The Stepsister and the Slipper by Nina Clare
Meeting the Prince
“Oh,Mama, I must be in heaven!”
The palace entrance was a long white hall with graceful arches and lofty ceilings. “Have you ever seen so much marble?”
“Is it real?” said the dowager, touching a white column.
“Of course, it is. Oh, to live in such a place! Have you ever seen so many candles? And all beeswax!”
“No expense spared,” said the dowager. “Catch the prince, my darling, and you may live here all the days of your life.”
“And never wear readymade gowns again,” Charlotte agreed, admiring the alcoves of life-sized statuary as she passed them by. The wooden heels of her golden velvet dancing slippers clicked rhythmically on the marble floor, echoing round the vast space. Footmen in liveries of scarlet and gold braid stood either side of gilded doors; they opened the doors and Charlotte’s eyes widened with delight at the ballroom beyond.
“This is where I belong,” she whispered.
“Which one is the prince?” was her mother’s chief question. Everyone wore a masque, and all the men, as directed in the invitation, wore costumes of black satin breeches, long satin coats, and shirts of fine linen, ruffled and frilled at the cuffs.
“We cannot tell,” said Charlotte. “That’s the point of a masque ball.”
“Ludicrous tradition,” complained the dowager. “How are you to know which of the men are worth pursuing?”
“I suppose I’ll just have to charm them all.”
Charlotte knew she had not the best gown, nor any dazzling jewels, but she had beauty, and she had confidence, and she was going to use it tonight as she had never used it before. “Let the flirting begin,” she said, looking about for her first dance partner.
She caught the eye of a tall young man. She could tell by the tension in his shoulders that he was nervous, so she turned to glance at him over her shoulder. The movement was just coquettish enough to qualm any hesitancy in approaching her; the young ones could be a little shy, and needed an invitation. He was reeled in successfully, and stammered out a request for the courante about to start. The night had truly begun.
She dancedwith men too young to be the prince, too old, too fair, too dark, too rough-voiced, too graceless in their dance steps, too loud, for was not the prince known to be a quiet man with good, if shy, manners?
Finally, a man of the right age, the right colouring, and with impeccable grace as he bowed to her, appeared. But when he asked her hand for the minuet, she recognised his voice immediately.
“Monsieur de Troye, I wondered if I should have the pleasure of meeting you tonight.”
“The pleasure is all mine. But you are not supposed to recognise me.”
“Oh, I never forget a voice.” She would have said more, but she was not going to waste compliments on a man with no money and no desire to marry.
“And I could pick you out from the whole ballroom,” he said, taking her hand to lead her into the dance.
“How so?” she asked, choosing to take the bait. After all, a little flirtation would be fun, and perhaps he deserved it after doing her the kindness in sending her the invitations, though she was a little troubled by what he might request in return. She agreed with her mama that men did not generally do significant things for ladies without some motive.
“For one, you are the tallest lady present, and you have the bearing of a queen among minions.”
She laughed at this picture of herself. “There are plenty of ladies taller than me.”
“There are plenty of ladies with headdresses taller than you, but you are the tallest in true height.”
“Such a pity that petite figures, all pale and wan, are the fashion,” she said with a genuine pang. Her height had always been a disappointment to her. She could powder her face a lighter shade or pomade her hair a darker shade, but nothing could be done about being unfashionably tall.
“You will set a new fashion for tall, goddess-like figures with flashing eyes and fearless manners,” he said, his own dark eyes gleaming through his masque.
Charlotte laughed again and thought it was a pity that the man with the best compliments should belong to one not destined to be one of her beaux.
“Thank you for the invitations,” she said.
“Did you doubt I would send them?”
“I wondered that you found our address.”
“It was not difficult. The hotel had hired out a carriage and driver to you.”
“How clever of you to think of that.”
“Have you met any suitable husbands-to-be yet?”
“Ah, now you have spoilt all your professions of gallantry by speaking so crudely.”
