The Wild Queen by Carolyn Meyer

due consideration, I recommend that you accompany the court on fewer journeys. Stay longer at the châteaux you most enjoy, such as Fontainebleau, omit the few that are less interesting—Compiègne, for example—and rejoin the court a month later. This makes a great deal of sense, I am sure you agree, and it will save a great deal of money.”
    Uncle Charles leaned back, made a steeple of his fingers, and waited, a satisfied smile on his lips. He no doubt expected me to give my assent immediately But I did not.
    â€œSurely you cannot be serious!” I cried, gravely disappointed—even horrified—by his suggestion. “I would be separated from the dauphin, whom I shall one day marry, and the other royal children, whom I love as my own sisters and brothers! I would no longer be in the company of Queen Catherine, or Madame de Poitiers, or King Henri, my own dearest family!”
    The first tears had begun to trickle down my cheeks.
    The cardinal appeared startled by this vehement response. “My dear Marie,” he said soothingly, “it seems to me a small enough sacrifice. You would still have the company of your old friends the Four Maries. I was not suggesting that you be abandoned.”
    He was maddeningly calm. Could he not understand how much this mattered to me? I took a deep breath. “It is not a small sacrifice!” I shouted, forgetting the lesson of Anne d’Este.
    The cardinal’s lips formed a thin, disapproving line. “Very well,” he said after a long pause, during which I had begun to weep in earnest. “Your journeys will not be curtailed. We shall have to find other economies, and you are no more likely to approve of them. But be assured, my dear niece, that in the end you have no choice in the matter.”
    He picked up his book again and began to read, and I understood that I had been dismissed.
    ***
    I continued to move from one château to the next with the court, but I soon realized there were fewer servants moving with me to tend to my needs. Several who had received no wages for some time simply quit. My hairdresser stopped coming. Fortunately, my friend Seton had always enjoyed frouncing my hair, and she readily took up the responsibility, fixing my hair in a different style every day While she crimped and curled, we chattered about important matters—fashions we desired (I was still determined to have my embroidered monograms); delectable treats we might persuade Chef Matteo to prepare in the royal kitchens (gâteau de crème, the cream cake that was a favorite); people we loved (Anne d’Este, among others); and people we loathed (Madame de Parois, without question).
    Madame de Parois became more and more discontented and ill-tempered. She got into a terrible argument with one of my senior ladies in waiting, and I stood open-mouthed as they flung harsh words at each other. In the end, the lady stormed off and handed in her resignation. I hoped that Madame de Parois would also resign, but she did not, and our arguments grew more heated.
    It was in my nature as well as my upbringing to be generous to others, and so when I believed a gown was no longer suitable because I had outgrown it or the fashion had changed or I had been seen in it too many times, I sent it to my mother’s younger sister, the one who was the abbess of a convent—the same convent to which Grand-Mère had given my unsuitable gowns when I first arrived in France. The good nuns would take the dresses apart and salvage what they could of the luxurious fabrics to make altar hangings for their convent chapels and vestments for the priests. At my mother’s suggestion, I frequently gave gowns made of less expensive fabrics to friends or servants. But I did not give any to Madame de Parois.
    My governess objected. “What, are you afraid to give me any of your castoffs lest you make me rich? That is laughable! Anyone can see that you intend to keep me