Chapter Sixteen
Magnus had insisted Selina meet the ladies of the court, and he had decreed they should help her with her gown fittings, followed by a luncheon.
The ladies had arrived earlier than invited, and Selina had had to rush from her chamber to welcome them.
Styled in the latest Parisian fashions, the women glittered with jewels and self-importance.
All of them were middle-aged and married to nobles. They lived close to the palace in the fashionable part of the town, which meant they could come whenever she wished…which wouldn’t be that often if Selina could help it.
After the first hour of their company, Selina was desperate for the whole thing to come to an end. The women were all draped on chaise-longues or armchairs a few feet away from the dressing platform, apparently uninterested in Selina’s fitting.
The parlour was covered in a rainbow of fabrics and sample trims. It should have been fun—Selina usually loved being fitted for a new gown.
But in this case, she felt like a disappointing doll, being dressed and undressed without dignity or kindness.
Each of the ladies had brought a lapdog with her, small, fluffy, beribboned animals that yapped and growled at her whenever she ventured too close.
Selina had hoped they might warm to her eventually, and she tried her best to be charming, but was often met by blank stares. So far, she only knew their names and rank because they rarely answered her questions, seeming to prefer talking amongst themselves than to her.
The excitement of the new gowns didn’t provide much joy either. Most of them were far too long or tight in the bust, and all of them needed extensive alterations.
Selina had never been more uncomfortable or exposed in her life—which was a feat considering her previous mishaps.
One woman even used lorgnettes to inspect her from afar as if she were a thoroughbred on the auction block.
They muttered to each other in Norwegian, occasionally snapping at Margarite for refreshments, even though there were plenty of footmen around to do their bidding.
Her lady’s-maid stood cowed to the side of them, her head bowed and her face pale, obviously intimidated.
It made Selina sad to see her like this, as she had come to think of her as a friend.
After all, she would be asking Margarite to help her write and learn her coronation speech, not these court ladies who seemed to only tolerate her presence.
The only comfort was the head seamstress, an elegantly tall woman called Madam Marvelle, who was in her late thirties.
She spoke an unusual mix of Norwegian and French.
Selina could understand some of the French, but had no hope with the Norwegian, and her ladies didn’t seem inclined to help her either.
‘Margarite!’ Selina called gently, and a hush descended over the chattering ladies. ‘Please could you come and help me understand Madam Marvelle a moment?’
An imperious woman with a powdered wig called Countess Rosenborg snapped her fan at Margarite when she dared to take a step forward, barking what sounded like a reprimand at her before rising like a queen from her seat and stalking towards Selina.
‘There is no need to call for your servant, Your Serene Highness. I speak perfectly good English,’ said Lady Rosenborg haughtily, and Selina had to admit she did.
In fact, she sounded much like the high society ladies she’d met in Lady Anne’s company, using crisp consonants and long vowels. ‘Now, what is the problem?’
Selina squirmed beneath her cold gaze. ‘I simply wondered if she wished for me to choose between these two fabrics.’ She gestured towards the mountains of fabric draped over two servants’ arms, one was a silver lamé, the other a silver net.
Lady Rosenborg didn’t bother to translate. ‘The net is to cover the lamé, of course.’
Madam Marvelle glanced between them with barely concealed worry.
‘Oh? But there’s so much of it,’ Selina stared at the two lengths of fabric and belatedly realised they were already stitched into two very long column dresses.
Madam Marvelle ushered the servants forward. ‘Oui?’ she asked hesitantly.
Selina gave a grateful nod and diligently lifted her arms as Madam Marvelle climbed a box of steps to drape the first over her head.
Lady Rosenborg was already walking away, saying something in Norwegian that caused Madam Marvelle to stumble a little, and Margarite’s head to snap up in horror.
The other ladies tittered in amusement, and Selina could tell she’d said something cruel.
But thanks to Lady Rosenborg’s perfect diction, she was able to repeat the words clearly and added, ‘Pray tell, what does that mean, Lady Rosenborg?’
The countess stilled, but then turned back to her with a sharp canine smile. ‘I am afraid you misheard me, Your Serene Highness. I merely mentioned how beautiful you would look in the silver…like a diamond.’
