I knelt by Papa’s side, tears blurring my vision. Time slowed to a crawl around me. My fingers were sluggish and clumsy as I attempted to untie his cravat, his skin burning hot. Maybe that was the problem. Maybe the cravat was just too tight and everything would be fine again when I untied it, and then Papa would open his eyes and laugh at how ridiculous I was being. But he didn’t open his eyes. When I untied the cravat and tossed it to the side, he continued to lie on the floor. Eyes closed. Not moving. Barely breathing. And a strange rash upon his neck.
Chapter Ten
It rained on the day of Papa’s funeral. Dark clouds hung heavy in the sky, periodically deluging the assembled mourners. Thunder rumbled in the distance, close enough to be ominous but far enough that we only saw a few streaks of lightning in the sky. The air was warm and sticky with humidity. Everyone was constantly wiping perspiration from their brows and tugging at their soaked clothing.
It was a long, uncomfortable walk in the procession from the church to the cemetery, even when it was only drizzling. Some had parasols, some didn’t. Lady Catherine had one umbrella that she, Alexandre, and Severine were all huddled beneath. There was no room for me, but I didn’t mind. The cool rain felt nice on my sweaty skin, and ruining my mourning dress didn’t bother me in the slightest. It was an awful thing, heavy and scratchy, far too hot. I was drowning in that dress. Elodie and Marius were next to me, equally drenched in their scratchy black clothing.
Bells boomed sonorously in the church tower as Papa’s body was laid to rest in the newly built Louvois tomb. Lady Catherine insisted that someone of Papa’s status should have a family tomb and somehow persuaded the king to pay for its construction. King Louis XIV was present at the funeral, sequestered from the rest of the attendants with his retinue, including some of Papa’s fellow advisors. Even the dauphin was there, but Auguste, disappointingly, did not come.
Lady Françoise wasn’t there either. I looked for her. I waited for her. But she didn’t come. Why would she not attend Papa’s funeral? I could understand that she might have been upset that Papa married Lady Catherine, but so upset that she refused to even come to the funeral? She didn’t want to see me, even just to offer her condolences? She never replied to my messages. At first I thought she was upset about the wedding, but now I was getting worried it was something else.
Damp strands of hair stuck to my neck, and water was running into my eyes, mixing with the tears. I squeezed them shut so tightly that they ached. I didn’t want to see Papa carried into the tomb, that big iron door closed and locked, leaving him alone in the dark. At the wake, when everyone walked through his bedroom to view the body, I had to hide in my room, unable to look at him like that, his handsome face swollen and blue, skin waxy. It didn’t look like my father anymore, and I wanted to remember Papa as he’d been when he was alive, laughing at something silly I said or smiling at Maman.
From the moment Papa collapsed in the sitting room, nothing in my life felt real or permanent anymore. In the week since he died, I had woken every morning begging and pleading with the heavens to bring him back. I would run to his chambers with the senseless, inexplicable hope that he would be alive, that he would hug me and tell me it was all just a bad dream, like he did when I was a child. But the cold, inert body on the bed and the black crepe covering all the window and mirrors, throwing the château into shadow, made it clear that it wasn’t a dream, and he wasn’t coming back.
It all happened so quickly. Papa was fine, and then he wasn’t. After Lady Catherine and I dragged him up to his bedchamber and called for a doctor, he deteriorated rapidly. Pneumonia claimed his lungs, said the doctor, and there was nothing to be done. But he’d been fine. He had a cough and was feeling poorly, to be sure, but the doctor had assured us that nothing was seriously wrong. And Papa kept drinking the tea that the doctor prescribed. But he was still dead within two days. The doctor claimed that such an illness could come on suddenly, swiftly wreaking havoc on the body until it was too late.
I’d been distracted. Even Papa noticed it. I wasn’t paying attention when I should have been, and now my father was dead, and I was an orphan.
The clang of the iron door closing rang out through the cemetery. I kept my eyes shut. I couldn’t look. I wouldn’t look. It wasn’t real if I didn’t look.
Someone grabbed my arm and squeezed. Hard. My eyes flew open, and I found Lady Catherine glaring at me from under her umbrella. “You look ridiculous. Open your eyes. The king is coming,” she said in a low voice, inclining her head toward the advancing king.
I jerked my arm out of her grasp and pulled away.
“Let go of me,” I said, much louder than I’d intended.
Lady Catherine was too preoccupied with the king to follow as I moved away from the gathered mourners to stand by myself, Elodie and Marius a few feet to my side. My stomach roiled. It was hard to breathe through the tears and the rain. I didn’t want anyone to touch me. I didn’t want anyone to talk to me. I just wanted to be left alone.
The king walked up to Lady Catherine, who swept into a deep curtsy along with Alexandre and Severine. He grasped her hands and spoke with her for a few minutes. I was too far away to hear what they were saying but not far enough away to avoid hearing Lady Catherine begin to wail. Then she swooned, collapsing against the king. He caught her before she fell to the ground, and gestured for one of his footmen to carry her away, Severine and Alexandre following behind. I turned to run. He would want to talk to me next, and I most definitely did not want to talk to him. But it was already too late. He spotted me and began to walk toward me. There was no escape now.
I’d never seen the king up close before. He was tall and wore a violet justaucorps threaded with silver and a matching waistcoat, the official color of mourning for kings. The violet hat perched on his head dripped water down onto his dark, curly wig, even though a valet held an umbrella over his head. King Louis was older than I’d pictured, the lines around his mouth and eyes evident, but he looked at me kindly with green eyes that looked so very much like Auguste’s.
“Please accept my condolences,” the king said after my curtsy. “Your father was a good man, one of the best I’ve ever known. His service was invaluable to me, and he will be missed by all at Versailles. If there is ever anything you need, please ask. It’s the least I can do for the daughter of my favorite advisor.”
“Thank you, Your Majesty. Your kindnesses to me, as well as my father, are greatly appreciated.” It was the first time I was addressing the king directly, and I was glad for all my etiquette lessons.
“I’ve offered the use of one of my sedan chairs to your stepmother. Would you like one as well?”
“No, thank you, sire. I prefer to walk.”
The king nodded. “Lady Celia will miss your presence in her lessons, but please take as long as you need before returning to court. I understand how great the loss you have suffered is.”