Chapter 3 #2
Antoinette had never met Charlotte in person—the generational feuding between the countries they had married into prevented that—but shortly after Antoinette had married Louis, the first letter had come.
And thus, an unlikely friendship had formed, based mostly on art, music, and literature of the day, but occasionally dabbling elsewhere.
Motherhood and vague marriage details, fashion complaints, the tedium of elderly court patrons.
All carefully worded to not share sensitive or political details, which made the friendship somehow more private and more real.
There was no formality here, no queens of England and France, no hint of politics.
Just two women with similar lives and similar interests pretending they could be friends in truth.
Antoinette shook her head, ignoring the pang in her chest as she forced herself to return to the letter at hand.
My associates in Salzburg tell me that our friend Mozart has once again extended himself beyond human capacity.
A mass in C minor, I believe it was, and not a soul in Salzburg with ears to hear was unmoved.
You know only too well, my dear friend, how extraordinary the man is with the gifts our Lord has endowed upon him.
I have begged associates to introduce him to some other composers of such exquisite gifts—though we are both well aware that he will surpass them all.
He deserves every opportunity, and I, for one, shall see he has them.
What do you think of Haydn for a companion of his? I should dearly love for Handel to take him under his wing further, as would my husband. Handel is his particular favorite, and we should all be very merry to entertain them both in some future day.
I have told you, have I not, of my husband giving concerts of Handel from time to time?
He writes the programs himself and prides himself on his selections.
He plays the harpsichord very well, considering his other duties, and it is a delight to see him in the light of our music room, engaged in a pure love of music when so much else calls upon us both.
Antoinette smiled at that, setting the letter aside.
She adored losing herself in music and its transcendence, and those private moments of serenity were everything to her.
Louis enjoyed liturgical music, having been trained on instruments in his youth, but showed little interest in it anymore.
If only he were even a little bit more like Charlotte’s husband, George.
Just enough to share her love of music or participate in her musical soirees and presentations.
Just one interest the two of them could share outside of their children and their people. That might be enough to draw them together. Her hand fell instinctively to her abdomen, not yet hinting at the child growing steadily within.
Perhaps what she truly sought from her marriage was connection.
They were tied together and managing the situation fairly well, all things considered, but there was no deep, personal connection.
Everything about their relationship was an external force, but what about Louis and Antoinette as individuals?
Silly thought. They were not and never could be individuals. Neither of them had been born with such liberties.
Besides, it could all be so much worse.
Her husband could have been cruel. Could have had an endless string of mistresses. Could have betrayed her homeland as soon as they were married. Could have hated her because their first child had been a daughter. He could have hated her entirely.
But he had done none of those things—did not do them.
Was it so very dreadful to have a good man for a husband if he was a little bit boring?
Would God forgive her for finding her husband boring? After all, they had taken vows in His sight.
Then again, the vows said nothing about having interest in one’s spouse.
Love, honor, cherish, and obey, if she recollected rightly.
She could truthfully admit to all those things in her marriage on both sides, but it was a very gentle sort of love.
Sweet and sometimes distant, but steady and ever-present.
Not particularly French of her husband, but she would not insist on more.
At any rate, she had no more time for letters. Louis would arrive soon, and he was supposed to have news. Not that he would anticipate her knowing what he would speak of, as she was not to have any interest in affairs of state, but her little spies and games had told her enough.
If Louis was successful today, she would be the proudest wife in the entire world, passion or not.
His pending arrival was the only reason her window remained open. She needed to hear the carriage on the drive to know when he was back home, and then she could arrange to cross his path when he entered the palace. It would be a delicate act, but she had carried it well enough a time or two before.
Perhaps someday she could be fully apprised of events intentionally rather than through underhanded means. But until then, she would continue as she had done and pray that one day Louis would see her as a feasible ally.
Just then, her ears caught the steady, rhythmic crunching of gravel that heralded an approaching coach. She flew to the window, craning her neck to catch a glimpse of the vehicle.
The sight of the royal crest filled her heart with glee, and she hurried out of the room, running freely until she reached the edge of her suite and then proceeded more sedately.
Decorum of a queen was paramount in all things, she had been told.
Repeatedly.
Fortunately, she knew the quickest route to the entrance and hastened her steps along the corridors, lengthening her strides as much as possible with her voluminous skirts.
Her ladies-in-waiting would never think of letting her be anything less than fashionable, even on a day when she was at home and not out in the country or at Versailles and with no callers or events scheduled.
She had a reputation to maintain, even if she did not care for it.
Antoinette had made the final turn and was in plain sight of the entrance when her tall and robust husband strode in, stripping off his gloves and handing them to a footman.
