The empress of ice cream

Louise

I am being dangled.

Every time Lady Arlington suggests a walk in the park, lo, there is the king, also out walking with his court. We pause, exchange pleasantries. How are you settling ini Well, thank you, sir. I suppose you miss your friends? Sir, I am making so many new friends here I have not had time to think of it.

We do not speak, in these public encounters, of his sister. But the grief - the pain with which he stumbles over these simple exchanges - is all too evident.

And then, just as he clears his throat to ask me something more. Lady Arlington bids him good day. The same when we are out riding, or playing paille maille.

Even on the river, where I am taken to learn to row, my splashing efforts attract a glance from an open window in the palace: there is the king with a pile of papers, a knot of advisors, state business, looking down. He waves to me, courteously; the royal wave, one open hand across the body, like a farmer scattering seed.

And yet, never having been dangled before, I find the sensation not entirely unpleasant. When I walk away from him I can feel his gaze on me, the way you can feel the sun’s warmth on your skin even when your eyes are closed. Sometimes I even allow myself to glance back, to see if he is still watching me. Am I being a coquette} There is a part of me that is astonished at my own behaviour, another that finds the thought amusing.

And a part that thinks: I must behave as a favoured confidante, but no more. Buckingham’s crass accusation has been useful: it serves as a warning. They must have nothing to reproach me with.

To be a queen. To be a queen.

*

Now the king is playing tennis. At one side of the building, a banked tier of benches allows his courtiers to watch.

He plays well, his tall frame moving surprisingly quickly as he leaps from one side of the court to the other. Even so, it seems to me that the younger man playing him could win if he wanted to. Every time he takes a point you can see him hesitate, wondering if he has gone too far.

The king knows it too. As soon as the man is beaten, he calls impatiently for another opponent.

‘Do we play for love, or points, sir?’ the next young man calls.

‘Points,’ Charles says shortly. ‘Love has no place on the tennis court.’ '

‘Only the Royal court?’ the other player says dryly. There is a sprinkling of laughter, and a few eyes turn towards me. I pretend not to notice, but my heart beats a little faster.

This opponent is cleverer than the last: he builds up a commanding lead, and then gives the king the challenge of overcoming it. Beside me. Lady Arlington is murmuring into my ear.

‘It’s a good sign, he hasn’t played like this for months. Doesn’t he play well, such an athlete, a handsome man as well as a monarch. He swims too, and often walks all the way to Hampton Court. As well as his sport with the ladies.’

“‘The ladies”?’ I repeat, taken aback. :

‘Oh, the king is an accomplished lover,’ she says with a mischievous smile. ‘In addition to all his other talents.’

I blush. ‘Lady Arlington . . .’

‘I’m sorry. Am I being too frank? Perhaps I have been living too long in England. They are almost ridiculously relaxed about such things here. But then you are no child, are you? I am sure you know what’s what, as they say.’ She nudges me slyly. ‘After all, from what I hear, Madame was no saint.’

I do not reply. It has not occurred to me before that innocence in such matters could be dismissed as a childish thing.

Besides, there is just enough truth in what she says to discomfit

me. For Madame, delicate and ill, her husband’s attentions were, I knew, an increasingly unpleasant duty. But there was that one occasion when Monsieur was away, and I went into her closet for some pens. There was Madame, lying back on the divan, her frail legs wrapped around the king’s hips as the monarch heaved himself into her, his long shirt unbuttoned, his own legs bare and hairy ... I stepped back, appalled, and quickly shut the door. I could make no sense of it. Madame would not lie with Louis for advancement. Why, then? For love? I would not have said there was passion between the two of them so much as friendship; the deep understanding of those who had been born to similar positions.

I do not understand sexual relations^ I think, and the realisation makes me cross. To be clever, and yet so ignorant - to be able to play instruments, and speak languages, and write diplomatic letters, and yet to comprehend so little of this, apparently the most fundamental of desires ... it is like watching a game of tennis without understanding the rules.

