Page 40 of A Sham Betrothal
After showingBasile to the door, Sophie had to sit with her grandmother who had heard him leave. It had taxed all Sophie’s creativity to fabricate an equal level of joy when all she wanted to do was cry. It had been nothing short of torture when he’d asked her again whether she wanted to marry him in truth. It was unfair of him to take advantage of her weakness in that way. It was becoming more and more difficult to say no when she thought about the censure she was likely to endure, and the financial difficulty she must undergo, especially in trying to reimburse the sums Basile had expended on her behalf. It was especially difficult when he looked at her in that way, as though his feelings were in earnest.
The temptation had been very real, and Basile would have been well-served had she accepted him. That thought came in a moment of pique, but after brushing a tear away, she had to face reality. It was time to focus on enduring the dinner, the break-up, and the journey home to England unattached and somehow more impoverished than when she’d come. What was more, she now knew what it was like to receive the kiss of a man she not only found attractive, but with whom she discovered a likeness of mind—a humor of common cause. It was improbable she would find anything remotely like it upon returning home and burying herself in a life of simplicity and service.
Basile had promised to have his sister’s maid come to assist Sophie and her grandmother with theirtoiletteso they might be fit to meet the queen. The next day, the maid arrived with time to spare and assisted Sophie to dress in the double paniers that added more volume to the sides ofher underskirt than she was accustomed to. The underskirt itself was a light gray silk with a Chinese pattern embroidered in black. Over this was a full skirt in a dark, charcoal gray with draws and ruffles as decoration. The bodice of the gown was cut in a square, trimmed with white ribbon—lower, too, than what she was accustomed to, but her grandmother assured her it was perfectlyà la mode. She wore an accessory of a white silk flower around her neck, attached with dark gray ribbon. Her arms were bare of ornament.
Basile had shown remarkable kindness in having a pair of shoes sent along with the maid that contained a buckle decorated with paste, but which caught the candlelight when she put her foot out. When she wondered at how he had known her size, Mary admitted to having traced the outline of one of Sophie’s shoes and given it to him. The shoes were black, with the heels and soles painted red.
With Sophie now dressed, the maid had her sit so she could set a cape around her gown to protect it and powder her hair white. The powder came from the marquis’s household and had the usual cloves and other spices, but this time with a hint of bergamot, which Sophie adored. Whenever she could, she perfumed herself with the happy scent of oranges, because it inexplicably made everything seem hopeful. Now her fragrance would be orange spice.
The maid pulled her hair over a cushion set on the top of her head and pinned it in place before working on thebouclesnear Sophie’s cheeks—trim rows of curls, the top of which was pinned back with a jeweled comb. As Jeannot had done, a large curl lay over her shoulder in a beguiling way to complete thetoilette. Sophie stared at herself in the glass as the maid powdered her face and artfully applied color to her cheeks, her lips, and even to her eyes.
Sophie had grown more fashionable since arriving in Paris, but tonight it seemed the maid had worked wonders, for she hardly recognized herself as the English maiden who had stepped on to the French dock a few weeks earlier.
A knock sounded on the front door, which set Sophie’s heart beating.He is here!Tonight was the big performance. Perhaps the last performance. Without Sheldon’s continued support there seemed little reason to stay in Paris any longer. She would have to break the news to her grandmother, but she could never tell her of their deception. It would only break her grandmother’s heart. Sophie knew the only heart that deserved to be broken was her own.
Then there was a faint knock on her bedroom door and Mary entered. “Your grandmother sent me to tell you she is ready to set out, and that the marquis is here.”
“You may tell them both I shall be there in a minute.” She smiled at Thérèse’s maid, thanking her warmly, then sent everyone out of the room.
Seated, she stared at herself for another brief moment, then stood though she only had the view of her shoulders and below. She lifted her skirts and turned one way and another, admiring her figure, trimmed by the whalebone corset that pulled her shoulders back. It was an enchanting look. She would have purchased another corset like it if only she could find the means.
