All the Queen's Men Read online

  Ronsard’s eyebrows flew up in disbelief. “You’re taking the part of this . . . this disobedient hoyden?”

  Laure giggled at hearing herself described as a hoyden. Niema met Ronsard’s accusing look with an innocent expression and a shrug. “Of course. What did you expect me to do?”

  “Agree with him,” Laure said. “He expects all of his women to agree with him.”

  This time Ronsard’s astonishment wasn’t feigned. Stunned at hearing such a statement issuing from his innocent daughter’s lips, he stared speechlessly at her.

  “But I’m not one of his women,” Niema pointed out. “I’m just a friend.”

  “He has never brought any of the others to meet me. Since he brought you, I thought perhaps he wants you to be my maman.”

  Ronsard made a little choking sound. Niema ignored him to grin at the child. “No, it’s nothing like that. We aren’t in love with each other, and besides, your papa is allergic to marriage.”

  “I know, but he would marry if he thought that was what I want. He spoils me terribly. He will get anything I ask for, so I try not to ask for very much, or he would be too busy to do anything else.”

  She was an alarming blend of childlike innocence and trust, and an astuteness far beyond her years. Whatever her physical problems were, they had forced her to look inward much earlier than young people usually learned to do. “While he is recovering,” she said, briskly turning the wheelchair, “I’ll show you my rooms.”

  Niema strolled beside the chair while Laure gave her a guided tour of her suite. Everything had been specially outfitted so she could reach it from a wheelchair, and attached to one side of the chair was a long pair of tongs so she could pick up anything she dropped. A middle-aged woman came forward, smiling, to be introduced as Laure’s nurse, Bernadette. Her bedroom opened off Laure’s, so she was available during the night if she was needed.

  Anything that could possibly interest a young girl had been made available. There were books, movies, dolls, games, samplers she had made, fashion magazines. Laure showed all of them to Niema, while Ronsard trailed behind, bewildered and bemused at being made to feel unnecessary.

  Laure even showed Niema her makeup case. Ronsard made choking noises again. This was not a little girl’s pretend makeup, but the real stuff from Dior, stunningly packaged in a silver train case. “I ordered it,” Laure said, unperturbed by her father’s horror. “But nothing looks right when I put it on. Even the lipstick is too . . . too much like a clown. Today, I rubbed my finger on the stick, then on my lips.”

  “That’s good. It’s called staining,” Niema said, pulling a chair over to sit beside the girl and taking the train case on her lap. She began pulling out the sleek containers of makeup. “Makeup is like anything else, it takes practice to use. And some things will never look good because they don’t flatter your coloring. You learn by experimenting. Would you like me to show you?”

  “Oh, please,” Laure said eagerly, leaning forward.

  “I forbid it,” Ronsard said, with more desperation than sternness. “She is too young—”

  “Louis,” Niema interrupted. “Go away. This is girl stuff.”

  He didn’t go away. He sat down, a charmingly helpless expression on his face, watching as Niema demonstrated how to use each item.

  A pink blush was much too dark for that white face. Niema took a tissue and wiped most of it off, leaving only a delicate tint. “Remember, none of this sets into stone when you apply it. If it is too much, wipe part of it off. I always have a tissue and cotton swabs with me when I put on makeup, so I can make the effect more subtle. Do you see my eyeliner?” She leaned closer, and Laure nodded as she stared hard at Niema’s eyes.

  “I use a black pencil, like this—very soft, so it doesn’t pull my skin. Then I use a swab to wipe most of it away, so it’s barely noticeable. But my coloring is dark, while yours is fair, so black would be too harsh for you. When you are old enough to start wearing eyeliner, use a soft gray or taupe—”

  The makeup lesson went on, with Laure hanging on every word. Under Niema’s tutelage, very little was actually applied to the small, skeletal face, just the merest hint of color. Laure peered in a mirror, studied herself, and smiled. “Now I don’t look so ill,” she said with satisfaction. “Thank you very much, Madame Jamieson. Were you watching, Papa?”

  “Yes, I was watching. It looks very nice, but—”

  “If I die, I want you to make certain someone puts makeup on me just like this. I do not want to look sick when I reach Heaven.”

  All the color drained out of Ronsard’s face. Niema felt stricken on his behalf, but also for this little girl who had never in her life known what it was to enjoy good health, to run and play like other children.

  “I won’t wear it now, I promise,” she said. “Not even lipstick, though I do like it. But . . . if. Promise me, Papa.”

  “I promise.” His voice sounded hoarse, strained, unlike Ronsard’s normal suave tones.

  She reached over and patted his knee, the child comforting the parent. “You may take the case,” she said, “and keep it safe for me. That way you will always know where it is.”

  He lifted her out of the wheelchair and settled her on his lap, taking care not to dislodge the oxygen tube. She was so frail, so tiny, her legs dangled like a kindergartner’s. He couldn’t speak for a moment, his dark head bent so that his cheek rested on the top of her head. “You won’t need it for a long, long time,” he finally said.

  “I know.” Her eyes, though, held a different knowledge.

  She seemed to be tiring. He touched her cheek. “Do you want to lie down for a while?”

  “On the longue,” she said. “There is a movie I wish to see.”

  Bernadette came over and pushed the wheelchair and its container of oxygen while he carried Laure to the plush chaise longue and carefully placed her on it. Under the rose stain, the child’s lips held a tinge of blue. He covered her legs with a soft blanket while Bernadette arranged the pillows just so, propping her in a comfortable position.

  “There!” she said, squirming back against the pillows. “I am in the perfect position for watching movies.” She gave him a sly look. “It is a romance.”

  He had recovered his aplomb. “You will give me gray hair,” he announced, feigning a scowl. “A romance!”

  “With sex,” she added mischievously.

  “Tell me no more,” he said, holding up his hands as if to ward off anything else she might say. “I don’t want to know. A papa can bear only so much. Tell Madame Jamieson good day, and we’ll leave you to your romance.”

  Laure held out her hand. “Good day, madame. That was fun! Will you visit me again?”

  “Of course,” Niema said, smiling despite the ache in her chest. “I’ve very much enjoyed meeting you, mademoiselle. Your papa is lucky to have you as his daughter.”

  Laure looked up at her father, and again the expression in her eyes was far too old for her years. “I am the one who is lucky,” she said.

  He kissed her, touched her cheek, and left her with a smile. His grip on Niema’s hand, however, was almost bone-shattering.

  When they were out in the hallway, he said, “Dieu,” in a stifled tone, and bent over from the waist, bracing his hands on his knees while he took deep breaths.

  Niema automatically reached out to offer him comfort. She hesitated, her hand in midair, then lightly touched his back.

  After a moment he straightened and walked farther down the hall away from Laure’s rooms before he spoke again. “Sometimes it is more than I can bear,” he said, his voice still constrained. “I apologize. I hadn’t realized she—I’ve tried to keep from her how very ill she is, but she’s so intelligent . . .” The words trailed off.

  “What’s wrong with her?” Niema asked gently. There was a decanter of liquor and a set of glasses on a side table. She went over to it and poured him a hefty portion of whatever liquor it was. He sat on a nearby chair and downed it without q