Marguerite and Céleste deposited their glasses and cruised to the corner of the room where the contenders cowered. Their up-dos had come undone and they wrung their hands as men swerved by to ogle them like prized animals.
Disgusted, but refraining from snarling, Marguerite beckoned her girls. "We will retire for the evening." She pushed by parades of ladies fawning over Prince Jules, who nibbled at a biscuit near the dais. "Best to leave now, while the night is young. Two long days await you. Bid farewell to their Majesties and wait outside the doors."
Four of the ladies—and Céleste—rushed off to excuse themselves; but Charlotte, clenching her fists at her sides, pouted. "Are we not guests of honor? We should stay and entertain these fine men." Her lip curled, and she shifted her weight. "Or try to chat with the Princes."
She wasn't wrong; Marguerite's own Presentation Ceremony had lasted hours. Most had stayed up late, drinking copious cups of alcohol, devouring plate after plate of pastries, flirting with courtiers. Marguerite had spent the evening with Antoine, hidden on the patio, kissing until their lips were numb.
But this wasn't her ceremony, and these times were different, with dangerous men lurking about.
She side-eyed the Vidame nearby, then glared at Charlotte. "It is also respectable to leave early. It shows proper conduct and restraint, and that you do not wish to impose on society. The royals will prefer it, what with the Inauguration in two days. they have much else to worry about."
Huffing, Charlotte gripped her skirts and hustled to the platform as the other ladies returned. Marguerite hastened after her, aware she also had to request permission to depart and would have no choice but to be close to Antoine.
Luckily, he wasn't on the dais. All royals had disappeared, save Adelaide, who sat on her throne draining a glass of amber-hued liquor.
Dipping into a curtsy, Marguerite kept her chin tucked. "I seek your consent to retire, Your Majesty."
With a brusque wave of dismissal, Adelaide puckered her lips, downing half the contents of her cup. "Smart choice. Do not let your girls get into the kind of trouble we—"
Marguerite flurried away before the Queen finished her sentence and exposed her.
She rushed to the exit where her girls waited. Leading them down the corridors, through the empty entrance hall, and up the stairs, she took deep inhales, thankful the night was over.
At the top, as they swished across the landing, Esther stopped, unleashing a whimper that caught them all unawares.
Marguerite swirled around, brows rising. "Everything all right?"
Two presences popped up on either side of her—Charlotte and Julia, scowling, arms crossed.
Esther gaped at Marguerite. "Miss M., please tell me, otherwise I will not sleep. What were those formal invitations the King mentioned?"
Harriet slithered over, but turned around, her questioning gaze resting on Marguerite. "I concur, Miss. I would also like to know."
Cristina meandered over, muttering something about agreeing, and Charlotte and Julia nodded.
Though Céleste kept out of sight, Marguerite sensed her querying glance as well.
Marguerite's face burned from the attention. "It is a royal court tradition. A common occurrence. Noblemen tend to decline hurried and public introductions at Balls. Some prefer to meet a lady in a more private setting, with a chaperone, before she decks herself in fineries and is hard to recognize."
Harriet's hand shot skyward. "And if we do not receive one such invitation?" Her voice trembled, and Esther squeezed her arm.
"It means nothing." Marguerite pulled off her gloves and stretched her fingers. "Each man at court is different. Do not let this deter you."
A memory crept to mind. During Antoine's Season, he'd sent no invitations. The other men did the same and waited until the Inaugural Ball to introduce themselves. She recalled all the ladies in that Season found husbands; all but her.
"How would you know?" Julia's mousy tone broke Marguerite's momentary relapse into recollections she wished to erase.
"I do not know for sure." Marguerite sighed. "The Princes may be opposites. They might invite you all, as a polite gesture. They might not communicate with you at all, at first."
Jules was always a flirtatious little thing, even as a youngster. But Sébastien was more reserved and took his time approaching the opposite sex. She imagined the younger Prince would invite his favorites, attacking without hesitation; Sébastien would prowl about the Ball, observing, quiet as ever.
Charlotte made a sound akin to a snort.
Cristina stepped forward. "And what of their brothers?" She pointed to Julia, then Céleste, who hid in Marguerite's shadow. "Should we consider them? They are not Princes, but they are eligible nobles."
Céleste hiccuped.
Julia waltzed past Cristina, tossing her raven curls. "Axel will do what he pleases. And if you please him, he will not hesitate to say so. But if I were you, I would not hold my breath."
As Charlotte applauded her friend's jape, Marguerite zoomed between Julia and Cristina, desperate to avert a screaming fit in the hallways. "Julia, watch your tongue." She motioned for the girl to move and then pointed Cristina towards her chambers near the Royal Staircase. "No need to argue. It is late, and you can debate on your own time, out of earshot."
She peeked at the stairs, worried someone loitered there, listening.
Charlotte tried to question her again, but Marguerite splayed a palm over her mouth to quiet her. "No, Miss Geitz. Enough."
Charlotte snickered and backed away, wiping her lips as if Marguerite's hand had stained them. She cursed under her breath; but Marguerite was too tired to care.
