Chapter 37
I spent an hour each night waiting in the marriage chamber, hoping Nicolas would come along. Last night I’d spent two, and this morning I felt the repercussions of that extra bit of missed sleep. Drool caked my cheeks, and my hair was a nest that required two handmaidens and a bath to resolve.
“Your Majesty,” the youngest of my handmaidens said, curtsying deeply before producing a familiar pot of white paste.
We’d come around to the vanity now, and as Winnie worked my hair into large ornamental braids, this maidservant searched for her chance to shine.
“Shall I apply your makeup? It will be the last time some of the courtiers see you before the tour—”
“No.” I watched Winnie’s handiwork. “I don’t partake.”
The girl’s smile faltered. “But Your Majesty, all the noble ladies—”
“I said no,” I said, sharpening my tone. “It makes my face itch.”
Florence perked up from her seat, lowering the book in her hand. “What exactly is in that paste?”
“Ceruse and vinegar, my lady,” another handmaiden answered.
“Might we have a moment alone, Your Majesty?” Florence asked. “Winnie may stay.”
I nodded. The handmaidens exchanged confused looks before departing. Florence waited until the heavy doors were firmly shut before she spoke again.
“That girl just tried to put white lead on your face,” she remarked.
Winnie stepped forward. “It’s perfectly normal to wear ceruse, Lady Florence. It’s been used for generations. Perhaps not in Pontarena or warmer areas, but here, it’s an indicator of status.”
“That doesn’t make it safe.” Florence stood and brushed her skirts. “Lead is poison. It may not be swift as hemlock, but it is harmful, nonetheless.”
I continued to gawk at the hand that had acted on its own. Ice settled in my veins. “Poison?”
“Indeed. It seeps through the skin, accumulates in the body. It can cause all manner of ailments.”
“N-no, yes, I have read about it,” I interrupted. Somewhere, I had. And if I’d put together that ceruse was only a variant of lead, I would never have worn it. “Gods, how many women…”
The thought trailed off. I recollected the symptoms of lead poisoning as described in some text I couldn’t remember the name of: in adults, it could bring about headaches, fatigue, irritability, nausea…memory loss, abdominal pain…
“Stillbirth,” I said quietly.
“What?” asked Winnie.
My mind raced. I thought of Adelaide, as painted as any fashionable woman, and all the children she’d lost. I thought of Lady Maeve, who’d buried a child only a year before I came to court, who had stopped trying for fear it might happen again.
I thought of faces unseen, but ailments known, with all the telltale signs of chronic fatigue that no one could have possibly attributed to the truth.
“Winnie, bring me parchment and ink,” I said.
Winnie narrowed her eyes, but did as she was told, joining me at my writing desk.
Within the hour, I had written nearly a dozen letters.
My hand cramped from the urgency of the task, but I had only today to see it through; after this, I’d be consumed with the wedding tour.
I wrote to every noble lady I could think of, within and outside of Castle Altaigne, and when I could not think of a woman to match the location, I addressed it simply “to the Lady of” whichever duchy or keep I had in mind.
One letter received particular care, sealed with extra wax.
“Send these off,” I said. “It is a matter of urgency. Don’t leave it to a courier; employ the falcons for this task.”
Winnie bowed, taking the bundle and hurrying off. Florence watched her go, then leaned next to my desk.
“So, you’ve all been putting poison on your faces all this time?” she asked incredulously, as if the thought had only just caught up to her. “No wonder Gallae is so miserable.”
“Some Hadrian nobles do it, too.” I massaged my hand, looking out the window. “I only hope it’s not too late.”
There was some considerable fanfare about the final supper to be taken at Castle Altaigne before the wedding tour.
The jester was more boisterous than ever, and I finally found the humor in him.
His presence was more tasteful, now that he wasn’t the follow-up act to an execution, and the music was equally pleasant.
Nothing particularly unusual had been found on Angharad, but Quinn must have searched her rather rigorously by the way she made eyes at him ever since.
With no trace of poison or weaponry, Florence had no choice but to chalk it up to Angharad’s tendencies as a gossip, and she urged me to keep a distance from my friend.
Such a feat came easily when she batted her lashes at the viscount. I clenched the stem of my wineglass, leering daggers even though Quinn seemed to pay the marchioness no mind.
Finally, the first course arrived. A rich paté was brought out, one the cook was quite proud of by the rumors from the kitchen staff. The food tester, a servant Nicolas had insisted on hiring, sampled it first, nodding his approval before stepping back to allow me to begin the meal.
I lifted my fork, then stopped. The smell hit me like the fumes of the underworld: rich, fatty, with an underlying unpleasantness reminiscent of wet fur. My stomach lurched violently, and I set down the utensil.
I’d eaten offal before without complaint, even black pudding when it was first introduced at court—a fad for starvation times, but not terribly unpleasant—but this? I pressed a napkin to my mouth in a feeble attempt to combat the rising nausea.
The hall went quiet. I stared at the plate with increasing paleness.
“Take it away,” Nicolas commanded sharply, gesturing to the servants. “All of it, and do not serve this dish again.”
The servants scrambled to clear the course from every table, to the sullen reaction of a few culinary types. Nicolas placed a gentle hand on my back, rubbing in slow circles.
“Send for tea,” he called to a nearby attendant. “Something mild. Chamomile? I don’t…”
“Shall I fetch the apothecaries?” Quinn asked, rising from his seat. Nicolas perked up. “Ah. Yes. Very good.”
Quinn departed swiftly. Around us, conversation resumed, but I caught a few curious glances from the other nobles.
They’d all know soon enough, but Adelaide had cautioned against declaring the pregnancy too early on.
I leaned into Nicolas’ touch, breathing through what remained of the upset. The tenderness of his gesture provoked a craving for the closeness we’d somehow lost. I tentatively reached below the table, touching his thigh in hopes of offering some reciprocal intimacy.
The muscles there clenched with such protest that I didn’t move further up. I lowered my gaze with disappointment and pulled away, though his hand remained on me.
At last my parents arrived in the hall, those prepared sachets useful already. My father poured the tea, and Nicolas stood, clapping once. “Henceforth, the royal apothecaries should dine with us.”
There was no ignoring the murmurs throughout the dining hall, nor the bewildered, excited look in Mother’s eyes as she took my father’s hand. Seats were pulled up for them on my right, close to where Winnie and Florence sat, and my parents joined them, a pair of upstarts in the den of snakes.