Redemption: Supernatural Time-Traveling Romance with Sci-fi and Metaphysics Page 20

  “They all love sex!” She chuckles happily. “And it’s a good thing too. Otherwise, we’d have no hope of getting rich.”

  “Talking about money,” says Isabelle, pulling out a sheaf of notes. “Thank you for helping me with Bernard.”

  Lucie raises her eyebrows in pretend shock. “Bernard, is it now?”

  Isabelle blushes slightly, but ignores her friend’s interruption. “I want you to have half of it.” And she holds out a number of notes to Lucie. Instead of taking them all, however, Lucie pulls out a single note and tucks it into her bodice. “That will do,” she says. “Consider it payment for the loan of my pearls.”

  “Are you sure, Lucie?”

  “Of course. We’re friends, aren’t we?”

  Isabelle nods. “Yes, we are. Thank you.”

  Lucie pauses a moment, considering the cookies. Finally she says, “You’re going to need the rest for yourself. The Marquis wants to meet you so you’re going to have to look your best!”

  “Me?” says Isabelle, taken aback. “Why does the Marquis want to see me?”

  “Don’t mess about. You know why! Why does any man want to get together with a beautiful young lady?”

  “Oh. But wasn’t the Marquis with you last night?”

  “Of course he was!” Lucie laughs at her friend’s naivety. “But he fancies something a bit younger. That’s men for you. They’re always on the lookout for something new!”

  Isabelle, still frowning in confusion, says, “But I like the Vicomte. And he told me he wants to meet up again.”

  “Listen.” Lucie dips her cookie into the steaming drink and takes a bite. “I’m going to let you into a little secret, Isabelle. The Vicomte? He has a wife. Not only that but he has at least two mistresses that I know of as well. That’s the way this works. A wealthy gentleman will have as many women as he can afford, and some of them can afford a lot.” Isabelle stands staring at her friend as she calmly eats her biscuit, desperately trying to take it all in. “Well?” says Lucie, brushing the crumbs from her lap. “Do you need money or not?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “Then go and see the Marquis.”

  “Why do men do this?” Isabelle asks after a while, reaching across for a cookie.

  “Do what exactly?”

  “You know what. Why do they feel they need to have several women on the go at the same time?”

  Lucie shrugs. “Who knows? It’s just the way they are. There could be many reasons I guess. But the point is,” she lays a hand on her friends knee and gazes into her eyes, “we’re fine with that, aren’t we, Isabelle?”

  “I guess so,” she says, but then she finds herself thinking back to that elegant young man from the dark Parisian streets, the man who left a mark on her heart. What she really wants is her own man, a man for herself. “So how do you become a man’s special lady? His only lady?”

  “That, my dear, takes talent. Real talent. Because to be ‘the one’, you’ve got to be the best!”

  ~

  And so, by the time Jean-Pierre returns from his hunting trip, Isabelle has visited the Marquis and the Vicomte a number of times, earning herself sufficient money to expand her wardrobe and pay for some fine pieces of jewelry with plenty to spare.

  This is amazing, she thinks, as she stashes away the money in one of her dressing table drawers. At this rate, I will be able to afford to rent a decent place of my own. Imagine that! Even Jean-Pierre’s evening visit to her chamber does not dampen her joy at this thought and, when the deed is over, she turns to face him.

  “May I ask a favor of you, Jean-Pierre?” she asks in her most angelic voice.

  He looks at her, happy from his hunting and love-making, and eyes her up and down, enjoying her naked body. “But of course, my dear.”

  “I would really like to take singing lessons. And I was hoping you might find me a good teacher.”

  “Singing lessons?” He raises his eyebrows at this request. “Whatever do you want them for? I’ve heard you singing along when the music teacher is here. Your voice sounds fine to me.”

  “But I want to improve my talent,” she says, turning her whole body towards him. “I want to be the best singer I can be!”

  Jean-Pierre frowns as he considers this. “Well, I guess it is good for a young lady, such as yourself, to have a hobby. And since the leather business is booming and I’m making a handsome profit, I don’t see why not. Yes!” he says, laying a gentle hand on her bare skin. “I shall find you a good teacher, Isabelle.”

