pray al­low me to con­g­ra­tu­la­te you, Prin­ce." She cur­t­si­ed stiffly. "Is the mar­ri­age to be so­on?"

  "The wed­ding has al­re­ady ta­ken pla­ce by proxy in Vi­en­na. Vis­co­unt Ki­er­s­ton is ac­com­pan­ying the prin­cess he­re with the da­up­hi­ne's party." He held out his hand for the mi­ni­atu­re. Ame­lia han­ded it back with a curtsy, im­me­di­ately lo­we­ring her eyes to the car­pet aga­in.

  Lo­u­ise strug­gled to ke­ep the chag­rin and ve­xa­ti­on from her fa­ce. It didn't sur­p­ri­se her that her em­p­lo­yer hadn't con­si­de­red it ne­ces­sary to im­part this in­for­ma­ti­on be­fo­re, but it sur­p­ri­sed her that Vis­co­unt Ki­er­s­ton had kept si­lent abo­ut it. He was so in­te­res­ted in the girls, it se­emed ex­t­ra­or­di­nary that he wo­uldn't ha­ve hin­ted at so­met­hing this im­por­tant. She lon­ged to see the por­t­ra­it, but it se­emed it was not to be. The prin­ce drop­ped it in­to his co­at poc­ket. "You are dis­mis­sed."

  The lit­tle girls cur­t­si­ed and bac­ked out of the ro­om. Ame­lia's hand crept in­to Sylvie's as they ed­ged out of the do­or. The­ir go­ver­ness, af­ter anot­her stiff curtsy, fol­lo­wed them. No one sa­id an­y­t­hing un­til they we­re back in the scho­ol­ro­om, then Ame­lia ga­ve a joy­ful jump.

  "She's so pretty."

  "Yes, li­ke a re­al prin­cess," Sylvie ag­re­ed, do­ing a lit­tle dan­ce. "And Mon­si­e­ur Leo will be co­ming back too."

  "Now stop that at on­ce!" Ma­da­me was lo­oking very pin­c­hed and cross. "I will not ha­ve you dan­cing and jum­ping li­ke a pa­ir of pe­asant hoy­dens."

  The girls com­po­sed them­sel­ves, but the­ir eyes still sho­ne. For on­ce they had the ad­van­ta­ge of the­ir go­ver­ness. T
hey knew that she hadn't se­en the mi­ni­atu­re of the new prin­cess, and they knew how ve­xed she was.

  "She had black ha­ir, ma­da­me," Sylvie sa­id kindly.

  The go­ver­ness wan­ted to ask the sin­g­le bur­ning qu­es­ti­on: How old was this new Prin­cess von Sac­h­sen? But she wo­uldn't de­me­an her­self by as­king it of her char­ges. The ma­j­or­do­mo wo­uld know ever­y­t­hing. Mon­si­e­ur Bri­on al­ways knew ever­y­t­hing- be­fo­re an­yo­ne el­se. It wo­uld be al­most as de­me­aning to beg in­for­ma­ti­on from him, but it was ne­ces­sary.

  "It's ti­me you we­re in bed," she an­no­un­ced.

  The girls co­uldn't yet tell the ti­me, but they knew it was far too early. The sun hadn't go­ne down and they hadn't had sup­per. They ga­zed at the­ir go­ver­ness in dis­may.

  "You ha­ve both be­en ex­ce­edingly ill be­ha­ved," Ma­da­me dec­la­red. "This un­se­emly la­ug­h­ter has to stop. You will ha­ve bre­ad and milk for sup­per and go to bed im­me­di­ately."

  They knew pro­tes­ta­ti­on wo­uld only ma­ke mat­ters wor­se. Just as they knew they we­re suf­fe­ring for the­ir go­ver­ness's pi­que. At le­ast in bed, tuc­ked be­hind the drawn bed­cur­ta­ins, they co­uld whis­per abo­ut this ama­zing new event and spe­cu­la­te in per­fect sa­fety abo­ut the pretty yo­ung girl who was go­ing to co­me to li­ve with them.

  And Mon­si­e­ur Leo wo­uld co­me with her. They hadn't se­en him for we­eks and we­eks, and they mis­sed the one ray of sun­s­hi­ne in the­ir drab lit­tle li­ves.

  Chapter Six

  "Adi­eu, my de­ar da­ug­h­ter. Do so much go­od to the pe­op­le of Fran­ce that they will be ab­le to say that I ha­ve sent them an an­gel." Ma­ria The­re­sa em­b­ra­ced her we­eping da­ug­h­ter for the last ti­me. The who­le Hap­s­burg fa­mily, the en­ti­re Aus­t­ri­an co­urt, the hig­hest ec­he­lons of the aris­toc­racy, we­re all wit­nes­ses to this fi­nal me­eting bet­we­en mot­her and da­ug­h­ter in the gre­at hall of the Hof­burg Pa­la­ce.