Jane Feather - The Diamond Slipper

She shivered, wondering with a deep liquid surge in her loins what it would be like to experience that unleashed force.

For the hundredth time that day, Cordelia took up the miniature of her husband-to-be and scrutinized it. It was as if each time she stared into that calm, expressionless countenance, she expected to find some clue to the man himself. She knew that her own miniature was a fair likeness of herself, but that somehow it didn't capture any sense of the person she was. Presumably Prince Michael was as frustrated by this as she was.

The clock chimed five. In one hour she would be married by proxy to the man whose face gazed out at her from the lacquered frame. And she knew herself to be woefully unprepared for marriage, for wifehood, for motherhood- either to mother the prince's two little girls or to bring forth her own child. The idea of going blind into the unknown made her skin prickle with anxiety.

Mathilde bustled in, her arms full of silver cloth. "Come, come, child. Time's hurrying along and you must be downstairs to meet your uncle at five minutes to six." She laid the gown on the bed, panting slightly, her cheeks flushed. The gown was so heavily stitched with silver thread and seed pearls that it weighed almost as much as Cordelia herself.

Cordelia put down the miniature and stood up. The gown she would wear for her second wedding was already packed in the leatherbound chests she would take to Paris. It was made of cloth of gold and was even heavier than this one.

She shook off her wrapper with an impatient gesture that masked her sudden apprehension, and stood still as Mathilde laced her and fastened the tapes of her panniers. They were so wide she would have to slide sideways through all but the widest double doors. She stepped into the first of her six petticoats.

Twenty minutes later she was finally hooked into the gown. Her hair had been powdered and dressed hours before, and when she examined herself in the cheval glass, she saw a woman who bore no relation to herself. A painted, powdered doll, with jeweled heels so high and clothes so stiff and heavy she could walk only with the smallest steps. She'd endured ceremonial dress on other occasions since she'd left the schoolroom, but familiarity didn't lessen its discomforts.

Duke Franz Brandenburg was leaning heavily on his cane, his watch in his hand, when his niece entered the small salon in the imperial apartments of the Hofburg Palace.

"You are late," he pronounced in his customary irascible manner. "I cannot abide unpunctuality."

Cordelia curtsied and offered no defense. It was four minutes to six, but a minute was as bad as an hour in her uncle's book.

"Come." He limped to the door. "It's the grossest incivility to keep Viscount Kierston waiting. He's being most generous in taking on such a charge, and there's no need to make it more irksome than it already is." Belatedly, he offered her his arm at the door. "He must be a very close friend and confidant of Prince Michael's to do him such service. Unless, of course, he's in his debt," he added waspishly. "That's probably it. No man in his right mind would voluntarily take on such a burden."

Cordelia kept her mouth shut as the cantankerous voice maundered on in his disparaging fashion. Not that she expected anything else from her uncle. His niece was a burden to him; therefore she must be to any other man.

Marie Antoinette would be married by proxy the following day in the Augustine church, which was large enough to accommodate the entire court. Cordelia's ceremony was to take place in the small Gothic chapel beside the riding school. The guest list had been kept small, but no concessions had been made in the formality of the ceremony.

The royal family were present, as were the senior members of the French delegation. The duke limped up the aisle, his cane thumping with every step, his niece on his arm. The bishop of St. Stephen's stood before the altar.

Where was the viscount? Cordelia's eyes darted around the dim chapel. The day was overcast and there was no evening sun to light the stained-glass windows. Shouldn't her husband, proxy or not, be waiting at the altar for her? No one seemed concerned about this, and her uncle, now mercifully silent, continued his measured progress toward the altar without faltering.

As they reached it, Viscount Kierston appeared from the shadow of a stone pillar, where he'd been standing in quiet conversation with another courtier. It was almost as if his appearance were an afterthought, it was so casual. Cordelia, mummified in her stiff wedding gown and lacquered, powdered hair, felt a surge of resentment that he should treat this… her… with such insouciance. It was a real marriage. As legally and religiously binding as any. The one that would follow in Paris would carry no extra weight or significance.

He stepped up beside her, according the duke a curt nod but ignoring Cordelia. His attitude might be careless, but his dress was as formal as hers. His midnight blue suit was richly embroidered with silver arabesques. His hair was concealed beneath a pigtail wig, the queue encased in dark blue silk and tied top and bottom with matching silk ribbons. Diamonds winked from the folds of his lace-edged cravat, sparkled on his long fingers, edged the silver buckles of his red-heeled shoes.

Cordelia decided he looked intimidating, severe in his elegance-but so very beautiful. Her earlier resentment vanished as quickly as it had arisen. She was conscious of every line of his lithe slender frame, of the sharply etched cheekbones, the sensuous mouth, the long, luxuriant black eyelashes, so startling against the white of his wig. Her pulse raced, her palms dampened in her silk gloves.

The bishop's voice droned on over her head, but the words meant nothing. Her uncle gave her away with a clear note of relief in his louder-than-usual voice, and she barely noticed. She heard only the moment when Leo Beaumont said firmly that he took this woman, Cordelia Brandenburg, to be his wedded wife. She closed her mind to the "in the name of Prince Michael von Sachsen," aware only of her rising excitement, the heady swirl of anticipation. Somewhere at the back of her brain lurked the knowledge that she was being a fool, that to play with this fantasy while she stood at the altar being married to another man was a recipe for disaster, but that didn't seem to dim the lustre of her fairy tale in the least.

