The empress of ice cream

Louise

After the ball I am kept away from court. Nobody tells me anything. They seem to be waiting for something, some sign or command. Or perhaps they are simply wondering how best to respond to the king’s reaction to seeing me in his sister’s dress. I sense that there are conversations going on behind closed doors; subjects that are suddenly and smoothly changed when I enter a room. I spend miserable nights wondering if I am to be sent home after all.

After three days of this there is a loud knocking at the doors of the dining hall as the Arlingtons and I are having dinner. The doors are opened by two uniformed servants, who in turn stand to either side of a butier, who steps forward and announces, ‘His Majesty has asked that Mademoiselle de Keroualle be sent this token of his esteem.’

‘Ah,’ Arlington says genially, swivelling in his chair. ‘What did I tell you?’ Nothing at all^ I want to point out. Arlington waves the man forward.

The butler places on the table a small painted box about twelve inches square. On the side is a painted crest - something preposterous and without significance, the sort of thing that is concocted by those who do not actually understand the subtle codes of ancient families.

Even so, I think I recognise it from somewhere.

The butler opens it, and takes out a dish of fine glass. It contains a mound of what looks like snow, stained a deep port-purple.

Ice.

Lady Arlington looks puzzled. ‘What is it?’ she asks the butler.

‘Madam, I believe it is a form of frozen dessert,’ the butler says disdainfully.

It is clear from my hosts’ expressions that even if I wanted to there would be no hope of keeping this gift to myself By the time it has been divided there is just enough for two mouthfuls each.

Lord Arlington inspects his sceptically, before swallowing it down like a srrjall boy taking medicine. Lady Arlington pokes at hers with the tip of a sharp, dainty tongue. I slide my own spoon into my mouth. Crystals of sweetened ice, already on the verge of melting, clash and crumble on my tongue as they dissolve.

The taste of damsons - subtle, ripe, the last fruits of the summer - fills my mouth, mingled with creme fraiche\ followed, a moment later, by a welcome crunch of brown muscado sugar.

And I know, then, that Carlo Demirco has reached London.

I feel a sense of relief. Despite the fact that we did not part on the best of terms, it will be useful to have an ally at this court. I just hope that he is faring better at his task than I am at mine.

The next morning I wake early. Dawn has broken, and across the park that separates the Arlington’s house from Whitehall there is a fine, translucent mist. Trees, their outlines hazy as if under layers of muslin, are turning golden yellow, the colour of pears. I open the window there is a bite to the air, and a faint, earthy tang of woodsmoke.

Autumn is coming.

I will have to spend the winter in London, of course. Perhaps next winter too. I wonder if the winters here are as cold as those of Brest. Colder, probably.

Across the misty haze of St James’s Park I see a tall figure, out walking. He must be cold - he is wearing only a short black jacket, unbuttoned, from which a white shirt billows at the waist and cuffs. Spaniels trail at his heels like a living, canine cloak as he covers the damp ground in long, easy strides.

The king.

He is quite alone. I watch him for a moment, then I realise he is headed directly towards the back of the Arlingtons’ house. He is coming here, now.

Lady Arlington bursts in without knocking. ‘The king is on his way. She takes in the situation at a glance — me in my nightdress, staring out of the open window like a schoolgirl. ‘There is no time to waste.’ Behind her a maid runs in, brushes, water, and primping irons all spilling from her arms. ‘Get ready as quickly as you can and join me in the breakfast room.’

‘Of course.’

Lady Arlington nods, and I move to the centre of the room so that the maid can begin her work. The girl curtseys, and I raise my arms so that she can pull the nightdress over my head.

Lady Arlington does not move. For a moment she looks at me, her expression unreadable.

Then she gives another nod, as if I have passed muster. ‘Five minutes, Susan,’ she says to the maid. As she goes down the corridor I hear her giving more orders in a firm, unhurried voice.

‘I would speak to Mademoiselle de Keroualle alone.’

Lady Arlington immediately gets up, curtseys, and leaves without a word. There is no protest of impropriety, of course. To suggest otherwise would be to impugn the motives of a king.

Only the servants, standing at either side of the breakfast sideboard, do not move.

We are sitting on either side of the great table, empty now of its candelabra and its glasses. Charles gestures at my plate. ‘Some coffee? Chocolate?’

‘Thank you. I would prefer tea.’

‘Of course. I understand everyone in Paris drinks tea now. Even Minette.’ Fie grimaces. ‘I mean - my late sister. I called her Minette. It was her childhood name.’

‘I know. She let me read your letters. She used to look forward to those letters more than anything else in the world.’

He takes a deep breath. ‘Tell me how she died.’

*

I tell him everything I know, and as I speak tears begin to stream down his cheeks. Soon he is openly sobbing, his hands brushing away the tears impatientiy, dashing them from his face. I hesitate, wondering if I am distressing him too much, and he gestures wordlessly for me to continue.

I have never seen a man weep so openly in front of a woman. At one point he picks up a napkin and dries his face with it.

‘And - tell me - was she murdered?’ he says when I have finished. ‘Did that brute, or one of his favourites, have her killed so that he could pursue his vices unimpeded?’

Now it is my turn to sound uncertain. There is only one answer I can give, but I am wondering how I can best convince him of it.

‘In truth, he could pursue them unimpeded in any case. And although I am no admirer of her husband, I cannot see how it can have been murder.’

‘But she was so well at Dover. I had never seen her so beautiful, or so well.’

I shake my head. ‘She was in terrible pain. She was simply determined not to let you know of it.’

‘How good we Stuarts are at dissembling,’ he says, almost to himself ‘How little we show ourselves to those who love us most.’

‘She loved you more than anyone alive.’

t

‘And I her.’ He is silent a moment, then puUs sdmething from his shirt. ‘I have brought her letters to me. Will yoU'—’ He cannot finish the sentence, but I understand what he wants. ''Enfmngaisr

‘'Oui. SHI vous plait. ^

I open the first letter and begin to read. ‘‘Mon cherfrere, votn Majeste . . .’