Special Guest Blogger: Marie Thérèse Louise of Savoy

Much like undergarments, beginnings are vital so let's start there and a family tree so tangled I’m fairly certain I’m related to at least three popes and a badger. Such are the perils of royal inbreeding and I say this with pride, naturally. We held grudges like we were storing wine, we age and treasure them. The Savoys could feud through five generations and still complain about a slight in 1287.
So what exactly did I do? Allow me to enumerate my contributions to society.
Being an Italian princess is harder than it looks. You’re constantly being stared at, expected to be graceful, and advised not to vomit into the Versailles fountains and then get married off which i was at aged 16, to Louis Alexandre, Prince of Lamballe who was proof that the word Prince does not inherently mean charming but the heir to the greatest fortune in France softened the blow rather.
He had more mistresses than wigs but luckily Widowhood quickly came knocking when he died young from venereal disease. I wasn’t heartbroken at becoming a widow aged 19, but I was relieved. Now I could wear black and inherit a fortune. Mourning never looked so profitable.
Becoming Superintendent of the Queen’s Household meant i was Marie Antoinette’s personal assistant, party planner, and emotional support and we were as thick as thieves, except I did actually steal her ribbons. She never minded. I was the only one who dared tell her that her hair looked like a startled poodle had nested in it.
Unfortunately Marie Antoinette's political instincts were those of a particularly confused duck which leads us to the messy French Revolution.
As the revolutionaries stormed Paris, I remained loyal to the queen and as we know, loyalty is the noble trait that usually ends with you very dead.
I stayed by her side during imprisonment, offering what comfort I could by sewing buttons and whispering gossip but eventually, they separated us. I was imprisoned in La Force prison, where the accommodations were rustic with no silk sheets or footmen and then came the September Massacres of 1792.
The mob came for us. I wasn’t afraid, exactly. More resigned. Like when you realize you’ve stepped in horse dung and it’s going to take ages to clean. Only instead of dung, it was revolutionary fervor and it got real gory.
They cut off my head and then paraded it around on a pike before sticking it in front of Marie Antoinette’s prison window, one minute she was doing embroidery and the next, her bestie’s face was bobbing past the bars like a particularly morbid piñata.
So what i did was become a martyr and I didn’t regret a thing. I lived extravagantly, loved fiercely, and died memorably. Most people don’t even get one of those. I got all three so if i had the chance to do it again i would, only maybe next time I’m choosing a country with better weather and slightly less guillotine enthusiasm.