The carriage ride was long and miserable.
Arthur, the ambassador, looked upon himself in his hand mirror, parting his hair so that it split in the middle. He huffed, frustrated breath clouding his mirror's surface. He still continued on with his task of forcing strands of hair to stay down. The man then moved delicate hands to his cravat, retying it loosely. He had to look proper, of course. Even when he was stuck in a place as ungodly as Versailles.
Rumors circulated Dorset, his home and duchy. Hedonistic parties thrown every couple days, with a brothel housed in the east wing of the palace! It was safe to say that he had heard it all in his readings and conversation. But now all was quiet. Arthur heard only horse hooves and the bump of the carriage wheels against the rough path in his ears. The sound was soothing to him—he had taken several naps because of the background noise.
With a jerk pushing Arthur forward, the dirt path changed to stone road. One word echoed in his mind: Versailles. A cold expression fell upon him like he was a soldier seeing the aftermath of a costly battle, the intense stare he was described at court for having slipping out, targeted at the carriage door. He took the time to mourn and to don his hat, adjusting the brim to his liking. Only minutes later did they stop.
"I wish you a good evening, sir," Arthur offered a farewell through the window of the carriage, permitting his driver to speak up, if only for a polite conclusion to the conversation.
"The like to you, Your Grace," his driver opened the carriage door for him, but did no more for him as Arthur clambered out of the vehicle. He was greeted by a singular man, in an outfit much like Arthur's, but the sheer amount of detail—with the gilded clasps on the coat to the fine embroidery peeking out from the white shirt beneath his coat—the detail put this man's outfit a few leagues above Arthur's plain brown coat and trousers.
"A good evening to you, sir," the man greeted him with a voice smooth and oddly sweet, as if Arthur was already endeared to him.
Arthur tipped his hat forward slightly before taking it off to put it against his chest, "To you as well." It was not what he expected, speaking his beloved English back to the Frenchman. He had to stop himself from responding in French, which would have thoroughly confused them both.
"May I introduce myself to you?" the man asked, before moving into the next phrase, "I am called Francis Bonnefoy, Baron de Preuilly and Secretary of State of the Maison du Roi." He stated his last title with a small flourish, making it clear for anyone else watching that he was prideful in his work.
Arthur hummed, a short and quiet note. A baron. His appearance didn't quite tip him off to that, but now he knew this man was his social inferior. "Arthur Kirkland is my name," he said, before listing off titles as this Francis had done, "I am the Duke of Dorset, and the British ambassador to your court, but you ought to know of me by now."
He waited for a bow. Perhaps even that horrid French greeting where they would kneel down and take your hand in theirs. Nothing of the sort came, the impertinent Francis only nodding in acknowledgement.
A diplomat like him couldn't point out the glaring deficiencies the man had in etiquette. Though Arthur yearned to, any undesired advice would offend a gentlemen like him, and he suspected Francis would be the same way. He forced his feelings from coming out and let Francis lead him to the palace.
Francis made the most conversation, first asking how the carriage ride was and whether it was to Arthur's liking. In the ambassador's honest opinion, he didn't care much about the transportation, because even if he was provided the most elaborate mode to Versailles, he still detested the city with the same amount of passion. He was sure the king would have sent him in a wheelbarrow if he resisted, anyway.
"Where will my accommodations be?" Arthur asked.
"There is a room for you," Francis said as an assurance, stopping so his visitor could see, "I shall show you to it, of course, but for your knowledge, it will be on the second floor of the estates. You are quite fortunate too, the room overlooks the gardens, and it is, in every respect, enchanting."
Arthur had heard the stories about the gardens. Beautiful, he couldn't deny its charm, but the stories of entire armies of workers planting every individual tree, imported from across the country. The king examining every little detail. It needed to be replanted en masse every century. As he walked through the gardens with Francis, his fiscal mind wasn't swayed by the flora, but rather was working out the cost of everything.
France was the wealthiest country in Europe though. Perhaps this is just how it presented itself, not through 'ugly industrialization' like his England, but simple nature turned into masterful art.
However, the diplomat was not a sentimental person, so he didn't think this.
Polite though, he simply commented, "The atmosphere here is quite serene." It was high praise from Arthur, which one would find out from being close to him, however, Francis was accustomed to the natural and small compliments that others would give him and his work. So he didn't respond with any thanks.
"I enjoy all beautiful things," Francis said, "It is only common sense that I manage the Versailles palace, hm?"
Arthur chuckled a bit, but not too much, "I dare say St James' palace is still where I would choose to reside, but Versailles has its own enticement. Maybe another life."
"If you find beauty in a place such as that," Francis smiled, a pull of a smirk on his lips as he continued, "Then I have no desire to judge you."
Arthur, thoroughly surprised, couldn't help but let the offense cross his face. Anyone else could have introduced him to the palace, perhaps even earn his favor, and he had to tolerate the most insufferable man they could find in court.
Francis' laughter escaped through pale lips, boisterous and truly finding humor in the situation unlike Arthur's reserved and obligated chuckling. "It is only a joke!" he clarified, "You Englishmen and your patriotism, as if I would insult a king's palace."
Blankly staring at the man, Arthur only thought that Francis must have been a peculiar specimen, and that all nobles couldn't act in this manner. His mental tirade that echoed in his mind during the carriage ride emerged again, his mind whispering, "Years upon years of work for this?"
Thoroughly unpatriotic. Arthur was a public servant and knew better than to have ungrateful thoughts such as those. Besides the point, Francis was a singular man, and he vowed not to let any man bring out his personal feelings.
He soon realized Francis' mouth was moving, and inviting him to an event of some sorts. "We ought to debut you to court," he repeated when Arthur's attention was on him, "so we took the liberty of preparing the palace for tonight."
Arthur wondered if Francis was using the royal we, because no other nobleman was exactly eager to introduce himself.
"What say you join me in this celebration?" Francis said, like Arthur had a choice in the matter.
He didn't. It would be like the entire country of England refusing French hospitality. He would immediately be withdrawn if any complaints rose from that. It would be the end of his career not to enjoy a function such as this, ironically enough.
And so, entirely against his own will, he would have to attend the infamous and lecherous display known to the English as a Versailles party.