Armand’s First Letter. Amelia’s First Letter.
10 September 1022, 22 Merton Street, Edenford
My dearest cousin Armand,
You will notice that I written to you a full week earlier than usual, and when you had read what I have written I am sure you will understand why.
I was sitting in the front room of our flat here in Merton Street two—no, three—afternoons ago, playing with little Jane, listening to Maximilian discuss his work with Dr. Tillotson, and amusing myself watching passersby on the street when a fine hired carriage drove up and stopped before our building. You know the kind: fancy, but not too fancy, perhaps just a little dingy (though not so anyone would remark on it), and of course with no coat-of-arms on the doors or livery on the footmen.
One of the latter descended and helped a finely dressed man out of the carriage. He looked up at our window, smiled cheerily, and strode toward our door, passing quickly out of my view. I caught only a flash of his face, but knew him in an instant.
Maximilian stopped in mid-sentence. “Yes, love, what is it?”
We heard footsteps on the stairs and a polite knock on the door.
“It is the Comte de Marigny,” I said, feeling the slightest bit faint. The Comte, as you’ll recall, is the personal friend of his Royal Majesty the King of Provençe, and his companion during all of his many trials on the way to the throne.
Margaux answered the door and with wide eyes led the Comte into the room, where Maximilian had risen to greet him.
“My dear friends,” he cried, sweeping his hat before him in a deep bow. “I was tres desolé when you returned to Cumbria, vraiment, tres désolé!“
Maximilian shot me a glance, but said only, “Be welcome, my dear Comte! To what do we owe the pleasure of your presence?”
“And do you have time for tea?” I asked.
“Bien sur, bien sur! I did not travel all this way from Yorke just to flit by like the lark,” he exclaimed, and took the seat that Maximilian had formerly occupied…for we only have the two, you see. I looked at Margaux, who frowned, shrugged, and nodded, and went off to assemble the tea things, for I may tell you that making tea is no part of her regular duties.
“You have come to Cumbria on His Majesty’s business, I collect,” I said.
“Vraiment,” he said, “for am I not always about His Majesty’s business? I will not speak of my mission to the court in Yorke, n’est-ce pas? But His Majesty wished me to find you and assure you of his utmost friendship and esteem.” And here the Comte turned and bowed his head to me.
I thought back on the many hours Charles and I had shared sitting before the Presence in the chapel at L’École, sometimes in silence, sometimes speaking, during the many days he spent in hiding from the Ducs.
“Please assure him of my own,” I said, “and tell him I think of him often.”
Margaux brought in the tea, with the biscuits we had been saving for visitors, and I poured out—and then pondered, while Maximilian and de Marigny spoke of current events in Toulouse.
“But surely,” I said at last, “His Majesty had more in mind than simply sending his best?”
De Marigny shook his head, most elegantly. “Mais non, that errand, it is more than sufficient! And yet, mais oui, for he did give me another errand!” He withdrew a small envelope from his pocket, and rising, gave it to Maximilian and folded his hands over it. “A note, n’est-ce pas, from His Majesty, in his own hand, for the pair of you. For am I to tell you that His Majesty has found a bride, and though the details have not yet been settled he wishes for you both to attend him on the day of his wedding.”
“Oh, my!” I believe I said.
The Comte nodded graciously. “And with that, I fear I must return to Yorke! Les courses du Roi compel me.” He swept down the stairs to his fine hired carriage; and when we opened the envelope we found a brief note from the King of Provençe repeating his esteem for us and begging rather than demanding our attendance at his wedding, “for we know that you owe your allegiance to our royal brother of Cumbria.”
“Well,” said Maximilian blankly, “That was unexpected.”
And that would have been that, at least until we get word of the wedding plans, if a somewhat similar event had not occurred the following day.
We were, once again, sitting in the front room, and once again a fine carriage pulled to in front of our dwelling. This one was black, almost plain, but in flawless condition, and nearly shouted aloud of the streets around the houses of government. A man in a bureaucratic black suit and top hat stepped out, checked the house number against a card he held in his hand, and then hurried to our door.
Maximilian went to meet him, and ushered him into the room.
“My dear,” he said, “this is Mr. Edwards, from Eburacum House.” My eyebrows rose, for Eburacum House is the home of His Majesty’s Foreign Service. I gathered up Jane and started to rise, but Mr. Edwards smiled apologetically and raised a hand.
“Please remain, Mrs. Archer, for my business concerns you as well.”
I nodded, and resumed my seat.
Edwards turned to my husband. “If I may cut to the chase, His Majesty’s government wishes to offer you a position, Mr. Archer, a position abroad,” he said.
“Oh?” said Maxmilian. “Might I ask where?”
Edwards offered him a card, “If you would be so kind as to come to Eburacum house at this time, all of your questions will be answered. But not to put to fine a point on it, in Toulouse.”
Maximilian nodded as if he had expected nothing else—which proved to be the case, I may say—and asked, “Well and good; but if you would be so kind as to satisfy my curiosity. Why come to me in person, all the way from Yorke, merely to hand me a card?”
Edwards gave the slightest hint of a shrug. “His Majesty insisted,” he said, turning and bowing to me. “And now, I must be off.”
And off he went.
“I begin to detect a theme,” said Maximilian when the door had shut.
And now I hear the postman’s knock, so this must go as well.
Your bemused cousin,
Amelia
____
Photo by Nick Fewings on Unsplash
Zymurgia House 