The Bee and the Orange Tree

by Melissa Ashley

  Soon, he stumbled upon an old man pinned beneath the wheel of an overturned chariot. As Adolph stopped to help, the man sprang to life and seized him around the neck, not releasing his grip until all the life had been squeezed from the prince’s body. For the man was Father Time; and he had been combing the earth for Prince Adolph, who had eluded him for so many years.

  Marie Catherine had given her first fairy tale a tragic ending, only learning later how to provide more satisfying conclusions for her readers. Although she was famous for her salon fairy tales, it had taken many years for her to return to the form. And now each attempt at entering that world was failing. Her first publication, The History of Hippolyte, was a novel, a romantic adventure packed with duels, piracy, intercepted letters, disguises, attempted suicides, robberies and a terrible fire. It featured two aristocrats, Julie and Hippolyte, who fell in love as children and, determined to avoid the marriages arranged by their families, plotted to run away together. ‘The Isle of Happiness’ was included in the novel, interspersed within a scene inspired by Marie Catherine’s experiences in Saint Anne’s: it even depicted a fictional Abbess who collected art and was most strict in her observance of poetry. Publishing the very first written fairy tale had proved to be an inspired choice for Marie Catherine, and while her earliest novel had not sold near the number of copies that her Spanish travel tales had, it remained a sentimental favourite.

  The mantelpiece clock chimed the hour of ten; she had best begin her day’s work. Sitting at her walnut writing desk that morning took an especial effort. It was a tussle. She took frequent breaks, pushing herself painfully to her feet to remove a volume of recently published fairy tales by Madame de Murat from the library, re-reading the title story. How strange that she was scanning the works of those writers she had helped cultivate, who used a style that she herself had invented! She began a character sketch and made several jottings for settings and a time frame and looked up a reference to an historical murder. With a prickle of envy, she recalled the story Alphonse had recited at the salon, his impeccable flair for phrasing. Her every effort felt ugly and deliberate. Bored by her lack of engagement, she fretted that her readers would feel the same. No matter the strong tea and coffee she had Sophie bring up from the kitchen – the coffee made her bowels quake – not to mention the pastries she stuffed into her mouth, swallowing without appetite or enjoyment: her thoughts refused to knot and form into a coherent pattern.

  Voices sounded from downstairs and she rose to her feet, eager for distraction. She opened the door to her chamber and called into the hallway. Angelina had returned home and she invited her upstairs, hoping for good news.

  ‘I trust you found success?’

  ‘There’s to be a delay,’ replied Angelina.

  Marie Catherine squeezed the fingers of her left hand and winced, drawing in a slow breath. Thanking Angelina for carrying out the errand, she asked if she might examine her feet, which burned in pain. She had the gout, according to her physician.

  Angelina instructed Marie Catherine to lie on the chaise longue and began to remove her house slippers. ‘Have you been putting the bolster under your ankles?’

  ‘I keep forgetting,’ said Marie Catherine. She closed her eyes, protesting every now and again as Angelina turned her legs this way and that, squeezing the small bones of her toes. They gave her the devil’s trouble. Her ointment was somewhere on her desk, she said.

  ‘Is this it?’ asked Angelina, taking the stopper from a brown bottle and sniffing at the contents. She crinkled her nose, grimacing.

  Marie Catherine nodded.

  ‘It’s rancid. It won’t be any help.’ She rang the service bell, and when her maid, Lise, appeared at the door, asked her to bring up some kitchen oil and a cloth. ‘This might hurt, but when I’m finished you shall have relief. It’s a trick I learned – Sister Agatha had arthritis that used to flare up in the cold.’

  ‘But it’s spring.’

  ‘Perhaps it’s worrying about Papa,’ Angelina teased. Lise returned with the oil and Angelina poured some onto her palms, rubbing her fingers together. ‘It’s a shame we don’t keep an herb garden,’ she remarked, her voice brightening. She began to move her thumbs in swirls over the soles of Marie Catherine’s feet. ‘I rather miss it. Sister Agatha instructed me in what to collect. You would not believe the secret vexations the senior nuns suffered. All their daily qualms and pains. But I found the afternoons passed quickly in the company of my plants. I learned how to pluck out the weeds. I had my own little watering can. And a tiny sickle, which I kept bundled inside my apron, to take clippings.’

