Becoming Marie Antoinette by Juliet Grey Page B

the Spanish Riding School. One morning after breakfast we were joined by a fragile, plain-looking woman in a deep blue gown whose powdered hair set off an equally chalky complexion, relieved only by a pair of narrow, dark brows. Her colorless face also appeared barren of any humor.
    Maman made the introduction. “Antonia, this is the Countess von Lerchenfeld. She will be superintending your studies from now on.”
    What?
My mother might just as well have placed her hands about my narrow waist and squeezed all the air out of me. The past several weeks had brought me nothing but sorrow. First I discovered that I would lose my precious Charlotte to a world over the mountains and a man-child not fit to reign over a stable; and now my beloved governess was being replaced—the one constant I had counted on. “I don’t understand, Maman.” My eyes filled with tears, and I fought to blink them back. Maman had begun to chide me for childish displays of emotion that, on the brink of womanhood, she deemed me too old to indulge. In truth, Maman disdained excessive sentiment at any age.
    Stubbornly, I stood my ground. “Madame von Brandeiss was so kind.” I wanted to add, “I love her,” but I didn’t dare.
    “Indeed,” said Maman, ignoring my trembling lip. “She is kind. And her kindness, as well as her general deficiency in the subjects of history, science, and the classics are, I would hazard, two of the reasons your head remains so empty at the age of twelve. You will not find the Countess von Lerchenfeld quite so lenient.” Her expression softened. “Nor will you find her an ogre if you concentrate on your lessons. I have instructed the countess to drill you every day in French, history, geography, and penmanship. Your studies with her will commence in the Rosenzimmer after Mass this morning.”
    We had been raised to acknowledge that Maman’s word was incontestable. Madame von Lerchenfeld, with her outmoded starched cap that crowned an equally inflexible demeanor, had spent the past two months “finishing” Charlotte, in preparation for her role as queen of Naples. Prior to that she had been the Mistress of the Robes for our older sisters. Charlotte assured me that the new governess was no ogre, but she was no Countess von Brandeiss either. And if Charlotte had survived the woman, I could do no less, or I would never hear the end of it from my sister.
    My first tutorial with the countess was unspeakably dull, a relentless litany of names, dates, and figures, few of which would remain in my head for more than a moment or two. By the end of the first half hour I found myself pacing about the room, tracing the patterns in the inlaid floor with the toe of my slipper, picking at the lint on the red velvet upholstery, and wishing that my new governess had a livelier disposition, while I was certain that she was wishing
me
to be considerably less exuberant and more attentive. More like Charlotte, perhaps. But try as I might—and I was truly making every effort to concentrate—I cannot learn when my mind is not entertained.
    When the wearied countess decided that we had studied enough for one day, my relief was surely obvious. Lerchenfeld’sfrown illustrated her disapproval. The following afternoon I resolved to do better, but when my eyes began to glaze over during her recitation of the battles we fought during the Seven Years’ War, I changed the subject by asking her where she was born.
    “Bavaria,” the countess responded, startled by my question.
    “Do you ever miss it?”
    Her eyes misted over, a reaction that surprised me. “It was a very charming place to grow up,” she told me. I believe it was the first time I had heard her speak of anything with a degree of sentiment. I suppose a human heart pulsed within her humorless husk of a body after all.
    I rested my chin in my hands and gazed at her. “Please tell me about it,” I said. In the double blink of an eye, my question was no longer the diverting