Her blush was becoming, a rouge like summer cherries to complement the alabaster of her skin, and Rafael’s lips quirked upwards. In honesty, he had paid little personal heed to the princesses beyond the sort of use they promised to the government, until now: their sphere being so far removed from his own. Until only lately, too, they’d been but children in his estimation, and while they had always shown the proper decorum expected of their rank and while he had a certain genial fondness for them on the occasions they had met, he had not given them much thought beyond it.
Recent developments had, however, necessitated a shift in thinking which he had given over to. For one, the past few years had revealed that they were blossoming into young women and, more to the point, the betrothals of the past year had solidified this news upon his psyche - particularly the last betrothal, which had seen the king place Carolina’s hand within his own - a future bride. Yes, it was unavoidable: things must change. And, besides, she proved quite a lovely young woman when he thought of it. Perhaps they would get on splendidly. Certainly, it was a feather in his own cap that his House, through her, should acquire royal blood. What other bastard could boast so much?
As she greeted him, he made the requisite gesture of respect. Her lips twisted and he nearly chuckled. It was not difficult to surmise that the proposal of their marriage was as diminishing in her view as it was bolstering in his own. What princess could ever dispossess so much?
His eyes twinkled with a strange kind of bemusement, his own marital vicissitudes striking him with some suspended humor and he suppressed laughter, thinking of his sweet Amira. Could Carolina ever guess that, as honorific as the match was to him, it had also not initially proven very welcome? He still recalled the tangle of his guts as his mind roved over the words her father uttered and he struggled to look pleased, to look proud, at the boon. No, he could not blame her for wishing something other than this. But he meant to marry her, all the same, if that was what the future held.
He glanced towards her with some little surprise as she spoke of the rich history of France and his lips looped into a more authentic smile. Joining his hands behind him, he nodded as they moved slowly. “Aye,” he rejoined. “To think this very earth was settled by barbarian hordes; to think Our Lord turned it into this festival of culture as time sailed upon her course. It gives one hope, does it not, for all of us,” he remarked with a twinge of humor.
Hearing her invitation, he inclined his head. “Nothing should please me more,” he replied, thinking upon the same vein that she did - it should be a positive for them both, he thought, to come to the altar with some understanding each of the other’s character.
“How does it strike you?” he inquired, as they continued to walk. “Travel. The movement, itself, I see as something arduous, but often the destination offers it’s own rewards. Have you sampled the fresh loaves, here? Or walked long upon the edge of the Seine, observing its people in the course of their days? I find there is much to be gleaned, ultimately, from such…” he chuckled, unable to find a better word. “Sampling of other cultures. One can almost imagine for a moment that one was born here, one of them, and not oneself at all.”
the offering that lay on carolina’s tongue, delicately poised as though a pearl cached within an oyster, had been well received by the count––and, dare she delude herself into presuming, with genuine exuberance?––accompanied by an exceptional display of fortitude, given the unbidden gaze the infanta’s governess anchored upon him, as molten as a bullet through the skull. yet, as a gloved hand rose to hook upon the count’s brocaded sleeve, seeking to walk arm-in-arm as she had observed her mother and father time and time over, carolina impotently repressed a scowl as the count failed to reciprocate the gesture in return. she was aware of, albeit resisted the urge to take with more than a grain of salt, the rumours of rafael’s erstwhile marriage: given over to a lady whose midas touch was as auspicious as carolina’s own hand, and yet as damned as judas. smoothing her fingertips across the coarse fabrics of her bodice, encaging and quashing her ribcage, carolina attempted to brush away her rashness by making ostensibly busy the ministrations of her digits; pelting like raindrops against windowpanes atop her stays.
carolina gently coaxed her chin over her shoulder, casting a discreet glance to the ladies she left in her wake: girlhood companions mixed with senescent noble women––the former employed by her lady mother, the latter firmly in the pockets of the king––looming beneath the glistening awning of the fountain’s spray, catching the sun’s white-hot scintillations as droplets of moisture bounced and flashed like metallic blades in the clear skies. had she, she pondered, led herself astray? she then glanced to her betroth’s own composure, his hands neatly clasped behind his spine. the infanta had observed similarly distinguished men stand as augustly in the past, and so, in mirroring the count, she twisted her hands and held them as one behind her back; leading instead from her chin, which she thrust outward in a facade of aplomb. the weather proved conducive to the exploration of the grounds, stretching splendidly from the courtyard to the vacated tiltyard beyond, and she relished the feeling of the sun shining upon her décolletage––as though grinning, leering upon her newfound composition.
❛ ––– hope is a very necessary thing, your grace, ❜ the princess interjected, tilting her head to glance up at the count. in the sunlight, she squinted her eyes, investigative and the hue of the darkest coal such that her pupils were virtually indiscernible, her gaze betwixt bashful and assertive. ❛ especially for children. while some may deduce it is no more than an achilles heel, a necessary offshoot of the human condition, it is the greatest of all our faults, is it not? ❜
the infanta’s footstep was, as ever, light, with only the sound of her skirts scratching against the pavement and the occasional sighs of air that exude her inhibiting the flow of the couple’s organic conversation. it should be the first of many, carolina surmised, but certainly the most import of them all. she knew, just as she had been judging rafael all the while, that he would scrutinise and analyse her in return; pick apart her answers, her inquiries, the modulation of her voice, even––though they would, with any luck, reserve lambasting each other’s faults for their post-nuptial quarrels. his proceeding question causes carolina to snort, unreservedly, in amusement, granting a bob of her aureate head. ❛ you overestimate the freedom we women, daughters, infantas possess, my lord. my travels are terribly limited. tell me, would you allow your own daughters to walk upon the edge of the seine? observe and interact with its townsfolk? sample other cultures, when her own is inextricable to her identity––her purpose? ❜ she clicked her tongue noisily, and then, a defeated huff followed: ❛ i am bound to portugal. ❜
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