Read Chapter 14: The Aftermath of a Miss

The fountain garden lay empty when the morning bell rang, and that was the first wrong thing Marguerite noticed. By the time the servants' courtyard stirred, the second wrong thing had taken shape beneath the rippling surface—a swirl of dark fabric, a pale hand caught against the stone lip like a root gone searching for soil.

Mlle de la Mothe's face stared up through three feet of water, eyes open, mouth slack, a bruise like a drowned plum blooming along her temple.

Marguerite stood at the edge of the fountain with the other servants, watching the head gardener's boy fish the body out with a rake handle. Water sluiced from the woman's skirts, pooling around her shoes. Someone crossed herself. Someone else whispered that the poor creature must have slipped in the dark, that the stones were slick with frost, that she had seemed so sad lately, so distracted.

Marguerite said nothing. Her hands were cold inside her sleeves. The locket pressed against her breastbone, heavy as a stone.

The Comtesse de Vaudreuil arrived within the hour, gloved hands clasped, face arranged in an expression of practiced grief. She stood over the body where the guards had laid it on a linen sheet, and Marguerite watched her study the bruise, the swollen temple, the way one arm lay twisted beneath the torso. She watched the Comtesse's mouth tighten. Not with sorrow. With calculation.

"A tragedy," the Comtesse said to no one in particular. "She was so young. So full of promise." She turned to the guard captain. "See that she is buried quietly. No scandal. The court need not hear every sad detail of a servant's end."

The guard captain bowed. "Of course, Madame la Comtesse."

Marguerite slipped away before anyone could ask her opinion. She had seen drowned bodies before—her grandmother had shown her once, when a cousin had fallen into the millrace—and she knew what water did to flesh. The eyes bulged. The lips swelled. But Mlle de la Mothe's temple had struck something hard enough to split the skin, and the fountain was only three feet deep at its center. A grown woman could stand in that water. Could sit in it. Could drown in it only if she were unconscious, or held down, or too drugged to lift her chin.

The page. The Vaudreuil page who had brought the sealed parcel. Mlle de la Mothe had said she feared for her life. She had promised a signed letter. She had not appeared.

Now she would never appear again.

Marguerite made her way back to the Duchesse's apartments on shaking legs, pausing in a shadowed doorway to press her palm against the cold stone wall and breathe. She could not afford to look stricken. The Duchesse would ask questions. The Duchesse always asked questions when Marguerite's face betrayed her.

She steadied herself, smoothed her apron, and walked in.

The Duchesse de Montfort was seated at her vanity, surveying her reflection with the vague displeasure of a woman who had slept poorly. Her complexion had taken on a sallow cast in recent days, a grayish undertone that powder could not quite conceal. Her hands trembled slightly as she reached for her cup of chocolate.

Marguerite's stomach turned. That cup, that morning ritual, the same tisane that had been laced with belladonna. How long had it been? Five days since the first dose? Six? Dr. Beaumont had said the poison worked slowly, accumulating in the blood, its effects deepening with each administration. The Duchesse's pallor, her fading appetite, the dark circles blooming beneath her eyes—all symptoms. All proof.

"Marguerite." The Duchesse set down her cup. "I hear there was a commotion in the fountain garden. One of the servants drowned?"

"Yes, Madame. Mlle de la Mothe."

The Duchesse's brow furrowed. For a moment, Marguerite saw something flicker behind her eyes—surprise, yes, but something else. Relief? Guilt? It vanished before she could name it.

"Good heavens," the Duchesse murmured. "So young. She seemed so capable when the Comtesse recommended her." She picked up her powder puff and studied it. "I suppose these things happen. A moment of despair, a careless step. We shall have to find a replacement."

"A replacement, Madame?"

The Duchesse waved a hand. "For her duties. Someone to assist with the evening toilette. You cannot do everything yourself." She met Marguerite's gaze in the mirror. "You look pale. Have you been sleeping?"

"I have been concerned for your health, Madame."

The Duchesse's expression softened, just slightly. "You are a good girl, Marguerite. Loyal. I have always valued that." She turned back to her reflection. "Come. Help me dress. I have an audience with the King this afternoon, and I must look well enough to reassure him that I am not dying of some court ailment."