Selina looked to Margarite for confirmation, but the girl’s head had lowered, and when she turned to Madam Marvelle, the woman gave her a kindly look and whispered, ‘Belle princesse.’
With a rustle of her skirts, the countess sank smugly back into her seat.
Selina was dreading the luncheon to follow, but she remembered Aunt Mary’s firm words about being strong and lifted her chin. ‘Margarite, please come closer to help us. There is no need to tire the Lady Rosenborg’s legs any further—a woman of her age should look after her knees.’
* * *
After the dress fitting was complete, she suggested the ladies go ahead of her to the state rooms for luncheon while she changed back into her morning dress. She suspected by their faces that she’d made an error in etiquette, but she’d needed a moment to compose herself before facing them again.
Madam Marvelle was as sweet as always, constantly praising her in French, recognising that Selina knew a little of what she said. But it was more her tone that Selina understood than anything else—she knew the difference between kindness and disgust.
Did Thrudheim know of the circumstances of their quick marriage? She was beginning to suspect they did, and the aristocracy of Thrudheim were not impressed by her in the slightest. It seemed there was no escape from scandal, and she would just have to bear it as best she could.
‘Is there something I should know?’ asked Selina, and Margarite avoided her gaze.
She responded instead with a question of her own. ‘In what way, Your Serene Highness?’
Miserably Selina checked her reflection for the second time, before thanking Madam Marvelle and leaving the room with Margarite.
As they turned down the picture gallery, she noticed Magnus sat on a bench in front of a giant painting. He was gazing at it with a pensive look but hurried to his feet when he saw Selina approach.
‘Are you enjoying your day?’ he asked, as he straightened his waistcoat with a sharp tug.
No. ‘The gowns are beautiful,’ she said and turned to the painting curious about what had been souring his expression a moment before.
The painting was a royal family portrait.
She immediately recognised the little boy with the cleft chin and haunted expression as Magnus, despite the fact he must have only been eleven years old at the time and was a skinny little thing.
The little girl beside him must have been Helga.
She had white-blond hair and a direct gaze that appeared to be narrowed at the painter as if she were accusing them of some crime.
Magnus’s mother sat in a chair behind her children.
She had light brown hair and a pinched smile, a sleeping newborn in her arms, presumably Hans.
But the person dominating the painting was the man who stood at the back of the tableau, his broad chest puffed up, the silver emblem of a wolf shining brightly on his jacket, his expression dark and thunderous.
Selina shivered under the intensity of the dead man’s gaze. She found him disturbing, not only because of his cold expression but because of the clawlike grip of his hands. One clenched a riding crop at his side while the other gripped Magnus’s shoulder with white knuckles.
‘Do you not like the painting?’ she asked gently.
Magnus scrunched his nose. ‘I had forgotten it was here, truth be told. I rarely come this way.’
‘Then, what brings you here now?’
He shifted his weight as if uncomfortable with the question. ‘How were the ladies? Are you getting along with them?’
Suspicious, she bristled. ‘Is that why you are here? Are you waiting to check up on me. Make sure I haven’t made a fool of myself?’
Alarmed, he shook his head. ‘Not in the way you mean. I wished to simply check that the ladies were treating you well. I know they are a lot older than you, but they were friends of my mother’s, and I had hoped they could help you make friends with their daughters and nieces.’
‘Is that why you invited them today?’ she asked, softening a little at his explanation. If he were trying to help her make friends, she could hardly blame him for today’s misery.
He nodded before running a hand through his hair as if embarrassed by the confession. ‘They have many connections. I had hoped you might broaden your social circle.’
‘Thank you, that’s very thoughtful of you.
’ Selina preferred his mother’s choice of furnishings to her friends, but that was probably unkind considering the age difference.
Perhaps, she should seek out Helga’s companions, as they might be more suitable.
But she would leave that consideration for another day.
Rich, feminine laughter rippled down from the salon at the end of the corridor. Selina must have grimaced because Magnus’s brow creased with concern, and he stepped closer.
‘What’s wrong?’
‘Oh, I don’t think they like me very much… Has the news of our courtship reached Thrudheim?’
Magnus frowned but nodded solemnly. ‘It has, although, I have issued a statement contradicting some of the more salacious claims.’