“I thought you a candid young lady.”
It might be useful to tell him of the men she was considering, as he seemed to know everyone.
“I have danced twice with the Duc de Villeneuve, have accepted an invitation to drive out with the Marquis de Pomponn, and promised to go into supper with Lord Vellefaux, and save the next minuet for the Comte de Grandval. Oh dear,” she added, a realisation striking her, “but here I am dancing the next minuet with you.”
“Think not of the Duc de Villeneuve, my lady.”
“Why not?”
“He is very much married, though he denies it.”
“How very vexing.”
“And the Marquis de Pomponn is about to go bankrupt.”
“An abominable pity.”
“And Lord Vellefaux has had a worrisome number of young wives. All of whom came to a sorry end within two years of marriage.”
“Is that true?”
“Bluebeard is old Vellefaux’s nickname.”
“And what is wrong with the Comte de Grandval?”
“Oh, he’s a good enough fellow.”
“I hear he has a veritable palace in the north.”
“He does. Pity you’ve just snubbed him by dancing with me.”
Charlotte caught sight of the said suitor standing at the edge of the crowd with a pursed-up mouth of displeasure.
“Then I shall have to work hard to make it up to him.”
“He will never forgive you,” said Monsieur de Troye cheerfully. “He will run back to little Lady Hyacinthe le Roy. She will soothe and flatter his wounded pride admirably. The announcement of their engagement is expected any day.”
Charlotte stifled a sigh. She was back to square one. Her partner circled away in the dance.
“I’m surprised you haven’t sought out the prince,” he said, when he returned to mirror her, catching her hand to turn her.
“How can I know which of them is the prince?” A thought struck her. “But you would know!”
“Ah, now that would be another great favour bestowed on you, my lady.”
Charlotte suppressed the desire to tell him she was not his lady. He really did have the most vexatious blend of gallantry and impertinence. She would not suffer it from any other man, but he was a very useful connection at this moment.
“Such confidential information would require another favour in return.”
“What favour?” she said, speaking lightly, but feeling wary of the mischievous glint in his eyes. “I won’t be your wife again. Not here.”
“You can be my sister this time.”
“Oh?”
“I had to make a little gentleman’s vow of honour, so I vowed on my sister’s life, and now the fool wants me to produce her, or call me out.”
“What a lot of duels you almost get into. Why, that is two this week. And let me guess…you do not have a sister?”
He grinned.
“I did not have you down as an actual liar, Monsieur de Troye. I only thought you a flirt and a gambler.”
“It’s no lie. I do have a sister.”
“Then why don’t you produce her to satisfy your honour?”
“She’s too young and delicate to be paraded about.”
“But I am not?”
Another grin. Another expert twirl. He was exactly the right height to turn her without strain.
“You are as tempered steel, my lady. Will you do it?”
“I won’t disappear into any gambling chambers with you. Not here.”
“Not tonight. Tomorrow will do. And it won’t be a gambling room, it will be a drive in the park. All very proper.”
“And you will introduce me to the prince?”
“I cannot introduce you. The whole anonymity thing is taken very seriously. Royal orders.”
“Every man I have danced with has told me his name freely.” Inspiration struck her. “But if I find the man who will not tell me his name while dancing, I would find the prince.”
“If the prince were in the ballroom, yes.”
“His Highness is not here?”
“Hush, my lady,” he said in a mock whisper as her voice rose in dismay.
“Where is he?” She lowered her voice and tried to look unconcerned as they circled away again among their fellow dancers.
When her partner faced her again, he bent close to her ear to say quietly, “He’s usually to be found hiding in the library.”
The dance ended. They bowed and curtsied and applauded the musicians, then Charlotte turned to hurry away.
“My lady,” he called after her.
“Yes?” The delay irritated her.
“That way.” He nodded in the opposite direction. “Second floor. You will have to get past the guards.” Another grin.
“Guards?” She could strike that impudent grin from him. She pulled back her shoulders. She would not let a few palace guards keep her from getting to the prince. An opportunity like this might never come again.
