Her eyes widened. A sudden burst of emotion hurtled past her walls of cool defense. “Rumors! Sir, shall I admit all to you now?” He was her friend, she realized. One of the best friends she had ever had. She knew why he was loved. It wasn’t for the things he said, though they were charming—it was the way that he listened, the way he really heard what she had said. The elderly Comte de la Rochelle was very kind, and it was in his apartments in the far wing of the palace where she stayed, but it had not been until Ben Franklin arrived that she had felt comfortable. From the start he had sought to meet with her, he had come to her after his appointments with the ministers, and she had discovered in him a new meaning to revolutionary fever. Until the middle of 1775 he had been eager for reconciliation with Britain, but then he had seen that the desire for independence lay deep in the very hearts of the people. “Once the tide reaches the heart, milady, then no man can change that tide!” he had told her. She had believed him, and she quickly came to see through his eyes. By New Year’s day she had realized that she was not just a Virginian but anAmerican. She might have been a loyal British subject once, but she was an American now. What that truly meant, she knew, she had yet to discover.
“Amanda, admit to me—”
“Well, sir, there was some truth to rumor,” Amanda said softly. Agitated, she rose. She stared back at the palace and caught her breath. Versailles. It was more than half a mile long, she had been told, with two enormous side wings. Once it had been the sight of a small hunting lodge, but Louis XIV had planned a very grand palace, and begun work upon it in 1661. He had hired the best architects, sculptors, and landscape gardeners. His successors had added to it, and now the palace boasted hundreds of rooms, marble floors, hand-painted ceilings, and the most beautiful gardens and landscaping that could be imagined. The king and queen and their retainers lived in such splendor and opulence that it was hard to imagine. They were like children, masters of this fairyland.
She looked from the beauty of the palace, rising against the sun, to Mr. Franklin, and she smiled. He was so plain and simple beside it all, his hose a dull mustard, his breeches blue, his surcoat a dark maroon, and his heavy cloak black. A civilian tricorn sat over the bald spot atop his head, and his hair, snowy white and gray, tufted out from either side. His face was wrinkled and jowled and reddened from cold and wind, but within were those eyes of his, soft blue beneath his spectacles, seeing and knowing all. And he was so much more impressive than the men of the court in their silks and satins and ungodly laces. And the women! Some wore their hair teased and knotted a good foot atop their heads. They called much of it Italian fashion—the most outlandish of it. Thus the term “macaroni.” It was used in the song that was becoming very popular called “Yankee Doodle.” This impressive fellow was far from “macaroni” fashion! Her smile slowly faded. Neither could they ever accuse her husband of being so. He had never even bent to fashion so far as to powder his hair. His shirts were laced, but never ostentatiously so. And when he moved about the estate he usually wore plain wool hose and dark breeches and a shirt that opened at his throat to display the bronze flesh of his throat and chest and the profusion of dark hair that grew short and crisp upon it…
“I was not guilty!” she swore suddenly. “Would God, sir, that you at least would believe me! I was free, can you understand? They had blackmailed me with my cousin, but once I knew he was free, they had nothing else to use against me. I gave away nothing!”
“There, there, now!” Franklin was on his feet. He caught her hands and brought her back to the bench, sitting again. “You must be careful. Mustn’t upset the babe! Why, I remember my own dear children’s birth…I’ve a son who is still with the British, my dear, so trust me, I do understand. Most men understand. This war is a fragile thing! If you say you are innocent, then I believe you.”
“That simply?”
“Well, of course. I do believe that I know you rather well.”
She started to laugh. “My husband should have known me well.”
Franklin sighed. “He is a good man, Lady Cameron. I’ve known him long and well too, and you must see things as he did. His name is an old and respected one. It was risked, and he believed that it was by your hand. He fights a war, he marches to battle daily. You have mentioned to me that you do not correspond. I implore you, madame, when the babe is born, you must write to him.”
She withdrew her hands quickly. Eric could die! He could ride into battle with his musket and his sword, and he could falter and fail. Exhaustion could overtake him, and his great heart could stop. She could not bear it if he were to perish!
But he had exiled her, cast her away. God knew, he was probably planning divorce proceedings this very moment. She had sworn that she would not forgive him. Her heart had grown cold.
But he could die.…
The thought was suddenly so painful that she doubled over. She couldn’t breathe.
“Lady Cameron?” Franklin said anxiously.
She shook her head. “It’s all right. It’s all right. It’s quite faded now.”
He nodded, watching her anxiously still. When she seemed to have recovered, he smiled. “I’ve a confession of my own, dear. The moment I arrived here, I wrote to your husband.”
“What?” She gasped in dismay.
“I had to, my dear. Lady Cameron, I was sent to England last, and while I waited there at the order of my country, my own dear wife departed this world. Life is short, and wisdom ever so hard to gain, and too oft gained to late. Forgive me—”
“Oh!” Amanda interrupted him. The sharp, blinding pain had seized her again. It was not worry, she realized then. She had gone into labor.
She rose, gasping. “Mr. Franklin—”
“It’s all right!” he assured her, on her feet. “A first labor takes hours and hours, Amanda. Hours and hours—”
“Oh! But the pains are coming so quickly.”
“Well, then maybe this labor will not be hours and hours! Oh, dear, this is not my forte—”
“Lady Cameron!”
She swung around. Both Cassidy and Jacques were hurrying up to her. She smiled. “See,” she told Franklin. “I never am alone.”
But she was glad that she was not alone, for the next pain doubled her over. She thought that she would fall, but, she was scooped up into strong arms. She looked up and she saw Jacques’s dear face, and she smiled and touched his cheek. “Thank you,” she murmured.
He did not smile, but searched out her eyes. She was glad of his strength, for the palace was so very big, and her chambers were at the far end of it. They left the gardens and traveled long hallways. Finally Jacques burst open a set of molded double doors; they had reached the apartments of the Comte de la Rochelle. The elderly French statesman was sitting before the fire, warming his toes, when they entered.
“My dear—” he began, but he saw Jacques’s face and moved quickly instead. “Danielle! The lady’s time has come! Be quick, I shall send for the physician!”
Jacques carried her into the beautiful room that had been assigned her. Danielle was already running in before him, sweeping back the fine damask bedcurtains and the spread. Jacques set Amanda down. Suddenly she did not want him to go. She squeezed his hand. He touched her forehead and smiled to her, and in softly spoken French he promised her a beautiful son. Then he left. Danielle urged her to sit up and started tugging on her silk and velvet gown.
