Armand’s First Letter. Amelia’s First Letter.

17 May 1023, Cumbrian Embassy, Toulouse

My dearest cousin Armand,

Two days ago His Majesty Charles, Le Roi de Provençe, wed Princess Beatrice, daughter of the King of Cumbria. I was her chief attendant, and felt quite uncommonly common despite wearing a more resplendent gown than I have ever worn in my life.

I am equal to the assemblies at Harrison House in Yorke, and might perhaps attend them again one day, with my own daughter—or, perhaps with one of yours, my dear Armand; I have found that I can stand firm among wizards and academics; but a long day in the presence of splendid attire enfolding dreary people leaves me weary and cold. I was compelled to take yesterday to recover, or I would have written to you already.

Maximilian is reading over my shoulder, and suggests that the wedding differed from the assemblies at Harrison House in only two ways: the gowns were more expensive, and the affair went on far longer. The people, he suggests, were every bit as dreary at Harrison House.

Not all of them, of course, in either location. I had my particular friends to sustain me during my coming out year, and Maximilian with me during the festivities that followed the wedding ceremony; and I would never describe King Charles and his bride as dreary, nor Lord and Lady Ellesmere. And in all charity, there may have been many others worth knowing in the festive throng.

But Charles and Beatrice had no time for more than a word or two with any of their guests; and though my official escort was naturally the King’s chief attendant, the Comte de Marigny, I had few opportunities to speak with him either. At official moments he was at the King’s right as I was at the new Queen’s left, and at other moments he was busy coordinating with the Master of Ceremonies and attending to his political duties.

I find the Cumbrian custom of a morning wedding followed by a wedding breakfast with one’s closest friends and family to be vastly more congenial.

We rode to the Cathedral of St. Denis in a procession of carriages, floating and wheeled. I rode with Beatrice in her personal carriage, was shrouded in spring flowers; we were joined Mlle Dubois, of whom I wrote last month, and by another lady of the court whose name escapes me. We dismounted at the cathedral steps and continued on foot, in single file, with Beatrice last of all. From that moment I was on display; it was my duty to smile, to respond quietly to any remarks Beatrice had occasion to make to me, and to never, ever distract attention from her.

I was glad to be there for her, Armand, and for the service itself—for it was, of course, a service of the Old Religion—though the added pomp made it tedious in the extreme.

Charles and Beatrice led the procession out of the cathedral, emerging to cheers from the assembled throng. They were followed closely by de Marigny and I—one of the few moments I was adjacent to him during that whole long day—and then the rest of the ladies and gentleman of the royal party. Charles and Beatrice were handed into the Royal Carriage, which had they had to themselves; I expect this was a great comfort to both of them, as it was the only private moment they were allowed. Eloise and I followed in Beatrice’ carriage, with the lady whose name escapes me, and so on back to the palace, where the dancing and feasting continued for the rest of the day and long into the following morning.

The dances were lovely—I danced with de Marigny, and then with the King, and then with Lord Ellesmere, and then with Maximilian. Several other gentleman present asked me to dance as well, but as a married woman with my husband at my side I was able to beg off. I did try not to give offense, and I set no one’s dancing slippers aflame.

This, Armand, is why married ladies always begin to look dowdy just a short time after their weddings. It isn’t dowdiness, it is a form of armor against unwanted advances, and one I have not been able to take advantage of as the Princess’ companion. Now that she is married, perhaps that may change; I shall have to speak with her when she returns to court next week. I do not wish to look dowdy, nor unduly forbidding; but I do wish to appear out of reach. It is my fate, I fear, to be on terms with the ladies and gentlemen of the court; but to be courted by those gentlemen would be outside of enough, and I shall do all I can to prevent them from beginning.

Your unobtainable cousin,

Amelia

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Photo by Sandy Millar on Unsplash