“If I cannot get past them, our little arrangement is off,” she said coolly, trying to hide her irritation.
His grin widened. “And I was about to tell you how to get past the guards at the door.”
“You were?”
He put out an arm. “I’m well known here. I will escort you.”
“Oh. Thank you.”
Lancelot de Troyeleft her at the door to the library. She removed her masque, smoothed her hair, puffed out her skirts, and took a deep breath.
The library was cavernous. The carpets were thick and plush, and the walls lined floor to ceiling with books, muffling all sound. Why would anyone need so many books? It was so silent that she could hear the crackling of the fire. The room seemed empty. Had Monsieur de Troye played a joke on her? Was she to miss out on meeting eligible men by wandering around an empty library instead? She could see that lazy smile of his.
“Who is there?” came a voice.
Charlotte spun round, looking for the speaker.
“Oh! Is someone here?” she called back, using her damsel-in-distress voice. “Is there someone who can help me? I feel so faint!”
Immediately a young man appeared, shoving a book into his pocket, pulling down a masque and clapping a powdered wig upon his short, brown hair. He was at her side in a moment, a look of concern on his face. “Are you ill?”
“Oh, I feel so—” Her swooning technique was well-practised, and she sank gracefully into his arms, allowing him to lead her to a couch where she draped herself with the elegance of a cat.
“Thank you, sir. I am so grateful.”
“I shall send for help.” He tried to leave, but she held him by his sleeve.
“Oh, I beg you would not. I do not want anyone to see me like this, I am so ashamed!” She summoned up tears, just enough to well up and make her eyes glisten, not enough to spill down her cheeks and ruin her powder.
“Please don’t cry.” The young man pulled out a handkerchief.
“Thank you.” Her voice was breathless and soft. “You are so kind. Oh, if only all men were a hundredth part as kind as you.” The tiniest sniff. A careful dab at the eyes.
“I h-hope…” stammered the young man, “that no-one has been trifling with you, m-madame?”
She was too overcome to speak. A little gasp to express turmoil, a little press of the hand to her heart to signify pain, a little shake of her head, just enough to make the curls at the front quiver prettily. “I have had such a shock,” she whispered. “The man my dear mama had arranged for me to…he proposed and everything…and now I hear…oh, such a shock! I hear tonight that he is already married!”
“Ah, Villeneuve, no doubt. The villain,” the young man said under his breath. “May I c-call for your chaperone? Fetch you a g-glass of wine?”
What a dear he was! Who would have thought it? The richest, most eligible man in the kingdom was a sweetheart. Perhaps his expression was a little too boyish, and the stammering was not attractive to her; she liked a strong, assertive voice. But she could live with abject adoration and softness if it came with crown jewels and a palace to call one’s home.
“I will just rest a few moments, and then I will return to Mama,” she said tremulously.
“I shall let you recover, m-madame.”
“Please don’t leave me alone. I do not even know how I got here. I was so upset, I just ran blindly through the nearest door and somehow found myself here. Where am I? Oh, it must be a library. My, what a wondrous library it is.”
“You like to read?” His soft brown eyes lit up through the eyelets of his masque.
“Oh, I love to read above all things. Can there be anything better than losing oneself in a book?”
“I do not read to lose myself, I read to find myself. To find some understanding, some meaning.”
“I perfectly understand you. Books are a treasure chest of wisdom, are they not? Is not wisdom and learning one of the greatest joys of life?”
He looked at her with a mix of surprise and admiration. “How refreshing to hear a y-young lady say the very things I think m-myself.”
“If only I could spend my life learning and reading, how happy I would be!” Charlotte thought she was laying on the enthusiasm a little thick, but his warm glow of admiration did not waver. He was as trusting as a puppy-dog, the poor dear.
“Please, sir,” she said in her sweetest voice. “Would you do one more kindness for me?”