She beckoned Céleste to her side. "Some might have already picked out a favorite. Others might need to meet you in formal-wear. Be patient. They are of unique backgrounds and breeding; do not forget that. Now off to bed! I am proud of your performances and have no doubt this Season will bring you happiness."
To her relief, no one protested. They sauntered to their chambers, whispering, sulking, solemn.
They must be exhausted.
Marguerite blew out her cheeks once they disappeared and tugged Céleste out of the main landing. "Remind me to reprimand gossip of any kind. Especially—"
"—coming from Charlotte and Julia?" Céleste groaned. "I am at your service."
As they whooshed down the hall, a hint of tension hung in the air. A heavy silence punctured the atmosphere, dotted with unresolved issues, unspoken words, unanswered questions. It was only a matter of time before Céleste spoke up—
"Are you quite sure you do not know the King more than you claim?"
There it is.
Marguerite grimaced. "I told you—I have been here before. But no, the King does not know me more than I claim. We crossed paths at Balls or in the corridors; nothing more."
"But he looked at you with such insistence. Did you think I would not notice? He flustered you. Why? Why did he stare like that?"
"You should not—"
"—and why did Prince Sébastien look at me? Of all the ladies in attendance?" Céleste's chest heaved up and down, her breaths short and strained. "Does he have any clue who I am? Does he care? Why would he care? I am no one, I am not a contender."
Slowing her steps, Marguerite whipped towards Céleste, an uneasy feeling growing in her belly. "Prince Sébastien looked at you?"
Céleste grunted. "And that damned Vidame, you said to watch him, so I did. He is eerie, no? Very odd man—"
Marguerite froze. "The Vidame?"
Céleste snapped her fingers, her bright eyes turning gray as she blocked the passage to their rooms. "Are you listening? The King, the Prince—what is the deal? I have had enough confusion, this is absurd—"
Marguerite's glower prompted her to clap her mouth shut. "Absurd?" She let out a disheartened chuckle. "What is absurd is the nonsense you speak, Miss Richel. The Vidame aside, your imagination is creative."
Céleste's eyebrows jumped up. "Creative? You... you do not believe me?" She stomped her feet. "You must! I saw the King, I saw the Prince, I saw the Vidame—and I demand explanations! Why were the royals so interested in us?"
Though shocked at the girl's daring words, Marguerite wanted to laugh.
She is observant, I will give her that.
"The King might have been trying to remember me from past days." She tucked a stray curl behind her ears as Céleste's face flashed to a lava-like red. "And the Prince? Well, have you considered your brother might have mentioned you, seeking a future husband for you? Who better to ask than a Prince who has met all eligible noblemen at court?"
Céleste's mouth fell open, and she lifted a finger, then lowered it as she squinted. "I thought so, but... well..."
Seizing Céleste's hand and squeezing it, praying she would stop prying, Marguerite smiled. "See? Everything has an explanation. Except the Vidame and his business, but that is another story."
Céleste perked up though her expression didn't shift in the slightest. "Yes, you are correct."
"You must stop your inquiries. It will draw unwanted attention, and we do not want that." She patted the top of Céleste's hand and gave her a gentle nudge towards her bedroom. "Go on, get to sleep. Think on this, and tomorrow we will discuss ways to control your curiosity, yes? Since you are here to learn."
Though she acquiesced, Céleste seemed to fight a cringe when Marguerite released her. "My apologies, Marguerite. I will be better, I promise." A half-hearted grin smeared across her features, then she slipped into her quarters.
Thoughts jumbled, Marguerite found Johanna waiting inside her own room. "Oh, thank goodness you are here."
The serving girl hurried forward to help her disrobe. "Tough night?"
Marguerite grumbled as Johanna ripped the corset from her sweating middle. "You have no idea. The girls all passed Clémentine's test, but I fear Antoine had one of his own. And I failed it." Her throat ached as she swallowed, wishing she'd had more alcohol.
"His Majesty tested you?" Johanna undid the pins in Marguerite's hair, and the locks flowed below her shoulders, soft and soothing. "Anything I can do? I can speak with other servants, if you wish."
Marguerite rubbed the girl's upper arm. "No, not yet. But I would appreciate a warm bath early in the morning. And coffee, please. I am sure there is some more stashed in the kitchens."
After shoving on her nightgown, Marguerite lept into bed. The fire crackled, and Johanna extinguished the candle on the bedside table.
"Of course, Miss. But are you certain you do not need to talk—"
"—no." Marguerite stretched out her legs, settling atop the mattress. "It has been an insufferable evening, and I am beyond fatigued."
Without further prodding, Johanna bid her a good night and left.
As Marguerite snuggled beneath the blankets, she frowned at the hearth. Its flames morphed into figures that haunted her mind. One was Antoine, watching her, devouring her, reaching within her soul, and extracting every thought, every emotion. Scrutinizing her every move, enamored as ever, as if they hadn't argued the night before.
What was his issue? Why observe me in such public ways?
Swell for him if he'd forgotten their disagreement; but she never would.
How to hold in such disappointment and anger without arousing suspicion? Antoine didn't seem to care; but Marguerite did.
"I had better inform Céleste of the truth soon, before she puts all the pieces together. Before she figures out her Golden Girl characters are real."
•••