In the years that followed the acclaimed—and somewhat criticized—voyage around Totresia, Edouard took particular care in backing up his words. He wouldn't let the Duchess fall down on herself and huddle into a ball because his noblemen had sticks up their arses; or so, that was what he told them a few months later.
"The Duchess will have sessions with me, where I will keep her up to speed on what is happening in Totresia, and around Europe." Groans and grumbles met his announcement—but he didn't care. He was the King.
Clémentine attended this special council—the first of many instances when she immersed herself into places reserved for men.
She voiced her concern the moment they all departed the Meeting Room. "She is not your daughter, Edouard." Seething, she breathed fire down her husband's neck though she stood feet away.
She once had such fair features, a glowing complexion, eyes that twinkled like stars; but she harbored such rage in the passing years that Edouard no longer recognized her. Still, he'd never stop loving her. She was his voice of reason, the keeper of his heart.
"Giving her private lessons? Why?"
He leaned against his emerald-hued throne, watching his wife pace back and forth by the hearth. Her movements cast haunting shadows over the middle of the table, extending to the other side of the room like a monster prowling, parading, bracing to pounce on its prey.
"She is a Duchess. The Duchess, Clém. As King, I am to decide of her education. What harm is there in offering her private tutoring to further her knowledge?"
"It is too soon. She is too young." Clémentine stopped stomping and swirled around, fire in her brown eyes. "She is a girl. You never gave me such treatment when I arrived at court!"
"You did not need it, dearest—you were older than she is now, and the smartest woman I know. Always will be." He smiled, but she snarled, forcing him to frown. "Clémentine, please. We must stop our arguing. You have pestered me for years regarding Marguerite. Did you not want to raise her, train her, protect her?"
The Queen's expression darkened further. She squeezed a piece of her ruby gown in her fist, and her other bunched and unbunched at her side. "I did, until I found out—" she closed her eyes and sucked in a deep, pained breath. "Things have changed, Edouard. I do not trust her."
He winced; Clémentine had suspicions, but she'd kept them to herself. She knew more than she claimed, but he had no idea what she had figured out, and why she refused to share it.
Straightening his posture, the King cocked his head and blinked. "And? Is that not more reason to keep her close and teach her our values?"
His hopes of appeasing his wife diluted as the woman scoffed and threw her hands up, pivoting to the flames once more. Their orange and red hues danced over her skin, turning it to burning lava, as if she were about to erupt.
"She should not be here. She should be at that ridiculous Palace you built for her, at the farthest edge of Torrinni, away from where she might influence our sons and daughter. Far from us."
"No." He rose, prompting Clémentine to spin to him again, her irritation replaced with fear. She knew if he raised his voice, she had to silence herself. "She has been nothing but marvelous towards our children. She will stay here, where I can watch her. You say you do not trust her? Well, I do not trust anyone around her. So, when I deem it time, she will receive private lessons with me so I can ensure she never sways from our Totresian beliefs. End of discussion."
The Queen sulked and sneered as she slithered out, leaving him to finish his wine and redact his daily documents without her complaints.
***
Towards the end of July, seventeen-eighty-nine, a few months after Marguerite's thirteenth birthday, Edouard decided the sessions would start.
Europe was imploding; attacks on a Parisian prison and revolutions in French countrysides provoked tension all over. Totresian nobles worried the French rebellions would leak into the peaceful country Edouard led. But he had to believe that his firm grip on affairs and his gentle words of wisdom to his peasants would avoid such events from occurring in his kingdom.
The atmosphere in Totresia grew dire, so, he had few moments to spare; but he summoned the Duchess to his Study nonetheless, eager to impart his knowledge on her.
Marguerite came at once. She curtsied, her lips sealed, her posture perfect, and snuck over to the seat across from him. Between them, his desk was riddled with petitions and letters from his nobles, some panicked at the worrisome climate of revolt surrounding them.
He ignored the pounding in his scalp and smiled. "My dear Marguerite, thank you for coming."
She smiled back, ever radiant and delightful. How the seasons had changed her; she wasn't a squirming baby, but a thriving golden-blonde with careful poise and a sharp tongue. Slender, sneaky—or so the ladies claimed—and sarcastic, she never ceased to entertain all in her presence. No one mocked her anymore; they admired her wit. Her tutors had many positive memories of her, including Master Martel—who said nothing good about anyone.
"Of course, Father—Majesty," she coughed, "It pleases me to join you. I have waited for this moment for years." She spoke with such eloquence, one wouldn't guess she was only thirteen.