“Ah, Your Majesty,” Antoinette called in feigned surprise, hurrying her steps in a manner that no one would suspect as planned.
When she was close enough, she offered a deep curtsey.
“Dear wife,” Louis greeted fondly. “Please rise.”
Antoinette glanced up to see his soft smile and outstretched hand. She placed her hand in his, letting him help her rise while offering him the same shy smile that had made him look at her in such a way from their very first meeting.
He brought her hand to his lips and kissed her knuckles gently, making something faint flutter in her chest.
“Welcome home,” she murmured.
He held her hand still, his smile spreading as his eyes seemed to dance. His color was high, his cheeks tinged with pink and his breathing a trifle unsteady.
“Are you unwell, my king?” she asked, placing her free palm against his face. “You seem flushed and agitated.”
To her surprise, he turned his face into her palm and kissed it, now grinning freely. “No, Antoinette, I am perfectly well. In fact, I am delighted and bursting with it.”
“Can you tell me why?” Antoinette begged eagerly, dropping her hand to his shoulder and squeezing, holding him tightly as her anticipation grew.
He glanced around and took her elbow, walking her back down the corridor a few steps.
“I’ve just been to a meeting with the Parlement,” he told her in a low voice, energy radiating off him in warm waves.
“Antoinette, we are now at nearly four-fifths of our provinces having replaced the corvée with a land tax. The Jews in those provinces no longer have to pay those denigrating tolls. It is only a matter of time before we reach that four-fifths, and after that, the rest of the kingdom as well.”
“Oh, Louis!” Forgoing all queenly decorum, Antoinette flung herself on her husband, throwing her arms around his neck and squealing. “That is tremendous news!”
He chuckled as his arms clamped around her, holding her tightly and burying his face into her shoulder.
“I am so relieved, my dear. I cannot begin to tell you how much. I have wanted to do so much for my people, but I am not my grandfather, nor the Sun King. If all I can do is see that my people are treated fairly by each other and living in harmony, I shall be content indeed.”
His simple admission, particularly while holding her, made her eyes burn. He was such a genuine soul and so underappreciated by those around him and the politicians he faced. But there was no better, purer heart in all the world.
She lowered herself to the ground and loosened her hold on him, stepping back to meet his eyes.
“You do not have to be anyone other than yourself, Louis. We have already had Louis the XIV and XV. You are your own person, and this is your reign, not theirs. I have heard how earnestly you fought for this particular issue, and I am so proud of you.”
“My love,” he murmured with a powerful exhale, drawing her hand back to his lips, then kissing the inside of her wrist for a long moment.
Her vision blurred entirely as the fervor of his feelings poured into her skin. He looked at her, still smiling, and gently brushed a stray tear from her cheek. Then his hand fell to her abdomen.
“How is our newest little one?” Louis asked with a quirk to the corner of his mouth.
“Well, I presume.” Antoinette laughed as she covered his hand with her own.
“I have not yet felt movement, though I am no longer so fatigued or indisposed as I have been.” She sobered and felt her throat clench.
“I only pray I do not lose this one. After last year . . .” Her voice cracked, and she shook her head.
Louis stepped closer and touched his brow to hers. “We must have faith. I hope you never know such agony again. Will your birthday be very difficult this year? I could not bear it to be forever tainted by our loss.”
She did not miss how he called the loss theirs instead of hers alone, and she was thankful for it.
Sympathy had been heaped upon the king for the loss, but pity had been given to her.
As though it were some fault or weakness of hers that the pregnancy had not continued to the desired end.
But the loss was truly shared between them, as the child had been so desired by them both.
Louis had not felt the physical pain or the shame, but he had certainly known the despair.
“No,” Antoinette murmured, finally answering his question. “No, I shall be well, so long as this babe remains. And I still have you and our children.”
Louis kissed her brow quickly and pulled back, smiling. “You shall always have me, Antoinette. What have I said? I have never had the least feeling or sentiment for any woman as I have for you. And I never shall.”
Emotion overtook her, and she rose up on her toes, kissing her husband’s mouth gently. “And I love you more each day.” She sighed and found an easy smile. “If only others could see how much more you are worth than what they believe.”
She caught the damp sheen in his eyes at her words and watched as his throat worked for a moment. Bless her gentle husband, he never fled from his emotions.
“Then you shall love me even more,” Louis said with a hoarse laugh, “when I tell you that we have purchased the Chateau de Saint-Cloud from the Duc d’Orleans. I daresay you shall wish to have your way with that place too?”
Antoinette gasped before laughing merrily as she looped her arms around her husband’s waist. “Of course I shall! Would you expect any less of me?”
“I expect nothing and everything, my dear. You always exceed whatever I think, and do so rather splendidly.”