It was a brilliant plan, but she had to tell the Marechal, or he would be upset. The Chevalier was at first indifferent to the Marechal's suffering and anguish, until Rosalind mentioned that the he would probably cause all manner of trouble if his mistress suddenly changed her mind and pledged her love to another man. At this point, the Chevalier agreed. She and the Marechal were still communicating with letters, and she hoped he received this one quickly. In the hallway, they stole glances at one another. Once, she dropped a handkerchief which the Marechal nonchalantly retrieved. This month, there was little for her to do except mourn.
She and the Chevalier met at night, drafting letters to the Duke. First, she tried to write down what she remembered from the previous letters. Then, they sought to craft one which would pull at the Duke's heart strings, but not raise suspicion. In the end, they decided against outward declarations of love, and wrote something more reserved and tender.
My Dearest Duke,
For so long, I have been confused and frightened. The emotions I have for you terrified me. I tried everything in my power to quash them. I treated you with cold indifference as I lied to myself. I hid from you, but it only made me think of your absence. Whether I saw you, or avoided you, it was you that consumed my heart and mind. It was awful, to hide myself from the court, my husband, but most of all from you.
Now that the Prince has died, I feel hollow. All the times I wished him gone, it was as though God had answered my prayers to punish me. My eyes are sore from weeping, my head aches. And still, you haunt my mind. It is torture to see you as guilt stabs me to the quick, and to be apart from you is a never ending Hell.
I don't know what to do, or even why I'm writing this letter. I do not know whether I shall send it to you, or toss it to the hearth like so many others. All I can say is that you are in my thoughts. Please forgive my harsh treatment of you the last time we met. I left the Marechal's colors for you in hopes that you would forget about me, and find love with another. If you have, then simply discard this letter, and now and then, if it's not too hard, think fondly of me.
Rosalind
To complete the effect, they flicked a few drops of water on the page for tears. The Chevalier suggested they perfume it, but Rosalind thought it too coquettish, then thought better of this sentiment and drowned it in rose. Now they would just have to get the message to the Duke without his favorite, Lignerol, getting wind of it. The Marechal offered to help them. While the Duke was playing tennis one day, the Marechal slipped the missive into his pocket.
The Chevalier skulked around to see how the Duke would react to the letter. At first, when he saw the seal, his face blanched. His eyes darted around the room, then he hurried off to a private corner. The Chevalier could see his lips move as he read the letter, and soon tears had sprung to his eyes. Some were probably due to the cologne. After he dried his eyes, the Duke fled the court. That night, there were rumors that the Duke had broken off his relationship with his favorite. It was more than the Chevalier could have hoped for.
He and Rosalind anxiously waited for the Duke's reply. They expected to receive it immediately, but had to wait two restless days. It was necessary the pair avoid one another entirely. Their nervousness was painted on their skin, and if they were seen together, it would be known that they were playing some game. If the Duke caught wind of this, he would easily piece together that he was somehow involved, that there was be a retribution for the Prince's death.
Finally, Rosalind received a reply. She did not run to inform the Chevalier of this, lest the Duke be watching, but instead made a great show of franticly opening the letter, and weeping at its contents. It was in fact a very touching letter, and for a moment, she felt a touch of the emotions she had described in such florid terms.
My Dear Rosalind
You are my entire world, and I give all of myself to you. I am sorry to write such things, I know you still mourn for the Prince, and that you loved him as a friend. It is vulgar, this declaration of love, but my passion for you has rendered me a base creature. I need your tender hand to guide me in the rightness of love.
I should not confess these things to you, but I suspect you have heard rumors of them, the great Duke, conquering the court's finest ladies. At first when I saw you, that's all you were to me, a beautiful and virtuous woman with whom I would have my way.
But you resisted, and it made me want you more. And still, you turned me away, and I fell in love with you. It was stupid, I know, that I should fixate on the one thing which I could not have.
When I fell from that horse and woke to your horror stricken face, I was so happy. It was the first time you showed me you were not indifferent to my presence. When you saw me steal your portrait, but remained silent, it was the first time I thought you might love me. I was not sure, perhaps you did not wish to cause a scene. Now I see how foolish such doubts were.
I must see you. Please, send a note and tell me when we might meet. Be careful my love, I see the Chevalier skulking around you, and the Marechal watches you like a hungry cat.
Your Faithful Duke
Slipping the note in her bodice, she walked to her chambers, wiggling her fingers at the ground. It was the signal for the Chevalier to come and see her. A wide grin split his face when he read the letter, until he read the last passage.
"Do you think he suspects anything?" the Chevalier asked.
"No, the letter seems sincere."
The Chevalier could see within her features the vestiges of a great passion as she spoke of the Duke's letter. "Do you still want to do this?" If she didn't, he would lose his means of perfect revenge. Yet, in the time they had spent together, his affection for her had changed. He did not love her as he did when he first saw her, nor did he hold her close to the heart like her husband. She was a part of their time together, she had brought together the Prince and Chevalier. It felt wrong to cause her distress, she was the thing that was left of their love.
"I do. Sometimes, I think I still love him, but I understand, it's the glitter of the court that I love. It was my naivety, not my heart, that was seduced by him." Tears fell from her eyes. "The Prince sought to find happiness in our marriage, and he could not. He would have found it with you. The Duke took that away with some petty gallant's trick."
They put their heads together, and decided they would reply that night, setting up a meeting for the next evening. Then they practiced what she would say, how she would act. Tears flowed freely as their real emotions mixed with the ones they simulated. The gray light of dawn was showing by the time they finished. Their plan would have to be put off for another night. The Chevalier made sure to show himself at court, while Rosalind was indisposed. For the first time since her husband's death, she slept deeply. It would seem that purging her tears with the Chevalier had given her some respite.
* * * *
The Duke was having difficulty dressing for his meeting with Rosalind. Without Lignerol there, he wasn't even sure of what he owned, or where all his clothes were. His manservants were at a loss, looking for jewelry he'd borrowed and coats he'd worn through. It was a good thing he started dressing early, or he would have been late. His hair was disheveled, and he couldn't find his watch, but no matter, he wouldn't keep his love waiting.
He went to the bower where he was to meet her, and his heart stopped, seeing it empty. Then she moved, and he realized the gray dress she wore blended in perfectly with the shadows. A long veil concealed her face, and when she saw him, she raised it to reveal her tear stained face.
Without a word, he threw himself at her feet and began weeping in her lap. His shoulders shook as her delicate fingers traced through his hair and over his shoulders. Beneath him, he felt her tremble, and within him, his stomach formed a knot of dread. He knew something was wrong, but he refused to believe that fate would keep them apart. Clutching the case in his pocket, he gathered his strength to ask her the question burning in his mind.
"Rosalind, will you marry me," he asked, pushing the box onto her lap and opening it to reveal a matched pearl necklace.
"I...I can't." Her voice was flat and hollow.