All the children at Torrinni Castle had bloomed. Antoine was a copy of his father, whether it be in physical resemblance or strength of character. Sébastien had the intelligence of a full-grown adult, and not of a Prince of ten. Jules knew more secret passages and hidden corners than Edouard ever had in his youth. And the darling Cordelia awed and wooed any who spent time with her. He was proud of them all—and of Marguerite, who he still considered family, though she didn't always quite fit in. A fact that bothered her when she was younger, but if it did now, she never showed it.
When glancing out of windows and seeing her taking her habitual walks with Antoine in the orchards, or witnessing their face-making at supper, Edouard had wondered if he should push the two to wed. If it would bode well at court, if they would ever feel more than friendship towards one another.
But then the daunting image of his wife, screaming like a banshee, hissing like a viper, told him to hold his tongue for a few more years.
"Yes, our lessons. You and I, away from the often biased teachers of Torrinni Castle." He cleared his throat. "You are ready to learn more of what I expect of you in the future."
Marguerite inclined her head, a warm redness spreading from cheek to cheek. "It is an honor, Majesty."
"Yes but be wary; Clémentine does not approve." He came close to blurting out what else is new but caught himself. Bad-mouthing his beloved wife wouldn't serve as a good example. "She believes your husband will oversee my council, not you. But I want you to be aware of the happenings in the world first. For you to form your own opinions."
One side of Marguerite's face twitched as she sat up straight. "But... forgive me, Majesty, I... some ladies think it unwise for women to have opinions."
Oh! If that is not something Clémentine tried to drill into her head, then I am not King of Totresia!
"Nonsense." He slid up from his seat and crossed his arms, shoving his chair backwards with his foot. "It is not improper for a noble-girl of your standing to have opinions. Women are the weaker sex, yes, but how might one have an interesting conversation if all they had to mention were their knitting patterns?"
Marguerite took slight offense to this; he could tell by how she arched one brow and her lips pinched. Yet all she did was nod, refusing to voice her thoughts. Another trait Clémentine must have forged onto her.
He marched to his window and gaped through the tiny slit his curtains didn't cover. Sunlight glittered over the pebbles lining the castle walls, reminding him how he would much prefer to be on the royal hunt with Antoine and the soldiers and aristocrats. But Marguerite came first. And, arriving from her etiquette lessons, she was in a learning mindset; after sipping tea and conversing in feminine tones, she'd appreciate the reprieve.
She is too smart to sit in stuffy rooms and nibble on biscuits.
***
"Remember our peaceful nature." Edouard rubbed his forehead, his fingertips wet from the moisture gathered there. "Make sure Antoine remembers it, too. And his boys when he has them. Your role is pivotal, I mentioned that years ago." Marguerite acquiesced, and he set his hands behind his head, fingers weaving into his damp hair. "Right. You will walk into this room with that in mind, understood?"
Her small frame shivering from the exhausting three hours of his monologs and pointing out countries on the giant map behind his desk, Marguerite nodded once more. "Of course. Rule number one; we are peaceful."
He felt more tired than he should after such a lengthy lesson. He was in his thirties, but some days being King of Totresia weighed him down, giving him the impression he neared sixty. The last time he dared a peek at his reflection, he noticed lines carving into the skin around his eyes, and tiny dimples indenting near his mouth. He lacked the youthful brilliance in his gaze from his earlier years, and missed the times when he had no children, no wife, no responsibilities.
"You are a well-tempered, level-headed young lady. You will do great things. I trust no one else to be Antoine's advisor; not even his brothers." He took a swig of the tea he didn't remember ordering, so caught up in talks of treaties and business he wasn't sure Marguerite understood.
Marguerite's neck snapped up from the paperwork she'd been staring at. "Majesty!" Edouard flinched; he hadn't gotten used to her using his proper title. She no longer allowed herself to call him Father, and though she wasn't his daughter, and never would be, he wasn't keen on her being so formal with him.
But Clémentine insisted...
"Do not feign surprise. Sébastien prefers to read, and it would not shock me if he took off to France or England to study. And Jules, rebellious as he is, can you see him sitting in a room taking orders from Antoine?"
Struggling to hide her smile, Marguerite relaxed in her chair. "Well... no, I cannot. Cordelia might be a good fit. She is smarter than you give her credit."
"And young. You will be ready sooner."
Peering at the large map behind him, Marguerite bunched her lips. "And do you plan to speak to me of Giroma?" Edouard's eyes narrowed. "You mentioned peace, but what if they try something? Does Totresia step aside, maintain a neutral stance? Will you teach me how to help Antoine with that?"
Edouard steepled his fingers, resting his elbows on his messy desk. He'd gotten out drawings and course-plans to show Marguerite, but in all his preparations he had forgotten about Giroma. The country he despised, the one once governed by his biggest rival, King Gregor. Rumor had it Gregor died of a mysterious illness over a decade ago, leaving his thirteen-year-old son and his bitter wife as rulers. One thing Edouard abhorred was nitpicky boy-monarchs who threw fits over squabbles and understood nothing of ruling.