What if she were really marrying Viscount Kierston? Fueled by this question, her own responses were so fervent they surprised even the bishop, who peered at her in the candlelight.

Leo's mouth tightened as he heard Cordelia make her wedding vows. He knew what she was thinking. She had declared that she loved him, and however much he might dismiss this as a youthful fantasy, the ring of sincerity in her voice, the power of it in her eyes, couldn't be so easily dismissed.

Any more than he could dismiss the power she held over him, against his will, against his deep-rooted convictions, against all rationality.

The bishop blessed the rings and they were returned to the little gold ring box, to be presented at the second wedding when the true bridegroom would do his part.

"Well, that went off fairly well," Duke Franz declared when they were outside again in the gloomy, high-walled medieval courtyard outside the chapel. "And I wish you joy of your charge, my lord." He took snuff, flourishing his handkerchief as if waving away the burdensome years of his guardianship.

Cordelia, receiving the congratulations of the empress, heard the sour comment, as did everyone else. It was so churlish it penetrated the shell she'd early constructed around herself. She turned to look at her uncle, a tear of hurt shining in her eyes.

Maria Theresa patted her shoulder, saying kindly, "You have always been very dear to us, Cordelia. I consider you as one of my own children, and I know that you and Marie Antoinette will continue to be close friends and companions."

Cordelia curtsied as low as she could in her voluminous gown without overbalancing and falling on her rear. "I am sensible of Your Majesty's every kindness to me over the years, and I cannot express my gratitude enough."

Maria Theresa smiled approvingly, turning to the viscount. "I trust you'll be able to instruct Princess von Sachsen in the nuances of life at Versailles during your journey, Lord Kierston. I know they have some different customs."

Leo bowed. "I will do my best, madame." He supposed it was a task that fell to his hand-one of the growing list of responsibilities that accompanied taking charge of Michael's wife. How he had ever agreed to this insane project he couldn't imagine. But then, if he'd imagined Cordelia, he certainly wouldn't have agreed. But how could any sane man imagine Cordelia?

How would Michael react to her? He expected some demure, totally inexperienced young girl of impeccable breeding, well versed in her role of total obedience to monarch, father, husband. And he was going to find himself wedded to Cordelia.

"Stand still, Amelia, while I tie your ribbon. You're such a fidget."

"Yes, madame." Sylvie's eyes met her twin sister's, and they both dissolved in giggles.

"For mercy's sake, child, what is the matter with you today?" Louise de Nevry, the children's governess, pulled Sylvie's hair back with an unnecessarily hard tug. She couldn't understand what got into them on days like this. From the moment they woke, they seemed to share some secret that sent them into fits of giggles at the slightest thing anyone said to them. And all the scolding in the world did no good. She tied the lavender hair ribbon in a cramped little knot and pushed the child away.

"Now, Sylvie, come here and let me do your hair."

"Yes, madame." Amelia stepped obediently forward, her rosebud mouth quivering with laughter. It was one of the girls' greatest entertainments, this switching of identity. If they awoke before Nurse came to them in the morning, they would exchange positions in the bed before she saw them, and Amelia would be Sylvie and Sylvie Amelia for the rest of the day. And no one would be any the wiser.

Madame de Nevry tied the braid with the green ribbon that identified Sylvie for her father, as the lilac identified Amelia, then she turned the child around and scrutinized her critically. "This levity is unseemly," she scolded as the girl struggled with her laughter. "Both unseemly and foolish. What could you possibly have to laugh about?"

She glanced around the schoolroom with its dark paneled walls, bare oak floor, sparse furniture. The uncurtained windows were kept firmly shuttered so that no noise or distraction from the world outside could reach the girls at their lessons. She could see no encouragement for laughter in their surroundings; it was all exactly as it should be.

"The prince will be waiting for you. Is that ink on your hands, Sylvie?"

Amelia held out her hands. Her nails' were painted with a foul-tasting yellow paste to keep her from biting them. Not that Amelia bit her nails; that was Sylvie's habit. But Nurse hadn't even looked when she'd ritually anointed the supposedly bitten fingers that morning.

"What will your father think!" the governess grumbled.

"Go to the nursery and wash them at once." She looked up at the clock, worrying at her lip with her teeth; they mustn't be late for their weekly presentation to the prince.

Louise was a thin woman, with angular features and sparse gray hair that she kept hidden beneath a large wig on which perched a dormeuse cap. An embittered spinster, a distant relation of the von Sachsens, she was dependent on the charity of the prince, for which she was expected to educate his daughters. But since she had little education herself, serious study didn't feature too much in the schoolroom of the prince's Parisian palace on rue du Bac. Instead the girls were expected to sit still for long periods of time, holding their heads high, their shoulders erect, the posture maintained with the aid of backboards. They were taught to curtsy and walk with the tiny, quick gliding steps de rigueur at Versailles, so that they looked like two clockwork miniatures with their panniered skirts floating over the floor, seemingly unpropelled by anything as vulgar as legs and feet. Madame, an indifferent performer on the clavichord, nevertheless strove to impart the rudiments of the instrument to her charges, neither of whom appeared to show either interest or aptitude. It didn't occur to the governess that this lack might have something to do with her methods of teaching.