Not that I fully understand the rules of tennis either, I think, forcing myself to concentrate on the game. The contest between king and courtier has become more intense now, like a duel or a rutting of stags. Charles sends a ball along the penthouse in such a way that it spins behind his opponent. The young man manages to get his racquet to it, but by now Charles is at the net. Fie smashes the ball straight up into the dedans, the window behind the server. I know enough to know that it is considered the most decisive way to win the point.

He acknowledges the applause of the spectators with a spin of his racquet. Then, stiU panting, he looks directly at where I am sitting.

‘He plays for you,’ Lady Arlington says under her breath, clapping furiously. ‘Smile. Now you must play for him.’

As the players drink cold cordials, the court disperses. I recognise a figure in a French frock coat walking away, an ice box in his arms.

‘Signor Demirco,’ I call.

For a moment he hesitates - but then he hurries on, and I am obliged to break into a trot.

‘Wait,’ I call. ‘Signor Demirco, wait!^

Finally he has no choice but to stop.

‘Did you not hear me,’ I begin, puzzled.

‘I heard,’ he says curtly.

‘Then why do you glower like that.>’

It seems to me that he almost says something, but thinks better of it. ‘No reason,’ he says at last. ‘How do you fare? I have heard that your diplomacy here is meeting with great success.’

Is it my imagination, or is there a hint of a sneer on the word ‘diplomacy’? A little put out, I say, ‘And I hear that yours is not.’

He shrugs. ‘It is thought that the king is more likely to accept my ices if it is you who proposes them.’

‘And that is why you are so . . . surly? Your pride is hurt?’

‘I am not surly, as you put it,’ he says, still curt. ‘Nor is it anything to do with my pride. On the contrary, your success will be my passage back to France. Speaking of which, how glad you must be now that you did not accept my proposal of marriage, back at Versailles.’

‘I could not have accepted it, in any case,’ I say carefully. ‘Given the gulf between our births. But, since you have evidendy been informed by our mutual friends of my possible good fortune in this regard, I will say that yes, it is a good thing. Although, signor ... it might be better if that particular episode were to remain a secret between us. A proposal, even one that is refused, might be seen as tarnishing my good name, and my reputation is going to be more important than ever now.’

‘Your reputation?’ he mutters. ‘Oh, please. Spare me. You mean that now you have bigger fish to fry.’

Angry now, I say, ‘I am lifting the king’s spirits - something that you, it seems, are unable to do with your i(;es.’

He bows. ‘Indeed. You have my gratitude.’ He walks away, his face like thunder.

I gaze after him, exasperated. The confectioner’s feelings, it seems, are still somewhat bruised. Of course, I am sorry for it although somewhat surprised - but it cannot be allowed to deflect me from my task.

That evening, Arlington and his wife have a conversation behind closed doors. Later, Lady Arlington comes to my room. She sends my maid away and combs out my hair herself, exclaiming over the thickness of the corkscrew ringlets that spring out from under her fingers, unruly as ever. I have never been able to tame them properly.

T think we know someone who admires them, anyway,’ she says teasingly, and I blush.

‘Tell me,’ she continues in the same calm voice. ‘When are your monthly courses.^’

A litde embarrassed, I say, ‘I have everything I need, thank you.’

‘I don’t mean thpLt^' she says, unperturbed. ‘I mean for the king. So that you go to him at the right time.’ She smiles at me reassuringly in the glass. ‘You do want him to fall in love with you, don’t you?’ Her hand on the comb never misses a beat, as regular as a groom brushing down a horse.

‘I . . . don’t know,’ I say hesitandy.

‘I think you do,’ she murmurs. ‘I think you must. The way he looks at you . . . He wants you as more than comfort in his grief Much more. Lucky you!’

‘No!’ I say. ‘I could not do that. Not ever.’

She holds my hair out to the sides in two bunches. ‘Have you ever thought about wearing it like this?’ she says, changing the subject as casually if we have been discussing nothing more important than a new coiffure.