“It looks French,” Chrystabel whispered back. “While exiled on the Continent, King Charles was much taken with Versailles.”
French or English, Rose thought the staircase was lovely. Twin flights of steps rose to their right and left, meeting at a central landing above. The rooms they had been given here were rather ancient, with plain plastered walls, but these walls were covered in colorful painted murals depicting Greeks and Trojans. Giants battled on the deeply coved ceiling that towered over her head.
As Rose climbed the steps, carefully holding her skirts, she felt very small and insignificant. She supposed that was the desired effect. Even here, outside his chambers, the king would want to project strength and power.
At the top of the stairs, she held her breath while another liveried footman opened another door.
But she was disappointed again. Beyond the door lay an enormous rectangular room with no furniture—and no king or queen, either. A few lords and ladies stood in little clusters, absorbed in softly murmured conversations.
Rose’s and Chrystabel’s high-heeled shoes made clicking sounds on the planked floor as they crossed the chamber. Rose huffed out a sigh. “Where are the king and queen?”
“We’re getting there, dear. This is the Guard Chamber.”
As though she couldn’t have guessed. Military trophies covered every inch of the walls: helmets and drums, shields and armor, guns and lancets, swords and knives. “Are there any weapons left for the army?” she whispered.
Mum’s laugh broke the hush of the chamber. “I certainly hope so!” She met Rose’s gaze, her brown eyes glittering. “It’s an impressive display, but all the same, I expect we’re still well defended.”
The painted ceiling featured Jupiter and Juno seated on thrones at either end. In the center, a glassed octagonal opening provided a view of the stars and, Rose imagined, a great splash of natural light in the daytime.
Reaching the door at the far end, Chrystabel paused. “Lady Trentingham and Lady Rose Ashcroft,” she announced, her voice laced with quiet dignity.
Finally. As one of the six guards bowed and opened the door, Rose lifted her burgundy satin skirts.
But the room beyond was deserted, save for an usher at the far end.
“What’s this?” Rose demanded.
“The King’s Presence Chamber.” Chrystabel curtsied in front of the magnificent red velvet throne, taking Rose’s hand to make certain she did, too.
Thinking it the most ridiculous thing she’d ever done, Rose frowned as she straightened. “Despite the name of the chamber, the king,” she said pointedly, nodding toward the empty throne, “does not seem to be present.”
“Come along,” her mother said with a half-concealed smile.
Rose looked to the heavens for patience, seeing instead a painted ceiling where Mercury was presenting a portrait of the king to the four corners of the world.
She was beginning to think all this decoration might be a tad overdone.
A red-and-white-garbed usher grandly opened the next door. By now, Rose wasn’t expecting to see Their Majesties on the other side. In fact, she figured that at this rate she might be a wrinkled old crone by the time she actually met them.
“The Audience Chamber,” Chrystabel intoned softly. “You’ll curtsy to this empty throne as well.” She glided toward the canopied seat. “Charles does sit here to receive visitors in the daytime.”
“Does he never sit in the other throne?”
“That throne is only symbolic, dear. Ceremonial.”
Rose had been sure she’d find the court’s pageantry intriguing and exciting, but in truth, it all seemed a little silly!
The next chamber made her jaw drop open, and it had nothing to do with the gaudy decorations—or even the spectacular clothing and jewels that adorned all the people milling about.
Unable to avert her gaze, she drifted slowly through the room by her mother’s side. There, in that dark corner, a woman sat sprawled on a man’s lap, her head thrown back in laughter. Across the chamber, a fluttering curtain left the distinct impression that action of some sort was going on behind it.
Nearby, another couple was kissing. No, more than kissing. Rose squinted, wishing there were more chandeliers overhead, or that those yeomen holding flaming torches would move closer to…
Gemini!
Her eyes widened. The woman’s stomacher was unfastened down one side, hanging drunkenly, and the laces beneath were undone, and—oh, dear!—the man had his hand—
His gaze met Rose’s for a moment. Or at least she thought it had—she couldn’t be sure, given how quickly she shifted to focus on the ceiling overhead. But the painting above did nothing to erase the shocking-but-intriguing mental picture. There, the painted Charles rode in a chariot surrounded by naked angels, just as the real Charles was apparently surrounded by naked—
“Come along, dear. We’re about to be announced.”
“Announced?” She’d been so shocked, she hadn’t even realized she’d finally made it to the chamber where Their Majesties waited.
Rose had always considered herself unshockable, but quite suddenly she felt like an innocent country mouse. Father had been right all along, she thought. Court was no place for a well-bred young lady.
Good thing she wasn’t so young anymore.
The couple in front of her bowed and curtsied and moved out of the way, and she found herself approaching a red-canopied dais.
“Lady Trentingham!” the stuffy usher called. “Lady Rose Ashcroft!” Rose held out her satin skirts—so plain compared to the jewel-encrusted gowns of the other ladies—and dropped into a deep curtsy. When she came up, she aimed a smile at King Charles, a bit startled to find that he seemed to be an ordinary human being.
She’d seen paintings, of course, but of a younger man, and somehow not such a real one. The king was forty-seven now, and a bit of gray-streaked hair peeked out from beneath his long, curled black periwig. His dark eyes were as sharp as ever, though—or at least as sharp as Rose had always heard. They swept her from head to toe, a gaze both