Romain—what a nasty, fussy little teenager he is.
"I will, but know this—unless they provoke us first, you are to avoid the subject of Giroma altogether. Leave it alone." He scowled, straining to not show his full anger in front of the youthful Duchess. "After all, we could never prove if they were the ones who attacked your carriage." Acid coated his tongue and he tried not to gag.
Giroma; how I hate that place.
Marguerite's cheeks drained of all color and her tropical ocean eyes turned murky. Which reminded him why he and Clémentine refrained from talking about the day they found her bundled in bloody blankets. It scarred her; she only asked a few times about her family, who they might be, why someone targeted them but spared her. When no one gave her replies with substance, she stopped, but Edouard knew she thought about it often.
For years, as a toddler, she struggled to look any foreigner in the eye, twirling her precious flower pendant in her shaky fingers while hiding behind Clémentine's skirts. The French scared her, the Spanish irked her, the Italians confused her with their abrupt hand gestures. Anyone from farther north—Giromians included, though they never came to Totresia—reduced her to tears with their thick accents.
He leaned over the desk and beckoned for her palm; and with a wince, she dropped it into his and he squeezed. "One day you will get your answers. But in the meantime, try not to bring up Giromians, hm? Most of my men tend to yelp when the name Romain comes up. And Antoine has decided he hates the young King though he has never met him. I have warned him against such immature reactions, and you will do the same, yes?"
"Yes, Majesty."
Men laughing in the next-door Cigar Room interrupted their isolation. The guards and his entourage had returned from the hunt and would soon summon him to join in on a game of cards, or to revel in stories from their excursion.
The once homey scent in the Study disappeared as smoke floated in under the threshold of the adjoining door. Edouard's attention diverted as he imagined the taste of iced brandy and the feel of a winning deck in his hand. "Next time, we will move our meeting elsewhere," he said, rising and stacking his papers in a neat pile off to the side, by his peacock-feathered quill.
Marguerite also stood and smoothed the wrinkles in her skirts. "No, please, Majesty. I enjoy this room."
Brows inching upward, Edouard slipped from behind his desk. "Do you? The constant darkness, the masculine touches, the gruffy aura? The dreadful doom I cultivate in here with all my brooding?" He chuckled.
Marguerite curtsied as he approached her. "Yes, I do. It reminds me of you, Majesty. Tough to pierce, but smooth and kind and reassuring on the inside."
His cheek-bones heated as he seized her palm and pressed his lips to her knuckles. "You will make one lucky man elated, Marguerite. I promise, we will offer you only the best options for a husband, when that day comes."
She stiffened, almost ripping her hand from him. "Yes; a husband who will spend more time with Antoine than I will, right? He will be the Crown Prince's advisor, not me." Her gaze flitted to the adjoining Cigar Room door before returning to Edouard, turning cold. She sounded like Clémentine; the same bitterness ringing in her tone.
He captured her chin between his thumb and index finger, squinting at her sullen features. "No. Spouse or not, Antoine will only listen to you. He trusts you. So if you value the man you are to marry, you must tell Antoine to do so as well."
Fighting the urge to tug her into an embrace—like those they shared when she was smaller and wore less intricate dresses—he waved her off with a grin.
He imagined she'd scamper off to the Queen's Music Room to work on her instrument playing. Or hasten to the Solar to drink more tea and fiddle with more needlework.
None of those alternatives would appeal to her, he knew. Because she wished to throw caution and maturity to the wind and run off with the Princes, down the path to the Gardener's Cottage, veering left into the forest. Clémentine detested that sort of behavior, but Edouard saw no harm in a bit of play-time.
"Let them enjoy their youth while they can; when they turn sixteen, they must plan for bigger things. Then comes eighteen, with suitors, seasons, and marriage," he had told her a few weeks prior.
Glad he had a few years to prepare Marguerite for the role of her lifetime, he imagined the sweet girl in more elaborate dresses, a multitude of men at her feet, begging to marry her.
She wasn't ready for that. Thirteen and intelligent, she was; but no matter the classes she took and the things she learned, she was still a teenager. The pretty words her tutors taught her and the poetry she read and the hymns she studied were the least of her concerns. She didn't want to be a full-fledged Duchess yet.
She needs to run free before embracing her true purpose, filling the shoes of a proper upper-class noblewoman.
King Edouard cared for Marguerite more than he'd ever intended to, and for that reason, he wouldn't expose her too soon; her golden petals needed more water and soil to grow.
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