  She told Marie Catherine to raise her legs then sat on the chaise, patting her lap for Marie Catherine to put her feet there so she could more easily rub her heels.

  ‘Too hard,’ muttered Marie Catherine, frowning.

  ‘Trust me,’ said Angelina. ‘I have a talent.’ She pinched a toe, musing. ‘There was one afternoon, it was summer, very hot – I recall how desperately I wished I could take off my veil. I’d been working in the garden when Sister Agatha summoned me.’ Angelina smiled at Marie Catherine. Nursing duties had always loosened her tongue: she secretly relished the chance to weave a story, and she’d found that it provided her patients with a distraction from their pain. ‘I’d never seen Sister Agatha like that before. Usually her expression only ever changed discussing the properties of plants. When the Abbess was distracted by an important visitor, Sister Agatha and I would sneak into the kitchen and mix up recipes from her herbal manuals. But that day there was no joy on her face. She told me that a novice had been struck down by a wasting fever. Naturally, I put aside my basket and followed her into the kitchen. There was a long wooden bench there that was always covered in turnip and onion peels, the pot of beans stewing over the fire – oh, Maman, I do not miss the food!’

  ‘I imagine not,’ said Marie Catherine, wincing as Angelina pressed a tender spot.

  ‘Well, in the infirmary we found a gaggle of senior nuns crowded about the doorway,’ Angelina went on. ‘Sister Agatha shooed them away – I’d never heard her speak like that. I caught a glimpse of young Lilly’s face and suddenly I felt very frightened. The poor girl was only nine. She was an orphan. She lay prostrate on a cot, hands clasped over her chest, her cheeks slick with fever, sweat pooling at her neck. The chamber pot on the floor was filled with yellow bile. But then a sort of calm settled around me. I remembered a cure I’d read about in one of Sister Agatha’s books. She let me borrow several volumes at a time and I used to study them long after our candles were supposed to be extinguished. I recognised a pustule on the girl’s arm. A rash on her chest – tiny, itchy welts. Something came over me, and soon it was I, rather than Sister Agatha, giving instructions. Over the next few days, three more girls were admitted to the infirmary with the same affliction. I watched over them the entire week, snatching an hour or so of sleep, bathing them, dabbing at their itching skin, spoon-feeding them broth. It was as if I’d been called to something bigger than myself. I didn’t have a care for my own comfort. I recall thinking that if I were struck down it would be God’s will. But I was spared. On the seventh day the fevers broke and, one by one, the girls began to recover. There were no lingering ailments or permanent malaise. It was the strangest thing.’

  ‘It’s as well I took you away before you caught your own death,’ muttered Marie Catherine. ‘Are you feeling that special sense now? Perhaps you can heal me.’

  ‘I’m no miracle worker,’ Angelina said with a laugh. ‘But perhaps I might visit your apothecary. I’ll have a chat to the fellow who compounds your ointment. I know of an herb that might soothe your pains.’

  ‘I’ll try anything,’ said Marie Catherine, grimacing. Angelina’s colourful story had returned her thoughts to her own failed writing attempts. Perhaps she should confide in her daughter? She could benefit from her insight and advice. She forced a smile onto her lips, catching Angelina’s gaze. ‘I might have an idea. At least I hope it’s one. I�
��m going to try a different style of book. Not fairy tales, but a courtly romance. Set in France. Now – under the reign of Louis. It’s something I’ve never dared. I always worried that it might be too risky to write closely about our times. But what’s stopping me? All I can do is make the attempt. It’s better than an unmarked page.’

  ‘It sounds intriguing,’ replied Angelina. ‘And you’ll be in fine company. Madame de La Fayette and Madame de Murat have both done so. Do you have any characters yet?’

