At Fontainebleau, the King is irritable and quick to take offense. Everything displeases him, beginning with the weather. Too many summer storms have been interrupting the garden fêtes, and spoiling the riding parties. The hunts have been disappointing and unrewarding. Even the ballet inspired by French proverbs, ardently promoted by Monsieur de Saint-Aignan, has turned … Continue reading Chapter Ninety-Eight, House of Bourbon, by Mordaunt
Chapter Ninety-Six, House of Stuart, by Mordaunt
Marie Cessette is not surprised by Raoul’s pigeon post. Part of her wonders whether she has not known the truth already. “Is it bad news?” Père Gazil wrings his hands anxiously. The visit to Le Maupertus has left him unnerved, and he has not kept his fears to himself. “We should never have come to … Continue reading Chapter Ninety-Six, House of Stuart, by Mordaunt
Chapter Ninety-Four, House of Richelieu, by Mordaunt
Messages and letters have been piling on Raoul’s desk throughout the night and continue as dawn breaks over the Faubourg Saint-Germain. He is used to being thus inundated despite the fact that to sort his office’s regular vast correspondence he employs a few competent and trusted secretaries. But this morning he is neither at his … Continue reading Chapter Ninety-Four, House of Richelieu, by Mordaunt
Chapter Ninety-Two, Le Maupertus, by Mordaunt
“Beauty provoketh thieves sooner than gold.” W. Shakespeare, As You Like It. Act 1. Scene 3. The only sign of the night’s violent storm is the sheen of rain on the flagstones of the inner courtyard, glistening beneath the early morning sun. Marie Cessette stands at the window of her bedchamber, transfixed by the … Continue reading Chapter Ninety-Two, Le Maupertus, by Mordaunt
Chapter Ninety-One, Mistress of Normanville, by Mordaunt
First, a little bit from the Canon, for inspiration. Alexandre Dumas, The Man in the Iron Mask, chapter 83, ‘Porthos’s Will’: “As to my personal or movable property, so called because it can be moved, as is so well explained by my learned friend, the Bishop of Vannes—” (d’ Artagnan shuddered at the dismal remembrance attached … Continue reading Chapter Ninety-One, Mistress of Normanville, by Mordaunt
Chapter Eighty-Eight, What we leave behind, by Mordaunt
Bianca has shifted from sitting, to kneeling, to standing on the kitchen bench so that she can reach easily over the great table where her shells are spread, separated according to shape, size, and color. She is engrossed in her work, stringing them into bracelets and necklaces with colorful glass and silver beads, using the … Continue reading Chapter Eighty-Eight, What we leave behind, by Mordaunt
Chapter Eighty-Six, First Light, by Mordaunt
“I meant to wait for Alexandre in the carriage,” Constance says. “Madame Charbonneau tells me Athos is not here. She insisted I come inside.” Perhaps it is Constance’s apologetic tone or perhaps it was something in the air at Glénay, in the sidelong glances and the measured confidences, that Alessandra perceived even though she was … Continue reading Chapter Eighty-Six, First Light, by Mordaunt
Chapter Eighty-Four, Glow of Midday, by Mordaunt
Even though she has seen nothing of the house, she recognizes it. From the time they arrived, early in the evening, she remembers only the torchlight and the commotion at the gate, and being carried inside but little else. Yet, everything about the bedchamber where she finds herself is familiar: how the daylight pours in, … Continue reading Chapter Eighty-Four, Glow of Midday, by Mordaunt
Chapter Eighty-Two, Lingering Shadows, by Mordaunt
The bedchamber is imbued with hazy light from a handful of flickering candles and the glow from the fireplace. There are others here. Shuffling sounds, and distant hushed voices that she recognizes: the physicians, the nurse, and the midwife. She cannot understand their words. Only Sophia’s whisper reaches her. “I will return in the morning,” … Continue reading Chapter Eighty-Two, Lingering Shadows, by Mordaunt
Chapter Eighty-One, Lèon, by Mordaunt
In the heat of midday the stonewall feels pleasantly cool against Athos’ back. He exhales loudly as he sits at the bench, reaching for his flask of water. “Was that too much for you, Old Man?” Seated next to Athos, Lucien sounds equally out of breath. Just like Athos, he is covered in mud and … Continue reading Chapter Eighty-One, Lèon, by Mordaunt
Twelve Years After 