Sophie dropped her skirts, then, as reality crashed in. What good would it do to have beautifully fashioned corsets if she was going to become a paid servant? Or later, when she intended to hide herself away in some rural lifestyle, where she would likely end up raising chickens and turning the soil with her own two hands. It was a little terrifying, really, and she wondered if she truly had thecourage to go through with it. It was one thing to say she would not marry without love, or at least a deep respect for her betrothed. It was quite another thing to envision the alternative—to live in the house she owned, but with an income so small as to reduce her to near poverty. She would have enough to eat and for a maid-of-all-work, but not enough to buy new clothes.
Her next thought was that to have known Basile, only to have to bid himadieu, sent such a lump to her throat and threatened imminent tears, she had to pull herself together by force.
She rubbed her damp palms on the towel near her nightstand, then grabbed a white, chicken-skin fan and fanned herself vigorously before stepping out into the corridor. She must get through this evening.
The marquis was making conversation with her grandmother, who wore the lovely gray silk gown that was in her possession since they’d set out from England. Basile ceased speaking at her entrance, and when he turned to look at her, he froze, his face a mask impossible to read. She wondered what was wrong. Had her hair been arranged too high on her head? Perhaps the rouge had been applied with too liberal a hand.
He moved forward then, holding her eyes in a way that tempted her to believe he truly appreciated what he saw—as if their engagement were real. She resisted that temptation.
He bowed and brought her hand to his lips, then kept it in his possession as he said, “You are enchanting, but I had expected as much. The queen will feel she has chosen to place her attention in the right quarters.”
“You look very well, my dear,” her grandmother added.
Mrs. Twisden’s voice was stronger. She had assuredSophie she was well enough to endure the evening, no matter how late it lasted, and indeed she looked much better than she had lately. Sophie could only hope that the queen would allow her grandmother to sit and rest when they arrived.
It was late afternoon when they set out from Paris for the ride to Versailles. It would take just under two hours if there was nothing on the road to hinder them. Conversation was light as they rode, the marquis on the backward facing seat, and Sophie frequently felt his eyes on her. She wondered if he was as nervous as she was. Likely not, since he had none of the complicated feelings she had that must force her to pretend to the queen it was the marquis she loved—only to then turn to the marquis and pretend she did not.
“Did you manage to gain an invitation for Zoé and Charles?” Sophie asked when they had ridden about halfway. Her mind had been taken up with so many things, she had nearly forgotten about that.
“Yes, for Zoé and her mother. You know Madame Sainte-Croix, do you not?” he asked, turning to her grandmother. When she replied she did not, he promised to introduce them before continuing. “Charles has already been invited along with much of the English crowd, and presumably Mr. Cholmsley.” He made a wry face as he said it. “The queen allowed me to invite some of my own guests, so I also had invitations sent to Grégoire St. Pierre and Armand de Galladier.”
Sophie nodded, then lapsed back into silence. Basile had not instructed her on what they were to do. As they approached Versailles, it felt to her as though they were racing to their doom.
The carriage slowed in front of the Petit Trianon, andshe recognized many of the English guests pouring out of other carriages. They all turned to her and curtsied or bowed, showing their recognition of her as the guest of honor. Before she had time to recover her serenity from such unwanted attention, Basile was at her elbow. His friend Grégoire rushed over to take her grandmother’s arm.
And then they were inside on the black and white marble-checked floors of the entrance. The space was otherwise bare except for a couple of marble statues. They then walked up the broad marble staircase to the first floor where Basile led her past the guests in the antechamber and directly to the queen. He extended his leg and bowed deeply. “Allow me, Your Majesty, to present my fiancée, Mademoiselle Sophie Twisden.”
Sophie curtsied very low. “C’est un honneur, Votre Majesté.”
The queen touched Sophie’s arm and she rose. The fact of holding her breath made her lightheaded, as did fearing she might do something wrong or fearing the queen would find them out and be enraged.
But the queen smiled. “You are very lovely,” she said in German-accented English. She then turned to the Comte de Vaudreuil who was standing at her side, ready to call over another guest. The queen’s attention was withdrawn, and Sophie let out a quiet breath.
Basile pulled her close and whispered in her ear. “You see? You have worried for nothing. It was as simple as that.”
Sophie turned to retort that they still had the dinner to get through, but the words died on her lips when she saw the expression on his face. The way he looked at her was filled with tenderness. The humor was there, but there was also another emotion she couldn’t fully place. It was a duplicitous look, this—as though what he felt forher was real. She let out her tension with a soft laugh. “True.”
