Chapter 12 #2
Antoinette adored how much he adored their children.
Their feelings for him bordered on outright worship, and Antoinette could not blame them.
He was an active, playful father, despite being reserved in public and a dedicated servant to the crown he bore.
He was raising his children so differently from the way he had been raised, and she could already see the blossoming her children were enjoying because of it.
There would always be responsibilities and expectations placed upon them for being of royal blood, and Louis-Joseph, as the Dauphin, would bear the bulk of that weight.
But Louis had greatly pleased Antoinette by deciding that, for now, their heir would enjoy being a child before becoming the man who would succeed him on the throne.
Thérèse would have to make an advantageous match, just as her parents had, but they had not so much as hinted at who they might choose for her as yet.
For now, they were only children, happy and delighted with their parents and their lives in the palace nursery and the grounds, occasionally enduring formal occasions, but never treated as pawns in a political game.
Antoinette rubbed her cumbersome stomach tenderly as she smiled to herself, relaxing in her quiet sitting room, a fire crackling in the hearth. The little one within her was an active sort, shifting and moving so frequently it had to indicate discomfort in the cramped quarters there.
Who would this little one grow up to be?
A prince who favored the life of a soldier and might become his brother and king’s military adviser?
A princess who would take the social world by storm with grace and poise?
A prince who wished to be a scholar and pursue a life of education?
A princess devoted to charity who preferred the quieter things in life?
Whoever they were, whoever they would grow to be, they would be loved and nourished, their possibilities encouraged and their path a matter of choice where possible.
No smothering with demands and confined to a life of solitude.
They might have to be molded and tutored in certain things, but if learning about Louis’s upbringing had taught her anything, it was that attempting to force a child into a certain image would only hinder their growth and damage their future potential.
If Louis had half of the confidence in himself that his grandfather had had in himself, he would be the greatest king France had ever known. But his grandfather had not wanted Louis to be his own man, but an echo. A rebirth, even.
Louis XVI was not Louis the XV, never had been, but not for want of trying.
Antoinette suddenly ached for the little boy that Louis had once been and wished to hold him close and mother him back to a robust nature that all children should have when permitted to be themselves.
“You seem to be a long way away, Antoinette.”
She looked up to see her husband entering the room after bidding the children good night, the hallmarks of fatigue lining his handsome face. And yet he was smiling and light, even now.
Her eyes burned at the sight, and she held out a hand to him. “Come sit by me.”
His smile spread, and his eyes softened as he came to her. He took her hand and kissed each knuckle before sitting beside her, turning his body to face her. His eyes fell to her stomach. “May I?” he asked in a low voice.
She answered him by taking his hand and placing it right where their child was presently pressing, lacing the fingers of her other hand between his.
Louis chuckled as the nudges and pressure made themselves known under his palm. He bent over her stomach and kissed just above their hands. “Good evening, little one,” he murmured, using their combined hands to stroke softly. “Did you miss me as well?”
A resounding thump made Antoinette wince and laugh at the same time, bringing Louis’s delighted gaze up to hers.
She pulled one hand free and ran her fingers through his hair as he laid his cheek against their child.
“Papa will always be here for you,” he said.
“Mama will always adore you. We will love you more and more every day. No matter what. I will carry you on my back in the nursery, and Mama will teach you to dance, and we will run around the grounds as though there are no kings and queens. Just a family. So will you come and join us soon, my little one? We are waiting for you.”
Antoinette tightened her fingers in Louis’s hair, forcing him to look up at her. “I love you,” she whispered.
He rose up and kissed her, cradling her face between his warm palms, cherishing her the way only he ever could and ever would. “I love you.”
She sighed and rested her head against his chin, her fingers toying with his slightly askew cravat. “How was Calais?”
He shifted and pulled her closer, one hand returning to her stomach and running gently over the bump. “Wonderful, actually,” he confessed.
“Why ‘actually’?” Antoinette asked with a smile he wouldn’t see. “You love Calais.”
“Yes, but with everything that has been happening here, I was not certain of how I would be received. Thank heavens that not all gossip and moods from Paris make their way to Calais.” He scoffed softly.
“I was received very well, which was my first point of relief. I spent much of the time inspecting harbors and coastal works.”
Antoinette tilted her head back to grin at him. “You love doing that.”
He laughed and kissed her brow. “I do, though most people don’t know that I do, which meant I was very impressive in the eyes of those around me.
I asked a wide variety of questions and made certain points that only someone with real technical and naval knowledge would even be aware of.
I wish you could have seen their faces, Antoinette!
” He dropped his head back, chuckling to himself.
“Shock and awe would be apt descriptors.”
“You certainly love taking people by surprise,” she added with an approving nod.
“I certainly do, especially with something that isn’t inherent.
This is something learned or experienced, something taught, something that takes effort to understand, let alone retain, and no one ever expects a king to do any such thing.
Yet I do, I have, and I enjoy it.” He shrugged and raised his head.
“I felt returned to myself, Antoinette. I know you have noticed my mood of late. It was something I could not shake.”
Antoinette nodded, nestling closer against him. “I did notice, yes.”
He stroked her hair absently, resting his chin atop her head.
“I couldn’t protect you from the scheming of that Lamotte woman, and then Rohan escaped justice.
And the tide of opinion became so harsh against you with the lies and Rohan’s family .
. . I couldn’t save you from any of that.
I am the king of France, and I was powerless.
It was the most disheartening, vulnerable, hopeless feeling I have ever known.
What use is it to be king when I hardly feel like a man? ”
“Louis.” She wrapped her arms around him and held tightly. “You cannot blame yourself.”
“Any other husband could demand satisfaction. A duel. Thrash a man to the edge of death, even. But not me. I cannot avenge you, and that is crushing.” His hands moved from her hair and her stomach to cradle her into him.
She turned her face to kiss his chest. “I have not been avenged, it is true. There is pain and there is disgust, but not in you or with you. There could not be. We can only do what is possible with our position. We cannot control the actions of others, nor the opinions of others. This will pass, just as all things pass. Meanwhile, you are still the man I married and the man I love. Still the father of my children, including this rather busy little one.”
As though cued, their unborn child rolled a nudge directly into their father, making him gasp and laugh.
“And we,” Antoinette went on, “just want you. Not the man you could be if you were not the king. Just you.”
Louis exhaled roughly and pressed his mouth against her hairline. “I do not deserve you,” he breathed against her skin.
She shivered at the sensation and the rumbling words. “Yes, you do,” she replied. “I do not deserve you, and that makes me the most fortunate woman. Not being queen of France but being your wife.”
“You are going to make me emotional, wife.”
“Then be emotional for your wife and child, husband. We won’t tell.”
Ten days later, Sophie Hélène Béatrice came into the world, her cries a soft whimpering sort that spoke of secrets to be shared someday, if she dared.