Section LVII: December 1524
You're all going to hate me for this chapter, so let's just get it out of the way, shall we?
It swiftly becomes apparent that little Mademoiselle Marie is nowhere near as strong and healthy as her older siblings.
She struggles to feed, often panting for breath between gulps of her wet nurse’s milk. As such, she soon loses her natal chubbiness, losing rather than gaining weight. This in itself is concerning enough, but adding to the worry is the blue-grey tinge to her skin whenever she rests, as though she isn’t quite breathing enough while she sleeps. And that’s all before one takes into account how her heart flutters palpably beneath her mother’s caring hand.
It is almost, Marie confesses to Lady Parr one night shortly before her confinement ends and her namesake daughter is taken to join the nursery at Amboise, when exhaustion brings down her walls, as though her youngest daughter has never stepped fully into the human realm, but instead kept one hand on the Virgin’s heavenly train.
Breaking with protocol, Lady Parr puts a gentle, consoling hand on Marie’s back between her shoulder blades.
“We’ll love her and serve her for as long as we’re given the privilege, Madam,” she promises, knowing the words aren’t enough – will never be enough – but not knowing what else she can say. She’s a governess, not a physician, and even the best doctors in the land, for all their skill, haven’t been able to discern the reason for little Marie’s frailty.
No one will actually say the words, particularly not in front of the doting mother, but anyone with half an eye can see that France’s youngest Lady isn’t long for this world.
It is a cold that fells her in the end. A simple cold.
Louise gets it first, whining and sniffling miserably every time one of her attendants tries to set her down. The rising four-year-old might be confident and lively, but illness always renders her hopelessly clingy.
From her, it passes to the boys, meaning Lady Parr and the other attendants are rushed off their feet caring for three snuffly children who hate being stuck in bed.
Kate and Margot, bless their hearts, are desperate to help. At twelve and eight respectively, they can see how overwhelmed the household is, and so, without being asked, they take the lion’s share of little Marie’s care upon themselves, rocking her and entertaining her for hours on end. They only call upon the nurses if Marie is demanding the breast and won’t be pacified without food.
Unfortunately, no one realises, that while Margot is showing no signs of illness, that doesn’t mean she isn’t carrying the disease.
She kisses baby Marie goodnight one evening, after having sung her to sleep. By the morning, Marie is coughing and spluttering. By the following day, she is fighting for her life.
Lady Parr does what she can, but it is soon clear she is fighting a losing battle.
She has the presence of mind to send for the Queen, and little Marie survives long enough for her mother to arrive, so that Marie is with them on the final night.
The two women sit either side of the cradle, listening to little Marie’s gasping, spluttering breaths fill the air between them. Each one grows fainter and more effortful than the last.
Tears pricking her eyelids, Marie reaches into the cradle, laying her hand gently on the tiny, straining chest.
“It’s all right, sweetheart,” she whispers, swallowing hard past the lump in her throat, “It’s all right. You can go. Go and meet your grandmother. Tell her I love her. Tell her I love you. I love you both.”
She leans down and kisses her daughter’s brow, letting her lips linger against the soft, peach-like skin.
“I love you,” she repeats, before beginning to croon an old Welsh ballad, one that was once a staple in the English royal nursery.
It is a long one, with five verses. Little Marie’s breath has ceased long before her mother stops singing. The last notes fade away into deathly silence.
Marie counts the seconds: ten… twenty... thirty…
The colour drains from her face. Lady Parr moves instinctively, but before she can reach Marie, the younger woman looks up and stills her in her tracks. Horror is written all over her face, but she doesn’t want to be comforted. Nothing is going to help, not now.
Not when she has just lost her baby daughter.
Amboise, December 1524
It swiftly becomes apparent that little Mademoiselle Marie is nowhere near as strong and healthy as her older siblings.
She struggles to feed, often panting for breath between gulps of her wet nurse’s milk. As such, she soon loses her natal chubbiness, losing rather than gaining weight. This in itself is concerning enough, but adding to the worry is the blue-grey tinge to her skin whenever she rests, as though she isn’t quite breathing enough while she sleeps. And that’s all before one takes into account how her heart flutters palpably beneath her mother’s caring hand.
It is almost, Marie confesses to Lady Parr one night shortly before her confinement ends and her namesake daughter is taken to join the nursery at Amboise, when exhaustion brings down her walls, as though her youngest daughter has never stepped fully into the human realm, but instead kept one hand on the Virgin’s heavenly train.
Breaking with protocol, Lady Parr puts a gentle, consoling hand on Marie’s back between her shoulder blades.
“We’ll love her and serve her for as long as we’re given the privilege, Madam,” she promises, knowing the words aren’t enough – will never be enough – but not knowing what else she can say. She’s a governess, not a physician, and even the best doctors in the land, for all their skill, haven’t been able to discern the reason for little Marie’s frailty.
No one will actually say the words, particularly not in front of the doting mother, but anyone with half an eye can see that France’s youngest Lady isn’t long for this world.
It is a cold that fells her in the end. A simple cold.
Louise gets it first, whining and sniffling miserably every time one of her attendants tries to set her down. The rising four-year-old might be confident and lively, but illness always renders her hopelessly clingy.
From her, it passes to the boys, meaning Lady Parr and the other attendants are rushed off their feet caring for three snuffly children who hate being stuck in bed.
Kate and Margot, bless their hearts, are desperate to help. At twelve and eight respectively, they can see how overwhelmed the household is, and so, without being asked, they take the lion’s share of little Marie’s care upon themselves, rocking her and entertaining her for hours on end. They only call upon the nurses if Marie is demanding the breast and won’t be pacified without food.
Unfortunately, no one realises, that while Margot is showing no signs of illness, that doesn’t mean she isn’t carrying the disease.
She kisses baby Marie goodnight one evening, after having sung her to sleep. By the morning, Marie is coughing and spluttering. By the following day, she is fighting for her life.
Lady Parr does what she can, but it is soon clear she is fighting a losing battle.
She has the presence of mind to send for the Queen, and little Marie survives long enough for her mother to arrive, so that Marie is with them on the final night.
The two women sit either side of the cradle, listening to little Marie’s gasping, spluttering breaths fill the air between them. Each one grows fainter and more effortful than the last.
Tears pricking her eyelids, Marie reaches into the cradle, laying her hand gently on the tiny, straining chest.
“It’s all right, sweetheart,” she whispers, swallowing hard past the lump in her throat, “It’s all right. You can go. Go and meet your grandmother. Tell her I love her. Tell her I love you. I love you both.”
She leans down and kisses her daughter’s brow, letting her lips linger against the soft, peach-like skin.
“I love you,” she repeats, before beginning to croon an old Welsh ballad, one that was once a staple in the English royal nursery.
It is a long one, with five verses. Little Marie’s breath has ceased long before her mother stops singing. The last notes fade away into deathly silence.
Marie counts the seconds: ten… twenty... thirty…
The colour drains from her face. Lady Parr moves instinctively, but before she can reach Marie, the younger woman looks up and stills her in her tracks. Horror is written all over her face, but she doesn’t want to be comforted. Nothing is going to help, not now.
Not when she has just lost her baby daughter.