Marguerite moved to her mistress's side, her hands steady even as her heart hammered. The Duchesse had consumed half a cup of tisane this morning. She had consumed it in front of Marguerite, who had stood by and done nothing. The poison was in her bloodstream now, working its slow work. Another week, Dr. Beaumont had said. Perhaps less.

"Madame," Marguerite said carefully, arranging the silk ribbons of the Duchesse's bodice, "I must speak with you about something important."

"Must you? I have so little time before the audience."

"It concerns Mlle de la Mothe."

The Duchesse sighed. "If this is another of your fancies, Marguerite—"

"It is not a fancy, Madame. I saw her purchase belladonna. I heard her admit to poisoning you. She told me herself that she had been paid to do so, and she named the Comtesse de Vaudreuil as the one who commissioned it."

The Duchesse was silent for a long moment. When she spoke, her voice was flat. "You heard her admit to it?"

"Yes, Madame."

"Then why did you not come to me immediately?"

"I did. You dismissed me. You told me I was overwrought." Marguerite heard the edge in her own voice and softened it. "Now she is dead, Madame. Drowned. And the only proof I had lies at the bottom of a fountain with her."

The Duchesse turned on her stool, studying Marguerite with an intensity that made her want to step back. "You believe she was murdered."

"I believe she was silenced, Madame. By the same person who paid her to poison you."

The Duchesse's lips pressed together. Her hand went to her throat—an unconscious gesture, and Marguerite noticed how thin it had become, how the tendons stood out beneath the skin. For a moment, she thought her mistress might listen. Might ask the right questions, demand the right answers.

But then the Duchesse shook her head. "This is nonsense. The Comtesse de Vaudreuil is my friend. She has been my friend for twenty years. She recommended Mlle de la Mothe to me as a kindness, nothing more." She rose, smoothing her skirts. "I will hear no more of this. The poor creature drowned herself. It is a sad business, but it is finished. We will speak no more of it."

"Madame—"

"That is all, Marguerite."

Marguerite bowed her head. "Yes, Madame."

She stood in the corner of the room while the Duchesse finished dressing, watching her mistress's reflection with a cold fury building in her chest. The Duchesse was dying. Dying slowly, poison by poison, and she would not see it. Would not hear it. Would rather believe in the kindness of her friend than the evidence before her eyes.

When the Duchesse departed for her audience, Marguerite slipped out through the servants' corridor and made her way to Dr. Beaumont's quarters. She found him at his desk, a book open before him, his face drawn with exhaustion. The ransacking of his apartment had left its mark—the shelves were still half-empty, the floor still bore the scratches of furniture dragged aside.

He looked up as she entered, and something in his expression softened. "Marguerite. I heard about the fountain."

"Then you know."

"I know what the court is saying." He set down his pen. "Suicide. A young woman overwhelmed by the pressures of service. It is a convenient story."

"It is a lie." Marguerite sank into the chair across from his desk, suddenly aware of how tired she was. "She was coming to me tonight. She was going to bring proof—a letter from the Comtesse, signed. She said she feared for her life. Someone got to her first."

Dr. Beaumont was quiet for a moment. Then he said, "The Comtesse moves quickly."

"Or the page did. The one who brought the parcel. She was afraid of him, too." Marguerite pressed her fingers to her temples. "I do not know who to trust. I do not know who is watching. She said she had killed someone before—she said she had killed my mother—and now she is dead, and I still do not have proof of anything."

"You have the letter from your mother."

"I cannot read it. Not yet. If it contains what I think it contains, I will want to act immediately, and I do not yet know how."

Dr. Beaumont studied her. "What do you propose to do?"

Marguerite met his gaze. The answer had been forming in her mind since she watched the fountain give up its dead, crystallizing with every step she had taken through the corridors of Versailles. It was mad. It was dangerous. It was the only way forward.

"The Comtesse," she said slowly, "thinks she has won. She has silenced her agent. She believes her records are safe, that no one knows what she has done. But Mlle de la Mothe said there was a letter—a signed letter implicating the Comtesse in the plot against the Duchesse. Such a letter must exist somewhere. And if Mlle de la Mothe had it, or knew where it was kept—"

"Then it is in the Comtesse's chambers."

