“I am sorry, Margot.” He drops his eyes and nudges the path with his foot.
“Help me up.” I reach out, unwilling to turn onto my knees and do further damage to my dress.
Taking my hands, Fran?ois throws his weight backwards. For a brief, perilous moment I am lifted. Then my brother’s feet slide from under him and I drop back to the ground as he lands there himself. At that precise moment, I spot my gouvernante, the Baronne de Curton, running toward us with my nurse and Fran?ois’ following. Madame’s face is as white as my dress, or rather, I think, fighting the desire to laugh, considerably whiter given the state of my once lovely gown.
“What would Her Majesty say to see une fille de France in such a position!” Madame picks up Fran?ois and sets him on his feet. He—wisely, to my way of thinking—scurries to his nurse, who has paused a few yards away, panting. “You are too old for such behavior.”
This is a familiar phrase, and the only one that annoys me more is “You are too young”—something I seem to hear with equal frequency. I am too old to play the games I used to play with Fran?ois. I am too young to join my mother and her ladies at Court. What, I wonder, am I of an age to do? I know better than to raise such a philosophical point under present circumstances.
I allow Madame to help me up. She circles me, shaking her head. “You must change. Her Majesty cannot see you like this.”
A flurry of movement and burst of sound attract our attention. A group of figures emerges from an archway at the far side of the garden. The livery of the servants and the exceedingly fine dress of the handful of gentlemen and ladies proclaim the unwelcome truth. Whether we are ready for her or not, Mother has arrived.
The sight of her—gliding forth from amidst her companions, dismissing them by gesture—sets me trembling, and not merely because of the state of my gown. Fran?ois, breaking from his nurse, takes refuge behind me. But I am too old for such behavior, and if I tried to dart behind Madame I doubt she would willingly shield me. I give a quick shake to my skirts and square my shoulders. Madame shoos Fran?ois from behind me and urges us into motion. I try to walk smoothly so that I will appear to float as Mother does, but my sliding only stirs up dust, causing my gouvernante to hiss, “Pick up your feet.”
Then I am face-to-face with Mother. Her eyes are as dark and as searching as those of the bird in my dream. And for a moment, while Madame and the nurses curtsy and murmur, “Your Majesty,” I am frozen by her gaze. A none-too-gentle nudge from Madame frees me. I make my own reverence, then, straightening, take Fran?ois’ hand, not so much to reassure him as to fortify myself.
“Baronne de Curton”—the black eyes sweep over Fran?ois and me from head to toe—“I presume from the grandeur of my children’s attire that my courier arrived. Given that you knew I was coming, I cannot, then, account for the state of that attire.”
Madame dips her head. I hear her draw breath. I wish I could find mine. Wish I could say that it is all Fran?ois’ fault for climbing where he ought not. But my voice has flown. So instead I bite my lip so hard that it hurts, to punish myself.
“Abject apologies, Your Majesty. I am mortified.” My gouvernante bows her head lower still, and guilty tears prick the corners of my eyes.
Mother stands silent, perhaps to let each of us fully feel our faults. At last, when I do not think I can bear another moment of her scrutiny, she speaks. “I will see the children later. Make certain they are in better order.” Then, without a single word to Fran?ois or me, Her Majesty moves past our little party, to take a seat by the same wall we just left.
*
As the shadows lengthen, I am dressed once more in a selection of my best things. The time has come for Fran?ois and me to be brought before the Queen. I am desperate to make a better impression than I did this morning. Madame is equally eager. As we walk to Her Majesty’s apartment she makes me practice the Plutarch I plan to recite—twice. And when we stop before Mother’s door, she straightens my necklace and wipes some mark that only she can see from Fran?ois’ face.
Satisfied, Madame raps and opens the door without hesitation at Mother’s summons. Her step does not falter as she crosses the threshold, while my feet feel as if they are made of lead.
“Your Majesty, the Prince and Princess,” Madame says, offering a nod to Mother’s venerable maid of honor, the Duchesse d’Uzès.
Mother regards us with a look of appraisal.
“Fran?ois, have you been obedient and applied yourself to your lessons?”
My brother makes a solemn little bow. “Yes, Madame.” Our mother rewards his display with an inclination of her head. Then she turns her eyes to me.
“Margot, you are such a pretty child when you are not covered in dirt.”