The Virgin's Daughter (Tudor Legacy #1)(14)
So why have I resisted so long? Elizabeth asked herself.
She was honest enough to recognize that jealousy played a role—no woman wished to be upstaged by a younger woman—but not so honest as to dwell on that unpleasant fact. So she fixed Burghley with a gimlet eye and said, “The Princess of Wales will serve as she is required. Which for now is to correspond with James of Scotland in order to make her father nervous. It is also for her to be kept safe, for England’s security rests wholly on my own life and that of my heir. As you and Walsingham are so quick to remind me.”
One reason Burghley had endured so long in royal service was his inability to be offended by his monarch. But almost as important was his ability to remain unruffled in the face of said monarch’s displeasure. “The surest way to increase England’s security is for your daughter to provide another heir to the Tudor line. And that she cannot do while she remains isolated from your own court. Correspondence alone will not achieve a marriage.”
“But it is a necessary first step,” Elizabeth countered. “Leave off fretting, Burghley. Anne is quite able to plead her own case, and yes, I do acknowledge the need for her to be more visible. When Philip arrives, Anne will be very visible and very necessary, if only to keep her father and me from each other’s throats. I know how to position my daughter for maximum effect.”
“So you do have a specific agenda for the Princess of Wales?”
Elizabeth smiled, part amusement and part resignation. “It is not my agenda for Anne you need worry about. My daughter is quite capable of setting her own agenda and doing whatever she thinks necessary to achieve it.”
And that, Elizabeth told herself, is the true reason I keep my daughter on such a tight leash. In order to reduce any damage she might wreak.
FOUR
Julien cursed himself soundly every day of the spring weeks that led to going home. He also cursed others: Nicolas for preying on his guilt, Charlotte for her irrepressible desire to make him better than he was, and even Lucette Courtenay (who, despite the undeniable passage of years, he still imagined as a bothersome child with sharp eyes and a suspicious nature). He coped by throwing himself into work, which outwardly involved lots of drinking and lots of women.
When he wasn’t drinking and womanizing, his work mostly involved hours spent alone ciphering letters and deciphering orders. Intelligence work sounded glamorous, Julien often thought, but was really just a long series of days spent sifting through gossip for fact and passing those facts along without anyone being the wiser. At least the drinking and women killed time.
Nicolas, who so rarely left their chateau near St. Benoir sur Loire, returned to Paris the last week of May in the company of their father. From the family’s town home in Paris—rarely used since Nicole LeClerc’s death—Renaud sent a brief note to his second son upon their arrival, reminding him that he was expected at a welcome reception being given for Dr. Dee by an English scholar, after which Lucette Courtenay would be formally handed into the LeClercs’ hands for the duration of her time in France. Julien swore vividly when he realized he’d be traveling to Blanclair in the company of both his father and brother, though he should have guessed as much. Renaud LeClerc would never leave the girl’s safety in any but his own capable hands.
So it was, on this dazzling spring evening, Julien found himself being escorted across a checkerboard marble floor as though he were a guest in his father’s home. Fortunately for all the LeClerc men, who might have found this meeting awkward, Charlotte was there before Julien.
Engulfed in a wealth of scarlet satin, Charlotte was the image of their mother: a little short, a trifle plump, with a smile that could summon the birds from the trees. She turned all the power of that smile on Julien, and he felt a moment’s pure satisfaction in having pleased his sister.
“Julien!” She flung her arms around him, heedless of her finery, and he wondered with a jolt how long it had been since anyone had touched him in simple affection without wanting anything from him. Long enough that he couldn’t remember, at any rate.
Charlotte’s overflow of good spirits made it easier for Julien to turn from her welcome to his father. “Sir,” he said, and forced himself to stand straight and unflinching while Renaud sized him up. That was something else he could hardly remember—feeling at ease in his father’s presence. It hadn’t always been that way. The last eight years had left Julien isolated behind his walls, unwilling to let anyone see to the heart of him.
It had been more than a year since he’d seen his father, and he was relieved to note that Renaud looked better now than he had then. The death of his wife two years ago had hit Renaud hard, and Julien had wondered if he might never recover. But his father looked much surer of himself than the last time they’d been together, as though he’d found his feet again and if still mourning was no longer unbalanced by it.
And he had certainly not lost his ability to read his younger son. “You look like a man in need of a drink,” Renaud observed, “but who knows better than to dull his wits tonight.”
“Parisian society is best enjoyed with dulled wits.”
It nearly broke his heart when his father smiled at him. “Then I must conclude that your purpose tonight is not enjoyment.”
“Of course Julien will enjoy himself,” Charlotte interposed sharply. “We will all enjoy ourselves. Nicolas is determined to, aren’t you?”