  And he does; an Italian, one of the finest singing teachers in Paris. Isabelle is delighted and, over the following weeks and months, she hones her singing skills, while continuing to learn the piano and study dancing with the help of Lucie. Then, one evening, Jean-Pierre hosts a small, select gathering at his house, mostly of those he has conducted business with and people of influence, though Isabelle does not recognize any of them. After dinner, Jean-Pierre calls everyone to congregate in the music room to listen to Isabelle sing.

  “You should hear her!” he says. “I’ve never known anyone take to music like this young lady.”

  Slightly nervous at being the focus of everyone’s attention, Isabelle selects one her favorite songs, a melody that her aunt used to sing and which her singing teacher found the music for, and stands in the center of the room, her teacher sitting at the piano poised to accompany her. Everyone is silent and all eyes are on Isabelle as she begins to sing. It is a beautiful song about a love that is lost, but then found again many years later, and as Isabelle sings it she pours all of herself into the words and into the music, filling every note with the sorrow and the joy in her heart. There is something enchanting about the song, drawing people into its spell. Her audience sits and listens with open mouths and glistening eyes and when, eventually the song comes to an end, they burst into applause.

  “Bravo!” someone cries. “Bravo, mademoiselle.”

  “Oh, Jean-Pierre!” shouts someone else over the sound of clapping. “What a treat! This young lady’s voice could delight even His Majesty, the King’s ear. I do not doubt it!”

  These words stun Isabelle and, feeling weak at the knees, she leans against the piano. Looking up, she sees Lucie standing in the doorway, joining in with the applause. She mouths a ‘well done’ and gestures for Isabelle to join her in the other room.

  “Do you know who that man was?” says Lucie, when they are shut away together. Isabelle gives her a blank look. “Of course you don’t. That man is part of King Louis’ court.”

  “Really?” Isabelle is amazed. Not simply at the man’s words, but at the fact that a member of the King’s court was here in this house, listening to her sing!

  “Yes. And he will be the man to get you into the palace. Trust me. You may have to wait a while, but he is your way in to His Majesty.”

  “But why?” Isabelle asks, unable to take it all in. “Why would he want to take me to see the King?”

  “That’s how things work in the palace. It’s all about favor. Everyone wants to be the King’s favorite and the way to do that is to ingratiate yourself with him, pleasing him and giving him gifts. And you, Isabelle, would be a great present even for His Majesty, King Louis XIV.”

  “You really think it’s possible for someone who was living on the streets only eight months ago? You really think that I could end up going to the King’s palace? Me?” She gestures to herself with both hands as if to make it clear that it was her they were talking about, not some Duchess or similarly highborn lady.

  “Oh, you’ll get there alright,” says her friend with a smile. “You’re a young, attractive lady. Where else are you going to end up? And after that, well… don’t forget that King Louis is a man!”

  Chapter Nineteen

  A sharp rap on the door rouses Isabelle from her sleep. She listens to Lucie’s footsteps below her and the sound of the door opening. There is a short exchange, but she cannot make out any of the words, and then she hears the door
closing and the footstep treading the stairs and approaching her chamber.

  “Isabelle?” says Lucie’s voice outside her door. “Are you awake?” Isabelle manages a muffled groan. Lucie pushes the door open and strides into the room. “Well, you’ll want to be. It’s a message from the King’s palace!”

  “The King’s palace?” Isabelle is suddenly awaking and sitting up in her bed. “Surely it can’t be!” She doesn’t dare to finish the sentence and give herself even a glimmer of hope, but reaches out to take the sealed parchment. The stamp breaks easily and she wrenches it open, scanning it with darting eyes, hardly able to take it in. “It’s an invitation!” she says, almost shouting with excitement. “An invitation to sing at the palace.”

  Lucie takes the parchment and studies it. Looking up, she sees the panic in her friend’s face. “It’s okay, Isabelle. Take it easy.” She sits down on the bed and lays a hand on Isabelle’s arm. “It’s not an official court event. It’s a small gathering of the King and some of His Majesty‘s friends. He just wants to check you out, that’s all.”

