The King shook his head and looked at her, half amused, half exasperated.
‘But how did you propose to conquer the English?’ he asked.
‘It is easy. I should invite all the lords to sleep with me . . . not together of course, that would have been folly.’
‘I . . . I should hope so,’ said the King weakly.
‘One by one,’ she confided, ‘and then . . . when they were asleep I should simply have cut off their heads.’
There was a titter from the courtiers. ‘My dear child,’ said the King, ‘it would perhaps have been more seemly to challenge each in turn to a duel.’
She considered this, smiling to see herself, sword in hand cutting off English head after English head. ‘But no, Papa,’ she said at length. ‘You know you have forbidden duelling; therefore it would be sinful to fight duels.’
The King looked at his daughter helplessly. He wondered then whether her education had been in the best possible hands. Perhaps it had been unwise to allow her to stay at Versailles when her sisters were in the care of the nuns, and to have given way to her on so many occasions.
She was twelve years old when she had planned to lure the English to her tent and cut off their heads one by one. Perhaps, thought Anne-Henriette, at twelve she should have had a more practical outlook, a more balanced knowledge of the world.
That had happened a few years ago, and now Adelaide was considering what the return of Charles Edward Stuart was going to mean to Anne-Henriette.
Adelaide stood before her sister in her rose-tinted dress which was embroidered with gold-coloured stars.
‘What is going to happen when he comes to Versailles?’ asked Adelaide.
‘I do not know,’ Anne-Henriette replied.
‘I wonder whether you will be allowed to marry him.’
‘I do not know.’
Adelaide murmured. ‘I do not think you will be, Anne-Henriette.’
The elder Princesse shook her head. ‘I have come to believe that in love I am ill-fated.’
‘First Chartres, and now Prince Charles Edward. Why, sister, you are indeed unfortunate. I tell you what I would do, were I in your place. I would sell all my jewels and lay my hands on other people’s, and one night I would leave the Palace and go with him to England.’
‘And invite all the great captains to my couch, that I might cut off their heads?’ said Anne-Henriette with a smile.
‘Well,’ Adelaide defended herself, ‘it would be better than staying here to mourn. I will tell you something, sister. Even if the Prince came back as heir to the throne of Britain, Papa would not consent to your marriage.’
‘Oh, but then everything would be so different. Then all our troubles would be over.’
Adelaide looked grave. ‘No, Anne-Henriette. Even then Papa would not agree to your marriage. He will never agree to any of us marrying.’
‘That’s nonsense. We have to marry one day. Louise-Elisabeth married.’
‘And Papa is continually regretting it.’
‘That is because she has not yet had all the honours he wished for her.’
Adelaide shook her head and her wild eyes looked cunning. ‘Oh, no.’ She laughed suddenly. ‘Our sister is very beautiful, they say. And, do you know, Papa is very pleased when he hears of her beauty. He was furious though when he was told of a certain scandal in which our sister was involved.’
‘Adelaide . . . Adelaide . . . what’s going on in your head?’
‘You need not look at me like that. I know more about affairs than you do. I know more about Papa. I know more about him than anyone else in the world. I’ll tell you why. It is because I love him. Nobody loves him as I do. He is the most handsome man in the world. There is nobody I would want to marry but Papa.’
‘You talk like a baby, Adelaide. Only children want to marry their parents.’
‘And you . . . you,’ cried Adelaide, ‘you think as you have been taught to think. Why should not parents love their children more than anyone in the world? They belong to each other. I love the King. I will never love anyone as I love him. And he loves me . . . and you, and Louise-Elisabeth too. That was why he was so angry when he heard that she had a love affair with the Ambassador, Monsieur de Vaureal.’
‘Naturally he was angry. He would be sorry if scandal touched any of us.’
‘But Papa’s anger is different from that of our mother. Do you not know?’
‘Adelaide, what nonsense is in your head now?’
Adelaide had become haughty, full of dignity, as she could without a moment’s warning.
‘If you will not listen, then do not do so. I will say this: Papa will never agree to your marriage with Charles Edward . . . nor to anyone else. Nor my marriage either.’
With that Adelaide inclined her head and walked with the utmost dignity from the room.
They danced – Anne-Henriette and Charles Edward Stuart – at the ball given at Versailles in his honour.
He looked older, but he was still very attractive and, in scarlet velvet and gold brocade, his person dazzling with jewels, he looked more like a powerful visiting prince than an exile.
In attendance were a few – a very few – Scottish noblemen who behaved as though they were his pathetic little court. He had his servants attired in the royal livery of Britain and he wore the Order of St George.
As their hands touched in the dance, Anne-Henriette’s anguished eyes met his; he had changed, she knew. This was not the idealistic Prince whom she had loved in the early part of 1745. Even the way he looked at her had changed. Was there a certain speculation in his eyes?
Was he thinking: What hope of marrying the girl? How much help would the King of France be prepared to give to his daughter?
Anne-Henriette was gentle, but that did not mean she was lacking in perception. She saw those looks.
She said: ‘I hear my father has put a house in Paris at your disposal.’
‘In the Faubourg St Antoine,’ he said. ‘His Majesty is generous. There is an allowance to go with the house. So you see, Madame Anne-Henriette, I shall have time to make further plans.’
‘You are making those plans?’ she asked eagerly.
‘One always makes plans.’
‘In your position . . . yes.’
‘It is the greatest regret to me that I have to return thus.’
‘I had such high hopes. You were so near London.’
He shook his head sadly and she thought of the romantic stories she had heard of his adventures in the Island of Skye.
‘News was brought to us from time to time,’ she told him. ‘Your friend Flora MacDonald . . . she . . . she was very good to you.’
‘I owe her my life,’ he said, and for a moment it seemed as though the young Prince had taken the place of this disillusioned man.
He was thinking of Flora, the bravery, the resource of Flora; he was thinking of himself, almost suffocated by the garments of a serving maid – Plump Betty Bourke, maid to Flora MacDonald. And thus they had come through dangers together.
When he thought of those days, this young Princesse seemed like a child to him. One could not live as he had lived, suffer as he had suffered, and remain idealistic, believing in simple love as this girl did.
He had left something of the charming and romantic Prince on Culloden Moor, with those brave men who now lay buried there, victims of the Butcher Cumberland.
He could only look at this young girl and think: If her father would permit the marriage he could not fail to do everything within his power to help me regain the throne.
He let a mask slip over his face. ‘What joy,’ he said, ‘it is to be back at Versailles. I do not believe I could know greater joy than this. A throne . . . my rightful throne . . . if it were now mine – it could not bring me the joy I now experience with your hand in mine.’