“If there is anything, I can do to aid you, m-madame…”
“Would you read to me a few lines from your favourite book? I had a dream once, when I was but a little girl, I dreamt that when I grew up into a lady, I would meet my…I would meet the kindest and best of men in a library, and he would read the most beautiful words to me. Will you do this one little thing before I must go back out into the harsh, deceitful, unkind world again?”
“How s-strange that you should have had such a dream,” said the young man. “I w-will gladly read you a few lines.” He withdrew a book from his coat pocket.
“I suppose it is some exquisite poetry?”
“No.” He looked dismayed, as though he feared disappointing her.
“Or some noble historic account?”
“N-no. Not history.”
Charlotte scrabbled about in her memory for any gossip she had heard about Prince Artus, and what subjects might interest him. She recalled Admiral Montdory calling the crown prince ‘the Young Philosopher’ once.
“My own favourite subject is…” she paused for effect. “You will not think badly of me for it? For it is not generally considered very ladylike.”
“I am s-sure I could never think badly of you, m-madame.”
“Philosophy. I do so adore reading the philosophers of old.”
His eyes widened and glowed brightly. Bullseye, she thought, stifling a smile of triumph. Listening to the old admiral waffling for hours had actually paid off.
“Who…” he stammered, “who is your favourite?”
Her inward smile vanished. Botheration. What was the name of a philosopher?
“Oh, sir. How can I choose but one? They all have some treasure to yield, some contribution of precious wisdom to enlighten the searching soul, some strength to impart to the weary heart seeking to understand the mysteries of life.”
His eyes shone. “I h-have been reading the newest work of Kant,” he told her, lifting the book in his hand. “Have you read him?”
“Oh, I long to read Kant,” she gushed. “Is that really a copy of his new work?”
He nodded. “It is exceedingly interesting.” He looked suddenly shy. He tentatively held out the book. “Y-you may borrow it, if you like.”
“May I? Oh, sir, what delight it would give me!” She took hold of the book and looked at it in rapt pleasure. She frowned. The title was in some foreign gibberish.
“It is in German, of course. But y-you read German if you are familiar with the philosophers.”
She nodded, keeping her smile of rapture fixed upon her lips.
“Perhaps…” he said, still shyly, “we could discuss it tomorrow night…if you are c-coming, that is…”
“Sir, I would love nothing better. You have brought a ray of light to my gloomy life. I came in here, quite ready to disavow myself of this cruel world and all the villains plotting to trap a poor girl, and here I sit, with a copy of…” she glanced at the book, “Kant in my hands. How can I thank you enough?”
He smiled waveringly, both pleased and embarrassed. She stood up, clutching his handkerchief and his book tenderly to her heart.
“I suppose I must return to the ball, before I am missed,” she said sadly. “It is terrifying to be surrounded by so many strange men clamouring for my attention. I don’t suppose you care to dance?”
“I quite like d-dancing, actually,” he said. “But, I feel as you do, except, in my case it is so many strange w-women clamouring for my attention that I find overwhelming.”
“How alike we are,” exclaimed Charlotte. “I can hardly believe it.” She wished she could summon a blush at will, but she rarely blushed, so she made do with dropping her eyes and putting a fluttering hand to her mouth, as though suddenly overcome with shyness at her frank speech.
“I am sorry if I speak too freely,” she said sweetly. “Please do not think badly of me.”
“Oh, I am sure I could n-never think badly of y-you. I like honesty above all things.”
“Would you show me the way to the ballroom? I suppose I must be brave and return there.”
“I would be glad to escort you, m-madame.” He put out his arm, then took a deep breath before saying gravely, “I w-would be honoured to dance the next dance with you if it would s-spare you the discomfort of s-strangers?”
Charlotte felt her heart swell with triumph. “Oh, sir,” she said breathlessly. “You are my saviour in every way, and I do not even know who you are.”
The poor dear soul blushed. Charlotte laid her hand gently upon his arm and thought, Oh, Mama, if you could see me now!