  ‘Nothing definite, I’m afraid. But I do have the courtly setting, and the time period. It shall be packed with intrigue. A heroine who’s a thoroughly modern Parisian woman. Suitors jostling for her attention. There’ll be a duel, maybe. A series of letters intercepted by the wrong person. Perhaps escape across the Channel, a hideaway in the country somewhere.’ Marie Catherine drew in a breath. ‘I know it sounds like very little, but it’s time for me to make another attempt at a book.’

  Angelina was smiling. ‘I’m thrilled to hear this, Maman. And I’m as eager as you to begin working. It’s been on my mind, if you must know. I’m used to a busy schedule. Not that I regret leaving Saint Anne’s, but I keep casting about for more work to do. I didn’t wish to raise it with you. I’m so grateful you’ve given me this opportunity, but you must put me to better use. Imagine I’m a magical mirror. I can reflect your ideas back to you. Help to clarify them, even. We’ve been a team before.’ Angelina paused, tapping her fingertips together, thinking. ‘Shall I bring your writing materials in? We could make a start right now.’

  ‘Oh, dear girl,’ said Marie Catherine, smiling and closing her eyes. ‘We will, very soon, I promise. But not just yet. At least, not today. I need to rest.’

  Nicola

  6 April

  Raised men’s voices sounded three floors below Nicola’s bedchamber, directly outside the entrance to her town house, near the lamp that burned on the wrought-iron mount.

  ‘What’s all the commotion?’ asked Mathe, laying down her cards. She stood and swept aside the curtain. ‘Come, Nicola, look!’

  Nicola turned from the tray of spirits. During her evenings spent locked in her chambers she had learned to serve herself. The first tumbler had eased like warm caramel into her throat and stomach, and she needed another. She brought the drinks to the round table where their game of Conquian was laid out. There had been a tiny sliver of light in the aftermath of her last confrontation with Claude, in that he had permitted Nicola to resume her weekly card game with Mathe. Before departing for his dinner appointment, he had made a show of unlocking Nicola’s door and ushering her companion into the room, then quietly locking it once more.

  A scream sounded, and then the unmistakable crack of a pistol, quickly followed by a second shot.

  ‘My dear heart!’ Nicola grabbed Mathe’s hand. They ran to the door of Nicola’s bedchamber. ‘Wait.’ She bent down to feel the lump in the hem of her nightdress and drew out the brass key Jacques had given her, asking Mathe to fetch a candleholder. Arms about each other’s waists, they climbed down the staircase at the end of Nicola’s closet.

  The night guard had fallen asleep. Nicola slapped him around the face. Flinching, he blinked open his eyes. ‘Unlock the gates,’ she commanded, her voice rising in pitch.

  The man glanced at Mathe and frowned. ‘But Monsieur …’ he protested.

  ‘Don’t you hear all that noise? I order you, open the locks.’

  The burly fellow struggled to his feet and fiddled with the keys at his waist.

  ‘Hurry,’ urged Mathe. ‘Someone’s being murdered!’

  The guard pulled back the heavy gate for the two women to pass through. Nicola turned to him. ‘Pack your things and leave, immediately.’

  Mathe had not exaggerated. A figure lay half on the footpath, half on the street. The lamp had been smashed, and he appeared to be alone. Nicola regretted her harsh words to the guard. They needed him. She was in luck, for he was slow-witted, still drowsy, and had barely registered her dismissal. She bade him find the second guard, rouse the porters and light all the lamps they could find.

  Groans. The man moved as if to clutch his chest but could not summon the strength. It was him. She had known it in her bones. His neat tied-back hair, the blue ribbon he always affixed to dine with Monsieur Vilmain. His burgundy coat, slashed in five places, the buttons taken off; his white jabot pooled with blood.

  ‘Fetch Vilmain!’ Nicola instructed a porter, though she barely knew her husband’s relative. Where was Jacques when she needed him? He would have the police summoned, the surgeon called, the brandy ready for her husband’s pain.

  Nicola knelt beside Claude. She moved to touch the wound in his shoulder, for he had been shot twice with a pistol. Stabbed too, though no weapons lay in sight. Blood leaked onto the cobblestones, the pool growing. She loosened her cape, bundled it into a ball, and pressed it to the gaping wound in his chest. He moaned, lifting his head. When he saw it was Nicola tending his wounds, Claude began to shout. ‘Leave me be! Get away from me!’

