L'Ange de la Mort (The Art of Revolution #1)

Chapter Three - 2. February. 1789

Lizabeth

Lizabeth tugs at her dress, feeling the seams stretch almost to their means. One more tug and the dress will surely rip. Well, that is one way for her to get noticed. If her dress rips even the slightest bit more, she will forever be known as the girl who exposed her embroidered stays in front of King Louis XVI on her first day in the French Court.

She tugs again, waving her silk fan in front of her face. It may be the beginning of February, but the stone hallways are stifling. Lizabeth supposes she hasn't stopped sweating since she left her apartments fifteen minutes ago. Or, perhaps, the perspiration isn't caused by the heat at all, but by the notion she is on her way to the palace salons for the first time since she arrived in France.

"We'll have to take you to Rose Bertin's of course, to have some new dresses made. I can't believe you don't own a single gown with stripes. Honestly, did you even try to learn anything about France before-Lizabeth? Lizabeth, are you listening to me?"

Lizabeth blinks, glancing over at Marguerite. The girl's perfectly groomed eyebrow is raised, vermillion lips pursed in distaste.

"I apologize, Marguerite, but the dress you gave me doesn't fit correctly," Lizabeth admits, a blush growing beneath her cheeks.

"You wanted to blend in, no? That couldn't have been possible with all those awful dresses you brought from England. And quit adjusting your bodice. It isn't becoming in the least."

For the second time in less than a minute, Lizabeth blushes. Marguerite's barb is sharp, but it's nothing less than what she expected from the girl. From the first day Lizabeth saw her in the gardens, she knew Marguerite was the type of person with connections and knowledge and gossip that flowed from her lips like a stream of bubbling champagne. But Lizabeth needs gossip and needs knowledge, so she approached Marguerite anyway, fully anticipating all the jabs that would inevitably be part of their pseudo-friendship.

Besides, Lizabeth must admit, Marguerite isn't wrong about her wardrobe. Before leaving London, her father gifted her an entire trunk of new dresses, only for her to realize upon arriving in France they were already out of fashion. She's come to learn in a place like Versailles, fashions change quicker than autumn leaves. What was the peak of style a few weeks ago is no longer worn by ladies with any real status in court, Marguerite included. Tonight, the girl wears a dress of billowing saffron silk, with diamond-tipped bows larger than her face sewn on the embroidered stomacher, a miniature golden fawn tucked into her orange-powdered curls.

"What am I to do if the dress falls?" Lizabeth asks.

"Nothing. An exposed bosom is hardly something to fret about."

Lizabeth stops. "You can't be serious."

Sighing, Marguerite links her arm through Lizabeth's and pulls her farther down the hallway, past marble busts and elaborate oil paintings in gilt frames. "It truly is a blessing I took pity on you when you first arrived, or you'd still be locked up in your room like a leper."

Lizabeth contemplates telling Marguerite she wishes she was still in her room, but it feels rather ungrateful considering the effort Marguerite has made to be welcoming and helpful since Lizabeth's arrival at Versailles. Despite the preparation her mother put her through back in England, the first few days in France were utter hell as she was plunged into a country with customs and rules and people she didn't understand.