  “But what if His Majesty doesn’t like me?” says Isabelle, placing anxious palms on her forehead. “I’m sure he won’t.”

  “Come, come, my dear! This is a wonderful opportunity. France is full of girls who would kill for such a chance!” she takes Isabelle’s face in her hands and holds her gaze. “You have the voice of an angel. His Majesty will adore you!”

  His Majesty will adore you. His Majesty will adore you. These words still ring in Isabelle’s ears as, far too short a while later, she finds herself standing in one of the ornate state rooms of King Louis XIV’s palace at Saint-Germain-en-Laye. With Lucie’s help, she is adorned in an exquisite new dress from one of the finest designers in Paris, and she looks out at the gathering through the curls of fair hair that frame her face. As expected, there are not too many people, around thirty men and women, but there, enthroned among them, is His Majesty, King of France and Navarre, Louis XIV. Isabelle has never seen him before, but somehow he is immediately recognizable. Partly this is due to the golden leaf crown that perches on top of an enormous, powdered wig, but mostly it is his presence that somehow seems to draw all focus and attention to himself. His Majesty wears no kingly robes this evening, just a simple jacket and knee-breeches, both of white cloth embroidered with gold thread, above dark gray stockings, and yet Isabelle knows with absolute certainty that this is Him.

  The King catches Isabelle’s eye and gives her the smallest of nods before clapping his hands twice. The conversation in the room dies immediately and all eyes turn to look at her. With a flourish of his hand, Louis gestures for the performance to begin.

  The pressure of their collective gaze almost overwhelms Isabelle, so she closes her eyes and tries to imagine she is somewhere else. She thinks about her aunt, whose singing used to draw crowds in the street and money from purses and pockets. She remembers how her aunt would stand, her head up with one hand held out as though reaching for something only dreamed of. And as she sang, people listened in spellbound wonder, hardly able even to breath for fear of breaking that spell. As this memory comes to her, Isabelle finds the fear and anxiety dropping away. She is able to focus and her confidence returns. As Giuseppe, sitting behind her at the piano, begins to play the accompaniment, she looks out at the faces of her audience, taking that same posture that her aunt used to take, and begins to sing. It is her best performance by far, her voice not only hitting every note perfectly, but conveying such a depth of emotion and beauty that many of those listening find tears welling up in their eyes.

  As the echoes of the last note die away, there is silence for a moment and Isabelle wonders if she has done something wrong. Maybe they did not like it! Have I offended His Majesty in some way? But such thoughts are quickly dispelled as the gathering bursts into applause. Cries of “Bravo!”, “Magnificent!” and even “Encore!” fill the room. Isabelle observes all this in stunned amazement, almost unable to move and she looks round at the delighted crowd. In their midst, Louis gets to his feet, and the applause slowly fades.

  “Well, young lady,” says the King, fixing her in his gaze. “I was told you had the voice of an angel, but I could never have imagined it would be quite so divine. You have enchanted us. But you surely cannot leave us hungry. Will you not sing again, my dear?”

  And she does. Two more songs, in fact, and the reaction of her listeners increases with each performance.

  Afterwards, she is invited to join His Majesty the King and his guests as they gather in another part of the palace for dinner, a room even grander and more ornate than the one where the concert was held. As she enters the room, Isabelle is stunned by the décor; the vast carpet, deep and rich, the tapestries hanging around the wall depicting various hunts and battles, and the gold leaf that covers almost every inch of the ceiling. Looking along the long, oak tables around which the guests are gathered, she notices that there are only three seats, all of which are empty. His Majesty the King is not here. One of many servants, far too large a number, surely, for such a select gathering, ushers her to an empty space by the table.

  Who are all these people, she wonders. Such grand faces. What am I doing here?