Marguerite nodded. "The Comtesse is at the King's audience. Her personal maid will be with her. Her chambers will be empty for the next two hours."

Dr. Beaumont's eyes widened. "Marguerite. You cannot be serious. Breaking into a noblewoman's private chambers—if you were caught, the consequences—"

"I am already in danger. We both are. The Comtesse's agents know we are working together. They have already searched your apartment. How long do you think it will be before they come for me?" She leaned forward. "The Duchesse has perhaps a week left. A week before the poison finishes what it has begun. If I do not act now, she will die, and the Comtesse will walk away untouched, and my mother's murder will go unavenged."

Dr. Beaumont was silent for a long moment. Then he reached across the desk and took her hand. "Your mother would be proud of you," he said quietly. "She was brave, too. Sometimes too brave for her own good."

Marguerite squeezed his fingers. "Then I know where I get it from."

She rose, straightening her dress. She had a plan forming now, the shape of it growing clearer with each breath. Feign an errand. Gain entry to the Comtesse's chambers. Find the letter before anyone returned.

It was not much of a plan. But it was the only one she had.

"Wait." Dr. Beaumont stood, moving to a cabinet in the corner of the room. He withdrew a small leather satchel and pressed it into her hands. "There is paper inside. Charcoal for rubbing. A lockpick, if you have need of it. I thought it might be useful to you someday."

Marguerite looked at the satchel, then at him. "You prepared this before I asked."

"I hoped you would not need it." His eyes were sad. "But I know you, Marguerite. I knew your mother. And I know that when a woman like you decides to act, there is no stopping her."

She tucked the satchel into her apron, beneath the folds of her dress. "If I am not back within three hours—"

"You will be back." His voice was steady. "And if you are not, I will find you."

She nodded once, then turned and left his apartment, moving through the corridors of Versailles with her head down and her heart pounding. The palace glittered around her, all gold and glass and painted ceilings, but she saw none of it. She saw only the path ahead, the doors she would need to pass, the guards she would need to avoid.

The Comtesse's chambers were on the second floor, overlooking the Orangerie. Marguerite had been there once before, delivering a message for the Duchesse, and she remembered the layout: an antechamber, a sitting room, a bedchamber beyond. She had noted the location of the maid's quarters, the service door that connected to the servants' corridor.

She approached from that corridor now, her steps silent on the stone floor. The service door was unlocked. She slipped through into the narrow passage between the walls, pressing herself against the paneling as she listened.

Silence. The Comtesse was gone. Her maid was gone. The rooms were empty.

Marguerite reached into her apron and withdrew the lockpick Dr. Beaumont had given her. Her hands were steady as she worked the mechanism of the inner door, and when it gave way, she slipped into the Comtesse's sitting room.

The room was lush, thick with tapestries and gilded furniture, heavy curtains filtering the afternoon light. Marguerite moved quickly, her eyes scanning the surfaces—the writing desk, the commode, the small cabinet against the far wall. She needed a letter. A signed letter. Something that would prove the Comtesse's guilt beyond any doubt.

She began with the writing desk, rifling through drawers, careful to leave everything as she found it. Nothing but correspondence, invitations, household accounts. She moved to the commode, running her hands along its carved surface, searching for seams, hidden compartments, any sign of a false drawer.

Her fingers caught on something—a slight irregularity in the wood, a panel that shifted beneath her touch. She pressed, and the panel slid aside, revealing a shallow compartment within the commode's base.

Inside lay a lock of hair, dark and fine, tied with a silver ribbon. And beneath it, a folded piece of paper.

Marguerite lifted the paper with trembling hands. She unfolded it, scanning the words written there.

The writing was elegant, familiar. The Duchesse's hand, or a close imitation of it. The initials at the bottom were undeniably hers: A. de M.

But the words were not words the Duchesse would ever write.

*I have been patient long enough. The matter must be resolved by month's end. If you cannot be discreet, I will find someone who can.*

Marguerite read it twice. Three times. The words swam before her eyes.

The Duchesse was not the victim.

The Duchesse had commissioned the poison herself.