The empress of ice cream

Louise

Every day now he comes to visit me. If there is anyone else present - the ambassador, Lord Arlington, one of the many French exiles who seem to assume that my apartments are their salon - he abruptly bids them good day.

And then . . .

All we do is talk. Talk, and tears.

That is to say, he talks about his sister. But we also speak of the Great Affair, this plan for a united Europe, a kind of second Holy Roman Empire, stretching from Ireland to Russia. One continent, united under one faith. A place without wars, almost without borders.

And litde by little we switch to talking about Louis. How he has stamped his authority on what was, once, the most divided and squabbling kingdom in Europe. How he has slowly reclaimed those portions of his lands owned by foreign powers. How, even now, his borders are being pushed outwards - to the Netherlands, to Alsace, to the Pyrenees.

It is clear that Charles is fascinated by his French cousin - fascinated and a little envious.

Vetat, c’est moi.

I tell him about the glories of French art, the musicians and philosophers and poets who add such lustre to the court of Versailles.

‘I have my poets too,’ he says, a little defensively. ‘I have my painters and my wits.’

‘Of course,’ I say soothingly.

‘Well? Has he made love to you yet?’ Lady Arlington says with a smile.

‘Elizabeth! What a question to ask.’

‘I’ll take that to mean yes, shall I?’

I don’t reply.

‘You French, with your shrugs!’ she exclaims. And then, more quietly, ‘Well done!’

Why do I not tell her the truth? After all, she has never laughed at my scruples, even if she has made it clear that she thinks them irrelevant. But I sense that on this point she may yet become insistent.

As may he.

For it is becoming all too clear that his interest, whatever he says, is not only because of Minette. Grief has given way to something more. When he looks at me now it is not always with the chaste eyes of a brother.

And yet he keeps his word. He does not make any suggestions that would embarrass me. It is all in the space between the words: the glances, the unspoken intensity of his eyes, the sudden smiles, the silences.

Is this what I want? What force am I unleashing? Is this a monster I can ride, or one that will destroy me?

‘Sir, I have an ice for you.’

I hand him the goblet. Tiny, exquisite, it has been made especially for this moment: an eggcup-sized pineapple of gold and painted glass, latticed like a pineapple’s eyes, its brirn adorned with golden leaves.

‘Is this . . .?’

I nod. ‘Pineapple, yes. It was your sister’s favourite.’

He takes the tiny glass, dips in the even tinier spoon, like something you would use to serve salt. Touches it to his lips.

And, a moment later, nods approvingly. ‘Remarkable,’ he breathes.

The next spoonful he holds out to me. I reach up to take it from his hand, but he does not let go, and I find my fingers closing around his.

His eyes on mine, dark and unreadable.

He guides our hands towards my mouth. I suck icy crystals from the spoon. The taste is sweet, lemony, elusive.

‘Wonderful,’ I agree.

He reaches into the tiny glass for another spoonful. This time I guide our hands towards his mouth. Obediently he opens, closes.

We alternate - one for him, and one for me, our hands working together. When it is all gone he says quietly, ‘I never saw the point, until now.’

He is looking at my mouth. I feel my throat go dry - I want to swallow, to draw a breath. I see his lips part, and then his head inclines a little to one side, and moves imperceptibly closer.

‘What were we talking of?’ I say quickly, getting to my feet. ‘I was going to find you that book of verse, wasn’t I?’

Above reproach.

One afternoon, he asks me to sit beside him at court, in the presence chamber. I am uneasy - it seems too public, too exposed, but this is the whole point of me being here, to coax him back into public life, so I can hardly refuse. And so I sit at his side, being shown off like a queen, while ministers and petitioners come and make requests. Those who are diseased with dropsy or ague even ask if he will touch them, to heal their sickness. As God’s representative on earth, he has some of God’s powers. He accepts these people with patient courtesy, but over their heads he catches my eye and wrinkles his nose.

One of the petitioners offers him a bribe - not a present, such as a snuff box or a jewelled brooch, but actual money. There is a murmur of disgust from the courtiers around us.

Charles makes a joke of it. ‘Give it to someone else,’ he says. ‘Give it to . . .’ He looks around. ‘Louise. She is always losing at basset.’

The petitioner follows his gaze, and brings me the purse.

‘I cannot accept this,’ I say firmly.

‘Please, madam.>’ the man says faintly, aware that he has made a terrible error.

‘I would rather cut my own throat than besmirch my own honour,’ I tell him.

‘Bravo,’ Lord Arlington murmurs. ‘Well spoken, Louise.’ He prompts a small patter of applause.

At the side of the court I notice a woman watching me. Small, redheaded, quite pretty, but dressed in a most extraordinary getup - her gown so gaudy it might be a doll’s. Indeed, she is so tiny that for a moment I think she is a child, come to court to look at the grown-ups. She watches me fixedly, almost as if she is studying me. Oddly, she pulls a face, then turns her head on one side and squints. She looks from me to Charles and back again, puzzled, as if she is trying to work out what is going on. Then I see her lips move, as if she is whispering something to herself.

I mean to ask Charles about her later, but it completely slips my mind.