inthewildwood | fanfiction: loose ends of the night (Reply)

Title: loose ends of the night
Fandom: The Musketeers
Pairings: Constance Bonacieux/Anne of Austria
Summary: She feels that she will love anything, if it is for Anne.
Rating: G

Constance loves to brush Anne's hair.

Her own is thick and unruly and painful to deal with (like her personality, she thinks ruefully) but Anne's is silk-smooth and glossy, and it slides through the comb as though it had never heard of tangles. She loves taking the pins out, one by one, and lining them up on the vanity for the next day- if it were her own hairpins, she would just toss them in a pile, but Anne's rooms are faultlessly neat, and Constance doesn't wish to make it otherwise.

She already feels out of place here.

Anne’s rooms are cavernous and the walls are high; Constance could stand at the top of a ladder and still not touch the ceiling. Even when the other ladies-in-waiting are in attendance, the rooms still feel empty and unfriendly. Or perhaps the feeling is only echoing from Anne’s other ladies; they do not like this draper’s wife in their midst, and while none of them are uncouth enough to say so to her face, they let her know in other ways. Constance has quickly come to hate the French court, with its sidelong glances and muffled titters and constricting gowns. She wonders how Anne can bear it every day without screaming.

Anne is why she stays- even if she had no need of the money or the position, she would still stay for her. Anne- Queen Anne- seems so small under Constance’s hands, birdlike and fragile, but Constance knows that isn’t the case. She watches her mistress day in and day out, sees her soothing the ruffled pride of noblemen who’ve been snubbed by the king and smiling at Richelieu while he lobs verbal barbs in her direction and tries to break her facade. Anne never responds with anything other than smiling kindness. If Constance hadn’t known better, she would have thought the queen was made of stone.

Of course, she does know better.

“There’s a letter for you,” Constance says, setting the piece of paper in question down on the vanity. It is the end of the day, and the other ladies have departed, either for their own rooms or their lovers’. Constance would envy them that- she hasn’t seen or spoken to d’Artagnan privately since he left her husband’s house the last time- but she has Anne, and Anne is worth the isolation. Her mistress is seated at the vanity, her hair unbound and her stays loosened to relieve the pressure on her growing belly. Her face has grown rounder and redder in the past months, stretching and expanding as though she’s being filled with air. Like she could simply float away, if Constance wasn’t here to hold her down. She thinks she’s been remiss in that particular duty.

“Really?” Anne’s voice trembles on the word. She’s tired, Constance can tell. “Who is it from?”

Constance only shrugs, and pushes the letter towards her queen. “I don’t know. A petitioner, I assume.” It seems to have become common knowledge in Paris: if you want to reach the queen, you beg Madame Bonacieux to carry the message for you. People come up to her in the palace halls and press missives into her hands: ask her Majesty to accept my daughter into her service. Ask Her Majesty to intervene on my behalf; my greedy brother-in-law is trying to claim my estates. Those missives, she tosses in a pile with all the others Anne receives at court; they can wait. It’s the others she makes sure to show Anne: the ones that come from her old friends and neighbours, young girls begging for an education, impoverished parents hoping to find their girl a proper dowry so she doesn’t need to marry the sixty-year-old widower who’s been asking for her. Those are the ones she takes straight to Anne, and her queen is always happy to answer them. It’s one of the reason Constance loves to serve her.

Anne picks up the envelope and breaks the seal neatly in half with her thumb. She pulls the paper out and scans it, a slow smile unfurling across her face as she does so. “It’s Madame de Larroque.” She glances up at Constance. “No petition this time, it seems. She only wanted to update me on the progress of her students, as I took such an interest in them when I last visited her school.”

Constance smiles back. “And how are they progressing?”

“Very well.” Anne sets the letter down. “She thanks me for my gift of the harpsichord; apparently her music lessons are growing quite popular.” She sighs, letting her head tip back; Constance runs her fingers through Anne’s hair. “If I were a free woman, it would please me to take a position there myself. I would love to teach music.”

“You play so beautifully,” Constance says. It’s true, though she doesn’t often get the chance to hear Anne play; she’s busy with court duties, and when she isn’t, her doctors insist that she spend most of her time resting. Gestating the new crown prince of France is a full-time job.

Anne sighs again. “Constance? Will you-” She doesn’t need to finish the sentence; Constance knows what she wants.

“Of course, your Majesty.” Constance moves around to kneel in front of Anne, placing her hands gently on Anne’s knees. Even kneeling, she’s almost level with Anne’s head; it helps that the chair is so small. She takes one of Anne’s hands in her own, and presses a gentle kiss to her palm. She’s wearing only a chemise and am umbound dressing gown overtop, and Constance can smell her perfume. “You must be exhausted,” she murmurs, repeating the motion with Anne’s other hand. She reaches up and rubs her fingertips against Anne’s temples, slow circles designed to soften the tense muscles there. “You’ve earned your rest.”

Anne smiles slightly. Her eyes are closed. “I don’t think I ever have a chance to rest properly,” she says. “There’s always something else to be done. And this-” She lets a hand wander to her belly, and Constance understands what she means without needing to hear the words. As queen of France, she needs this child to survive. As a mother, she fears for her baby, but can’t say as much out loud. It wouldn’t do for the queen to express such worry in front of others. Only in front of Constance.

“Shh,” Constance says, lowering her hands to cup the swell of Anne’s stomach. “Everything will be well. Look, he’s kicking right now.” And it’s true; she can feel it, the gentle thump-thump of Anne’s son already pushing at the bounds of his surroundings. Constance has never had a child; the closest she’s come has been holding Agnes’ Henri for a few hours. But she feels she loves this infant already, for his mother’s sake. She feels that she will love anything, if it is for Anne. She will love this palace, she will love these rooms, and she will love the petitioners- anything. Anything at all.

“Come,” she says, standing and holding a hand out to Anne. “Come to bed.” There would be some- the Cardinal, the King, the courtiers- who would sneer if they saw her now, call her the queen’s lapdog and a man disguised in petticoats. Constance doesn’t care. Constance wouldn’t care even if they did know. Anne belongs to France and Constance belongs to her husband. It is only now, in the night, that they belong to each other, and that is enough.