  Her concerns are interrupted, however, as the main doors open and the King of France and Navarre strides in and everyone falls immediately silent. Isabelle’s eyes widen in surprise. Where before his wig was fairly conservative, he is now sporting a huge affair, great masses of towering curls tinged slightly red. And where before he was wearing a simple jacket, he now has long flowing robes of purple velvet and lace above bright, white stockings.

  His Majesty looks like a completely different person, thinks Isabelle, and eventually tears her gaze from the King to take in the two women accompanying him. I guess that one must be his wife, she thinks, looking at a slender, dark-haired woman. Which means the other one must be his mistress. Well, she has a fairly nice figure, I’ll give her that. Shame about the face!

  Louis XIV takes his seat, with his wife on his right and his mistress in front of him, and claps his hands. Immediately the hordes of servants burst into action and the meal begins. Platter after platter is placed on the table, two different soups and shellfish bisques to begin, then scallops, wild duck and royal fish followed by salads, soufflé and eggs. Through the meal servants hurry around with wine and water, six alone serving the King with a single glass! Isabelle looks round at the unfamiliar food on offer and, though she feels as though she is in some strange, wonderful dream, she hesitates, worried about doing something wrong. A few places away, a couple of ladies are busy watching her, clearly amused, so she smiles at them gracefully and turns her attention to the young woman standing across the table. Without making it too obvious, Isabelle copies the woman, dish for dish, drink for drink, utensil for utensil, and soon begins to enjoy the occasion. His Majesty the King also seems to be relishing the evening, tucking in with a voracious appetite. When, at last, he signals that he has finished, the servants swoop in and clear the table in moments. Raising from his chair without a word, Louis XIV sweeps from the room, heading through a pair of large, glazed doors which are opened at his approach. As Isabelle joins with the rest of the party as they follow him, she finds herself in a beautifully tended garden lit with torches and dotted around with more servants carrying trays of champagne and canapés. She shakes her head as a servant approaches her with a tray.

  How could anyone possibly eat anymore? she thinks, running a hand across her stomach. I feel like I’m going to burst out of this corset at any moment!

  “I haven’t seen you in here before.”

  Isabelle turns to see the young lady who was located opposite her at dinner.

  “That’s not surprising,” she replies, grateful to have someone to talk to. “This is the first time I’ve been invited here. You?”

  “Oh, I am a court lady. I spend most of my time in the palace.” She smiles and holds out a hand. “My name is Babette.”

  Isabelle
takes her hand gently. “I am Isabelle. Pleased to meet you, milady.”

  “Come, let’s walk together,” says Babette, letting go of her hand and setting out across the garden. “So how did you come to be at Saint-Germain-en-Laye?”

  “I am a singer.”

  “Yes, of course!” says Babette delightedly. “You were singing to us earlier. Oh, you have a gorgeous voice, Isabelle. Where did you learn to sing so well?”

  “It all started with my aunt,” Isabelle explains, trying to avoid mentioning her deprived background. “She used to sing all over the city and her voice would draw hundreds of people. So, as soon as I had the chance, I started singing lessons with an Italian master.”

  “And how did you end up here?”

  “One of the King’s favorites heard me at a concert. He got me the invitation.”

  “Well,” says Babette, clearly impressed. “You certainly seem to have been a hit with the King. He’s a great music lover. And a great dancer too!”

  As the two women make their way around the garden, they come across a couple of elegantly dressed men who turn to face them as they approach.

  “This is my cousin, Albert,” says Babette as she and Isabelle draw up in front of the men.

  “Nice to meet you, milady,” says Albert, bowing towards her. “You are a blossom fitting for such a beautiful garden.”

  Isabelle looks down, uncertain how to respond. “Thank you, milord,” she says at last, using a curtsy to cover her embarrassment. “You are very generous.”

  “My pleasure,” says Albert, peering down the neck of Isabelle’s dress as she curtsies. “Definitely my pleasure!”

  “Your cousin is certainly handsome,” says Isabelle as she and Babette continue their promenade around the garden.

  “Not only that,” says Babette, putting an arm through Isabelle’s. “He’s also rich and extremely well-connected. His father, my uncle, is one of the King’s advisors. He has been part of Louis’ court since he first became King…”