As she rang for Elsie the clock on the mantel struck the half hour. The men would return from the boar hunt at around ten. Four hours of that brutal sport was enough even for the king, who lived for the hunt.
"Put out the gray gown, Elsie," she instructed as the maid scurried in, looking as usual as if she'd run a marathon to get there. Her cheeks were scarlet, and her hair was escaping in a frizz from beneath her cap. She curtsied and smiled nervously as she set Cordelia's breakfast tray on the table. "Will that be the one with the heather-colored petticoat, m'lady?"
"Yes, the one you mended yesterday," Cordelia said patiently, dipping her brioche into the wide, shallow bowl of coffee.
"And you wear the blue silk shoes with it," Elsie announced triumphantly.
Cordelia couldn't help smiling. "Precisely."
With a pleased beam, Elsie filled the basin with hot water from the ewer and bustled over to help her mistress out of her nightgown, asking with an air of importance, "How will you be wearing your hair today, m'lady? Should I heat the curling iron?"
Cordelia shook her head hastily. Elsie's last attempt with the curling iron had produced a few singed ringlets. "I'll wear it loose, with a ribbon."
At ten o'clock she went into the salon, where Monsieur Brion was arranging the newest periodicals on a console table. "How is the prince?" she inquired casually, casting a quick checking look at her reflection in the mirror above the fireplace.
"I have sent for the physician, my lady. He keeps to his bed, I understand," Brion replied without a flicker of an eye.
"If he should inquire after me, perhaps you would inform him that I am waiting on the dauphine. She will expect me to escort Mesdames Amelia and Sylvie to her later this morning."
"As you say, madame." He bowed. Cordelia smiled. They both gave a half nod, then the majordomo moved to open the door for his mistress.
Cordelia moved as fast as her high heels and wide hoop would permit down the grand staircase and out into the garden. She strolled along the gravel walks and through a side gate that led to the stable courtyard. It was here that the hunt would return.
Within five minutes the first huntsmen clattered onto the cobbles, the king at their head. They were splattered with mud and blood. Blood clotted on their britches and their gloved hands, streaked their faces. The grooms accompanying them carried their weapons, the knives and spears that they had used in the last fierce tussle with the boar. A hand-to-hand fight to the death, with the maddened deadly animal cornered by dogs and men, all out for its blood.
Women did not go on boar hunts. They were considered too dangerous, too bloody. The death toll among dogs and horses was frequently horrendous, and many a huntsman was crippled for life by a slashing tusk.
The morning had clearly been successful. A group of beaters carried a massive boar slung on two poles, blood dripping from its slit throat. Hounds limping and slavering crowded around, waiting for their share of the prize. The stench of blood was almost overpowering, and even Cordelia, who had been riding to hounds ever since she could walk, was sickened by it.
Leo came in with the second party. He too was blood spattered, his leather boots coated with mud. Presumably, he was one of those who had to be in at the kill, facing the beast, eye to eye. It didn't surprise her. What did surprise her was her wish that he would leave the risky reckless bravado to others and stay safely on his horse at the kill.
"Princess von Sachsen." She turned swiftly at the king's unmistakable hail, curtsying deeply. He beamed at her from atop his horse. "What a beautiful morning we've had. But we were expecting your husband?" He raised an inquiring eyebrow.
Cordelia swam gracefully out of the curtsy. "My husband is indisposed, monseigneur. He sends his deepest regrets."
The king frowned. "Indisposed? Not seriously, I trust?"
"No, indeed not, sire," she said swiftly. Indisposition in the king's presence was frowned upon, death was forbidden. It was an absolute rule that a dead body should never lie under a roof where the king was in residence, and if anyone had the bad taste to expire in the night, they were removed with unseemly haste before the king got to hear of it.
"Then I will expect to see him this evening," His Majesty declared, accepting the hand of an equerry to dismount.
Cordelia curtsied again and slipped away from the royal notice. Leo was standing to one side, respectfully bareheaded in the king's presence, tapping his whip in the palm of his hand.
"What's the matter with Michael?" he asked in a low voice as she came to stand beside him.
"Mathilde's potion. But I must talk to you at once. It's most dreadfully urgent, Leo." She tried to keep her eyes on some distant spot across the yard, tried to keep the panic from her voice, tried to appear if she were merely passing the time of day.
But Leo wasn't fooled and his gut knotted with apprehension. It wasn't like Cordelia to panic. He glanced around, then said, "Make your way to the laurel maze; I'll meet you there."
"But soon, Leo. You must come quickly." She hurried away, leaving him in a turmoil of anxiety. He looked down at his filthy hands, his torn and blood-streaked coat and britches. Splashes of mud had dried hard on his face. He had to change. He would draw unwelcome notice if he appeared in the gardens in such a state.
Cordelia waited half an hour at the entrance to the laurel maze. It was in a secluded uncultivated part of the landscape, on a grassy knoll that gave a clear view over the parterres and fountains of the formal gardens below. They would see anyone coming while being concealed themselves within the maze.
But where was he? And how was she to tell him what she'd discovered? How was she to tell him that his beloved twin had been murdered? How could he bear such knowledge, bear to know that he had done nothing to help her?
She saw him climbing the knoll toward her. He was dressed in ivory satin, the lining of his coat peacock blue. He was bareheaded, wearing neither wig nor powder. And despite the dreadful business that had brought them here, a current of desire jolted her loins, curled her toes. He was so beautiful. And he loved her. She ducked backward into the maze, out of sight of anyone who might chance to look up from below. She was too far away to be immediately identifiable, but any risk, however small, was one too many.
Leo stood at the top of the rise and looked casually around, shading his eyes with his hand, as if taking stock of his surroundings. Then, in a leisurely fashion, he strolled into the maze.
"What is it?" he asked quietly. His face was pale, his eyes steady, his voice even.
Cordelia twisted her hands into impossible knots. However hard she'd tried, she hadn't been able to come up with the words. "Michael poisoned Elvira," she blurted finally. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to say it like that."
His face was a dreadful mask, his eyes lightless caverns, the planes and contours of his skull suddenly standing out in harsh relief. "What did you say?"
Cordelia moistened her lips. She reached for his hands, but he jerked them away with an impatient rejection that hurt even though she understood it. "Last night I read Michael's journals. He is meticulous in his daily entries. I think there's a volume for every year of his adult life. I read about Elvira…" She stopped, her hands outstretched, palms up in a gesture of helplessness.
"Tell me," he rasped. "Everything you can remember."
"I can remember everything," she said painfully. "I have one of those memories that retains everything I read on a page. It… it… it's very useful for studying." She swallowed, realizing how stupid such burble sounded.
"Get on with it." He began to pace the narrow aisle between the high laurel bushes as she recited word for word the pages from Michael's journal. And when she fell silent, he continued to pace, and the profound quiet seemed a black chasm into which they slowly slid.