  ‘Hush. You’ll rouse the neighbours,’ she whispered softly, trying to calm him, to stop him thrashing about and using up the last of his strength. She told him she had called Vilmain and instructed the guard to fetch the police commissioner and their physician, Monsieur Côte. ‘Come,’ she said to Mathe, ‘we need to bring him inside. Put him on the kitchen table. We’ll have cook clear a space. Quickly!’

  Claude Tiquet’s tricorn hat, its feathers flecked with blood, lay in the middle of the road. Not wishing to further upset her husband, Nicola eased herself to a stand. She picked up the hat and dusted it off. The buckle, slashed from the band, fell with a clatter to the ground.

  Heavy footsteps sounded. Claude’s cousin lived several buildings away and his staff, cravats loosened and shirts untied – they had been playing cards too – arrived in a confused troupe.

  ‘Come now,’ said Mathe, wrapping her coat about Nicola’s shoulders. ‘Let the men take charge.’

  Vilmain had torn off his jacket and placed it over Claude’s chest. He whispered to him and patted his cheek, as if trying to revive him.

  ‘Bring him into the kitchen,’ said Nicola.

  Monsieur Vilmain nodded. Several porters, clambering over one another, arranged themselves at Claude’s head and feet, clumsily taking up his limbs. Claude cried out, agonised. His head lolled back, his body sagging. He clutched Vilmain’s arm. ‘No!’ he said, overhearing Nicola’s instructions. ‘Take me to your house. I shall not set foot in my wife’s apartments.’

  He was alive!

  ‘It’s your home. You’re in shock,’ said Vilmain.

  ‘Take me away, take me away,’ begged Claude, trying to free himself of the hands on his limbs.

  ‘Please, dear cousin, don’t fight. The physician is on his way.’

  Vilmain released his grip on Claude’s shoulders. He motioned to Mathe and Nicola, speaking in a low whisper. ‘If you don’t mind, I shall honour his request. We cannot risk further agitating him in this condition. Send the surgeon and the police to my apartment.’

  ‘But we can set him on the kitchen table. There’s plenty of room, good light. I shall have rags put down,’ protested Nicola. But her mind raced: what if Jean Paul and his nurse were woken? What if they stumbled downstairs? What if Jean Paul saw his father draw his last breath?

  ‘Come,’ pleaded Mathe, catching Nicola’s gaze. ‘Monsieur Vilmain’s right.’

  Nicola slumped into Mathe’s embrace. She nodded. ‘Take him.’

  She did not know what to do. Should she go to Vilmain’s and wait for the police and surgeon to arrive? Should she send out a group of men to find her husband’s assailants? Should she comfort Jean Paul?

  She watched the porters carry Claude down the street, turning the corner. She knew she was not wanted but could not stop herself. She hoisted the hem of her dressing gown in her hand, dug her feet more firmly into her slippers, and followed the solemn party.

  Mathe w
alked beside her. When they reached the entrance to Vilmain’s house, Nicola was stopped by a guard.

  ‘You’re not to come in.’

  ‘He’s my husband,’ she hissed. ‘Stand aside.’

  The fellow stood in the entranceway, his legs apart, his arms held out. He moved to the scabbard slung from his belt and clutched his hands around the hilt of the dagger. ‘I have strict instructions.’

  ‘Let me inside,’ said Nicola. She stepped close to the man, her eyes level with his, her lips curled in disgust. ‘I dare you to draw your blade.’

  She felt Mathe’s hands on her shoulders. ‘You’re making it worse. Let’s go home. I shall fix us both a drink. Vilmain’s staff will inform us of any changes.’

  ‘Claude!’ Nicola called into the darkness behind the guard. His hand remained on the hilt of his knife. ‘Vilmain! Let me inside!’

  Monsieur Vilmain appeared behind the guard and whispered something in his ear. The man glanced contemptuously at Nicola and moved his hand away from his weapon. He stood aside, allowing Vilmain to pass.