Chapter 5
I am not unaware of the gossip that surrounds men in high positions, nor of the vindictive nature of the press.
But I never dared think that those devious minds would turn their teeth on a woman, let alone one sitting beside their king.
How is it that my blessed child, my sweet newborn son, who bears all the health and strength one could wish, is whispered to be the son of someone other than my husband?
How is my husband all but a saint and I the most depraved of women?
I am portrayed and perceived as an extravagant, foolish woman with no thought in my head but those of lechery and debauchery.
I host a court of the dissolute reprobates of the world for the intent of sating lusts and engaging in matters most vile.
A few satirists have mocked me as some version of the Blessed Virgin, but only to insinuate that my husband is not the father of the child I carried.
Will evil and sacrilege truly be the pens that compose my fate?
Antoinette
The time had come.
Notre Dame had been filling with more and more guests as the morning had gone on, the prelude music arranged for their entertainment echoing triumphantly through the space, but none of the perfect satisfaction of the details of the day could satisfy the horde of nerves flitting about Antoinette’s body.
Cradling her sweet Louis-Charles while waiting in one of the anterooms, Antoinette could only think of the absolute silence that had filled the Paris streets as her carriage had rolled toward the cathedral.
Not a single cheer had broken from the crowds.
Not one.
After the tragedy of losing a child the year before, and after the successful delivery of a son now, they had no support or happiness for their queen? No respect? No politeness?
What had she done to deserve such indifference?
Coldness pulsed through her, a weight that had nothing to do with the number of gems and beading woven into the stiff and voluminous gown foisted upon her.
She was unable to move. She knew that even when she returned home this evening and was in nothing more than her shift, the heaviness would still be there, wrapped around her heart and strangling every possible beat.
Now she was expected to process out into the heart of the cathedral with her husband for a blessed Te Deum for their son, and face the aristocrats, ambassadors, and dignitaries who expected all the pomp and ceremony that an established monarchy in Europe was famed for.
But not the woman the city did not cheer for.
Not the woman whose brother thought she was failing her homeland.
Not the woman who was supposedly unfaithful to her husband.
Rumors and nonsense, that last one, but there was no refuting such effrontery.
It would always exist in some form, but the speculation surrounding Antoinette was only growing crueler and wilder.
Nothing she did was correct. Nothing she said was honestly reported. Nothing good could be said about her.
Louis kept all of this from her, sweet man that he was.
He stood by her firmly and proudly, and she adored him for it.
He had been unruffled by the silence of the city, either not seeing or not caring how it would reflect on her.
He had not been shut up in the recovery of childbirth and now been restored to the public with a lackluster welcome.
He was always seen and always about, varying degrees of celebration or adoration following him at any given time.
He always seemed to rise above such things.
Not necessarily as a matter of self-certainty or assurance, but with a negligence that worried her.
A blindness that she feared. Not from his own volition, but from the ministers who whispered nonsense to him.
He was the king, after all, so what could be done?
He committed no great sins, abused none, fought for all, and devoted his thoughts and his actions to France.
And they would have him believe that France and her responses to such devotion did not matter?
No man was infallible or eternal, yet to hear these men at Louis’s side, one would think they saw Louis as such.
No such care was given to Antoinette, and she was both grateful and incensed. She preferred honesty over flattery, but blatant disregard for her feelings and treatment was not to be borne.
She wished she could get her husband away from the vipers at his bosom for even a few moments today.
She needed to hear his words of sense and comfort.
He never treated her as a flighty girl or unruly child, no matter how his ministers behaved.
His eyes always fell on her with sweet regard and beloved trust, something she would never take for granted.
To face his people without having their respect felt like a failure as his wife and queen.
Now she was meant to stand by his side as an equal before God and those gathered?
How?
Her face flushed hot then cold under her cosmetics, but she could not be anything less than perfection for Louis—not when she was already viewed with spite by some and ridicule by others.
But that silence still thundered in her ears.
God in heaven, what had she ever done to earn the disdain of her husband’s people?
“It is time, Your Majesty.”
Antoinette turned to face Gabrielle de Polignac, her friend and her children’s governess. She would be the one to carry Louis-Charles up for the christening, as Antoinette and Louis had to process together as king and queen.
She slid her dozing, sweet boy into the arms of his governess, the yards of elegant white and gold silk gliding over her skin like a whisper.
She pressed her lips across his head for a brief moment, then maneuvered her skirts toward the door.
Her ladies followed with the extravagant train in their hold, and another attendant fussed at her towering hair before allowing her through.
Louis waited for her on the other side, her perfect counterpart in looks and apparel.
His clothes might have seemed pretentious and extravagant on any other man, but Louis bore a natural regality that commanded the air around him and any article upon his frame, not the other way around.
Despite bearing an unlikely personality for a monarch, her husband was, in fact, rather perfectly positioned if only the ministers and Parlement would let him rule in his own way.
If only the voice of his grandfather did not constantly bellow in his thoughts and conscience as a terrifying dictator of all things.
If Louis had been encouraged to be himself from the beginning, he might not have been so indecisive as king.
He might have believed in himself more. He might have had the confidence to truly be the king he had the potential of being, and to prune and cultivate his ministers into the right sort of group for the monarchy he sought.
But that was not the situation they were in. Louis had all the bearing of a monarch but none of the certainty.
And Antoinette was the queen by his side who could see this but had no support to aid him in crafting that sort of role in the world. No support in her family, no support in France, no support in court.
Louis would have supported her, only he would not listen in the way she needed him to.
So she would raise her children to be stronger. He was already a better father to them than his grandfather and father had been to him, and their sons would be encouraged rather than belittled. Adored rather than abused. Nurtured rather than neglected.
She only had to cling to the future and pray that her position as queen would secure her husband and son rather than endanger them.
“My love?”
Antoinette blinked, escaping from her swirling thoughts at the soft call of her husband. His pale eyes were fixed on her, alight with concern.
Her heart softened as her lips curved into the gentle smile that seemed to appear only for him. She could be bright, vivacious, and polite for others, but she was vulnerable and soft with Louis.
She was only safe to be that with Louis.
Even then, she had to protect him from the depths of that vulnerability, and the causes of it.
Vulnerable but strong.
She could do both. She could be both.
She had to.
With practiced grace, Antoinette placed her hand in her husband’s open palm. His fingers folded around her delicate hand, squeezing lightly as he returned her smile. His high brow cleared in perfect timing with his lips curving.
“Shall we celebrate our son with God and those gathered?” he asked, his voice playfully formal.
Considering they were adorned in the most regal attire that had ever been created, save for the coronation, it would behoove them to do something other than stand in this anteroom.
Antoinette tilted her head, matching his tone. “I suppose. The whole of France did seem to be teeming the streets, and I was informed that our many guests are prepared to witness and join us in that celebration.”
“I should hate to keep them waiting,” Louis agreed with a sage nod as his thumb brushed against her skin.
“Especially the Lord.” Antoinette forced a dramatic shiver. “I very much doubt He appreciates a delay.”
One side of Louis’s mouth flicked into a crooked grin, and the pressure on her hand tightened briefly. “Then let us keep ourselves in His good graces.”
“Yes,” Antoinette chirped in delight. “Let us.”
How did Louis manage to quiet her fears and ease her soul so easily without knowing anything about her troubles?
This quiet, sometimes awkward man who struggled so dearly when they were first married had become her anchor in the storm of life.
The rock to which she could cling to, the balm that soothed her wounds, the steady ground beneath her feet when all else threatened to collapse.